Broken Bike Back

After a week of walking everywhere I gathered what is left of my pride and sheepishly brought my bike next door. Handle bars in hand, head down, I walked up to the son. He took one look and, eyes wide, said "Jumping curbs?" I mumbled something about a crack. I was embarrassed. How could I treat my bike in such a poor manner and than, tail between my legs, bring it in expecting them to fix it?

But they did, quickly. And since I bought the bike from them earlier this year, they fixed it for free. I think they grabbed a sturdier piece as a replacement. Happy with the repair, I rode around the block, reunited with my friend.

It happened . . .

it finally happened. Turning out if my drive way my handle bars twisted off. I'm just happy I wasn't more on the way to work.

I have a new obsession

It's artisan pencil sharpening. 

Biker

Against all odds, I've become a bike person. All the times I've cursed bikers, muttering obscenities as they pass me. I openly scoffed every time I saw someone walk into a store with there pant leg still rolled up.

But something has changed. My bike became my preferred mode of transportation. I actively enjoy cruising around on the little thing, swerving around cars, timing my approach to intersections so I don't have to stop. It's just fun. I even yell at cars if they get too close or act too dumb. I don't roll my pant leg up though, that's still an affront to all that is good. The me of a few months would pass current me biking to work and mutter "fucking hipster."

My bike is slowly breaking. The handle bar is cracking. The medal rubbing on itself makes a terrible squeak and the handle bars slowly rock back and forth. Every time I ride to work I envision it falling off in traffic and me falling with it. Yet, I still ride.

Garlic Soup

Recipe books are hardly page turners. You skim, you browse, you find something interesting and note it for later cooking, but you almost never read one. The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating is the exception. Fergus Henderson writes recipes the way recipes should be written. They aren't the normal dry, narrative essays that read like a third grade class wrote it. They're written naturally, with funny side notes, and turns of phrase that have no business being so good.

I was first introduced to this recipe book when my friend shoved it into my hands a few weeks ago, saying "Merry Christmas," (We seem to be trading meet related gifts back and forth. Pork related to be more spastic) I flipped through it, liked what I saw, but really only got a good look the other day. Reading though the stocks and starters and soups sections, I focussed in on a recipe for garlic soup. Intrigued, I set to work on it. A simple, albeit smelly, recipe. Simmer eight heads of garlic in two quarts stock until they are soft. Squish them through a sieve and reincorporate them into the stock. Small servings with a hunk of day old bread to sop up the soup. Use homemade stock when possible. I used store bought, which was a mistake. 

I woke up today a big ball of stink, but feeling more healthy. I didn't mind it. The soup was creamy with that subtle sweet that cooked garlic gets. I say embrace the stink. If anyone snickers, I've got some soup for them to try.