Herr Swengler's Kraut

Aventius Doppelbock, Binkert's Bavarian Bratwurst and Herr Swengler's Kraut.

One thing I know for sure after a week touring across Germany is that I don't know anything at all about German food. Sure, the sausage are ubiquitous and the Nurnberger sausage is the precursor to the American breakfast sausage link, but other than SigSauer and sauerkraut, I know nothing except that I enjoyed the food of Germany.

Knowing this, Dai San brought me back some of Herr Swengler's (his dad) homemade sauerkraut to try. This was the real deal. The homemade stuff and none of that nonsense you find in canned jars at the grocery store. Fermented and salty, he said. Beware.


Simmering in the mix.

The directions were simple enough: simmer bratwurst (though I could use kielbasa), sauerkraut and dark beer in a pot until the sausage is cooked through then eat over steamed rice (Dai San is half-Japanese and half-German - or Whole Axis), this of course, appeals to my Filipino side - and I was going to add rice anyway...

While I do have some lovely Ostrowski's Polish Kielbasa at home, a proper German sauerkraut needs a proper German sausage, causing me to trek out to Binkert's German Sausage where I think they only begrudgingly speak English, are unabashed about their meats and they don't accept credit cards - NEIN DU DUMMKOPF!!! Or something to that effect.

A stop off to see Austin at the wine shop and a bottle of Aventius Doppelbock and we're off to the races. A little browning of the sausage to begin with (though you don't have to), several ounces of doppelbock for the pot (and more for myself), Herr Swengler's sauerkraut and just let it simmer.


A simple meal for a cold evening.

One blog post and thirty minutes later, the mix is ready to eat. With rice. Of course.

Pulling a sample from the pot and the sauerkraut is a beast. The texture is firm and slightly crunchy (unlike other krauts I've tried) with a mellow flavor, slight sourness and in your face saltiness. Like I said, it's a Beast. This is sauerkraut, you know it and it's unrelenting.

The white rice helps tone down the salt and the Diet Coke's acid cuts it like a knife. Large spoonfuls of sauerkraut are rewarded with a lovely flavor, just before a mouth-smashing punch of salt. Add a slice of the sausage into the mix and you're rewarded with strong notes of garlic, black pepper and pork to balance out the kraut saltiness on the neutral rice canvas.

Not a bad way to stay in on a cold Saturday night.

Letter to a Friend

Just recently, one of my friends in New York City was dumped by his girlfriend (who is also a friend of mine), in that painful, bewildering time following a breakup, when men feel the gamut of emotions from elation, betrayal, anger, rage, intense love, regret and much more, he asked me for help. I've been there before (many, many times, it seems) and wanted to offer him the kind of tough love I wish I had been given years ago.  Thought I would share that letter with everyone here.


Brother, let's be honest. The only reason you want to go on a date with that girl is because you think it will help you win your ex back. It won't. It only makes you look stupid. Don't be pathetic.

I know you're in pain over the breakup. As guys, we want to win. At all costs. If a girl dumps us, we want to show her that she's losing out on the prize. Truth is, the more you play up to the ex, the more you look the chump and she stays the prize. What you want is to turn that around and that requires discipline.

As men, we want to conquer and be masculine. We want the women to fawn over us. We want them to think we're gods. When they break up with us, we want them to feel pain too. More importantly, we want to strike back in a way that demonstrates that they've lost out on the greatest thing that's ever happened to them.

Well, the more you try to tell your ex that message, you just confirm her decision to leave you.

What you need to be is strategic. Walk away. Don't call her. Don't text her. Don't be available for her. Women love attention. They want us fawning over them - even if they don't have intentions to take it further. That lavishing of attention confirms that they are the prize. You want to strike back? Demonstrate that she no longer is the prize and you've moved on (presumably to someone hotter, sexier and nicer).

The only way to achieve this is to walk away. Cold Turkey. Hard science. No lingering around, or phone calls to see how you're doing. Nothing. This of course doesn't mean that you act like a jerk to her. That only makes you look like an asshole and confirms that she's the prize and you're the lout she (correctly) dumped. Be nice. Be pleasant. Be respectful. But don't extend or accept an invitation. For anything.

And, God forbid, don't start trying to date someone that she knows because everyone knows that's just you trying to get back at her - and that makes you look pathetic.

Maybe your end game is to get her back. This is the way to do it. Demonstrate to her that your life continues on. You live a magical life that she removed herself from. She'll wonder about you. She might even call you. But the moment you lose it and act like a lout, you've confirmed her decision to leave you. The more brilliant your live is after her, the more she will question her decision - and if you want to get her back in the future, this is exactly the question you want forming in her head.

So, get out there and live. Do the things you want to do. Do the girls you want to do. The hunt is on and the world is your oyster. Date hot girls. Date nice girls. Date bad girls. But never tell her directly - even if she asks. And she will, because every girl desires to be (or to have been) the brightest star in your horizon - and if she isn't, and you're surrounded by girls who are perceived hotter than her, she'll regret it.

But the truth is, soon you'll find yourself doing amazing without her. You'll meet another girl who is more in sync and in tune with what you want in life. In time, this ex will be a fond memory in your life. A component of your life that's part of the whole that makes you. Chances are, you won't think of going back.

On the other hand, maybe the time will come when time has passed, you've lived your life, she's lived hers and then you find each other again. It will be better. It always is better.

In The Rainforest

Welcome to The Rainforest Lodge.

At the beginning of the day, I said to everyone: "No hiking or trekking." I just wasn't in the mood. I'm not up to the challenge.

But the girls wanted to go into the rainforest. Me? I'm not too keen on being in a place where animals and insects can crawl all over you. I enjoyed camping in the woods when I was younger, had my Land Rover and carried a gun.


In another life (or maybe this one), I think Isaiah was/is a tribal leader.

Instead, we've got Clare's Toyota Corona and Isaiah is navigating it along a rutted and sometimes rocky dirt road - the kind of road that I would relish driving my Land Rover on but not a five person saloon. We slide, bump, grind and crunch our way up the hills, around corners and up to the Rainforest Lodge, an eco-friendly resort in the middle of the rainforest.

It's actually a lovely place with dining facilities, pool and nice huts outfitted with all the necessities. You'd think you were an old-time Englishman on a safari in Africa - it's that nice. But what they don't have is television, telephones or internet.


Clare chooses Fanta.

The resort is broken down into sets of suites in individual buildings separated by stone walkways through the rainforest. They're not close together so you can get a feeling of privacy and then gather at the communal areas for food, drink and fireside gabbing.

I think it's pretty cool and imagine Nacho, CapSwell, TheSeed, BrowserMetrics and our families taking over the resort. Would be cool.


And so does Daphne and Alice.

Of course, the downside is that it's also The Rainforest. Meaning that there's all sorts of wildlife to watch and that are watching you, sensing who is the weakest of the group and when everyone's backs are turned, they strike!

I told Alice, if that Leopard comes running, I just have to stay ahead of you!

Source Of The Nile

Oh yeah, just moving a tank. In three pieces. No problem.

I've spent a week now on Kampala's slow-moving, traffic-jammed streets and the feeling of rocketing along Jinja Road at 100kph is slightly unnerving - especially when the pavement is pocketed with potholes, wavy surfaces, debris, people and the little Toyota Corona is packed with five of us and we're careening past hawkers, buses, livestock and even overwide trucks hauling massive tanks in three sections.

Once we break out of metropolitan Kampala, the road opens up and Isaiah (my driver) is gunning it for all its worth. By any estimate, 100kph isn't that fast, but here in Uganda, as we pass wreckages of other vehicles simply abandoned on the side of the road, I wonder if it isn't a death wish. I probably wouldn't drive this fast here.


Police recruits - at The Source Of The Nile.

Maybe it's because I've started off on the wrong foot. After the mornings' thunderstorm explosion, it's been pouring in the capital and when faced with a two hour one-way drive across the country or lounging and being catered to by world-class staff, I think I'd rather stay at home.

Outside the city, the weather clears up and it's bright and sunny. Gorgeous. Large fields of sugar cane blow lazily in the wind, ready for harvest. I miss seeing sugar cane. Years ago, back in Hawaii, we used to see sugar cane growing all the time, until American labor rates, combined with government subsidies for corn made sugar an unprofitable business in America and brought High Fructose Corn Syrup to dominance.

I wonder if they harvest the sugar like they did in Hawaii: by burning it. That's when I spot a crew in the field, hacking away at the cane with their machetes. In Uganda, they do it the old-fashioned way: hard labor. The workers strip the leaves from the cane and then chop each stalk, piling them onto a truck. It has to be grueling, physical work. But in a world where labor is cheap, sugar is still profitable.


Daphne doesn't want to go in the boat.

After the sugar comes tea trees (or perhaps tea shrubbery) planted in long rows. I've never seen tea before and I'm fascinated. My understanding is that they simply pick the top leaves and let the tree (shrubbery) continue to grow. They look manicured to me. These trees are for black tea - evidently the only tea that matters here in Africa. God Save The Queen!

From there it's miles of dense rainforest, pocketed by outposts of humanity. It's not the wild jungle you expect like along the Amazon but more forest looking. And unlike American forests, there are leopards in here awaiting the forlorn Muzungu tourist wandering about.


Clare is unafraid and ready for the boat.

After a few mis-guided directions from grumpy Boda Boda drivers, we find our way to The Source Of The Nile. It's a quiet tourist spot with not many tourists: mainly our group and a squadron of Uganda Police recruits whose female sergeant is constantly trying to get her troops to stop taking pictures and get back to the bus.

It's a bit of a walk down a stretch from the parking lot to the landing, along the way vendors sell all sorts of handicrafts and what seems to be decent prices. I'd like to buy some items but I'm very conscious of baggage limits when traveling.


Mahatma Ghandi assures us the boat is safe.

While this is The Source of the Nile, it's not actually "The Source". To see that, you have to rent a boat from anywhere between 150,000 to 250,000 Shillings, or between US$65-110. Not too bad for dollars but kind of expensive for Uganda. After some negotiation for the bigger boat, Clare and Daphne negotiate the price down.

However, I don't think any price is good enough for Daphne. It's her and Alice's first time on a boat and they're a bit skittish. We try to assure them that it will be okay. Alice asks me if I can swim if the boat sinks. I tell her: "Yes, I can swim. But I would probably die here."

It's not quite the reassuring message she was hoping to hear.


The blue and yellow boats have actually sunk to the floor.

And it's true. If our boat were to sink in the middle of the Nile, with the way the current is running, I probably wouldn't survive - especially if I tried to swim. I would have to remain calm and hope the swiftly moving water brought me downriver to shore. Otherwise, if I tried to swim against the current? Forget it.

The boat is an open deck, twin Mercury 60 engined skiff that's plenty roomy and plenty powerful for our tour. We cruise the edges of the river where we see birds, a monkey and the spot where John Speke "discovered" the Nile. I always find it curious that white men seem to have "discovered" places where other people already have formed civilizations.


We see monkeys!

Finally, we make our way to a small island at the mouth of the river where Lake Victoria begins to pour into the Nile. This is the true Source Of The Nile. How do I know that? Because there's a sign.

Off to one side a tree on a concrete pylon marks the "Zero Point" of the Nile where it begins it's long journey across Northern Africa to the Mediterranean Sea. It's a journey that will take the water we see at that moment four months to make. Incredible.

On the other side is a bubbling of fresh spring water. It's another important point of the Nile where fresh water mixes with Lake Victoria to produce what I'm guessing is Real Nile River Water. I want to drink it to see if it's good but I know that will only lead to misery. I pass.


Fresh spring water bubbles up at The Source Of The Nile.

There's a small gift shop on the little island and I think the people actually live there too. A little cat scampers by and I snap a picture of it for Ana before getting back in the boat.

The tour continues with more wildlife, a couple of lizards and a bunch of horny longshoremen at the Jinja docks who call for the girls to come join them. To them, I must look like a Muzungu Baller: big man, three women, a driver, a boat driver and a nice boat. Yes, I think I must be on my way to a meeting with President Museveni...


Here Lake Victoria begins its drain into the Nile.



With Isaiah, Alice, Clare and Daphne at the Zero Point.



A cat pic for Ana.



A lizard climbs out of the Nile.



Some fowl.



Workers at the Jinja docks unload freight off the ferry from Tanzania - a 23 hour journey.



This marks the spot that John Speke "discovered" the Source of the Nile.

Two Guys Out On The Town

The nightlight is kicking at Cayenne.

It's nearly two a.m., the music is thumping, bodies writhe before us, a plate of grilled meat is half eaten, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label is nearly finished, and for reasons I don't quite understand, I've been smoking a shisha the whole night when a crazy (but very friendly) central Asian dude comes up to our table to offer greetings and shots of tequila.

After nearly a full bottle of Black Label, tequila of unknown origin has to be a bad idea. Somehow, the guy knows my girlfriend lives in Mexico City, asking me to bring back a bottle of tequila the next time I come back to Kampala (as though I'm here every few weeks). The tequila isn't bad - maybe Cuevo Tradicional (or similar). Slightly sweet and tart, and unlike America, there's not a salt shaker or wedge of lime in sight (gracias a Dios).

We've been here for hours and while sitting at our reserved table, I've seen the club go from comfortably open to insanely packed. It's a madhouse in here. And it's the most diverse crowd I've seen yet. Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans - everyone is here. Including that hooker I see at my hotel bar every night.

That's not to say Cayenne is a hooker bar, because it's not. People of all strata are here - mainly middle to upper class because everyone else can't afford the cover charge. Andreas knows the owner so we're comfortably ensconced at the best table in the house.

It's not the occasional hooker, or the older white men with young African girls, it's the sex tourists that surprise me. Not the stereotypical male hunting young girls (or boys), but rather the new breed of sex tourists: White (American or European) women of all ages on the hunt for real African cock. As one of our friends from the American Embassy tells us, the white girls ignore him (he's also white) because they're looking to get plowed by the fantasy.

Women sex tourists hunting men. If that isn't gender equality, then I don't know what is...

Everyone knows Andy (or so it seems). As we sit there, I meet a wide range of people who come to our table to say hi. Promoters, coffee industry types and one guy who at one point evidently was the head of Mossad in Tel Aviv. I make a mental note not to screw with that guy.

It's interesting and fun but at one point, I find myself asking "what are we doing here?" We're just sitting there, like uninteresting guys. Five years ago, Andy and I would be on the prowl. Shooting and looting. In a place like this, it would be Game On and out of control.

Instead, I'm smoking a shisha.

Two guys, once pirates, now committed, sitting at a reserve table with bottle service and smoking a shisha at 3am. Guess it's time to go home.

Robusta, Naturally!

Welcome to Great Lakes Coffee - the honorary Consulate of Greece.

After eating a bit too much barbecue and partying together in Houston this past April, Andy invited me to visit his coffee factory the next time I was in Kampala (you know, because I always just happen to swing out to Africa).

And since I was in Kampala, I gave him a ring and off we were running in a Euro-spec Nissan Patrol careening through the streets of Kampala off to some far-flung place on the eastern side of the city, past rutted roads, mud huts and sinfully gorgeous gated mansions to this industrial section where I wondered how anyone navigated the "road" without a four wheel drive truck or SUV.


Where the women hand sort for defects.

Drive up and you face a gated wall that's simply ominous and forbidding. Until the armed guard with the Ak-47 swings the gate open with a friendly "You're very most welcome!"

Africa: Situation Normal.

Once inside the high, concrete walls, I'm reminded of my cousins rice mill in the Philippines. Large, flatbed trucks wait to haul away container loads of coffee and some kind of mill towers above all else.


A mosque for the Muslim workers.

Our tour begins with the sorting room. Here dozens of women sit on the floor, spread out with a bag of green coffee in front of them. Each of the women sit there sorting the coffee and picking out the bad beans. Those go into a hopper where they'll evidently be sold to Lavazza or Illy or Folger's, or any of the dozens of coffee companies looking for coffee of any quality - so long as it's priced below the C-Market.

For the women, it's a great way to make money and socialize. They sit in the large room, openly discussing the days gossip. Who's doing what to whom, and so on. Showing me a wooden desk that looks like an oversized cigar rolling table, Andy tells me that he once tried to create these work stations where the women would sit and sort. It would be more comfortable and more efficient, allowing these women (who are paid by the bag) to work faster and earn more.

Problem is that these workstations ended up being five feet high and when seated, the bin would obscure the women's view from each other, thus ending the social interaction that they enjoy more than cranking out another bag a day. The one model stands lonely in the space, a monument reminding the women that this is about sorting quality coffee AND discussing what that crazy muzungu lady must have been thinking wearing that outfit to church.


Laser sorting green coffee.

From there it's past the Mosque built specifically so that Muslim workers would have a place to worship and into the processing room where thousands of pounds an hour can be mechanically dried, hulled, sorted and bagged. It's a large and impressive operation with laser sorters that divide the beans at incredible speed.

Next to the processing area is the arrival storage area where the room is nearly packed to the ceiling with green coffees fresh from the fields. The harvest is starting to peak here in Uganda and we're seeing the greatest volume right about now.


Reaching the peak of harvest.

After a tour of the offices to meet the company principals (Dad, uncle, brother and Kat), I'm whisked into the lab where the fun really will begin. Andy, Corey and Emma have set up an 11 sample cupping for me to taste the latest crop arrivals along with some interesting specimens from the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) and a freakingly interesting natural processed robusta.

Awareness of Ugandan coffees is very low, with most people only knowing or hearing about Ugandan Bugisu. According to Andy, coffees from this Bugisu region can be very good - especially the select stuff from Mount Elgon. The problem with Bugisu is similar to that of Kona in Hawaii. Coffees from other parts of Uganda, which may be interesting on their own, are trucked across the country to be blended with coffees from the Bugisu region to become Uganda's "Bugisu" coffee.


Cupping New Crop arrivals.

Happily, Andy and company are forging ways to preserve the unique characters of the growing regions and develop a specialty market for these coffees. I'm interested in tasting these coffees and bringing them back to the United States.

Despite (or maybe because of) the fact that we buy and sell some of the best coffees available on the market at Spro, my personal exposure to the many cupping defects out there really is quite limited. By the time we receive our green or roasted coffees, they've already gone through a multi-stage process of cupping and vetting. Here, we're tasting the stuff as it's coming from the field and anything goes.


Screening 320 bags (container load) with my face.

One cupping sample (out of the five) immediately smelled of boiled peanuts when dry and wet potatoes when wet. There's that potato fungus right there. Sadly, while it was interesting to actually cup a coffee from the DRC, the coffee itself wasn't quite what we were looking for.

There were, however, several samples that I found really intriguing and I'm planning on following these coffees through the harvest to see exactly how they're going to shape up in the coming weeks.

Carnitas Alfonso

Assorted pork goodies in the window at Carnitas Alfonso.

One of the nicest things about Mexico is that Mexicans are not afraid of pork.

Seemingly everywhere you turn, it's pork this and pork that. Pork, pork, pork. God love this place.

Of course, if you're Jewish or Muslim, you're kinda in trouble. Then again, I don't recall seeing a lot of pork places in Polanco where many of the Jewish community lives.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Mexico City in Naucalpan stands Carnitas Alfonso. Adriana and Hector have been raving about this place and on a recent Sunday afternoon, instead of being good Catholics and going to mass, we decided to worship at the altar of pork while watching futbol on the television.


Salsas y Limon.

Honestly, I can't imagine what it must be like to come to Mexico and be someone who doesn't eat pork. Like watching porn, you're missing out on half the fun.

And when you arrive at Carnitas Alfonso, you're greeted by windows of sheer and utter pork goodness. Not just the ribs or the belly or the shoulder, but by mounds of intestines, jowls and amazingly large sheets of chicharron. I mean sheets as big as your torso. Fantastic.


Pickled peppers and red onions.

If you so choose, you can eat outside while picking and choosing from the selections in the window. Or you can head inside, sit at a table and enjoy flowing plates of endless pork.

Our server brings us a large menu listing hundreds of items. He wants to know what we would like. Really, I want to tell him to simply bring me the tastiest pork stuff they make, prepared in a manner that I can readily and easily put it in my mouth to eat. Good thing Hector knows what to order.


Gorditas.

In just a little while, a parade of plates starts making their way to our table. It's a blizzard of antojitos and I recall splashes of ground masa with cheese and pork, along with salsas and limes and tall, super cold glasses of freshly made horchata.

Gracias Hey-seuss (Jesus).


Quesadillas.

As they bring out the pile of carnitas by the kilo, I'm starting to realize that maybe I'm feeling a little on the full side. But the steaming pile of pork is too good to resist. Add the stack of hot tortillas and how is one supposed to resist? It can't be.

Oh but it's so delicious. Delicate, tender meat. Technically speaking, our meat isn't really "carnitas" but actually the rib meat - meaning it's got more fat and more flavor.


Carnitas por kilo.

In the end, the plates are empty and we realize that we should spend some time simply walking around to alleviate the pressure. It was a good meal. A tasty meal. A meal worth repeating.

And next time, we're going to explore the other bits.


Oh, chicharron!



Carnitas Alfonso
Blvd. Manuel Avila Camacho 865
Echegaray, Estado de Mexico
Tel: 5363 3229

Call Of The Siren Song

Grande Mocha Frappuccino.

It's another weekend in Pawtucket, Rhode Island for the annual Mid-Atlantic NorthEast Coffee Conference (aka MANE) where we've talked coffee, discussed coffee, argued about coffee, theorized about coffee and even drank some coffee. So much going on but the essence is that the MANE is simply the best barista coffee event in the United States today.

Where other events are surrounded by the politics and dogma of the coffee industry, MANE is solidly independent and free-thinking. It's a place for open exchange of ideas and the closes thing that the barista craft has to a chefs congress and it's only going to get better in the future.


At some point in time, everyone goes to Starbucks.

But all that's over for this year and after two solid days of non-stop barista craft, we headed out for a Sunday brunch, a walk around Providence and some refreshments at that one coffee place we all know: Starbucks. While everyone enjoyed a tea lemonade drink, I couldn't but help myself to that granddaddy of Starbucks creations: The Mocha Frappuccino.

Nothing like hanging with the world's top barista, machine tech and green importers at the place that started it all.

Adobo The World

General ingredients for Sunday Meal.

Yes, I can cook.

It's times like these when I get myself into trouble.

Perhaps it's time that I start to think like a normal guy: I don't know how to cook. I just want to sit on the couch watching The Game and talk player stats while guzzling six-packs of beer.

Instead, I find myself on a Sunday late morning at the local supermarket looking for ingredients to make "something Filipino."


Making "medium grain" rice with a 50/50 mixture of long grain and short grain rices. It worked!

Earlier this year, I had the notion of going out to eat Filipino food in Mexico City. A google search for "Filipino restaurants Mexico City" returned nothing, so I contacted the Philippine Embassy in Mexico City, asking them for guidance on where to eat traditional Filipino food in the city.

Surely, in a city of 20 million people, some Filipinos would have found their way to these shores (consider the old Manila-Mexico-Spain trade route) and opened up a carinderia.

A couple of days later, a reply from the Consul General was telling: no Filipino restaurants in Mexico City. No Filipino restaurants in all of Mexico, for that matter. Huh???



Pork Adobo Battle Ingredients: pork ribs, butter, white onion, garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, red wine & jalapeno.

I couldn't believe it. There's Filipinos and their restaurants everywhere. Wherever there's work and the chance to send remittances back home, Filipinos have landed. How is it this mighty city has none. Am I the only Filipino in the city (along with the embassy staff)?

No Filipino restaurants. No Filipino food. If I move here, I could be in trouble. That's right when the girls had the idea that I should cook Sunday meal. But not just any meal. They wanted to try real Filipino food. Whatever that was.


Seared, stewed and ready to serve.

As to be expected, when it comes to fresh Mexican ingredients, Mexico is all aces. When it comes to assembling the ingredients needed to make authentic, traditional Filipino (or general Asian) food, that's where Mexico starts to stumble.

Of course, it could be just that I don't know the lay of the land. Maybe there's some secret mercado filled with Asian foodstuffs longing for my discovery - like that little Chinese market on Puente Alvarado in Tabacalera.

At one point, I thought seriously about making Kare Kare but a quick search at the supermarket left some key ingredients out. Ixnay the Kare Kare. Enter Pork Adobo.


Monday morning breakfast: pan fried pork adobo, Sinaag fried rice and some eggs.

In the world of Filipino cookery, Adobo is the ubiquitous traditional dish. Everyone knows it. Everyone can make it. Sorta. Everyone has their own twist. Take a drive across just Luzon and you'll find thousands of different variations of Adobo. Talk to your friends and each of them has their own preferred way. Some like it dry. Others fried. Some like it with sabaw (or sauce). Others hate it that way.

Then the ingredients can get kinda crazy and esoteric - some of which fly completely in the face of what you know as "adobo". Like that dude who talked about putting coconut milk in his adobo: Heretic. Or peppers. Or fish. Strange and odd stuff, but all under that known as adobo.

And it's completely different than Mexican Adobo. Actually, I don't even know what Mexican Adobo is, but to this Filipino boy: it ain't Adobo to me.

For Sunday Meal, I just took the simple route, with a little twist. Pork ribs with some butter, onion and red wine to add to the traditional ingredients of garlic, black pepper, bay leaves, soy sauce and vinegar. After some careful searing and some long stewing, it was ready to eat and enjoyed by all.

Like many dishes around the world, Adobo enjoys a little age. So, the next day, all by myself, I indulged myself in a little treat. Pan fried pork adobo with some eggs and garlic fried rice.

Not a bad way to remember the flavors of home while off in a distant land.

Sunday BBQ

The Secret Weapon: Velveeta.

At my core, I'm a very simple creature. I grew up in 70s and 80s America. An immigrant family, we ate cheaply and I grew up with very simple fare: Lipton iced tea, cheap cuts of meat and Kraft macaroni and cheese. For many years, I didn't know one could have a mac-n-cheese that wasn't orange.

So, when I finally got around to learning about food and cuisine, I found the upscale mac-n-cheeses, with their fancy cheeses, to be interesting and good but not as soul satisfying as that commercial orange mac-n-cheese. Yes, one could make a deliciously tasty mac-n-cheese with a bechamel base, four cheeses, lardons and penne pasta, and I can whip that up without a second thought, but it's the orange mac that's eluded me.


A smoker full of barbecue.

Eluded in the fact that the world now revolves around easy to make macs, like Easy Mac or instant mac-n-cheese. And while those can be decent enough, nothing is quite like the days of boiling the noodles, adding butter and milk and that orange cheese powder. Now, that's Classic Americana!

I've always fantasized about making the true down home, could be nasty and definitely bad for you, mac-n-cheese but never had the opportunity, until now. With a group of our friends guaranteed to eat it, we set out to making this Ultimate Mac-N-Cheese: One large block of Velveeta, 3 liters of macaroni, half a stick of butter and 1/2 cup whole milk. Stir it all together and eat with a spoon!


Smoked skirt steak.

From there, it's barbecue and more barbecue. With the smoker running at full blast, it doesn't make sense to cook anything any other way. Some kind of protein? Into the smoker! Old shoe? Into the smoker too!

On order for the evening is a taste of the old school Ono Grill. Some baby back ribs, a little brisket, a sirloin and a skirt steak and it's nearly non-stop meat. Want some veg? Does Velveeta Mac-N-Cheese count? As it goes, it's a couple of slices of this, a scoop of mac and a drink. A little while later, it's a scoop of rice and a couple of ribs and some sauce. Want dessert? There's more Mac-N-Cheese, and I think there's some cold, sliced watermelon somewhere nearby.


Making the Mac-N-Cheese.




Skirt Steak: All Sliced Up!




Gerry's fancy broiled breaded mac-n-cheese.




The girls watch Yo Gabba Gabba!




Smoked sirloin, beef brisket and racks of short ribs.