DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

A work crew from the local seamless-gutter franchise came by the house to repair a leaking downspout. The three guys dressed just alike: they wore shorts but no shirts. They had uneven coloration, from standing with their backs to the sun. And they all carried expensive sunglasses.

But for these similarities, the differences were revealing. The crew foreman was a big, fleshy, muscular guy with a deep red-brown sunburn, an intensity of purpose, and piercing eyes. The fancy sunglasses were propped up on his forehead.

His crew was made up of two other guys, the leader of which was muscular but not burly, deeply tan but not burned, and clearly skilled but not in charge. He also had $200 sunglasses, worn on the back of his neck.

The third guy was the rookie. Besides the fact that he was standing around looking clueless most of the time, I knew he was the apprentice because he was scrawny and not very tan. His sunglasses were clipped to his belt.

I stifled a laugh (generally good advice when surrounded by half-dressed men), for this trio looked like nothing so much as a set of animated Matryoshka dolls — if they’d split apart at the waist, they could be nested one inside another.

I had occasion to attend the 2002 graduation ceremony at Sonoma State University, to see my therapist get yet another Master’s degree. The college president made a speech, opening with a well-timed (and well-received) joke in which he took responsibility for the day’s gorgeous weather. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was funny, and people laughed. He seemed likeable, in control, and comfortable.

The president introduced another speaker, who came to the podium, thanked the president for the introduction, and began to ad-lib a comment in response to the president’s weather joke. “It’s great that you were able to arrange this beautiful day for us,” he began, “because if you hadn’t…” I wondered where he’d go with this. I was surprised to hear not only that he would ad-lib an opening joke — which seemed like a bold move given the audience of 3000 people — but that he’d use a form that appeared could only end by insulting the college president.

The speaker paused. Whether the pause was to set up his punchline, or to reconsider whether he had a punchline, was not immediately clear.

It became clear. The speaker’s regret projected clearly through the PA system as we realized that he did not, in fact, know how to complete the sentence he’d started, and which was hanging in the morning air like the body of a convicted cattle rustler. (I didn’t want to look, but I stared in horrified fascination just the same.)

I can only guess what might have been going through his mind: regret at ad-libbing his opener, when no doubt there was a reasonably good one scripted on the first page of his notes… regret at not having thought of a good punchline before he stood up… regret at standing, metaphorically naked, in front of 3000 people, half a sentence into an insult to his host.

Here’s what he finally offered… “because if he hadn’t, his name would be on that terrible list.”

That terrible list? Ahh, of course, he’s referring to the official United States List of California College Presidents Who Don’t Manage To Arrange for Great Weather During Graduation Ceremonies. I think they keep a copy of this in Sacramento, but it’s available for public viewing to any US citizen under the Freedom of Information Act.

The speaker pushed through, though, and continued with what I thought was a very good address, providing good advice and inspiration to the graduating class, as well as anyone with an interest in public speaking.

After two days of restaurant food, including one day where I’d succumbed to the unwillingness of the world outside my kitchen to offer anything to eat that didn’t used to walk around and stink, I was desperate for a salad. The pickings were slim out there along highway 12, thousands of acres of grape vines and walnut trees notwithstanding, so we ended up at Safeway (regional supermarket chain) in Lodi, and I was sent inside to inspect the deli.

This store offered the traditional sandwiches-to-order station, plus, unusually I thought, a China Express takeout counter.

I acknowledged to the sandwich clerk that I’d seen the prepackaged salads, and asked if, in addition, the store offered an open salad bar. The clerk said no. Then, unhelpfully, he offered “But we’re having a special on Asian barbecued spareribs with peanut sauce, just $2.49 with your Safeway Club Card.” Why he felt that was relevant, I have no idea, but I stepped away before he recited any other of the day’s exciting sale events around the store.

We gathered all our food selections, queued for the checkout, and asked the cashier if she knew of a park in the area where we could eat. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not from around here. Let me ask someone else.” She relayed our query aloud to the next cashier, making our request a lot more public than I appreciated, earning me suspicious stares from all the locals in line around me, as if it was a wholly unnatural thing to seek a public picnic area on a Sunday afternoon. Or maybe they were reacting to my T-shirt, which depicted Iron Maiden’s grotesque mascot/gremlin Eddie with middle fingers on both hands raised toward the viewer, and a hand-drawn speech balloon proclaiming in ragged four-inch-high letters “LODI SUCKS!”

Ultimately no one was able to help us, because the entire staff of the Lodi Safeway commutes in from out of town, where they have no parks. But we found a suitable picnic area anyway, thanks to my eagle-eyed wife, who can apparently spot those brown “state park” signs while driving and conversing simultaneously in two languages. So we had a nice lunch, took a brief walk along the river, and, I don’t know, the world exploded or something, preventing me from finding a satisfying wrap-up to what has become a fairly tedious story.

Last weekend I was driving through Lodi, CA in my sensible, aging Golfmobile when I was passed by four teenagers in a perfectly restored 1968 Camaro convertible, and then by two more young guys in a beater ‘72 Nova (in faded metallic green and spraycan primer). The thing that caught my attention is that both those cars rolled out of Detroit about 15 years before their current owners were born. I totally understand the appeal of classic American musclecars, having owned one myself, but I marvel that over time it’s the same cars, from the same short period of about seven years, that gearhead teenagers keep turning to.

If you think this dispassionate statement of intellectual curiousity is really a disguised lament for the lack of classic American musclecars in my garage, you’re probably right.

One of the nice things about having my in-laws here for two weeks was that it gave me an excuse to bake bread again. So far I’d baked only about three dozen loaves (or equivalent) this year, much less than previous years due to time constraints as well as a recent focus on healthier eating.

Like me, though, my in-laws are bread lovers, and I’m a sucker for an audience. I fired up the oven six times in two weeks:

• What the Dutch Regale bakery calls Korn Bread is more traditionally called Vollkornbrot, at least by people who can pronounce “Vollkornbrot” (e.g. not me). It is a dense, chewy, moist brick of a bread, baked — gasp! — in a pan, a real change of pace for a hearth-bread addict. Made with 100% rye (whole, cracked, and flour), it’s the heaviest bread I’ve ever made, and one I’m not particularly fond of, although area Germans (and my wife’s volks) tell me it’s excellent. The recipe is from Artisan Baking Across America.
• “Team America Beer Bread,” a recipe developed by Craig Ponsford of Artisan Bakers for the Coupe du Monde, scaled down to home-kitchen capacities by Peter Reinhart, and published in Crust & Crumb, is unusual in that in requires two preferments (one sourdough, one commercially yeasted), a bottle of beer, and a large amount of malt. The finished multigrain loaves have a complex flavor and an unexpected (but pleasant) hoppy and malty aroma. I made an extra loaf for the neighbors, but we ate that one too.
• For a party, I made three pans (~6.5 lbs) of focaccia, using the Crust & Crumb formula. Given minimal handling, and baked at the party, the bread was among the best I’ve made. The toppings were a bit less hearty than I prefer, due entirely to the fact that I was too lazy to assemble anything worthy of this amazing dough.
• Next up was a large sourdough boule, my “house bread,” based on a firm levain approach from Artisan Baking Across America. I add a half-cup of flax meal to the dough, something I have not seen done at any commercial bakery. The flax adds density, but tenderizes the dough (probably due to the high oil content). The resulting color and flavor are great.
• Experimenting with potato dough, I created a large “tortano,” which is a rustic Italian bread that looks like a bagel about 14'' across. The bread is built from a poolish starter, but calls for no additional yeast in the dough… so proofing takes a long time, even with this relatively wet dough. The result is similar to a ciabatta, in that the crumb has large, irregular holes. Overall, though, it was not a memorable loaf, probably my least appealing bread of this period. I thought the potato starch would have a more pronounced effect on the crumb, but I was sadly disappointed, and now I have a half tortano in my freezer that I’ll have to schlep off on some unsuspecting future dinner guests.
• Finally, as a farewell party for the in-laws, we hosted a pizza feast. I used Peter Reinhart’s magical delayed-fermentation dough recipe, from The Bread Baker’s Apprentice, with wonderful results. This dough shapes like a dream. It’s unbelievable; a few quick tugs and a ball of dough becomes a well-formed pizza shell. To my dismay, I realized too late that my oven technique is a bit rusty… I over-baked some of the pizzas slightly, although I don’t think anyone noticed. A few of the crusts had dried out in the oven. Perhaps the guests were distracted by our fantabulous toppings: roasted garlic, mostly-fresh Roma tomatoes, basil, fresh mozzarella; homemade pesto and sauteed crimini mushrooms; homemade barbecue sauce, sauteed brined chicken, red onions, cilantro, monterey jack.

So, a million calories later, I’m reduced once again to only occasionally getting my carb fix from bread. Just in time, too — if my father-in-law had had any more vacation time, I’d have ended up looking like the Pillsbury Dough-Boy. Heck, I’ve already got the coloration, the big eyes, and the stupid hat.