Bruschetta, American Style

Everyone loves bruschetta, right? Crunchy bread with ample flavors of garlic and tomatoes and basil. The Italians have perfected it, and I am not at all inclined to mess with a formula that has had a successful run pretty much since Julius Caeser. Ok, so maybe I am. I can’t help myself. I’m calling my version.... bruschetta, American style.

What you need: all the things you normally need -- a good, crunchy bread. Personally, I like a fresh ciabatta, but, really, there are so many freshly baked loaves that will do. Plenty of fresh basil, several cloves of garlic, a package of grape tomatoes. (stay away from large tomatoes -- they get too mushy when you saute them.) add in some sliced up sun dried tomatoes, shallots, maybe two scallion, and -- for the American wrinkle -- get a package of chicken tenders and a ripe avocado.

To prepare: marinate your chicken in whatever prepared marinade you like. Truly, it hardly matters. In my case, I used Mrs. Dash’s Lemon Herb Peppercorn, but knock yourself out here. Use whatever you like. Saute the marinated chicken in a little olive oil. While the chicken is getting happy, chop your garlic cloves and shallots and place in a pan with some olive oil. Chop up your grape tomatoes and add those to the mix along with the chopped scallion and sundried tomatoes. Chop your basil and add to the saute mix. Cut the avocado into small squares.

When the chicken is almost fully cooked, remove the tenders from the pan and cut into small pieces. For maybe a minute or so, add the chicken to the saute mix of tomatoes, garlic, shallots, etc. Throw the whole mix into a large bowl and add in the chopped avocado. Cut your bread into thin slices and toast. When the toast is done, rub with a garlic clove and spread with a bit of olive oil. Top with the chicken, garlic, tomato mix piling it as high as you dare. If you're a cheesy kind of guy, feel free to sprinkle some shredded romano cheese over the this gorgeous creation. Understand that this will provide you with a messy dining experience, so don’t wear your Sunday finest when enjoying this.

Wine is a must with this. Amazing how either red or white will do the trick. You decide.

The French would say, “bon apetit.” I don’t know what the Italians would say.

Now I know why they call them fire ants

Because they hurt like hell, that’s why. We’ve just spent a kingly sum on fixing up the “estate.” Let’s just say, we spent enough to keep a small third world economy afloat for a bit. So, as you might imagine, when the landscaper encouraged us to give extra water to the newly planted trees, shrubs, and flowers, we were more than willing. And, mind you, this does not come naturally to us. Our idea of gardening is watching someone else do it. There is no Plan B. The trouble with gardening in the semi-tropics, as you have here, is that you have the constant company of scorching heat and humidity that can peel any man-made substance off any surface exposed to the atmosphere. Plus, there are the bugs. For example, the mosquitoes here are required to have drivers’ licenses. The palmetto bugs are so large they can be drafted to pull small carts, if you have that need. No one warned me about the fire ants though.

So there I was trying to be manly about ignoring the pothole sized mosquito bites I was actively collecting on my shins and back when I could not help but notice that my feet were on fire even though I couldn’t see the flames. I looked down to see a populous nation of black ants literally covering my feet. If it was human flesh they sought, they had hit the mother lode. The yelp I emitted got Mojo’s attention, although only for a moment as he turned over on the driveway to continue his mid-day snooze. I did what any fire department would do -- I hosed down my feet, but the burning would now have to run its course.

I mentioned this experience to the guys who were finishing up with the landscaping and their eyes and mine simultaneously gazed down at their feet: combat boots that would make Attila the Hun proud. Impenetrable.

I’m off to the shoe store.

Dinner Tonight (and, yes, I'm talking to you)

Here’s what you need: some shrimp, some red chili linguini (although, frankly, any pasta will do), a shallot, as many garlic cloves as your mate will tolerate, a scallion or two, white wine you like, the juice of maybe half a lemon, a nice handful of pine nuts, some fresh basil, olive oil, shredded romano cheese, and the obligatory freshly ground pepper.

Here’s what you do:

1) boil your shrimp erring perhaps on undercooking them a bit. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.
2) chop your shallot and garlic and saute in a bit of olive oil until they become translucent. When they do, add in a nice soaking of the white wine and allow the mixture to reduce. When reduced, add to this mixture some chopped scallion.
3) separately toast the pine nuts either dry or in a bit of olive oil. Be careful not to burn -- use a low heat.
4) cook your pasta. In the case of the chili linguini I used, it took 3 minutes. Drain the pasta.
5) If you haven't done it already, chop your basil leaves.
6) after you’ve shelled the cooked shrimp, add the shrimp to the saute mixture for maybe a minute. No more. Sprinkle liberally with the ground pepper. Add in the pasta and stir.
7) to this shrimp and pasta mix, add in the toasted pine nuts and chopped basil. Squeeze in the lemon juice, and, if you like, drizzle some more olive oil over the mix.
8) top the whole shebang with as much shredded romano cheese as you like. (Yes, yes, I know. Italians would frown and mumble not so subdued expletives at adding cheese to a seafood pasta dish, but folks this isn’t Italy.)

Be prepared to chow down on a multi-textured, tasty melange of flavors.

You got better plans?

No, that wasn't Michael Phelps

I’ve taken to the pool. It was a reluctant embrace. I’m a runner, not a swimmer. But, an assortment of back and hamstring ills drove me to do whatever I could to fulfill my need for exercise in the morning. The problem is I am very slow. I imagine a visit by the folks from the Guinness Book of World Records informing me that I am the third slowest swimmer on the planet, faster only than a 96 year old woman in Brooklyn and an Argentine amputee. There are leaves floating in the pool that, shockingly, seem to keep up with my less than torrid pace.

The thing about swimming laps is that there may be almost no other human endeavor that forces you to be alone with your thoughts for so long. There is truly nothing to distract you unless you consider watching the black tile line on the bottom of the pool a “distraction.” Running is a solitary sport, but at least then your eyes can scan the scenery or, if on the treadmill, you can lose yourself in sports highlights, the news, or the latest culinary concoction from the Food Network. No, the closest things to this experience are those sleepless nights when you lay in bed in the dark and let your brain do somersaults making you crazy with irrational thoughts. So - I’m learning that to be a successful lap swimmer you need to be comfortable in your own skin and okay to be alone with your thoughts. So far, so good.

To keep track of where I am in this monotonous wet universe, I have strangely adopted a system of remembering my lap count by labeling them with a uniform number of a Yankee of ages gone by. Thus, lap 3 is Babe Ruth; lap 7, Mickey Mantle; lap 14, “Moose” Skowren; lap 25, Joe Pepitone, and so on. Yes, I know it’s a bit embarrassing, but it is effective, if juvenile.

I started out doing 10 laps (Tony Kubek). Then got to 19 (“Bullet” Bob Turley), and last week, the much sought after lap 33 (David Wells) which denotes 66 times up and back -- a full mile! Of course, it took me almost an hour and a half to do it. That’s enough time for some empires to rise and fall. But, I was stoked hitting that magical mark. Now, I’m thinking of going for two miles, but the folks here had better turn on the flood lights for that adventure.

It could take me that long.

Corkie and Frank

Corkie and Frank are sweet guys, really. They may seem like they’re 109, but they’re not. Retired military guys: a bit salty but, as they say, true as the day is long. These guys meet every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, and I mean every morning like since the Coolidge Adminstration where they proceed to stroll to the beach figuratively arm in arm (although they’d be embarrassed by that notion). not only can you set your watch by these guys, but they always wear the same thing: Corkie is in his khaki shorts, white polo and green cap while Frank is partial to his faded U.S. Open t-shirt and blue swim trunks. every day. Corkie and Frank are notable for a number of reasons, but in my world, they are noteworthy because of their love for Mojo. They take great delight in seeing my somewhat unruly pup, maybe because as former dog owners they miss their own companions, or maybe because they are just smitten with Mojo.

It has become a ritual, this daily early morning meeting. Mojo knows they’re lurking about because his sense of anticipation is acute. This may be because Mojo likes these guys as they like him, or (as is more likely) it is because Corkie and Frank bring dog treats every day which Mojo looks forward to the way you and I look forward to breathing. If the guys have reached the beach before us, I spend all my efforts in trying to keep my arm from being torn out of its socket as Mojo urges us forward to the beach in much the same way you and I would run if free $100 bills were being given away fifty feet in front of us. To avoid unnecessary surgery, I simply let Mojo off the leash and watch him tear off like the proverbial bat out of hell as he heads for the sand in search of what apparently is the world’s most heavenly and delicious tasty tidbits available to canines. I mean, how good can they be? When Mojo reaches the guys, he sits dutifully -- closer than a shadow -- and waits in frantic anticipation of what comes out of the old guys’ pockets. I hear their laughter as I slowly catch up to this truly comical and endearing scene, and then -- once his dog treat habit has been satisfied -- brace myself for Mojo’s totally predictable fixation on the tennis balls I bring that will exercise his virtually endless desire to chase moving objects.

Not a bad way to start the morning.

Lost and Found

All in all, it lasted only about an hour, but I swear in my heart it lasted much, much longer. I left Mojo on the deck, walled in (or so I thought) eliminating the possibility of escape. Lily was inside no more than 15 feet away. I ran off to hit some golf balls content that Mojo would be pleased to stay on the deck with a full bowl of water and lots of sunshine. Life is good, right? I returned to find the deck empty and then, to my horror, discovered he was not in the house either. Lily and I went to red alert (more frequently known as panic mode) as we frantically decided to scan the neighborhood and beach, she on foot, me in the car. And, here’s where the stress really ramps up. Is he safe? Has he been taken? Has he left the area? Will he walk into oncoming traffic? Is he suffering in this heat without water? Has an alligator gotten to him -- not an idle worry in these parts. Then the thoughts turn to: Will we ever see him again? He’s such a great dog. How can we lose him so quickly, just as he’s hitting his stride as a member of our family and as part of the larger community here. Can he just disappear into thin air?

After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.

Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.

And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.

Mojitos R Us

People are funny when it comes to describing what their vision of heaven is. For some, it’s the proverbial pearly gates, angels cooing, trumpets blaring. For others, it’s whatever their personal vision of what peace and tranquility might be -- maybe a seductive, secluded beach or perhaps an inspiring and cooling mountain lake. My sense is a bit different. For me, it’s an eternal Mojito Challenge of the type just served up here in Charleston, just as it is every year when one’s thoughts turn to tropical drinks.

This year’s affair was set at the Charleston Aquarium, a brilliant choice for a venue when you think about it: a fabulous array of all things aquatic from sharks to snakes to seahorses to jellyfish and all things in between. Plus, the totally pleasurable option of the outside verandas where one can seek refuge from the teeming and wonderfully boisterous crowds who have come to share in the exact pursuit that brought you here -- the perfect mojito. What was once a simple and pleasing concoction of rum, simple syrup and some muddled mint now becomes a feverish (and highly entertaining) smack down among the city’s best bartenders to catch that special edge that will earn them the much sought after bragging rights of the best mojito maker in town.

And, make no mistake about it, these combatants will go to considerable lengths to get your attention. No fruit is left unexplored. You have your strawberry, kiwi, peach, watermelon, passion fruit, and banana, naturally. But, have you wondered what your mojito might taste like with a shot of elderberry, rosemary, cucumber, agave, dragonfruit, or --perhaps most exotic of all -- the yuzu? the yuzu? You know -- a Japanese fruit somewhat resembling the grapefruit. Somewhat. Introduce into this sublime ocean of vitamin C some ginger, a tannic lime meringue, or a poblano infused simple syrup or a simple splash of vanilla and you begin to see how demonic the pursuit of a prize winner can be. No stone is left unturned; no essence is left unexplored.

I concede my judgment may have become a bit clouded after sampling 14 different concoctions. My recollection is that they were all good. Some too sweet. Some too obviously gimmicky. Some bearing absolutely no resemblance to the mojito that inspired this event. But, what a fabulous evening.

Oh. The winner? A zesty concoction from “Coast,” a restaurant that has experienced more than its share of success at this event in the past. This year’s entry: a potion of strawberry, rhubarb and rosemary and -- the clincher -- a shot of strawberry pop rocks thrown in at the last moment that effervesce up your nose for a most memorable and sensory mojito experience. Ta da!