parsley and almond pesto

Parsley and Almond Pesto

• 1 bunch parsley, destemmed
  
• 1 T. capers
  
• 2 anchovies, deboned
  
• 1/2 c. olive oil
  
• 1 T. red wine vinegar
  
• 20 toasted almonds
  
• salt
  

Parsley should be extremely well minced, as it can have a rather rough texture if it is not reduced to component molecules. Mince capers and anchovies until they, too, no longer bear any resemblance to solid matter. Combine parsley, capers, and anchovies in a bowl, add olive oil, and mix well. Add red wine vinegar (this is optional) and mix again. Mince toasted almonds and add to mixture. Stir. Add salt and more olive oil for flavor or liquidity, as desired.

Goes well with bread or pasta.

***

For all that it's Friday, this could easily have been the most frustrating day of the week. I prefer not to speak about work on faulty vision -- much, that is. Legends abound in the Internet about bloggers and journalists who have given excuse to their employers by remarking on their personal employment gestalt online. It would seem the corporate world prefers to keep itself off the Internet save in judiciously chewed, officially sanctioned sound-bite buttons, for which one could hardly blame them. The Internet is a scary place for a people who know, better than most, that the Public believes what it reads. There may not have been much to fear from the employees who made home videos damning their places of employment before passing them out like rocks of crystal meth over the water cooler -- ("Here. Check this out. It'll open your eyes, man.") -- the traction of an idle typist's opinion and the land mine of his DSL connection are a combination guaranteed to make any Public Relations officer wake up in a cold sweat.

Notwithstanding my newfound caution, it's worth noting that I came into work today and discovered that my work laptop, the computer which was home for all my labors, had grown legs and walked off during the night. It seems to me that I should be more upset than I am. A good two months work was in that computer, some of which was, yes, backed up to the network. This provides little comfort to me. I have learned to be wary of the Promise of Alexandria. The last time I suffered a calamity with my work computer, all the data I had religiously backed up to the network was also lost, as the network server committed suicide the same day and we learned no backups had ever been made of its data. One starts to lose trust.

Lacking computer and data and the means of recreating data, I cut my day short and went home in time for lunch.

Vexing as the laptop's loss is, it's nowhere near the irritation that lies in knowing that it is my own damn fault. Had I exercised basic caution and taken my laptop home, locked it down, or even put it in my unlockable desk drawer, it might very well have been there to greet me this morning. Instead of my computer, it would have been my cube-mate's computer. Knowing that my sacrifice prevented sacrifice on her part is very small consolation, in view of the deadline I face in 10 days.

Let that be a lesson to you, boys and girls. Trust no one. And make sure your company has its insurance up to date.

***

A few days after the poopy mouth story, my sister wandered past me with a toothbrush. The entire Hirata family (including one Hirata in-law) were in Seattle at the time: a family reunion with no fringe benefits. "Can I use this?" she asked.

"Sure."

She ambled up the stairs. After a few minutes, I followed. Offstage, Mom was discussing cleaning products with the Guy, who had discovered stains on the tablecloth we brought back from Mauritius.

"What should I get?"

"Oxyclean."

"How do you spell that?"

"It takes everything out," the Guy enthused. He is an acolyte at the Oxyclean altar, converted from the unsanitary soap-and-water heretic that he was by the guiding light of Tara's mother. "O-x-y..."

My sister's voice, then, yelling from another room. "Will it clean poop off my tooth?"

Silence from Mom and the Guy, who -- after a moment -- tactfully pretended my sister had never spoken, and went on with their own conversation.

I trailed my sister's voice to the bathroom, where I found her diligently scrubbing away at her crown with the toothbrush and toothpaste. She peered at it. I gaped at her. She thrust her crown in my face; I caught a glimpse of dingy yellow-white speckled with dingier bits of brownish-yellow, and recoiled.

"Does this look clean?" she demanded.

"Never."

I fled.

We were gathered in the kitchen a little later when she reappeared, most of one hand wedged firmly in her mouth in an earnest attempt to replace the crown from whence it (originally) came. "'e-ah, 'ook," she announced, and ungagged herself to yawn at us. Her crown was back in place. More lucidly, she added: "Post is broken. I have to get it fixed or I'll swallow it again, and then I'll have to fish it out again."

I winced. The Guy grinned. My mother, who has learned wisdom after a lifetime of being parent to my sister, maintained an studiously incurious silence.

Sako, unrepentant, reached back into her mouth and removed the crown. "I think it's clean. Want to go to El Salvador with me to get it fixed?"

***

In other news, I've enabled my RSS feed at last. This only matters because I've finally caught up with the rest of my mother's generation and figured out what an RSS feed is.

***

Sitting on the floor of my sister's bedroom in Seattle, going through bags of her old clothes.

"You used to wear this shit?"

"Wow. Black velvet elevator boots. That's awesome."

"Weird kid." I poked some roller skates. She crooned over them. "You must've been high to think this stuff looked good."

"Are you kidding? I was cool. I had great taste. Look at this stuff!"

"You were high."

"Probably." My sister is nothing if not honest. "Heh. Look. Plaid boxers."

I have never been fully acquainted with my sister's brief, high-school fling with drugs. "So they kicked you out for selling, right? What were you selling? Stickers or something?"

She eyed me over a filmy blue scarf, which she was wrapping around her torso like a home mummification kit. "Stickers. Yeah. Right."

"Where did you get them from?" I persisted. "Like, a dealer? Were you selling them at profit?"

Sako was vaguely affronted. "Just some guy. I wasn't selling them. I was sharing them with my friends. For fun and profit. It was like ... public outreach."

"With drugs."

She grinned. "But I looked cool."

Posted by yhirata at September 17, 2004 3:11 PM