Jennie, I'm Beginning to Lose Faith in the Human Race

{Above: Samak Sundravej, whose career was cut short by food.}

A number of years ago, The Elephant and Butter became stranded overnight in the Denver International Airport. My flight had been canceled due to weather, and sensing the opportunity to have a new vantage on life, I decided to sleep in the airport rather than take a bus to a motel. It seemed rather romantic at the time. I would get to watch the late-night cleaning crews. I would get to bathe sparingly the next morning in the men's room sink. Perhaps even, I thought, I would meet a fetching young lady who also had been stranded, and we'd talk effortlessly until the sun emerged from the eastern plains.

These wispy thoughts soon disappeared, though, as I ended up spending the night trying fitfully to sleep on a row of hard chairs. My only companions were two senior citizens--a husband and wife. The wife tried to make the best of the situation, but the husband was extremely angry at his airline, but also at the world, and he didn't mind sharing some of his vitriol with me well into the early hours of the morning. His name was Jennie, and he explained to me that he had known since World War Two that life was tough. As he explained it to me, at one point in the war, somewhere in the European theater of battle, he found himself secluded with a soldier friend in a foxhole of some sort, in inclement weather, and they both watched as some machines of war crept forward to kill a great many people on the other side of the battle line. His friend turned to him and said: "Jennie, I think I'm beginning to lose faith in the human race." Having conveyed this story to me, Jennie turned around and went to sleep on a bank of chairs behind mine, using his windbreaker as a blanket.

That utterance comes to mind as I read the news today, which is full of oddity. The Thai Prime Minister just resigned because he hosted a cooking show. Meanwhile in Fresno, some dude broke into a house, rubbed spices on a couple of sleeping people, and smacked one of them with an 8-inch sausage. I can't pretend to understand this world.

On Beans & Rice & Hats

"As for red beans and rice, well, I don't have to say anything about that. It is my birthmark."

--Louis Armstrong, American Trumpeter

"The way of the wise is to prepare rice by steaming rice grains; the way of the ignorant is to prepare rice by steaming sand."

--Wonhyo, Korean Monk

Beans and rice. If one is not careful, merely thinking about this dish can destroy the causes for future rebirth and shoot one straight into enlightenment. It's that serious.

Rarely have I made the same beans and rice dish twice. Which is probably appropriate, because I suspect that I have never been the same person twice while making it. The latest incarnation, though, involves cutting open a hot Italian sausage (bought from George, my local butcher -- he used to work at the bagel shop, but apparently he's a meat man now), frying it with shallots and garlic, adding some cumin and chili powder, adding some beans (you choose the kind), and then stirring in some rice.

This last part is worth discussing further, though. While using basmati gives the dish a sense of firm separation, lately I have been using a short grain brown rice from Lundberg Family Farms, which was recommended to me in a potent vision. The shorter, plumper grains have a nice snap to them, and are therefore more sensual. Their girth also means more starch, which means more creaminess. Moreover, I appreciate rice growers who wear crisp hats.