Happy Clam Soup

And now for something completely different. Since I know of only 2 actual readers (you know who you are, and thank you both, ladies!), I am going to slow things down a bit and put out a little recipe for a kick-ass Italian clam soup. Not chowder. Not gumbo. No weird ingredients or crock pots or blenders. Just a good easy to make soup to warm your crooked little souls on this shit-ass rainy day. 

But first a word on recipes in general. For the most part, they suck. That's right.  They're not designed for real people who might actually cook the stuff. Who in the hell has the time or the interest to seek such bizarre ingredients as real ground sassafras powder or woodear mushrooms? The way I see it, if you can't find it at any Tops, Shaws, or Super Stop & Shop (I've just covered several states across the country, thank you very much), then the recipe is too damn complicated. And who wants to trim and prep the vegetables, blanch them, saute them, and then set them aside for the next 8 steps? Not this Frank. 

Here's the soup: first, go to the seafood section and buy one of those mesh bags of clams. Anything will do. Littlenecks, mahoganies, whatever. I got a huge bag of some variety that cost only about $3. Don't buy the expensive ones b/c it's just soup. For the hard cash, you could just go to a decent restaurant and buy soup, right? Next, get a bottle of clam juice, and a can of canned clams. Pick up a couple of potatoes, carrots, and celery. Get an onion and some garlic too. Finally, you'll need a couple cans of broth, either chicken, vegetable, or whatever the hell you want. On your way out of the store, get a loaf of crusty french bread, and a hunk of cheese. 

Peel and cube the potatoes. chop the carrots, onion, and celery. Saute the shit in a giant pot with olive oil and garlic. When soft, add the broth, a bay leaf, salt and pepper, and some parsley. Use however much you want. It doesn't matter. If you can't learn to cook by feel, then you're never going to learn how to cook and you may as well just order out. Be brave! 

While that stuff simmers, boil some salty water and toss in the clams. Also drop in some white cooking wine (or beer, if you're out of wine), and some salt and pepper. When the clams are done in a few minutes (they will open up), drain and rinse them. If the broth is good (taste it!) and the potatoes and carrots are soft, add the bottled clam juice, and the canned clams with their liquid. Ladle the broth and vegetables into bowls, and set the clams (shells and all) on top. Take in the aroma! It's simple. It's magnificent in its simplicity. Screw all those t.v. chef assholes. Dip the bread in the broth. Grate some of the cheese on top. Enjoy it, and know that you've accomplished something simple and good. 

- Frank  

Burning Man, Part III

I try to calm Desiree down, but there's no stopping her. 

"I knew you were going to get all controlling and shit, Frank." She said. "It always happens with you guys. One night together and then you think you own me. Nobody owns me, buddy. Got it?"  

I couldn't take it any longer. Who was this woman? There was a dim memory of tequila shots, some laughs, and then a drive into the desert to see the sunrise. We must have crashed out in the back of the truck in Eli, which is pretty damn far from Reno. Nothing in Eli but a gas station and a couple of small crappy casinos. You can hardly even call them casinos, though the locals seem to enjoy them. How did we get married? Why did we get married? I decided it was a bluff. Or a delusion. Or maybe some crazy casino novelty thing that isn't even legal. Are they? I decided not to bother finding out. I would excuse myself to go to the bathroom and then take off. Hitchhike. Run. Or steal some kid's bicycle, if I had to.  Desiree continued. 

"Anyway, I called Johnny, my boyfriend. He's coming to get me - should be here in about 2 hours. He understands me, Frank. You know? Hey - wanna have breakfast together? Kind of a last farewell. What do you think?" 

Unable to even comprehend what was happening, I gave in. Steak and eggs at the casino was 4 bucks per plate including coffee. Desiree chain-smoked Camels and told me her life story in between drags. After an hour-and-a-half she told me I'd better leave. "Johnny's kind of the jealous type," she said with a half-smile. It was all the encouragement I needed. I managed to hitchhike out of Eli and then catch a bus back to the Reno airport. The end, thank god.    

Burning Man, Part II

So you want to hear the rest of the story about the whole Burning Man fiasco? Okay. 

(switch to present tense, in case you're wondering) 

I wake up in Eli, Nevada in the back of a pickup.  Whose pickup? I have no idea. There's a fresh tattoo on my arm that looks as though it was done by Henry Rollins in a Jeep going over the Rubicon Trail. A crust of blood or ink or some shmutz has formed and the whole affair is stuck to my shirt; I can make out the crude shape of a Star of David, which is at least appropriate since I'm partly Jewish. Only Jews are forbidden to tattoo their bodies, so I'm damned to hell. But then again, Jews don't really believe in hell, so maybe it's okay. Desiree, a saucy showgirl from Reno with two-tone hair and fake tits, stretches out besides me in a catlike manner that makes me forget all about my hangover, the lightness of my wallet (lost some money at the casino), and the infected mess on my arm. I embrace her quite tenderly only to get rebuffed in a shrill voice that nearly splits my pounding headache in two. "Not now, Frank," she says. "I know we just got married and I do like you that way, but this truck ain't exactly the Howard Johnson's, you know what I mean?" Did she say married? I believe she did. "Listen, Mary," I say in a reasonable tone. "Who are you calling Mary?" She shrieks. Doesn't she know I have a headache? How could I marry such an inconsiderate woman? "Do I look like a fucking Mary to you?" I agree that she does not. "My sister's name is Mary and I fucking hate her. You hear me Frank? I hate her!" A heavy Brooklyn accent has suddenly appeared with her rage. "So don't ever call me that again or so help me, god..." Mary, I mean Desiree, closes her eyes and steadies her hands in front of her in a zen pantomime, as though she is using breathing or something to calm herself. As though there's any chance in hell that she'll control herself. I brace myself for a shit-storm of histrionic drama that is about to fly in my face.

(to be continued)