mindful butchery.

There really isn’t any other way to butcher. A sharp knife, a steady hand, and a clear mind. I adore butchery, unveiling, creating: the first step once meat enters the kitchen. It bums me out when I hear the word ‘butcher’ used like ‘botch;’ there’s a big difference between butchering and just hacking something apart. When I butcher something that takes a while, like a whole Pellibüey, I get into the zone, and because I have bloody-meat hands, I can’t take any calls. It’s wonderful.

Our pellibüe is delivered by Don Leonel, who is also our boat taxista. He now borrows a ice-filled cooler to keep the animal cold after he does his part, because receiving animals so fresh they are still warm is a little too much for me to handle.

I recently spotted Leonel donning silk screened shorts. The front is Tupac Shakur’s face, and the back a quote from 2Pac’s song, “Reminisce.” It happened to be on a day when I had spent the morning butchering meat, during which my mind wandered. I feel a little nostalgic for times past, and this year, I’ve been thinking about high school. It might be partly influenced that I have my 10 year reunion later this year. But also, when I first had fun slicing away with a sharp knife was my senior year Advanced Anatomy class, spending the entire year dissecting human cadavers. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life at all (do I now?), but I loved dissecting for many of the same reasons that I like spending time on butchery. No, the day will never come that I get human meat (IASIP) prepped to grill, but the physical act of dissecting is not too far from butchery, and I have a great time with it.

Well, thanks, Tupac and Leonel for the inspirational shorts.

pictured: dinner main course; Pellibüey in red mole (spicy, nutty, a little sweet) over chilote cornbread

... and because I can’t let a liver go to waste, coming soon: Pellibüey Pâté!

Thanks for the Valentine, Bourdain.

Definitely a sequel, Medium Raw clarifies some of the brash arguments from Kitchen Confidential.Overall written with great wit, but the scattered flow was a little too dissonant at times. There are some great sensory writings on the diner’s experience.A few of the chapters might lose someone who is not immersed in the underbelly of kitchens.

When I read this book, I wonder what he’d write about me. Why do I care what Anthony Bourdain thinks of me? I don’t know him, I don't want to be like him: get into, be overcome by, and wean off of drugs, end up in a gutter to realize how what I want to do or who I want to be. I have no desire to get hooked on meth, or spend a good portion of my dealing with fryer oil, but I like getting my butt kicked. Bourdain gets that. He delves with curiosity into the separation of levels of cuisine, types of cooks and confusing struggle blending passion with occupation. It sometimes pains him to see the dichotomy between the cook and the client, but acknowledges that is what makes the industry work. He understands that pride and rage can both fester and become exposed in the kitchen, in healthy and unhealthy ways.

I admire and envy him, because through his writing, Bourdain poses many questions that I often think about, and woefully yet willingly accepts that there is no clear answer to any of them.

Although sometimes overly poetic, Bourdain does a great job of explaining that he finally realizes that he doesn't have all the answers, nor is the epitome of anything cooking/eating/foodie/whatever folk want him to be, but is just a dude striving for content and understanding, of himself and the world around him.

let's get physical

There is a Gallo Pinto 15 that no one mentioned to me before I moved down. That, plus my frequent excuses (too hot, too rainy, too tired from work), my exercise regiment is lacking, leaving my physical health in less than pique condition. It's also tricky to be motivated without the external push from others. Let's just say, my coworkers here aren't being mentored while swimming in wetsuits, nor waking up for a 6am spin class. They have clothes to hand-wash, groceries to buy (daily, as not too many people have refrigerators, and they walk to and from the market), and Mass to attend. We are currently in the middle of yet another Saint celebration this week (yay fireworks!), but I digress.

Elman, our head waiter, explained to me the Nicaraguan philosophy on working out. Before I explain it, let me throw out some facts on Elman: pillbury doughboy, loves anything sweet. I had to teach him NOT to put sugar in the juices that we serve to guests. Elman's words of wisdom: I eat a hot soup midday (during 90 degree weather), which makes me sweat. People who exercise sweat. Therefore, I can eat soup instead of exercising. Done and done.

Maybe I will be inspired by my recent viewing of Glee with ONJ and Jane Lynch working out in Let's Get Physical, part duex. To quote Chris Farley, my favorite Gap Girl, "lay off me I'm starving...diet starts monday!"