Sunspots
It wasn’t the carbon dioxide. It was sunspots.
Thank God. It wasn’t my fault. I am not responsible, and I can go back to worrying about creeping socialism. It is a good thing. The Carbon Nazis were on the point of dictating the minutia of how we live- force of law and all that stuff, like Prohibition, rather than letting the market set the terms of how we live.
We have seen capitalism red in tooth and claw, of late, and worry about socialism as I might, the bastards clipped me for about a hundred grand just they way they sliced you up. The choice on the menu is just faster or slower, not yes or no.
And cooler, too, and the smart guys tell us that it is likely to be so for the next thirty years, or until the sun gets irritated again and breaks out in spots.
For now, the party is over, and the hangover is palpable. Sammy the Syrian is one of the hardest hit. He was so happy to see our party of ten the other night that he pressed his business cards on us as we haggled over the check at the end of it.
“We are good for farewells and office celebrations,” he said in accented English. His eyes were sad, and most of the rest of his tables were empty.
I have cut back, too. Had to. It doesn’t make sense to go out for someone else’s cooking when you can do it yourself for next to nothing. Plenty of free drinks, too, or at least they are available at wholesale prices.
I was more interested in Sammy’s view of the Soviets who used to hang out at the naval facility at Tartus, stringing out the maintenance period on their FOXTROT-class diesel boats so they did not have to go back to the Northern Fleet and freeze with the rest of the sailors on the Kola Peninsula.
Sammy shrugged and said his family had been here in the States since 1983, the year of the bombing of the Marine Barracks in Beirut. It was a good time to get out of Syria, whose fingers were all over the murders along with the Iranian Al Quds Force. Bastards. Twenty-five years ago this week. It has been a long war already, as long as a sunspot cycle.
Sammy is not alone in feeling the pain. The restaurant business is one of those discretionary spending areas that rings a bellweather for the economy- or maybe a canary in the mineshaft, I don’t know.
I do know that with the downturn the season has finally changed. I had the windows open at Tunnel Eight at the beginning of the week. Humidity was still fairly high, and the air conditioning had been shut down at the beginning of the month to accommodate the big plumbing project. Only our wing of the building did not have hot water to the radiators- not that I wanted the heat. I just wanted the air to move.
I could still get outside and walk in the thin sunshine without my shirt. Yesterday might have been the last day for that. People at the office were wearing jackets even at their desks. Outside I saw the first parkas. I think the attempt to keep color on my skin is over for the year. Yesterday morning I began to shake at the keyboard, my body responding to a drop in core body temperature. Walking in the late afternoon sun I felt the breeze caress my skin with a knife edge.
That’s it. Give it up. Back to the sweatshirt.
I suspect I am going to have to deal with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and figure out a way to get vitamin D that does not come from the solar orb. Milk is one way, I understand, and since it is now the season of soups and stews, I am looking at some new concoctions. A hearty potato soup. Tamale-Mexican, maybe, and it is back to slow-cooking spaghetti sauce and savory bouef bourgogne <http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&safe=off&client=safari&rls=en-us&sa=X&oi=spell&resnum=0&ct=result&cd=1&qef+bourgogne&spell=1> .
Home-baked bread, or maybe splurge and pick up a decent baguette on the way home to go with the sauces. ‘Tis the start of the cooking season, and we are all going to be looking for some comfort food.
I am going to New York City for a wedding in a week or so, and when challenged on things culinary, I go to my row of cookbooks from the great restaurants of that town.
My older boy and I went to the fabulous Katz’ Deli on the last trip to the City, on the Lower East Side. This time I am going to try to get to Kenny Shopsin’s General Store.
He is an unrepentant Hippy, and more than a bit like the Soup Nazi. If you are not on his menu, you are out of his restaurant. He has avoided the hard times so far, but he had to move out of the Village location where he served off a list of recipes that had nine hundred items on it. He is in the Essex market now, and used to be closed on weekends. I will have to take my chances. His sliders are supposed to be to die for.
I was impressed enough that I bought his cook-book, the one that reflects his restaurant’s motto: “Eat Me,” after I heard about one of his signature dishes. It is the ultimate comfort food. In hard times, it seemed irresistible, and I tried cooking it. As Kenny would tell you, if he wasn’t telling your to get the f**k out of his restaurant, it’s the heat, man.
Mac ’n’ Cheese Pancakes
Butter, for the griddle and serving
3 cups pancake batter
1 heaping cup cooked elbow macaroni, tossed with olive oil and warmed
1 1/4 cups shredded cheddar
Frank’s Hot sauce and maple syrup.
Get out your griddle. Clean and coat with peanut oil. Heat to moderate heat. Just before you drop the batter, swear a pat of cold butter across the target area. When it bubbles, drop the batter in 4-inch circles and immediately raise the heat to medium-high. Cook, adjusting the heat as needed, until bubbles appear, 1 to 3 minutes. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of warm macaroni on each pancake, then 1 tablespoon of cheddar. Using a thin metal spatula, quickly turn the pancakes and gently tap to make them uniform in thickness. Cook until golden, about 2 minutes. Serve, macaroni-side up, with butter and warm maple syrup and hot sauce to taste. Makes about 12, which you could probably eat all by yourself. Recipe loosely from “Eat Me,” by Kenny Shopsin and Carolynn Carreño, copyright 2007.
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
Recipe courtesy New York Times and Kenny Shopsin all rights reserved
www.vicsocotra.com