aric with an a

while not travel orientated,

I felt the need to pass this creation on.

but you have to call it ‘aric’s outrageous sausage sandwich’.

okay?

ok.

it’s easy:

1. toast the ciabatta

2. fry up the sausages, cut in half and then sear the middle

3. mix a teaspoon of Cointreau with a tablespoon of mayonnaise w/ cracked black pepper.

4. put that wonderful blend on your ciabatta, as well as the sausages

5. shred some medium [at least, no mild] cheddar on top

6. broil until it melts.

7. eat.

8. thank me.

…so good.

years ago, about 10 now, Symon and worked in Spain for 6 months.

down in the South, right across from Morocco.

it was at a pub where a lot of people had their holidays,

and we didn’t shut until the last person either threw-up, was beaten-in or stumbled out.

it was messy, but fun.

every morning, around 5am, when we would walk back to the taxi stand,

[the same taxi stand Symon would save my life at when I decided to man-up to a guy who ended up having a gun]

but before that, we’d hit the kebab stand.

this guy was magic,

and I’m pretty sure he was putting on top of the meat what we were selling under the table.

we lived for it.

chemical smiles, celebrity tips and kebabs.

that was our 1/2 year in Spain.

but I’ve recently found another.

I don’t want to say ‘replacement’ because too many memories come with the original,

but this guy here, in the little town of Hama, Syria, will forever have a place in my heart.

his kebabs are good, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing this.

the past 3 days I’ve eaten there 5 times.

it’s just about his, well, the way he goes about it.

the first time I went there, he jumped up from the back where he was counting money to help me.

the second he wasn’t there, I guess the counting went well.

the third time, he came out from his shack to talk to me,

and talk all about New York City.

see, this was a trick I learned in Turkey, as everyone has at least one family member in New York City.

can’t say the same about Oklahoma.

so we talked New York City.

oh, he wanted to go and ‘drive big car with big women’, but would tilt his head to one side and put a hand up as if to acknowledge that he would never have the pleasure of either.

the fourth he took the kebab out of the hand of one of his workers and did something magical - he made it, stuffing it full of chicken-goodness and the special yoghurt sauce and then [get this], he rolled the kebab around in the grease below the fire, threw a few squeezes of lemon on it and then stuck it into the flame, creating a caramelization of wonder and delight.

that was yesterday evening.

and then, tonight. I thought he was going to hug me across the cash-register when I told him that tomorrow I was heading to Damascus.

but I had to see him.

one last fling.

he took his time with this one.

same as last night, so much chicken he broke the first pita.

again with the grease and lemon.

he turned around to show it to me, I approved with a vertical thumb,

but he wasn’t done.

with his spare hand, he pointed to his eye and to me,

threw extra sauce on top.

and then piled it high with more chicken.

…

I’ve seen a lot of kebabs in my life, been eating an average of one-per-day for the past 3 weeks.

and I ain’t never seen anything like that.

so, if you ever find yourself in the middle of Syria.

visit the enchanting town of Hama.

next to the giant water wheels is a cobblestone bridge.

he’s in the shack right next to it.

just don’t expect the same kebab.

[and if you do get it, please don't tell me.]

it was India all over again.

that was the very first thing that popped into my head when I stepped out the door.

and into Aleppo, Syria.

mayhem. pure mayhem.

the kind that doesn’t care if you’re from there or not,

rich or tall.

horns, blaring so loudly and often, and no way of telling where they were coming from.

step out, but look both ways, son - there are no traffic rules,

but the man selling belts will help you find your way.

even if you don’t know where that is.

past the clock tower that was wrong,

and through the souq with soaps.

in-and-out of the imagination-inspiring castle,

and onto a street,

no, not onto a street - taken there…

by a man who wouldn’t allow me to pay

‘it helps me English’ with a kind smile.

and then into the peaceful maze,

the silent abyss,

of the back streets and alleyways that ended up in houses with tall walls.

quiet, it all went quiet.

it could be because of the tall walls.

or because chaos respects family.

men, heads resting on lime green sewing machines, dreaming of something tearing.

a woman! when one was seen, could see more of you than she, in her dark and hidden attire.

boys, no more than 8 years old, would walk by with circles of bread on their heads, feet so worn and calloused they looked like hands.

I followed them secretly to their way,

finding more and smaller passageways of arch and stone.

too quiet, too quaint.

in which window is the man from Dreamworks?

‘whaddya think? looks real, huh?’

but he never showed.

heads poked out,

but none that would ruin the labyrinth.

I bought a kebab and ate it before I returned to the mayhem.

it wouldn’t have tasted as good by then.

this is the house in philly that got me back on coffee. it’s the house of tracy & justin. amy comes down from nyc often as well. I had my coffee this morning and listened to the girls as they baked up an extravaganza, in a way only two sisters could.

here are the hightlights.

-

12:13 [Tracy] ‘Amy, if you’re going to bake, you’ll need to take that scarf off.’

12:16 [Tracy to Amy, who needed to switch baking shirts] ‘Good God, and you think you’re going to survive in hippyland? [asheville]‘

12:20 [Amy] ‘Don’t be a beast, I was making cookies before you were in the goddamn womb’.

12:26 [Amy] ‘Seriously?! You drop this in cat litter and then use it to make cookies?’

12:37 [Tracy] ‘I said DON’T listen to Martha!’

12:46 [Amy] ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ [Tracy] ‘It makes sense around here.’

12:52 [Amy] ‘You’re treating me like cheap day labor!’ [Tracy] ‘If I wanted cheap day labor, I would have asked Aric.’

12:54 [Tracy] ‘You know, most bakers are alcoholic.’ [Amy] ‘Because of drinking vanilla extract?’ [Tracy] ‘No, Amy.’

1:01 [Amy] ‘You’re going to charge me for sprinkles?’ [Tracy] ‘Yep.’ [Amy] ‘No shit.’

1:11 [Tracy] ‘What the hell, has Justin been drinking the orange extract again?’

1:28 [Amy] ‘I f*cked up, didn’t I?’ [Tracy] ‘Yes, you f*cked up. and on the chocolate chip? It’s the easiest cookie!’

1:35 [Amy] ‘It’s starting to get nasty. Which means one of us needs protein.’

1:37 [Tracy] ‘Amy, you want the cookies, but you don’t want to put the time in.’

1:39 [Amy] ‘I would prefer you to tell me why you need me to get something and then I’ll get it’. [Tracy] ‘Get it and I’ll tell you.’ [Amy] ‘You’re a naaaasty bitch.’

1:44 [Amy] ‘You know I shop by texture? I also eat by texture. And touching these cookies makes me never want to bake again. I think I’d rather bait a hook.’

[end]

-

and you wonder why I stay here as much as I can.

hi there. you good?

I feel we never talk - oh, sure, there’s the occasional ‘here’s what I’m doing’,

but never anything about you.

but since you don’t have a blog,

I’ll just tell you more about ‘what I’m doing’.

the book is coming along - slowly, but still coming along. writing it was easy, going back through each page and making it make sense is another. but thanks to a random email from someone I barely know, I was given an idea of how to make it all work. so, thanks random friend.

got me some new-old boots on the way. I’m quite excited.

headed back to Hawaii on Thursday  - which will be fun.

which means I’m gonna have to rock my Frank Zappa on the islands.

need a new addiction? this tea is insane.

this song has been played a lot these past few days - the Swedes really can do no wrong.

I’ve become addicted to Netflix - and shall be posting some of the better ones soon. [it's Blaxploitation Week this week - lucky Lori!]

if you need a ridiculous sausage-and-rice recipe, I’m your man.

we attended some Gay Polo yesterday in Santa Barbara before hitting some wineries for tastings - you know, your basic Sunday.

I think I’m going to like Kodak Gallery is doing for storage these days.

…and I think that’s about the highlights.

I hope it’s nice-and-cool where you are. this time of year it should be nice-and-cool.

[and isn't that a great picture? I snapped that at St. Vincent De Paul's]

I’ve recently added Robin’s Salsa to my list of things I’m addicted to.

So far, the list looks like this:

Pudding
Robots
Otis Redding
Sausages

…but this salsa, I’m tellin’ ya - is divine. I’ve had salsa once every 3 days since I-don’t-know-how-long and this is la puta madre. Seriously. And while a few years ago, I would have simply kept this to myself in the hopes of impressing all at your dinner party, I’m softening. Call it 32.

1. Roast 4 Roma tomatoes on a grill until they’re soft (make sure the skin is good and black)
2. Add a jalepeno, 2 onions, juice from 1/2 a lime, 2 good sized pieces of fresh garlic, 1 tbsp fresh cilantro,  and a pinch of oregano.
3. Blitz in mixer

Prepare to enjoy and then thank Robin.

10am, I leave from Berlin.

9am the next day, I’m on a boat miles off of the Florida coast fishing.

How absurd.

We went fishing for all sorts of stuff, but didn’t catch much. What we did catch, we immediately ate - making it the freshest sushi you could ever have. A little Red Snapper, some soy+wasabi and you have yourself lunch. We only caught enough for a nibble, but we had the foresight to bring beer, so no one complained. Then, we went shark-fishing. With a kite. Hard to explain, but basically, you throw out a big kite from the back of the boat. Then, you string a few fishes on a fishing line, which is attached to the kite line. You let out enough line so that the fish barely touches the water, flailing. Making noise. Which drives the sharks nuts. Supposed to, at least - we jumped each time a swell came over thinking ’surely’. It was just big water.

We drank more and passed the thousands of lobster pots along the way home. A month earlier, a drunken local had told me he’d ‘take me out raiding some pots’ and I took him seriously. I asked our Capt. how easy it was to do.

He looked at me the way the fish must have been looking at our bait.

‘You’ll get shot’.

‘Ha ha - oh yeah?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘You’re joking’.

‘I’m not’.

‘Shot?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. And the FWC wouldn’t even bat an eye’.

‘Shot.’

‘Yes.’

…I didn’t ask any more after that, but thought it extreme. I mean, c’mon - he’s a fisherman. They’re known for their colorful embellishments.

A few hours later, while sitting outside sipping on a Key West, our ‘lobster guy’ drove up and said hi, placing his margarita next to his beer in his cup-holders.

‘I’ve shot 3 boats so far with my flare gun, setting them on fire’.

‘Really?’

‘Really’.

‘What about real guns?’

‘Oh sure, the usual thing people do is take a shotgun out and hit their boat right at the water line’.

‘This is normal’.

‘Yup’.

The things you learn in RV parks.

So, I’m back on the bus. I was only supposed to be in Germany/Switzerland for a few weeks and it turned into a month. I have a Switzerland nostalgia and a Berlin hang-over. Seriously. Never have so many people in one major city not worked, yet had copious amounts of money for drinks and cash for drugs. My head hurts, but in a way that was worth it. There were French Poets and angry downstairs neighbors. A bath story so funny, I can’t even imagine how I would write it. B-movie stars. Lots of coffee. More cigarettes. Walking and groceries. Excess. I missed Europe and got to revisit my innocence while I was there. Before 8-months in Spain. Before China. Before, well, everything. I left the States at 22, I lost my virginity at 19 - so the last time I had walked the Wall, it had been in wide-eyed wonder. What’s out there? I don’t know, but I’d like to find out. And I did - a little at least. Found that what was out there was a whole lot of what’s in here - but the important lesson is that I found that out.

Maybe it’s the Southern boy in me or the Irish ancestry, but I’m baffled as to why German cuisine isn’t mentioned more. It’s warm, hearty and cheap - the Soul Food of Europe. We managed to get into the well-known Schusterjunge, an excellent jumping off point in Berliner cuisine should you be a first-timer.

[Clockwise]

Solianka (actually, a Russian soup, but popular here…and fantastic)

Tea

Bratwurst w/ roasties and sauerkraut…all in a sausage gravy - insane.

The (in)famous digestive, Jagermeister.

Apple Strudel with custard - went down in about 3 minutes.

Gluewhein…sure, of out season, but they had some left from December.

–

 After that, we headed off on a small pub crawl, hitting my the obligatory White Trash (very cool interior, but far too touristy - save yourself the 8 Euro entry and give it a miss), another one called Zu Mir Oder Zu Dir (‘my place or yours’) and then to what is now officially my most favorite cafe in the world…

Wohnzimmer.

[Click for larger size]

Furniture straight out of the auction house, as are a few of the turtlenecked crew, but hands-down the best cafe in Berlin - if not Europe. Coffee’s good, cheesecake is fresh, staff is laid-back and tattooed (which is essential for a barista, no?), the music selection can be anything from The White Album to Mos Def and at night, smoking’s allowed and adult beverages take the place of caffine.

This place seriously tops the list of ‘best ever’, which, until now had only consisted of a hotel.

As we found our way past the decrypted buildings and then in front of a Tadao Ando-made-church, we finally made it to the Wall. Strange how your memory has been taught to autobiographically process your own feeling associated with a place, despite knowing the main story of said landmark played of little of importance to your own life - which then, of course, makes us inherently selfish and in turn - evil? But if we’re evil, then why do we always wave to each other from boats? The Wall meant something - a name. A haunting recollection of what I walked away from to see a few things - a name, written right there on a piece of history. 3 letters. In red. With white borders. I remember this 2001 experience like it happened 5 minutes ago. I felt sick. Earlier, when I had first gotten to Berlin, I had felt hungry. I always feel hungry when traveling because I prioritize beers over food. I don’t mind this as I find people who travel in comfort miss out entirely on why we travel - otherwise, just buy the postcard. I was hungry and on about $20 a day. I had a lot I wanted to see and do and eating took a back seat. But I still needed to eat. I was 2 months out of the U.S. for the first time on my own. The bakery doors threw out pheromones and I went inside to inquire a price with their pimp. Too much for me. I walked into a downtrodden grocery store, the cashier either having not been told about the reunification or not being happy about it. But I found long and cold sausages for around a dollar. And a few rolls for half of that. I paid, walked out, sat down and pierced the dough with my mysterious link. To this day it still stands as one of the best meals I’ve ever had. No mustard, cheap salami, but I made this. I bought this and I made this. In Germany. I saw what I wanted to and dug the vibe of Berlin. There was money waiting for me in Prague and I had just enough for the train to the station and that’s all. No food for me that day, but that was okay. I could eat anytime. I unlocked my bag from my dorm room and threw it on my back. ‘Wait!’ shouted the Scandinavian at the desk, who last night had burned one of his dreadlocks with a candle. ‘Your deposit!’. It was about $3. $3!! When you’re looking at not eating that day, it could have been $3000 and I wouldn’t have smiled more. I laughed all the way down the stairs and found a tiny bar. If the walls were dirty I couldn’t tell. Candles were all around as the owner put down a paper plate with one large sausage and mustard in front of me. After the first bite and tug on the course lining, I counted how much I had left - about $1.50. Which was enough for the bus to the train. Or a beer.

I laughed the entire walk.