Fluffy Bunnies.

It began with talking about the Group of Seven.

It ended with me watching two British soldiers wrestling on a balcony while one tried to eat marshmallows out of the other's ear.

Perhaps that doesn't tell the whole story. Bear with me, and I shall elaborate.

It was a housewarming party for a newly married couple -- always a happy occasion, n'est-ce pas? I arrived to find the apartment filled with revelry of all ages, and from all walks of life. In that crowd of thirty, I knew about four other people. Clearly, that was my cue to start mingling. And snacking. There were these nifty little watermelon hors d'oeuvres... but anyway, mostly mingling.

During the chatter, I ended up discussing books I'd read recently, and I mentioned how peculiar I found it to hear Steve Martin reference the Group of Seven in his latest book. I suppose I should be grateful for the blank look I received, because it at least proved that I'd managed to hold their attention up until this point.

"Are you familiar with the Group of Seven?", I asked.

"No, I'm sorry. I suppose I really should know more about Canadian politics, shouldn't I?"

And now it was my turn to be sorry, because I couldn't stop myself. I launched into a discussion of who they were, and the landscapes they painted, and why their landscapes were actually such a revolutionary idea at the time, and how they shaped Canada's self-image... fortunately, at some point I was interrupted and the young lady I was talking to escaped. It was then that I realised, "Denton, you fool! She's the hostess' best friend, people are here waiting for the chance to talk with her, and you're busy talking to her about oil paintings from 1920. Was that really the ideal topic of conversation?" Shamefully, I retreated to the artichoke dip, and wondered if my internal anecodotomer was only mis-calibrated, or if it was completely non-functional. A serious matter indeed, to ponder over artichokes.

Fortunately, my next chance to start a conversation with her went along a slightly different path. This was a bit later in the evening, the children had gone home, and the remaining guests had traded the veggie platter for the beer cooler hours ago. It was the sort of situation in which someone (specifically, that same girl from earlier) would invariably declare, at thirty minutes to midnight, that what they wanted was a cocktail with marshmallows in it. Were there any marshmallows in the kitchen? Does anyone live near enough that they could get marshmallows from their kitchen? Are any grocery stores open right now?

At this point I spoke up. "I've got some marshmallows in the trunk of my car, if you want them."

It's a good thing the conversation stopped entirely when people heard that -- it gave me a chance to explain that these were no longer ordinary marshmallows. You see, I'd gone camping with friends three weeks ago, and when we packed up the supplies, there was still one barely-used bag of marshmallows left over. I was told I could have the marshmallows, but only if I put them to good use. "Of course I will", I promised. And then I left them in my car for three weeks.

As the partygoers would soon learn, three weeks does odd things to a bag of marshmallows, if those happen to be the hottest three weeks of the year. On the side of the bag where a small hole had been opened, air had gotten in and mummified the marshmallows. They had become the marshmallows you find in breakfast cereals: as solid as wood, but able to break down with a stubborn squeaking sound if you bite them hard enough. Amongst the crowd, they quickly became popular toys to throw at people. As for the other half of the bag, though, air had not managed to get it, and all the remaining marshmallows had melted, and congealed into a giant, sticky, pillow-sized marshmallow upon re-cooling. Clearly, making a cocktail from this agglutination was a worthy challenge, so she set to work.

Alas, long after the squeaky mummified marshmallows had disappeared, she returned from the kitchen, defeated. It had proven impossible to separate the melted marshmallow from the plastic bag, and all that she managed to produce was a plastic sheet covered by a shimmering, sticky, sugary mass. But in the spirit of improvisation, another guest (one of the aforementioned British soldiers) who had been overseeing the cocktail attempt concluded that it was close enough to a cream pie to warrant an attempt at the classic routine, and he then found his mate out on the balcony...

At this point, congratulations. You're now caught up on the story! I know, you might be wondering exactly why they decided to start eating the marshmallow out of each other's ears, but anything else I say would only be conjecture at this point. Perhaps... yes, perhaps it's best if we leave the final chapters of that evening vested in some semblance of mystery (or possibly, dignity).

Besides, at that point I was raiding the snack table for all the remaining cupcakes. It was a wonderful evening, indeed.

Bittersweet.

Roller Derby! What a sport - an absolutely electric atmosphere, hard-hitting action, and (although I still only have a cursory understanding of the rules) an exciting blend of strategy and execution. You know *what* they have to do, but you want to see *how* they do it. Add a hard-driving soundtrack that never stops, let the athletes pick their noms du guerre, and you've got a great evening.

The only complaint about last night? That I moved to Medicine Hat when I was 29, and it took me four years to find out what the under-30 crowd did for fun (besides drink). Ah, well - I only have myself to blame.

And speaking of which... if you'll recall, two weeks ago I was entranced by the concept of kombucha, the fermented tea. In particular, I liked the "sourdough" aspect of production - one batch gets transferred to the next, and so forth. Theoretically, that meant that just by lifting the scum off the bottle I purchased (which I was glad to do), I could make my own...

So, I gave it shot. Nothing too fancy to start with - no berries, no ginger, no gold flecks. Just a mug of Earl Grey, some sugar, and a starter culture about the size of nickel.

Two weeks later...

Shiny! (That's in both the morphological and Whedonverse sense of the word, mind you.)

I pulled out a slotted spoon, lifted the top skin, and it came off cleanly. What remained looked a little cloudy, and smelled a little sour, but it wasn't the "congealed milk" sort of sour... and I certainly knew there was enough sugar added at the start to make it at least somewhat palatable...

No other way but to try, I suppose. Bottoms up!

So... what did it taste like?

Alcohol. Honey. And tears.

It tasted like that impotent, gnawing regret that attacks the soul on a quiet cold day, when you're warm and well-fed and liked by your peers and have no real right to complain, but there's this vague disconnect between where you are and where you thought you'd be, and you're torn between condemning your former self as a foolish youth, or admitting that there's something wrong, it's your fault, and the fact that you don't know what it is only makes it worse.

This is a drink for those days... or also, as an appetizer for a nice heavy starchy meal like a rice pilaf, or Kraft Dinner.

Oh, or a bagel!

Yeah, I'm definitely going to have some bagels on hand when my next batch is done. Mmm!

Kombucha!

What a word. It sounds like the sort of toast you'd hear shouted in Mos Eisley, just before a group of aliens throw back a liquor that would probably kill a person just by having it touch their skin. But, it's also the name of a curious beverage from Russia: fermented tea. The really interesting thing about kombucha is that it's not simply left to ferment on its own. Rather, a starter culture has to be introduced, and carried from one batch to the next, much like sourdough - except that the culture (also known as "the mother") is actually a skin which forms on top of the liquid. Mmm. I'm salivating already.



Fortunately, some enterprising business (with the improbable name of "crudessence") saw fit to bring it to Canada. Let's give this a whirl then, shall we?

By the way, I'm pretty sure it's not a "health beverage" in Russia, since the primary purpose of fermentation is - you guessed it - to create alcohol. But in Canada, it's marketed as a "detoxifying tonic", possibly because they know that people in health food stores will try anything once. (A trait they share in common with certain bloggers.) They also mention in the ingredients that it's "made with love." Normally, that's just a charming idiosyncrasy. But I have to wonder: if it's a "living" beverage and it's made with love... whose love are we talking about? This tea has a higher opinion of me than I realised. Not only that, but it confirms my suspicions that this would be available in the Mos Eisley cantina.

Upon opening it, there's a small release of carbon dioxide, and the distinct yeasty odour of fermentation. According to the label, it's less than 0.5% alcohol. Like I said, it's a form of alcohol in Russia (and Mos Eisley). And I must admit, there's something impressive about a culture that's willing to take a pot of tea and ask, "how can we get drunk off of this?"

By the way, in case you haven't noticed, I've been rambling for the last few paragraphs because I'm still wondering what to do about that skin of bacteria floating on top of my alcoholic tea. Perhaps I'll skim the Mother off and add it to a pot of Earl Grey and see what happens. Perhaps I can call that strain the Queen Mother? Anyway, enough stalling. Time to see what it tastes like!

...

Well, it's better than hakarl.

Actually, it's very good! A bit strange, though. The first thing you notice is that it's as flat as the prairies compared to other carbonated drinks, but the bite of the dissolved CO2 is still there. There's also that distinctive yeasty taste, but it actually blends rather well with the sweet maple and blueberry flavouring.

I think the most surprising thing about it is its fullness: upon the tongue, it feels like a heavy draught of beer mixed with fruit and sugar, but it's still just tea.

I don't trust it... but I suppose it wants to avoid the Imperials just as much as I do.

Maybe we'll be able to work together after all.

Roughing It.

Sitting on the balcony of my condo, frying up beans and sausage in an iron skillet on a Coleman stove. The stove is from Canadian Tire -- as it should be -- and the skillet is from the family -- as it should be. While I occasionally poke the sausage with a fork, I'm listening to my tunes, reading e-mail, and blogging(!). Life is good. Life is very good.

There are worse ways to spend a summer.

Now, all I have to do is use this stove until it's a greasy, rusty mess that only fires up if it's held together in a very specific way, and it'll be perfect.

I think it'll take about a week.

Crikey.

This morning, while reading about vegetarian dishes, one pundit asked why eating insects is generally taboo in North America. Usually, my stock response to this is that I'd eat crickets or grasshoppers if they were meal-ready, but catching them one by one in the wild seems like a lot of work.

Almost against my will, I then recalled that the local pet store sells crickets as reptile food, in bulk, for five cents apiece.

I feel my bluff has been called.

Fortunately, the greenhouse has an annual chili cookoff each September...

The Hershey Henhouse.

At the restaurant for lunch today, we were discussing various subtleties of English (e.g. is the first E in 'eleven' supposed to be pronounced like the E in 'me' or the E in 'meh'?), and I was taking the stance that McLeven would be a perfectly acceptable alternative. I really like this idea, I said.

"Denton," replied MJ, "You like any idea that's yours."

"True, but that's usually because no one else would."

I didn't win all my arguments today, but I won that one. Bolstered by my victory, I decided to try out another of my ideas this evening:

Chocolate Chicken.

Now, hold on. Just think about it for a second. Honey-glazed chicken? Yummy. Apricot chicken? Fancy. Chicken with plum sauce? Essential. There's nothing saying you can't put the sweet to the meat. On top of that, hot chocolate with cayenne isn't at all uncommon in the southern lands, right? I figured it was worth the risk. (Besides, depending on how it turns out, it'll either be my reward for returning to this blog, or my punishment for having abandoned it.)

So, let's begin with the chicken.

Okay, that was easy. Next, the sauce.

1. Seven squares of dark (60% cocoa) chocolate. Leave the Quik on the shelf -- we're going for something special. (Besides, they were left over from Christmas.)

2. Cayenne pepper. Helpful cooking hint: when buying a brand-new packet, do NOT tear it open with your teeth. Regardless, I sprinkled a bit and a bit more in, which was probably a bit too much.

3. Peanut sauce. My reasoning was that chocolate and peanut butter are a solid combination, as is Satay chicken. Once again, I added a bit too much -- chocolate now consists of about half the sauce ingredients by weight.

4. A splash of milk. Just to keep it from solidifying as it cools.

5. A dash of maple syrup. There's a reason those dark chocolates were left over from Christmas -- I hate that stuff.

6. Finally, a pat of butter. Once again, butter chicken is good, and cocoa butter is good. Besides, since I don't have a double boiler, this'll be a good indication of when the chocolate's melt-- whoa! That was quick! Okay, blogging's over. Must stir.

*****

All right. Here it is, the final product: Denton's Aztec Chicken. (Give it a fancy name, and they'll at least take a bite.) Behold its majesty.




And now, time for a bite.

It's dark. Not just the chocolate, but the fine grit of the cocoa bean, rolling over your tongue like a storm cloud, bolts of cayenne streaking out as it goes by. It's thick, too -- it coats your mouth, grabbing on to your tastebuds like a pack of starving wolves will drag down a moose. You search the taste frantically, seeking to identify anything else, perhaps seeking escape. You find none -- the chicken is just as helplessly caught in this chocolate morass as you are. Perhaps a bit more salt would have given it some fighting spirit, but it's too late for that now. The chocolate continues to overwhelm, dark and thick like the evil in men's souls, refusing to be ignored, refusing to be understood.

That was way too much cayenne.

Okay, second bite.

Yep, still the same.

*****

And so it went, ladies and gentlemen, on and on into the night. I choked, I wept, I reached for the water -- but I finished it. I like to think that counts as a victory of sorts.

Besides, more sugar next time, and a bit more liquid to thin it out, and it'll be fine.

Blood Pudding Brothers.

My profound thought of the day:

The best way to make someone trustworthy is to let them know you trust them.

True, that means there's a chance of being screwed over royally... but that's why it's called "trust".

Words I live by. Sometimes to my regret, but usually not. Just like my cooking.

Speaking of which, did you know that when you run out of crackers for your soup, you can add Cheerios?



It's a big bowl of red blood cells! Yummy! The only downside is that they get soggy really, really quickly... well, it's the only downside, provided that you don't count "looks like a bowl of red blood cells" to be a downside.

But I trust you won't.

Honest Q; Sad, sad A.

A while back, my friend Joe posted a comment on this blog asking what my co-workers thought of my creativity. A flattering question, but to me, "creative" means writing a computer program, or acting in the Mikado, or perhaps writing a computer program which acts in the Mikado.

Perhaps I can describe this better using an example.

At work yesterday, I learned of Roscoe's House of Chicken' n Waffles. Chicken and Waffles together? Really? My interested was aroused... and it's not like I had anything better planned for supper that evening. So far, not very creative.

However, my larder was unprepared for the project. I had no chicken, but I had ground beef. Actually, it was soy-based ground beef substitute. I had no gravy, but I had a package of goulash mix, and some mushrooms and onions. I had no waffles, but I had Eggos. Still not creative, but close enough! Ladies and gentlemen... Goulash Stroganoff on Eggo.



In Joe's defence, maybe it could be called creative... because I certainly wouldn't have called it good.

Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

It's the Cheeziest.

It's potluck time again. This one was a maternity-leave sendoff for one of my co-workers at the greenhouse, which is a polite way of saying "baby shower." Not really a high-octane Friday night, but I hate phoning it in with a store-bought cheesecake. Time to roll up the sleeves, then.

The project actually started out simply -- a macaroni and cheese casserole. A splash of alfredo and tomato sauces (it's a rosée), some leftover nacho cheese from Mexican wrestling night, and voila... mediocrity.


Yeah, clearly I can do better than this. So, what else do I have in my larder? Hmmm...


Hmmm...

"Fukui-san!"

"Go, Ohta!"

"Iron Chef Microwaveable is gesturing wildly to the crowd! I think he's about to unleash his signature technique... the Cheese rush!"

"What? Doc, can you provide with some background on this?"

"Well, the Cheese rush is a highly controversial maneuver. Very risky... I don't even know if the judges will allow it. It was originally developed as a cheap fondue by Iron Chef English Bachelor, but the challenger modified it in the legendary Bacon Dorito Fritter battle, and it's been his secret weapon ever since."

"Tee-hee!"

"Yes, indeed."

And then, in my head, the music starts to play.

The rest of the evening is a blur, but when the dust settles, I'm left with orange-stained fingers, and this:


Macaroni and Cheezies(tm).

It actually doesn't taste all that bad out of the oven. Its texture is horribly adhesive once it cools down... but it enters a whole new garden of madness once it's been re-heated in the microwave.

I kind of like it. I doubt anyone else will, but honestly? That's kind of the point. Refuse to bring the potato salad. Break down the barriers. Say it loud if you can't say it well.

It's chicken soup for the punk rock soul.

børked, børked, børked.

Once again, it's made clear that I'm no longer the culinary master I once pretended to be.

It started out with an encouraging mix of inspiration and circumstance. Ever since moving to the Hat, I go a little "import crazy" when I'm in a large city. Arabic lemonade, Italian pasta dyed black with squid ink, Lebanese couscous... it's a cultural mosiac in my larder by the time I'm done. Unfortunately, sometimes that leaves me with a freezer full of marlin belly, and a pantry full of instant goulash. I had no idea how I was planning to cook the marlin belly, but the goulash mix helpfully suggested it could be used in a fish soup. Really... you don't say.

The first thing I learned about marlin belly is that it stinks. Imagine if octopi were hairy, and didn't leave the house very often. It was an illuminating discovery, if not enjoyable... as for subsequent lessons, they were considerably less important. So in an effort to dull the approaching disaster (which I was anticipating to resemble fish-based pork rinds), I tossed in a package of rice noodles. The aroma of octopus-belch persisted, but the noodles had mellowed enough of the flavour to make it slightly palatable. After the trial bowl, I tucked it away in the fridge, content in my accomplishments.

I returned to it after an extended absence (much like this blog) and found that its quality had declined considerably (much like this blog). The soup had solidified, gelled, receded into itself. I cut into it, and it quivered, possibly enraged with its own existence. I created a soup with just enough sentience to despair.

Or, perhaps I used too many rice noodles. Either way, happy meals and happy posts should resume this week.

Thanks for your patience.

Fa la la la lard.

Ah, time again for the annual Greenhouse potluck dinner and anonymous gift exchange. For the most part, it's fun, but the gift exchange breaks my heart. It's supposed to be a subtle jab at the commericalism of Christmas, where everybody exchanges equally useless trinkets and gewgaws, but that sentiment can't survive in the presence of "shared misery = comedy" office humour, which I personally see as a blight upon society. (How else could Dilbert comics become 75% less funny as soon as they're tacked up on a wall?)

Somehow, that atmosphere's infected the gift exchange as well, to the point where a quarter of the gifts are literally boxes of junk that were going to be thrown out. This passes for comedy? Come on, people. We're better than this. At the very least, let's make it a gag present that isn't instantly fit for the pit.

That's not to say everyone should copy my sense of humour... but just in case you're wondering, here's my offering for this year:



(A... hot dog kit? Whatever could that be?)



(Oh.)

The other half of the party - the potluck - is much more straightforward. For some, it's a reason to fall back on family favourites. For me, it's a chance to get people to eat something that I just invented two hours ago. It's about as heavy as a lump of coal, and not much healthier, but I gave up technical merit in favour of culinary originality a long time ago. The label shall read:

Denton's Christmas Croquettes
(WARNING: The key word in this title is neither "Christmas" nor "Croquette".)

To begin, I made rice pudding with dried cranberries instead of raisins. Next, I wrapped up each dollop in bread dough and deep-fried them. A dusting with cinnamon and sugar, and they're ready for their close-up...



Mmm, mmm. Is that rice pudding, or uncooked dough in the center? Only the chef knows for sure! (Actually, he doesn't.) I count this one as a partial success. Next year, maybe I'll try making Christmas potstickers out of wonton noodles instead. Now that I know how incredibly easy rice pudding is to make, you'll be hard pressed to stop me.

Bon appetit.

I can't believe I haven't mentioned the cafeteria yet. All my stories about not working for the military, and I forget to mention the food? Incroyable.

Actually, that's because it was pretty good for the first few months. Perhaps it was the sign up front that did the trick -- one can't help but have their expectations appropriately lowered when they walk into a cafeteria/greasy spoon that's been subcontracted to Pizza Hut. It wasn't what you'd expect, though -- the salads were fresh, the most popular breakfast was a plate of toast and eggs, and the poutine was top quality (if a mite salty). Even the pizza was pretty good (compared to other Pizza Huts, anyway). Add a suitable selection of coffee, and you've got a pretty good place for a coffee break. Sure, everyone called it the "Gag-n-Puke", but it was always hard to find a seat.

And then, one spring day, the sky darkened, and when we opened our eyes, all pizzas were half-price. The cafeteria rights had been sold to another food services contractor. No one was too concerned, though -- none of the staff would be fired, it would be something new, and if Pizza Hut couldn't screw it up, it would be hard for the newcomers to do worse.

Hard -- but not impossible.

The first day the doors opened under new management, I took my coffee break a few minutes early to explore the place before the rush. Have you ever seen the movie "True Grit"? Okay, now imagine if it starred a leathery, one-eyed Willy Wonka. You've just met the new subcontractor.

Aisle upon aisle of bubble gum, candy, and potato chips. An extra refrigerator full of bottled soft drinks. And no less than seven beef jerky displays. And I don't mean "seven shelf locations", I mean seven full carousels between the door and the cash register. And that's not even including the pepperoni sticks in the cooler where the salads used to be. The kitchen was still operating, but at least half the menu had disappeared. I don't claim to be a healthy eater, but even I could tell this was a poor substitute for an actual dinner.

But this wasn't dinner; this was a coffee break. You can't ruin coffee, right? No -- but you can keep it exactly the same, and raise its price by a dollar. I have a feeling that this was the final straw for most people. If they'd just put a little foam and a cinnamon sprinkle on each one, they might have gotten away with it, but they'd already missed their chance to be clever. It wasn't really a boycott... it was more like an awakening, as every last person at work suddenly realised that they had an old coffee maker at home that they could bring to the office. The cafeteria is still there, but it's considerably quieter. Also, in honour of its newfound love for preserved meats, we renamed the "Gag-n-Puke" to the "Puke-n-Jerk". Or "Jerk-n-Puke"; we're still not sure which one is more appropriate.

This sad story brings us to yesterday's events. MJ and I were getting ready to go for our coffee break.

"Denton -- Are you having hot chocolate today?"

"I don't know. I was thinking of just filling my bottle at the water fountain, actually."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"What? Why?"

MJ smiled, and held up a marshmallow.

There was a long and winding path leading up to that moment. It was worth it.

Kid Icarus and me.

All right, Day One of my post-Ratatouille week of good cooking. Like I said, I've really regressed into the title of Iron Chef Microwaveable Single Serving in recent days, so I'm going to start out with an old familiar tune.

ROUND 1: EGGPLANT PARMESAN

Ah, the noble aubergine. Such texture, such delicate taste, such accomodating nature. Just look at that colour -- how could I call something so dignified an "eggplant"? No, it'll always be an aubergine to me.

It's tasty, it works well with any sauce you throw at it, and it's simple to handle. Chopped and fried, they quickly turn into a gooey mess, but here's my workaround:

Cut in half lengthwise

Scoop out center with a spoon

Parboil the halves, face up (i.e. boil them in just a few centimetres of water)

Take them out, and peel off the skin (it helps to get a knife underneath the top layer)

There you go. Your Aubergine will now behave like a vegetable, rather than a gelatinous membrane. Now you can chop it up for your stirfry, work it into your pasta, and so on. Tonight, I fried up some mushrooms and garlic in another pan, added a bit of tomato sauce, spooned it into the halves, coated with parmesan, and baked it until the cheese got toasty.

True, they had all the structural support of an old pair of moccasins, but at least they respond to cutlery.

Mmm. You know, the eggplant will always have a special place in my heart -- they're one of the first things I put in my culinary repertoire, after all. If I ever design a personal coat of arms, you can be sure that you'll see that wonderful shade of purple worked in there somewhere.

All right -- Round One wasn't difficult, but it's got me fired up. Tune in tomorrow for Round Two! (and I'm taking suggestions!)

From the country that gave you Spotted Dick.

At the greenhouse cafeteria last week, the British officer in front of me politely asked the lady at the sandwich bar for a special request - something to remind him back home. Her heart thus swayed, she unwisely agreed to fulfill his twisted desires... and then he asked for a bacon, mayonnaise, and ketchup sandwich.

You know, just because something's edible doesn't actually mean it's good. Fortunately, there's a way to make this world a more tasteful place, and you can even salve your own crushed soul in the process: Ratatouille. The Pixar magic is still there, people. Highly recommended for parents, children, chefs, gourmets, and/or anybody who's ever enjoyed a movie.

One of the interesting things about the movie is how it's influenced by Jim Henson, of all people. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the movie was rich with that warm, good-natured, half-experimental fuzziness that pervaded the Muppet Show. There was that similar feeling that the creators didn't really know if they should be doing this, but since they wouldn't be happy doing it any other way, that they might as well have some fun with it. If only other movies would show the same heart...

The movie doesn't have a message, but like all good stories, it has an underlying theme. And from that theme, not only do I understand and forgive that wretched British soul for his BMK sandwich, but I'm inspired to do better. I've sufficed with bachelor cuisine for far too long. My Iron Chef talents have gone to fallow -- but no more! Tonight, my kitchen is reborn in a phoenix's flames.

But not literally, I hope.

Landscape and Sky.

First of all, some happy news: Punjab Palace has opened up downtown, and I was there for opening night. Now, it's true that the curry was as mild as the plains of wheat surrounding this city, and that the deep fryer wasn't quite up to temperature when they dropped in the samosas. Still, I maintain that the chef knows what he's doing -- he's just dialing it down for the buffet audience. After all, there are four different types of naan on the menu. That's not the work of an amateur. Also, there was a flat-panel television mounted high on the rear wall, and late into the evening, it finally locked onto its distant satellite signal to provide a bit of ambience.

Cilantro and Bollywood have come to Medicine Hat at last. Life is good.

Life's been good in other areas, too; for the first time in five years, I've found a book which compelled me to finish it in a single sitting. The lucky title is Happiness(tm), by Will Ferguson. The concept is of the sweetest satire: A self-help book is published which actually works, and the entire economy collapses once people start to feel good about themselves. It's the most inspirationally cynical thing I've read all year.

More than that, Will Ferguson has the writing style I've apparently been trying to copy. I'll know for sure, once I read through his first book, Why I Hate Canadians... on second thought, the simple fact that he called his first book "Why I Hate Canadians" is probably proof enough that he's my new role model.

Speaking of Canadiana, I recently purchased what is perhaps the most Canadian music CD ever recorded: Rheostatics' "Music Inspired by the Group of Seven"... and now, if you'll excuse me, I have a car stereo and a few hundred kilometers of highway with which to get better acquainted with this bizarre creation.

Why yes, we do have a children's menu.

Over the noon hour today, the discussion at work skewed to "the greatest restaurant ever". The way I see it, you can only go so far serving lobster stuffed with tacos or gold-plated caviar. The real future, my friends, is in Interactive Dining.

Here's the idea: The restaurant is in a very long room. At one end are the main entrance and the tables. At the other end is the buffet table. In the center are various obstacles, barriers, and corridors that must be traversed, and along either wall are people armed with paintball guns. Just pay a fee at the front, and it's all you can eat. The only catch is that you have to go get it, and if you're hit, you forfeit your plate.

It's health-conscious: You get some exercise, you're less likely to go back for seconds, and the route to the salad bar is a Neutral Zone.

It's team-building: A well co-ordinated group will be able to assault the buffet table much more effectively than someone on their own. Great for business lunches!

It's socially pro-active: The paintball guns are all manned by homeless people. If they shoot you down, they get the food you were carrying!

And if that weren't wonderful enough, my co-worker MJ even found the perfect name for our paintball buffet: Apocalypse Chow. I swooned when I heard that. Swooned, I tell you.

Alas, such a thing might never come to pass. That's why I love writing, though: The fictional Agent Casey just discovered his favourite fictional restaurant. But don't worry -- even non-fictional people can capture a small bit of the experience. After all, what is a theme restaurant without its signature dessert? Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present:

T2: Fudge-Mint Dae.

I have seen the future, and it's as delicious as it is dystopian. Enjoy!

(In case you're wondering, I got those eyes from a box of Smarties. That's probably the first time since I was seven that I ate the red ones last.)

I rewrote this blog for three days until I had stopped ranting about Hollywood economics. You're welcome.

Two weeks ago, I wisely refrained from publicly weeping over the closure of the city's only arthouse theatre, The Monarch. Even though it was a poor excuse for a theatre, its loss was felt in the city.

However, I was walking through downtown last night, and I noticed a sign in the window of the boarded-up-and-abandoned Sweetheart Café (a cynical metaphor for life if ever there was one). "Opening soon," it proclaimed in hand-drawn crayon, "The Punjab Palace!" Granted, they also boast of "Indian and Paistan [sic] food", but in an odd way, that's somehow encouraging.

Actually, it's very, very good news. If there's one thing I've missed from my Edmonton days, it's East Indian cuisine. Granted, there already is such a restaurant tucked inside one of the smaller hotels, but when I went to check it out... well, let's just say that if 90% of your menu involves curry, and I still can't smell anything besides cigarette smoke, there's a problem somewhere.

But just when I thought that Medicine Hat cuisine had reached a new height... it got better. At work, I was informed of Chang Hing Foods, a combination Chinese grocery wholesaler/tailor shop. Yes, really. I took in some pants to get adjusted, and picked up some frozen pre-cooked sticky rice and dumplings on my way out. For a guy who misses dim sum and can't sew, they hit that niche with a sniper rifle. Bravo!

After these two startling discoveries, I'm now happy to say Medicine Hat has almost a third the cultural depth of Moose Jaw. Things are looking up!