Paul's birthday party

By all accounts the party was a big success. The guest of honor was in fine form, the two co-hosts were both well-pleased. I was pleased. Guests indicated they had a fine time. People seemed reluctant to end the evening. We trashed the place. Things did not go according to plan. 

If I were to offer words of advice to to a casual host who would have their sanity, but I have no advice so I make no such offer, it would be to remain flexible. ← See what I did there?

The purpose of this dinner party was to celebrate Paul's birthday. On initial inquiry, George, Paul's partner, expressed strong interest in participating in planning, insisting on it actually. Days later another gentleman, Fred,  who is retired, expressed  interest in participating to the extent of co-hosting. So then this became a mutual effort of three co-hosts. I would not have complete control over things and that would have to be alright with me. Accepting that, the game is already won. 

George is solid. He is clear-thinking, imaginative, a good problem solver. He has quite a lot of experience hosting such things himself. He knows intimately the sort of things that Paul would appreciate, what we can get away with. He is a lawyer. Type-A personality.

Fred is a friend of George and Paul's. I've seen him around at their house. I think their acquaintance is economic. I think, but I don't know for sure, that they own houses together or co-own some rental units or something. Fred said last night that he only does these things to 1) stay busy, 2) stay out of trouble, 3) because I can use the fucking money. This got a laugh out of George presumably because he has more than he knows what to do with.  I should add, Fred is one of two people that I know who have received official Colorado State recognition for good citizenship. I am not sure about this, but I believe Fred's award is for unstinting dedication as volunteer for Angel Heart an organization that delivers daily hot meals to terminally ill people living independently, for free. Whenever I've spoken with Fred my mind wanders, so to be honest I do not know him as well as I probably should. Fred is not an effective sous chef, co-host, or organizer, and he is no way adept at handling knives, food, kitchen equipment, however, he is a very eager factotum for all non-food related tasks, up to a point, and then it's over completely and absolutely when he switches from host to guest mode. For instance, it takes Fred two minutes to slice open an avocado and another minute and a half to remove the seed, another minute to scoop the shells of their contents, and five minutes to smash it with a fork. So something that would take an ordinary person twenty seconds ends up taking five minutes, multiply that by everything and veritably nothing is completed. Type-B personality. 

"Fred, I need these two large bowls washed so I can use them again."

"Now, that I can do!" 

The plan was for George to drop off Fred at 5: 30, along with beer, wine, and ice. I thought that was great. It would give me a chance to know Fred one-on-one for two hours, and it would also give two and a half man-hours of assistance in preparation.  Last minute things were planned accordingly. Fred and I would prepare the rolls for final proof and hand-press, sear, and deep-fry a boat-load of corn tortilla chips before anyone would arrive. 

The two didn't show up until 7:00. Guests would start arriving at 7:30. This is where that flexibility thing I mentioned earlier is required for sanity, even before the action started, along with the awareness that this is a co-hosted deal and so pretty much anything goes, and understanding that my control will be very limited if not nearly completely disbursed. 

Fred was useless for preparing the rolls so I did that myself, but that used up all our last minute preparation time. Right then guests began to arrive en masse, so it became a constant thing of answering the call box and buzzing people up. At that critical moment, cell service went bollox, the system overloaded and calls were rerouted automatically to message service. Nevertheless people clawed their way into the building without the benefit of efficient building security. Then on arrival everyone related how they accessed the building, hugs all around for everybody on arrival because that is what people do nowadays (Frankly, I think people are feeling my ribs and guessing my weight, in fact, I am certain of it.) 

A guest asked, "Need any help?" He happened to be my favorite self-made millionaire type. I said, "Yes. Your job is to fry these for a few seconds then flip them, then stack them. Your stack of tortillas must be as perfect as possible because they will be cut all at once like a pizza." He understood immediately. The complete opposite of Fred. I pressed furiously and continuously, a gigantic bowl of masa, the largest I ever made, and Randy fried and flipped them, eventually deep fried them. But Randy was also greeting people as they entered and tended to allow distraction so I would say, "Flip," and Randy would break away, spin around and flip. Or I would way, "Oil check," and Randy would break away from whoever distracted him and immediately check the temperature of the oil. It was fun as hell bossing him around with simple commands and having him respond with alacrity and with the rapidity and the same joy for fun of my Belgian Sheepdogs, which is to say immediately. Whereas Fred would be like, "Oh, where'd I put that spatula again?"  See? Flexibility. 

Cheesecake. 

The cheesecake was started in the morning, before everything else that I'm talking about happened. I bought 2 LBs of Philadelphia cream cheese thinking that was enough for two cheesecakes. Surely it would be. No? But when I reviewed Ina Garten's recipe, I saw one cheesecake takes 1.75 LBs cream cheese. That suddenly seemed a ridiculous amount of cream cheese, but there it was. Two cheesecakes would take 3.5 LBs, so off to the store again for another 2 LBs of cream cheese. 

↑ That is the chocolate used for the cheesecake and for the ganache. 

It is a famous single-source Venezuelan couverture in disc form. I suppose it should be noted that the Venezuelan type cocoa is a much less productive tree and far more finicky about its botanical requirements and so more difficult to grow compared to other cocoa types which are all quite finicky. That affects cost gravely which is compounded negatively by unsteady political pressures. So you just do not see it all that much. It is not everybody's favorite. 

Copy/paste this ↓, you'll want to have it.

Ina Garten's chocolate cheesecake, The Money Maker.  For the crust: 1 1/2 cups Graham cracker crumbs (10 crackers)  5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon For the filling: 5 ounces bittersweet chocolate 1 tablespoon instant espresso coffee 1 3/4 pounds cream cheese, at room temperature 1 cup granulated sugar 1/4 cup cornstarch 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1/4 teaspoon almond extract 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature 1/2 cup sour cream, at room temperature For the ganache: 1/4 pound semi-sweet chocolate 1/4 cup heavy cream Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. To make the crust: Place the Graham cracker crumbs, melted butter and cinnamon in a food processor fitted with a steel blade and pulse until combined. Pour into a 9-inch spring form pan. With your hands, press the crumbs into the bottom of the pan. Bake for 12 minutes. Cool to room temperature. Meanwhile, chop the bittersweet chocolate and place it in a heat-proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Add the espresso and stir until just melted. Set aside until cooled to room temperature. To make the filling: Cream the cream cheese, sugar, cornstarch, vanilla and almond extracts and salt in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment on medium-high speed until light and fluffy. Reduce the speed of the mixer to medium and add the eggs, 1 at a time, mixing well. Scrape down the bowl and beater, as necessary. With the mixer on low, add the sour cream, and the cooled chocolate mixture. Mix thoroughly and pour into the cooled crust. Bake for 1 hour. Turn the oven off and allow the cake to sit in the oven with the door opened wide for 1 1/2 hours. Take the cake out of the oven and allow it to sit at room temperature, until completely cooled. For the ganache: Finely chop the semisweet chocolate and place it in a heat-proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Add the cream and stir until just melted. Set aside until cooled to room temperature. Remove the cake from the spring-form pan by carefully running a hot knife around the outside of the cake. Leave the cake on the bottom of the springform pan for serving. Drizzle the ganache over the top of the cheesecake.

I finally found the instant espresso Ina keeps mentioning. It looks like un producto del Mexico.

The batter this makes is extraordinary. If you were to taste it, you risk not stopping. It is light and fluffy and delicious. However, the cakes it produces themselves are not things of beauty. Careful as I was, one of them cracked. The other appeared sunken in the center. Out of the spring-form, their edges are untidy. Covered in ganache, they are merely darkened. However, the texture and the taste of these cheesecakes is not to be believed. You'll see the result later. For now, the cakes must bake for an hour, sit in the open oven for another hour and a half, then cool unattended for hours until finally a ganache is poured on. 

Now the time is approaching when George should drop off Fred so I must get started in order to be finished with some of the pre-pre-preparations (3 PREs) in time to pick up on the things I had planned for Fred and myself to do together. Of course all that changed because Fred showed up with only a fraction of that time available. So I was on my own. 

So begins the prep work.

Jalapeños would be used in both the mango salsa and guacamole.

Cucumber is used in mango salsa and regular green salad, therefore, one is peeled differently and cut on the bias. 

See, thinking that Fred will show up as scheduled, after all it was George doing the driving and George is solid and 100% reliable thus far, and he did leave a message reaffirming the time, so it was and still sort of is a perfectly reasonable expectation to maintain, I felt then and I would again feel perfectly comfortable taking my sweet time pausing for my usual photography, which you have to admit is not a regular sort of thing to do as part of ordinary meal-making. This is why you have a fairly complete set of this portion. Later, after the explosion of frenzied activity and distractions of every sort, tugs in every direction, bizarre unpredictable demands pulled right out of people's asses, like, "Do you have a sippy cup, preferably SpongeBob Squarepants?" and "Where will I find your 3/17th  crescent wrench?" and "Do you have any contact lens cleaner?" and "Can I charge my cell phone?" and "Where do I put this soiled diaper?", then photography naturally slips to lowest priority and great swaths go unrecorded. 

I decided to put pineapple in the mango salsa. Doing this increased the quantity beyond the amount that could be consumed by the number of people present and the number of chips produced, but I didn't care.  Come to think of it now, I could have put pineapple in the regular salad too, but I didn't think of it then.

The store that I went to had fresh mangos and they would have been fine, but they were a smaller variety which means more peeling than ordinary mangos, more fussing with their weird central pits. I seriously considered them, but opted instead for frozen. The disadvantage of frozen is that they are already cut into cubes and I need much smaller cubes. It is almost impossible to employ mad ninja knife skills on diced frozen slippery product so it boils down to a rough irregular chop not unlike the random cuts of a processor except particle size can be controlled better with a sharp knife than a processor allows. Then there's the clean up of the processor parts, which in my world is a total bummer.

Sweet white onion, cilantro, and lime, go into both the mango salsa and the guacamole. Those are prepared in advance too but not shown. Also not shown, diced and squeezed tomatoes.

These shrimp are large as shrimp come before they must be called something else. So large, in fact, they are unnumbered as shrimp usually are averaged per pound. I was slightly distressed to see they are the type with entire carapace intact. That is, uncleaned. I could plainly see several had very large unclean GI tracts. I intended for the salad to contain completely unexpected and surprisingly large shrimp throughout, but this meant that they must be split in order to be thoroughly cleaned. This was done best by completely splitting them in half in order to get at the entire length of so-called vein. Wouldn't do the have unpleasant grit hidden inside our happy salad. This was one of the things that Fred and I did together well when it still felt like time was with us. 

The shrimp is cooked in the manner of the New Orleans chef video. Directly into boiling water, heat cut off, cooked just beyond the border of uncooked/cooked to appease the shrimp-abusers that would undoubtedly be present, then doused in iced brine, rested there in the salty water to plump and to loosen their shells. 

The shrimp are frozen ice. The boiling water drops from 202℉/94℃  (5280 feet elevation) to 173℉/78℃ and the shrimp cooked at that temperature for four minutes, no more than five. That probably sounds shockingly undercooked to you, but it isn't. If it does sound undercooked then take it as an indication of how dreadfully overcooked you abuse your shrimp, and try to turn a new leaf and at least meet me half way on this. Oh, who am I kidding. This whole change-the-world thing regarding overcooking of shrimp is a Quixotic effort. Forget about it. Do whatever you want, see if I care. 

Now there is an entire countertop covered with bowls of pre-diced items that will go into two salsa dips and a regular salad. The chopped ingredients would be combined at the last minute before guests arrive, but that turned out to be after guests arrived, and arrive they did too, like a marching army of eager partiers.  All that was needed was for six avocados to be cut opened and squeezed. Why this took two people and twelve minutes I simply cannot explain. I still do not understand it. At one point I told George to stop smashing the avocados. He continued smashing them. Then I elaborated, "George, the guacamole must be a mixture of puree and chunks, not 100% puree." He continued smashing. I insisted, because now George is fucking with my techniques of perfect guacamole and risking pedestrian guacamole. "George. Completely smashed avocados are undesirable." George continued smashing. Okay, what has gotten into George all of a sudden? Why is he not obeying me? "Respect mah authoritah! Stop smashing the goddamn avocados, George."  George continued smashing the avocados with a fork. 

The party was only just starting. 

I see now. I've seen this before. The unpredictable-ness and the sudden rush of people, all the unknowns all together at once, the immediate loss of control snaps people out of character, especially type-As. This is a delicate matter. Go ahead and smash away then, if that is what it takes. Flexibility.

This concludes the portion of the day that attention could be given to photography. 

Randy took over as helper of the chips and I was glad to have him there. My largest bowl was filled with masa. The tortilla press had never seen such furious action. It took a good long while to work our way through the entire mass which should have been already done had Fred been delivered on time. Randy was really feeling it. In the zone, although easily distracted. He saw for himself the difference it made making our own chips compared to just buying a few bags. He asked where to get one of those presses. On his own he took over the task of cutting the tortilla stacks into precise sixths. Because it's fun! It shows that making oneself useful is fun, if one is of the type willing to be useful, which Randy is. 

George took over as setter-upper of the Big Green Egg. I have no idea how the egg got out onto the balcony, but the task of starting it proved too much. I don't know why it was so confusing for such smart fellows, it starts as an ordinary grill except with wood charcoal instead of ordinary charcoal, and paraffin starter segments instead of lighter fluid. Is that so baffling? Answer: yes. 

George was never fully onboard with using the egg. As a lawyer he knew perfectly well the Denver ordinance regarding balcony grills. He cited it. He averred the beef tenderloins could be cooked in the oven. I agreed they could indeed be cooked in the regular oven, but then they would ordinarily cooked extraordinary beef sections and not be extraordinarily cooked extraordinary beef sections. He agreed it was worth it for (me to take) the risk. But he reiterated that same position a dozen times. Right to the bitter end while lighting the briquettes and throughout the process of getting it up to heat,  here comes the attempted plan-adjustment again. I couldn't believe how many times I had to insist that we were doing it this way. I could not possibly have been more clear than I was from the start and that position statement never changed.  And he could not possibly have been more clear about his doubts and he never stopped doubting. So why then wasn't it enough to have the discussion once? Why did we have to say the same thing a dozen times? If my affection for him was not so great I would have strangled him. 

There is a learning curve to using this egg. It does not fire up to 600℉ / 315℃ in ten minutes as pages on the internet would have you believe.  It took a l-o-n-g time to heat up. Throughout that length George poured forth with his doubts and his alternate plan forcing me to hold forth with our working plan. His doubts were so great and so numerous I swear to God he was deviously devising ways to sabotage, open the vent, close the vent, turn on the fan, shut off the fan, open the lid to check, shut the lower vent, remove the cover, denigrate the progress, open the lid and check again, shut the top vent, add more charcoal, remove the grill, open the top vent, remove the top cover, replace the top cover, narrow the top vent, open the lid to check. 

Here's a thing. Search [+beef tenderloin +medium rare] click on your search engine's  images tab. View the array of images. Every single one of them without exception is overcooked. Period. Do not use any of those for example or you'll be a loser too. 

When I was a lad and first learned beef came from cows I was so distressed I cried. My parents weren't having it. They insisted I eat my beef or they'd give me something to cry about, which made it worse. I begged mum to cook the red out of mine because the blood juice made it impossible for me to handle. Finally, at length and after much stress she agreed to cook my portions well-done. That is how I had beef until I was fourteen.

At fourteen I decided to learn ASL. With my mother's help I enrolled in Denver University classes although I hadn't yet graduated from high school. Mum would drive me to class then I'd take a bus home. Oddly, I think because of my interest, I learned the language much more quickly than the actual college students. I had the whole textbook nailed within a week while the rest of the class seemed to struggle. I thought at that time, "Jeeze for college students, you sure are a bunch of dummkopfs. 

Later I encountered three deaf males shopping at the mall. I introduced myself and imposed on their shopping. I asked where they worked. I showed up at their work at lunch time and imposed myself there, as only a teenage boy can do. One of the deaf men resented my bothersome presence. Another of the deaf men enjoyed my presence and indulged me. He showed me around the printing shop and over a period of months taught me all the step of printing. They played hearts at lunch time when they didn't go out, but they went out for lunch regularly. At one such outing we all ordered steak, I ordered mine well done. All three deaf men who had all become my teachers agreed that I MUST order my steak rare. I argued no. They insisted. I held my ground. Then they really became insistent and demanded I order my steak at least medium rare or they would cease indulging teaching me sign language and I would  be henceforth shut out. They will not tolerate a steak-ruiner in their midst. 

That threat converted me. 

George grilled the two most splendid beef tenderloins I have ever seen. They were beautiful. They were perfect. They were covered in foil and rested, but by then George had -- how do I say this? -- virtually melted to uselessness. Maybe worse than that, melted into near-destructiveness.

Here is what I do not understand about people but I've learned to accept. I will now talk about a few guests that I do not know. I have no idea who these people are. I was too busy to learn how they were connected. There were several women who I never met. One of the women said she had heard a lot about me and was eager to meet me but she never told me who she is. Some of the women I noted, and a couple of men who I met for the first time, do not eat meat anything less than well done. That is to say, ruined. Now try to comprehend that for a second. You are presented with beef in its most splendid form. The most splendid cut, quite expensive too, cooked to absolute perfection by the most amazing technique available to mankind, and you insist on it being ruined first. This is what one might expect from a child. 

Everybody else present that I knew and who know me very well, knew also what was going on there and knew full well how extraordinary it all was. They all understood completely by their travels, by their dining out, by their life experience, by their own hosting, that you just don't see beef presented like that, salads that make you smile for their delightful surprises in taste and texture, a different thing with every bite, artisanal bread that is baked at home moments from the oven, baked potato with a veritable potato bar of available toppings. Those are the people I love doing these things for. As for the adults who are still children who must be coaxed to try a new thing, I am indifferent. 

Here are the techniques for best possible guacamole. Nobody, and I mean nobody makes it this good. I don't even bother ever ordering it because everybody else manages to flub it. 

The basis of guacamole is 50% ripe avocado 50% crushed tomato, drained of its liquid. The avocado is best squished through the fingers so that chunks remain mixed with puréed portions to the degree of 50/50 chunks to smoothness. It absolutely must have the tart punch of lime. It must have the tangy bite of onion. It must have the capsaicin heat of chile pepper. It must have salt and pepper. It must, simply must, have fresh cilantro. If you happen to be cilantrophobe as many people are, then I pity you, but go ahead and substitute basil, though your guacamole will suffer for that choice.  Those are the essentials, if you do not have them then just forget about it. Guacamole is greatly assisted with a touch of cumin which brings with it the flavor and essence of authentic Old Mexico. There you have it, the recipe for guacamole. Quantities are not stated because it all depends on how much avocado and tomato you start with. See? If I said start with 1 avocado and 1 tomato then you would go out and get a West Indian type avocado instead of a Hass and a cherry tomato instead of a beefsteak and and then wonder why your guacamole tastes like crap compared to mine. Then you'll decide to stretch it with sour cream and process it in a blender under the impression that will improve its smoothness and then wonder what it is you are missing by way of texture.

So the meat is rested, covered in foil. Now is the critical moment for George to follow through and claim his rightful title as king of the perfect tenderloin precisely expertly produced. But he flakes. 

The tenderloin is left abandoned on the dining table covered in foil, still bound up with string, draining juices onto the table with a sharpened knife just sitting there. Where is George? He's slicing pieces off a second tenderloin concerning himself with, now get this, 

frying sliced tenderloin discs in a pan on the stove top! 

AAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgh. A cry to heaven originates from my innermost being. Why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why  would you do that? Are you really that hellbent on using this goddamn stove in insistent sabotage of the egg, when the egg by your own hands has already produced perfection? Real perfection! Just to appease a few stupid grownup children? For Christ's sake zap their portion in the microwave and be done with them, and concentrate your energies on the people here who deserve your attention, and who appreciate such things. They are honestly not worth heating the extra pan. 

I go over to the abandoned tenderloin at the table, cut off its strings, crumple its aluminum foil covering, and rapidly slice the meat log into discs. Cut open I can now see for myself that I could not have asked for a more perfectly cooked piece of meat, and I mean it. I stood there cutting discs in total amazement. I fixed myself a plate while everybody else dawdled around. I tasted the beef first and I have never been so impressed. Yes, the results of this Big Green Egg is everything they say it is. Why anybody would exchange it for an ordinary grill, as the fellow did who sold it to me, is utterly beyond my comprehension. This is the very pinnacle of grilling experience, not just a simple preference, and if anybody fails to appreciate that, then they're just too stupid to even talk to. 

I picked up the camera and took a few shots. I have photographs of people but those are in another album for those people. These are just the photos of the food, which is the focus of this blog. This is basically the after affects, after at least half the people had already left and there was then time to fiddle around. The photos are all taken on automatic setting under unsatisfactory light.

This is one of the points where my co-hosts failed me and I had to resolve to just flex and roll with it. This is not how I envisioned things, not how I would have it, but it is the way it turned out. This table has two extensions. It will stretch to double its length, which is impressive. It was possible to seat everybody right there at the dining table. But instead, people had already begun using the second bedroom which had been set up with a bar which I intended  to be separate. They were also spread out in the living room and on the balcony. The birthday boy held court in the second bedroom, and he was in form. I heard from that room much laughter and noise. The dining table became a mere buffet table where the baked potatoes were unceremoniously plunked down in kitchen towels, next to bowls of all their toppings. The gigantic tenderloin, the remnants pictured, was abandoned, plates, stacked, service ware, napkins, salad, etc. were all splayed out. People mingled in the living room, the balcony, the second bedroom, standing up, sitting down, everywhere but the dining room where intended. The table could be stretched at any point. It remains stable even when loaded with plates and food. It is quite easy to insert the leaves at any time without disturbance, but nobody was having it. 

So it was. 

The salad has the crunch of apple and heated pecans, large shrimp, grated Grana Padano, tomato, sliced English cucumber, raspberry vinaigrette. 

These are the hands of another self-made millionaire type person. I have no idea as to his actual financial status, I just know he is (they are) impressively loaded. I mention this because this man seated here just recently bought the building next to the old Molly Brown house which is a huge stone monstrosity of deplorable design and garish and regrettably mismatched ornamentation on Pennsylvania Street. You can understand immediately why Molly Brown's neighbors resented her presence among them. It would be like your own neighbor suddenly popping up with 100 garden gnomes and pink flamingos with wire legs.  I learned of this purchase by happy accident walking around the neighborhood taking pictures of the obnoxious Brown mansion. There is a wonderful gift shop in the old carriage house where a whole world opens up unlike any other museum gift shop I ever walked through. I hit it up with the employees there. 

I marvel at the man's remarkably bony fingers. He is sitting at a tall side table spending an engaged hour or so with yet another self-made millionaire type person, both long-term friends vaguely known by Paul and so likely invitees. 

But his fingers are covering the plate. There ya go.

Okay, this guy ↓ really hated his dinner. He's the fellow who owns the Geese of Meidum fresco I painted a few years ago.  He is one of the crowd that for some reason took up in the second bedroom instead of the proper dining room. 

This is Paul ↓ whose birthday it is. I never met the person behind him. Paul is the reason people were drawn into that room. People set their birthday cards for Paul on a table in that room so that is where he opened them. As Paul opened his cards, that attracted a group of about 20 people to crowd the bedroom which is my card-making work space, transformed into an open bar. 

I will mention the reaction to the card I made for Paul, which is interesting to me because I never get to observe reaction as my cards are opened. Paul is used to these cards. At this point he expects something that pops up. But most of the other guests there didn't have such a firm expectation, although some did. As planned, Paul completely missed the background story of the unhappy passion in black and white because his attention is focused on the color and the action and the scale of the happy bunnies. That will come later when he studies it more closely. He held up the card for the crowd to see the movement of the card. He sensed the last page is climactic so he used voice modulation and suspenseful  introduction to build the drama which is unknown even to himself. (He already made sure that was the last card opened. ) The women were particularly excited about it. They were stunned by the first page, tickled massively with the second page, and floored by the third page.  The men less so. I overheard one woman say directly to Paul, "You must realize how much somebody loves you that they spend the time necessary for this." Paul was all, "Eh." 

Some guests left before dinner without explanation and what an unfortunate forfeiture for them. They will never know what they passed on. Others left in spits and spurts. For the remainder there was time to prepare take home packages. I picked up five packages of disposable containers which tend to acquire some degree of permanence, so that is twenty-five containers total. Into the containers, I stuffed slices of tenderloin, baked potato, dinner rolls,  cheesecake in separate containers, salad, salsa, and guacamole. The chips were all gone.

During this later period after Paul had several drinks, I had none, Paul landed on the word "ganache" which he found amusing. He said "ganache" repeatedly in a French accent. I followed with Thurston Howell III lock-jaw "GAH-nosh, Lovie." We both slipped into French accents, Grace Jones' Vie en Rose which she pronounces Bea on Hose is what did it, then  German accents, then British accents, then Ariana Huffington accents.  We both behave as if we are drunk even though we are not. We amuse each other tremendously. But it was ganache ganache ganache for the rest of the evening. We had only to say the word to crack each other up.

I was not arrested for using the grill. There was no knock at the door. No citation. No threat of eviction. No nothing. I totally got away with it. La la la.

Of course that only encourages me toward further malfeasance.

At 1:00 the thermometer to the baking chamber of the Big Green Egg read 300℉ / 150℃ causing my friends to refuse to roll it back in. It must stay outside until it cools completely, they all insisted in unison, determined to foil my surreptitious clandestine ninja-plans to the very last. They would return tomorrow to see that the egg comes back in.

The trailing remainder of guests filed out the door, take-out packages in hand.

I rolled in the Big Green Egg myself.


Aftermath.

I am struck with this table ↑ that somebody cleared. This table was moved into this position to hold salsa dips, chips, and relish trays. A guest brought smoked duck and elk and those rustic things that hunters do. I did not see them individually, I did not have any of it myself,  but this table was completely loaded with food at one point. It all came and went without me ever noticing. 

This is the table ↓ where the guy with bony fingers was sitting. Also cleared by someone. 

I am always amazed at the crap people drag into my home that they must know clutters a space already struggling with excess clutter. That is an old Nebraska school test of the sort we have all already seen a dozen times online that purports to expose the vast deficiency of modern education by comparing it with 20th century requirements. Absent from these tests, of course, is anything relating to space, jet engines, communism, computer programming, etc. Unnecessary trash brought in and left behind. I could strangle my brother sometimes over his obsession with print newspaper and his apparent need for me to dispose of them. 

The stone cat overlooks the mess in the kitchen with unmatched serenity. 

That is the end of the two cheesecakes. Surprisingly it's still very good. Even better than last night because now the ganache is finally fully set. 

The coffee, sugar, and vanilla doesn't count. I brought that out for a morning vanilla latte. 

Stove partially disassembled for a steam-oven hack.  ↑

Aerogarden completely undisturbed.  ↓

Bottles collected in a bathroom. (?)

Wood charcoal for the BGE in the bathroom. Ice in the bathtub. ↓

Dining room table where nobody sat ↓.

Big Green Egg ↓.

Lamp and BGE blower stuffed under the work table / wet bar↓ .

Another oddly completely undisturbed table ↓. Is there something specific about this table that prevents people from being tempted to clutter it? If so, tell me, then I do whatever it is to all my tables. 

Wine spill ↓

Wine spill. ↓