Category Archives: food

3250 Meters Swimming

22 Saturday Apr 2017

Posted by in Exercise/ Fitness, food, Sport

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Uh, fascinating. Really? I had last done 2+ miles four weeks ago. It feels great, that sweet exercise high that beats the pants off dope or booze.

I was busy trying to talk myself out of working out today or taking it easy.  But once in the water and moving, all the negative self-talk disappeared.  I actually felt my mind relax, focusing on the laps.

Last week I swam 10,000 meters and to repeat last week’s totals, I needed the 3250 meter distance today. And it really wasn’t hard. I finished, actually lost count of the laps swum. 3250 Meters is 65 laps in a 25-meter pool or 130 lengths. Putting my brain on auto-pilot and just being mindful of my surgical sites (lumbar spine and right shoulder) was my emphasis.

Mrs CorC? and I went to one of our favorite unpretentious restaurants, with good entrees, costing not too much.  I had a blackened rockfish Caesar salad. She had crabcake sliders with sweet potato waffle fries. 

Richmond is a restaurant town. There are lots of start-ups with new concepts. I can tell you that Bruce Springsteen goes to Mama Zu’s on Oregon Hill when he is in town. It’s owned by a buddy of his.

Now FIOS is bringing me a baseball game, Washington Nationals at the Mets. Good game in extra innings. I am at the point where I don’t care who wins. I just want it to be over. My son mentioned to me tonight that the real value of sport is that it is inconsequential. True that.

Botticelli. Barbeque. Brunch.

29 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by in Amtrak, Art, food, grafitti

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It was one of those weekends that couples with no children dream about.  Just time together. At The Muscarelle Museum of The College of William And Mary, a travelling exhibition of works by Sandro Botticelli and his contemporaries was on display.*  Mrs CorC? and I drove down. The exhibition is not huge, filling only three rooms.  I was humbled by my ignorance and my arrogance, thinking I know  what classical Renaissance art is about; that I know what it is I see when I look at such a painting. Sure I can identify The Madonna or The Christ Child, but there is so much more. The contemporaries of Botticelli probably had an understanding and derived spiritual and aesthetic truths from such a painting  than I cannot see.

After touring the exhibition and, of course,  buying the poster, we decide to head back to town. We agree  barbeque is in order from our favorite purveyor of slow-cooked pig flesh, the Hogshead Cafe.   Part of the Southern folklore of barbeque is that a true barbeque joint is small, nondescript, and almost one step away from being closed by the Health Department. The Hogshead is as clean as the proverbial whistle, but it is small and not particularly flashy, decorwise. The barbeque tastes great.  We are partial to this dish called barbeque nachos, consisting of your basic nacho makings coupled with lots of barbeque.  Yummy and a prodigious amount of food.

Sunday comes. We both succumb to the “I don’t wanna get out of bed” syndrome.  Before we know it, a brunch opportunity has presented itself.  We decide the Henry Clay Inn on Railroad Avenue in Ashland, Virginia will satisfy our brunch-related hankerings.  The nickname for Ashland is The Center of The Universe.  I have no reason to believe that it is not  The Center of The Universe.  It is just that cool of a place.  Railroad Avenue is called Railroad Avenue because the railroad tracks of the main North-South rail line of the whole East Coast run down the center of the street.  It’s all part of the experience. We sit on the porch of the Inn and enjoy our brunch.  Two freight trains pass during our meal.  Both are southbound.  No Amtrak trains pass by.  A glance at the Smartphone app revealed major delays on all the North-South trains going through Richmond.

What always amazes me about freight trains is the graffiti painted on the box cars, just as I am astonished at the graffiti painted on abandoned buildings. Whether we like it or not, graffiti is the painting genre of our time, as representative of late Twentieth Century- Early Twenty First Century America as Botticelli’s works characterized Florence.  Graffiti has an energy to it, a declaration for humanity that a lot of modern art gracing museum walls lacks. So juxtaposed with the quaint bourgeois gentility of Ashland with its charming pastel-painted houses roll these magnificent graffiti murals.  That both represent America is indicative of our genuine diversity.

The cherry on the ice cream sundae that is Ashland is the town “Character”.   This particular chap rides a Fifties-vintage bicycle with fenders and balloon tires. He just cruises on his bike around town, passed the artsy cafes and coffee houses, circling Randolph Macon College, the town’s claim to fame. He wears outlandish outfits. Sunday’s outfit appeared to be inspired by the miniskirt. One might call him a “Flamer”.  But What the Hell, it’s Ashland.

*Note:  This exhibition will be in Boston at the Museum of Art from 15 April through 5 July. This is the only other stop on the American tour.  Those of you living in that neck of the woods should consider going.

Morning- 9 March 2017

09 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by in Classical Music, food, Sexual Identity, sleep

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I wish I could say my day started at 8:30. But that is merely the most recent time I woke up. Maybe it started at 1:51 when the pain of being in one position for too long jarred me awake.  I thought it would show some sort of noble effort if I tried to go back to sleep next to MrsCorC?; that I actually wanted to be there with her, her, wearing her beige cotton granny panties and her forest green turtleneck with little gold  Brooks Brothers sheep embroidered on it.  But no.  Her nightwear is whatever remains on her body after she takes off her trousers (khaki) and bra (beige) after work. Reality speaks volumes when I awaken in the dead of night.  I do so desire  to love you, have you, goddammit, FUCK you.

I get up, go downstairs. I’m sort of hungry. I rummage in the fridge for the log of goat cheese I bought at BJ’s, find it. I ignore the little bit of blue mold growing on the leavings of  chevre  already consumed, making slices to add to the rice crackers, gluten-free, I bought at BJ’s yesterday. Crunchmaster.  A Master, forgodsakes!  Is there a Crunchmaster General? Is there some little Crunchsub, out there, eagerly yearning for the Crunchmaster to take him/her in sordid, kinky, gluten-free cracker defilement and depravity?  I digress.  I have my little snack, topped off with dates, purchased at BJ’s. (Where else?)  for some insane reason, I fix a pot of decaf, thinking I might just drink some.

Then I go to my tan leather Danish reclining chair and just sit.  I don’t read, turn on the TV, or make an attempt at The Rosary (Thursday: Luminous Mysteries). I just sit and revel in the stillness and the silence.  Finally 3:00 AM rolls around. I go back upstairs with a mug of decaffeinated coffee I won’t drink. I go to the other bedroom, take off my pyjama top and scapular, put on a CD of Schubert Lieder, sung by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.  I am reluctant to take off the pyjama bottoms and sleep,  completely nude!  Why? Is sexual repression contagious,  like some bizarro-world version of the clap?

Next thing I know it is 8:30. I am awake. I hear the shower running.  Mrs CorC? is getting ready for work. I get up, embrace her.  She remarks that I am strong. I infer that that comment is an acknowledgement of my sexuality. My hopes are raised  Maybe we will be lovers again.

Football, Amtrak, Walking. A Hodge-Podge

06 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by in Amtrak, cooking, Exercise/ Fitness, food, Uncategorized

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So here it is Monday.  I did watch part of Super Bowl LI yesterday, but I had better things to do so I turned it off. Then I found out the Patriots won in overtime after trailing 28-3 at one point. Quite frankly I was not surprised.  I am just glad football is over and done with for another few months. Pro football season is like sitting down to a long meal with many courses. Then, when dessert comes (in this case, the Super Bowl), I just can’t eat (or watch) any more.

My good friend JK texted me that he found out he could go to Montreal from Richmond on Amtrak for $84, one way. That is if he books now for a June 30 departure.  Sounds like a deal.  Mrs CorC? and I might take that trip.  The only fly in that ointment is a nearly seven hour layover in New York between trains.  That is if one arrives in New York at 1:40 AM and departs for Montreal at 8:15 AM.  Penn Station just isn’t that interesting.  I would have to plan on more time in New York.

JK’s intention is to spend more time in Canada, perhaps going to Quebec City and Toronto at the very least.  Canada has to be cooler than Virginia in the Summer, temperature-wise.  For ambiance, Canada must be way cooler than Virginia. Plus there is the access to Cuban cigars.  I understand Montreal is a restaurant paradise.

Mass yesterday was rather somber, with the passing of my friend Mike M on everyone’s mind. The funeral isn’t until this Friday.  I don’t know why.

I have resumed my walking in earnest.  I did not realize how much I missed it. I like being connected to the World when I walk.  Swimming is great and I groove on the isolation when I swim.  Swimming lends itself to contemplation

I did some cooking last night, grilled salmon and steamed asparagus. No bread, rice , potatoes or pasta. I’m going for some major starch reduction here. I had fruit for dessert.

More exercise. Better dietary choices. This mindfulness might stick this time.

Birthday Extravaganza

24 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by in Birthday, Cuba, Dogs, food, Relationships

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Last week I was going to write about my birthday and how I was born on the same day as Confederate General Thomas J. (Stonewall) Jackson. Unless you are a military historian or a Civil War “buff”, he is of little interest. (Just What the Hell is a “buff” anyway?) He was born on 21 January 1824 in Clarksburg, West Virginia.  He was wounded in a friendly fire accident after his brilliant victory at Chancellorsville and died of infection a few days later. His last words, “Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees.” inspired the title for the Hemingway novel  Across river And Into The Trees.

I thought I would give the Civil War, Robert E. Lee, and Stonewall Jackson a rest, and share about my birthday in real time.  The Trump Inauguration set the stage for my 66th birthday, just as the Nixon Inauguration (where on I registered for the draft) marked my 18th, and the Kennedy Inauguration marked my 10th.  There are others, of course. Last Saturday, 21 January, I went to my discussion class on St Thomas Aquinas.  Not to worry, as interesting and important as it may be, we will not discuss Thomistic Philosophy today.  The real fun on my birthday came yesterday when  #2 Son CD came by with Aero, his Dobie/German Shepherd mix dog. We had to take some soup to my stepmother and we wanted to get lunch, so we thought we would leave him in the yard.

#2 Son says, “He’s a real escape artist, but I guess he”ll be OK for a little while.”  Nothing quite like a cloud of doubt cast over a decision.  We decide we will get take out on the lunch at a nice Cuban restaurant so we won’t be gone too long. We drop the soup off, chat a bit with Dorothy, and head over to Kuba Kuba II. We order a Cuban sandwich, a codfish cake sandwich, coconut risotto cakes, and tres leches cake for dessert.  We meet the baker of the tres leches cake, the mother of the owner. She is a refugee from the Castro Regime, a fellow parishoner at St Benedict whom I had never met, an all round nice lady, and one heck of a good baker.

When we get home, we are relieved to find  Aero still in the yard but very muddy, and the makings of a very nice hole just under the gate. After rubbing the mud off Aero, we begin our lunch.  The coconut risotto cakes were to die for,  golden crisp on the outside, creamy on the inside.  Yummy. I had the codfish sandwich, another delight, #2 son the Cuban sandwich. The sandwiches came with platanos, fried plantains, slightly sweet and subtly tasty. The tres leches cake was sublime, as if sweetened condensed milk was suspended in flour. The icing was this frothy sweetness, a slightly more substantial meringue.   Bottom line: Cuba’s loss was Richmond’s gain.  Had Fidel Castro not been the murdering SOB that he was, Senora M would not be here.

We spent the afternoon watching Aero fully revel in his dogness.  He would run around, sit, lie down, eat platanos and bits of roast pork.   Going back in the yard, we watched Aero bury the pig ear I gave him and inspected the hole he dug.  He could get his head out but not his shoulder.  We decide to fill in the hole another day. I cleaned the glass patio door with Windex, washed the mud-stained towel in hot water with bleach. and was prepared to give Mrs CorC? a redacted version of Aero’s visit.  However…

Just as Mrs CorC? arrives home, our neighbor is out walking her whippet and decides to make neighborly conversation. Neighbor Lady says to my wife

“You don’t have a German Shepherd, do you?”

“That’s my stepson’s dog. They came by this afternoon.”

“Well,  he was trying to dig his way out of your backyard. He almost got out”

This bit of idle chit chat sabotaged my plan to leave Aero’s burrowing escapade out of my recounting of his afternoon visit to Mrs CorC?.  I do believe women band together whenever they think a husband is trying to put something over on a wife. A Sixth Sense directs a woman to inform an unsuspecting wife of an attempted bamboozle by a not-clever-enough husband. It’s part of the sport of  marriage and relationships. Any upset over an attempted cover-up was dispelled by the slice of tres leches cake I saved for Mrs CorC?.  All’s well that ends well.

The Present

14 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by in cooking, Exercise/ Fitness, food, Health Issues

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“Each new day is a gift. That’s why they call it The Present.”  So states a bit of 12-Step folk wisdom that is annoyingly accurate.

It’s been kind of painful around here, physical pain. I have some back pain that will not seem to abate. A trip to the orthopedic surgeon revealed no changes at the surgical site. Ergo, what I am experiencing is muscle pain.  That’s nice.  I guess.  So I’m back to swimming and walking and doing all the stuff I normally do, with no expectation that the pain is going to go away. Fair enough. As long as I know nothing is getting worse, I can live with the pain.

We don’t do any decorating for Christmas.  Being married to a person who has no commitment to organizing or cleaning means that the clutter  is the Decor.  Throwing a marriage away for slovenliness of the dwelling seems like a crappy reason to walk though.

Cooking is the general activity  for me around here. I fix dinner every night and groove on being a House Husband.  I did turnips Monday, for the first time in eons. I just peeled them, cut them up, boiled and mashed them with some dill weed and poppy seed.  Yummy.  I made salmon cakes with canned red salmon,  the kind they call “Sockeye”. I just added cracker meal, celery, dill weed and an egg and formed them in patties.  I fried them in my Scanpan nonstick skillet until golden brown.  The pan requires no added fat and they browned beautifully  Again Yummy.

I had a cooked sweet potato in the fridge and resolved to make a sweet potato pie with a Graham cracker crust.  Pulling out the trusty Betty Crocker Cookbook, going to page 331 were the directions. Simple and delicious.  I mean that.

I shared all this bounty with my stepmother.  That was the most satisfying aspect of the whole experience.

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Penance and $2.04

19 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by in Catholic Life, cooking, food, Pie Crust, Uncategorized

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Yesterday was Friday. As a Penance, we refrain from eating meat. Penance involves an act which seeks to turn our thoughts and lives toward God.  It is a challenge,  but not so much for finding meatless alternatives.  The challenge lies in choosing to not eat meat as a Penance in the first place.  Vatican II said you could eat meat, right?  Yes, it did, but one is obligated to choose another Penance as a substitute.  Penance, to most people, Catholic or not, is a foreign concept. If one cynically reduces religious observance and the devout life into some sort of cosmic and existential board game , replete with rewards and penalties, it is merely an absurd gesture among many absurd gestures. I see it as something more; leave it at that for now.

Having set the context, the admonition from Mrs CorC? yesterday morning was “Don’t go out and spend money for food I might not want to eat when I get home from work.” Good point.  What to fix then?  I do a quick check of items on hand,and decide on a mushroom and cheddar quiche with fried apples on the side. All that’s missing are mushrooms.

After a noon AA meeting and a meandering drive, debating whether to go to the library or not, I head to the store, then home. I see a package of fresh mushrooms for $1.99.  Mustering all the power of self-control a recovering alcoholic can possess, I pay for them, ignoring all else, especially the Thrift Bakery items. Total for trip is $2.04, with tax.

Upon arriving home, I get out the butter, lard and flour and prepare a pate’ brissee,  from The Joy of Cooking. Making the dough went quite well and I was recollecting a wonderful exchange with another blogger I had about this recipe a few months ago.  It needs to rest in the fridge for at least two hours, so I take this time to go for a four mile power walk around the neighborhood.

The walk went well. The shower felt great. I await Mrs CorC?’s return and finishing the meal prep.  I read from Sometimes She Lets Me, (Cleis Press, Tristan Taormino, Editor)  a collection of lesbian erotica.   Lesbian erotic writing is plain old good writing and not an insult to the intelligence, unlike much other erotic writing.  Upon arrival, she is tired and not completely unplugged from the work day. I leave her to chill and wait for her word to start supper.

Assembling the quiche was easy and fun. I made another major dent in the half gallon of milk I bought the other day, used up the shredded cheddar opened a couple of weeks ago, and got to use the white pepper I deemed an extravagance when I bought it.  The fried apples kind of morphed from rings to apple sauce. I think the Cortland apples  I used don’t cook well for that purpose, but they tasted great. Who cares, right?

My old friend back pain was there through most of yesterday.  But Life is good.

Lurking, Substitutions, Sleep

04 Friday Nov 2016

Posted by in Exercise/ Fitness, food, Gender Roles, Sexual Identity, Sobriety

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If you follow my blog, you might have learned a few things about me.

  1. I had a spinal fusion in November, 2015 that effectively ended my working career. The fusion was preceded by a rotator cuff repair in May, 2015.
  2. I am a practicing Roman Catholic, having converted in 2010 at age 59, from The Episcopal Church USA.  “Practicing ” means I go to both Mass and Reconciliation (Confession) regularly, pray The Rosary, abstain from meat on Friday as a penance. Most importantly, I take Church teaching on love and compassion very seriously.  My faith is like  a “hard limit” with me. I realize a lot of you have had some truly crappy experiences with the Church. I understand. I’m sorry it was so bad for you. Part of converting meant I had to get two previous marriages that ended in divorce annulled under Canon (Church) Law.  I totally get the annulment ordeal.
  3. I am a recovering alcoholic, 22 years sober, AA attending. Along with The Church, I use the 12 Steps of AA in ordering and directing my life . Patience and tolerance are among the gifts I take from them.
  4. Partly from AA, partly from family history, and partly from my own personal experiences around sex and gender identity,  I am very accepting around LGBT issues.  If you are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, that’s OK by me. To that end I am curious about your lives and how you view the world.
  5. On the lighter side, I like to cook.  I also like to exercise, swimming and power walking mostly.

This takes us to the first topic in the title, Lurking. All you Butch Lesbians and Bisexuals out there should know I read your blogs. Occasionally I will “like” a post.  I realize most Butches are OK with my reading. Some aren’t.  To those who aren’t OK with people of my demographic reading your blogs, I’m sorry. But I’m not quitting, unless you bore me to death.

Topic #2.  Substitutions. Since I like to cook and am in Recovery, I find substitutions for wine, beer and spirits in food challenging. Most times I simply not use a recipe with alcohol.  I know how alcohol cooks off in a lot of cases.  But the “esters”, those wonderful compounds that give different wines their unique and characteristic flavor, give me a headache. Any tips on substitutes for alcohol would be appreciated.

Topic #3  Sleep.  Between not having a job and chronic, albeit moderate, pain. I don’t sleep well.  Throw in the Cubs winning the Series, and my circadian rhythm has no rhythm. I’m like Ward Cleaver dancing.

That’s it. I’m done for now.

Wherein A Cubano At The Mall Inspires Musing About Suburban Living.

26 Tuesday Jul 2016

Posted by in food, Suburbia

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The Cubano is another name for the Cuban sandwich. Yesterday, in a bit of defiance against Weight Watcher point-counting, I ordered one at Cheesecake Factory.  I put one half of the beast aside, ate one half. Then, after 30 seconds of not too careful thought, I ate the second half. I now had this agglomeration of ham, roast pork, cheese, pickle and Cuban bread churning around in my gut for what seemed to be an eternity.  I confided to Mrs CorC? that this would be my Cuban sandwich for the Third Quarter. It could be my last one for a long time. Meat, it has been said, doesn’t really have much flavor. We constantly put stuff on it to give it flavor.  This Cubano brought that message home in a big way. I could taste the pickle and the mustard more than anything else. This morning when I scrambled my egg whites with fresh tomatoes, artichoke hearts, fresh basil and Gorgonzola, I had an explosion of taste which I did not experience yesterday.

Maybe it is Cheesecake Factory that ended my affair with the Cubano. Their food is calorie-laden and over-priced.  But it is in the mall near our house. It isn’t a bad mall as malls go.  It isn’t one of those enclosed nightmares.  It has plenty of plants and foliage plus a rather nifty water garden with koi swimming about.  The irony of this mall is that it is a place we drive to in order to walk around.  Weird, huh?

I miss the city, though. I miss walking places.  You could walk to places in the ‘burbs but it would 1) take forever and 2) be inordinately risky with limited sidewalks and street lighting.  Why not move?  The house is paid for, for starters , and I like our townhouse development.  I have dreams of fixing the place up to be the pleasant home I’ve dreamed of.  But every time I drive down to the urban neighborhood  where my lovely parish church is situated, I see tree-lined avenues with sidewalks and streetlights.  There are shopping districts within walking distance.  That urban neighborhood is diverse, but my townhouse development is no monoculture either.  Should we stay or go? We’ll chew on that some more.

Flashback To 1979, Formerly Titled Saint-Saens Flashback

21 Thursday Jul 2016

Posted by in Classical Music, food, memoir, seduction

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The Compact Disc set arrived yesterday. I have always been a fan of the Saint-Saens Piano Concerti from the time I first heard them back in 1979.  However, until I put the first of the discs in the player yesterday afternoon, and heard the french horns open the Concerto #1 with the orchestral response, I didn’t realize how deeply this music had affected me.

You see, it was the background music of an affair, of a romance that morphed into a marriage.    I don’t know the precisely first time I heard them. The pianist on that first recording , on vinyl, of course, was Aldo Ciccolini,  a great interpreter of Saint-Saens.  What I remember was a dinner at her house. There were grilled chicken breasts, and a salad with slivered almonds and mandarin oranges on romaine, tossed with olive oil, lemon juice and parmesan cheese. Rice? Perhaps. Memory goes in and out. But there was wine, dry white wine, that generic “Chablis” that came in a three liter jug. She was very genteel and tastefully decanted that dreadful swill into a lovely decanter with a lovely stopper, etched glass at the base with a solid glass sphere atop it. The dinner and the music were pleasant and cordial. We talked of our pasts. I came with the baggage of a broken marriage, she with a live-in relationship that did not end well. We drank more wine. We were not yet lovers.

To reciprocate her invitation, I invited her to dinner at my apartment. I fixed the quiche Lorraine  I learned to make from The Joy of Cooking.  We had a pleasant dinner, although the news that day featured a plane crash and an execution. We talked some more. Then we made love for the first time. I remember the skirt she wore, a pale blue skirt with flowers on it, in a very light material and it draped beautifully from her full hips. She proudly told me later that she had a “black lady’s ass”. She did.

We went on trips together in her blue 1970 Olds F-85. with a cassette player. The pirated cassettes of the Concerti  went with us. We drove to Highlands, North Carolina to see a friend of hers. A great trip. Sex. Wine. Pot. Music, Saint-Saens.  A few weeks later we drove to Utica, New York where she interviewed for a college teaching position. By then we were deeply in love. I was ready to quit my job and follow her to Utica if she were hired. And again we listened to Saint-Saens in the blue Olds as we explored the countryside of upstate New York, towns like New Hartford  that featured a green town common reminiscent of Norman Rockwell.  We went to Cooperstown to the Baseball Hall of Fame, where we both concurred that one old baseball glove from the 1930’s looks like any other old baseball glove from the 1930’s. We went to the Oneida Community, where John Humphrey Noyes, in 1848, founded the commune that would spawn the flatware manufacturer and Noyes would experiment with a group marriage, what we would consider polyamory today. Plus ca Change… eh?  More Concerti and the  Septet in E Flat, Op. 85, filler on the album, but a perfect gem in its own right.

The music played on  that summer. We discovered we both loved sailing.  One Sunday night, after a day on the water, we made love on her green printed sheets that featured sailboats and wooded islands, evocative of Maine, I guess. That night, I proposed. She accepted. We smoked more marijuana, listened to Paul McCartney sing  Maybe I’m Amazed, made love some more.

Maybe it should have stopped there. Maybe I would have grown up sooner, quit drinking sooner, stopped using sex as if it were another drug sooner,  faced my demons sooner. Maybe there would not have been the penultimate nightmare of divorce, the ultimate nightmare of her untimely and secretive death. Mixed in with all that pain and all that folly was all that love and hedonism and passion. That’s right, our deepest yearnings.