THE OSHAWA CENTRE:
At last and with much strain, Llew divined a topic of conversation that wasn’t about hockey or the nifty goal Scott Hollis had just scored. “So, I heard from Spanky, eh? Well, Marybeth Visneski did.”
“Is she the one who gave Boden the hummer at Beano’s?” Mother asked.
“Yeah, she was. Super nice girl, though.”
“Oh, super nice,” Dad nodded. “David thought the world of her.”
Can it really be true that Rolling Stone publisher/magnate Jann S. Wenner has personally conducted a decades-long campaign to bar The Monkees from induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?
Peter Tork certainly thought so.
“He doesn’t care what the rules are and just operates how he sees fit,” Peter told the New York Post in 2007. “It is an abuse of power. I don’t know whether The Monkees belong in the Hall of Fame, but it’s pretty clear that we’re not in there because of a personal whim.”
Breakfast does NOT have to be boring. Once you get familiar with how to prepare and assemble these breakfast bowls, with their interchangeable ingredients, you can get creative and switch out ingredients to your little tongue’s desire.
Go to Africa with eggplant and peanuts. Go to Mexico with guacamole and chilies. Go to Eastern Europe with Bulgarian feta or grated Kashkaval cheese, and some sautéed cabbage and caraway. Go to Asia with seasoned rice vinegar in the scrambled eggs, roasted bok choy, and a drizzle of sesame oil and Hoisin. Continue reading
A BRIEF EDITORIAL:
Crap. It’s everywhere. The entire continent is sinking under the overwhelming avoirdupois of magna excreta. It’s the one thing that the ever-diverging peoples of North America have in common. Way, way too much crap. We maniacally amass it until our houses are positively bursting with unwanted junk of the junkiest variety. And just to prove how unwanted that junk really is – when there’s no more room for it in our home sweet homes (Throw it away? Are you mad?!), we put it in rented concrete boxes across town. Then, the only time we see this collection of depressing domestic detritus is when we’re dropping off more unwanted depressing domestic detritus to add to the unwanted crap we already have in there. It’s basically what all of us will do with our elderly relatives when we want to sell their houses so we can go on vacation.
“Fame … makes a man take things over …. puts you there where things are hollow”
If you were a baby boomer in the sixties, you most likely never knew anyone who was ‘really really’ rich. There was a kid in my school whose dad was a famous football player, but I didn’t know her well. And there was another friend who came from Texas; they had a big house, and even had a maid, who let us make chilli and mess up the kitchen.
I had relatives who had oil patch money – they didn’t come around to many family parties, though. They likely got tired of being hit up for loans that would never get repaid.
When you think about it, one of the most famous, and presumably wealthiest, person with a high profile, back in those days, was Elvis. And by today’s standards, Graceland isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal. Not with all that shag carpeting. But for the time, it was high glam.
This is one of those recipes that could be switched up very easily. It will work with whatever fish is freshest and available. If you don’t have trout fillets, you could use cod or tilapia or even salmon. Pretty much any firm fish will do, skin on or off, depending on what you like. The sauce would even work with a piece of chicken, or a pork tenderloin.
You can pan-fry for a crispy skin, or broil, or even roast. If you have a sous vide at home, cook your fish and finish with the sauce. You could lean more towards Thailand and VietNam by splitting the difference between soy sauce and fish sauce. Add a couple of shakes of good curry powder. Change the toppings to sliced green onions, cilantro leaves, thin slices of colored bell pepper, or throw on some toasted almonds or peanuts. Tons of possibility.
And any of these methods would work fine with the Cilantro-Lime Rice. Continue reading
CHAPTER SIX RETURN TO FANTASY
VILLA HOFFMAN:
A phone on an antique bedside table pealed out its demand for acknowledgement. A hand reluctantly reached over and raised the receiver from its cradle.
“Hello?” Dack unenthusiastically croaked.
It was Patti. She was still standing in the severely-mashie-niblicked Director’s office. He was still very dead and the former Ms. Doolittle was beginning to regret her hasty (though highly warranted) decision to turn his head into a chip-dip bowl.
“We have a situation,” she epically understated.
Bullseye Records of Canada
