Entry Removed

I decided to take down the post I wrote last night because I have a long list of things of which I am repenting, and one of them is mocking people. If I keep cutting back on speech and writing that offends God, there may be little left for me to say or write, but I want to be serious about changing. Sorry your comments had to be dragged down with the entry.

I’m about to get in the car and help Val Prieto put together a pig roast. I’m also delivering two delicious coconut flans. No time to blog.

Holiday Prayer

I just had a visit from Val Prieto. He was borrowing a cooler to marinate this year’s lechon for Noche Buena. His mom is having health problems, including a hernia. If you would like to offer a prayer, he would appreciate it.

He has Established my Goings

If I were to say I had had a weird couple of days, I would barely scratch the surface.

Let’s start.

I have a bad habit of volunteering for things at church. I now have conflicts. That’s how bad it’s gotten. My dad and I have been trying to help my sister with her problems now that she has cancer, and a few days back, I actually got cross with him, because I had to do something for the church, and he wanted me to drop it and do something for her. I said, “I made a commitment to my church. It’s not a joke.” I’m sorry about that now, but it’s important to the story.

A couple of weeks back, I volunteered to help drive people to services. The guy who was to be in charge of this ministry is named Danny. I didn’t know him very well, and I didn’t know what kind of people we were going to be driving, but the church was very serious about it. They’re even willing to buy me a hack license. Unfortunately, I also joined a Saturday morning prayer group, and I volunteered to cook food for the cast of the Christmas play.

On Saturday, I spent a good part of the morning at a Denny’s in Hallandale, with my prayer group. I made some real connections. We met for two hours. Then I called Danny, intending to cancel because I was so busy. He was very nice about it, but I felt awful. I called the associate pastor who was directing the play and asked what I should do, and he advised me to go with Danny and to let cooking go for this week. I called Danny again and got back on track. Then I realized I would still be able to cook, if I made cookies instead of something difficult. I had two cookie recipes in my cookbook. One was so simple, it was in the super-basic chapter called “Five Greasy Pieces.” I went and got ingredients, and I made over three dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies.

When the cookies were finished, I drove to church and met Danny. We got in one of the church’s smelly, scary old vans and headed to Broward County, to the Broward Outreach Center. This is a shelter for the homeless, domestic violence victims, and convicted criminals released under supervision. Danny is one of their case workers.

I don’t know what I should tell you about Danny, because I don’t know what he makes public, but I can tell you that he works with a lot of addicts. And I discussed addiction with him.

He said addicts have to hit bottom and resolve to change. No big surprise there. But he also made a disturbing comment about the three main ways addicts hit bottom. The three ways are institutionalization, jail, and death. He did not name a fourth.

He gave me a tour of the center. I was surprised. It’s extremely clean. The dining hall still had water on the floor from the last mopping, and the smell of bleach was in the air. The floors all through the place shined. The bunks were made, and the bedclothes were so clean, the air near them smelled like clean laundry.

They have a five-step program, starting with the intake phase and ending (I think) with job placement. They give people remedial classes. They help people get GEDs. They teach them how to market their skills over the Internet; some have never used email before.

They have to memorize eight principles, which I can’t recall right now. I guess I’d fail their program. They have to complete a lot of requirements. There are little graduations along the way, and they get certificates, and their relatives show up and cry with joy.

He said the vast majority of them score below the 9th-grade level on tests, which may explain how many of them ended up where they are.

While he talked, I knew I was walking by faith. It was just like being in Israel in 1984. In those days, God dragged me around and brought me people to show me things and guide me. For no intelligent reason, I volunteered to help Danny, and we ended up at the shelter, and he started pouring out their story, and I knew it was as if God himself was talking to me, because he wanted me to be there, and he wanted Danny to show me the center and tell me these things. I can’t tell you why, because I don’t have that information yet.

We got the residents (“clients”) in the vans, and I drove my bunch down I-95, and I could not help but overhear them. It was moving. They didn’t tell filthy jokes or fight or cuss. They talked about their progress. They coached each other and gave each other tips. I can’t tell you how impressed I was.

Touring that place full of humble belongings, dedicated to humble yet vital and lifesaving achievements, I thought of people I know who have had much greater opportunities, yet whose attitudes can’t compare to those of the BOC clients I met. If you’ve been to college or have a skill, and you have a little money in the bank and no criminal record and no disabilities or diseases, you are so far ahead of these folks, you might as well be from another planet. But does your attitude reflect an appreciation of the depth of your blessings? Think where you could be, instead of where you are. Tomorrow, you could be having your next class on coping with HIV, or you could be studying eighth-grade history in order to get a high school diploma.

It may be a week before I have the nerve to complain about anything again. I’ll miss it.

We got these people to church, and they enjoyed the Christmas play, and then something like two-thirds of them went to the altar call. I got to sit in the front row last night, so I was able to get up and pray with them. Two hardcore gang kids accepted Jesus and stood holding each other and weeping. Danny was floored by the way his busing project paid off.

Now we have to figure out what to do when they want to attend regularly.

I got home at about 9:15 p.m., and I made over four dozen chocolate chip cookies for the play cast. I got to bed at 11, and I got up at six. Off I went, to work with the “armorbearers,” or the male volunteers who keep the church going during services. They put me and Danny in the kids’ ministry, helping people drop off and pick up their children. There are so many well-behaved kids at that church, it’s hard to believe it’s located in Miami.

At one point, I went to the men’s room, and I heard a tiny voice yelling, “I want to wash my hands! I want to wash my hands!” A kid about nine inches tall was jamming himself against the counter, but he couldn’t reach the knobs to turn on the sink. I couldn’t believe it! How many grown men wash their hands after using the bathroom? Maybe one in five? Some parent or pair of parents did something right with this boy. I helped him out, and then I went back to my post.

This was supposed to be a special day, because my sister was scheduled to come in and be baptized with the Spirit. Her cranial irradiation starts tomorrow, and she has been very scared, so she developed a sudden and urgent desire to get the baptism.

I had been hoping and praying for this for a long time. The baptism is the biggest difference between the Old Testament and the New Testament. Afterward, God lives inside you and changes you day by day. You receive some of his power and much of his character. It grows inside you and crowds out everything else. This is what prayer in tongues is all about. It builds the Spirit’s works in you. If you don’t pray in tongues regularly, it’s like not watering a plant.

If you’re Spirit-filled, and you have a relationship with someone who hasn’t had the baptism, it is likely to be turbulent. And the baptism makes it easier for you to confront and overcome your problems and failings.

I wanted to be present when my sister showed up, because I figured if she didn’t get the baptism today, it might be months before she gave it another shot.

Unfortunately, there was an obstacle. When I left the house this morning, I was having strange and unpleasant sensations. I couldn’t figure out what they were, but because this was a big day, I ignored them and got in the truck. After a couple of hours of work, however, things started to get worse quickly, and I realized what was going on.

I had a kidney stone.

I could not believe it. These things only hit on weekends, when treatment costs ten times as much. And why did it have to be this weekend, when I needed to be there for my sister?

I told everyone I had to leave, and I got back in the truck. I figured I’d go home and ask my dad to drive me to the hospital. Hopefully, the pain would not be full-blown by that time. I would have to leave my sister in the hands of the folks at the church.

In the parking lot, I prayed for healing, and I did the whole rebuking routine. And as I started driving toward the exit, I felt a couple of very unpleasant sensations. My best guess was that they meant I was getting worse.

A little farther down the road, I realized I felt somewhat better. Maybe the pain wouldn’t be too bad when I got home.

By the time I had gone maybe two miles, there was no pain. And I realized I had been freed from a very general feeling of sickness. It’s hard to describe, but when you have a kidney stone, there is an oppressive feeling that fills your entire body, as well as your mind. I know this now, because I know how I felt when it left. The bad things I had felt in the parking lot were probably caused by the stone dislodging and moving on.

As I got close to home, I saw a bunch if birds on some power lines. White ibises. I had never seen an ibis on a wire. I hadn’t realized they were given to sitting on wires. For some reason, I decided to count them. Seven. The number of the Holy Spirit. The Bible says there are seven Spirits of God, and the menorah in the Holy of Holies (which represented the Holy Spirit) had seven branches and seven lamps.

I went home, drank a lot of water, confirmed to my satisfaction that I was okay, and drove back to church! I was fine!

I went back to work with Danny, and after my sister showed up, one of the guys in my prayer group relieved me. At the end of the service, a bunch of us went into the green room behind the stage with my sister and the pastor. In a smaller room beside it, we prayed for her healing, and then we prayed for the baptism in the Holy Spirit. We didn’t get a result. The pastor asked all of us except my sister to go out into the green room. We waited while he and she prayed. I was outside the door, praying as hard as I could. I didn’t know if unresolved problems in her life could prevent the baptism, and I was afraid she would be rejected, somehow.

I can’t go into the details, but he tried a new approach that came to him while they were praying. And when they came out, he said they had gotten the victory. I was overwhelmed. How long had I waited to hear that? Years.

I’m home now. I got myself some magnesium pills on the way. Years back, a reader recommended them to prevent kidney stones, but I had quit using them. I’m going back on them. I don’t think magnesium was the problem. I think my sister and I are the objects of a very special hatred, and the kidney stone was an effort to keep me home so I would miss this wonderful event. It’s like the first time we went to church together. While I was getting ready, I fell down the stairs.

I will give Pastor Rich Wilkerson credit. He did not give up on my sister, and he cared enough to try something new and to stick with it until it worked for her. And when he told everyone in the green room how it had gone, he said, “This is real. This is NO JOKE.”

Naturally, I thought of what I had said to my father. Pastor Rich didn’t know.

Now I feel completely drained, and I intend to hang out with Maynard and Marvin and do absolutely nothing.

I can’t tell you how happy I am that I’m not in the emergency room, zonked out on Dilaudid again. I enjoy Dilaudid a great deal, but this is considerably better. And like so many of God’s great gifts, it’s free.

Last time I had Dilaudid, they charged me six grand!

Being healed of a kidney stone is a tremendous thing. It would have ruined my week. I am unable to describe my gratitude adequately.

I better go talk to the birds. It’s a wonder they still remember me.

Into the Canal

I can’t believe how tricky pizza is.

I perfected my recipe last year or in 2007, I think. I was making pies that brought tears to my eyes. But I haven’t made an A+ pizza in a while.

It’s my own fault. I know perfectly well that the best cheese around here is at Costco, and today I made a small pie using frozen cheese instead. I think the frozen cheese is from Costco, but for some reason, after freezing, it cooks up like supermarket cheese. To make it work right, you have to stir a small amount of butter into it. I didn’t do that.

I have a new bag of cheese from Gordon Food Supply, but it’s not the same.

I should chuck this bag of cheese, plus my frozen cheese, into a canal. It offends me.

That butter trick is gold. Remember it.

Ammo Stacks Make Nice Furniture for Profiteers

Outdoor Marksman has Federal 9mm ammunition for $11.95, if you buy a scant 20 boxes. Not too bad. To me, ten bucks a box is reasonable. We are getting closer to that point. Sellier & Bellot is down to $13 per box at Natchez Shooters Supplies.

It seems like commodities prices aren’t the problem. Copper is getting more expensive, in spite of the bad worldwide economy, but ammunition prices keep dropping. That leads me to suspect that profiteering is the big problem. Obama created an artificial ammunition market by threatening our Constitutional rights, and the people who make and sell ammunition may have been cheating us since it began.

I know there has been a lot of profiteering, because only a fool would believe there was any market justification for a $30 box of FMJ 9mm rounds or a $50 box of primers. But can it really be that greed is responsible for most of the price increases? People are basically evil, but ordinarily, they exhibit some restraint, especially when bad behavior offends their customers.

The folks who tried to corner the market seem to be starting to bleed. I see GP11 480-round battle packs selling on Gunbroker for $259. That’s only $30 above the market price. And a search of completed auctions shows GP11 is not selling. Great. I’m all about capitalism, but cheating people in a time of national upheaval is wrong.

Let’s see what else I can learn.

Hornady 17 HMR V-Max is failing to sell, at $10/50. That’s good news. That would have been an okay price before the Obama crisis.

I’m checking 9mm prices. The prices are a shock to the conscience, and I haven’t found one lot that has sold.

I’m checking 7.62x54mm 7N1, and apart from some sucker paying $285 for a case, it’s not selling.

Maybe the vultures are finally getting caught with excess inventory, as they deserve. Who on earth would pay $15 for Sellier & Bellot? This stuff is one step above throwing rocks. I’ve never had any problems with it, but it’s among the cheapest factory ammo around.

Gunbroker is such a ripoff. It’s virtually useless.

In other news, I had an interesting thought this week. I was thinking about the strange freedom God has given me from overeating, and about my church’s request that I get involved in making food for their cafe.

Back when I was working on my cookbook, I had extraordinary luck with recipes. It seemed like one dish after another was a startling success. I made some stupid things that didn’t work, but I had bizarre victories. For example, I made my coconut flan recipe up in one try, with very little experience to go on. I don’t like baked beans all that much, but I put together a recipe so good, I couldn’t quit eating them.

I got fat, especially after I got pizza under control. I could not stop making and eating delicious food. I couldn’t take the weight off.

Then God took away the compulsion to overeat, and the weight started coming off by itself. I can even resist pizza. And suddenly, my church needed help with their kitchen.

We always want God to give us stuff, and I’m sure he wants to do it. But would he be a good god if he gave us things that hurt us? Of course not. If I had been asked to work in the cafe before I got power over what I ate, it would have been a real problem. There is no way I would have been able to resist stuffing myself. But now I can go in there and cook anything they want, and I know I won’t get fat.

I got the blessing, and I was spared the danger inherent in getting what you wish for. That’s a big deal.

It makes me think about other things I’ve wanted, as well as things other people have wanted. I look at these things and see how they could cause harm if they were suddenly dumped on us.

I strongly suspect that God changes people, through the Holy Spirit and miracles as well as through work and scripture, so that when they get what they want, it will only bless them. I think God is cleaning me up so the good things I want can come my way, without making me rebellious or proud or ungrateful or fat.

We are told that he will give us the desires of our heart (Psalm 34), and that he only gives good gifts (Matthew).

I suppose, then, that if you want a thing, you have to want the power to avoid being harmed by it. If you want money or possessions, you have to want to be freed from greed and covetousness and selfishness. If you want power, you have to want compassion and generosity and gentleness. And if you want to cook for God, you have to want the ability to eat moderately. God doesn’t want to give us new idols or new masters. Doesn’t that sound plausible?

I’ve noticed that the less things control me, the more I enjoy them. I enjoy food a lot more, now that I’m not shoveling it down at every opportunity. I enjoy the things I own, now that they aren’t as exciting as they once were. I wonder what’s next.

The more you surrender, the more you win. That’s how it seems to work.

Maybe this is why many people who give to ministries and charities have little money. They overspend, they default on debts, they borrow at outrageous interest, and then they expect God to give them cash because they max out their credit cards to support missionaries and charities. How can God possibly repay them in kind, before he makes them fit vessels? Would you pour water into a reservoir with holes in it? And besides, what if these people gave money God never asked them to give, because they didn’t ask for his guidance? And if you give to a ministry while you cheat a creditor, whose money did you give? Not yours; that’s for sure. You stole from another person in order to give to God. Is he supposed to encourage that?

I think the charismatic “word of faith” crowd needs to think about these things. I don’t doubt that God wants to do stuff for us, but you shouldn’t ask him to be an enabler.

So once again, I have more to be grateful for than I realized. That’s the bottom line. If you can’t be grateful for discipline and instruction, you are utterly lost.

God Freaks me Out Again

I was supposed to have dinner with my dad and my sister tonight, but it did not work out, and I had no backup plan. I decided to make myself a small pizza. I was worried, because back in August, I experienced a miraculous delivery from the compulsion to overeat, and pizza is something I have never been able to eat in moderation.

I ate three pieces and threw the rest out. Didn’t feel a thing.

Don’t ever try to tell me God is not real or that he does not deliver people from their problems. This is incredible.

In other news, I am losing my touch. Less salt and oregano, next time. And Costco cheese. This Gordon Food Supply cheese is very good, but Costco mozzarella is pure magic.

Chow Delivered

I just dumped a bunch of desserts off at church. I didn’t get to try a single one! All I got was a couple of tablespoons of batter and such. I hope the food is okay.

I don’t know if it was smart to make chocolate flan. I like it, but not everyone is crazy about the combination of chocolate and burned sugar, and in any case, it will look sad among the cheesecake, brownies, and coconut flan, which are all bona fide blockbusters.

They have decided to close the church’s cafe until January, because people will be out of town, and the place is dead. So I won’t have to cook on Monday. I have time to plot.

I still have to fix stuff this weekend. The cast of the Christmas play will need food again. Last week I made macaroni and cheese and chili. I’m not sure what to make this time. Maybe people familiar with my cookbook could recommend something. I was thinking maybe doro wat and rotis.

Rotis are kind of a pain to make. You have to roll them out on a dining table or something. You need a lot of room.

People are buying the book this month. As a Christmas gift, it’s a natural. Everyone knows some fat guy who cooks. I guess it will sell at Christmas time for the rest of my life, or until it becomes dated.

I’m pooped. Try making two flans and two batches of brownies in one day, while making goop and putting berries on top of a big cheesecake. I don’t plan to cook at home any more. It’s just too much aggravation. And of course, I left my pans at church again. I hope they don’t walk off.

People steal at church. If there is a faster ticket to hell, it’s hard to think of what it might be. If you think there is no God to punish you for stealing, why are you in the building?

I’m wiped out. This is what happens when you do work that doesn’t feel like work. You’re too caught up in enjoying it to realize you’re tired.

I have half a mind to make a pizza.

Hey, it’s for the glory of God.

Desserts

Busy morning today.

I have to finish the strawberry cheesecake I started making yesterday. The danged thing cracked on top, as always. I have no idea why that happens. I cooled it slowly, and I was careful not to overmix it. Doesn’t really matter; after one bite, no one cares what it looks like. They want to marry it.

I have to make two flans and some brownies. I may do two trays of brownies. That would be pretty easy.

Let’s see. Twenty-eight servings of flan and cheesecake. Forty-eight servings of brownies. That makes 76. There will be 125 guests. So 39 people (at least) will get nothing. More, if the women charge the table and grab multiple servings.

Oh well. We need a loaves-and-fishes moment, and supplying those is above my pay grade. Perhaps someone can pray to Obama and he can redistribute someone else’s desserts to us.

I think I may make lasagne for Monday. It’s easy and good. Not the best thing I make, but still, beyond reproach. It’s hard to make bad lasagne.

Calculating ingredient amounts will be hard. Okay, it will be impossible. I can probably come close, however.

Power is Already Rotting my Brain

I ran down to church to see what kind of help they needed in the cafe. The upshot is this: I will have dominion over a small arsenal of commercial cooking equipment every Monday from now on. Now no one is safe!

They have one other volunteer who can cook. The rest are grunts. I will break them and indoctrinate them and mold them into mindless culinary shock troops. You got to make de food first. Den when you get de food, you get de power. Den when you get de power, den you get de womengs. Oops, I’m channeling Scarface.

Okay, I take back “grunts.” I mean the rest are not ready to bring in recipes, plan meals, and cook stuff from start to finish. But they are nice people who want to do what they can to help, and I am lucky they are offering. And they will give me someone to blame if I screw up.

I had to look up “shock troops” just now. I realized I had no idea what it meant. It just sounded good.

If I understand the picture, it works like this: they have a certain number of items they can throw in the fryer and slap onto a plate without much effort. But they need a daily special and a couple of sides. About forty servings. I can handle that. I usually make twenty when I’m cooking just for myself. More or less.

They’re having some kind of function on Thursday, with 125 people in attendance. I had to demur on that. I’m sufficiently intimidated by a six-day lead and forty servings. I don’t need to deal with a giant crowd on two days’ notice. I would rather fail on a small scale.

They’re thinking of getting a pizza oven. They’re in real trouble if they do that. I am totally ready to be a pizza warlord. They want to get one of those jobs with a conveyor belt, which is fine by me. They seem to work great, with very limited attention.

I stopped by Gordon Food Supply on the way home and looked over the merchandise. They have boneless picnic hams for $1.55 a pound. That has potential. Big time. I can turn them into caja-china-style pork very easily, and I can crank out yuca and moros on the side. But I have to find out if the quality is there.

I could not resist getting some pizza sauce and cheese at GFS. I think I’ll donate it to the church and wangle an opportunity to make a couple of pies. If they go as planned, they will cement my position as chief principality and power of the kitchen. I could also make a calzone or two. Maybe a pan con lechon calzone. Man, those things are good. I wish I hadn’t thought of it.

I hit a normal store and picked up some stuff for cheesecake, brownies, and flan. I plan to bombard the Thursday function with desserts, since I can’t cover the main dishes. Coconut flan, brownies, chocolate flan, and strawberry cheesecake. I guess there won’t be enough for everyone. We’ll see how well their holiness holds up when they have to play musical cheesecake. This will be a test that would have humbled Job. The goats will feed, and the sheep will have to wait for their reward in heaven.

Here’s a thought. God delivered me from overeating in August. Now suddenly I have been asked to help run a restaurant. Could I have survived this a year ago? No way. It would have killed me. But now maybe it will work.

Coincidence? Another one of those remarkable coincidences that seem to happen EVERY SINGLE DAY when you’re a Christian?

Must be.

If I can have pizza stuff in the house without going Jabba in a week, I can do anything.

Ecce Porcus

If the subtitle is wrong, it’s no surprise. I got a “D” in Latin.

This is a momentous week. One of the pastors from my church contacted me last night. They have a cafe, and because of the bad economy, they had to let the chef go. Guess what they want me to do?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. My campaign of global food domination is finally launched!

They need some people to show up and cook, and they need recipes. I’m somewhat afraid I will kill half the congregation with arteriosclerosis, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

Mmmm…eggs.

All kinds of warped ideas are rolling around in my head. I have a few dishes that are so good they will bring people to church just for the food. Maybe I can get those onto the menu. If I can get Trinity Church to sell my cheesecake, flan, and pizza, I’m sure the people in the neighborhood will notice. There is no good cheesecake anywhere on earth, and good pizza is rare in Miami. Good flan is not that hard to find, but good COCONUT flan, which is what I make, is another matter.

The nice thing about desserts is that I could make them at home, at my convenience, and bring them in and leave them. You could sell a slice of my cheesecake for two bucks, and there are twelve slices in a cake. They could keep it in the fridge and bring out slices as needed. I don’t know if they’d make any money, but I’m sure they’d break even, and don’t even tell me the women in that neighborhood wouldn’t come back for more.

Oh, baby. Strawberry croissants. Maybe I finally have an excuse to use my recipe. Strawberry croissants and pain au chocolat.

I guess I would not be able to eat much of this stuff, but I would enjoy putting my curious gift to work for God. I am still losing fat, due to his generosity.

Because I cook Cuban food and Southern soul food, I know how to make a number of cheap but excellent dishes. That’s a blessing. I could make congri for pennies a pound. Maybe we could serve it with caja-china-style pernil, which is a pork butt roasted with mojo. I could brine it to take the stink out. It would be excellent, and you can get pork butts for a dollar a pound.

I wonder if they’d let me do ham hocks. I love ham hocks, but some black people have a thing about pork these days. “Slave food” and so on. Of course, most of the blacks at my church are from Haiti and the other islands, so maybe they haven’t gotten all stuck up about pork yet.

The church is putting on its three-part Christmas musical these days, so on Sunday, I brought food for the cast. Macaroni and cheese and my startling Unauthentic White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Chili. That’s what got me the call from the pastor.

This should be a blast. I better go meet with him.

One of the Many Miracles of Beef

You know that potpourri stuff women like? It’s like a pile of dyed wood shavings that makes your house smell like a 50-year-old lap dancer? Forget that. Here is what you need.

Fix yourself a prime rib with lots of garlic. Then save the drippings in the freezer. When you finally get around to packaging them properly for storage, heat the whole mess in a big skillet.

Ahhhhhhhh…

That’s how everything should smell.

Plus Prison Ministry Stuff

Today I went to a class for people who want to help out with my church’s prison ministry. Apart from the pastor running the show, there were five adults present. Not a big group, but enough to start.

We didn’t talk much about the ministry itself. I learned that we’ll have a wing of a local jail handed over to us, but that’s about all I know. We talked mostly about fundamentals. Christians should read the Bible. We should memorize scripture. That kind of thing. Good, solid, essential information.

I don’t know where we’ll go with this, but I’m glad I went. Maybe I can accomplish something worthwhile in my remaining time on earth.

On the way home, going against common sense, I decided to give a local pizzeria another try. My area has two pizzerias that keep going out of business: Riviera Pizza and Cozzoli’s Pizza. In the past, these places have failed over and over, and I believe fake cheese is the reason. I can’t prove it, but the cheese always tasted mealy and disintegrated as I chewed it, and it didn’t really taste like cheese.

This morning I noticed that Riviera was under a third (at least) set of owners, and it got me wondering. My policy is to try any new place in the area, or any place that changes hands, because I figure some day someone will make decent pizza in the South Miami region. Right now we have Domino’s and Papa John’s, which are really bad, and we have Miami’s Best Pizza, which is weird and frequently burned or raw or covered with the wrong stuff. To get good pizza, you have to go to Bird Road (La Dolce Vita) or Ludlam (The Big Cheese), at least.

I decided to be bold this afternoon. I went into the new Gables Pizza and Salad (formerly Riviera Pizza) and asked the owner whether they used real cheese. Why play games? I’m tired of spending good money just to find out someone is feeding me thickened vegetable oil or a quasi-dairy product known almost facetiously as “pizza cheese.” Why not just ask?

Surprisingly, the owner did not seem happy to have a stranger barge in and loudly ask if he was cheating his customers, which is sort of what I did, but he told me the cheese was real, and that it was not all mozzarella, and that it was 2% fat. I think I have that right. He said he did not use Grande cheese because he thought it did not live up to the price and hype. He’s right about that. It’s very good, but it’s not the only good brand out there.

He claimed he had never heard of fake cheese. He must not be Jewish. Jews who keep kosher eat some of the scariest fake cheese imaginable. They call it “parve cheesy.” Anyway, you can Google and read all about fake pizza cheese. They may call it “non standard” cheese, or they may use the innocuous-looking term “pizza cheese” to describe it, but it’s lame, whatever it is.

I ordered a slice of regular and a slice of Sicilian. The verdict? It’s okay! I guess that doesn’t sound like a compliment, but it is. The other stuff available locally is so bad it’s only worth eating when you’re starving. Gables Pizza makes pretty good pizza, and around here, that’s a big achievement. Making pretty good pizza is very hard.

The cheese seems real. It didn’t make me want to get up and dance, but it tastes like cheese. The crust is fine, although for some reason the Sicilian was a little wet. He uses too much salt. The sauce is acceptable. Personally, I’d make it a little sweeter and tangier, and I’d use a little more than he uses. A small amount of sugar and some white vinegar would improve his sauce a great deal. But he’s as good as The Big Cheese and not much worse than La Dolce Vita. That will get the job done, as far as I’m concerned.

This guy did not want to hear my input on the local pizza market, and that was a mistake, because he is in an area that is desperate for good pizza. I know exactly why his predecessors failed, and I know how he could improve his product and be virtually assured of a steady flow of customers. If he would start using Stanislaus Super Dolce sauce as his sauce base, he’d be a millionaire in three years. But there is nothing wrong with solid B-plus pizza, which is what he’s making. I’ll return and buy more in the future. Everyone pray he makes money, so the dark days of bad pizza don’t come back to torment us.

Relief

I got my fly cutter working. Thanks for the help.

Big shock: it was not a mysterious problem. It was just bad workmanship. It appears that the relief on the bottom edge of the tool was not sufficient. It worked in the past, and I did not find any evidence that wear had changed it, but when I ground the tool over again and put a nicer radius on it, it cut beautifully.

I threw my aluminum plates on the mill and resurfaced them. I had intended to get them to 0.500″, as closely as possible, purely for the learning experience, but I had to settle for 0.498″.

I decided to get a 4″ cam action fake Heinrich vise from Grizzly. People said a 6″ vise might be unwieldy, and I noticed that the mounting holes were not a great match for my slide table. I also ordered T-nuts and countersinks. I want to sink 3/8″ screws into the bottom of the plates, and I can’t do that unless the holes are countersunk or otherwise recessed.

My dad wants to know what I want for Christmas. I may let him help me out with the VFD or motor for the drill press. I can’t resist a chance to install a VFD. As for his Christmas, all I am willing to say now is this: I was forced to call the BATF and get information about “straw purchases” before I could take care of him.

I’m so glad God has given me a great relationship with my dad. Apart from the things God has done within me, it’s the greatest treasure I have. If you’re on the outs with someone, remember this: as long as there is a sliver of light in them, it is possible for God to reach them (and you) and help you reconcile. Some people are reprobates and can’t be fixed, but others will surprise you.

This week I’m going to start classes for the prison ministry at my church. I have no idea what I’m doing; I can’t believe I’m going. Over the last year, I thought I saw changes in a very headstrong and self-destructive person, and it gave me hope that others could be turned around, so when I found out we had a prison ministry starting, something pulled at my heart. Or maybe it was God’s boot in my rear end. I wonder what it will be like. I fully expect 95% of these men to be completely dishonest and unwilling to change, but surely some will be reborn. Jesus would not have told us to visit prisons if it were a waste of time. I hope I overestimate their unwillingness to learn and change.

I’m having some difficulties right now with someone I have been praying for and trying to help in the walk of faith. Perhaps a few readers would take a minute and say a prayer. God has been so wonderful to me, I want everyone to share in it, but you know what they say about leading horses to water. And it can be very frustrating when a difficult person provokes you to the point where you worry that your own attitude and behavior grieve the Holy Spirit and put the brakes on your development. It’s easy to sound holy on a blog on the same day you told someone off, face to face.

I keep saying I expect to be perfect any day now. I can’t understand why it has been delayed.

My jowl bacon, dried apples, and blackberry jam arrived from Kentucky. It’s almost like being at Granny’s house. I guess tomorrow I’ll fry up a couple of slices. The apples are not as brown and dry as the ones I remember. I don’t know if that will affect their usefulness in dried pies.

Life is good for me. Maybe some day I’ll succeed in helping one other person have it as good as I do. Perhaps this will occur next month, when perfection is finally upon me.

My Childhood is in my Shopping Cart

Today has been profitable. I spoke to my aunt,and she gave me the lowdown on my grandmother’s country hams. Now I know what to put on a ham, if I decide to try curing one. She also told me the correct name for June apples. They are Yellow Transparent apples, and believe it or not, they come from Russia. How they got to Kentucky is anyone’s guess.

I found a website–this is beyond belief–that will ship me a bushel of apples for $17.00 plus UPS charges. I can’t do it until next year, but I’m amazed that it can be done at all. I can’t come close to that price at my local grocery. I probably can’t touch it at Costco. And if I could, the apples would be Granny Smiths, which are not as good.

My aunt also said she would email me another aunt’s recipe for dried apple pies. The aunt who made the pies succumbed to lung cancer in 1994. She made exquisite fried pies. She used lard, according to what I was told years ago.

I’ve given up on drying apples for now. I can buy dried apples from Kentucky for six bucks per pound, and it would probably cost me over twice that much for dried apples made from scratch. Granny Smiths cost at least $1.50 per pound, and that’s before you throw out the core and peel and let the water evaporate. I’ll bet a pound of fresh apples turns into less than a pound of dried ones. I’d have to get apples for almost nothing in order to beat six bucks per pound.

I ordered some dried apples, and I could not resist ordering jowl bacon and apple butter. I plan to try to make my dad an apple stack cake for Christmas. I’ll bet he hasn’t seen one since my grandmother died.

Cardboard?

As much as I love lard, I am starting to have doubts about it. Today I really wanted a biscuit, but I had no bacon grease on hand, so I made biscuits with a mixture of butter and lard. The texture was fine, and there was no boar taint, but they tasted a little bit like cardboard. It’s very hard to beat bacon grease in biscuits. The flavor has no rival.

I suspect the cardboard flavor was caused by oxidation. Lard seems to go funny very quickly. The can I have is from Thanksgiving, and I wouldn’t want to use it after the middle of this month. Maybe lard should be kept in the freezer.

I used butter because lard doesn’t have a lot of flavor. I do this with pie crusts, too. If lard isn’t optimal in biscuits, maybe it’s not the right thing for pies, either. Maybe bacon grease is the fat of choice. Sometimes the hint of bacon flavor will be a problem, but it won’t hurt a fruit pie.

Country ham grease is fantastic for baking, but you have to dilute it because the flavor is so strong. It can add a strange flat taste to food. Hard to describe.

Now that I eat so little, I don’t see how I can work effectively on recipes. What would I do with the food? Today I made four biscuits, using half a cup of flour, and I gave half a biscuit to Maynard and Marv.

I didn’t make it to church yesterday. I figured I’d be home from Boca in more than enough time to make it to church by six, but I got home so late, I would have been here for about half an hour before turning around. I was wiped out, too. I didn’t eat enough, so the lights in my head were starting to dim. I corrected that with two slices of bad pizza. I feel bad for the people who recently took over the nearest pizza joint. Their food is never going to be any good until they start using real cheese, but I doubt they’d admit using the fake stuff if I offered a suggestion. The lady who waited on me yesterday had a great attitude, but when it comes to pizza, service means nothing. Quality is all.

I could get rich selling pizza in this neighborhood. I could make a dynamite cheese pizza from $1.50 in ingredients and sell it for ten bucks. Surely that margin would cover rent and other costs. There has never been a decent pizzeria within half a mile of downtown South Miami, which is the nearest conglomeration of stores and restaurants. Anyone who makes good pizza available in this area will be a millionaire in a year. I wish someone would do it. I wish there were two of me, so one could open the pizzeria and the other could go on with life.

If I had a pizza joint, I’d sell pizza, rolls, and soft drinks. Forget the other stuff. Too much aggravation. People would come. No one would refuse to do business with me because I didn’t offer fripperies like stromboli and spaghetti. They’d crawl on their knees and pay whatever I asked. The local pizza famine is at least 25 years old. I’d be hailed as a hero.

Mike needs to move down here so we can become pizza magnates. I’ll make him do all the work. Of course, he’d be dead in six months, and they’d have to bury him in a cargo container. That’s the down side. My dad would probably be buried next to him.

I should just go in there and tell those people they’re doomed. I can hand them my recipe, plus directions to Gordon Food Supply, so they can get real sauce and real cheese. But they probably have to buy whatever garbage their company sells. They’re part of the Cozzoli’s chain. I’ll bet they have some sort of exclusive commissary contract.

Time to leave for church.