FOOD FRIDAY!

BARBECUED RIBS

I must admit I came to ribs relatively late, in fact, late enough to realize that there were as many ways of cooking pork spareribs outdoors as there are cooks, and that the way to the "best" ribs was to get all the basics down and then experiment. The only time ribs ever graced our dinner table when I was growing up was when my mother made "pork and noodles"--spareribs braised with lots of onions and other vegetables and served with egg noodles. I loved them, but for the longest time that was all I knew to do with ribs. I think somebody actually had to introduce this new thing to me--barbecued ribs--and I've been a goner ever since. Now, they're right up there with scallops and fried chicken (my own, of course) as food fit for the gods.

Notes: If you like your ribs sweet and saucy and falling-off-the-bone tender, this recipe isn't for you. I like mine chewy and suitable as finger food, and there's no tomato in what passes for a sauce (the "mop"). This is an eastern North Carolina style mop based on plain cider vinegar flavored with just a few other things. I know purists say you can't really "barbecue" in a kettle grill. Well, I beg to differ. I use real wood byproduct--charcoal--like the big pros. And I use the "indirect" cooking method, which means the ribs cook in proximity to the heat source but not directly on it. And I use dampened wood chips to get smoke flavor. That's as close to real barbecue as a back yard cook can get, and it's close enough for me. (I really did try to learn gas grilling--I appreciate that it's cleaner and easier to use. But I never really "got" it--it felt like cooking on my gas stove inside. And I could never get the smoke flavor I think must be there. For me, cooking outdoors equals a real wood fire, with smoke. Otherwise, what's the point?) I use a special piece of equipment that not everybody does: a rib rack from Weber. The rack lets you stand the ribs up as they cook; that way they receive the smoke directly as it wafts over them, and at the same time fat drips more efficiently into a pan below. I really like the results, but the rack isn't totally necessary. Sorry if all these particulars leave some of you out. But I bet you'd eat these anyway if they were out down in front of you!

Rub:

1/4 cup dark brown sugar

1 tbsp. table salt

1 tsp. onion powder

1 tsp. garlic powder

Mop:

2 cups cider vinegar
1 tbsp. granulated sugar
1 tbsp. chili powder
1 tbsp. table salt

1 tbsp. ground black pepper

1 tbsp. hot sauce, such as Tabasco

3 1/2 lbs. baby back ribs, cut into two equal-size racks

Hickory chips

Open vents all the way in grill and grill cover. Bank charcoal on one side of a charcoal grill so that at the highest point it comes up the side of the grill almost to the rack. Light charcoal and heat for 20 minutes to a half hour, until white ash is visible.

While charcoal is heating, place a generous handful of hickory chips in a bucket and cover with water.

Combine all rub ingredients in a container with a lid and shake to combine. Do same for mop ingredients in a separate container.

Run ribs under cold water and dry thoroughly. Sprinkle liberally with rub and press to adhere as much rub as possible to ribs. Place ribs in rack, if using.

When charcoal is ready, sprinkle wet wood chips over hot coals, position grill, and place ribs so that they are opposite the charcoal, meat side facing it. Place cover so that vents are over the meat. This will cause the smoke to waft directly over the ribs as it escapes through the vents. Cook ribs 60 to 90 minutes without disturbing.

When done, remove ribs from rack if using and place on a board or platter. Shake mop again and immediately brush liberally over hot ribs. Allow ribs to rest 15 minutes, brush with more mop, and then separate the ribs and serve individually on a platter.

Let everybody dig in!

On Rainbows and Other Manifestations

I'm layin' on the gay today.

Certain parts of the media and the blogosphere will be full of this story in the coming days, and while I'm not usually one to get on bandwagons, the subject is one I've been thinking about recently and the two happen to dovetail perfectly. The name of Leslie Hagen will become famous in some circles, and not for reasons that Ms. Hagen ever sought. She is the attorney at the Department of Justice with consistently outstanding job ratings whose contract was not renewed because of "rumors that she is a lesbian."

Those of you with more tolerant attitudes are thinking, "in this day and age???" Those of us gay people who are coasting along comfortably in what some are calling the "post-gay" 2-aughts are also saying, "in this day and age???" This story brings us up short.

I worked my entire career at the Peace Corps, which is famously (some say notoriously) gay-friendly. During the Clinton years the office I worked in might as well have had its walls painted lavender. My immediate boss was a lesbian, and her "big boss," the White House appointee heading our division, had made her political name in Colorado spearheading opposition to an anti-gay state constitutional amendment that made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. Her name is Judy Harrington and you might have called her a "professional lesbian" in those days. Judy encouraged gay staffers to make themselves known in an effort to show Peace Corps' entire diversity. She tapped me to do a training session for new recruiters on how to deal with sexual minority applicants. The Peace Corps has a very active gay and lesbian returned volunteer organization, one of whose main functions is to mentor new members who need guidance on how to navigate sexual orientation issues in the developing world, on a country-specific basis. The gay/lesbian Peace Corps employee organization once hosted a reception and lunch for Mark Gearan, Director of the agency (another White House appointee), at which in welcoming remarks I told Gearan that I had witnessed changes at the Peace Corps, from the time when, as a volunteer, I nearly quit my assignment early because of a gay issue I was afraid to discuss with anybody, to that moment, when the Director of the Peace Corps was having lunch with me simply because I was gay.

Those heady times were not to last, of course, but we gay Peace Corps folk could never completely closet ourselves, nor were we ever asked to, even by Bush II. Gay Pride Month continues to be observed at the agency, with invited speakers and agency-wide events. One of the Bush appointees, the director of the legal office, did take offense at posters publicizing some related event, and had the temerity to order them removed. That didn't last long.

Blessed as I know I was in my workplace, I had, and still have, frequent reminders that I was in a luxurious coccoon. Two of my best gay friends are very highly placed career federal employees. One is open about his sexual orientation in his respected and nationally recognized AIDS work. He has been in line for a directorship for years and is constantly passed over. He is never given any direct feedback, and you're left with only one conclusion about why his career is stalled: he rubs some Bush appointee the wrong way. Another is a lesbian (now retired) who refused to come out. I constantly took her to task for this reticence. She was so competent, so professional and so well-loved by her colleagues, I told her, that she had reached a pinnacle from which she could not be dislodged. I reminded her that the gay people among her rank and file desperately needed her example. But she remained steadfast in her refusal. Given the story of Leslie Hagen, I concede her point.

Steve and I are not ones to make a huge point of the fact that we are gay. For most gay people, it's easy not to make such a point, since we are the ultimate invisible minority. Unless we do something that obviously bends the genders, or go around carrying signs, the everyday world passes us by assuming nothing out of the ordinary. And so, "to out or not to out" remains an issue for many and is often discussed at dinner tables when it's just us gay folks getting together. I still lose patience with obdurately closeted people, until I hear their reasons. Then I step back once again, chastened.

I often think that being gay is something like being left-handed--something integral to who you are happens to be different from what the world expects. The world is by and large made on the assumption of right-handedness, and so it is on the assumption of a heterosexual response. Make no mistake, there is much more danger associated with a non-hetero response than with left-handedness, and those dangers are very serious, running the gamut from the physical to the emotional to the professional. But if a gay person is lucky enough to negotiate those pitfalls successfully, s/he gets used to the difference; the necessary adjustments become automatic responses to the world and are given no more thought than breathing. It's only on some rare occasion when tables may be turned that we suddenly realize what we have been missing. The first time I had that experience was in April of 1993, at the time of the first big Gay Pride march on Washington after the start of the Clinton administration. The city and its suburbs turned into a parallel world where for one weekend, everybody seemed to be gay. It was like San Francisco on steroids, if you can imagine that. You straight friends would have felt in the distinct minority, and would have had to get used to seeing same-sex couples walking around really acting like couples. Holding hands, going arm-in-arm, maybe the occasional affectionate peck on the cheek. Completely innocent, completely lovely expressions of affection, and completely unseen in public, usually. We gay people had to get used to it ourselves. It was mind blowing, but a very pleasant adjustment to have to make. And here's a place for me to mention my cultural hero, Rufus Wainwright. I can't describe to you the feeling of utter liberation I get every time he stands up and sings one of his gorgeous love songs. All of that articulate beauty is about me! I never thought I would live to see such a thing.

Wainwright calls himself "post-gay." He came along after the big demonstrations, stands on the shoulders of the Stonewall heroes, and simply proceeds as who he is with neither apology nor explanation. Good for him and good for us. But we forget the Leslie Hagens of the world at our peril. "We are everywhere" is a favorite chant at rallies. But snipers are everywhere, too, and duck-and-cover is still a necessary maneuver. That's why Steve and I, post-gay or no, will not be putting our rainbows away just yet.

SOMETHING DIFFERENT!

Well, if a picture is worth a thousand words, how about a movie? This is an experiment. I've had my handycam since Christmas but have not really used it much--figured I wouldn't until we started our Delaware sojourns. Now that I see what can be done, I'll be posting more from time to time. This was taken at the end of our first boat ride last Friday.

I wish blogger allowed for maximizing the screen view, but this is what we're stuck with for now. I mention a "fireplace" which you can barely see--it's a little cast-iron chiminea we have out front. Mainly, it shows what the trailer/house looks like, and all the rainbows we've festooned everything with. If there's any "family" within miles of the place, they'll know we're there! That's Steve with his back to the camera at the end, working in the boat.

Enjoy!

What's Your Type?

I thought of doing something for April Fool's Day, but couldn't find any music that fit my mood, and besides, the day will get its proper attention, that's for sure, whether or not I take note of it. So I'm going with the flow of my thoughts.

It's gray and rainy today. A lone bluejay is singing a quiet, "doodle-oodle-oo, I'm here" song outside nearby somewhere; he and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement are all that break the peace of the moment. After the activity-filled weekend and the seemingly endless chores of yesterday, a day like today is a welcome change.

A major fad among federal management types a few years ago was the MBTI, (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator). Did you ever take the test? It's supposed to show people who are forced together by working relationships certain personality traits, thus making it easier to deal with some individuals, or allowing for the tailoring of a presentation in a way that it may be best understood, depending on the learning style of the audience. You answer a long series of questions, the answers to which measure four traits: your degree of introversion vs. extraversion (you're either an "I" or an "E"); the degree to which you use your senses vs. your intuition to perceive things (an "S" or an "N"); the degree to which you "think" about things vs. "feel" about them (a "T" or an "F"); and the degree to which you learn new things in a brick-by-brick manner ("judging") vs. taking in the whole building at once, as it were, and then breaking it into components "perceiving" (a "J" or a "P. ")

Got that? OK. Now, I don't know if this thing is really just a glorified parlor game or not, but I found it fascinatingly accurate. It's been around since 1943, and claims that scientific support for it has accumulated over the years. What I do know for sure is that you can really only take the test once, because after you know your "type," and have learned what the questions are measuring, you become test-savvy and skew your answers either to confirm what you supposedly already know about yourself, or to change something you don't like.

I came out an ISTJ, that is, an introvert who trusts his senses more than his intuition, places more importance on his thoughts than on his feelings in making decisions, and who learns in a step-by-step, as opposed to big-picture, manner. The trained facilitators who run these sessions are at pains to explain to us "I"s that "introvert" does not equal "shy wallflower." My E/I score was very close, and I protested to the facilitator that I'm really an extravert. She asked me, "Do you think before you speak, or speak first and think about it later?" I answered that I think first. "You're an I," she said. I must admit it's a comfortable fit, and it explains why luxuriating in today's silence is so comforting. After a couple of days of much external stimulation, I need to hole up, shut the world away, and get back in touch with myself. I can't remember a time when I wasn't that way. I have known people who are lost without a constant stream of company and conversation; they seem not to know how to be alone. That is not me.

As for the J/P poles, I have to admit that the J fits me like a glove. I have little ability to see a building under construction, for example, and imagine what it will look like finished. This is especially true of inside spaces, when new walls have been studded in but not actually put up. When we were building the addition to the back of our house, I would constantly stare at the unfinished walls and try, try to see in my mind's eye what it would look like. It was impossible. If you want to show me something, draw me a picture.

The demands of the day beckon. I have chores to complete and errands to run. I'm not complaining! It's better than filling a chair in an office. I'll wrap my cozy "I" coccoon around me and face the day.

Tagged by Eclecticity and Kat

SIX WORD MEMOIR

So

Many

Words,

So

Little

Time!

Winding Down

Sorry no music yet. Hipcast seems to be under the weather. I'll keep trying periodically.

It's still cold and windy today, much too cold for a boat ride--in fact, even too cold to fill the gas tank, which we do manually from individual 5-gallon containers. We just came in from spending more money, this time on a pair of jeans for Steve at one of the many discount outlet malls here. We took a walk down by the ocean, just long enough to have our breath taken away by the cold ocean breeze! From here on out it should be pretty quiet. We'll pack up tonight and hit the road very early tomorrow morning, to be home before noon and take up all the put-off weekend chores. I'm churning up ideas for some good, meaty posts, and look forward to the luxury of lengthy cogitation during the week.

Have you tried to buy bluejeans lately? A mainstay of the outlets here was Levi-Strauss, and they're gone! Have to put up with Gap or--oh, no--Guess!jeans. Oh, Boomers, how we have fallen! Has the uniform of protests and be-ins gone the way of the zoot suit, the raccoon coat? Unthinkable!

It's Always Something

A hat tip to Gilda Radner for today's title.

If you see Steve and he has a little time on his hands, a "creative mess" can't be too far away. Yesterday I mentioned a few "minor repairs." I think I was blocking aot so minor repair, which is in process today.

The trailer we're in is a 1967 model. Yes, 1967. It was derelict when we first saw it--the land was being sold just as land; the trailer on it wasn't even mentioned. For years, to the dismay of our neighbors, it had been used by squatters, and when we first opened the door to look at it, when we bought in 2004, we felt like we were entering a time capsule. Whoever had lived here last left in a hurry. All of their belongings were here, as well as old stuff from the original owners, who hadn't been in here in years. Old bowling and fishing trophies, a collection of caps hung on a wall, and piles and piles of old newspapers. The electricity had never even been turned off.
At some point in the trailer's history, a stick-built addition had been put on one side, so it's more than just a trailer. We actually have more guest sleeping space here than we do at home.

We bought the place "as is," stipulating only that the former owners clear out the junk.

Whenever it rained, we noticed there was a leak at the place where the trailer and the addition joined. We put up with it for a couple of seasons; then Steve got the idea of putting an extra large tarp on the roof as a cheap way to close the leaks. (The place is going to be demolished within a couple of years to make room for a proper house, so we never really contemplate major repairs.) Putting the tarp on the roof, of course, required walking on the roof. We gave thought to the possible fragility of it, but once Steve finished the tarp job without actually falling through, we figured the roof was still fairly strong.

The ceilings in the trailer are pressed cardboard. Make that forty-year-old pressed cardboard. When we entered Thursday, we noticed that the ceiling over the kitchen was distended, as if it were pregnant. There were spots on furniture where you could see water had been, and the distensions in the ceiling were damp and discolored. In short, the joint between trailer and addition was dry as a bone, but a major part of the ceiling was grossly water-damaged. Uh-oh. It appears even though Steve didn't actually fall through the roof, the weight of his steps made enough hairline cracks up there to let water in.

So today, we took down the ceiling in the kitchen. The place is currently a mess, and I have the time to sit here and tell you about it, because Steve had to take a break from the ceiling job to go to the pier and deal with the boat's moorings while it's warm enough outside.

We discovered under the pressed cardboard is a layer of plastic, and that has little holes in it which were letting the water through. Beneath the plastic is wet insulation. The quick and dirty fix we're doing is to put up another layer of plastic, and then cover that with cheap white sheets. We just bought the sheets at WalMart. When Steve's done outside we'll put up the sheets, move things back where they belong, and get on with life. Without looking up too much.

Fun, fun, fun!