Bon Appétit, Volume 7 - Poutine On The Ritz

Who doesn't love a good poutine? Besides the terrorists, of course. The rest of us know that any dish containing 33 grams of fat can't help but be good.

Even better than a routine poutine, however, are the variations I've come up with over the years. As you'd expect of a man of my refined tastes, I've scoured the world for the most exotic and delectable variations. Let's take a little tour.

1. Yarbled Poutine

Marinate one sack of lean yarbles in oleo for at least 17 minutes. Remove, reserving oleo. Cook two pounds frozen french fries. Top fries with yarbles and stir in oleo. Serves 2.

2. Poutine a L'orange

Purée the rinds of three dozen blood oranges (if oranges are unavailable, plain blood may be substituted). Stir in two teaspoons of macerated granite. Simmer over medium heat until granite liquefies. Cook two pounds frozen french fries. Top fries with sauce. Serves 8.

3. Roast Poutine

Trim fat from one large grain fed poutine. Boil poutine until well-roasted, approximately two hours. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Meanwhile, cook two pounds frozen french fries. When poutine has cooled to room temperature, thinly slice and spoon over fries. Serves 6.75.

4. Poutine Møusse

Using corn and eight pound test fishing line, trap two small møøse. De-antler and whip until creamy. Set aside. Prepare three gallons of hazelnut bouillabaisse and stir in two pounds french fries. Top with whipped møøse. Serves 1 Canadiadian.

5. Poutini

Chill one bottle Yukon Jack in freezer overnight. Pour fifteen ounces of chilled liqueur into a large beer mug. Add four ounces brown gravy and one medium-rare liver. Shake until thoroughly mixed and garnish with a french fry.

I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing

One of my many passions is music. Making it. Sharing it. Living it. I like to think of the Snag family as a modern day version of the von Trapps, with me in the role of Maria, leading our happy family in the gift of song. Here are some of my favorites.

1. Baby I Love Your Way - Peter Frampton
My love for this one is partly the result of my uncanny resemblance to Mr. Frampton. Beyond that, who wouldn't enjoy howling "But don't hesitate, cause your love won't wait?" And who wouldn't enjoy listening to that being howled? The neighbors certainly seem to, if one can judge by the way they point out our house to their relatives.

2. Never My Love - The Association
There's rockin', there's hard rockin', and then there's The Association. My Lovely Bride especially likes it when I put on my ratty old bathrobe, turn up my internal amp to 11, and follow her around the house singing this oldie but goodie. Tears of joy. Right, babe?

3. She's Gone - Daryl Hall & John Oates
"I'd pay the devil to replace her." Indeed. I'd pay the devil for the opportunity to stretch out "She's go-o-o-o-o-o-o-ne" for several minutes at a stretch. No sir, they do not write 'em like that anymore.

4. Love Shack - The B52's
As a song it may be nothing special, but when accompanied by my own version of a flamenco dance, it becomes a priceless memory. I'll often put on a batting helmet while performing it, an accessory that combines style and safety. My kids' friends eat it up.

5. Kung Fu Fighting - Carl Douglas
Speaking of performance art, this classic lets me show off my pipes and my moves. Regardless of what my children may tell you, Katie, our black lab, loves it when I karate chop her during the rousing chorus.

Eyes On Fire

When I was twenty, my friend B. and I hitchhiked across the country. We slept in forests and under bridges, ate Spam over campfires, and spent hours and hours on the side of the road, long-haired and bearded, hoping for a ride.

At one point we found ourselves in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Council Bluffs might well be a very nice town. You wouldn't know it by us, though. Twelve hours passed as people drove by, honking and flipping us off. It was hot, humid, and unpleasant.

Finally we gave up, pitched our tent on the outskirts of an industrial park, and tried to sleep. It soon started to rain, of course, and then the mosquitoes got inside the tent. We spent the night tossing, turning, and swatting at bugs, while I mentally added the trip to my long list of things that seemed like a good idea at the time.

In the morning, the sky had cleared. Unfortunately, I'd developed some hideous quasi-tropical disease during the night, and as I crawled around shoving things into a backpack I realized my muscles ached and the day had taken on the sort of tinge that I expected at a Grateful Dead concert. In the meantime, B. had been the focus of the mosquitoes during the night and awoke with a face that looked like, well, it looked like he'd been attacked by mosquitoes, lots of them. But, the road called and there sure wasn't much we could do about our woes sitting in a parking lot, so we hoisted our gear and stuck out our thumbs.

To our surprise and delight, a driver pulled over almost immediately. A midsized panel truck, refrigerated, bearing the name of some local company. We ran to the cab and climbed onto the bench seat, B. next to the driver, me next to the passenger door.

"Wow, this is great," said B. "How far are you going?"

The driver turned and looked at is. Except for his eyes, he was as nondescript as the truck, a middle-aged man in a work shirt and chinos. His eyes, though, behind his small oval-framed glasses, his eyes were whirling and frantic.

"Where I come from, it's polite to say 'thank you,'" he snapped.

"Sorry," B. stammered. "Thanks. We really appreciate the ride."

This seemed to mollify him and his eyes returned to normal. "My name's Fred," he offered, sticking out his hand. "I'm going a couple hours down the freeway. I can take you that far."

We introduced ourselves and while I tried to sleep, B. and Fred continued to talk. After all, a big part of the reason for the trip was to meet people and you can't do that by staring through a windshield.

When I awoke from a short nap I could tell something was wrong.

"So," Fred was telling B. "Someday soon I should have enough money to open it."

"Um, what exactly is it again?" B. asked nervously. B. was usually pretty calm, adept at settling me down when I flew into one of my periodic rages. For him to be nervous wasn't a good sign.

"I already told you," Fred snarled. "Weren't you listening?"

B. inched closer to me, almost sitting on my lap. I peeked at Fred. His eyes looked like pinwheels. I closed my own and leaned against the door as a shiver passed through me.

"No, no, I was listening," insisted B. "It's really interesting though. I'd like to hear it again."

"Alright then," said Fred. "It's going to be huge. Bigger than Disneyland. It'll have a roller rink, and rides, and a bookstore, and a restaurant. People can bring their campers and sleep there. There will be a bible store and exhibits from Revelations. You've read Revelations, haven't you?"

B. gave Fred his best smile and nodded that he had.

"Everyone should. The end times are upon us. The Beast is already here. It's time to get ready. Are you ready?"

"Yes," squeaked B.

"Good. Those who aren't ready will be flung into hell. The rest of us, we'll be saved. But first we have to prevail. Do you know how we'll do that?"

B. whimpered and leaned harder against me. I scrunched my eyes more tightly shut and started humming inaudibly to myself. I was sure the fever would break soon and my parents would be there, concerned, like Auntie Em and Uncle Henry at the end of "The Wizard of Oz."

"We'll do it with my iron rod," Fred continued. "I have it with me all the time. I've been training for this. I've been chosen to do this."

With that he shot off the highway onto an exit ramp, took a quick turn onto a county road, and plunged deep into farm country.

B. slumped down like the condemned man he was sure he'd become. Corn and wheat fields flew by as Fred gripped the steering wheel, rocking back and forth and muttering under his breath about iron and the Antichrist while his eyes rolled and sparked. I gazed out the window. I'm going to die here, I thought, buried in a windbreak. They'll find our bodies during spring planting.

Suddenly, Fred braked and the truck came to a stop. He turned and smiled at us, his eyes steady, every bit the small town gentleman.

"We're here," he said. "That was a little shortcut I know. You can get back on the freeway at the bottom of this ramp." He pointed. Sure enough, there was the interstate.

We climbed shakily from the truck and grabbed our belongings. Fred got out and walked over to shake our hands. "Good luck," he said.

"You too," we said.

His eyes started their dance again. "I don't need luck, I need strength. That's what Fred means, you know, 'strength.' I'll need all of it for the battle ahead." He got back in the truck and started the engine.

"We'll see you boys," he called as he drove away. "We'll see you very soon."

Someone's A Wee Bit Cranky

Modest Proposals

Today is Election Day in our Great Nation, with all its attendant opportunities to vote for the crazy person of my choice. Using this cherished right prompted me to think about my dream candidate, and the platform he/she/it would support.

1. Abortion

Women will be encouraged to carry to term any fetus whose ultrasound indicates a winning personality. Excess stem cells will be given social security numbers and trained for entry-level jobs in the hospitality industry.

2. Immigration

Illegal immigration will be outlawed. The Statute of Liberty will be moved to Wichita and used for natural gas storage.

3. Civil Rights

Civil disobedience will be mandatory.

4. Taxes

An annual lottery will be held in April. Winners will get a year's exemption from taxes. Losers will be stoned to death.

5. Capital Punishment

Stupid drivers will be killed.

6. Energy Conservation

See #5.

7. Gun Control

Community gun pools will be encouraged as a way to reduce the number of guns on the street.

8. Environment

Four legs good, two legs bad.

9. Arts

Bands of roving poets will be hired to accost strangers in malls and dark alleys. Professional sports will be renamed "performance art," making the United States the top art-loving nation in the world. Woo-hoo! We're #1!

10. Poverty and Hunger

A moose in every pot!

Flesh And Blood

Our high school cross-country team competed in the state tournament this Saturday. Although he wasn't running, my oldest is on the squad and asked me to bring him there to cheer on the team. Because it was conveniently located a short 90-minute drive away I cheerfully agreed. Certain the oldest would desert me in favor of his friends at the earliest opportunity, I convinced his youngest brother to come along to keep me company.

Sure enough, we'd barely parked the car before the oldest peeled off towards a group of female classmates like a pilot on a strafing run, the last we'd see of him for the next two hours. The youngest and I found a place to watch the races.

"Dad," he said, "I know what I want to do when I get older."

"Support me?"

"Don't be dumb. I'm going to play baseball at UNC."

"That sounds good. You better keep your grades up."

"Math is stupid. Mom says she never uses it."

"No, she said she doesn't use calculus at work. That's different."

"What do I need math for?" he asked.

"To count your money when you're a rich baseball player," I answered.

He nodded. "That's true. Hey, do you know what I'm going to do when I'm done playing baseball?"

"Support me?" I asked again, though less hopefully than before.

"You're still being dumb. I'm going to have rabies."

I'm dumb? "You can't have rabies. You'll die."

"I'm going to be a carrier," he said.

"Like what, a skunk?" I asked. "They carry rabies. You smell like one so you have a head start."

This seemed to please him. "That would be cool, if I could spray my enemies. You know what else I'm going to do? I'm always going to have a dog. Probably a black lab like Katie, because they're the best, Katie's a good dog, she's smart, she's not evil like you say, she doesn't like you anyway. . . ."

The first race hadn't gone off yet and my head already hurt.

Two hours of chattering later, the meet ended and my other son returned. "Hurry up, let's go," he said panicked his friends would see us together. Fine by me. At least in the car I can turn up the radio.

By Sunday morning, when my mother arrived for her weekly visit with her grandchildren, I'd forgotten much of my "conversation" with the youngest, not surprising given that I'd not paid much attention in the first place. The oldest took no time in reminding me, however.

"Grandma, my brother wants to be a rabid skunk when he grows up."

My mother isn't fazed by much of what she hears during her visits, but she raised her eyebrows at this. "You don't say," she replied noncommittally. She hates to criticize the boys.

"Someone will probably shoot him," added the oldest.

Grandma jumped at the chance to change subjects. "Did you know that happened to your father when he was a boy?" she asked, referring to the time a friend shot me while playing with a gun. "He's lucky to be alive."

My oldest looked at me. "I'm not sure he thinks so."

I nodded in agreement. "Let's just say I'm alive and leave it at that."

"Besides," said the boy, "Dad always tells us you shot him."

My mother glared at me. "My son thinks he's funny. He's not."

I whispered to my kid, "This is the way she was talking right before she drew down on me. Leave now, run. I'll distract her."

My mother is a 5'1" retired foundation executive who now spends her time with theater, international travel, and service on a local library board. She may be one of the few people in this country who has never seen a gun in real life. "I did not raise you to treat your elders this way," she said, shaking her head in disgust.

"I'm spiritually deficient," I said. "It's probably because you didn't church me enough when I was young."

"You're deficient, but not because of that," said my mother.

"Why do you hate God?" I asked her.

"How can I hate God if I don't believe in Him?" she replied.

"God believes in you and He's none too fond of your attitude," I said.

"Ignore your father," she said to the boy.

"I already do," he said.

"Good," she said, standing up to leave. "Try to teach him some manners."

"See you next week grandma," he said.

"Where are your brothers?" she asked him. "I want to say goodbye to them too."

"Outside. Eating bugs, I think."

She stared at him for a moment with the sudden recognition that he and I, we're not so different.

"Bye ma," I said with a gleeful smirk.

She walked to her car, muttering, stopping only to say goodbye to her other grandsons, who from my vantage point did indeed appear to be eating bugs.

"That was fun," said my oldest.

"Yes," I said. "Yes it was."

Them Bones, Them Bones

After making a 300 mile round-trip drive today to assure a client that his problem is my problem, I arrived home in time to make some dinner and get the littlest angel off to his school play.

"What are we having for dinner?" demanded the middle son.

"Hamburger Helper."

"Woo-hoo!" yelled the middle son, whose dietary preferences are limited to sugar, imported Parmesan cheese, and processed "food."

"Are we really eating that crap?" asked the oldest.

"It's all I've got," I said. "Besides, it's made with the good beef, the stuff we got from P.'s friend."

"What a waste," said the oldest. He had a point, but with thirty minutes to get them fed and get back to the school, I wasn't particularly interested in debating ethical eating choices.

Last year, the grade school play was about "Melton, the Warmhearted Snowman." My son, who played the lead, now calls him "Melton, the Dorkhearted Snowman." A big thanks to his brothers for ruining another nice memory.

Tonight, the play, a musical really, was about the human body. Not "O Calcutta." It had to do with bones and muscles and what not. My kid played a nerve.

"I suppose that's because you get on everybody's nerves," someone said to him last week.

"That's weird," the kid replied. "I've been hearing that a lot."

I ran into a friend of mine, a guy from India, before the play started. His son's playing a doctor. "That's stereotyping," I told him. "He should be playing an Italian grocer or something. You could sue the school district." My friend looked interested. He's getting acculturated.

The play itself was that odd combination of endearing and painful unique to elementary school productions. There was a lot of first-class wiggling by the nerves, a fine narration by a young lady destined to be the star of the 2014 high school play, and quite a stirring soliloquy from the neighbor girl I would have pegged as least likely to give a stirring soliloquy.

Most interesting, aside from my child's obvious and inherited talent, was the make-up of the cast. We live in what almost anyone, including me, would think of as a white city in a white part of a white metropolitan area in a white state in a white part of the country. It's a wonder we don't consider mayonnaise too spicy.

But there, up on stage, in addition to my Indian friend's son, were children with backgrounds ranging from Vietnam to Ethiopia to Nicaragua to a good part of the rest of the world. If they'd had a role for a penguin I think all seven continents would have been covered. Based on an admittedly rough count, my very white son might not have been in the minority, but it was close.

Afterward, I picked him up in his classroom, said hello to his teacher, talked with a few other parents. His classmates break down along similar lines, many of them with hard to pronounce names, some of them with accents I have trouble understanding.

Good.

My grandparents came to this country. They didn't speak much English when they got here, and by the time the immigration men at Ellis Island got done with it, their names were pretty hard to pronounce. My parents went to school in big cities with other kids from all over, then grew up and went to college and moved not far from here, to a white city in a white part of a white metropolitan area in a white state in a white part of the country.

When they bought a house, someone in the neighborhood circulated a petition to keep them out, because their name was hard to pronounce and their parents used to have accents that people had trouble understanding. My parents knew about it, but they moved in anyway, and after a while the rest of the neighbors didn't even notice anymore and my parents made friends that last to this day, and after I was born, so did I.

Now, my boys and their friends are on a stage, in a classroom, playing football, doing these things with kids who have hard to pronounce names and troublesome accents. None of them seem to think about it much, to consider skin color or nationality to be much different than eye color or a fondness for smoked fish. They're just things that make each of us who were are.

When I think the world is going to hell, and that's something I think a lot, I try to remember that.