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My brother and I meet at the thrift store halfway home from my work sometimes. We like to judge the couches (he likes long, ugly couches for their underdog factor and their ability to handle tall firefighters looking to take a nap); look at brightly colored clothes, and browse the home goods for various projects we like to do.

A while back I picked up a santa suit – a not-great handmade one, made of an athletic jacket with fake fur stitched around the cuffs and edges. Along with some terrible red 80s pants, and a hat and boots at home, I was all set. The cashier was soooo excited. “Who’s going to be santa??” she sang in an excited voice. “I am,” I said, and she seemed taken aback (I’m not particularly santa-like in appearance). I smiled and paid.

I don’t think she wanted to know it was for a drunken parade full of santas. That is definitely not what she had in mind.

A member of our warehouse-art-cooperative-project-thingy had a terrible car accident on Thursday. The car ended up upside-down, smashed into a tree off of a major highway, and our friend was thrown from the car. Her husband is also badly hurt, and both are in the hospital. She’s in an induced coma with severe edema, two broken legs, and great concern about strokes and her spinal cord. It’s hard to think about other things. I hope she pulls through and that they both make a full recovery.

http://moonmustard.blogspot.com/

UPDATE: Moon did not pull through. There is a benefit planned for February, and we are doing what we can to financially and emotionally give support to her husband, Martin. Sad news for our cooperative.

So here’s a mystery. Yesterday I received a friend-like request from someone clearly using a pseudonym. I inquired back, asking how we know each other, and this is the message I got back:

“No, I dinged your car the other day.  Are we still cool?”

Um, WHAT? I haven’t (to my knowledge) been in any accidents in a long time, I don’t know who this person is, how they found me, how we know each other, or whether it was truly my car that was dinged (in full disclosure, my car has had a couple of dings on it, primarily before I bought it. I bought the car when two Subarus in a row were totalled, and I wanted a car I wouldn’t care about the third time. Thus, that is the car that has stuck around. It has done me the favor of running without complain through long commutes, at 38 mpg most of the time, so I can’t complain…but it’s not what you’d call pristine.)

So what am I doing now? I discovered that this person runs a pirate radio show 6-8pm on Saturdays, so I am listening in, trying to identify the voices. Ironically, I discovered this station just this week on my own, when the signal was so strong as I came up to my building that it blocked out the other station I was listening to. In general, I’m liking the music on weeknights, but it’s hard not to imagine that perhaps a neighbor in my building a) runs the radio station and b) dinged my car and c) is hoping the anonymous technique will keep me from reacting strongly.

Still can’t recognize the voice – two men, one married, they like Ladytron. Need more clues. Who dings your car and friends you to let you know? Totally perplexing week.

UPDATE: So this person doesn’t know me, just put out a joke and wants to promote their pirate radio show. For what it’s worth, the programming on the weekdays is pretty good.

Early this morning, I heard a terrible sound from the toilet like a monster blowing bubbles as he rises to the surface. Falling back asleep, I heard a sharp crack: the futon I had fallen asleep on the night before was breaking underneath me, and collapsed on one end as I stumbled off of it. When I got to the bathroom, it turned out that both the toilet and the tub had overflowed, with a half inch of water across the entire floor.  And at breakfast, an angry white cat paced the windows, mewing to be let in and pushing at the edges, all while I’m rushing out the door for an engineering meeting.

The cat has since disappeared, the futon has been completely repaired, and the apartment fix-it dude scratched his head about the backed up drains and blamed the city’s street construction project a block away.

A non-skeptic would blame a poltergeist, but really, what would a poltergeist achieve by harassing in this manner? I’m not afraid of the cat, I knew the futon would need fixing soon, and living in a low-level apartment means plumbing issues on occasion, even if it regulates temperature nicely. Perhaps the coincidences merely push me away from musing about going for the first-time homeowner tax credit…it’s nice to call a dude when your bathroom floods and you have to go to a meeting ASAP. So if a poltergeist exists, it’d have to be a liberatarian conservative, annoyed by swedish furniture, energy efficient sublevel apartments and governments handing out tax credits for simply buying a home. Hmm. I think I’ve strayed further from the believable with this plan. Maybe “stuff breaks” is a more accurate theory.

They’re all related. Sort of.

We had an early frost here – meaning a busy twilight in the garden as everyone hurried to wrap sturdy plants in fabric, cut down weaker plants for the compost pile, and harvest everything possible for a bounty that seemed premature. I felt like I was preparing for a war to hustle among the other quiet and somber gardeners, passing plots that would not survive the night with what I could carry. We did take in ~100 tomatoes, still on big chunks of vine to drape all over the house – a trick I learned from my dad to keep the tomatoes ripening into the autumn. All the basil has been processed with olive oil and put in the freezer, we’ve pickled green tomatoes and brussel sprouts, have a crisper full of bell peppers that never quite reached the promised orange or purple colors, and paper bags full of onions and potatoes. These are all good things, of course.

But an early frost is so frustrating – it feels like a statistical aberration, like losing $500 at the slot machines in your first 20 minutes. Given all the averages, shouldn’t we get a couple more weeks to ripen the crops, enjoy fresh herbs, and maybe coax a few more marigolds and nasturtiums in the shorter days? Apparently not. Nature isn’t into observing averages on a regular basis.

Statistics is a huge (and not displeasing) part of my life right now, given that my new position involves drawing up experiments and checking them for accuracy by comparing their values to previous tests. It is a bizarre thing to realize that when I took engineering statistics in college, apparently it wasn’t the statistics I hated. It was our professor, and the 8am start time of the class (which I think I would still hate now). I’m glad to draw up fancy spreadsheets showing my colleagues with less experience that yep, my chemical concoctions are accurate and precise. Take that, Kompala!

Statistics is something that Sam struggles a little more with. A weekend in Blackhawk where admittedly I expected the odds to be against all visitors, cost Sam $120. The majority of that was for a practice run at poker, something he’s been working on – but like the friends who came with us there are many good poker players who show up at casinos on weekends to take money from those still learning. I respect statistics over skill at corporations that are very good at both, so I played slot machines for 20 minutes, and stopped once I had a $5 profit. Statistics would show a curve of winnings in any casino game that takes relatively little skill, and most of the curve would have me at a loss – so I walked away happy.

One of my strongest memories of my maternal grandfather was of him fishing. He loved to fish, mostly with rapalas, and to this day I could probably pick out for you what he considered the best rapala for rainbow and german brown trout. I of course learned to fish, though I haven’t used the skill in years – which is OK, since trout is not one of my favorite dishes. However, most of his visits to see us included long afternoons by a river or lake, complete with one cooler filled with sandwiches and drinks, and the other empty and waiting for the fish that almost always filled the cooler. Like all fishermen, his stories grew with time, although the photographs did his skills justice at least in number of fish caught, if not in size of each fish.

Bragging about catching fish is normal, but he had one skill while engaged in fishing that my brother and I found decidely NOT normal. One of his favorite spots near my parents’ place was a lake regularly stocked with fish due to its proximity to a fish hatchery. The lake wasn’t particularly interesting to kids, but it did have crawdads. Crawdads, as the smaller, blue collar version of lobster, were not worth good fishermens’ time to bring them home and fix them for dinner. But my brother and I could poke at them with sticks in the shallow water at least, with their claws swiping hazily at our efforts. But when my grandfather would discover one, he would scoop it up without a word, toss it in his trucker style hat, and plop the hat back on his head. He’d look at us and say, “What? That’s what you do with crawdads!”

Shocked and a little awed at the man who exposed his scalp (for his hair was starting to thin in his 70s) to the pinchers of the small beast, we’d tug on our mom’s shirt, to get her to explain this behavior. More than half the time, she hadn’t seen it, and so didn’t understand our confused looks. The crawdad would be kept under the hat for a while, and returned to the water soon after.

I still don’t know why he’d do that – other than to stop the fussing of his grandkids for a good half hour. And when I see crawdads now, I have a tendency to believe their first use is as something to keep under one’s hat, at least long enough to confuse children.

I could talk about the blizzard right now, in which there should be 8-19 inches of snow on the ground by 6am tomorrow, but it’s so overdone. What is under the snow is more interesting, and is greatly aided by the snow: the brand new, 200 sq ft (but looks more like 300 sq ft by eyeballing the dimensions) SUNNY garden plot!

After cajoling and flattering as much as possible, I was told that there was zero chance of moving to a sunnier plot within the idyllic community garden where I spent the last year. In fact, five of the twenty members had requested the same thing, and yet no one was willing to move from the slightly sunny plots. If 25% of the garden is dissatisfied with the amount of light, that should be a sign: cut down the damn southern trees.

Lucky for the trees, I chose the rational option: I switched gardens. The garden director took pity on me and found me a spot in the next nearest garden, a sunny plot that was recently vacated by a gardener who took very good care of the plot. That last point was repeated to me by every gardener in the vicinity that I have met so far – it’s hard to know whether this is to reassure me that I am getting a good bed, or to reinforce that there are expectations of anyone inheriting such a high quality cache of soil.

So, goodbye to the pretty crocuses, the wrought iron fence that the peas climbed up all spring, the raised beds and pretty memorial roses. I did leave the plot better than I left it: with sturdy rows of onions to harvest later, and a cover crop of winter wheat to add organic material to the soil. My new garden, which really is only farther from home by maybe 0.2 miles, still definitely reachable by bike; is different in the extreme. All plots, which are considered 400 sq. ft. in size (I signed up for a 1/2 plot, twice the size of my old raised bed), are in full sun. There are probably 400 of them and they are in ground, not raised – giving the appearance of having stumbled upon a vagrant’s camp. There are always bits of fabric or plastic to cover early plants, hay bales scattered to create a buffer zone between plots, fences made from random sticks, tattered Tibetan prayer flags and lots of friendly dogs around. But a busy garden is a better garden – gardeners answer questions, they admire crops, and they look out for attacks from wildlife, insects, and (apparently the big problem in this area) drunk teenagers and greedy lazy organic food lovers.

Already I’ve met several of my neighbors, and they’re all quite friendly. There are new options for fancy drip irrigation systems, all heavily subsidized by rebates from the city. I have more than double the space I had before, and it’s ALL IN SUN. That last item alone makes me thrilled to join the new garden tent-city, with visions of fields of basil dancing in my head.

The increasing snow outside, however, makes it difficult to tackle the new list of to-dos: build a fence that might delay deer, double-dig the soil, and plant the first sugar snaps and greens for the early spring. Research drip irrigation systems (they can’t even be used until late May – freezes happen past Mother’s Day here), keep an ear open for getting some free well decomposed manure, and pick up a wonderful donation of several Walls-of-Water or similar item from a friend’s mom who knows her stuff and is just that kind. I am so ready for garden time – even if it’s done in between snow storms for now.

• When you procrastinate something you’re expected to have ready for a meeting, you look foolish.
• Hives can be caused by anything. I.E., your doctor can’t tell you whether your virus, probable bacterial infection, or a new, unknown allergy is why your head is swelling, sore and itchy all at the same time.
• Hives leave by the swelling and blotchiness slowly traveling downward…so if today your upper eyelids are puffy, tomorrow your under-eyelids will be puffy, and then your cheeks, and you’ll be generally scary looking for a three or four day period.
• Aspirin does not go well with low blood pressure. Unless feeling like passing out all day is your bag. On a positive note, ibuprofen does not seem to share the same effect.
• Medical science is still unsure how to tell when a regular cold becomes a bacterial infection. So, the decision to use antibiotics when you’ve felt sick for several weeks is still a gamble. (15% are bacterial, but an additional percentage seem to heal faster with antibiotics).
• Long-term mohawks have a peculiar growing pattern in which the short hair immediately next to the ‘hawk grows faster, and in unpredictable directions. Owners of said mohawks are sometimes resistant to getting a trim, since they don’t regularly see it.
• Listening to the Blagojevich recordings will not give you any juicy bits to share, just make you additionally disgusted at the corruption.
• When you’re offered a job that isn’t a good fit on the same day that 68,000 jobs are lost across the country, your best option is to take it and put up with it.

There’s been a lot of action at the warehouse/Big Project lately. In 25 days, we erected a loft approx. 800 sq ft in size, including stairs and railings (well, most of the railings). We bought furniture, put up art, created a bar, and put out a spread worthy of the Queen. OK, so the Queen never showed for our NYE Open House. But it was still a pretty fantastic event, with about 150 people attending, demonstrations of the plasma cutter, fire performance, homebrew, good music, and champagne. We were extremely lucky that we were seen as a hot new event – and that those who attended were generous with donations to help cover our expenses and the cost of constructing a loft (wood = not cheap, even if our labor was “free”). Even the clean-up wasn’t too bad! All that being said, I think all of us are glad that we’re better known in the community and that everything went off without a hitch. Now it’s time to get to use our spaces as we intended – for projects we didn’t have space for before. Well, at least, after we paint the loft and stairs and put down grip tape on the steps and finish the railings and maybe improve the bathroom…

…there was a boy. Despite being as frustrated and annoyed as most 13 year-olds, he went to a camp where he took classes with about 90 other adolescents marked early on as smart kids. Sustained on Dr. Pepper, eye-rolling, an encouraging role in DJing, and new friends, he struck up friendships with several people at the camp, including two kids who lived a hour or two north of his town in the mountains of Colorado.

Those two kids egged on the boy, insisting he return letters, send mix tapes of his high school radio show, and ditch school to meet them for slurpees or other ridiculous activities not usually considered worth driving 100 miles round trip for.

One of the kids had a high school friend who loved designing and making costumes.

Time for college came, and the kids headed to different schools: across Colorado, Utah, Rhode Island….

The second kid reached junior year in college, and needed a roommate. Luckily, the two campmates bumped into each other at an outdoor concert the summer before and mentioned the need for a roommate. Turned out that the costume design friend was moving back to Colorado, and set to start that fall at the same school and needed housing as well. Trusting the camp friend’s judgement without a second thought, the costume designer and the second kid became roommates.

They had many parties, with many great costumes…

And along the way, the original friendships from camp held together – including visits to each other’s schools and more often, invitations for the boy to come to the theme parties. By this time, his DJ skills were definitely developing.

College finished for the kid from camp, and graduation meant a trip away from the state for graduate school. There were tears as what was a very fun household broke up for everyone to go their separate ways. However, the kid from camp came back a few months later to see friends, and in the usual way, gathered together as many friends as possible for a short in-town visit, whether or not they usually hung out together in the kid’s absence.

Somewhere along the way, the costume design girl and the boy from camp had noticed all the neat things about each other – and seemed to share a certain goofiness, an interest in similar music, and it wasn’t long before they started dating.

15 days ago, these two people got married – in a beautiful 1920s ceremony complete with handmade dresses for the bride and her bridesmaids, and guests turned out in bowlers, flapper dresses, and long satin gloves to dance, eat cake, and celebrate most of the night. It is hard to believe that now a lifetime together can happen because of a spark from two people I met 15 years ago and helped introduce to each other.
Congratulations, S & N.

You’re right. I haven’t posted in a while, because it’s hard to know which stuff to post. So let this serve as a jump back into the posting waters, with some generalized updates:

• Both Sam and I are now employed. I am what you might call under-employed, but it works for now and forces some time organizing skills that are worth developing. Also led to an interview for a better job that I don’t have details on yet.
• The garden has gone through two frosts now, and we’ve pulled out most of the greenery. We have a funny system set up to hopefully ripen the tomatoes: a long pole stretched across a chair with the tomato vines draped across it. The tomatoes dangle down, hopefully turning red with a little more support. I wish I could speed up the process with some ethylene. Unfortunately, it’s not sold retail. For the garden plot, the hope is to switch to a sunnier locale next year, meaning that I need to pull out my herbs and sow a winter cover crop to make this plot more appealing. Luckily, I have extra wheat from my uncle to put down – it looks really attractive when it shoots up around Easter, and puts nitrogen back into the soil.
• Our road trip west was wonderful – and included cutting 21 mohawks! But get this: two of the mohawks turned out to be NEXT DOOR neighbors here in town. It was bizarre to meet 1000 miles away and find out we live so close in real life. It also included learning how to provide a variety of services in a pretty urban environment, including lots of bike repair for Sam, and general bartending for all of our friends. It is a great experience to realize how much we all like to fix things.
• I got to meet four bats up close through a volunteer position at the DBG. Wish I had brought the camera – but they were amazing even without it. A neat fact: only New World bats (microbats) echo-locate, and it makes them look like they’re silently screaming. I very much want a bat detector for Christmas, but understand if you’re not interested in dropping $300-$1800 for a hobby device.
• I’ve been tutoring calculus. It’s a good reminder of how much cooler calculus is than the math sections that come before it, and how much fun it is to share with someone else why we need calculus. I think I must be doing a better job than I expected.
• I have an obsession lately with reading and learning about America’s urban decay. That is to say, I am watching The Wire, reading Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, and closely following the corruption and replacement of St. Louis’s police chief. Our current city really doesn’t have urban decay – it’s much too wealthy and restrictive for that kind of thing, but St. Louis has it in spades. I’d like to think that there are people in St. Louis, Baltimore, Detroit, the Bronx, and other major urban centers who are working to improve the education, opportunities, and lives of people who live in crumbling urban areas. I’d like to get back into more of that at some point, even if the overarching point of The Wire is that the situation is hopeless.
• We had a chance to show around an architect friend from Austin recently. Having visitors is fantastic for discovering the area in a new way – she had very different things she wanted to see compared to other visitors, and with the fall color, it was easy to oblige. This is a hint to those of you who might come visit – we are well outfitted to show you around and put you up.
• I’ll end by offering two interesting links that I think reflect my thoughts on the changing political landscape: a meticulously researched poll website called www.fivethirtyeight.com (referring to the exact number of electoral college votes) that gives some very well researched data on how various national and senate elections may go. The second is Flickr’s partnership with the Library of Congress. The set linked to in particular fascinates me. It is all shots of Americans during the Great Depression and just afterwards, showing the poverty, agriculture, industry and lives of citizens during the last period of serious economic turmoil. Flickr and the Library of Congress are asking individuals to tag the photos with any information you might have – if you can identify people, towns, crops, or other information it allows them to have a better understanding of what the Farm Security Administration was recording.

So there – an update – and a likely probability of more updates soon.

There’s a tradition in my family. One that depending on one’s age, or experience of the past year, each member either dreads or looks forward to. When a birthday rolls around, the family member being celebrated gets to pick a dessert they’d like for their birthday “cake”. However, they get NO say in what the cake looks like.

This is an important distinction, because ever since I can remember, the birthday dessert is sculpted, decorated, or manipulated into representing a significant aspect of whatever the given person has gone through for the last year. Some years it’s been a joke, about someone being obsessed with a new sport (a replica of a frisbee golf “hole” filled with chocolate chip cookie “discs”), or deciding a new career path (when I wanted to grow up to be president, it was a perfectly iced presidential seal), or when someone became politically involved in a local topic (complete with picketing lego people around a factory). These examples don’t even begin to cover the creative territory my mom can handle…but suffice it to say there are a great number of interesting scenarios that have been played out on top of desserts in my family.

So saying, when my brother got back from his latest fire fighting trip, he had a pretty good idea of what his birthday dessert might look like. After picking a favorite blueberry crumb cake, he figured it’d be something about his mad chainsawing skills, which have kept him and his crews safe for years now. But it was his descriptions of the scenery that stuck with the rest of us: fighting fires along the Pacific Coast, on steep coastal slopes that made chainsaw work dangerous, and under constant attack from poison oak. In fact, my poor brother came back from his three week stint covered in disgusting looking wounds and rashes from the poison oak, and tales of the necessary prednisone shots that tend to make a group of gruff, overworked and under-rested firefighters a little aggressive. I suppose we were all glad that these risks weren’t as fatal as the fire itself can be, but we did wish that he was given better protection from the issues he did face.

This cake, however, topped a lot of previous efforts. It recreated the steep slope, with the crumbs standing in for the rough dirt and rocks. Instead of candles, my mom covered it with toothpicks, and carefully topped them with foliage made of crepe paper, making it a realistic depiction of a forest that WAS INDEED HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. She even cut up green gummi bears and scattered them around to look like poison oak. When presented with this bizarre cake, which went up quite like a California wildfire when it was lit, we prodded him to do what he does best; to put the fire out, fast. That he did, though bits of ash were still floating down when the cake was cut. Luckily for us, he put out yet another fire, and even more importantly, his weeks of firefighting gave him the healthy appetite required for the clean up.

If you’ve grown up in this state, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But it’s likely that your reaction is different, based on whether you first attended this venue as a child or a parent. Much like St. Louis’s favorite pizza, if you haven’t tried it by age 9, you won’t be impressed. But if you have…oh, the joys of this spot on east Colfax! I have many memories of exploring every nook with my brother, usually arriving after pleading with innocent family visitors to take us there (you know, those visitors who at the end of the trip say, “you’ve shown us such a lovely time, we’d like to take you out to dinner. Where would the children like to go?”). Everything about this place is magical: from the shrieking journey through Black Bart’s Cave, to the hilarious hourly shows featuring the gorilla, his idiot keeper, and the reporter who ALWAYS loses her wig and is pushed into the pool two stories below by the gorilla, to the mining area with sleeping miners, to the crazy helium balloon machine, to the mariachis, to the fire juggling divers to the hourly pinatas to the endless other places to run around while our parents sat at the table and embarrassedly apologized to whichever family visitor we had talked into treating us here, sight unseen.

This all being said, I know lots of people who grew up with this fantastical place and yet feel like it doesn’t hold up to a visit as an adult. I worried about this (as well as memories of the food – terrible – but acceptable to a non-discerning distracted child’s palate). But now we had visitors arriving, complete with a 9-year-old, and no way were we going to disappoint by denying him a visit. And I don’t think it disappointed him, either, since upon repeated questioning, he proudly stated it was the best part of his trip. And it definitely did hold up to an adult visit, mainly because it was almost. the. exact. same.

Seriously, my last visit was easily 16 years ago, and it still had the same look, smell, same sense of the impossible (how does that strip mall location fit seating for over 1,000 and a two-story waterfall all inside??), same cheesy skits, and same scary bits of Black Bart’s Cave. Oh, and same awful food. That being said, any visit by an adult should come requisite with the less-than-normal process of eating a meal an hour or so BEFORE going. Once there, you are required to buy a meal, but simply don’t eat it. Box it up for the pets or something, and only ingest the drinks and sopapillas. You’ll be much happier that way, and you are certain to find cheap, quality Mexican food in the surrounding neighborhood, so this is simpler than it sounds.

It’s amazing that a business that forces its waitstaff to respond with a quick trot to any table that has raised a tiny red flag has remained in business for over 30 years (Sam demonstrates in this picture), but I suppose unlimited trays of sopapillas keep all involved happy. Strangely enough, those of us with strong memories noticed only two changes: the genie in the magic wishing well is far less scary (no, it’s not just that I’m grown up, they really did change it); and the waitstaff has dramatically shifted demographics. As a kid, I remember the staff being full adults, clearly frustrated and rushed, with dark stains under each arm. This time around, all the waitstaff we spoke with were young, hip teens – eager to put a more interesting job on their college applications. This strange shift meant that all of them seemed quite happy, like a self-selecting group of pleasant ironists. This made the biggest significant change easier to deal with: for the first time ever, I had to pay my own way.

Last week we got a solid 24 hours of rain, uncommon for this area. In the middle of the storm, I was putting up cages around the tomato plants (which unfortunately are being attacked by flea beetles – hopefully they survive the assault) when I noticed two medium mushrooms peeking out from the undergrowth near our plot. They looked promising enough that I consulted our Colorado mushroom book when I got home. I had it narrowed down to either Shaggy Parasols or Shaggy Manes by the time I told Sam about it, and suggested he stop by to pluck them if he felt reasonably sure we could eat them without a trip to the ER. (Regular disclaimers apply: mushroom hunting is FULL of risks, you should only pick ones you are certain are edible, & consult professionals as needed!). Sunday, I find him sautéing up a couple slices of the one of the two now humongous mushrooms. Turns out they were indeed Shaggy Parasols – a good one for beginners, since it has some pretty good tests to ensure it is not the most similar poisonous mushroom. These guys, due to the rain and the rich soil we found them in; measured a good 15 cm across, and maybe 8 cm high. We took one to a friends’ BBQ, where it responded well to a mixture of soy sauce and red pepper flakes on the grill. The second one (minus the sample Sam took out, as seen in the picture) we used in one of our favorite dishes: a traditional risotto, based off the one used by Alton Brown. While it’s unlikely you’ll immediately have access to a shaggy parasol of this size, most mushrooms can be used in this recipe.

Shaggy Parasol & Asparagus Risotto
6 cups vegetable broth
1 cup dry white wine
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup finely chopped onion
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 cups Arborio rice
5 ounces Shaggy Parasols, sautéed and coarsely chopped, approximately 3/4 cup
7 ounces asparagus, cooked and cut into 1-inch pieces, approximately 1 1/2 cups
4 ounces cheese (we use a combination of parmesan, sheep’s gouda, and gruyere), approximately 1/2 cup
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest (if you have it)
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

This is a four pan dish, so clear the stove.

PAN #1:
In a medium saucepan with a lid, heat the vegetable broth just to simmering. Keep at a near boil.

PAN #2 (main pan):
In a large 3 to 4-quart heavy saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the onions and a pinch of salt and sweat until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the rice and stir. Cook for 3 to 5 minutes or until the grains are translucent around the edges. Be careful not to allow the grains or the onions to brown.

(Pans #3 & #4 are for sautéing the mushrooms and steaming the asparagus, respectively)

Reduce the heat to low. Add the wine and enough vegetable stock just to cover the top of the rice. Stir or move the pan often, until the liquid is completely absorbed into rice. Once absorbed, add another amount of liquid just to cover the rice and continue stirring or moving as before. There should be just enough liquid left to repeat 1 more time. It should take approximately 35 to 40 minutes for all of the liquid to be absorbed. After the last addition of liquid has been mostly absorbed, add the mushrooms and asparagus and stir until risotto is creamy and asparagus is heated through. Remove from the heat and stir in the cheese, lemon zest, and nutmeg. Taste and season, to taste, with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

It’s true…two new mohawks, cut for Memorial Day on our vacation. I wish I had pictures – but alas, didn’t think of it. I’ll try to track some down from the two new mohawk club members. Suffice it to say; both enjoyed a greater self confidence and attractiveness to others following their sleek new haircuts.

Our vacation was really, really great. Saw old friends, made new ones, had my mind cranked open by some fantastic art and discussing it with the giddy but extremely modest artists, fabulous food, and lots of kind folks from south of here. Wish I hadn’t been bitten by fire ants all over, but hey, you can’t win them all.

One last mention – I found this article from Melbourne, Florida. The zoo there is opening a new Visayan warty pig exhibit in a week, and they are offering free admission to those who attend sporting a mohawk similar to the hairstyle of the pigs. Yet another benefit!