Ode de boeuf

Today let us turn our eyes to something more, shall we say, appealing then the Cheeto president. Halifax is in the midst of it's annual frenzy around the humble but beautiful burger. A week long manic obsession with all things surrounded by a bun. This is the fourth or fifth year now for this spring festival in honour of dead cow and it has grown to 95 restaurants this year. Untold thousands of burgers will be sold, and a great side story as well, a lot of money will be raised for Feed Nova Scotia, a food bank charity here in the city that does great work.

On the first day of burger week last year I was interviewed by the CBC on why the burger is such a much loved source of calories. I stammered through a response that thankfully made me sound somewhat coherent and waxed poetic about the almost primal combination of meat and fire. Many of us crave that combination of fat and flesh...we have been conditioned to enjoy it but we have also, as a species, evolved to search it out. The burger, being the simplest and most economical way of enjoying our beef fix has become the quintessential hand food. Along with pizza, the burger is near perfection.

I remember Big Mac's being 99 cents the first time we grabbed a MacDonald's fix, in those styrofoam containers with that sugary orange drink and those great salty fries. Of course it was bad for you and still is, but when you're hungover...there is not much better. But let us leave behind the fast food crappola for some better memories....

Grilling fresh made burgers on the BBQ and enjoying them outside as opposed to bringing them in to the house in that glass Pyrex dish allowing the juices to collect around them and getting cold quickly. No...take the burger right from the grill and build your own homage to Wimpy...and eat away. Those memories that are brought forth with the combination of grilling meat, fresh grass, trees in bloom...really just the combination of nature and fire roasted meat make for one of those childhood memories that will make you smile each time you dredge it up.

When in the former Yugoslavia when I was 16 or 17 with my family I didn't have an appreciation for ethnic diversity through food. Nor was I as adventurous as I am now. So I was bored of eating the same stuff everyday as we travelled....stop in at a new family for a visit, kill a chicken and eat...I got fat that summer because you couldn't say no to people that just killed for you. And I didn't care for some of the, errrr, specialities of the region. So you can imagine my fervent excitement at a train station that served something akin to a burger and fries. Pljeskavica is a burger like meal that we ate while waiting for the train....tender shoe string frites with this incredibly delicious burger a la Balkans....I remember the flavour today. Whether because we were getting something close to a burger from home or because we really appreciated the flavour I do not know...all I know is that it was delicious.

Later in life I discovered the magic of the cast iron pan in my burger ways. Being single and cooking for one some days I came to appreciate my cast iron pan for all sorts of preparations. None more mouthwatering than a properly seared homemade burger. The cast iron distributing the heat evenly and seemingly with more intensity from those clad flimsy pans. I like a pan that you can do some serious damage with if you feel the need to smack someone upside the head for being stupid or something like that. The fact that it gives me a better finished product on my burger quest means I'm more than slightly enamoured with the black weathered pan.

And what is it about another persons burger that makes it so irresistible. My ex would spend a few minutes building her version of the perfect burger with her choice of condiments and I couldn't resist taking a bite when she turned her back to put something away. I had the same burger but hers was better....hmmmmmmmmmm

And now back to burger week. The picture above is my concoction at work for this years offering. A locally grown ground beef patty with crispy jalapeno mac ' cheese, homemade bacon jam, which is really sex in your mouth, sandwiched between a cheddar bun from a local bakery. When it's all said and done we will do somewhere between 1400 and 2000 burgers for the week. That's a lot of cow roadkill...just saying. I must admit I do like seeing how well received our burger is and I'm already thinking ahead to next year.

So if you're in the area...stop in and bring your appetite. Make sure to say hi before you slip into your burger coma.

Ciao
D

President Cheeto

Well, well, well.....in a "normal" world Drumph would be feeling the noose tighten this day. The bombshell news that he and his team have been investigated by the FBI since last July should be sending shivers around the beltway and beyond. The Watergate scandal seems like small potatoes compared to the possibility of some sort of collusion with Putin and his band of despots...can you imagine the ramifications if it is true to some degree or another, fake news not withstanding of course.

And I say "normal" and "should" with a grain of salt since it seems that normal simply does not compute anymore...what the hell is normal in a world where that orange turd is the president? Taking to Twitter to rant about his hurt feelings, accusing Obama of illegally wiretapping his phones, with no evidence of course, and generally being an embarrassment as not only and American but as a human. He is a piece of shit plain and simple.

Where does one start? His not so thinly veiled attempts at racial profiling writ large within his travel bans? His billionaire cabinet picks? His budget of cuts that will hurt the people and environment that need help the most? Sure, cut meals on wheels and have one of your lackeys call it compassionate while adding another 60 billion or so to the defence industry budget and spending millions so his wife can stay in New York. Or maybe his handshakes? I was quite proud of Trudeau for stopping that in its tracks when he met with the head Cheeto.

Of course no one should be surprised at how this is playing out. He's an ass hat of the highest magnitude and there's a part of me that says, fuck you America, you voted this guy in with your convoluted electoral college and the FBI director being a dick head. The morons that actually voted for him because they believe that he will do all the things he stuck on his hats and t-shirts are also deserving of both ridicule and a thumb in the eye. Those are the ones that are on his Facebook and Twitter daily thanking God for his orangeness and praying for the continued hard work he is doing. He can, in their minds, do know wrong...and that's a scary thought. They have the guns of course. And really...hard work? The guy has probably golfed more than Obama did already. Every Friday he jets down to the "Southern White House" to fuck off from the gruelling scolding and scheming of President Bannon.

Let's not forget the Republicans because as far as I'm concerned these douche bags deserve the business end of a 2 x 4 for both their enabling behaviour and their complete and total lack of compunction in calling this pile of dog shit out as a blight on their cancerous ways. The FBI director tells you that Drumph is both lying and being investigated for possible ties to the Russians and you try and change the subject to "what about the leakers"? Really? I mean seriously, fucking really? I am absolutely stunned at the obvious and overt grab for power and self interest that these clowns as a whole have displayed. They give about as much a shit about the average American as I do over people that eat well done steaks with ketchup....oh wait....hmmmmmmm

He and his enablers have sucked the oxygen out of the world with their almost hourly head scratching "breaking news" moments. The rest of us our praying for the tipping point to arrive so that someone can start the impeachment process...why it's not already happened is a mystery but for the love of God can someone just stand up and say enough. He's a lying sack of donkey poo. His transgressions are plainly visible and plentiful, his heart is black, he needs to go.

So fuck the fucking fuckers and get this shit done already...before he does something we won't be able to walk away from.

Fuck!!!

The Man in Black

I'll admit that I came to appreciate Johnny Cash late in my life, the whole country music thing blocked my appreciation for one of the guys that I can now call "the man". The movie Walk the Line opened the door to more than just a passing interest in Ring of Fire and hemorrhoid's jokes. My younger brain, not to be confused with the old fuck brain, wanted reverb and strong rhythm with some aggressive adolescent angst. Actually...I still do gravitate that way, I will always be the rock n' roll kid in my heart, but a healthy appreciation for talent in other genres has grown as I have grown. Like Bob Marley and Leonard Cohen before him, Mr Cash became a later in life appreciation.

Last night I saw the movie Logan with my kids. It was pretty good and while I didn't cry at the end or anything like that, as some people have claimed to do, I thought it a fine film. It was kind of dark with the whole ageing theme...losing a step or two and suffering from the passage of time, even for super heroes is never any fun. And then to put it all in perspective, as music so often does, as the movie ended The Man in Black's "The Man Comes Around" began playing as the credits rolled.

Time is the ultimate equalizer for us all...we are term limited in one way or another, all of us. Cash knew it as well as anyone. And one could argue that he lived his life on his terms, for better or worse, demons and angels fighting with him every day. He did it and he did his way. It would be interesting to talk to him and find out if he had any regrets. Living that large he left a swath of destruction a mile wide at different points in his life and one wonders if he came down with a case of the what if's from time to time.

I'm not advocating for a life of excess or chemical happiness, far from it actually, as I feel that I can be quite happy without the use of any sort of "help'. No, my advocacy would be for the seeming theme that runs through his life and his music. Twangy picking aside, his almost spoken word music speaks to the heart, to the soul of us all. He stands for the marginalized, the down trodden and the forgotten ghosts of our world. Under the Jesus preaching and soul saving embroidery is a simple message of loving one another, in the way that Jesus probably would have actually wanted from all us 'sinners'. The other message is also quite simple I think...fuck you. "Johnny, why are you dressed in black?" Because fuck you, that's why. "You can't be serious about playing a prison?" Fuck you...I am.

If you've read any of this exercise in self indulgence you have have probably some across enough examples in my own life as to why this fuck you attitude appeals to me. In a nutshell I have been doing this since at least grade nine and I keep getting better at it. Sure, I can be politically correct on occasion, mostly out of not wanting to be rude, but at the end of the day, fuck you is my natural instinct...a la Johnny Cash.

Cash is complicated and I think that's why I like him. I suspect he'd have given you the shirt off his back and in the next breath cut your heart out for crossing a line. There is gravitas to go along with the bottle of bourbon and cigarette hanging from his mouth. If in doubt check out his version of Hurt That's raw and telling.

This post seems pretty funny in light of my last post on hugs...hahahaha Next I will write about bunnies juxtaposed with my skills with a butchers knife. I keep trying to tell you my brain works funny.

Ciao
D

Ugh

Elvis once sang...

"Didja' ever get one of them days

When nothin' is right from mornin' till night

Didja' ever get one of them days"

Of course you have. I have. No matter what you do you just can't seem to get out of your funk. The mere sound of someone breathing is enough to warrant a throat punch and without trying many people seem so much closer to a violent end because of the simple act of being alive in the same vicinity. You know what I mean...you can admit it here. By the way, it will set you free once you do.

I'm sure this will annoy the crap out of some people but I actually hate people less than I used to. While I face challenges everyday I seem to have grown a better appreciation of what matters and what I can give the finger to.  I am so much less inclined to lose it than I was just a few short years ago...the real me has come back. And before you go thinking I have gone soft on you, just remember the old adage about poking the bear...don't fucking do it lest you get stabbed with a fork. And always keep this in  mind, I can hide a body.

So, you may think that this is going to continue on about my savage sarcastic side. Or perhaps my Age of Aquarius rising side. Well, you'd be wrong. I realized yesterday that the letters in ugh can also spell hug...it suddenly struck me while texting someone and it made me laugh. Sort of when I was typing the word "for" once and I missed by one key to the left on each letter and spelled the word "die". Kind of creepy that one but it made me laugh and laugh all the same. Told you my brain works funny.

For the record, I am a world class hugger. And all without lessons by the way. A hug is an amazing thing when applied at the right time, with right amount of pressure and for the right amount of time. My oldest daughter often finds comfort in my arms. Since she was a baby I was always able to calm her down when she fussed...it was known as Daddy time. And I cherish that every time she comes looking for a hug or even better, cuddle time with the old man. Turning an "ugh" into a hug is not a bad super power to have. I enjoy them and I think others do as well....it has been my signature since grade ten when I met the trouble twosome that year. 

Anna and Sonia and I became the closest of friends and it was the hug that bound us to each other. All these years later and Anna and I have been the closest of friends for over 30 years now. We have "got" each other for a long time...the kind of friendship where you can go months without talking and pick up easy as pie...the kind of friend you will have when you die.  And why do I mention all this? Isn't it obvious? Go hug someone stupid!!!

Hug your kids. Hug your folks. Hug your friends. Hug your lover. Always....just do it. It does wonders for you. Without getting to mushy, I don't want my kids making a scene after all, there is a sublime peace that descends over me when I am hugging my sweetie. An embrace can say so much...sometimes things that words have a hard time conveying. Allowing those moments of close contact, breathing the same air as each other, feeling their heartbeat...these are all good things. Turning an "ugh" into a hug opens the door to so much more, don't you think?

So, stop reading this silly blog and lay it out there for all to see. Grab someone and hug the stuffing out of them. I'm gonna head home now and do that very thing.

Hugs

D   

The Chefs Pub Crawl

In the category of why am I still alive stories, sub section "every good story starts with alcohol" I bring to you this memory. Filled with adventure, music, Willie Nelson, a big dog and a certain amount, OK fine, copious amounts of booze...one of those nights that I will remember on my death bed I'm sure.

I, as your main protagonist and Scott, as minor facilitator and big time wussy (sorry Scott, the story must be told), needed a guys weekend away. We even jokingly called it our "spa weekend" in slight mimicry of a woman's retreat. We had just wrapped up another season of welcoming people to the inn and we were both a tad run down. Why wouldn't we treat ourselves to, ahem, manicures and facial exfoliation...or, a hockey game, Chinese food and some libations? Seven days a week for six months, dealing with all manner of guest and the vagaries of running a tourist operation in a quaint little town, well...a break was in order. Celebrating the fact that we weren't going to be seeing or hearing anymore from the flock of Tilley hat wearing freaks that graced our town we planned our one night away.

Being guys we needed an event as the focal point to plan around. Not that we give a rats ass so much about the local junior hockey team but it's a good way to bridge the opening salvo of jocularity and the laid back late night calm. Tickets were procured for a Mooseheads game with seats a few rows back from the players bench.  As a side note I have a fear about getting a puck to the face at hockey games. I know that at a particular moment of not paying attention to the game will be when Wendel Clark winds up for a deflected shot that I'm now wearing on my forehead...like I have always suspected that cancer would get me, that puck has my name on it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

First we checked into our hotel room and decided to unwind a bit with a beverage or two before striking out for some Chinese food. Good Chinese food...not the chicken balls kind of Chinese food. This moment in time also marks the moment I discovered Drambuie, or as I now call it, the Nectar of the Gods. I had grabbed a few bottles of booze from the inn that were half empty or so. Some single malts, some rum and the Drambuie. Those first few sips lit up my face...I was hooked. I like Scotch but this really tickled my fancy more so. So thank you Mr. Steele for the introduction. We shared a few drinks, laughed about whatever and decided that food should be our next item on our agenda.

Whilst walking to the restaurant along some side streets from the hotel we had a visit with Willie Nelson. Not the usual but something I had procured from another...and this is important I think for what would happen later. We dined on duck and drank Chinese beer. The night was starting off so well. Good food, food drink and most of all a good friend. We decided to cab it down to the Metro Centre for the game, and Willie may have visited again but I'm not entirely sure. As we arrived at the game we probably grabbed a beer to take to our seats and this is when the wheels came off, so to speak.

Now, I think Scott wasn't accustomed to a different version of Willie and this played the role of spoiler for him. We had barely sat down and he commented on how great the seats were. Next thing I knew he was looking like so much dog poo piled up. He taps me on the shoulder and says that we should go back to the hotel, that he wasn't feeling well. WTF. "Go splash some water on your face to see if it helps" was my reply. It didn't. He looked like he was going to pass out and/or lose his duck dinner. So, begrudgingly I threw him into a cab and took him back to the hotel to sleep it off...the whole ride back he kept apologizing for ruining the night. I couldn't care less about the hockey game but I do admit that I was kind of pissed that my first night to myself in forever was being wussified.

As I sat staring out the window after Scott was dumped into bed I made one of those "get out of your comfort zone" decisions. There was no fucking way I was going to let this ruin my weekend away. Come hell or high water I was going to go have some fun. In the hopes that maybe an hour or so of sleep would revive the lump formally known as Scott I ventured to the hotel bar and had a Drambuie while taking in the ambiance and making small talk with the bartender. A little while later I checked in on super wuss and he hadn't even moved. After ascertaining that he was still alive I raided his Willie Nelson and ventured out into the streets to see what I could see.

I had barely crossed the street from the hotel and drama had found me. It was right around Halloween and there were university students dressed up heading downtown to "study". Being less inebriated than they were I noticed that one man in a sort of Popeye costume had nearly been clipped by a passing car as he walked half on the sidewalk and half on the street. "Hey man....you might want to walk on the sidewalk, that K car nearly put a dent in you" was my meagre offering of advice. I wanted to throat punch him for his response..."oh, sorry sir, didn't mean to do it, sorry sir." I would have been in my mid thirties at this point and I did not like the idea of being labelled an "old fucker" by this little shit. Of course, now a days I couldn't care less...I'm an old fucker, whatever. "No sir...there is no sir, just don't want your obituary to read "He Got Smoked by a K Car". Enjoy your night man." And off I went.

I made it a whole 25 feet when I stopped to talk to some "Squeegee Kids". There was a young guy and girl and a huge dog, I want to say Rottweiler but what do I know. They were sitting on a bus stop bench in front of what used to be Queen Elizabeth high school. Already condemned to the wrecking ball, it tuns out that an alcove behind the bench was their home. I don't know their names and I had really simply stopped for a match to warm my hands, but we chit chatted for a bit. I guess when you are on God's good grace, your sense of time and place is a moveable line in the sand...they were about to retire for the night in their little alcove. Be sure to say hi they said as I wandered off down the street heading for nowhere in particular.

Joel Plaskett has a song "Nowhere with You" that speaks about it not mattering what we do as long as we do it together. That was my night to go nowhere with my favourite person....me. As I strolled down Bell road with Willie along for the ride I really didn't have a destination or a plan. Let serendipity make the call, or as Robbie Robertson sang, "I don't know, the wind just kind of pushed me this way". And my first stop was the Lord Nelson hotel, into the Arms bar. Sitting at the bar contemplating what to do I decided one could never go wrong with a drink some food. I didn't realize it at the moment but I was on the opening leg of my own one man pub crawl....FORWARD DRINK!!!

I ate some sublimely delicious calamari, probably some of the best I've ever had, to go along with my beer. I capped it with a Drambuie and set off vaguely in the downtown direction along Spring Garden road. I made it as far as the next pub. I heard music and like siren song I was drawn inside. The trio sounded decent, it wasn't country music and I had a small table to myself. While noshing on some flatbread pizza and a beer I was really enjoying the idea of doing this night on my own. No wing man and no expectations. It was a little exciting to be honest. After an hour or so I decided a change in scenery was needed so I moved on. This is where I am a little hazy. I know I stopped at two more places, one with music, but I don't remember the what's and where's of the stops. I'm sure I drank a bit and possibly had another bite to eat, but that's pretty much it.

At some point, I'd say around midnight I started making my way back to the hotel. At this point I was, to say the least, comfortably numb. I had a nice buzz going and was probably smiling from ear to ear. I didn't feel unsafe as I strolled near the Commons, despite a rash of "swarming's" that had happened recently. I guess God does protect drunks and fools, of which I was both that night. As I neared the hotel I suddenly remembered my squeegee friends invitation to say hello. So I left the safety of the sidewalk to find the alcove where they were slumbering in. Obviously my inebriated foot steps precipitated the vision of my death as that giant dog came running at me with a barking that nearly made me soil myself. I may not recall the last bar I visited but I do know I was thinking to myself, so...this is how I'm going to die. Wonderful.

A loud command from the squeegee boy halted the hound of hell in his track and I was saved, be it with rubbery legs. As we inched closer together they recognized me from earlier in the evening and I was greeted like an old friend. We chatted a bit, mourned the passing of Willie and I said my goodbyes as I went back to my walk home. A few minutes later I found myself not in the hotel but at Freemans. A Halifax institution known for being open late...very late. So late that's it's early. There I found myself at 2:00 in the morning having a beer and the hottest fucking BBQ beef sandwich I ever ate. Not spicy hot, I mean hot hot. The third degree burns on the roof of my mouth might have just healed. As I sat there licking the BBQ sauce from my lips I thought of how much fun the night was...a moveable feast with a few drinks consumed, music enjoyed and a story written. Good times.

All things must come to an end and this night was no different, so I trudged up to my room to finish the night. I had wondered what Scott would do if we awoke to find me gone, but as it turns out he had n't moved a bit. I brushed my teeth threw on my flannel nightie and settled into bed...probably around 3:30 or so. Perhaps my shuffling around had finally woken him or maybe he just came back from the dead but I hadn't been asleep more than a few minutes when Scott woke up full of energy....I nearly threw a shoe at him.

To his credit he does acknowledge his wussy ways that night and he was actually very happy that I did have myself an adventure. Of course it would have been nice to have done the night together but all was not lost because of his bad reaction and subsequent wussy act.

Not bad for an old fuck eh?

Ciao
D

Three Little Birds

"Don't worry about a thing, 

'Cause every little thing gonna be alright.

Singing' "Don't worry about a thing, 

'Cause every little thing gonna be alright!"

Sing it Bob!! One of the five guys that I consider worthy of being called the man, along with Elvis, Johnny Cash, Neil Young and Leonard Cohen. I could think of a few more but we'll keep it at five for now. If your response to a question about playing a concert two days after being shot is "The people who are trying to make this world worse aren't taking a day off. How can I?" Than you're the man in my book. 

But this isn't about Bob and his music, although that would be a worthy topic indeed. No, this is for my three little birds, my kids. We have entered the season of birthdays for my brood and in a six week period they all celebrate, so naturally reflections on the part of the old man are in order. Those song lyrics really are a certain amount of advice for thing one, two and three, Adele, Liam and Cora. It will be alright, whatever it is that is supposed to happen to you in this life is meant to be and it's all going to be alright.

I imagine most parents would agree with me when I say that all I really wish for my kids is to be happy and healthy in their travels through life. As parents, my ex and I have done our best... taught them what we could, pointed out folly whenever we could and have instilled a sense of right and wrong that we're quite proud of. It's now their time to spread their wings as they go out into the world doing their thing. As hard and scary it might be to let go it is equally exciting and mesmerizing to watch.

I'm reminded of a time when my friend Peter had come to my place many moons ago. You see, Peter is an instigator in the best possible sense. He'd question everything...nothing was off limits and it almost always got the actors in his play thinking. On this occasion he was chit chatting with my mom while waiting for me to get myself together. I walked into the kitchen just as Peter began a little something that went like this. "You know Mrs Orovec, it is clear to anyone that spends five minutes with you how much your kids are your everything" Of course, she nodded in agreement, there is nothing I wouldn't do for them came the reply. "So how did you do it? How hard was it to stand by as Daniel went through his wild days of partying?" Uhm....thanks Pete. Her reply not only laid the foundations for my approach to my kids but surprised me that she knew as much as she knew... told you I wasn't a good liar. She answered something like this. "It was hard but that's life...we did our best, taught them to be good people and then hoped for them to remember where they came from and who they were. Hoped that they would be safe and come out the other side as even better people...and they did." Awe mom....and we have you and dad to thank for it.

I look at my three little birds, although Liam really isn't so little... the big tree, and they have given me nothing but joy since day one. Blessed is how I feel thinking of them. Unique, intelligent, funny, individuality...are all words that come to mind when thinking of these monkeys. It has been a privilege to watch them grow up and I can hardly contain myself at the thought of all they will do in the years to come, knowing that they will handle whatever comes their way.

From Bob Marley to John Lennon...

"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end"

What the hell!!!!!

Well, it would seem that people have conveniently forgotten or simply can't understand what a true throat punch is all about. Have I not made myself clear in the multitude of rants I have posted? As a reminder of my thinking please read on Reasons for a throat punch

What has gotten my ire up this evening? Glad you asked. It would seem an ass hat judge here in Nova Scotia has decided to drag us back into the 1950's the same way as that ass hat judge out west did with his "why didn't you close your knees" response to a rape victim. Our Bluenose judge, while acquitting an accused sexual predator yesterday, decided that apparently you can give consent while shit faced drunk.

Yeah...you read that right. This fuck off of a judge is taking a page out of the Drumph playbook in placing responsibility for a rape on the rape victim. Judge Leneham has joined the ranks of Brock fuck face and his judge.

For the love of whatever you consider holy what the hell is going on? Is society acid tripping back to the Leave it to Beaver era? Are we declaring open season on women as opposed to the slightly veiled but mostly overt misogyny that has been the norm? Seriously, what the fuck?

I wouldn't need to be a father of daughters to feel this way but it certainly brings the issue into sharper focus for me. My eldest turned 21 today and this is the kind of thing she has to be concerned about when heading out with friends? Should I step into that taxi?

So...what do we do? Sign the petition that's going around. Call your MLA or MP. Show up. And talk to your daughter's and son's. And fucking throat punch the system!

Fuck