Wednesday, December 30, 2009

gee wiz

I know it has been FOREVER. I have been around the hemisphere and back. Colombia, Montana, Virginia, BERLIN NEW JERSEY. What a bunch of weeks.

I have a killer family story tell you all that involves intrigue, skin discoloration, hillbilly masks, and acts of hubris. And my mother of course. Sadly, she has forbidden me to to discuss this story or share the amazing photo. So instead I will put up the equally freakish image of Cathy's niece. Isn't she a monster?.
I started my month heading down to Cartagena, Colombia for a very, VERY last minute trip (I found out about it two days before I got on a plane). It was mostly a talent scouting trip but I was able to sneak in a scuba diving excursion. At least 5 different people I met seemed to be confused about my name, asking if Joshua was English for Jesus? It's not.

The trip to Colombia was amazing and that country has a wealth of musical assets. It reminds me of a compact Brazil. Cartagena was almost unbearably hot and humid, the temp hovering at around 97 with 80 percent humidity. I soaked through most of my clothes while the locals strutted by in jeans and long sleeve shirts.

The next week I was in Montana where it was 7 degrees.

Moving on...

I have taken time off life and worked at my families store in Berlin, NJ since I was 13. The one year I failed to show up to work for the holidays my car was doused in gasoline and burnt to a crisp while parked at the local Jewish Community Center. The blame for this act was placed on some hoodlum for Northeast Philly, but I think my father played a part in scaring me into a work ethic. Maybe it was his recipe for a version of Jewish scared straight. Anti-Semitism+ignoring of filial ties+removal of mode of transportation+being stranded in Northeast Philly=work for the family biz every Christmas for the rest of your life. Thanks pop.

It is always great to see my family in action of the holidays and even if my mother was incapacitated by injuries, she still was able to cook up some mean soup.

It was Cathy's birthday on Christmas day and if you failed to wish her a happy birthday you will burn in Christian hell. As a gift of Santa or Jesus or something, she has those sorts of magical powers.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Hey kid, watch out for Gizint.

A few years ago, when both of my folks were going though an unusually difficult time regarding their health, my father sat me down and talked about grandkids. Only half jokingly, he implored, "I don't care how you do it, or who you do it with, I want grandkids soon. I don't care who it is that you pick-up off the street to make this a reality." How very sweet. He even promised to help out financially since, at that time, I was hardly employed, and the employment stability of the proposed future-mother-of-my-children was directly tied to the level in which the Williams administration punished ladies of the night.

Thankfully, both of my parents have been in great health(physically) for some time, and my sister has since gotten hitched, so the responsibility for reproducing has fallen on her shoulders with the weight of 10 Passover briskets. My mother puts on her best old-Jewish mother voice and kvetches to her other old-Jewish mother friends "Ahch, she will never give me a grandchild!."

Well, all of that changed when a few months ago Bek found out that she will become a mother. My father cried when he found out, mother mother screamed, my aunt did this really funny dance and shouted "all right, all right!." (watch video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57L0YpsDgQ4)

My sister and I are super close. She is hands down the funniest person I know and we get along very well. But this was not always this case. She and I, especially as children, were very different. She could most often be found crying in public, tears streaming down her face, embarrassed at some benign action of my mothers (grinding with drunken Polish mummers during the mummers parade for example). I on the other hand, was a soft spoken, complacent kid, happy to ponder why tears came so easily to my sister.

As we got older, our relationship took on new dynamics. For example, my folks would often punish her for some transgression or another, and then would put me in charge of carrying out her punishment "Josh, Bek has been grounded from TV for the night, we are going out for a while, make sure she doesn't get near the TV." These actions would often leave me with bruises, broken skin or both.

Recently, she married a man, who like my mother, will happily embarrass her in public. He has a life-size Lawrence Taylor cutout, a once large collection of pleated pants, and a sense of humor directly connected to the degree in which my sister will get red in the face. He is a good man. Last Thanksgiving I witnessed a truly epic fight in which my sister discovered that the peanut butter she uses for breakfast was the same peanut butter that her husband dips their dogs bone into everyday. It was awesome. Back to the point of this long winded tale...

Bek is going to make a rad mother. But she will have to learn to deal with a child that will turn out almost exactly like me. Hairy, drawn to loud music, lover of beefaroni from a young age, critical of most events around him. It should be an interesting fit and one that I intend to laugh at and nurture with smiles, joy, and secret packages of metal records and leftist literature.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Lee Kohn at 70, or, if the world converted its primary energy source from petroleum to fart jokes there would be universal peace


On November 3rd, both the great fulgelhornist, Chuck Mangione and my father, Lee (short for Lee) Kohn will celebrate their birthdays. My father is a year older than Mr. Mangione and would have told him where to shove his flugelhorn if they had gone to high school together (answer: where the sun don't shine).

My father's influence has been vast. Andrew Richman probably would be half the man his is today if it weren't for my father. Ed Brant would have never learned the word "pisser." Rebekah Klipper would have far less jewelry. Berlin, NJ would still be receiving their gold purchases in brown paper bags.

My father has an active and inventive mind. I have hung around my fare share of dads over the years, and generally, they put their mental energies towards your typically fatherly obsessions- golf, piss-poor carpentry, pondering the best shortstops throughout the history of the Phillies franchise (answer: Dickie Thon). These were not activities that ever interested Lee Kohn. Instead, my father has spent much of his down time doing one of the following:
1. Napping: No man can match the athletic prowess that my father shows in his napping abilities. Even Cathy is outmatched.
2. Watching cooking shows: He can watch a mean cooking show. I have only really seen him "cook" boiled hot dogs, shrimp scampi, and an occasional bloody mary, but the amount of cooking he should have amassed over the years would put Emeril to shame.
3. Mediocre financial planning: My father is a champion average investor. Ask him for advice, he will give it to you.
4. Getting manicures: the man likes well-maintained nails, what can I say.
5. Coming up with jokes/stories/insults that would appeal to a 13 year old boy/Andrew Richman: Seriously, my father is king of the bathroom humor which makes him my hero.
This final (and most important) time-consumer leads me to one of my father's greatest inventions, and one of the true great ideas of the last century:

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, SICK THING!

When we were young children, the Kohn family (Sherry, Lee, Rebekah, and yours truly) would take long and painful vacations to such educational destinations as Williamsburg, VA (I purchased a clay pipe, Bekah scowled), Bar Harbor (I purchased tadpoles, Bekah scowled) Niagara Falls (fresh peaches! Bekah scowled) and many a colonial military base (I purchased a fife, Bekah scowled). On these excruciatingly long car rides, my father had to come up with something, anything to keep Bekah from abusing her poor, innocent brother, and thus, the game "Animal, Vegetable Sick Thing" was born. The rules are as follows:

1. Basically, the game runs exactly like "Animal Vegetable, Mineral" but "Mineral" is replaced by "Sick Thing" since seriously, nobody wants to try to figure out that you are thinking of zinc.

2. You get 20 questions, or actually you get as many questions as you want since the Kohn's were never really that good at math.

3. Although the answer might be anything that falls under the three main catagories, the truth is, the answer is always:
1. Enema Bag
2. Diarrhea
3. Vomit
4. Fart
5. Poop (while you might think diarrhea and poop would be the same, they, in fact, warrant their own categories.

And that is the game. The key to winning the game is not getting the answer, but asking the grossest leading question to get to the answer.

Example round (answer is fart)

Bek: Does Josh smell like this?
Dad: yes
Josh: Did Bek just do this?
Dad: Yes
Bekah: When Josh trys to be cool, does this sometimes happen?
Dad: yes
Sherry: Is is a birthday cake?
Dad: no
Josh: Is it ugly like Bek's face
Dad: yes
Bek: Do you want to stay away from it like all of Josh's "friends"
Dad: yes
Bek: Is it a fart
Dad: YOU WIN.

As you can see, my father is a great man.

Happy 70th pop. I hope you eat a lot of meat and do not let one damn vegetable on your plate.

Friday, October 30, 2009

hirsute

This morning I was zoning out, listing to music on my headphones while enjoying a shvitz at the gym. An Ethiopian man came into the room and starting making frantic motions in my direction, making circles around his shoulders with his hands. I took off my headphones, and caught that he was asking me if my shoulder hair ever stops growing out, like two balloons that can be blown up forever......

For those of you who have never seen me with my shirt off (I am sort of like a super hero, with my hirsute costume neatly tucked under my button-down shirt), I am old-school man-hairy. I have the full, long sweater - back, shoulder's, ass, chest. My shoulders are puffy, as if I transplanted the afro's from two teenage kids in my neighborhood on either side of my body. But there is of course a limit to my body hair growth. It is not like the hair on your head where it could grow on forever, creating a long shaggy coat. Duh.

I informed the man of the reality of my body hair, and he proceeded with the (of course) logical follow-up question, "Is it true that woman like very hair men because the hair feels sensual on their skin?" Uhh...what? Has this urban myth been going around? How have I never heard of this before? Who asks this to a half naked man-beast taking a shvitz? My answer was, of course, "Yes, I am a more advanced sensual being." This was a lie (just ask Cathy), but when a hairy man is pressed, he must defend his honor. I think usually my hair just makes me overheat and causes me to have to clean the drain in the bathtub more often.

I have been openly vocal about my positive feelings regarding my body hair. There have been some summers where I get Cathy to trim me down (sorry dear) due to the increased insulation, but in general, I regard my bear-like self-image as a positive. Recently, as Cathy and I rounded the four year mark on our relationship, I started to worry that if we produced any male offspring, it would probably be a smooth-chested creature. This is no good. This child would view me as a freak, would not be out in the world increasing the numbers of hairy men, and would generally be a weaker being, incapable of surviving the revolution and coming ice age that will grip the world during his lifetime. This is very bad. The only solution will be for Cathy and I to adopt a child from Eastern Europe or maybe a cute young Indian boy.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

sorry state

(I am totally beat by the time this photo was taken on Sunday afternoon)

2009 festival season is FINALLY over. I am exhausted but ready to move on. I am also a little weirded out by that last post. What was I thinking? Gross.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Pisspot

UPDATE 8/21: My father just left me a phone message to let me know that his restroom would have wall to wall carpeting to capture any spill-over and absorb the aroma for generations to come.
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While taking a leak today, I started to think about Cathy's store vs. my father's (and Aunt's) jewelry shop.

Cathy's concept has to do with creating an atmosphere where items can be highlighted without too much clutter or interference with the thought that minimal stock will allow the quality to stand out. My father is old school and likes to put as much product in front of the costumer as possible, with the thought that low prices and lots of variety will drive sales.

Both are merchandising concepts with their own positive attributes and the truth is that both can work. When done well, both can lead to a lavish lifestyle for yours truly.

However, while taking said leak earlier today, my thoughts wandered and I began to wonder, "what if these two visionaries took their individual concepts and brought them to the design of the men's rooms?" My vision was this.

The Cathy inspired men's lavatory vision:

One large 20 x 16 cream colored room with just one white urinal in the middle and a basic faucet in the corner. No sink, just a drain in the floor. I imagine a man in a double breasted suit and wingtips walking silently into the room, standing in front of the urinal, unzipping, doing his business and departing. He doesn't wash his hands. A few seconds later, another similar looking man enters and follows the same routine. This continues infinitely as the line outside of the door has no discernible end. In the corner of the room calmly sits a Labrador retriever puppy.

Lee Kohn house of piss men's room:

One cramped 20 x 16 green and brown tiled room with hundreds of urinals inches apart. Some of these urinals are on corners, and their piss-catcher-tips nearly touch. Large troughs of disinfected water serve as hand washing stations. While starting empty, hundreds of large men, from what seem to be an Eagles game, pour into the room and work their way into the urinals. Since they are all so close together, men touch thighs, feeling awkward, shout homophobic slurs at one another. In the middle, an older man has dropped his trousers to his ankles, farts while taking a piss. In a few seconds all of the men, feeling creepy, but with infinitely less in their bladder, bolt for the door. None of them wash their hands. In the corner, Christmas decorations are hung, but are not turned on since it is August.

Buddy Holly & blueberries

These "Cricket" mobile phone store are popping up all over DC like swine flu in an elementary school. Does DC really need more commercial eyesores? Cathy's store sits about a block and a half away from a new one of these places and almost helps to create a karmic zeroing of their aesthetic banality. What a waste of positive visual space.

This past weekend we put up the permanent sign for the space. It was one of the first pieces completed, but the DCRA was maddening as usual, and the sign permit ended up taking a back seat to more pressing paperwork. Finally, Cathy succeeded in showing enough leg to get the permits, and we were off. Unlike with the Cricket Mobile stores, we have done most of this work ourselves or with the help of good friends who have a high tolerance for aggravation. Using a 24 ft. ladder, a hammer drill and the keen ability to ignore common sense, I was able to secure the sign in place. Many of our new neighbors came out to smoke, talk shop, and watch the semi-semi-professional work up close. 3/4 of the way through the process I removed a dull drill bit that had been stripped. As with all of the small tools I was using, I placed it in my left shirt pocket. What I didn't think of was that the drill bit has gotten molten hot and, while precariously perched atop the 24 foot ladder, and I had to struggle to get the bit away from my person before I set myself on fire. Thankfully I didn't fall, but my left nipple did not fare so well.

The Montana festival feels like a lifetime ago at this point. Cathy and I are gearing up for the Maine festival where I will run around like a mad man making sure that the hundreds of artists are happy while Cathy will be digging for old clothes and stuffing her face with lobster and blueberries (often all three at the same time).

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Summertime blues

Sorry it has been so long since I posted anything of substance. It has been a crazy, crazy month. From the successful last push to put the finishing touches on Cathy's AMAZING new store, to the rocking festival I booked in Montana, to the 12+ hours I have spent in layovers, delays and canceled flights in Colorado, Montana, New Hampshire and DC, it has been a sleepless whirlwind few weeks.

Currently I am Philly for a few days sitting on a music panel and continuing to get fat from lack of aerobic motion. I want to give a full rundown of the past months events, but it seems too dense to get to in one post. I will hopefully do a slow roll-out along with photo's. In the meantime, let's talk Cathy's parents....

Last weekend, my one weekend at home, Cathy was at the store and got a call from her folks saying they wanted to drop food off at the Chungkohn palace. Since Cathy has yet to actually tell her folks that she is a small business owner (god forbid!) she put the onis of parental interaction squarely on me, her poor non-Korean speaking Jewish man-servant-man.

Cathy's mom is a little sprite of woman with boundless energy to feed her children and her children's partners. I have had three conversations with her. Ever. They consist of the following topics:

1. Hungry?
2. Eat this.
3. I will give you this to eat.

Cathy informed me that both her parents were going to stop over and deliver food. Since they didn't have a cell phone, and the Chungkohn palace door ringer doesn't work in humidity, I was instructed to wait for them on the stairs outside. When they did finally arrived, they didn't come in the house, even though I invited them in. Instead, they proceeded to enact what could only be a "drive by feeding." The car parked illegally in the bus zone, they opened the trunk and forced food upon me Although I succeeded in not taking the bag of onions and dried fish cakes, they were able to leave DC less the following items:

one 5 gallon tub of kimchi
5 pound sack o' potatoes
8 pound bag of enriched white rice
bag of clementines
bag of oyster mushrooms
5 home grown cucumbers (very good)
5 whole, unfrozen large croaker fish
bag of scallions
dried squid stuff/thing
large bag of crushed garlic
bag of carrots
bananas
bag of cherries

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(tub of kimchi)

Thanks Chung's.

To prepare you for the next post, I have attached a picture of the chuckwagon from the festival. The positioning of this was completely unintentional.

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Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Sherry never forgets

Sherry never forgets. My mother found my blog, read the posts about herself.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

The Fix

We built a store. Or we almost built a store. I am tired, but proud of the work Cathy and I (with some quality help) have accomplished. At the end of April I had no handyman skills whatsoever. Really. I had never painted a room before or put up a set of shelves.

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To date, I have earned my merit badge in:

1. drywall patching
2. sanding, wood refinishing
3. caulking
4. basic carpentry
5. piss-poor plumbing
6. painting
7. cursing
8. yelling
9. sweating
10. accidental limb painting
11. paint stripping
12. creative design of natural gas piping, metal piping
13. questionably legal worker negotiating
14. old ass window repairing
15. plumber crack showing
16. humming to myself while I work-ing

Friday, June 26, 2009

I've Just Told Mama Goodbye


I know, everyone is all boo-hoo teary-eyed about Michael Jackson (Richards, I am looking at you). But, I think you are all overlooking the real loss to entertainment-Irv Homer.

My father used to listen to the Philly Radio station WWDB throughout my childhood. I honestly don't recall him ever listening to any music except when my sister brow-beat him into letting her listen to Q102 or Eagle 106. Usually, my pops would crank up the Irv in the old Taurus or maroon station wagon and cruise. "Evil" Irv had a truly perfect radio voice and congeniality to his cantankerous anger that I remember fondly. He predated the absurdity of modern radio punditry and, sadly, his more conversant style made him seem outdated by the time I left for college. To me, his voice will always be talk radio. Evil Irv, you will be missed.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Ear Dis

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The above-pictured abyss is my father’s ear. Dangling pendulums of skin and fur that hang off my father’s head, these massive floppy hearing discs often serve as a crystal ball into my future. For his 65th birthday he requested the top of the line, diamond tipped, Sharper Image ear and nose hair trimmer with (spelunking) light attached. I wept in my birthday cake after I gave it to him. He promised to leave it for me in his will. Even worse, within 6 months, he informed me the machine couldn’t handle the black forest that are his ears, and the motor burnt out. He was back to using the old scissors to help in his daily maintenance.

This past weekend I returned home to the Philly-burbs to celebrate in meat father’s day, my parent’s anniversary, and my sister’s birthday. It was there I saw that my father had purchased himself a bluetooth earpiece. I applaud the man for making an attempt at safety while driving (he still rarely uses his seatbelt), but watching him endeavor to put this in his ear was a bit like a toddler trying to slip onto the tilt-a-whirl at the amusement park. If they make an extra large device, my father didn’t get it, and he needed to not only put it in his ear, but to also constantly use his hand hold it onto the side of his head. I think he was hoping that with speed his ear hair and wax that can grow, it would, at some point, overcome the earpiece and lock it in place. I imagine the next time I see him it will seem that he has half an ear muff attached to his head with an Bluetooth device buried, like a lost treasure, beneath the soft pillow of hair, wax, and miscellaneous refuse caught in the air. If I am lucky, I too will have inherited this fine family trait.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Mule Train

Yes/No

Cathy and I will be heading to the great ethnic north of Philadelphia this weekend to celebrate (in order of stated importance, as dictated by my sister): my sister’s birthday, father’s day, my parents anniversary. All of these events happened either on the same day (June 26=Bek’s b-day, my folks forgetting to stay single) or within a week of each other.

Cathy is tearing herself away from working on the store space to join the ladies in my family for a day of spa relaxation. My father will be at work. My sister’s husband and I will probably watch TV, sleep, and make fun of my sister behind her back.

That evening my father will be taking us out for my sister’s birthday to a Brazilian churrascarria. This a thinly veiled gift from my father to my sister that is actually a gift from my father to my father. The man likes meat, what can I say. He also very much enjoys watching others eat foods he loves (read:meat). Bek’s husband writes of this meal, “Very excited. If I eat too much I am going to fall asleep. But if I don’t eat too much I am going to disappoint your parents. I am at a loss.”

It is a very hard decision to decide to become involved in my family. I wouldn’t recommend it. Anyway, we are not currently accepting applications.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Oh Death

Just a quick note to say how much I adore the Washington Post's "Post Mortem" blog:

http://voices.washingtonpost.com/postmortem/

I have always been fascinated with obits.

It is my goal to live a life that gets me into the NYtimes or Washington Post obit page. Which means I need to live a life completely out of the ordinary or do just one small odd feat that gets me noticed. One way or another, I think I can handle that.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Bully of the Town

Be afraid babies. Cathy is coming to steal your lunch money.

2009_audrey_100days_joshcathy

Polka Dot Ragged

EddieB

What the hell, this will be my second post dealing with Polka music. I think any reader who does not know me would think I am some huge Polka fan. This is not exactly the case, although I do enjoy an occasional Mark Halata record and have co-produced a recording of Chicago push music for the Cracker Barrel chain. Cathy is not the biggest fan of the form (and truthfully, hates most of the music I like) and makes me listen to polka when she is out of the house.

It was announced recently that the Grammy's were doing away with the Polka category. As they say:

"To ensure the Awards process remains representative of the current
musical landscape, the Best Polka Album has been eliminated, which
brings the total number of Grammy categories to 109."

I can name a slew of very active bands, and gangs of fans who would
take umbrage with this statement.

It is sad that the foundation never did the work to support the
category and the field. A genre that once flourished across the U.S., especially in the Mid-West, New England, and parts of Texas, really has been on the wane for a while. But there are literally hundreds of active bands recording and making a living. Some of them extremely talented and fantastically creative. What the Grammy's have done is pronounced the genre, not only on the wane, but dead, with no active representative recordings being released.

The Polka category has been around for 24 years, and for 18 of them, it has gone to just one artist, the totally boring Jimmy Sturr. Maybe it is better that the Grammy's keep their paws off of the style. Their lack of care over the years, and seemingly purposeful dismissal of a field they were set to honor could have only hurt this once dominant American musical form. I guess we should say "good riddance." Still, I once worked with Karl & The Country Dutchman, whose drummer at the time (and possibly still), was a young lady who could drink any of you under the table and who worked in the field of pig castration when not on the road. If it is decided that the Academy made the wrong decision, I nominate her to go over there and set them strait.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Carry on My Wayward Son

The following is an e-mail I received moments ago from my mother, who just landed for a short vacation with my father in Prague. Hopefully other gems of this sort will land in my inbox. Readers should take note in subsequent e-mails of her themes of: personal misery in what should be an amazing situation, exhaustion, the love she posses for her children, her longing for her bed/dog, ice cream/ice cream products, my fathers eating habits. Enjoy.

THE PLANE WAS LOADED WITH SCREAMING CHILDREN AND BARKING DOGS. IT WAS NOT A BAD FLIGHT. IT IS COLD IN PRAGUE AND I AM GLAD I BROUGHT A FEW LEATHER JACKETS WITH US. SO FAR NO RAIN BUT IT LOOKS THREATENING. WE SAW THE LIST OF OUR FELLOW TRAVELERS...WE NEED 8 MORE TO MAKE A MINYON. WE SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON WANDERING AROUND PRAGUE AND HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH THE CITY. DAD FOUND THE CHOCOLATE AND GELATTO PLACES SO ALL IS WELL.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Ball of Confusion


josh_cathy_kathleendrew's wedding
Originally uploaded by catheterhero

Cathy laughed last night when I called this blog "our blog." I guess I failed to clue her in that she is expected to post on here as well.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Mama Mia!

This past weekend was my second cousins Bar-Mitzvah. They live just over the boarder in NoVa but I am horrible and don't make nearly enough effort to see them. The hands-down leader and matriarch of this side of my family is my great-Aunt. As a young child, compared to my adorable grandmother (one day I will do a post about my grandmother her diet of coffee milkshakes) she scared me. I can now recognize she is a sweet as she is tough, but that's a whole lot of sweet to counter than amount of toughness. She grew up in South Philly in a three-bedroom house with 10 other children. That has got to give you a stiff upper-lip. I hardly made it to 18 living with just one sibling.

She is creeping up on 90 and her husband is 96. They still live in the same house they have been in for years, she volunteers all over the community, and has no problem telling you like it is.

Her husband is not in the best of shape. He has been in and out of the hospital for a few years. Being 96 ain't easy. This past Friday he took ill and had to be rushed to the hospital. My great-aunt was able to see him off, make sure he was comfortable, and still had the will to cook a huge meal for 14 people that night.

At the Bar-Mitzvah, the Rabbi made an announcement about my great Uncle had taken ill and would not be able to make it to the Bar Mitzvah. My mother who had driven down that morning from Philly for the event and who was born without that crucial cerebral component known in the scientific world as a filter, leaned over to me and whispered at a volume that can only be described as deafening, "looks like we'll be coming back down soon!' Thanks for the heads-up mom.

Later that night Cathy and I went to a graduation party for a good friend that has been working on getting this whole college business behind her for a good long while. To celebrate, Cathy made jello shots and tried to get everyone to do keg stands. She is 31. She should be ashamed.

Monday, May 4, 2009

slick rick

As if you didn't know.....

Cathy has been hard at work getting her boutique off the ground. This weekend we spent part of the time shopping for fixtures, part of the time eating crabs, and the rest working on the space. I stripped and sanded a flight of stairs (I am getting good at this) and Cathy tried her luck stripping a cute bookshelf we nabbed for $5. The chemicals will no doubt give us flipper babies. This might be an improvement (at least for the Chung's).

The flooring is finally in. Here is a little shot of what the space is looking like.

Flooring

We also spent Saturday night out with some friends at Blob's Park, getting our Polka on. I am so thankful this place has reopened. It seems that the developers who purchased this Maryland landmark in order to construct another suburban wasteland were fearful of building in this economic climate so they leased the venue back to the Blob family. We checked out the great Alex Meixner, accordion freak, who I brought out to the National Folk Festival this past July. At some point early in the evening an older gentleman said to our friend Ashby "it feels like Germany, 1943 in here." I am not sure if I am supposed to be offended by that.

Here are some shots of Cathy and I scaring people on the dance floor. They were taken by the wonderul Michael Stewart who happened to be at Blob's shooting Alex for an upcoming record.

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Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Cutting Crew

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This past weekend we had the first ever meeting of the cookie club (giggle).

What is the Cookie Club you ask? The Cookie Club is a safe space where real men gather together to share fresh baked cookies with their friends. Who can bake cookies for the cookie club you ask? Real men. Who cannot bake cookies for the cookie club you ask? Woman (or fake men).

Now that you have read the above, you should give yourself a moment to allow your testicles to distend (if you have testicles, if you don't the wait will be for naught).

But that was on Sunday night. There were myriad events prior to this happening, most of which involved either enjoying the weather or complaining about the weather.

Cathy and I also made terrariums of various sizes.

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the figure on your right is supposed to be Cathy. She would totally wear that outfit. The overstuffed class cup terrarium is supposed to be me. Cathy thinks I am fat with a bottom full of pebbles.

Back to the club. It was 90+ degrees outside, so it felt strange to finally be having this party. The entire idea came about when Dan:

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and I got to talking at another non-cookie, drinking and whoring party about baking. As we got to talking about baking cookies, all the ladies around us wanted in on what was going on. So we excluded them.

Cathy made fun of the concept for months as Dan and I talked about doing it, but never actually set a date. When we finally got down to it and set a date and time, Cathy still let on like she wasn't into the whole idea. Gimme a break. When the day came along, I caught her making her own little sign for the event:

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If you look closely, Cathy's deep racism against Asian's is evident. Also against cookies.

All in all, cookie club was a hit. I made pretty lame oatmeal sesame chocolate drops that went over like my father in a sushi restaurant.

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AFP made a fantastic macaroon that stole the show. Here he is, king for a day:

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We also grilled up some eats and made a pasta salad with the herbs growing on our porch. All in all a good day.

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Thursday, April 23, 2009

Update:

I know, I know. I need to update this thing again. I will try to get a new post up this weekend. In the meantime, enjoy my sisters mock Express-blog.

http://kohn-klipperexpress.blogspot.com/

Thursday, April 9, 2009

And the results are in....

So first nights Seder is well behind us now.

It seems the old man liked the kugels as much as everyone else. I think he was tricked into the first bite, but the second and third were made on his own. I was speechless for a good minute. I have never seen him willingly eat a dish that he hadn't first tried prior to age 8. Ever. He was probably just trying to get back at me for distributing topless pictures of him on the internet. As I have stated in the past, I have no control over how sexy is perceived on the web.

Everyone did remind me that for all of my bitching about brown food, I did little to augment the color pallet last night.

As an example:

The brisket:

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A close up of the fully-cooked kugel:

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You be the judge.

Tonight, Cathy is making kale and winning one for the green team.

Here is a picture of my father consuming the kugel and one of him giving an enthusiastic thumbs up to strange-foods. Thanks pop.

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Look at that mug!

The full Potato-Kimchi Kugel (as I stated, the root of this recipe is from food & wine)

Ingredients

  1. 2 cups vegetable oil
  2. 4 large shallots, thinly sliced
  3. 5 pounds Russet potatoes, peeled and coarsely shredded (by hand if you're a real man)
  4. 1 large yellow onion, coarsely grated
  5. 1/3 cup potato starch
  6. 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  7. 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
  8. 5 large eggs, beaten
  9. 2 large egg yolks, beaten
  10. 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
  11. 1 cup boiling water
  12. 4-5 cups kimchi (I used a fresh-made batch, the older the kimchi, the stronger the flavor, so use your discretion.
  13. 2 8/12 x 10 inch baking dishes

Directions

  1. Preheat the oven to 450°. In a medium saucepan, heat 1 cup vegetable oil until shimmering. Add the shallots and cook over high heat, stirring occasionally, until golden and crisp, about 6 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the shallots to a plate. Reserve the shallot oil.
  2. Working in batches, squeeze out as much of the liquid as possible from the shredded potatoes and transfer them to a large bowl as you go.
  3. Take 3 cups of the kimchi and squeeze out any excess liquid. Chopp to peices no larger than 3/4 inch long.
  4. Add the grated onion, potato starch, salt, black pepper and kimchi to the potato mixture. and stir well. Stir in the whole eggs, egg yolks, olive oil and boiling water, then stir in the fried shallots.
  5. Starting with two 8 1/2 x 10 (or so) baking dishes, Add 2 tablespoons of the hot shallot oil to each baking dish. Carefully spread the potato mixture in the sizzling baking dishes.
  6. Transfer the potato kugels to the oven and bake them for 20 minutes.
  7. While the kugels are in the oven, heat up another cup of the oil until shimmering. Add finely chopped kimchi and fry until lightly browned and krispy. Remove from oil with slotted spoon and let cool on a paper towel. Save oil on the side.
  8. Lower the temperature of the over to 375° and bake the kugels for 40 minutes longer, until golden and crisp on the sides. About 1/3 of the way through this time, pour two tablespoons of the kimchi oil across each kugel.
  9. Top the fully cooked kugles with browned kimchi.
  10. Preheat the broiler. Broil the potato kugels as close to the heat as possible for about 2 minutes, until they are browned and crisp on top. Let the potato kugels stand for 20 minutes before cutting into squares and serving. Enjoy.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Happy Passover! Potato & Kimchi Kugel. Eat it.

It's Pesach time. Which means spring, and family, and lambs blood splattered on the door of my DC apartment and Cathy bitching about brown food. It is true that our people tend to cook with far less spice and veggies and, well, general variety than Koreans, but I take a sense of pride in the food that we have come to define as our own. I will see your bul-go-gi with a well-cooked brisket and I can take out your mothers kimchi any day with a quality kosher dill.

Each and every Passover since I left home 10 years ago I have campaigned for a change from the usual brisket/matzoh kugel/gefilte fish staples of the Seder table. Now I love a good haroset as much as the next guy, but we have two nights of this people, can't we mix it up? Maybe a nice roasted lamb?

A few years ago, Cathy and I attempted to insert our own culinary ideas onto the table with mixed luck. One year the braised leeks sat sad and lonely next to the bitter herb. Last years ground lamb and eggplant dish fared a bit bit better, but my father still refused to taste it.

This year I decided the hell with it. I am going all out. If I am going to shlep along my crazy-ass Korean girlfriend, I might as well follow through with this half breed lifestyle of mine and start cooking like I live. And so I give you Potato & Kimchi Kugel.

I bastardized a recipe I found online for a tasty looking Potato and Fried Shallot Kugel. It was heavy with egg and oil and I hoped it would turn out creamier and moister than what we usually have.

(find the basic recipe here)
http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/potato-kugel-with-fried-shallots


My biggest obstacle when it comes to trying to get my family to try new, and different food items is this man:

sexy dad

His idea of variety is coleslaw next to his corned beef sandwich instead of chips. He is the same man who tried honey for the first time last year (I had to beg) and who hadn't tasted turkey until he met my mother in his mid-30's. Meat and potatoes kind of guy is an understatement. His favorite meal to cook is boiled hot dogs and mashed potatoes. Really dad?

For my mothers sake (after a few sad text messages) I opted to make a version without the kim chi. That man always wins.

Here is the mound of 'taters

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Here is the mound of hand shredded 'taters

mound o' taters

Here is the 'taters with egg, seasoning, fried shallots mixed in

tater mash

Here is the mound of fresh kimchi delivered that morning by Cathy's mother (we get a monthly delivery of a gallon of fresh, spicy Kimchi. You should be jealous). I pressed out much of the juice so the flavor wasn't overpowering and I chopped it up real fine.

chopped

Here are the thee kugels- w/ kim chi for passover, w/kim chi to see if it was a giant mistake, w/o kim chi for grumpy old men.

baking

Here is the pan of kimchi being fried up for topping.

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And the result (I forgot to take a final photo w/ the fried kimchi bits on top, sorry)....

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This was DAMN good. No joke. Creamy and moist with a hint of kimchi spice inside and a crispy, hot, salty kimchi toping. I will let you know how the family reacted later this week.

This is the beginning of something great. Right?