DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

So we checked our two largest pieces of luggage, because we loathe passengers who not only carry on excessive numbers of items, but board out of turn and fill all nearby overhead compartments with the detritus of their travels. And we’re chronically early to the airport whenever we travel, which generally carries the disadvantage of burying our checked bags deep in the bowels of the aircraft.

This makes flight delays especially painful when one’s layover is whittled from a comfortable 90 minutes down to a panic-stricken 7 or 8… and of course it’s even worse when one is seated behind 40 rows of the sort of people who carried on five or six items and leap into the aisle to collect them as soon as the plane reaches the gate, the purser’s request to stay seated until those with tight connections can deplane ignored.

So, although we did make our connection (with, literally, 0 seconds to spare), our good luck did not: when we landed in Germany, we waited at the baggage carousel. We waited quite a long time.

And then a gracious clerk checked her computer. Good news, she said, your bags are safe. In Chicago.

We hope they’re enjoying a night off in the Windy City — dinner at The Berghoff, a view of the night skyline from the Sears Tower, a morning tour of the submarine at the Museum of Science and Industry. Perhaps our bags will even visit Michael Hayden’s light sculpture in the space tunnel between United’s B and C concourses at ORD.

But tomorrow I’d like to see my luggage again. I’d like to put on a fresh pair of socks, and perhaps change my pants.

And I’d like to remember never to fly to Europe via Chicago-O’Hare, for although I’ve now joined a huge community of international travelers, all of whom have had luggage delayed or lost outright in Chicago, I can’t say I value my membership in this particular group. I rank it right up there with my membership in the community of people who have had their septic system back up into the basement bathroom.

At least we had no trouble getting through customs… we had no bags to inspect.

I fly only infrequently, except in my dreams, and so today I was shocked at the amenities of a modern aircraft. The first class cabin looked like a Barcalounger showroom; the seats were full-sized recliners, with private footrests, a mini-bar, a small desk and writing area, and no doubt fresh linens, scalp massage, dialysis, shoe shine, and tire rotation. The most striking difference probably adds very little comfort value to the experience at all — the seats were all canted at about a 20 degree angle. I suppose this allows the airline to fit a few more rows in, front to back, but for me this break from the traditional linear arrangement was the clearest statement that first class is special: a subtle mental break away from the fact that, no matter how far back your seat tilts, you’re still sitting in a metal box for 7 hours breathing the same air as all the 4th-class folks, the livestock in the “economy” pen.

I suppose I should concede that the wealth of innovation apparent at the front of the plane has trickled back somewhat. Even in coach, every seat has a private video monitor and a choice of 4 free movies. This airline, at least, has given up on the proprietary audio cables they all used to use to prevent any passenger from scamming a free $4 movie after having paid $500 for the seat.

Still, it’s cattle class back here. The food wasn’t awful, but I still feel that, after we arrive, in addition to the Hot Towelette we should be treated to a Complimentary Delousing. Hearing people around me wheeze and snort experimentally, not to mention hacking up what sounds from 2 rows away like a hanky full of alveoli, is just about enough to make me swear off travel forever.

The vacuum toilets are new, too. Gone are the stainless-steel affairs with the hinged flap streaked with foulness; these commodes follow a simple funnel design. But I learned that holding the lid open to watch them flush isn’t that interesting. Neither is having urine sprayed back onto one’s pants.

The origins of this groove are lost in time. I’ve been playing it for years, whenever a slow or half-time section in an arena-rock anthem comes along. Lazarus is the name of one such song, which I recorded with a band in about 1994, when I had the huge two-level two-of-everything kit pictured in The Drummer Gallery.

       1e+a2e+a3e+a4e+a
4  RC  ooo ooo ooo ooo 
-  SD      o       o
4  KD  o  o   o  oo   o

Patronize these links, man:

• Virtual Drummer loop
• MIDI
• MP3

I was in a hurry to make bread over the weekend, but my barm was on a different schedule, so I decided to make a commercially-yeasted bread — which I have not done in months.

My favorite recipe for yeasted sandwich bread is Joe Ortiz’ Pain sur Poolish, which is a baguette recipe. The year I learned to make bread, I made this recipe every 2 days for about 4 months.

Since that time, I’ve done a lot of baking, and a lot of reading about baking, and so I’ve modified Joe’s recipe somewhat. Using Peter Reinhart’s principles, I cut the yeast in the poolish drastically, to use barely a pinch, and I extend the fermentation time from 6 hours to ~18. This gives the enzymes plenty of time to unlock the starch molecules in the flour.

The dough in this recipe is extremely wet — nearly ciabatta-like. Shaping loaves requires lots of extra flour, and the result will still be a lumpy mess.

I baked these off directly on a hot stone, and the results were astounding. The loaves were too floppy to gash in any traditional sense, but still they sprung dramatically, to about twice their original size. The crumb was somewhat miraculous: open and airy and chewy, with the sort of flavor you can only get by letting wet flour sit at room temperature for 24 hours before baking. I pulled them from the oven too early, so the crust did not stay crisp, but overall this was an exciting development.

Lou Preston once told me that his wild-yeasted doughs are mixed to 72% hydration. At the time I concluded that I could never approach that level without also having an Alan Scott oven — home ovens do not get hot enough (I believed) to make such wet dough spring sufficiently before the crust gelatinizes — but perhaps this experiment is an indication that my conclusion was premature. More experimenting is warranted, in any case.

Set in a Swiss bank, Numbered Account tells a story of murder and revenge. This is a true page-turner, with memorable characters and a satisfying plot. I was not surprised, after reading it, to learn that it was a NYT bestseller.

If you like thrillers, especially contemporary spy-fiction writers such as Robert Ludlum or Tom Clancy, you will like this book.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (Hardback)
• Amazon (Paperback)