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Long ago in a kitchen very much like yours someone cooked for hours at a time.  She kneaded bread and rolled out pastry, and whenever the winds blew cold, she whipped up a pot of soup. Now homemade soup is considered so time-consuming that most home cooks never try, but that is exactly why soups are a cinch in a slow cooker. It is the only form of cooking that transforms long hours of barely simmering ingredients into a convenience. Although almost any soup recipe can be adapted to slow cooking, bean soups, vegetable soups, puréed soups, and long-simmering meat soups make the most sense. 

As with all slow cooker recipes, soups start with less liquid than you would use in a soup pot on a stove top.  For many of them the amount of liquid is not even enough to cover the solid ingredients.  Don’t add more; as the soup simmers, juices will percolate from the vegetables and the bits of meat will enrich the broth deliciously.

The following recipe for roasted vegetable soup takes a little bit of prep time--about 30 minutes, but all of that is done in the oven--no standing by the stove (and the roasting can be done a day or two ahead if that works better for you). Roasting vegetables does more than simply cook them. It transforms them into something savory and sweet, meaty and voluptuous, not the sort of attributes one usually ascribes to produce. This otherwise straightforward vegetarian vegetable soup benefits from the transformation. 

Feel free to alter the selection of vegetables to fit your taste and what you have on hand, but try to keep the volume of vegetables approximately the same. Like most soups, this one benefits from age.  The flavor will improve after it sits for a day. Garnish it with grated cheese, if desired.

Roasted Vegetable Soup
From Art of the Slow Cooker by Andrew Schloss, published by Chronicle Books

Ingredients:
2 onions, cut into 1-inch dice
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch lengths
2 celery ribs, sliced 1/2 inch thick
1 medium turnip, peeled and cut into 1-inch dice
1/2 red bell pepper, cut into 1-inch squares
1 small sweet potato, peeled and cut into 1-inch dice
8 white mushrooms, cleaned and quartered
4 large cloves garlic, whole and unpeeled
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
6 cups vegetable broth, divided
1 can (about 15 ounces) diced tomatoes, preferably fire roasted, with their juice
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary, crushed
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
3 tablespoons couscous, preferably whole wheat

Directions:
1. Preheat an oven to 425 degrees F. Toss the onions, carrots, celery, turnip, bell pepper, sweet potato, mushrooms, and garlic with olive oil on a large rimmed sheet pan. Spread out into an even layer and roast for 30 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender and lightly browned at the edges.

2. Scrape the vegetables into a 5- to 6-quart slow cooker.  Pour 1 cup of the vegetable broth onto the sheet pan and scrape up any browned bits clinging to it; scrape into the cooker.  Add the remaining 5 cups broth, the diced tomatoes and their liquid, salt, pepper, rosemary, and thyme, cover the cooker and cook for 2 to 3 hours on high, or 4 to 6 hours on low, until the flavors are blended.

3. Stir in the couscous and parsley and cook for 5 minutes more.

Makes 6 to 8 servings

--Andrew Schloss

Seattle's own Fleet Foxes will appear on Saturday Night Live this Saturday (the host is Rosario Dawson). Congrats to the Foxes, who, according to Stereogum, are only the sixth indie band to be booked on the legendary comedy show. Set your TiVo's, if you, like most of the music team here, are a fan.

--Renata Sadunas

Board members and patrons of Dallas Opera, TX were breathing a sigh of relief just before the new year, when the New York Times published a very eloquent denial from Dallas' new general director, George Steel, saying he was happy in Dallas and not contemplating a move back to New York to head up the fast-sinking New York City Opera.  Today the same newspaper broke the story that George is, indeed, returning to the big apple to become General Manager.  I'm linking to the Alex Ross blog, for the details. 

NYCO is in big trouble.  They owe a large amount of money.  Their original choice for the position, Gerard Mortier (Paris Opera / Salzburg Festival), walked away from the position at the last minute, because he thought their budget wasn't big enough.  They are also homeless.  The New York State Theater is under a massive renovation, which will keep the company flitting around the five boroughs in temporary accommodation for 2009/2010.

I really like the idea of George Steel taking over.  He is a proven impresario from his days at the 92nd Street Y, and at The Miller Theatre, where he built a reputation for imaginative, high-quality programming, that proved very pleasing to new and established audiences alike.  He's also a conductor, which could save them a buck or two, as he could moonlight.  I've even heard him sing counter tenor, but I should stop right there.

This appointment feels a lot better than unsuccessful attempts to import big, expensive stars from Europe.  I also think that City Opera's founder, Mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, were he around today, would also want to give the local boy a chance.  Go GRS!  Make us proud! -- Hugo Munday

[Ed.: Charlie Huston's latest book, The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (Amazon's pick as Best Book of the Month for January), descends into the grisly underworld of crime scene clean-up, appropriately inscribed with his indelible signatures: hilarious, inappropriate dialogue; outrageous supporting characters; and another bloody wreck at the intersection of Money and Violence. Honoring the theme of the novel, Charlie is posting on Omnivoracious all week, sharing "true stories about messes I've seen, helped clean up, and made." See more posts, and get more at his blog, pulpnoir.com.]

The guy with the mop at the bottom of the stairs looked up as I came through the basement door and held up a cautioning hand. 

We didn't speak one another's language, but the message was clear, "I just mopped the stairs, be careful."

So I was careful, I took hold of the banister, stepped out to place my foot on the first tread, and my legs went out from under me and I was suddenly riding my ass down a flight of wet stairs.

It hurt.

But not while it was happening.

While it was happening it was terriifying.

At the bottom, I didn't move.  The guy with the mop stared at me with bug eyes, said something I didn't understand.  I still didn't move.  The door at the top of the stairs opened and someone stuck their head in and asked if everything was OK.

The guy with the mop pointed at me.
"I told him."

The owner came down the stairs.
"Mr. Charles, can you move, Mr. Charles?  Did you hit your head?"

I could move.  I hadn't hit my head.  He helped me up.  Things were starting to hurt now.  My ass.  He led me to the office, a room that also accommodated liquor storage.  He got me a drink, brandy, a traditionalist.  He gave me a cigarette.

I had the drink and the cigarette. 

He came back and asked me, worry in his eyes, if I could work.  I nodded.  The worry left his eyes, he'd not be short-handed on a Friday night. 

I limped all night, told the story to the regulars, the waiters told it to their regulars.  After closing, over shift drinks, I told it again, the owner told about opening the door and seeing me unmoving at the foot of the stairs, how his heart had stopped, how the guy with the mop had looked up.

"I told him,  he said.  Motherf---er, he told him.  I'm thinking the a--hole is dead at the bottom of the stairs, but the motherf---er told him, so it's OK."

We all laughed.  Got pretty drunk.  It was a good night.

Ten years later the restaurant celebrated an anniversary.  The place was packed.  Customer, former employees, vendors, neighbors.  Packed.  A speech.  Brass plaques set into the bar at the stools of the two most beloved regulars.  Food in unbelievable quantities.  Liquor likewise.

Some of the people are family.  From the first year, from the days of twenty-dinner nights, before the reviews, before the place was a staple of the street, before people waited on the sidewalk to get in.  We worked three jobs each, at once.  A waiter was useless if he or she couldn't run food and bus tables.  A bartender was a punk if he or she couldn't do service, cash bar, handle the till, and work the door.  The owner had started his days at 3am, getting up to hit the fish market, produce, wine merchants.  No deliveries, he picked up everything, hand-picked the best, at bargain prices.  He built the place.  A landmark building, he'd wanted a picture window where there was none, fought the preservation committee to a deadlock, and said f--- it.  Inches behind the outer wall he'd installed a huge steel-framed window, sandwiched it between sheets of plywood.  In the middle of the night, weeks before opening, he parked a truck on the sidewalk out front, ran chain from the trailer hitch to eye hooks he'd driven into the wall, got behind the wheel, put it in first, and applied the gas.  The outer wall came down, revealing the new picture window.  Piling bricks into the back of the truck, he looked up to see a police can pull around the corner.

He spent the night in jail.  There was a fine.  But he kept his window.

Some of us at the party had been around.  The stories.  Too many.

The Vegas trip.  Perky.  The exterminators.  The couple who wouldn't pay.  The night the owner broke the door with that guy's head.  First Mother's Day.  The night I told the guy I'd smash his face in if he snapped his fingers at me one more time when all he was doing was snapping his fingers as part of a story he was telling his date.  Weddings.  Showers.  Poker games.  Thanksgiving.  Fourth of July.  The night R was punched by the fireman.  S and the owner screaming at one another, hurling obscenities in the kitchen, clearly audible in the dining room.  The girl who threw the bottle.  The Friday Night Sandwich Pickup. 

We'd been there.

We were waiting for the party to die down. We were waiting for it to distill to its essence.  An intimate group, around a table littered with plates and bottles and glasses, telling the stories we all already knew.

Then Senate fell down the stairs I'd already fallen down ten years before.

But he did it good.

Someone came up to me, years now after I'd managed the place, whispered.
"I think Senate fell down the stairs."

I rolled my eyes, looked at my wife.  Just like old times.  Here we go.

I went to the door that led into the basement, opened it, looked down, and saw Senate on his back on the concrete floor at the foot of the stairs, his head resting in a thick pool of his own blood, a pool deep enough it would splash if you dropped a penny into it, his wife kneeling next to him.

He did not look well.

A one-time drunk, Senate had cleaned up his act over the preceding years.  But during the party, at the scene of many past crimes, with a crowd that knew him only in the context of a man who inhaled cheap bourbon and exhaled cigarette smoke, he'd had one too many.

One bottle too many.

At the foot of the stairs I asked him to move his legs.  He did so.  And his arms.  He demonstrated his hands by flipping me off.  There was a large dark stain on his crotch.  He said he was fine. 
"Watch this."

He lifted his head and banged it back against the concrete with a squelch.  His wife and I winced.  I told him not to do that anymore.  He said he was fine again.  I pointed out that he was so far from fine that he'd pissed his pants.  This seemed to worry him.
The door at the top of the stairs opened.
"Motherf---er!"

The owner came down.
"Motherf---er.  Mr. Charles, Mr. Charles, the same f---ing stairs."

The EMTs arrived.

For the amount of blood, I found their examination cursory.
"Can you move? You feel like you can sit up?  OK, let's go."

They say him up, slapped a huge pad of cotton over the dent in the back of his head, wrapped several yards of gauze, and helped him up the stairs, clearly relieved that they didn't have to try and get a gurney up and down the fuckers.

The emergency room was fun.

In an utterly not fun way.

By which I mean it was no fun at all.

Senate kept going through a cycle that began with declarations that he was fine and wanted to go home, transitioned into claims that he wasn't even that drunk, segueing to questions as to just how serious this really was, fear coming into his eyes, ending when his eyes went fuzzy, he forgot where he was, and we started from the top.

It seemed clear that he was concussed.

We stayed a few hours, made sure he wasn't going to die, kept his wife company until a doctor manifested and assured everyone that it looked far worse than it was, and took a cab home.

I don't remember washing my hands.  I must have.  There was so much blood.  I must have washed my hands.  But I don't think I could have been too worried about it anyway. 

I knew Senate.  We'd done some shit together.  His blood didn't scare me.
   
He called the next day.

I picked up the phone and he started talking before I knew who it was.

"So, seventeen stitches and a radical new Flock of Seagulls haircut later, I'm feeling a little embarrassed about my behavior last night."
   
Somewhere in the middle, I'd worked at another place.  A three story restaurant.  Working the door, you ran up and down those stairs during the rush, seating and beating, asses in and asses out.  Theater District style.  I bit it on the stairs one night, landed on them flat-backed, no slide, feet out and up, whole body slam down.  And froze there.  I didn't know if I could move.  Was afraid to try.  But I could. 

The owner got me into the office, offered me a drink that I declined.  I no longer smoked.  He asked me if I could work.  I said yes. 

The bruises on my back, thighs, ass and one arm were ruler-straight.  As if I'd been smacked by boards.  No blood.  No stitches.  No Flock of Seagulls haircut.  Just a fall.  No story.

Just a thing that happened.

Senate let me feel the scar on his scalp, hidden by the hair after it grew out.

I didn't have one to show him.

Bastard.

     I'm Charlie Huston.  I wrote a book about trauma scene cleaning and family.  It's called The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death.  I'll be here all week telling true stories about messes I've seen, helped clean up, and made. 
    Be well,
    -c

Hey young lovers, here’s a hint: don’t forget to have a special cocktail on date menus or your romantic evening is doomed to be snuffed out like a candle. Or at least be rather boring (and do you really want to be boring? I didn’t think so). Whether it’s the not-too-far-away Valentine’s Day or this Friday when you’re inviting that hottie over and want to impress, you should always be ready to shake up a smooth and cutely-titled mix. Let me suggest the following recipe for the Sweetie Pie, whose balance of gin, sweet vermouth and maraschino liqueur, with a touch of simple syrup (to bring the sugar), is ideal for Valentine’s Day or any cuddly tête-à-tête.

To make your Sweetie Pie cocktail (the below recipe’s from Good Spirits, by the way) really stand out to your sweetie pie, let me also drop a few state-focused suggestions. First, if you can get it, I think the newish Dry Fly gin works wonders in this drink (it’s from Washington State’s first distillery, and we’re darn proud of it--with good reason, as it brings a bright juniper flavor that mixes nicely). And secondly, go with Tillen Farms Merry Maraschino cherries (also from WA). These yummy maraschinos are the first “clean” maraschino cherries with stems, as they’re sweetened with pure cane sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup and don’t contain artificial colors, flavors, dyes, preservatives, or sulfites. None of which would add to your amorous evening (and all of which would make you look like a cad to said significant other). Now, start shaking and making those bedroom eyes.

Ingredients:
Ice cubes
1 1/2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
3/4 ounce maraschino liqueur
1/2 ounce simple syrup
Maraschino cherry, for garnish

Directions:
1. Fill a cocktail shaker halfway full with ice cubes. Add the gin, sweet vermouth, and maraschino liqueur, and simple syrup. Shake well.

2. Add the cherry to a cocktail glass or pretty cordial. Strain the mix into the glass.

--A.J. Rathbun

My purse is no longer a place for unmentionables to be carried about in private. My 14- month old daughter has commandeered the accessory and enjoys emptying the bag, one pen and credit card at a time. And though I usually keep it out of her sticky-fingered reach, sometimes I indulge her under my supervision. Last week, she had finished pulling scraps of paper from my checkbook and started pulling pieces of gum out of the package. She started feeding these to my attentive boarder collie, who will take anything out of her hands, usually because they are sweet and sticky. Luckily, he is not a fan of orange-mint sugar free gum and didn’t ingest any.

For dogs that do eat sugar-free gum, they can develop xylitol toxicity. Unlike in humans, xylitol in dogs causes insulin release and can result in severe hypoglycemia. The low blood sugar levels can cause weakness, collapse and seizures. The xylitol can also harm the liver, enough to be fatal. And it doesn’t take much, as little as 1-2 pieces in a 25 pound dog! If you think your dog has gotten into your chewing gum, call your veterinarian right away. While there is no antidote, supportive care begun quickly can save your dogs life.

--Dr. Olson
---------------------
Dr. Olson practices small animal medicine in Denver, CO and is a regular contributor to Wag Reflex.

Disclaimer Regarding Veterinary Information

There's been a huge amount of press about the departure of William Petersen from CBS' wildly popular "CSI."  Interestingly, there are lots of little future forensic scientists out there (and lots of grown-ups as well) who are fascinated by the combination of science and mystery.  You may not think about it, but there are lots of kid-friendly forensic science (and, specifically, CSI-related) kits that can help satisfy your children's curiosity while teaching them about science. ("CSI: Playground," anyone?)  You can check out some of the kits and games here. -- E. Christian Moore    

To be frank, I've never seen Survivor, so the announcement of new contestants never mattered to me. That is, it never mattered to me until CBS recently announced that Tamara "Taj" Johnson-George from '90s R&B group SWV will be featured on the show's next season. I don't plan on watching the show or anything, but it does give me an excellent excuse to watch and share the videos for "Right Here (Human Nature Radio Mix)" and "Weak," which are both awesome jams. Thanks, Survivor!

--Jeff Reguilon

(Hat Tip: Idolator)

On the heels of yesterday's news of Patrick McGoohan's passing came Ricardo Montalban's as well. Montalban was famous for his role as the silver-maned, amply pectoraled Khan Noonien Singh in the best Star Trek movie, The Wrath of Khan (reprising a role he had played in the original series), for his portrayal of the suave Mr. Roarke in Fantasy Island, and for his Chrysler commercials ("rich, Corinthian leather..."). He was also a significant MGM player many decades ago. Remember the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside"? Introduced in the movies in 1947's Neptune's Daughter by Esther Williams and Ricardo Montalban. I listened to a sample and thought it was Fred Astaire until the accent kicked in. He danced with Cyd Charisse as well (below).  What a career!  --David

Hello! My name is Erin O'Brien. I've been working as a pre/postnatal exercise specialist for the past ten years at fitness clubs in NYC and Los Angeles. I have a MFA degree from New York University and am certified in pre/postnatal, post-rehab and flexibility training through Esquerre Fitness Group. I am also certified for group exercise, personal training and Pilates mat and reformer training. I am the proud mother of two children and currently reside in Los Angeles with my husband, actor James Denton. I've taken the time to answer a few questions to help you achieve a new and improved you!

1.  Why is it so important to work out while I’m pregnant? Isn’t this my time to put my feet up & relax while I still can?

NO! Don’t fall into that trap. The main reasons to continue exercising through your pregnancy include: 1) Less weight gained = less weight to take off after the baby is born 2) You will have a smaller baby, which is easier to give birth to 3) You will endure labor better. For prenatal exercise help, check out my DVD set from Acacia, Complete Pregnancy Fix - it offers workouts for before and after you have your baby. On the Prenatal Fitness Fix  disc (sold together with the set or separately) you will learn how to properly tone muscle, burn fat, and stretch while carrying you're little one!

2.  Is it ok to adopt the “I’m eating for two” philosophy?

Absolutely not. Your caloric intake should only be an extra 300 calories…that’s the size of a large banana. If you are suffering from morning sickness, you can’t let your blood sugar go down, so you’ll need to eat a lot of SMALL meals throughout the day.

3.  How do I find the time to fit in a workout? I have a newborn!

You schedule it in your calendar like you would a doctor appointment. Or, put the baby in a stroller, go outside and get a good cardio workout. Then once the baby falls asleep, go inside and do some weights…just do SOMETHING every day so you get in the habit of exercising for YOU. It will also help with postpartum depression! My DVD, Postnatal Rescue (sold separately or together as Complete Pregancy Fitness), offers three 15-minute workouts to ease you back into shape without hurting or overextending yourself!

5.  I’m trying to lose weight, and intend to get in a regular cardio workout.  Is it really necessary for me to do strength training too?

Strength training is in fact a MORE important aspect of a weight loss program. The more muscle you have on your body, the higher metabolic rate you have… in short, this means that your “body furnace” will burn hotter during the day, consuming more calories.

6.  Is it necessary to do all of my workout (cardio + weights) in one stretch of time or can I do half in the morning and half in the evening? Which is most beneficial?

It is not necessary to do it all in one stretch – I actually think “2 a days” are helpful. The problem is, most people don’t have the time to work out twice a day, and usually that second workout is put off, and not completed. I like to work with weights in such a way that you are getting a cardiovascular response as well as putting muscle on the body.

7.  No matter what I do, my arms still look flabby! Help!

Unfortunately, just lifting heavier weights is not the answer. You need to hit it from three directions – weight training, cardio work, and clean eating. Check out my fitness DVD from Acacia, Strong Body, Ageless Body. I lead you through a 45-minute workout routine that works your arms, legs, and core. You have something to work toward - and a healthier, trimmer body to look forward to.

This clip is the automobile chase sequence from the Jackie Chan film My Lucky Stars, which is set in Japan. Jackie and his partner are after two ninja-type bad guys who are driving a Ford Mustang II, of all things; as the scene opens, they commandeer a kei car and give chase. (Caution: brief rude gesture and bad language at about the 1:26 mark.)

0:02 -- Note the bad guys' efficient use of visually-impressive ninjitsu/parkour obstacle-avoidance technique. However, their choice of getaway vehicle--an extroverted Yankee coupe with a white vinyl roof and opera windows--does not exactly seem calculated to confer ninja-like invisibility in urban Japanese traffic.

0:14 -- Since the Mustang is not out-accelerating the kei car, I think it reasonable to conclude that we're dealing with the base 4-cylinder Pinto engine and a slushbox.

0:19 - 0:21 -- That's definitely the base suspension on the Mustang--note the vintage-70s body roll and oversteer. It's cornering like a Trabant, or like my father's LTD. Even the kei car, which is deliberately being driven wildly in the interests of visual drama, takes the corners better.

0:29 -- The music is cheap royalty-free imitation spy jazz played on the Wurlitzer organ in your Grandma's parlor.

0:35 -- Steeplechase with a kei car instead of a horse. Do Japanese backyards normally have white picket fences--and jump ramps?

1:12 -- Is it just me, or does the Pinto-based Mustang II seem to tower over the home-market Nissans and Toyotas it's weaving around?

1:28 -- HULK SMASH! HULK SMASH PUNY JDM COMPACTS! HULK SHOW RAGE! HULK WANT OWN ANGRY CARS FEATURE ON "CAR LUST"!

1:45 -- If I were writing the dialogue here, Jackie Chan would say something like this: "Relax, I saw Semir do this in Alarm for Cobra 11, and he didn't even scratch the paint on the BMW. We'll be fine."

1:59 -- I know this is a Jackie Chan film, but somehow, when it's a kei car jumping off the auto carrier and vaulting six car-lengths down the freeway, it's just not as impressive as when the Germans do it on the Autobahn with a $100k 8-series Bimmer. Still, one must give Jackie credit here for bringing the kei car down in the middle of two lanes of rush hour traffic without hitting anything.

This being a Jackie Chan film, this is only one of dozens of over-the-top action sequences--including a climactic martial arts fight with ninjas in which some of the ninjas are wearing San Diego Chargers "powder blue" ninja suits. According to the editorial review of the film at Amazon.com, there is also a scene in which one character tries to hypnotize a duck.

Using a base-model Mustang II for a getaway vehicle, vaulting kei cars off empty auto carriers, martial arts fights with powder-blue ninjas, all that I can accept, but duck hypnosis? That's beyond my power to willingly suspend disbelief.

--Cookie the Dog's Owner

In the decade or so since relaxed regulatory legislation begat new and ever more rapacious media consolidation, independent record labels have stepped up to the challenge by fostering loyalty through quality, charisma, and--occasionally--sheer stubbornness. Certainly, none among us shops exclusively by label, but certain imprints can be trusted to deliver a general level of quality that we can count on year in and year out.

From hip-hop to opera, there are great record labels out there that both focus on a particular genre and deliver the goods in a way that's bankable without being predictable. We ChordStrikers have our favorites, but when you work with music day in and day out, you court the possibility of missing the forest for the trees.

So for those genre junkies out there, what labels retain that magnetism for you? What label name would cause you to read a review in a magazine or online, assuming the artist or title didn't grab you on its own? What labels' releases do you check in on from time to time? Or as Morcheeba put it--albeit ungrammatically--"Who Can You Trust?"

      --Jason Kirk

[Ed.: Charlie Huston's latest book, The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (Amazon's pick as Best Book of the Month for January), descends into the grisly underworld of crime scene clean-up, appropriately inscribed with his indelible signatures: hilarious, inappropriate dialogue; outrageous supporting characters; and another bloody wreck at the intersection of Money and Violence. Honoring the theme of the novel, Charlie is posting on Omnivoracious all week, sharing "true stories about messes I've seen, helped clean up, and made." See more posts, and get more at his blog, pulpnoir.com.]

PIZZA SAUCE

Mild Sunday summer evenings in Manhattan, evenings with a breeze that carries off the midday reek of rotting garbage, are of a rareness that surpasses all other considerations.

Peace descends over the island.  Responsibilities fall away.  A vast cloud of urban anxiety is sucked from the populace and carried aloft by the updraft of warm air, dispersing above the Empire State Building.

Everyone goes out to eat and put on a buzz.

It is an irresistible pull.  In a city where the climate allows no more than a half-dozen days of truly beautiful weather, to miss the opportunities of just one is akin to flushing away a year of one's youth.

Everyone goes out to sit on park benches and smoke a cigarette.

The temperature is flawless, suitable for anything from a bikini to jeans and a light sweater.  No one stares at the pavement, they look at one another's eyes and smile with a look that says, "Aren't we the lucky f---ers to be alive today."

Everyone goes out to look at the beautiful half-clothed people and think about f---ing.

Last minute social arrangements are made, fallen into, long lost friends appearing randomly from your childhood on the patio at that place on Delancy, that guy finally calling you, your wife saying she's dying to go to Coney for a beer like you used to, your buddies discovering that no one has plans for after the pick-up game on the 4th street courts and a bbq is suddenly arranged on a rooftop, a fourth pitcher of margaritas that no one objects to.

Everyone goes out to be with someone.

SPLAT!

Walking down Avenue A on such an evening with a good friend and the women who would become our wives, blissful in our buzzes of beer and camaraderie, that was the sound that drew us back to the world.  The sound of a nose being pulped by a steel basement trap (these steel basement traps, they crop up in bloody stories somehow).

The woman walking several years ahead of us, she went down.  I mean, she went DOWN.  Never having seen someone go down like that, we all froze mid step.

She'd not frozen mid step, she'd simply changed the orientation of her physical mass as it related to the gravitational pull of the earth and, rather than continuing in forward in the direction she'd been traveling, she'd somehow taken a step straight at the sidewalk, her inertia inexplicably redirected into the ground.

SPLAT!

As if an invisible and massive hand had shoved her face first into the trap.

SPLAT!

We were not the only ones halted by this demonstration of the arbitrariness of physics.  All the wafting travelers of this Sunday evening were harshly pulled to the surface.  Not as harshly as the woman lying face down, but with mellow-jarring effect, nonetheless.

It did not look good.  It looked like the kind of incident that might result in bone shards being shoved into someone's brain matter.

I did not want to look.

Motion took over.

The four of us, along with several other, moved to help her.  We reached her first.  She was moving, rolling onto her side, revealing her splattered nose.

Splattered.

I feel I need say no more on the subject.

She herself, we realized at once, was similarly splattered.  And as splattered as she was by the fall, she was twice as splattered by whatever she'd been drinking.

She'd clearly exceeded the limits defined by the classic Sunday summer evening buzz and gone in for plain old s--- faced.

Incoherent, but alive, she lost some of her attendants and audience. 

But we had our hands on her.  Dropping her and heading to the next bar was not in the cards.  A call was placed to 911.

"Um, she fell down on her face and splattered her nose and there's a lot of blood."
"Someone is coming.  In the meantime, we want to stop the bleeding.  I want you to tilt her head back and pinch the bridge of her nose."

I looked at her nose.

"Her nose is splattered."
"Is it broken?"

I looked again.

"It's splattered."
"Can you pinch the bridge?"
"I don't think it has a bridge anymore."
"Don't pinch it."

I thought that was a good idea.  Instead of pinching her splattered nose I tilted her head back, put a wad of paper napkins that had been offered to me from one of the guys in the pizza shop she'd gone down in front of under what looked like her nostrils, and told her to breathe through her mouth.

She laughed, and I saw broken teeth in her mouth.

The EMTs arrived. 

I'd done this before. Knew to get out of the way and not talk unless spoken to.  They spoke to me pretty soon because they couldn't understand a word the woman was saying.  But, soon enough, she was loaded onto a gurney, no accompaniment in the back, and the ambulance drove away without sirens.  No big deal.

One of my hands was bloody.  I was still holding a wad of bloody napkins.  Looking around for someplace to toss it.  One of the pizza guys came to the sidewalk service window where you ordered your slices and waved me to the door.  I told my friends I'd be right back and followed him in, behind the counter, to the kitchen. 

He pointed at a garbage can and I dropped the napkin wad inside.  He picked up a bottle of bleach and poured it over the garbage, nodded at a sink.  I put my hands in the sink, he turned on the water and I put my hands under the taps.  Hot water ran over my hands and he tilted the bottle of bleach and spilled it into my palms, two, three, four cups of it, nodding.
"Gotta be careful.  Gotta be careful."

Outside one of his coworkers was doing the same with the blood splatter on the trap in front of the service window, pouring bleach over it, wiping it away, dumping the rags into a bag.

My friends were waiting. 

"I have never seen anyone fall like that."

We started to walk toward our intended bar.

I nodded.
"Me neither. Never seen anyone fall like that."

The next morning, in the deli across from my apartment, where I went for coffee and the paper, I saw one of the EMTs.  I reminded her that I was the guy who called in the woman who fell down and splattered her nose.  I asked if she knew what had happened to the woman.

The EMT smiled.
"She said she'd been drinking tequila all day.  She was fine.  Broken nose.  Tequila.  Get you every time."

The weather was back to normal that day.  Hot, humid, rank.

Several months later, after the cold had come down, in a freezing subway station after midnight, waiting for the train that would take me home, the doors opened on an uptowner and a man reeled out, blood all over his face, people making way for him as he stumbled and ranted.

A sudden lurch took him in the direction of the empty downtown track, the eight-foot drop to the rails.  I got in front of him, hazed him toward a bench with razed arms, like directing an unsettled cow.  He sat, wanted to get up and go.

I couldn't see a wound.  Just blood.

He got up, wouldn't sit, let me give him balance to the end of the platform, until he was in the tunnel that led to the surface, following the wall, leaning hard into it.  I let him go.

Back on the platform I realized I had a few spots of blood on my hand.  I looked for something to wipe it on.  A hand appeared, offering me a foil-wrapped wet nap.  I peeled it open and wiped my hands.

The woman took a travel bottle of hand sterilizer from her bag.
"I'm a nurse."
She squirted some into my palms and I rubbed my hands together.
She capped the bottle.
"Gotta be careful."
She watched as I threw the used wet nap in the trash.

I was careful not to touch my face, my mouth, all the way home.  Washed there with hot water and bleach.  Repeated.

That was the last time I had direct contact with a stranger's blood in New York. 

Why do I miss it?

     I'm Charlie Huston.  I wrote a book about trauma scene cleaning and family.  It's called The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death.  I'll be here all week telling true stories about messes I've seen, helped clean up, and made. 
    Be well,
    -c

British television icon Patrick McGoohan passed away Tuesday at the age of 80. He's best known in the U.S. for playing the title role in the futuristic sci-fi series The Prisoner ("I am not a number! I am a free man!"), but fans also remember him from the spy-thriller series Secret Agent.  (That series is a bit confusing.  It started as a half-hour series called Danger Man in the U.K., then the hourlong series became popular in the U.S. retitled Secret Agent, but often referred to as Secret Agent Man because of Johnny Rivers' theme song.) McGoohan's movie career included The Three Lives of Thomasina, Escape from Alcatraz, A Time to Kill, and Braveheart (he was King Edward Longshanks), and he was a contender for the original James Bond role. As legend has it, he turned down the role on moral grounds, and those standards are what a lot of people liked about his character in Secret Agent.  Read more at MSNBC.  --David

Over the past couple weeks Domino's has been touting their 2-to-1 margin win over Subway in a national taste test. Why wasn't I part of this test? Heck, nobody I know was part of this test. And nobody they know was part of this test. How can a "national" taste test can occur and nobody knows about it until it's over? Next time, Domino's, call me.

Back to my point. Why is this taste test a big deal? Beating Subway in a taste test is like beating Paris Hilton at chess. Yeah, she can physically play chess and she might even know the rules, but she's so busy texting, checking her makeup, and ordering her seventh cranberry vodka that she isn't really aware a game is going on. Likewise, Domino's is too busy making inconsistently mediocre pizza to make a great sandwich. Sure their sandwiches might have a taste edge over Subway but I could go into my kitchen right now and make a sandwich that tastes better than anything Subway has. I'm not saying Subway sandwiches necessarily taste bad. They taste fine. I like them on occasion. But taste itself isn't the only thing Subway is focused on. They consider, among other things, taste, price, and nutrition.

Here's breakdown of the nutrition side of the game. As you can see, you can get comparable Subway sandwiches with double meat and they're still far healthier than Domino's sandwiches. This breakdown is brought to you by the "Subway, Please Sponsor Me" foundation.

In conclusion, Paris Hilton and Domino's need to stop multitasking.

--Spanno 

Thanks to Neatorama for cluing us in to the latest in the world of luxury gastronomy! According to Luxury Insider, snail caviar is brand new to the marketplace after four years in development. The caviar consists of "smooth cream-colored pearls that reportedly burst on the tongue with subtle autumn and woody flavors."

Read more about this new delicacy at Luxury Insider.

What say you, Al Dente readers? Would you eat snail caviar? Add your thoughts in the comments section!

--KitchenMaus