Recipe: Huevodillas

The ideal pre-ride breakfast...explained.

A friend of mine showed me how to make this simple morning concoction a while back, and it quickly became my standard breakfast on bike ride mornings. Don't bother Googling "huevodilla" because all you'll find is a bunch of overly complex, overthought, over-engineered contrivances that frankly violate the spirit of the name: huevodilla, as in huevo (egg) in a tortilla, just as quesadilla means queso (cheese) in a tortilla. (And as for "huevadilla" with an a, that's apparently Spanish slang for persons and/or behaviors some might find offensive, so best to avoid that term.)

Now I'm not a chemist or a dietitian, so I don't know why the huevodilla turns out to be such a fantastic fuel-up for a day of road cycling. All I know is, two of these babies in the morning, and I'm slammin' up Montebello Road like Lance Armstrong on sterioids (which is to say, like Lance Armstrong).

The huevodilla, like the quesadilla, can be augmented with additional ingredients (think of chicken quesadillas): I have a friend who makes his huevodillas with a bit of ham added, and another who adds chorizo, and so on. My particular favorite is the huevodilla con queso, with just a bit of cheddar cheese added.

These are the ingredients, and it's hard to imagine anything so flavorful and at the same time so simple:

Ingredients for 2 Huevodillas con Queso

• One large egg
• One soft-taco-size corn tortilla
• One teaspoon of your favorite salsa
• Salt and pepper to taste
• For the con queso version, 1/2 ounce shredded cheddar cheese

Because the huevodilla takes less than 5 minutes to prepare, I recommend arranging all of your ingredients for easy access before starting, as shown in the photo above.

The tools you'll need are simple as well:

• A small non-stick skillet
• A silicone or other non-stick-friendly spatula

To prepare the huevodilla, do this:

Heat a tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in the skillet. Heat should be medium-high, as you would normally use for frying an egg.

Once the oil is hot, roll the pan around to spread it evenly, then crack one of the eggs into the middle of the pan. (If the egg yolk rides up onto the sides of the pan, you can have problems later.) The egg should sizzle when it hits the pan.

Immediately after cracking the egg into the pan, puncture the yolk with the corner of your spatula.

Immediately after puncturing the yolk, place the tortilla over the top of the egg. You want to do this before the egg cooks at all so that the egg will adhere to tortilla.

Let the egg cook with the tortilla over it for about 2 minutes, or to whatever your taste is for fried eggs. I like mine over easy, and 1-2 minutes usually does the trick for me.

At this point you should be able to pick up the skillet and slide the cooking huevodilla around on the oil. If you're a pro chef, you can flip the huevodilla like an omelet, but if you're a poser like me, you'll want to slide your spatula under the egg and flip it so the tortilla side is down, then immediately season with salt...

...and some fresh-ground pepper.

Place the grated cheese onto the egg, slightly off to one side. (You'll be folding the tortilla in half in a few seconds.)

Spoon the salsa in on top of the cheese.

With your spatula, fold the egg-only side of the tortilla over onto the cheese-and-salsa side.

And you're done. Cooking the huevodilla for another 30-60 seconds is fine, but there's enough heat in there at this point to melt the cheese, so it's not necessary to do that.

If you're smart like me, you'll serve this one to your wife while you make a couple for yourself.

These are great served with cold orange juice to take the sting off the hot salsa, and make sure you've got some paper towels handy, because these can be some messy eating. (Think of La Fiesta soft tacos.)

Enjoy!

Progress Flagging on Your Novel? Try This

Picture this: You have been working on a novel for, say, five years or so...

You find your progress flagging, say, because you've got a bone-crushing day job that is sucking every ounce of pep out of you...

This happens just as you are ready bring that first draft in for a rocky, perhaps dangerous, yet invigorating landing...

You find an opening in one of your frenetic days...you're ready to start again...but where? You're lost.

My advice: Print the damn thing out. Invest $24 bucks in a new InkJet cartridge, line the chapters up, and click the Print button. I did, and I ended up with this:

Untitled - First Draft - Five Years In

I knew I'd been writing for a while, but I had no idea I'd produced that much. Even if half of it is complete crap (the realistic assumption for a first draft), I'm like, dude, you've got something substantial here, something with some heft to it...

Something worth sticking with for a while.

Arthur Phillips and the American Worldview

(Long) After the Fact: A look at Arthur Phillips' first novel


On Arthur Phillips’ website, the following pivotal passage is included in the synopsis of Prague, his first novel:

What does it mean to fret about your fledgling career when the man across the table was tortured by two different regimes? How does your short, uneventful life compare to the lives of those who actually resisted, fought, and died? What does your angst mean in a city still pocked with bullet holes from war and crushed rebellion?

These words are placed in the mouths of the novel’s principal characters, a group of twentysomething American expatriates who seek adventure and understanding in the newly freed Eastern bloc. And what struck me in reading the passage was that this outsized narrative covering a year’s time in 1990-91 Budapest is remarkable ten years after its publication not only for its wit, style, and poignancy, but also for its portrayal of a world in which very little has changed. Emerging from the novel, one could easily see young Americans today in post-revolutionary Tunisia or Egypt asking exactly the same questions and arriving at exactly the same non-answers.

In other words, the story resonates. But that resonance comes not only from the moment in history the story captures, but also from the author’s seemingly effortless command of his art. Each sitting takes the reader on a gliding ride through imagery and emotion that is vivid, at times piercing, but always easy to digest. Even the massive interlude Phillips injects in Part Two is completely painless, and in fact invigorating. Here we are treated to hundreds of years of Hungarian history given as backstory for one of the novel’s few aged characters, a device that illuminates the character, takes us on a exhilarating flight, and lays a solid foundation for the remainder of the story.

As it turns out, I have once again let a book sit on the shelf for much too long. Phillips has delivered four novels since Prague, all to great critical acclaim. But I figure arriving at the party late is much preferred to not arriving at all.

Aestheticism v. Daniel Woodrell

James Wood, in How Fiction Works, talks about “aestheticism,” using as one of his examples a passage from John Updike’s Terrorist. In the passage, Updike’s young protagonist, the high-school–aged Muslim American Ahmad, walks down a street. We are in his thoughts as he ponders a recent growth spurt, then Updike suddenly takes over and launches into his own authorial exploration of Islamic theology, his exquisite lyrical prose replacing the direct rhythms of the young man’s thoughts.

One of the wonderful things about Wood’s little book is that it beautifully articulates thoughts we have already had, and in this case, he is articulating what has been my recent tendency to acknowledge and disparage aestheticism in many of the books and stories I’ve been reading. This will sometimes lead to my reading passages to my wife, absurdly embellishing them in the reading, laughing, and rolling my eyes.

It was my intention at the start of this post to find just such a flowery passage in Daniel Woodrell’s 2006 novel, Winter’s Bone, and to reprint it here for comical contrasting against the hillfolk dialog sprinkled elsewhere in the novel. But what I found instead were passages of description that, while certainly stretching the distance between themselves and the drawling Ozark Mountain dialog, do not break that distance. The tether is taut, but sill intact.

Here, the protagonist, Ree Dolly, is walking back from squirrel-hunting on family land with her brothers, two young boys she cares for as a mother:

The sun was taller though light had not yet broken through to the ground. The path was narrow and iced on the north slope. These rough acres were Bromont acres and they’d never been razed for timber, so the biggest old trees in the area stood on this ground. Magically fat and towering oak trees with limbs grown into pleasingly akimbo swirls were common. Hickory, sycamore, and all the rest prospered as well. (pg. 105)

While this is remarkable writing (phrases like “pleasingly akimbo swirls” could even be called magical), what is most amazing is how it stands in harmony with the very real speech of Ozark Mountain youths found in dialog like this, on the very next page:

Harold said, “Ree, are these for fryin’ or for stewin’?”

“Which way do you like best?”

Both boys said, “Fried!”

“Okey-doke. Fried, then. With biscuits, maybe, if we got the makin’s, and spang dripped on top, too. But, first thing is, we got to clean ‘em. Sonny, you fetch the skinnin’ board. I think it’s still leanin’ on the side of the shed back there. Harold, you go for the knife—you know which one I want.”

The one I ain’t s’posed to never touch.”

“Bring it to me.” (pg. 106)

I’m sure those comical passages are in there and just not presenting themselves at the moment, but I think it’s safe to say that by and large, Woodrell has succeeded wildly in writing as his Ozark Mountain family and neighbors spoke, and in either recapturing or inventing the words and rhythms of the most eloquent of those family and neighbors for use in his exposition. The result—despite the sniggering of a sometimes pretentious Californian—is not only stylish writing, but easy reading.

Movember - Shameless Plug for Donations

Okay gang, October is behind us, which means it's time to get the pink off the football fields, shift the focus to the men, and start growing some facial hair! (Word: We strongly encourage ongoing support for breast cancer and women's health causes throughout the year, so always do what you can.)

This MOvember, I've joined a team of colleagues from Cisco to support the Prostate Cancer Foundation and Livestrong by growing moustaches for men's health. Go to the Deucerman's MoBro Page and do the following: 1. Watch the day-to-day progress of my pathetic liphair struggling to the surface, and 2. Kick in some scratch! We have a set a stretch goal for our Movember Team, the MoMigos, of $250 Million, so we obviously need every penny you can spare. So ask yourself: Does that kid really need those braces? Does Grandpa really need that knee replacement? Does Grandma really need that hip replacement? I mean, God gave us chairs and couches, right?!

Okay, enough goofing. Let's get serious for a minute:

The Problem 

• Based on rates from 2005-2007, 1 in 6 men born today will be diagnosed with prostate cancer during their lifetimes.
• Based data from the same period, nearly 3% of men will die from prostate cancer.

The Solution

• The Prostate Cancer Foundation has funded more than 1,500 programs at nearly 200 research centers in 12 countries.
• Movember and Livestrong are teaming up to offer free, confidential navigation resources to any man affected by any cancer at any age.
• In 2010, over 64,500 US Mo Bros and Mo Sistas got on board with Movember, raising $7.5 million USD.

So give us a hand. Go to the Deucerman's MoBro Page and make whatever donation you can.

In the Market for a New Lawnmower

My response to the person who showered the Occupy Wall Street protesters with copies of this little missive.

Dear Person,

Thank you for your missive. It was very revealing. A minor edit and a message to you: To the list of things you would sell, you forgot a few: your mother, your children’s future, your country…down the river…just to name a few. And that doesn’t make you vicious. It makes you a greedy coward and a traitor. And yes, occupiers didn’t take to the streets when the markets rose. Congratulations. You pulled the wool over our eyes. There were those, people smarter than you, who tried to warn us, but we didn’t listen. And the occupiers’ message to you now is, that isn’t going to happen again.

Now let’s clear a few more things up: The markets you manipulate are not “just like gambling.” What you guys don’t get is that Wall Street is not a casino, it is a system designed to capitalize good ideas, not make a pack of punk-ass bitches like you rich. (And no, capitalized debt obligations, derivatives, and mortgage-backed securities do not qualify as “good ideas.”) The other thing you don’t get—well, actually, you do (see below)—is that in a democracy, that system is dependent on the people. If it does things the people don’t like, the people will either change it or shut its ass down. Welcome to your nightmare.

And no, you’re not going to take employment away from any occupiers, for two reasons. First, most of them aren't employed, thanks to you. And second, those who are employed are doing things that will find no value whatsoever in your snakelike acumen for “positions” and “gambling.” In case you need a primer, that’s how the market works: you ain’t a software engineer, you ain’t a physics lecturer, you ain’t a social worker or an occupational therapist or an electrician or a structural engineer, so ain’t nobody going to hire you to do those things. I don’t know what cloud of self-delusion led you to believe that the occupiers were mowing lawns, because I can tell you, any occupiers who are mowing lawns or making sandwiches are only doing so because their college degrees aren’t dong them any good in a system where punk-ass bitches like you suck up all the capital that is meant to fuel ideas, innovation, and the American future. So no, you won’t be taking anyone’s jobs, because clearly, you are incapable of teaching third-graders.

(And by the way, your time is near. I’d suggest you start looking for lawns to mow.)

And that car of yours? It never should have cost $85K in the first place. And the occupiers aren’t going to “create jobs” that depend on your 35% tip. They’re going to rebuild the system, and then they're going to create vocations, and those vocations are going to drive stronger, steadier, and more stable economic growth than any of your ingenious collateralized debt obligations ever could have.

But of course, you know all this, because you took the time to craft this little missive, give it to your admin to copy, and climb onto the roof to throw it down. And why would you do that? Why on earth would a snake like you do that, an asp, a cobra, a python like you, who could have spent that time “making” what, $50K, $100K, screw it, a million dollars, let’s say? The message of your missive is clear, my friend: you are afraid. You are quaking and pissing yourself like a crackhead right now, which is why you think you need an 85,000-dollar tank to protect you from all those baaaad people out there.

Word, dude: You don’t. They’re just people trying to make a better world.

Josh Rolnick and Treasured Elements

Josh Rolnick is certainly an accomplished young writer: Winner of the Arts & Letters Fiction Prize and the Florida Review Editor’s Choice Prize, nominated for a Pushcart, Iowa grad, and an impressive list of publication credits. He has also “lived around:” Raised in the East and educated in the Midwest, he spent two years here in the Bay Area and has had stints in places as far-flung as Jerusalem and London. Hearing him read and talk about writing, and reading his penetrating new collection Pulp and Paper, one learns quickly that in all those places, Josh Rolnick was listening. Watching and listening, the two primary skills a writer must possess.

Take this tidbit, from the story "Funnyboy." Here, a grieving father is in the midst of recollecting the memory of his young son Richie, who has been tragically killed:

Quick quiz: What is the name of the light stripe that separates an earthworm’s head from its tail? Time’s up. It’s called the clitellum. Do you know how I know that? Of course you don’t. My son taught me that. He also taught me that, when nightcrawlers are cut in half, they don’t die. They regenerate.

Imagine that. Losing half of yourself and becoming whole again.

There is a thing that crawls in the dirt and eats shit that can do that.

This searing, ironic first-person portrayal of an angry grieving father captivated me from the first lines of this piece, and so I asked Josh about it. Did this voice appear organically, did it just emerge from among the loaves and fishes of his psyche, or did he have a lengthy, painstaking struggle to conjure it? His response was that he is certainly a writer who writes a lot of drafts, and “Funnyboy” was no exception. A piece that had its genesis in a story he’d heard in New York of a man who had been found laying dead on a sidewalk, “Funnyboy” had gone through many transformations in its journey to publication. But as it turns out, the one thing about the piece that was there from the start was indeed that voice. It was one of the key elements, in fact, that had given the story life and kept it alive through its many incarnations.

I personally found this to be a wonderful lesson, particularly for writers who have podmates and/or writing-group colleagues bleeding all over their pages: Even as we hold fast to treasured elements in a piece—a voice, a setting, a particular character’s particular flaw—we must also consider virtually everything else to be negotiable, if not expendable. The well-meaning commentary of our readers often intensifies our struggle, I find, to recognize those elements that hold special meaning for us, those germs of thought and emotion outside the “murder your darlings” rubric that impelled us to put pen to paper in the first place.

Some other observations on Pulp and Paper:

• The treatment of time in the very short piece “Carousel” is subtle and sublime and would serve as an excellent example for teaching this critical element of story. Finishing the piece, we’re left with a resonant mystery: have we just witnessed the death of a character, or a hallucination portending his death, or something else entirely? Really lovely.
• Rolnick achieves a superb balance between vivid description of the physical world and extended expositions of the emotional. He tells us this is, again, the result of doing lots of drafts, of reworking and reworking until the balance is right for the story. The key to that, of course, is patience, so it’s not surprising that early on, when he was at Iowa, Josh had gotten a stone imprinted with the Chinese character for patience, and that this stone adorns his writing table to this day.