Punch Brothers

Coasting in on the aftershock as usual, I just heard Punch Brothers for the first time on the radio this morning. Believe it or not, there are some really, really awesome people in this world who still listen to music radio and don’t have cable.

These guys are so good I sat in the car for three minutes after the parking meter ran out so I could listen to the whole song.  Straight up risked a $300 parking ticket, or whatever gouge-tastic rate the Brookline meter maids are doling out these days. Worth it just to bask in the dexterous banjo playing and bow slaps, the singing weaved up, down, through, and around all manner of scales.

Has anyone seen them live? Seems like that would be ridiculous. They are playing in Burlington on Saturday, a short hop from Stowe where I’ll be traipsing around this weekend through the non-snow, not skiing. With headphones on. Probably listening to Punch Brothers.

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Good Things to Come

The past two weeks saw a blowout wedding in Washington, DC (where we rubbed elbows with Jack Black and Paul Rudd and drank Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey – GET SOME), and another wedding in Philadelphia, in which the best man was “flown” down the stairs to the Top Gun theme song to deliver his speech, and dance moves were measured in how sweat-soaked the Mr.’s tie was by the end of the night (3 inches past the Windsor knot. Life record?). There were Halloween-appropriate power outages in the suburbs where we visited my family, Chromeo proved impressive at the Electric Factory, Wayne & Garth, a fleet-footed and friendly caped luchador, a lost leather jacket, and 6 servings of PopChips and York patties between two people on the plane ride home. Not saying who. And this after watching my mom’s demonstration of how many grams of fat are in a burger and fries, represented by scoops of 20-year old Crisco.  (More on that later). The flight attendant was not impressed by the crumbs.

We’re going to see Childish Gambino tonight at the House of Blues. I’m excited, because he’s got the smartest lyrics I’ve heard in forever, all peppered with generation Y references.  The kind of lyrics you feel smart after you’ve figured them out, if you can get past all the extremely explicit stuff. And there’s a lot of it. So we’ll see.

Oh, and I start a new job on Monday.

Life feels a little like this right now, minus the static bar:

 

So my four readers (cough direct relations cough) will notice a backlog in posts that won’t last long, because I had this for breakfast:

Recipe: Fry an egg in butter or olive oil, over easy, and serve with/on anything.  In this case, polenta with a few tablespoons of spaghetti sauce because you haven’t had time to go to the grocery store. Salt and pepper. Inhale while very warm, and then face life with a full belly and a smile.

Breakfast of (Happily Aging) Champions

Once upon a time, when we went to a concert, we were usually late for the first set, dancing like fools through the second, and roaring with everyone else for an encore after the third. We’d jostle with the clumsy crowd for a cab to head to the next night spot, united in musical camaraderie, ears ringing straight through until Tuesday.

These days, things are a bit different. We don’t always row-hop.  We pick our favorite beer on draft, instead of the cheapest. We wear EARPLUGS.  The dancing like fools part is still de rigueur — this past Friday night several members of a much younger generation gawked at the Mr.’s moves, rather than the other way around. And I don’t expect that part will change until osteoporosis sets in.  But we left before the encore, smug in the wisdom of catching an early cab in the pouring rain instead of fighting the masses for one.  I will admit the smugness wrestled some with embarrassment as we weaved through the rows, because we all know it’s a little lame to leave before the true end.  Especially when it’s just barely 11 p.m.  Especially because the place the cab is taking you to is…your apartment.

Younger me would have scoffed at current me and the changes that have taken place in only a few years.  But current me gets to wake up to the smell of frying bacon and the Mr. wielding a cast iron skillet at the stove.  Younger me probably would have been at the dining hall with a limp and rubbery bacon, egg and cheese, served up with a side of splitting headache.  Both of us would have consumed our breakfast in pajamas though. Some things never change.

Breakfast of Champions
(by the Mr.)

Extra virgin olive oil
2 strips good quality bacon, chopped into small pieces

1/2 of a medium-sized onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, smashed and peeled
2 small to medium potatoes, in small dice
Red pepper flakes (hefty pinch)
Salt and pepper
Cilantro (if desired)

Heat cast iron skillet. Add olive oil, and when it is warm, add garlic and red pepper flakes.  Let cook , and add bacon before the garlic starts to brown.  Turn heat to low, and cook another 2-3 minutes.  Add onion, a pinch of salt, and continue to cook at low heat until onion is translucent and bacon is crispy.

Using a slotted spoon, remove the contents of the pan to a small bowl, leaving the oils behind.  Add potato, and cook on low heat.  Be patient at this step – let the potato sit without stirring so it forms a good crust.  It will release from the pan when the crust is formed.  Once it has, stir and continue to cook until most of the potato dice sides have a brown edge.

Add the garlic, bacon and onion mixture back into the pan and turn the heat to medium.  Crack three eggs on top and sprinkle a little more salt and pepper on the eggs.  Continue to cook until the yolks have begun to set, approximately 1.5-2 minutes.

Finish cooking under a preheated broiler until the whites are no longer opaque (approximately 2 minutes).  This should yield slightly runny yolks.

Serve with some hot sauce on the side, and chopped cilantro on top, if desired.  A few more strips of bacon on the side won’t hurt the deliciousness level either.

To make this healthier, don’t eat a lot of crap for the rest of the day, and/or serve with something you made in the juicer. Also, don’t worry about it. It’s Saturday morning.

(Sidenote: The Pretty Lights concert was good, once you overlooked all the kids in bunny ears and tutus, which is easy to do when you’ve crafted a belt for yourself out of reject glow-sticks.  Pretty Lights does a decent, slightly frustrating remix of Pink Floyd’s “Time.”  I guess I am getting older — I kept wanting the record scratches to stop and the actual song to continue, because why remix genius?)