Recently in Food and Drink Category

At a dinner party or convivium, Romans, like the Greeks, reclined on divans, drank watered wine, ate delicacies, and passed the evening. What kind of evening depended upon how much water the host added to the wine -- quite a bit and good conversation was expected; just a bit and debauchery ensued. Getting an invitation to such a party often required persistence and skill. The first century Roman poet Marcus Valerius Martialis (known in English as Martial) expresses frustration at the invitation-leeches who frequented bath houses to waylaid potential hosts:

For hours, for a whole day, he'll sit
On the public lavatory seat,
Not because he needs a shit.
He wants to be asked out to eat.
       --Satire XI, 77

Guests ate with their fingers and brought their own napkins, often of excellent quality. The theft of these napkins by unscrupulous diners prompted complaints:

While everyone else is laughing & drinking
you extend
              a surreptitious claw,
Asinius,
              towards the table napkins
of the negligent ...
              an unattractive habit
you misguidedly think funny.
       --Catullus 12

Keep your eyes on his right hand, pinion his left,
and he'll still bring off a theft.
...
[He] never brings a napkin when he's asked to dine
but he always takes one home -- yours or mine.
       --- Martial, Satire XII, 8

Invitations to these dinner parties, especially when offered by the politically and socially elite, conferred status and honor, and in the case of young poets hungry for food and love, opportunity for gratification. But as Publius Ovidius Naso (Ovid) in Amores I.4 shows, frustration instead of gratification was just as likely:

Your husband? Going to the same dinner as us?
I hope it chokes him.

So I'm only to gaze at you, darling? Play gooseberry
while another man enjoys your touch?

You'll lie there snuggling up to him? He'll put his arm
round your neck whenever he wants?

No wonder Centarus fought over Hippodamia
when the wedding wine began to flow.

I don't live in the forest nor am I part horse
but I find it hard to keep my hands off you.

However here's my plan. Listen carefully.
Don't throw my words of wisdom to the winds.

Arrive before him -- not that I see what good
arriving first will do but arrive first all the same.

When he takes his place on the couch and you go to join him
looking angelic, secretly touch my foot.

Watch me for nods and looks that talk
and unobserved return my signals

in the language of eyebrows and fingers
with annotations in wine.

Whenever you think of our love-making
stroke that rosy cheek with your thumb.

If you're cross with me, darling,
press the lobe of your ear

but turn your ring round if you're pleased
with anything I say or do.

When you feel like cursing your fool of a husband
touch the table as if you were praying.

If he mixes you a drink, beware -- tell him to drink it himself,
then quietly ask the waiter for what you want.

I'll intercept the glass as you hand it back
and drink from the side you drank from.

Refuse all food he has tasted first --
it has touched his lips.

Don't lean your gentle head against his shoulder
and don't let him embrace you

or slide a hand inside your dress
or touch your breasts. Above all don't kiss him.

If you do I'll cause a public scandal,
grab you and claim possession.

I'm bound to see all this. It's what I shan't see
that worries me -- the goings on under your cloak.

Don't press your thigh or your leg against his
or touch his coarse feet with your toes.

I know all the tricks. That's why I'm worried.
I hate to think of him doing what I've done.

We've often made love under your cloak, sweetheart,
in a glorious race against time.

You won't do that, I know. Still,
to avoid all doubt don't wear one.

Encourage him to drink but mind -- no kisses.
Keep filling his glass when he's not looking.

If the wine's too much for him and he drops off
we can take our cue from what's going on around us.

When you get up to leave and we all follow,
move to the middle of the crowd.

You'll find me there -- or I'll find you
so touch me anywhere you can.

But what's the good? I'm only temporizing.
Tonight decrees our separation.

Tonight he'll lock you in and leave me
desolated at your door.

Then he'll kiss you, then go further,
forcing his right to our secret joy.

But you can show him you're acting under duress.
Be mean with your love -- give grudgingly -- in silence.

He won't enjoy it if my prayers are answered.
And if they're not, at least assure me you won't.

But whatever happens tonight tell me tomorrow
you didn't sleep with him -- and stick to that story.

Upon arriving home from an afternoon of holiday party menu planning and mild imbibery with my favorite rioutous feminist left-wing southern Christian gentlewoman (a subject which, if no one puts molasses on the doormant so the little girl's feet stick fast when she comes in to play checkers with my pussy cat, I intend to go into at some length), I found awaiting me on my doorstep a tin of nuts.

A two pound tin of Hubs Home Cooked Salted Virgina Peanuts. Now, I don't come from Virginia peanut country but I do come from Virginia and I did serve as a youth pastor about 30 miles from Southampton county, home to Hubs and perhaps the best sugar cured and country hams available. A bit of pride for my home state there.

But this wasn't my first experience today with Hub's nuts. I had been offered Hubs' first-rate butter toffee peanuts while sitting around the kitchen table with my elegant and bawdy hostess, who earlier had embarrased the hell out of her daughter by using the phrase "I said I'd give him a little pussy" when asked how she had gotten a positive reponse out of a usually recalcitrant man. Upon seeing the shock on both her daughter's and her future son-in-law's faces, she added, "my god, children, I meant I was NICE."

And thus a theme for my day. The card on the shipping box on my doorstep read: "Happy Holidays, Patrick." Patrick? Patrick: my realtor around seven years ago when I was in the midst of purchasing a home with a certain woman of whom I was perhaps overly fond.

The deal fell through when we discovered plans (undisclosed by the seller) for a I-75/I-40 connector running through the front yard. The relationship fell through soon after. No house for me; no money for Patrick. I came back into his graces this past summer, however, when I engaged his services in finding a Knoxville home for my folks.

I got him the money. He gave me the nuts.

The holiday party is on Monday the 27th: 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. She means it—I've been there in years past. The better part of 300 invitations have been sent out. If y'all are going to be in Knoxville, let me know and I'll send you directions. Hopefully, Patrick can make it and this whole nut thing can resolve itself into a neatly framed tale of lost love, financial destiny, legumes, and family values. Winnie is making her deviled eggs and I'm cooking the pork. It'll be a hell of a time.

Years ago, I got off the web a recipe for sweet and sour chicken. With some modifications, it's become my best stir fry dish. My annotated copy of the recipe, crinkled, stained, and yellowed with age, is about crumble apart, so I'm preserving it here. It's not completely traditional, obviously -- I prefer not to batter the chicken, for example.

1 lb boneless chicken breast
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp soy sauce
1 Tbsp corn starch
1 Tbsp cold water

Mix the salt, soy sauce, corn starch, and water to make a marinade. Cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces and soak in the marinade. The longer the better, but at least an hour or two.

1 green pepper
2 carrots
2 onions
1 can chunk pineapple (or fresh is good, too)

Cut up the veggies into stir fry-sized pieces and place in separate bowls.

4 Tbsp vinegar
4 Tbsp catsup
1 Tbsp sugar
5 Tbsp cold water
5 Tbsp pineapple juice
3 tsp corn starch
1 tsp salt
1 tsp toasted sesame oil

Mix the above in a bowl. That's your sweet and sour sauce. It looks nasty now, but will look and taste great later.

Place a tiny bit of peanut oil (or other light oil that can take great heat) in a wok, and crank the heat all the way up. When the wok first begins to smoke, toss in the chicken. Cook for three or four minutes, stirring like crazy. Some of the chicken/marinade will stick; I know no way around that. For this reason I usually use two woks to cook this dish.

Remove the chicken and place in a clean bowl.

Now the fun part. Get all your bowls (containing veggies, sauce, chicken) ready for action. This is the pay off, impress your date kind of stuff. It'll cover the "Be Excellent" part of the Tao of Steve.

Put a tablespoon or two of peanut oil in a clean wok, and crank the heat. When the wok starts to smoke, do the following:

Stir fry the carrots for 1 minute, add onions and stir fry for 2 minutes, add green peppers and stir fry for 1 minute, add pineapple and stir fry for 1 minute.

Then, pour in the sweet and sour sauce and stir until very hot, just a minute or two. Toss in the chicken and stir until hot and that's it. Remove from heat and serve over rice.

You did remember to make rice, didn't you?

(This recipe works well with pork and shrimp, too, but I prefer the chicken. To make more, just scale the recipe up. I've had good success tripling and quadrupling the ingredients.)

... is especially good with a wedge of lemon.

From the Holy Mountain Trading Company:

Japanese Tea Ceremony

Chaji is a full tea presentation with a meal. As in virtually every tea ceremony, the host may spend days going over minutiae to insure that this ceremony will be perfect. Through tea, recognition is given that every human encounter is a singular occasion which can, and will, never recur again exactly. Thus every aspect of tea must be savored for what it gives the participants. The ceremony takes place in a room designed and designated for tea. It is called the chashitsu. Usually this room is within the tea house, located away from the residence, in the garden.

Chinese Tea Ceremony

The Chinese tea ceremony emphasizes the tea, rather than the ceremony -- what the tea tastes like, smells like, and how one tea tastes compared to the previous tea, or in successive rounds of drinking. Ceremony doesn't mean that each server will perform the ritual the same way; it is not related to religion. Each step is meant to be a sensory exploration and appreciation.

Update: For the history of the Tea Ceremony and its ties to Zen Buddhism, read this brief essay.

Further Update: From the writings of Sen Soshitsu Hounsai Iemoto, fifteenth generation Grand Tea Master of the Urasenke Tradition of Chanoyu, on the Way of Tea:

...Frequently I travel abroad to teach people of other countries about the heart of Tea. Recently I was invited to the Philippines where, in a private meeting, I offered tea to President Ramos and his wife and engaged in a cordial exchange of ideas. This encounter stands as one moment in my continuous efforts to bring to realization the phrase "peacefulness through a bowl of tea." Whenever I travel outside Japan, I think of the words uttered by the Sixth Ancestor of Zen, Hui-neng (638-713), who said, "While we may say that humans mark distinctions of north and south, in terms of buddha-nature south and north do not exist."

Yet Another Update: The practices described in the 1924 song "Tea for Two," by Irving Caesar and Vincent Youmans, are interesting riffs on traditional Tea Ceremonies:

Picture you upon my knee,
Just tea for two and two for tea,
Just me for you and you for me alone.

Nobody near us to see us or hear us,
No friends or relations on weekend vacations.
We won't have it known, dear,
That we own a telephone, dear;

Day will break and you'll awake
And start to bake a sugar cake,
For me to take for all the boys to see.

We will raise a family,
A boy for you, a girl for me.
Oh, can't you see how happy we would be.

And Yet Another. ... Stash has an excellent and comprehensive article on the history of tea, from its legendary origins in China to its use today. America itself has made important contributions to the service and marketing of tea -- iced tea was first served at the 1904 World's Fair at St. Louis, and teabags were introduced in 1908 in New York. While these developments may be disturbing to purists, they helped further expand the reach of tea.

Yesterday was our national day of Thanksgiving, hearkening back to a feast marking the first harvest of the Pilgrims in 1621. George Washington proclaimed 26 November 1789 a one-time day of national thanksgiving and prayer. Lincoln made it a national holiday on the last Thursday of November. Unfortunately, this on occasion became the fifth Saturday, thus making it far too close to Christmas. Finally, in 1939, President Roosevelt set it at the fourth Thursday in November.

Last Thanksgiving, President Bush visited the troops in Iraq; this year, having little to celebrate in Iraq but much to give thanks for in the States, he stayed at home for leftovers in Crawford, TX. Perhaps he prayed some too—maybe for the Middle East, but more likely that the country will continue to go along with the frightening and frenetic shift to the right he's either allowing or implementing in this country's government.

Speaking of the Middle East, Turkey is an interesting country interestingly positioned. It's the most peaceful Muslim country with a secular government in the region. However, it borders Iraq, with which it shares a volatile Kurdish population. The Northern Iraqi Kurds have become increasingly involved in military options against Sunni rebels in Mosul. This can't bode well, stoking rumors of civil war in Iraq. Can the Turks avoid becoming somewhat involved if their Kurds decide to start crossing the border? Turkey also borders Syria, a country we accuse both of harboring terrorists and of allowing them to leak across the border into Iraq. Turkey shares its eastern frontier with Iran, whom we accuse of developing nuclear weapons. Could we, would we, should we choose to use Turkey, who has stayed out of the war for the most part so far, as a staging ground for offensives against one or both of these countries? Turkey has its own radical Muslim fundamentalist population, which has shown its ability violently to challenge Turkey's secular government.

If that's not enough, Turkey is across the Black Sea from Ukraine, which just held elections that kept the incumbent government in power. Much of the world, including our government, has accused these elections as being rife with fraud. Ukranian journalists who had supported the incumbent and members of the opposition have joined with much of the population in questioning the results. Progressive journalist Greg Palast makes a few pertinent observations:

Greg Palast
REPUBLICAN CHALLENGES PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION BASED ON EXIT POLLS
Tuesday Nov 23, 2004
from the New York Times

An international election observer mission - from the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, the European Parliament, the NATO Parliamentary Assembly and the Council of Europe - released a preliminary report on Monday declaring that the election did not meet democratic standards.

The observers' findings were seconded by Republican Senator Richard G. Lugar of Indiana, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

Citing the disturbing fact that official results diverged sharply from a range of surveys of voters at polling places, Lugar said, "A concerted and forceful program of election-day fraud and abuse was enacted with either the leadership or cooperation of governmental authorities."

Other prominent Western observers were unsparing in their criticism of the state's conduct of the election.

"Fundamental flaws in Ukraine's presidential election process subverted its legitimacy," the National Democratic Institute for International Affairs, sponsored by the Democratic Party in the United States, declared in its preliminary report. The institute, cited "systematic intimidation, overt manipulation and blatant fraud" that were "designed to achieve a specific outcome irrespective of the will of the people."
-- New York Times

This reporter was unable to reach Senator Lugar regarding the inconsistency of official election results and exit polls in the USA; the intimidation of minority voters in Florida and Ohio; nor the failure to count two million ballots cast, half by African-American voters, in America's first post-democratic election held earlier this month.

Eastern bloc observers noted that balloting in Ohio, New Mexico and Florida did not meet Ukrainian standards, but applauded America's attempt to restore democratic institutions after the overthrow of elected government in 2000.

I suppose any ironic, hypocritical connections to our own flawed elections, especially in Ohio, aren't on the table of leftovers served cold in Crawford.

And so Thanksgiving, a day to give thanks, based on the arrival and survival of the Puritans in the Americas. They're still here, but it seems as though their desire for religious freedom, as it was in their violent suppresion of Thomas Morton's colony, is a cloak for their desire to stifle dissent and wage war against those of other faiths.

Though my parents, quite nearly Puritan, and I share many differences, we found a place to meet at the dinner table. My Mom and I cooked up the following:

• fresh Turkey with cornbread, chestnut, and sausage stuffing
• sweet butternut squash, roasted with onions
• cranberry and tangerine aspic
• peas sauteed with garlic, shallots, and prosciutto
• wheat, rye, and oat bran yeast rolls
• giblet gravy
• apple and cranberry pie

You want any of the recipes, let me know.

So I log back on after having my machine returned from a good scrub and polish (thanks NinjaWife!) to find that my partner in this Nifty website adventure has written of a seminal encounter we had the other night.

I have only two refinements.

First, the "bundle of fun" is a good friend whom I know from many nights at the brewpub and from our common membership on the board of CityPeople.

Second, she would never, ever, "cup her breasts." She, most assuredly, is one who grabs her tits.

Regardless, sounds like Bit-o'-Nifty is rubbing all the right people in all the right spots.

After Keith's lyrical romp across beds, politics, and memory, I almost hate to dirty this site with bitter grumblings and sullen sentences. But what the hell: work was a bitch today, and it ain't over yet. I'd much rather be writing about tormenting freshmen with Akira Kurosawa's The Hidden Fortress, mumble-mouthing foreign words at a spelling bee, fumbling for words for long-lost lovers, or even throwing my bowl of Zatarain's Jambalaya at the televised Republican National Convention.

Instead, I've got to create sexy phrases about industrial energy audits and corporate energy management.

Do me a favor. If the air conditioner is on, open the windows. Rip out the weather stripping. Buy the cheapest, most inefficient incandescent light bulbs.

It's sad what's happened to "energy."

Downtown. Two days in a row. Catering luncheon for a group of hens who supported the rooster's candidacy. Luncheon. What a word, luncheon. Used when luncheoning in the rooster's office.

A pecky brood.

Marinated asparagus, but I wouldn't serve it for lunch.