Das Boots

I am from Texas. I happen to love it. It's got a great history with highs and lows, and occasionally we do some pretty awesome things (TexMex, energy, women). Occasionally we do some pretty idiotic things (Rick Perry, Houston, Plano women).

In fact, let me make one thing clear here: Rick Perry is a sad, sad little man. What is it with a lot of the Republican presidential candidates that makes them say "Hey, maybe I should be more of a nutjob than this other one, because clearly that's what the good old US of A needs." I mean, when you make Nancy Pelosi look like she might have a clue about something...well, that's just sad. And scary. Super scary. Don't want to live on this planet anymore scary.

In other words, no, I'm not voting for him. I'm voting for Gary Johnson.

Anyhow, back to Texas.

I'm rather proud to be a Texan. I was born here, I moved back here, and I like the weather...and when I hate the weather, I have air conditioning, which we in Texas know is worth its weight in gold. I love the food, the culture (minus the religious nutjobs), the year round golf (well minus >100* and <40* days), the technology, the opportunities, the shooting, the women, the food, etc.

But, I have to admit, I'm not big on a few things. Like country music. I can deal with quite a bit of music, except for rap...and country. I think it's because of listening to Boxcar Willie while being terrified by my dads driving. It might also be because of some chick who loved country picking another dude at Six Flags to make out with. Whatever.

Anyhow, country music - not my thing. So naturally cowboy boots...not really on my list of "Things to spend enough money to get a good pair" or even the list of "Things I might consider buying just because I live in Fort Worth".

Now, unfortunately, this conflicts with the statements of a few people, who believe that I should buy a pair, of Red Wings in particular. I guess, based on some research on 'them thar intertubes' as the country types like to call them, they're not too bad. But, unfortunately, they're cowboy boots. Well, they're sort of like cowboy boots. They look like them, but they seem to have useful treads on them, and they kind of look...useful. And I'm a practical kind of guy, so useful starts to get me thinking...maybe it wouldn't be so bad...let's think about this...

I'd have to buy some Levi's that look like cowboy jeans, and a cowboy hat, and start talking all cowboy like, and do you know how tough it is to get people to use their computers correctly without dropping 'y'alls' and 'ya hear' and 'now ya see here, ya gots a problem and yer gonna need some Rick Perry' and whatnot? Now add those in and it just doesn't seem like a great idea.

But.

I can see one good aspect to them.

They're Texan. It's a Texan thing to wear some shitkickers with some jeans, pop down for a Dr. Pepper Float on the way to 6th street for some choice food truck chow and some beers - or some Titos in my case since I'm not into beer - and saunter back past some illegal immigrants (from California, they keep moving here, go back to California and leave our Mexicans alone) on the way to the hotel room that didn't get the message that air conditioning was important (but that last bit is another story).

And who am I to argue with the laws of Texan citizenship?

Plus, I bet they'd match the .45ACP on my hip.

And somewhere, Nancy Pelosi just had an aneurysm. Science bless Texas.

Surly Tables

So the girlfriend and I bought a table. That's the end of this particular blog, but I figured I would start there and work backwards.

So as I was saying, the girlfriend and I bought a table. It's bar counter height, has 4 relatively comfortable chairs, and expands to accommodate 6 through the hidden butterfly leaf. Which is moot since we don't really have the space - or the chairs - to expand it for any reason. But we can if we want to (and maybe I will if I need a large surface for something like...something).

We went all over the place to find this table, the one we could not only stomach the price of, but actually liked the color, the design, the room for me to not slam my knee into the side piece, and a myriad of other features that only serve as discussion points for 'why two people will argue in a store over something like the edge design for 10 minutes.'

Which is actually pretty funny to look back on, as we both really cared about certain aspects of table design, and apparently when shopping for furniture, it was very controversial for either of us to imply in the slightest that perhaps the other was being ridiculous.

Very controversial.

In the beginning we were rather set on a table from this magical place where everyone must be rich as rich can be, a land called Po Terry B'arn. For the low, low price of 3 sheep, a cow with a missing udder, and a small Ecuadorian child, you could obtain one half of one quarter of this table. And woe unto you if you want some place to park your caboose at this fairy tale table, you poor, about to be poorer, bastard.

So in the beginning we were in turmoil. One wanted to immediately purchase the table, the other wanted to save up.

In the end, we were in turmoil. One wanted to move bookshelves - loaded with books - across the room since the bookshelves went with the table, the other wanted to avoid doing any such thing.

But after the end, after moving bookshelves, parting with only 1.5 sheep, a spare Ecuadorian child we ordered via Amazon Prime, and a bucket of partially clean milk from our utterly sad deformed cow, we have a dining room that looks decent, some lessons learned, and some new fodder for therapists in future years.

Piebaker, Piebaker, Bake Me a Pie

I'm fairly handy in the kitchen so I had promised a friend of mine that I would bake him a pie - his favorite type of pie - for his birthday when I visit him later this month. That pie would be a chocolate meringue pie.

I'm a good baker. I love the science and the art - or what I like to call magic - behind what makes a baker a great baker. I am merely good. I'm still learning the tricks that my mother - a great baker, arguably phenomenal - knows, and every time we cook together she teaches me something new. And by something I mean about 40 things that I'm struggling to remember and note and jot down and put into the recipes that I'm building so that my own family will one day be able to utilize.

With that being said, meringue is an intriguing concoction all on its own. And that's my nice way of saying that it's a tricky little bastard. Not so much because it's difficult - done in the correct method it is SUPER easy to make.

It's that it's the method behind it that makes it so difficult. The recipe is simple:

For every N egg whites, add N tablespoons of granulated sugar. Add vanilla or almond extract to desired flavor.

That's it. Optionally you can add potassium bitartrate, which is a fancy way of saying cream of tartar, which will stabilize the egg whites when you introduce air into them, make them more tolerant of heat (i.e. the meringue won't melt like a watered down witch over time), and increase the ability of the molecules to trap air between them increasing the volume.

In other words, it's very simple. Most of the best dishes are in fact very simple, and this is no exception.

The issue is that it's so simple that it's easy to overwhip and go from light and fluffy to solid marshmallow - and then you have to insure that the granulated sugar is properly incorporated so that you can avoid the 'weepies' that some improperly mixed meringues will generate.

So, in other words, it's simple, and it's not. Which brings us in a very roundabout way to the lesson I learned over the weekend.

Methodology is the key to controlling the outcomes of certain events. Dump the egg whites, extract, cream of tartar (if you so choose) and the sugar in all at once, and you get a poorly formed meringue. Whip the eggwhites, extract, and cream of tartar to a froth and slowly add in your sugar one tablespoon at a time, however, and you get a very quick and simple meringue that holds air like no other, will hold chocolate shavings, is super durable, and is the perfect shield for that delicious chocolate pie which it hides.

By trying different methods, you may break some eggs, but you're going to find out what works.

It's the same way with life. With some people, I can either poke some buttons to prove a point, and that point is heard loud and clear, or I can be nice, say my point, and have it fall on deaf ears.

It all depends on the person though, so the different methodologies can make a world of difference.

Warping the Mind One Swing at a Time

So I play golf. Play is sometimes a debatable word as sometimes I forget that it's a game and I take it seriously. Luckily these instances are few and far between as if they weren't, well let's just say some municipal courses wouldn't let me back on to play.

Also, I have a personal trainer. I'd like to say we play around but he is definitely working, as he has to not only put up with my charming personality when I'm comfortable, but he has to put up with it when I'm uncomfortable, hot, tired, pissed off, in pain, dreading the results of the workout, or my favorite part, trying to will myself to understand just what it is that he wants me to do.

I bring up both of these topics as they frequently involve me trying to grasp some concepts that force my mind to have to adjust to some new paradigm of thinking that other people would look at and say "no problem."

Now, it's not that I'm slow in the head - well, comparatively - it's just that I don't understand certain things like other people do.

For instance, my trainer, Colin, introduced me to the fun of deadlifts. And it really was an introduction - the weights weren't all the way on the floor, there wasn't much weight, and he really wasn't asking me to do anything that, spoken aloud, doesn't make sense:

"Step into the hex deadlift bar, squat down with the proper squat form, pick it up, set it down."

My brain, on the other hand, heard approximately this:

"Step into this metal cage with weight, squat down while not falling over which you can barely do anyhow, then actually pick the damn thing up again without falling over while being mindful of your back posture and making sure to not throw out your back, then set it back down again while not screwing up your back, missing the platform built out of weights that you can't see because you're supposed to look at the ceiling, oh and don't make a lot of noise or draw attention to yourself because you will undoubtedly become even more self conscious, get distracted, and kill three small children and your trainer, not to mention your dog that you had when you were 7."

In other words, my brain gets in the way. A lot. Wrapping my head around things...is rather difficult. Not really because I don't understand them, as for the instance above I get what's going on and what my trainer wants to accomplish. I've got a working knowledge of the human body that skirts close to borderline inappropriate for a non-medical professional, and my understanding of kinesiology would be better suited towards getting a degree in the field versus my nerdtastic need to understand how things work.

But the brain frequently gets in the way.

I keep driving that point home because I've run into the same issue this morning during a golf lesson. For about 35 minutes a golf pro yelled at me to stop moving my wrists during my swing. Now I understood exactly what he wanted. But translating that from words to applying it was tricky. I was forced under the gun to stop an action that I had drilled my brain into believing was good and change the habit. On the spot.

In other words, I had to warp my fragile little mind and fast, as wasting time with a golf pro is a pricey matter.

I came to the realization that when put on the spot, the mind can warp itself to the occasion if you just get out of its way. Maybe it might take some practice, but forcing the mind to adjust to new situations frequently might be a good workout for it to learn to warp faster.

So, I'm going to challenge myself - and you the reader - to warp your minds a couple of times each week. Learn something new, and learn it fast. I'd suggest golf as it's highly complex (take stick, hit ball...no wait that baseball...), or perhaps baseball, or cooking a new dish on the spot for a loved one, anything to cause you to think fast and accept a new concept.

Warp your mind, and the rest will follow.

Eye See What You Did There

As the first post of this little experiment of mine, I thought I would explain a few things.

One, this is a blog that is dedicated to a single goal: I shall step out of the comfort zone, abandon the norm, and explore that which is unknown.

This particular goal for me is very tricky. I've already jumped straight out of my nice, normal, comfortable box and straight into a new lifestyle. This thing called "eating healthy, being healthy, thinking healthy" is about as 180 degrees as you could get from what I was doing before hand. So I've taken a vow of strict diets, working out, annoying friends by bailing on them when it looks like we might be heading somewhere where I could easily break said vows, and in general avoiding places that might be unhealthy. Bars that allow smoking and fast food restaurants are prime examples of places that I avoid like the plague.

Two, the name, Eating the Eye. Recently I shared another fine dinner with a friend of mine at Craigie on Main in Boston in which we were lucky enough to reserve a pigs head - well, half of one at least. And my dining partner, Julie, was kind enough to allow me the pleasure of eating the eye.

Again.

You see, during an initial pilgrimage to this fine establishment in October 2010, I had the opportunity to eat the eye. As Julie can attest, eating the eye was an event unto itself, and a major stepping stone in my life.

So, eye number two is a special mark. You see, I ate this one knowing full well what would happen, the textures I would feel, the delicious pork flavors that would come out at varying strengths. Though this time I did cut it in half as an entire eye at once can be...overwhelming, as I had found out in October.

So eating the eye is what I have termed the of boldly going where one has not gone before, daring to do something that mentally may be challenging, and yet, clearly, will not kill you.

Well, actually there might be a bit of potential death, but I like to chalk that all up to calculated risk. See: foie gras, skydiving, Brussels sprouts sauteed in duck fat, anything cooked in duck fat for that matter, road racing, arguments about politics and finance with energetic folks I know, etc.

Third, I do plan on using the blog as a bit of a pedestal to express life lessons as I learn them, and I already have a prime example of a life lesson.

Again, in Boston, this time back in October, I had the chance to explore the city at my whim. One day I traveled on foot around downtown Boston taking in the sights and sounds, exploring the cultures and histories that have been mashed together in such comfortable quarters, and ended the day on top of the Marriott Custom House hotel, which has an observation deck above the clock tower. It's about 26 stories up, if that gives you an idea of the height. It was there, in the relative peace and quiet of a bustling city far below me, with the pain in my feet from walking all day without proper arch support, a steady wind blowing that was fresh and clear from the cool Atlantic, that I learned a lesson.

If you take a moment to sit back and examine the chaos that is life, you might spot a pattern that you didn't know existed, one that intrigues you and might even make you want to take a few more moments to examine more of that chaos. Eventually, it might even become an insatiable desire to know the world around you beyond the covers presented to the public, and to dive in and scream "give me all you've got, I can take it. But I may need to cut it in half first."

That unyielding need to examine that chaos and all of its facets while crying out for more is just the first step to eating the eye.