The Grill Went Well!

 . . . but was eaten so fast that there were no pictures. I found that grilling the vegetables (onions and red peppers on skewers, cremini mushrooms in a grill grate, tomatoes basted with sambal oelek) first was the key. Then they could be put in a 200-degree oven to keep warm while the chicken grilled.

But I also found that the cheap cuts of chicken thighs -- bone in, skin on -- not only didn't absorb the daylong marinade in a mixture of soy, garlic and sesame oil, but had way too much gristle and were generally prone to char.

However, I found that when they were charred (and obviously not cooked all the way through) the key was to shut all the vents on the grill, thereby turning it off, in effect, putting on the lid and letting the residual heat steam the chicken for fifteen minutes or so. This worked very well. And the hickory chips added a host of flavor.

Brigitte made Cuban rice (that we brought from Cuba!) and it was all fantastic.

Next I have in mind something a little different . . . maybe a grilled (or smoked) Shepherd's Pie with little skewers of pearl onions. Just think what those potatoes will taste like with applewood smoke, home-ground beef and a cooking time of thirty minutes!

Got any better ideas?

It's Grilly-Grill Time!

Wow, I'm so proud of myself; I worked like a dog since 8 a.m. to make an Asian marinade for chicken thighs, made barbecue skewers for peppers and onions and shallots and spicy tomatoes and made potato salad (my specialty!) and Brigitte is going to make white Cuban rice (brought by me on a plane from Cuba!)

It's just too bad I have to work on this rickety Weber because I have to hide it all the time because we're not allowed grills in this condo, so I have all the safety equipment at hand -- spray bottle, gasoline, TNT . . . but wish me luck! I worked on the marinade alone for at least an hour. And wood chips are in the mix!

Yay! I'll try and take photos.

I Am Not A Doctor.

But one of my bands was called "Four Out Of Five Doctors" and we always played with lab coats. Real lab coats.

But I play one on TV. I know the names of hundreds of meds and can pronounce them perfectly. Diphenhydramine hydrochloride? I know not only how to spell and pronounce it, I know its interactions and side effects. Fentanyl? Propofol? Michael Jackson?

So why not pass myself off as a doctor? Frankly, half the doctors I see seem to have got their degrees out of a Happy Meal.

So next time anyone asks me what I do I'm going to say "I'm a thoracic surgeon." Who the hell is going to argue with me except another thoracic surgeon? "Well, how was your last colonectomy?" "Oh, last week, doctor, and it was a great outcome! The colostomy bag is venting nicely."

When I was a Kid Part XVII (the sequel)

I was pretty much a miserable kid. My son sleeps next to me but in him I see our DNA. He's as skinny and miserable as I was when I was his age. Parents can be mean, even when they don't mean to be.

They abandoned me at boarding school in England and I had no choice, pal, no choice. Bye-bye, Nicky boy, guess who's going to abuse your ass today? D'you like English food? Because you're going to have it RAMMED UP YOUR FUCKING ASS. Oh, what, kippers and porridge don't agree with your sorry tired little ass? well guess what. FUCK YOU.

And I feel the same about my sorry son and the position he's been put in in Japan. You know how life goes in Japan? Do you KNOW HOW LIFE GOES IN JAPAN??

Fuck you. Shut up. Sit down. Fuck you. SIT THE FUCK DOWN, ASSHOLE.

THAT is how life goes in Japan.

And come to think of it, that's the way life went in the U of K, almost identical.

I just wanted so much better for Taishi . . .

Spicy Dill Pickle Recipe

Who the FUCK knew how many people were interested in a fucking pickle recipe? You fucking toads, just LEAVE ME ALONE. It's not fucking rocketry, here, shitheads! Yo, put the fucking pickles in vinegar, leave overnight, ready to eat! What are you? All autistic, are we? Can't fucking figure out how to FUCKING PEEL A CUCUMBER?

It's simply unbelieveable how many morons share our planet. MANY MANY. What are we now? Eight billion? Well 7.99999 % of that are morons.

So sorry. PAY ME FUCKING MONEY FOR THIS PRECIOUS SIMPLE RECIPE, moron.

My Life as a Kid

I hate to exaggerate. No, I really do. But I just asked my 8-year-old son to wake up at 1 p.m. and take a bath so he could wake himself up.

But guess what it was like for me? I don't need to lie because reality conquers all. But they forced us in boarding school to wake up at 6:30 a.m., line up and take COLD SHOWERS in the winter.

I am JUST NOT KIDDING YOU, flock. They would have some officious prick watching over us to MAKE SURE WE GOT OUR HAIR WET. We went through a billion hoops to try to avoid this.

So a GODDAMN WARM BATH sounds mighty good to me.

But then again, I don't live in Nippon.

My House

My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole.
My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole and a dog in the yard.
My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole and a dog in the yard and a moose in a tree.
My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole and a dog in the yard and a moose in a tree and a bear in the pool
My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole and a dog in the yard and a moose in a tree and a bear in the pool and and a bug in the bed.
My house is a jolly old house
With a cat on the roof and mouse in a hole and a dog in the yard and a moose in a tree and a bear in the pool and and a bug in the bed and a chicken on the stove.