my bid


Hey Maygsters, I think it was you who once told me you sometimes check this page multiple times a day to see if I wrote late? That one statement was enough to motivate this late entry; thanks. Sorry it sucks anyway.

Going on 10pm Thursday night and I was fully planning on not writing an entry for tomorrow. Yeah, I had some canned stuff I could slap together – but none of it seemed exciting enough to make an entry out of. Work had me frustrated today, to the point where I called it quits around 11am and headed home to sit on the couch and do e-mail and conference calls. Let me tell you, nice weather wafting through the windows and the iPod on shuffle make for a much more enjoyable working environment than 3 and 3/4 shoulder-high grey fabric walls and a grey desk. In counterpoint to my normal “working from home” days, I actually got a good bit done.

I’m such a procrastinator. It’s an trait I think I developed as a natural second-order effect of my desire to be lazy. I don’t consider my laziness a laziness of thinking, or creating, or reasoning – just a laziness of convenience. When things aren’t what I want to do, I drag my heels. Even when I want something done, but don’t want to put the effort forth to get it done – my laziness steps in and takes over. It’s a bad trait, one that has me constantly putting off things that are simple tasks – but it’s the way I’ve learned to work. In the end it all boils down to being extremely self-centered (I do feel I maintain a line between my self-centeredness and my caring for others before, but I won’t try and make the point here). Anyway, this paragraph doesn’t fit… it’s now over.

Last night our company (remember, my first girlfriend and Sharaun’s college roommate?), Robin, inquired about the whole “blog” thing. And, being that she represented a major milestone in my adolescence, she is fairly well represented here – and I think she was surprised to find that out. Anyway, I ran a search for her name and handed her the laptop. She read through the entry about her birthday, the reminiscing over one of her notes, and the time I cheated on her with her best friend. At some point, she turned to me and asked, “Did you ever think we’d be here, on a couch in California, reading about this?” Hell no I didn’t, not in my wildest dreams. But… I’m glad it worked out that way, kinda cool.

Anyway, in the end she said the entries helped her remember what a dick I was. So, if nothing else, at least the blog serves the purpose of reminding people of my past-dickness. Which is good if I ever want to be inducted into the “Dick Hall of Fame” after my demise. I’ve heard written record of dickdom goes a long way as testimony in the judges eyes, so I figure I’m a lock.

Goodnight folks, love ya all.

oh how i’d miss the porn


Lasik tomorrow. Ben asked me if I was nervous about putting my eyes nuder the knife/laser. My immediate answer was “no,” as I’m actually not that nervous about it. Perhaps naive considering it’s elective surgery and has inherent risks – but my confidence has been so bolstered by the successes of my friends who’ve undergone the procedure, and the success rate overall. The only time I do get a tad “concerned” is when I think of it in terms of putting my vision on the line – more specifically, when I think that the worst possible result could be permanent blindness. I know this is incredibly rare (one out of millions, according to the stats), but boy… would that blow. As small a concern as it is, I have caught myself shutting my eyes tight for brief moments over the past week, in an attempt to get an idea what it might be like to be sightless for good. I know it’s a bad point of comparison, as I can simply open my lids and have the world once again revealed to me – but it does provide a bit of realism to the thought. At least, if I go blind, I’ll still have music. But porn, people… oh how I’d miss the porn.

Funny how things can change so much from day-to-day. It was just yesterday I wrote about being frustrated at work, and then this morning I went in and reopened stale tasks with a new vigor. Maybe writing about it was my own form of catharsis or something. Whatever happened, I just went in this morning and grabbed the reigns again. The afternoon was largely made up of meeting with various folks to inform them of the new direction I’m pursuing – all of which went well. For the moment, at least, I feel like I’m back in the game and contributing again. I guess it really could be as simple as being a work-only manic-depressive…

Let’s do a quick-bits roundup: Sharaun talked to her mom today, I guess all the ladies she works with now have a picture of our daughter being chased by a bear as their Windows desktop wallpapers. This makes me happy. Have successfully ripped and tagged over ~14GB (~4000 files) of Beatles bootlegs with my best-use-of-wasted-time Godfather script. I’m now on the home stretch, having nearly all my discs completely digitalized. It’s taken a couple years, but it was worth (or will be) worth it. Been working my “best albums of 2006, so far” list (a new “thing” I’ve been wanting to do here), and it’s coming along nicely. Aiming for sometime in June (y’know, to kinda reinforce the whole halfway thing). OK, done with that stuff.

I know I’ve written about edgewoodhospital.com before, but it’s inspired at least another paragraph. Let me first reiterate how much I love the site. Not only is it a timepiece for several generations, it’s gained quite a following of regulars who are digging up old pictures and posting them. These snapshots of parties past at Edgewood elicit the best comments from the site’s readers. People recognize people, recognize events, relive and share memories… I only wish I had some pictures like that from all the stuff we did as kids. We didn’t have an Edgewood where we’d go drink Budweiser and smoke Marlboros, but we did have several other “hangouts” where we could safely indulge in the excesses of youth while remaining relatively free from “the man.” Our main ones were: the pits, Skyview, the tracks, Barton extension, Hoo-Hoo, and BP. We had some good times at all those places, even spent the night at one of ’em a couple times – camped out in our cars, too stoned to want to leave. I wish I could make a site enshrining our teenage haunts, something along the lines of edgewoodhospital.com where folks could create accounts, upload old pictures of of kids being kids at those sacred places… comment on photos and carry on conversations. I would do it, but I have doubts I’d be able to properly publicize it – and it’d stagnate. But it sure would be fun to work on…

Any old cronies from the Rock read this? Anyone down? Leave me a comment if so.

And, before I go, just so Sharaun doesn’t read this and give me grief for talking about porn where anyone and their brother can go read it – I wouldn’t really miss the porn. I’d miss the internet, but the loss of porn would be an easy tradeoff. OK? Summary: Dave = not into porn as much as the tongue-in-cheek title may insinuate (it’s comedy, remember).

Goodnight.

bank error in your favor


I’ve been writing and rewriting the topic-major of this entry over the past two days, and I realized it’s as good as it’s going to get. I wanted to convey more, but I couldn’t seem to get the words right… or maybe I don’t have the spirit or attention span to make it happen. Here goes anyway.

We’ll be taking Keaton on her first camping trip this weekend, hoping to infuse her with a love of the modern version of outdoor life. We’ll be packing it in and heading to the coast for a short overnight sleepover in the tent. We’re heading down with a close knot of folks we run with on a regular basis, including those ones with the twins (important, as we’ll not be the only folks with babies on the trip – potential relief from that “baby’s gonna ruin it” apprehension). Sharaun went out and bought a little bug-net cover thing for Keaton’s stroller, and got her some baby sunblock and a cute floppy camping hat. If we can pull it off without all three babies protesting the entire time, it stands to be an awesome adventure – I’ll let ya know how it goes.

The comments on my powderkeg entry this week really pleased me, especially the one from my own mom. I don’t know when I officially became a “grown up.” Maybe it was when I got my first job, or moved out of the house, or bagged my first vagina; maybe it was when I stopped smoking weed, or asked Sharaun to marry me; maybe when I bought a house or started my career – who knows. What I do know, though, is that, with the arrival of Keaton, I feel like I have passed that milestone for sure now. Regardless of how drawn-out and blurry the transition period may have been, I’m now comfortable saying I’m on the other side of it – crossed over. And, along with “adulthood” comes this feeling of wisdom-gained, not to mention shame of things done prior to the metamorphosis. My mom’s comment brought to mind one moment in time I remember from my youth that’s always given me that sense of shame, only more acutely now – now that I have my own child and am beginning to realize just how kids can effect parents. Read on…

I don’t remember how old I was but I’m guessing under 10. I do remember it was my family: mom, dad, me, and my brother all spending a week or weekend or whatever with my mom’s folks up at a cabin on a lake we frequented. I loved that place, they had those plastic paddle-wheel big-tired tricycle-looking contraptions you could take around the lake and a rustic hunting-lodge-esque building overlooking the lake where you could get three meals a day. The cabins were surely rentals, and were small if I remember, but nice. My story takes place with the entire family playing a game of Monopoly on a picnic table outside the cabin one evening. Multicolored money splayed across the table and little green and red plastic houses and hotels cluttering the gameboard – we were deep in the throes of a game and, I, I was losing. It was time to start mortgaging properties, and anyone who knows Monopoly knows that’s a player’s last raspy breaths before death.

Valuable information about me as kid you’ll need before proceeding: When I was a kid, I was a manipulative brat. I had well-formed methods by which I attempted to get my way, mainly through emotional plays and tantrums. These weren’t things which I did subconsciously, but things I’d thought through on a very conscious level, best-known-methods which I’d honed over time for maximum results. Despite how calculating and “grown up” this might sound, it was really nothing more than a bratty, stubborn kid trying cheap tactics to get his way – and breaking down into plain fits when they didn’t work. And folks, that was my endgame strategy – if I wasn’t getting my way, I’d scream, cry, kick, punch walls… whatever it took. I know all kids do this to some extent, but I’m pretty sure I was different, somehow more “extreme.” So much so that I remember my folks taking me to a “family therapist” about it, although my memories of our “sessions” are mostly of me sitting around trying to make the perfect paper airplane. But, that’s another story altogether… and you’re now properly setup for me to continue.

So here I am, something of eight or ten years, losing badly at Monopoly and not wanting to mortgage Mediterranean Ave. to stay afloat. So, I lost it; went completely berserk. I don’t remember all the details, just remember putting all I had into the effort. I’m not sure what my intended results were: the family declaring me winner by default, the banker cutting me a break and slipping me some yellow $100 bills under the table… I don’t know. I do remember, however, that the situation was such that I realized I mustn’t back down from the tantrum – in order to maintain the strategic advantage I perceived I’d built with such fits. So, I escalated, and things got out of hand. Now, the part that brings me shame, the one thing that sticks in my mind and makes me shy away from the memory… is something I overheard my grandmother say to my mom after we were all back in the cabin and things had died down:

“You don’t have control over that boy,” she said to my mom, “What are you doing with him that he thinks he can act like that?” Sure, I’m paraphrasing – but the gist was that I had caused my mother’s mother to question her child’s parenting skills. Even then, young as I was, I knew that must be a crushing blow. Now, as a self-conscious new parent – I can’t imagine how devastating it would be to hear my own mom question how I was raising my daughter.

Sorry mom (and dad), I didn’t really mean it…

wouldn’t trade the memories


Not much today, an update to Keaton’s gallery, in which I tickled myself by creating this short video out of some random footage I shot. After that, I didn’t have all that much, I’m afraid.

Umm… how do I usually start these things… Oh yeah…

Thursday night, glass of wine in hand as I watch a TiVo’d episode of the Simpsons. Got a lot done at work today, booked all the travel I mentioned the other day. What started as a three day trip to Germany morphed into a full week. Not excited to be away Keaton and Sharaun, but kinda excited because I’ll be there with a couple close buds from work… and have some free time to boot. First time to Europe for me, so that’s another tick in the “pros” column.

You were three years my junior, but I still wanted you. Now, I’d consider you out of my league: younger, attractive, voted homecoming queen of your Baptist highschool; but back then, I had drive, game. I had a girlfriend who I’d cheated on already, and didn’t want to do it again. When I realized I’d made up my mind to pursue you, I ended it with her. I told you, and you were surprised – but I could see the knowing in your questioning smile. In a blink, we were walking a wooden boardwalk at the beach. I lifted you up to sit on the railing, and we whiled away an hour while my shorts strained. After work, we drove to the river’s edge, where we kissed in the darkness. You always wore the bras that hooked in front. I felt guilty when we were in my room, thought you wore those fancy ruffled panties to impress me, it made me feel exploitive. But the soft crop of your hair against my chin veiled my guilty conscience. In my journal dated 8/10/96, I wrote this embarrassing poem about you:

Wandering through plush lust
On the carpet blue is you
Let that skirt drag dirt
I won’t watch your crotch
I’m a good boy
I’m a young man
I’m mature enough to take a stand
Let my head roll takes toll
See your eyes feel highs
Laugh please then freeze
The face you make I’ll take
I’m an old toy
I’m your left hand
I wish things went the way I planned

And then one day I found myself walking with you on a busy downtown street, holding the hand attached to the end of your swinging arm attached to your shoulder attached to your neck attached to your face, split wide by a broad smile. To you, this was a relationship; to me, it was fun. And all at once I felt pitiful, sorry, homesick: you were not my girlfriend. I gave up my girlfriend for a few weeks with you, and as exciting as it was to have you in my bed, you were a poor substitute. So, I turned on you, left you no sooner than I’d snared you, used you. I was angry with myself, felt cheap. I hated facing you each day at work, pretending nothing happened. I’d see your face and be taken back to my room, remembering you smile coyly down on me; see your hips as you turned your back to me, wordless, and remember the feeling of them pushing against my face. I am sorry Liz, I really am; I was a ponytailed punk, you were a homecoming queen – and I’m sorry. But, I wouldn’t trade the memories.

Enough of this filth… again

Really debating including that “poem,” actually I hate this whole entry. Just go look at Keaton’s pictures, OK? Goodnight.

are we there yet?

I wonder if this would take as long in Mayan time?
Nine months is a long time to wait people. But, it’s to be expected and so I didn’t have much trouble dealing with it, being patient while biology ran its course. But, every post-due-date day I endure makes the pain of waiting that much more acute. Now, my chest barely contains the swells of anticipation which flood in each time I think about another day going by. It’s like a never-ending Christmas Eve to the 6yr old expecting a new bike under the tree, hour after hour of that gut-drop feeling you get as you top the 1st hill of a roller coaster or go weightless at the apex of the chain on the swingset before coming back down. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I made the mistake of letting myself expect her on, or before, her due-date – I made very little mental provision for her coming late, even though I’d been thoroughly warned it was more than likely for a first child. Listen to me, she’s not even technically 24hrs overdue at the time of writing – and you’d think I’ve been in birth-limbo for a century.

When I was a kid, my brother and I would fantasize about creating robot-clones of ourselves. After we had these robot clones, we’d surreptitiously send them in place of our real selves where the situations was such that we’d rather not be there. For instance, these robots would go to school for us, do chores and homework for us, while we lazed about idly, wasting time doing whatever we wanted to. I think it was more of my idea, but I do remember talking to Frank about it and agreeing on the plan’s high level of bitchin’ness. Anyway, the reason I bring it up now – I had a similar idea the other day at work. Usually, I log on and check my work e-mail a couple times from home each evening. Working across multiple time-zones, it’s highly beneficial (not to mention makes a good impression) to check mail during non-US working hours. By logging on and firing responses at night in the Americas, you can potentially avoid the obligatory 12hr turnaround when talking with folks in Asia or Europe. And, besides, logging on at night and getting a “jump” on the work of tomorrow makes me appear productive and dedicated – things which the hippie in me spits on, but the yuppie craves.

Anyway, while swamped yesterday afternoon, I ignored incoming e-mail, thinking instead how how I’d at least have 30min or so that evening to catch up. That’s when I remembered the robotwin idea of my youth – albeit a slightly more realistic incarnation. What if you could hire a secret assistant? Someone who you could train at what you do, and who could share you workload. Only you would know about this person. It wouldn’t work for all jobs, but for a job like mine where there are significant behind-the-scenes in addition to the face-to-face aspects – I could see it working. This secret assistant would have access to my e-mail, could read and respond as me, could produce items tasked to me, and could take care of all sorts of things supposedly “owned” by me. That presentation I’m giving on Thursday? He did it, I just show up and present it. That response I owed customer X? He wrote it, with the knowledge I passed to him during training. You could do the work of two men, you’d be Superman. Better yet, if your kid is going through college and has chosen to follow in his dad’s footsteps and study pop’s job – sign him up for some unpaid OJT. Genius, right? I’m totally getting a secret-assistant.

I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but the “PortGate” headline on CNN seemed to waffle yesterday. When I 1st checked CNN upon logging on at work (my modern-day substitute for the morning paper), the headline read: “Bush: ‘People don’t need to worry about security.” Reading a headline like could give a body the feeling that GWB isn’t taking the country’s security in general seriously (hey, I said it could be read that way – not that that’s what was intended when it was written). Then, sometime before noon the quote changed to: “Bush: ‘People don’t need to worry port about security,” my own emphasis added. Then, around 1pm it was back to it’s original form. The addition, or not, of the security qualifying word “port” seems to make a pretty big difference in the statement, at least to me. In the port version, Bush is simply saying that people not need to worry about that specific aspect of US security, i.e. the administration’s got that locked. In the portless version, I don’t know about everyone else but the feeling I get from the quote is one of a president being too complacent, even downplaying the import of national security. Funny that they changed the headline, I wonder what the real quote was? A Google News search for the exact phrase “people don’t need to worry about security” turns up a ton of PortGate articles, while the phrase “people don’t need to worry about port security” turns up zilch. Wonder how that errant “port” got in there… wish I had a screencap.

Stumbled on a really cool website the other day called freecycle.org, where people start up geographically-based “communities” of users that post things they are giving away instead of simply trashing. Kind of like the “free” section on your local Craigslist – but better because it’s all free. There are nearly 300 members in my own ‘burg, and just doing a cursory perusal of the messageboard I found several completely free items I wouldn’t mind taking off someones hands. What a cool idea, this is why I like the internet – it’s a big hand-holding group dry-hump.

Goodnight folks, here’s hoping she comes tonight.

egorgasm

Patiently... patiently...
Due-date came and went (well, technically, since I write the next day’s entry the night before – at the time of writing we’ve got about 5hrs of due-date left). Not too big of a surprise, since “they” say most 1st-time moms are late – but it does make the itch of waiting that much more acute. But, wait we will.

Ready for me to flex some advice on ya? Here’s a little thing I’ve transformed from common-sense into words, just for the sake of filling a blog. It’s something I do subconsciously at work and elsewhere – and I think it’s had a big impact on how much “wisdom” I’ve viewed as having. I’ve written about it before, but never really formalized the thought as well as I did today for someone at work (which made me want to write it down in that form, to remember it better). Here goes:

Knowledge is binary: You either know something, or you don’t. Despite the apparently grim coin-toss odds, you can do something extremely simple to give yourself an edge over the average body.

To break it down a bit: When someone asks you a question, there’s 50% chance you’ll know the answer, and a 50% chance you won’t. If you know the answer, you look good; if you don’t, there’s potential for you to look bad. But, people, I’m here to tell you’re wasting 50% of your brain on stuff you don’t know, when it could be put to much better use. How? #1: Fill it with knowledge of the stuff you don’t know, i.e. learn. #1 requires significant effort on your part, and isn’t as easy or intuitive as #2. #2: Fill it with a list; a list of people you know, and, more importantly, the things those people know. That way, instead of being helpless when a question falls into your “I dunno” category (50% of the time), you can reference your list of “what the people I know know” as a backup. Sure, you may not be able to answer the question on the spot, but maybe all it requires is a discreet 30sec phone call, or an e-mail.

The goal here is not to pull a “who’s that man behind the curtain” bit, convincing others you’re a sage when you’re just a good networker pilfering others’ wisdom. You’re not taking credit for answers you got from someone else, you credit them when you need to. On the other side of coin, when you run a question you don’t know by someone and get an answer, playing the middle-man between asker and knower – you’ve just added that answer to your arsenal, your repertoire. In essence, you just moved it from the “bad 50%” to the “good 50%” in your brain. Congratulations, you’re now smarter because of who you know. And, next time you get that question – you can produce an answer on the spot.

Part of the reason I like the internet, and projects like Wikipedia, is because they embody this idea of communal knowledge. A central repository of shared knowledge, everyone getting smarter from what everyone else knows – the slow infusion of little fractured pieces of knowledge to the masses, to be used and possessed and improved upon by all. In my previous entry I put it like this, “…strive to know where knowledge is – even if it’s not in your own head.” I couldn’t have said it better myself, or something.

The other day I somehow found myself looking for an old entry to reference in one I was writing, and I ended up re-reading this one from July of last year. And, far from the usual feeling of ho-hum I get when I peruse my past writings, this time I was actually impressed. I really like that entry, and wish I could write more like it. The style is engaging, and I like the detail. Also on the “me” tip, I found the comment Pat attached to this picture of me from a past camping trip pee-your-pants funny. Oh… wait… right there… that’s it… almost… yeah! Sorry, my ego just had an orgasm.

Where are you Keaton? You don’t love us enough to come out? We’re ready, and I think we’ve been waiting pretty patiently – so why do you keep standing us up? Goodnight.

it all starts somewhere

FetusWatch 2006 - Judgement Day
We’ve arrived. The due-date: Judgement Day, the Reckoning.

Sitting at home early Tuesday afternoon, cellphone earbud and microphone dangling from my ear as I sit, muted, on a conference call. I had a dentist appointment over lunch, and decided to work from home the remainder of the day. Not because my numb mouth was too great a discomfort, no, more because I just wanted to be home – wanted to be close to any potential action, wanted to be near Sharaun. I feel like, if I can just be home, something might happen. Anyway, prepare for an entry having almost nothing to do with the fact that today is my daughter’s predicted due-date.

Does anyone else remember Rocketbals? Oh man, I so remember Rocketbals. Back in 5th grade, my elementary school went through something of a Rocketbal craze. Not unlike the run on Yo-Yos that happens in the days after the Duncan man comes to school, someone brought a Rocketbal to school one day and next week the skies above the playgrounds were thick with the things. I’ve always thought they were the coolest toys, and so simple: a small rubber ball (slightly bigger than a golf ball) with a loop of colored surgical tubing inserted through the center and glued to the thing. You’d put your thump in the loop, pull back on the ball, and let the thing fly. They’d go hundreds of feet into the air, and, with practice, you could actually get pretty good at aiming and playing catch with them. I’m assuming they went the way of the Jart – being banned as too dangerous or something – but I’ve always rued the day mine was swallowed by a storm drain. Thinking about it the other day, I decided to long onto the dub-dub-dub and do some hunting. Turns out, that great finder of lost childhood memories: Ebay, had one available. I immediately put in a bid and am anxiously awaiting slinging one of these things around again. Seems like I’m not the only one who’s searching for one, I mean, they were dang cool… when I get one I’ll post of video of it kicking ass – so you can visualize just how dang cool.

Note: After writing the above some time ago – I discovered that the original Rocketbal company went out of business, and a new company bought the patent – reissuing my childhood favorite as a dog toy, the Go-Frrr. When I found the site linked in that last sentence, I immediately remembered seeing one of these Go-Frrrs across the street at the local pet emporium. Anyway, I ran right over and bought one. I don’t care if you call it a Rocketbal or a Go-Frrr – these things are freakin’ awesome.

Ahh.. beloved memories.
Oh man I can’t wait.

I know it seems like an odd thing to do, but I’ve decided I’m going to try and cultivate my own yeast – for no other reason than just to see if I can. For a long time, I’ve been fascinated with the idea of food-sources – meaning I’ve often wondered about our intrepid pioneer ancestors and their ancestors before them, and how exactly they managed to make the basic foodstuffs we today are so accustomed to picking up at any corner store. Bread, especially, has been an item of wonder – being the ultimate staple it is. Sounds simple, wheat for flour, some water, and a leavening agent. Oh, but that dang “leavening agent.” I’ve brewed on this all before, and had some success using the ultimate resource of the internet to satisfy my curiosity – but I’ve long wanted to actually put some of that learning into practice.

Anyway, following these excellent instructions – I’ve begun the process of getting my own “starter” going. This basically involves mixing some flour and water and letting it sit until it “catches” the wild yeast and bacterium that in the flour to begin with as well as floating around in the atmosphere. Once it’s nice and “soured,” you’ve got a natural yeasty “soup” that can be mixed with plain dough as the leavener – it’s a base material that you use to make your breadstuffs. Amazing that the process is so simple… dough left out will sour, and grow bacteria and yeast – at that point, rather than throw it away, you mix the bubbly froth into virgin dough to infect it and make it rise. Voila, you’ve got homemade yeast. You can do the same thing with water and starch, like water that potatoes or pasta have been boiled in. Making yeast is as simple as providing a nice home for the microscopic beasties that are yeast.

I’ll make sure and keep you updated on the progress of my starter, like it matters. However, the natural extension of this experiment is to take it out of my middle-class, mortgaged-to-the-hilt kitchen and make it more challenging. The end-goal here is to understand how Joe Ancienttimes made his bread, with only what he had around him. And, because it’s a fantasy of mine, the question I’m truly after boils down to: “Stranded on a desert island, could I make my own bread?” That one, and it’s cousin-question where the desert island is replaced by a post-apocalyptic barren landscape, are the real reason I want this knowledge. You’d need some kind of material suitable for transforming into flour: wheat, rice, potatoes, corn, rye, nuts, etc., some water, and some time – salt would help, but is not 100% necessary.

That’s relatively simple, right? So, I’m on an island – I find some nuts, or some cattails or some reedy thrushy things, boil some pre-salted seawater to remove any living nasties – and I’m good to go. Ferment-up some starter and get to baking on hot stones left in the fire. Soon I’d be making Island Flapjacks with coconut syrup. If you find this at all interesting, check out this Cree Indian recipe for Bannock (traditional Indian cake), made with corn, flour from cattails, and wood ashes as baking soda. Imagine the process by which people came to try putting the ashes of last night’s fire into the next day’s food. Awesome.

During this whole process, I learned that all bread was once sourdough – although it likely wasn’t called that because not all of it was actually “sour.” I was getting hung up on the term “sourdough,” which true bread aficionados take to mean any starter created using the above process – not to mean bread that tastes sour, like the San Francisco stuff. All “yeasts” of old were produced this way, and then dried and stored for later use. Modern commercial yeast are laboratory-bred for fast-action and “neutral” flavor – while bread flavor of yore was based on several different factors, including starter cultivating temperatures and mixtures, and of course the breeds of yeast and bacteria that were floating around the region from whence they came. Once you got a starter that made good bread, you held onto it – drying it and using it forever and ever to reproduce the flavor. Yeah, I’m kind of skipping over things like salt-rising bread and the non-leavened breads – but my focus today is on “making yeast.” Hey, it may be boring to you, but to me it’s totally amazing to think of old world folks arriving at these processes via trial and error. But, let’s move on anyway…

Oh my God, I seriously wrote about bread and Rocketbals. Sorry Keaton, daddy loves you.