On losing things.

The other day, I lost my remote.

Wait.  Before I get into this, I should probably set up some context.  I live by myself in a little rowhouse.  The first floor was once three separate rooms, but has since been converted into one large open space, though with three distinct zones - the couched-off living room, the office-slash-wine cabinet region, and my kitchen.  It should also be noted, that as a bachelor, while I don't have a lot of stuff in my living space, what little I own is arranged somewhat... haphazardly.  The furniture isn't, but the stuff - the mail, the couch blankets and cushions, the giant stuffed hamster - it's on the lower end of the organized spectrum.  I spend much of my life in this contiguous room.  One of the benefits of having a clear line of sight to the TV is that pretty much anything I do in my house, I can do so while watching TV.

And this day, this was exactly what I was doing.  An episode of Archer averages in at around 22 minutes long.  I hit play, and in the consequent 22 minutes, I engaged in the following activities:

1.  I prepared a plate of Triscuit nachos.

2.  I poured myself a tasty beverage from my fridge.

3.  I ate said nachos and quaffed said beverage on the couch.

4.  I used the only bathroom on this floor, through the laundry room extension.

5.  I sat down at my desk to shut down my desktop and turn off the monitors and mouse.

6.  Using my laptop sitting on the printer on the wine cabinet, I checked Facebook and Twitter.

It is important to note, for the purposes of this blog post, that I did not recall the order in which these activities occurred.  Some, of course, were obvious in sequence.  But for the most part, these instances were bits of motion spread out over the course of an episode.

It was when the episode ended that I first realized my remote was missing.  I run Netflix through the TV itself, so it was impossible to move on to the next episode without using the remote.  "Huh," I said to myself as I patted the couch cushions around me.  "Where'd I put the remote?"

The sudden silence hung in the air as I stood up, brow furrowed as I cast my gaze about.  I couldn't see it anywhere in the vicinity.  It crossed my mind that perhaps, over the course of my various activities, I'd taken it with me on my way to my desk, or the kitchen, or the bathroom.  I retraced my steps, slowly but not too slowly, confident that at any second, I'd spot the bulky black rectangle of my remote.

Nothing.  From couch to desk to kitchen to laundry room to bathroom and back, nothing.  "Where'd I put it?" I asked Alistair as he lumbered past me.  My only response was an inquisitive "Prrp?" as he looked up at me.  It was close to their dinnertime.  No problem.  I'd feed them as soon as I'd found the remote and got the next episode started.

I looked again.  This time, really looked.  Each object on my desk, in my shelves, in detail this time, seeking out edges and shapes, hunting, searching as Alistair chirruped at my heels.  "Shoo, Alistair," I muttered to my cat, knowing he wouldn't understand me.  How could he?  He was a cat.  Still, it felt good to say.  Helped relieve a little of the tension building inside of me as I cycled back to the couch.  Still nothing.

Couch cushions were next.  Next logical step, right?  If it had been on the couch, maybe it'd fallen behind one of the cushions.  One by one, I took my couch apart, setting aside pillows, blankets, controllers, and the hamster as I lifted each pillowy plank.  All the while telling myself to take it easy, to relax.  It had to be here somewhere.  After all, I was the only person here.  I had to have been the last one to have it.  Right?

But nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was getting to me.  The search moved on, to the wine cabinet, lifting the stray paper, checking under the keyboard on my desk.  Shifting the recycling around on the island, checking behind the coffeemaker.  Because maybe, just maybe, I set it down and nudged it behind something.  Maybe it was in my hand as I headed for the bathroom.  Maybe I put it on the dryer.  Maybe I put it in the dryer.  Was it in the dryer?  No.  Behind the toilet?  I might have knocked it into the toilet.  No.

Did I go to this bathroom?  Or did I go to the one upstairs?  I headed upstairs.  I was pretty sure I hadn't gone upstairs during the episode, but clearly it wasn't downstairs, so maybe I should check.  I ripped up my bed, checked behind my bathroom mirror, peeked into the shower.

Nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was deafening.  Taunting me, mocking me for my failure.

By now I was yelling at Zevran.  "Where?  Where did you put it?"  He blinked lazily at me from the top of the cat tree.  The little bastard.  It wasn't upstairs.  Maybe it was down in the basement.  I hadn't been in my basement for days.  But I went anyway.  I opened all the storage boxes and rummaged through my high school memorabilia and my box of computer cables.  I rummaged through my workbench, even though I knew it couldn't be down there.  But what was the other option?  That I'd missed it?  Impossible.  I'd looked everywhere up there.  Hadn't I?

There came a point between checking inside the printer tray and in the crisper drawer in my fridge where madness settled in.  Did I ever really have it?  Was the remote real?  Or was God playing some kind of sick joke on me?  Had I kicked it under the couch?  I didn't remember kicking anything, or hearing anything being kicked.  I was begging to no one, to the silence, as I lifted each couch, mumbling half-weeping pleas through the maglite in my mouth that I find my remote.  My mind was mapping out what would happen if I didn't find it.  I wouldn't be able to use Netflix or Hulu or Amazon through my TV anymore.  I'd have to find the manual 'ON' button just to use the XBox.  Every time.  I'd have to get a new TV.

By now, I wasn't searching with my eyes anymore.  They were useless to me, just leaking orbs dried out by what felt like an eternity of search.  I was on my hands and knees, fingers splayed on the hardwood as I crammed my arms into any dark crevice or shadowy gap between the furniture that would have them.

And then I found it.

I found it as I ran my fingers over the top of the black fabric of the cat carrier.  It had fallen from the cabinet onto the carrier - face down, so the black plastic blended effortlessly with the polyester.  Cushioned by the soft roof to disguise the sound of its descent.  I slumped to the floor, clasping the remote to my chest, breaths coming in long, shuddered inhales.

"Prrp?"  It was Alistair, his paw on my knee.  Dinnertime.  Of course.  With a smile, I stood, hit Play on the next episode, and strode off to feed the beasts.  And it wasn't until I slipped the quart container of cat food back in the fridge, still smiling to myself, listening to the strange duet of Amber Nash and masticating cats, that I realized my hands were empty.

"Huh," I said to myself, fighting back the tremor in my voice as a clammy fist clenched at my heart.  "Where'd I put the remote?"

On internet socializing, part 1.

Hm.  Apparently, by signing up for BiSC, I've suddenly shown up on 50 or so new radars.

And also apparently, I'm going to celebrate this by staying off the radar for the day.  I've got a lot of people to meet tomorrow.

Does this mean I'm getting introverted as the years march on?

Recipe break. Fried Chicken.

I love fried chicken.

Yes, I could go into further detail about this, but really, does any more have to be said?  Over the years, I've developed several methods of preparing this, from extrapolations of the classic flour dredge - egg wash - bread crumb technique to the Korean-style cornstarch batter twice-fry.  But when I've got the craving on the fly and I want to set myself up for impromptu availability (after all, I live on my own, and making a full-on eight-piece recipe is a bit much even for [sober] me), this is how I roll.

  Boneless, skinless chicken thighs.  Bones will only slow you down.  White meat is for chumps.
  A thingy of buttermilk.
  Sriracha.  Technically, you could use any hot sauce here, particularly if you have an assload of random sauces in your fridge that have been sitting there since the last time you went to a hipster farmer's market.
  Flour, cornstarch, and panko bread crumbs.  Yes, all three.  Don't start.
  Salt and seasonings of your choice.  This one's up to you.  Me, I like to use smoked paprika, garlic powder, red pepper flake, and sometimes chipotle chili powder.

1.  In a resealable container of some variety (I use quart containers; if you don't know what those are, order a quart of soup from a Chinese place), throw in the chicken with enough buttermilk to cover, and enough hot sauce to turn the buttermilk pink.  Or whatever color your hot sauce looks like combined with white.  All a matter of preference.  Shake vigorously until the chicken is well-coated and submerged in buttermilky goodness.
  Why buttermilk?  Not only is it viscous enough to absorb ridiculous amounts of flour and flour-like substance, the enzymes in buttermilk actually infiltrate the meat and begin breaking the fibers down.  Also, the salt and flavorings from the hot sauce will, through the magic of osmosis, get into the actual flesh as time goes on rather than just sitting on the surface.

2.  In another resealable container (again, quart container, though a gallon-sized Ziploc bag works well for larger batches), combine a 1:1:1 ratio of flour, cornstarch, and panko.  It's important here not to go over 60-70% capacity of the container.  You're going to be shaking your chicken in this mixture, and you can't shake if there's no room.
  Flour adds body, cornstarch adds crunch, panko adds both.  If you asked me why I say this is the golden ratio between the three, I wouldn't have an answer outside of "I've made a shit ton of fried chicken and this has turned out the best.  Now stop asking questions and get off my lawn."

3.  Season your dredge mixture.  Salt, spices, herbs, whatever.  Taste the flour.  Yes, I'm serious.  This is one thing that blows my mind about home cooks - if you blindly follow a recipe without tasting as you go, how do you know how the end product will taste like?  The dredge should taste like how you want your crust to taste.
  There are tons of cooks and chefs who will tell you to season your chicken, then dredge it to keep the spices from burning and to reduce the amount you need to use.  After all, you're never going to use every last bit of the dredge.  To them, I rebut: this is way easier.

4.  Drizzle buttermilk into the dredge mixture, about a tablespoon at a time, stirring with your fingers or a fork to incorporate.  This is the determining factor between a thin, weak crust and the rich, firm crunch of a crust that has strength.  To tell if you've got enough in there, open the container, place your head directly in front of the opening, and give it a firm tap on the counter.  If it doesn't explode in a cloud of Scarface-like dust all over your face, you've got enough in there.
  Adding buttermilk directly to the dredge gives it a chance to clump together, exponentially increasing the amount of surface area on your crust.  And this, when fried, is what makes for a heartier crunch in the end product.

5.  Place both of these containers in the fridge and walk away.  That's it.  You're done with your prep work.  If you stop at this point, you are about fifteen minutes away from fried chicken at any time.  I've kept chicken like this up to a week.
  I'm totally lying.  I eat the first pack up inside a day or two, then keep restocking it with more thighs.

6.  When it's go time, heat up a pan of oil.  The pan should be wide enough to accomodate however much chicken you eat at a go without crowding, and you should have the oil at about 1/4" off the bottom.  Preheat that oil while you grab your containers out of the fridge.
  I reuse the pan and oil until the oil gets gross and filled with burnt bits.  I just put a lid on it when not in use.  Don't judge me.  You don't know my life.

7.  Take a thigh from the buttermilk and let it drip, then deposit it in the dredge container and shake the shit out of it to coat.  Make sure it lies flat, or it'll clump up on you.  You want the dredge mixture to get all up in that shit.  If you're doing more than one piece of chicken, do them one at a time so they don't stick together.
  I can do two thighs in the same container, but it takes practice.  Also, I'm more clever than you.  I'm not really.  I didn't mean it.

8.  Get the oil up to about 325.  If you don't have a fancy infrared thermometer like I do, wet your hand and flick droplets of water on the oil from a distance.  They should immediately sizzle and skitter across the surface.
  I say 'about 325', but it doesn't really matter too much.  Anywhere between 300 and 350 is fine.  Outside that range, though, and it'll start messing with how much time you need to cook it.

9.  Fry the chicken for four minutes on each side.  This time will vary, depending on the size of your chicken, but I've found four minutes to be the optimal time for what I find around here.  One minute before the end of side B, kill the heat.  The oil's plenty hot.
  Also, the oil will inevitably be smuttier on side B, which often leads to a darker crust on that side.  Plus side B is starting at a higher temperature than side A by virtue of its proximity to hot oil for four minutes, which means it'll take less time to cook.  Easing up on the gas pedal alleviates these issues.

10.  Drain and devour like the savage you are.

I should note that this process works for boneless pork chops, too, if they're around 1/2" thick.

All this chicken talk is making me hungry.  See you tomorrow, guys.


P. S.  Invest in a fry screen.  Trust me on this.

On sexism and the negative stereotype.

Before we get started, let me go ahead and tell you guys that this is not going to be nearly as serious a blog post as you think it is.

Right.

I love my cats.  I really do.  Alistair is quite possibly the cutest and most loving creature I've ever run across.  I could spend an entire Saturday scritching his belly while we're sprawled out on the bed, listening to him purr like a motorboat as he stares at me with unquestioning adoration.

And don't get me started on Zevran.  When I say he is the greatest cat in existence, it is no exaggeration.  He gets crazy eyes when he's about to play fetch with a wadded-up paper towel, he follows me room to room at my heels like a warlock's familiar.  He climbs on my shoulders so he can divebomb headbutt me.  Look at the little fucker.

That's me in the middle of making dinner.  I can wear him like a parrot.  If he'd bake muffins for me, I'd upgrade him to roommate.

That being said, I'm well aware I'm crazy.  I'm crazy about my cats.  I'm a crazy cat...

uh... hm.

Why is there no male analog to Crazy Cat Lady?  Why is it that when we envision a person living alone, humming in their house by themselves, cooking for one, wearing a frilly apron and singing to their cats, we see a woman?

That shit is sexist.  It ain't right.

On one of those days.

Have you ever had one of those days where you think yourself into a spiral?  Maybe you know what I'm talking about.  When nothing going on that day seems to pick you up, the activities you have planned for yourself seem inconsequential and dull.  When, despite the years of amassed knowledge and wisdom you've acquired, the future seems so vast and empty and dark that you feel helpless in the face of it.  When that spark you've been carrying in your heart, that light that pries your eyes open in the morning and shoots through your spine as you roll out of bed is conspicuously absent.

When your writing projects stare you in the face, empty boxes and windows with one accusatory vertical line blinking at you.  When the things you wanted to cook for yourself are too complicated or time consuming for you right now, and you tell yourself the ingredients will keep for another day.  When it's too much to make the phone calls you need to make, or open the bills you need to pay.

Your mind is moving, but your body isn't.  And your thoughts are plentiful, but refuse to focus.  You let the things you keep neatly shelved in your head loose - the doubts, the anger, the fear.  You get so mad the blackest ideas surface; you recoil in horror, terrified that you're going insane.  You scrutinize everything you do, every interaction you experience, looking for where you fucked up, where you failed.

Before you know it, it's dark outside.  You haven't done anything, and it's too late to get anything started.  Everything you pick up feels heavy.  Your head or your stomach hurts, but you don't care enough to do anything about it or figure out which one it is.  You don't feel like yourself, but how can that be?  You have to be you.  This is you.

And you stare at the TV as the hours tick by, waiting for the time you're not embarrassed to say you went to bed.  And you know the day is wasted, that you're one step closer to the grave without having anything to show for it.  And you hope when you wake up the next day, it'll be different.  But you're pretty sure it'll be the same.

Ever have one of those days?

I'm having one of those days.

On shared experiences.

People.  With the exception of hermits and software developers, having people in your life is an inevitability.  Every new job, every new city you move to, every cool little bar you just found in your neighborhood is full of them.  The damn world is lousy with them.  Other people inform our actions and decisions in thousands of indescribable ways.  What we wear, how we eat, the ways we communicate are all formed by the people in the world around us.

Some of which we try to keep around on a regular basis.  Maybe it's for the satisfaction of having people we're close to.  Maybe it's just so we don't have to meet new people every day, since it gets exhausting after a while.  And while there's a lot of reading material out there about how to meet new people and how to maintain interpersonal relationships, I haven't heard much about that magically inelegant in-between stage.  You know what I'm talking about.  When you've established that you'd like to keep talking to someone, but you're not quite at that comfortable silence phase.  Between remembering their name and remembering their address is a nebulous, murky, disjointed realm of awkward conversation starters and cliched icebreakers.  But what else are you supposed to do?  Talk about yourself?  Are you really ready for that?

Enter the shared experience.  I feel like this concept doesn't get nearly as much play time as it should.  The idea is simple enough: be around each other while something happens.  Maybe it's a movie neither of you have seen before.  Or an art exhibit that just came into town.  Regardless, after a new experience, you've got all kinds of new ideas floating around, waiting to be vocalized.  Why not vocalize at each other?  Did you feel the same thing they did?  Why or why not?

Or maybe you want to take it one step further and share something they've never tried that you have.  It puts the you in the driver's seat, forging a bond through guidance.  You get to experience second-hand what it's like to see something again for the first time.  You get to see if their first instincts match yours, if they felt the same awe or disgust or contentment you did when you first experienced it.  And it's safe, because you're not sharing just yourself, you're sharing something that exists outside of the two of you, tempered by your own perceptions.

Because ultimately, that's what interacting with other humans is - it's sharing.  Whether it's a cup of coffee at the corner cafe or an exceptionally long red light at an intersection, you're laying the groundwork of a relationship by creating something in common.

And that's the important part.  So next time you find yourself in that weird, vague phase between acquaintance and friend, don't wrack your brain trying to do something you think they'd enjoy.  Just go do something.  And make sure you talk about it afterwards.

On places to nap.

Man, crowdsourcing a blog topic is useful.  One Tom (referenced previously here) said I should talk about my favorite place to nap.

Now, I love to nap.  Love it.  If I could marry an activity, I would marry napping.  Have little half-nap children, grow old in its embrace.

That said, there are plenty of places I love to nap.  My friend Perry's couch, parked conveniently in front of the fireplace.  A stretch of rug in front of my brother's wood-burning oven.  But my favorite?

It's a bit of a cliche, but it's under a tree at the quad at Rutgers.  Just outside of Murray Hall at the New Brunswick campus, a really tall tree.  Like any good favorite spot, it's nostalgic - sleeping, hung over, at two in the afternoon, waiting for my friends to get out of class, sun sifting through the leaves, stoners playing hackysack.  Getting nudged awake with the toe of a Converse or Doc Marten, a mumbled conversation about whether Brower's still serving lunch.

Now, it's my couch, Zevran lying on my chest, Netflix on the TV.  Sometimes I wonder who's napping under that tree now.  What they're thinking about as they pass out, leaning against that trunk.  What's ahead of them yet.

They're probably cold.