Eggs Over Easy: The Definitive Step-By-Step Guide – now with video!

NOTE: If you don’t want the lowdown on the full meal you can go straight to the section The Eggs.

Before we begin

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The Holy Grail

Let’s take a minute to look at where we are going. Picture it with me: a plate, two fine slices of bacon on one side, toast on the other, still warm, the butter melted into it. In between is a pair of fried eggs, steaming, the whites of the eggs firm. Your mouth watering in anticipation, you tear off a chunk from the top slice of toast and poke the corner into the yolk of one of the eggs. The lightly-cooked top of the yolk yields easily and out flows the deep yellow treasure within. Ohhhh, heaven.

Creating that perfect culinary moment is a dance with heat and time, a graceful ballet that is every bit as pleasurable as the final product. There are decisions along the way, opportunities to add the subtle nuances that make those eggs uniquely yours. This guide, then, is a framework in which your improvisation can succeed.

Theory

Just look at these babies!

Beautiful czech eggs

The theory is discussed more in-depth in the original article, but before we go rushing off to the kitchen, let us pause for the tiniest of moments to look at just what an over-easy egg is. It is an egg that has been fried so that the white is cooked but the yolk is still runny. It is the challenge of cooking one part of the egg without cooking the other that makes the over-easy egg the greatest egg-cooking accomplishment. It will take all our skill and timing to defy the laws of thermodynamics so.

Sunny-side up eggs also have the runny yolk, but the top layer of the white is not firm, either. Our goal is to flip the egg just long enough to firm up that top layer of white and then get it off the heat before the yolk cooks. It’s not really that difficult, it’s just that no one does it right, especially in restaurants. (Please feel free to refer the cook at your favorite diner to this page. While the equipment and procedures are different, this is really all about the flip. He’ll thank you later as the humble restaurant becomes internationally famous for the excellence of their over-easy eggs.)

Preparation

Sun Tsu, in The Art of War, says (something like) “A good general wins the battle before it begins.” This applies to cooking as well. Your success depends on what you do before you light the stove.

This morning we will be cooking three items, the three instruments in our little culinary composition. Once the music starts there will be no time scrounge up important tools or ingredients without casting a sour note; anything you can do now, before heat is applied to food and the march of thermodynamics cannot be turned back, will make things easier later. You will need: eggs, bacon, bread, butter, a toaster, a frying pan, a spatula (preferably metal – the thinner the better), paper towels, a plate, a fork, and a table knife. Get them out ahead of time and place them all within easy reach. Make sure you have room to work next to the stove as well.

Lay out your work space. Put the pan on the stove, the spatula and the fork nearby, and put a paper towel on the plate. Put the bread by the toaster. Check the butter to make sure it’s not too firm to spread on the toast easily. Touch each thing once with your hand so your body will remember its place. You will find yourself automatically putting things back in their places later, so you don’t have to expend unnecessary mental energy with the details. You’re an artist, baby! No time to be groping for brushes when the passion strikes!

Note: Years later I’ve learned from watching Worst Cooks in America that the above ritual is called mise en place – everything in its place. Taking sixty thin seconds now to lay everything out makes things so much easier later that you will suddenly feel like a good cook. Because you will be.

Take a deep breath. Relax. This is going to be great!

Ready? The conductor is stepping to the podium. A hush descends over the concert hall. It’s time to fire up the stove.

Bacon

Fine czech bacon

Some fine czech bacon

There are many reasons not to eat bacon: Political, religious, economic, environmental, and health issues abound. On the other hand, there’s only one reason to eat it: It’s yummy. Bacon has the side effect of providing grease to lubricate the pan while you cook your eggs as well. When cooking for myself (as is usually the case), two slices of bacon is plenty. Cooking bacon is simple, really; plop a couple strips into the pan and as it heats you will hear the sizzling begin. Keep a close ear on that sound; that’s your thermometer. If things start to sizzle and pop with too much abandon, turn the heat down a bit.

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Mmmm…. Bacon

I’m a “busy” cook, so I harass the bacon with my fork as it cooks, pushing it around to make sure it doesn’t get stuck, flipping it more than is strictly necessary, and generally robbing the bacon of any chance to relax as the meat cooks and some of the fat is turned to liquid. How long you cook the bacon is entirely up to you. While I want my bacon to be cooked through I don’t like it to snap when I bend it. If you’re cooking for strangers, always make it crispy. When your bacon is done turn the heat way down on the stove and hoist those puppies out. Put them on the paper towel to absorb some of the grease still bubbling in the strips.

There’s your pan, waiting for the main event…

Toast

But hold on, there, Sparky! That intriguing, inviting frying pan calling your name is trying to lead you astray! What started as a gentle waltz is speeding up now — it is a fugue, and the goal is to have all the lines of the music end at the same time. Once you’ve been around the block a couple of times you’ll know: the toast takes longer to cook than the eggs. There’s nothing worse than scooping the eggs out of the pan and onto the plate, steaming, gleaming, calling to you, and having to wait for the toast. Oh, I’ve been there many times, my friends, and it hurts. Send two slices down into the fiery maw of the toaster and turn your attention back to the frying pan.

The Eggs

You’re moving gracefully now from plate to toaster to pan, and utensils are jumping into your hand before you even think of them. The eggs are there, waiting, but first let’s take a look at that pan. You’ve got some big decisions to make. The bacon has left behind two things; grease and crispy critters. The first decision is an easy one based entirely on taste: Do you scrape out the crispy critters? Personally, I leave them in. They can become a sticking point during the flip, but I like what they add to the egg. The second question is tougher: Do you have too much grease in the pan? If you only cooked a couple of slices of bacon you’re probably OK. If you cooked more it’s time to take some of the grease out of the pan. I generally just soak some of it up with a paper towel. Pouring it down the sink is a bad idea, unless you’re looking for an excuse to have that cute plumber come over.

Remember, that’s hot hot grease there! Be careful!

Naturally, if you are not a bacon-eater, you will have to add butter or oil to the pan and you’re completely out of luck on the crispy critters. Also, without lovely bacon goodness, you’ll probably want to add a sprinkle of salt and maybe a touch of black pepper.

The pan is ready. It’s time to turn the heat back up for a few moments and put in the eggs. Eggs – check. Spatula – check. All right. Crack open that first egg and drop her in!

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Adjusting the sprawl

Not so fast there, buckaroo! I saw you reaching for that next egg! This is the first half of the secret to perfect over-easy eggs. Don’t put in the second egg yet! The reason will be obvious when we get to the flip. Instead, it’s time to use your spatula to adjust the sprawl of the first egg. As you look at the egg sitting in the pan, you will see three distinct parts. There is the yolk, the inner white part, and the outer white part. While the first two parts are relatively self-contained, the outer white will run all over the place. The farther it runs, the thinner it gets and the faster it cooks. If you like little crispy-crinkly bits around the edges, then some sprawl is desirable. If your stove is not level (mine isn’t) some of the outer white will make a break for it. Just push it back where it belongs and everything will be all right.

That other egg is calling to you. Your hand is starting to twitch. You can no longer resist the need to start the next egg cooking. Crack it open and drop it in, adjusting sprawl as above.

Pop! goes the toaster. Never taking your eyes off the eggs, pull the toast out and butter it. Dump the bacon off the towel onto the plate, and put the toast next to it.

The Flip

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4MB Video: The Eggs

The moment has come to flip the eggs. How do you know when that moment has arrived? It is when the inner white portion is almost completely cooked. Only practice, practice, and more practice will allow you to recognize this moment every time, but here’s the second part of the arcane secret for cooking eggs over easy: Don’t flip the eggs too soon! While the egg is sunny-side up, the yolk is floating on top and the white acts as an insulating layer, protecting the yolk from the heat of the pan. Alas, some of the white is also insulated, and to get that part firmed up we must risk everything and flip the egg over for a few agonizing seconds.

Before we go doing something crazy that could injure our precious yolk, make sure the egg is free and loose. Everything cool? Well then, flip the first egg, and only the first egg. This is why you waited before putting the second egg in. The egg will be flipped for such a short time that you don’t want to get caught fooling around with egg number two while egg number one overcooks. After just a few seconds scoop the first egg out and flip it yolk-side-up onto your plate. Now repeat the process with egg number two.

Turn off the stove, step back, and take a look at the beauty you have wrought.

Some final comments

emptyplate005.jpg While I have tried to be specific, there are many aspects of timing and temperature that I just cannot be exact about. Everything from how you like your toast to the weight of your frying pan will affect your outcome. Only experimentation will lead to your oval nirvana. If they don’t come out just right the first time, relax. I bet it’s still way better than what you would get at Denny’s. The process is, as I mentioned above, a complex and delicate composition, and like all great works of art, each performance carries with it some risk.

Finally, I did not include the preparation of any beverages in this framework. I know there are those who are as passionate about their coffee as I am about my eggs, and I invite your input.

I hope this little how-to helps you. If we all band together, perhaps one day we can rid the world once and for all of the scourge of too-soon-flipped eggs. And remember as Valentines day hurtles toward us that the best way to start the day is to bring your sweetie breakfast in bed. A beautifully orchestrated, lovingly presented plate full of grub says “I love you” like nothing else. (Don’t forget to clean the kitchen.)

24

The Test – progress report

I’ve spent the last few days neglecting my czech studies to work on editing The Test, to at least get it into some semblance of a first draft. That’s left me short on words for other purposes, another reason the ‘ol blog here hasn’t grown much lately. Yesterday, finally, I went down to the Cheap Beer Place and tossed off the Feeding the Eels episode below. Still no Internet here at home, which is how I’ve managed to be so productive with the writing.

There are parts of this story I really like, and some that are, well, not as good. Most of them I am just deleting, as the book is already very big. I have accepted that it is the first part of a (most likely) trilogy, but I insist that each volume has a beginning, middle, and end so they can be read individually. Nothing cheeses me more than picking up a book to read that, unbeknownst to me, has no end.

This book is definitely for grown-ups. The industrial revolution is not pretty when you’re at the bottom.

While I’m thinking about it, any feedback on The Monster Within?

Episode 10: Blood of the Saint

Note: To read the entire story from the beginning click here.

“You Mr. Jones?” the driver asked.

“That’s what they tell me,” I said. I looked back through the plate-glass at Alice, her mein a combination of hope and fear. One way or another, her employment prospects would be resolved by tomorrow. I got in the car. The upholstery was worn and stained, with what I didn’t want to know. It smelled of old cigarettes and stale desperation. “Where we heading?”

He didn’t answer; he just put the cab in gear and headed out into the twilight.

Traffic was light but it still took us a while to get there; we went by way of Central Park and the garment district. Not a particularly direct route. Eventually the driver satisfied himself we weren’t being followed and we headed down to the wharves, not far from where Vittorio Fanutti’s last ride had ended at the bottom of the East River. The cab pulled up next to a small warehouse. There were no markings; just a door lit by a solitary bulb. “End of the line, pal,” the driver said.

I nodded and got out. The car sped away as I regarded the door. Not much to do but knock.

I approached slowly, regarding the faces of the buildings staring back at me impassively. A dog barked somewhere, and others answered. Silence reasserted itself; my footsteps sounded like gunshots as I stepped into the pool of light. My knock on the metal door echoed like a 21-gun salute at a funeral. There was a pause, then the slit opened and a pair of dark eyes looked out at me. They regarded me unblinking for three seconds and the slit closed with a snap. I heard a bolt being pulled back and the door swung open silently. It was dark inside.

“You comin’ in or not?” a gruff voice asked.

I was on rails; there were only two directions to go: Forward and back. Back, the outcome was certain, and not good. Forward, though not certain, could be much worse. I stepped into the shadow.

“Got a gat?” the voice asked again. When the door shut behind me I could make out the outline of a man about my height but much wider.

“Yeah,” I said. I prepared to surrender it.

“Ever shot anyone?”

I stopped. “No.”

The gorilla snorted. “Her highness is over here,” he said. As my eyes adapted to the dimness I was able to follow the man across the warehouse floor between nondescript crates on one side and rolls of fabric on the other. We ended at an office door. “Don’t be stupid,” he said to me as he opened the door. Too late for that, I thought.

The office was lit by a lamp on the desk and was almost as dark as the warehouse outside. She sad behing the desk, a trail of smoke streaming up from the neglected cigarette dangling from her languid right hand, forming a gray halo around her. She was dressed in a black and white number that enhanced her already considerable assets. She didn’t seem to notice my arrival at first, though she was looking directly at me. Gorilla closed the door and I made myself comfortable in the the other chair.

“I’ve had some bad news,” she said.

“First you should know Cello paid me a visit,” I said.

“Of course he did.”

“He wants me to double-cross you.”

“Of course he does.”

“I’d be stupid not to.”

“Or noble.”

“I’m not known for that. You should probably find another guy.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Lowell?”

“I need the money.”

“If you need the money, why are you telling me to hire someone else?”

“You’re paying me to come here tonight. That’ll let me square a couple of debts, and it gives me a chance to step out of this gracefully.”

“Mr. Lowell, I don’t want ‘another guy’, as you put it. That you are straightforward with me simply convinces me that you are the one I need. May I tell you a story?”

I leaned back in my chair. “It’s your dime, sweetheart.”

“Your transparent attempts to repel me won’t work, Mr. Lowell.” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. She continued, “Do you enjoy wine?”

“I’m not what you’d call a connoisseur.”

She produced a bottle and a cork-puller. “If you could do the honors?” While I struggled with the gizmo she hauled out two glasses, elegant and graceful, and set them on the desk in front of me. I got the cork out with a minimum of bloodshed and began to pour. The wine was deep red and moved slowly. I stopped myself from filling the first glass to the brim.

“You’re supposed to smell it or something?” I asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said. I topped off the glass and filled the other one. She picked hers up and swirled it around carefully, but didn’t drink. I held off tossing mine back. “Wine and blood,” she said, holding her glass to the light. It felt like we were finally getting to the point. “The wine you’re drinking, Mr. Lowell,” — I hadn’t had any yet — “comes from Spain. It is a tiny village, known only for two things: This wine and an odd painting. Both are called ‘The Blood of the Saint’.

I dared to take a sip. It wasn’t bad, but I didn’t feel like I was in church.

“The painting was stolen some time ago. My husband was the thief.”

“Seems like that would be tough to fence.”

“He did not have it stolen to sell it again. He was interested in the work itself. There were stories that the painting held clues to the location of a tremendous treasure. Staggering amounts of gold and ancient artifacts, hoarded by a Moorish king. My husband paid experts to study the painting, but, as many before them, they could not find a pattern. Vic thought perhaps there were clues not visible as the painting hung on the wall. So he had it stolen so his experts could examine the portions hidden by the frame. He was right. A team of historians under his pay removed the frame and found more around the edges that helped them. All those men are now dead.”

“They found the treasure?”

“They drew a map. Vic died before he could do anything about it. I assume they told you I killed him?”

“That’s right.”

“That is ridiculous. Had I killed him, I would have done it in a way that put the secret into my hands directly. Instead I’m left to scavenge for it, as my only hope for survival. I wanted to run, Mr. Lowell; you convinced me of the futility of that. They think I have the map. They will not rest until they have it.”

“Where is it?”

“That is where I need your help. Mr. Lowell. Charles.” She reached across and touched my arm. “I just want to live. If I can offer Cello the treasure in exchange for my life, he would take it. You can help both of us, without betraying either, and we would both reward you handsomely. Please.” Her voice was a little more desperate, and a lot more Kentucky. “I’m frightened.”

“You said you had bad news.” That seemed to be the only kind of news lately.

“Yes. I had the painting in what I thought was a safe place. It is gone. In its place was letter saying if I continued to look for the treasure I would be killed. Someone doesn’t want it to be found.”

“Or else they don’t want the competition. So if you don’t find the treasure Cello will eventually kill you, but if you look for the treasure someone else will kill you.”

“That’s right.”

“And me.”

She caught me with her eyes, deep and black and mysterious. I saw the reflection of the lamp in each one, sparks of fire in an infinite sea. There was fear there as well. She set her glass down and leaning forward took one of my hands in both of hers. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulder in shimmering waves. “Will you help me?”

I was doing my best to say “no” when gunfire rang out in the warehouse. The sharp reports of a pistol were answered by the rattle of a tommy gun. Gorilla appeared in the doorway. “You’ve got to—” he was interrupted by another burst from the tommy gun and went down, spraying blood. More pistol shots rang out behind him. I dove behind the desk. Staying low I took Mrs. Fanutti’s arm and hauled her out the door opposite, wondering who I might meet on the other side.

Tune in next time for: Trapped!

2

A Good Show

It’s been a couple of days since the show, but I have been thinking about it ever since. We got there a little bit early, but the good tables were taken. No biggie, there were three barstools along the wall next to the dance floor that wee pulled into a circle and so wound up with the best seats in the house.

The setup on stage was promising. On the left, right in front of us, was an upright piano, its face open to expose its insides to a pair of microphones. There was a small drum kit and an array of other Mysterious Devices, and a hollow-body bass guitar. Add microphones and speakers, and you’ve got yourself a concert.

The first act was Filip Topol (pronounced Philip Toepole – see how much simpler czech spelling is?), a piano player and singer. He was a skinny guy, tallish, and he carried with him a folder which he placed on a stool next to his as he sat. He opened the folder to reveal a pile of tattered sheets. He took the top three and placed them on the piano. I saw that around the edges of each sheet were dozens of little stickers. He pulled the mike closer and began to play.

At first he played only with his right hand and I thought to myself, “Holy Crap! He’s the guy I wrote about in Moonlight Sonata!” It’s wasn’t hard to imagine him talking to Cowboy Bob in some dark shadow-place. Eventually the left hand joined in and things really got going.

Filip Topol was just plain good. He had that Czech way of singing, attacking the words even as they ate him alive. I couldn’t understand the words, of course, but I was OK with that; the sound of them was mesmerizing. Usually when I go to a show I drift off in my own bubble, letting the music carry me to some of my most abstract and disconnected places. With both these acts I was rooted right there with the musicians, an active participant in the performance.

I had no idea what to expect from the headliners. We had gone to the club to hear Filip Topol; none of us had even heard of 4 Walls. They played jazz. real jazz, not the watered-down Kenny G. elevator music crap people call jazz these days. I don’t go looking for jazz often, and when I do I rarely find it. This was a 4-piece band: piano, percussion, bass, and vocals. In this case “vocal” is not limited to singing. These guys were all over the map and left me reeling. Everything they did felt slightly dangerous; Rather than marching in step they were held together with bungee cords, flying apart and snapping back, bouncing off each other, but somehow in that chaos they stayed together and the result was music.

Alas, Filip Topol had no CDs for sale. The 4 Walls CD just doesn’t convey the experience of the live performance. So it goes. I had included a cut from the CD in this episode, but end the end I took it out. As much as I enjoyed the performance, I’m not likely to be listening to the recording very often. It all goes to show that sometimes you have to be there with the musicians to really understand. Or at least I do. I’ve gotta get out more.

The trams had stopped by the time we got out of there, which meant a long walk home. That was fine, the night was cold but quiet. I considered popping into an all-night bar, but only for a moment. I like walking in this city.

As a post script, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Picture Boy. There were two guys up front with their digital cameras, and one of them in particular was really annoying. He would climb his fat ass right up on the stage, take for frickin ever to take one damn shot, then get back down the look at the result, then back up he would pop for another attempt. Dork. Still, he’s good for mocking.

Happy oughto oughto day!

I didn’t think I was going to finish my synopsis in time, but things fell together and while I will inevitably be tweaking it I now feel I could send it to agents and publishers. Goal two, the poll, isn’t looking so good. So far there is only one suggestion, from the Current Millennial D(ictator?) to make the day March 2 it! day. Oh, well, 28 days to go still.

For goal three, not only have I finished a couple of short pieces that don’t suck, I wrote a couple more that do suck, and suck hard at that! Talk about overachieving!

I’m working on an episode about a concert I went to a couple of days ago, I want to get some tunes from fuego to go with it, and I have a Piker deadline to hit, so I’m not sure when that one will hit. I really do need to figure out who to call and what to say to get Internet in my new place. Perhaps I ought to have done it today, but hey, let’s be realistic here. I did find a pair of house shoes, though.

Finally, because of my irregular Internet access, I may not be on hand when the Next Big Number is struck. I trust you will behave with your usual decorum and restraint during the inevitable period of uncertainty that follows.

too true to be good

Stolen from a source I can no longer recall:

Due to an oversight in reprogramming the Diebolt voting machines flown in from Florida, George Bush gets 51% of the vote in Iraq.

Welcome to my abode

Well, here I am, hanging in my new pad (map) while the TV guy is trying to make the satellite work. Satellite! Ooo! Now I can ignore even more channels. Tonight I will perform some sort of ritual to consecrate this soon-to-be-hallowed ground. There’s only one beer left, though, and it’s a long way to get more. Having the grocery store so far away is enough to drive a man to liquor.

I’m not sure the satellite guy really knows what he’s doing. He’s just fiddling with the buttons and the remote control, when the connector on the cable is broken. He’s just spinning through the channels that get no signal. He’s on 189 now. Every once in a while he finds a channel that works, though.

OK, he’s gone now, but the non-satellite channels still work, and now I’m sitting in the comfy chair, sipping a frosty Budvar, watching professional hockey. Yep, that’s right. Sparta’s up 1-0 in the first period. It took me a while to figure out which team was which; there are so many corporate logos on the uniforms there’s not much room for the team identity. It looks like a contest between Siemens Mobile VW Hi-Tec (all the players are named Ferrari) and TCHAS Buska Vjačka (all the players are names Dalkia). The refs are all named ARC impex, all are members of team Skoda, and they have Aquasoft written across their butts. The ice itself looks like it belongs in NASCAR.

But it’s hockey. Right now they’re skating 4 on 3. It’s been a very physical game.

Castles, churches, and stuff from the charles bridge, prague

OK, now for the promised pics. The first one here I took a couple of nights ago, on the way home from a very smoky restaurant. We walked back over the Charles Bridge. Nice. No cars are allowed on the bridge, but it was still filled with people on a cold, cold night. This one looks a lot better big, so be sure to pop over to the gallery and check it out.

Prague lights on the vlatava

This is from about the same location, looking the other way out over the Vltava to the city on the far side.

Prague from window

At last we reach the new pad. I took this from one of the windows in the bedroom. Unfortunately the window it pretty high up, so I can’t gaze out into the city while I’m lying in bed. I pretty much have to tip-toe to see out.

As far as things around the house go, the appliances are definitely used, but the cabinets and countertop are new. The kitchen faucet is a trip. When you turn it on you can hear water running somewhere. A trickle starts, and eventually there is decent flow. That’s when you turn it off. Water will continue to flow for quite a while as the water that had been filling the pipe drains out. Nutty. Shower works as advertised (note to self: towels).

I figured out how to have the temp go down at night to save on heating bills. This morning I am appreciating how long it takes for the temps to recover. (Note to self: house shoes). It’s going to take extra tea (note to self: kettle) in the morning to get me going. I still plan to let it get pretty chilly in here at night (note to self: extra blankets), at least until guests arrive (note to self: extra extra blankets). The fridge (note to self: food) keeps the beer (note to self: more beer) cold but the freezer (note to self: cleaning supplies) is untested.

Since 05-05-05 is right around the corner, I’ve been assessing how many guests I can host at once. The answer: a lot, as long as they’re short. So please, when you send me your reservations, tell me how tall you are. Remember: in this case, short is good!

Moving!

Mainly this is to tell all y’all that I will be moving today. The new digs are nice, but I won’t have Internet access there until I can get the cable run up to the flat. That requires talking to several people who don’t speak English. In the meantime I’ll pop by fuego’s pad periodically to check in.

On a related note, I will be starting czech lessons next week with a very pretty tutor whose boyfriend is a buddy of fuego’s. Here’s hoping Ivanka introduces me to her cute friends for “conversation practice”.

What ought you to do?

Here in the Muddled world, February 2th, or 02/02, is oughto oughto day. It’s kind of like a reverse New Years day; its a time to finish something. It’s that deadline you need to get that open-ended project done. Here are my oughto oughto goals:

  1. Finish synopsis of The Monster Within
  2. Come up with poll to name March 2th
  3. Get one short piece finished that doesn’t suck

In order to get number 2 done above, I need suggestions. The others are up to me. What ought you to do?

People Who In Sorrow Roam

“You ever been to the British Museum?” he asked me.

“Couple of times.” I like museums.

“There’s a tablet there. Babylonian; before the Bible. Bunch of cats exiled or something. The were called Amankandu. ‘People who in sorrow roam’. Their leader was named Ka’in.”

It made sense. Kicked out of the garden, wandering. “Banned be thou from the soil which has received thy brother’s blood,” I said.

“They’re still out there, the Amankandu. Still wandering. And when they meet, they know one another.” He raised his glass to me.

Googling Like Schoolgirls

It it probably far more interesting to me than to anyone else just what it is that brings people here. This is just a small sample of the silly things people look for on the Web, and it’s pretty obvious that what they were looking for was not to be found here. As usual, words that I would prefer Google send to the original reference have been obfuscated here with spaces.

  • pitchers of crap – linked to a stream-of-unconsciousness episode written in a bar.
  • www. my -funny- stuff drunk man fall. com. – wow. Linked to my classic google-bait episode G e t D r u n k!
  • i am here for the beer t-shirt – linked to one of my cooking episodes
  • American road Thelma and Louise – links to a prototype of my essay The American Road Myth. A better version is coming out on Piker Press next Sunday. (I also have a bit in this week’s press but it’s not as strong as my previous entries.)
  • Tranquility base here, the Eagle has landed – Linked to an episode of the same name in which I found myself back in a bar and writing.
  • hotel bar sex stories for free – ’cause you sure wouldn’t want to pay for them. Linked to the Stories category page.
  • Pitchers of nice bucks – I prefer my bucks by the bushel.
  • disney piker pl – linked to this main page. Were they really looking for pL?
  • avoiding jetlag – linked to an episode that doesn’t really have much to do with anything.
  • monk murder “six finger” – Linked to the Feeding the Eels category page.
  • dress OR skirt OR clothes “caught me in her” – someone who knows how to get the most out of google, but wound up looking at an episode like this one anyway.
  • cartoon hammina – linked to the homeless tour category page
  • SQuirrel – remarkable only because the searcher had gone through 650 other matches before choosing the SSDC page. 650. Dang.
  • band bella – not sure what that’s code for with the kids these days, but for me that means Bella Roma
  • chris “Good Kitty ” -cat -feline – given the search string, I have no idea why they would care about my opinion of Nicole at The Cannery in Bozeman, Montana. Someone clicked the link, though.
  • girls shooting e e l s out of a s s – I know I said I was looking forward to the time I wouldn’t get these hits anymore, but the whole ‘shooting’ part is just too much to resist. Linked to the Feeding the Eels category page.
  • cowboy urns – The searcher found the C o w b o y G o d, but was probably looking for a way to spend $825 on a dead guy.
  • pictures of elk poop – it’s been a while since anyone came looking for that, and, now I have discovered I have one after all.
  • emmigrants stories – aol search was fooled by a metaphor on my stories category page
  • woman flashing breasts from convertibles – came to the homeless tour category page even though I haven’t mentioned the day Amy and I went to the racetrack.
  • gatorade and death – another unlikely link to S e x, D e a t h, and W o r d s, possibly my most enticingly-titled episode.
  • do they make a new vince lombardi trophy every year – answered decisively in my S t a n l e y C u p episode
  • beer faucet icons
  • there’s no hockey in heaven – brought them to this very short episode
  • road of life and love – came to an episode I like about the road.
  • content-type/javascript – It’s nice to know that someone looking for info about programming can find themselves reading about the current squirrel threat level.
  • “pacific beach” beer – second on Google’s list was my masterwork concerning regularization. (“Masterwork” in this case meaning “lots of words”.)
  • tiki hut girls pics – reading over this old episode, all I can tell you is that there was much more that happened that day I didn’t tell.
  • Stories about the star constellation Big Dipper and how it got its name – umm, it does look like a big thing you might use for dipping.

There has been a surge lately in people who can’t spell “picture” correctly, and thus are led to my episode P i t c h e r s. Beethoven is big, but searches concerning squirrel violence are on the decline. As always there are plenty of people looking for cooking advice, especially on the weekends.

A new record

I spent the evening writing at Roma. After the batteries were dead and the brain cells were well on their way, fuego and I played some pool. I am not very good at the game at the best of times, and last night was not the best of times. I lost, and then fuego started playing against the bartender. I played a couple more games, but most of the time I was standing at the bar talking to a czech guy who didn’t like being a czech guy.

“I am mad,” he said. I laughed it off, but he convinced me he was right. Nothing like talking to a drunk suicidal misogynist with violent urges on a Tuesday evening. Or on a Wednesday morning, for that matter. The sky was getting lighter when we came home, and at this lattitude in winter that’s saying something. The crazy guy walked with us. I think he wanted to sleep with fuego. He had already given up on me, so I was free to give him drunken pseudo-philosophical advice. I’m sure he will treasure the nuggets of wisdom I offered. At some point I stopped drinking beer, because, well, there wasn’t anything more it could do.

The rest of the night will have to wait for fiction.

The sun is up now, and has been for a long time. I’m listening to the Karel Gott, the Czech Elvis equivalent, cover “Seasons in the Sun” and watching the wind blow outside. It looks mighty cold out there.

Now taking reservations…

It’s a nice place, the top floor of a house with a garden. Two rooms, a little kitchen, and an honest-to-god shower. A shower! didja hear that? I can bathe standing up again. It’s in a nice neighborhood on a quiet street. I haven’t tested any of the bars in the area yet, so there’s some risk. Still, I’m not too worried. The closest watering hole to the house serves Budweiser, which in this country is a fine, fine brew. Hopefully it’s not too smoky in there. Next to that is a cafe/bar that, while small, has all the chemicals I need to get through the day. Gambrinus is down the hill and across a busy road.

The place is already furnished, which saves me a big hassle, and the furniture doesn’t suck. I won’t have Internet access there right away, which is kind of a drag, so I’ll be mooching that off fuego and MaK for a while longer. The landlord is a little guy, older, who doesn’t speak a word of English but seems very friendly.

While there is plenty of room for guests, there are limits. More than three would really be pushing it, unless they were very close friends. I’ll add times when I expect visitors to the official MR&HBI calendar, so check there and make your reservations! As of this writing, I have a vague idea that the first week of May is booked, but I don’t know the exact dates. Other than that, I’m wide open. See you soon!

Sweat Cheese Filled Crepes

There’s never any question when I come in to Ů Sl

Programming Note

My Web host has informed me that some services will be down Saturday night PST. I do not know if your blog-reading experience will be affected during that time.