MarketStEl

Ellen: So how did Mr. E like Tillamook Cheddar? Personally, I think it's a notch or two above Cabot -- which is still one of the best cheeses you can find in the supermarket dairy case. Unfortunately, unless Whole Foods decides to start carrying it again, I won't be able to enjoy it -- the Acme where I buy it has discontinued it. The Super Fresh hasn't carried it for at least two years; it looks like what they did is run a six-month trial. Of course, Vermont Cheddar in general enjoys a top-notch reputation in the East, even though there are also several very good producers in New York State. America's Choice New York State Extra Sharp Cheddar is my default cheap cheese (Acme's has a slightly sour/metallic off-taste that I find off-putting).

For me, the shopping is usually its own reward, especially as I toss cheese into the cart or basket. But if I'm traveling from the Acme to the Super Fresh via the 9th Street market, I might treat myself to either a coffee drink or a Chocolate Volcano from Rene at Rim Café, a little piece of the French Riviera plunked in the heart of South Philly. (Search the photo gallery -- there's a picture of me with my KU t-shirt in there somewhere. Found it--on Page 2 of the "Rim Cafe World" collection.) Rene is one of the nicest proprietors I've ever met. One Friday, on the way from a late-evening run, he even talked me into a game of backgammon.

One thick slice of a gloriously misshapen, deep red Jersey tomato. A shake of salt. Nirvana in two simple steps.

This is probably as good a time as any to bring up the subject of discipline as it applies to me. If you haven't taken anything else away from this blog, you should have copped wise by now to the fact that any sort of weight management regimen requires almost constant discipline. One must be conscious of what one eats in a way that most of us aren't, even in this era of nutrition labeling and Michael Pollan. The reason most diets fail is because most diets require not just discipline, but asceticism of a sort. Even the Atkins diet, which lovers of cheesesteaks (hold the roll) adore, requires you to all but rule out entire categories of foods. When doing so means the difference between life and death, as in the case of someone with renal failure, one adapts. But for everyone else, doing so is very difficult. Regardless what I said way back near the start of this blog, the Weight Watchers point system does have the virtue of making discipline relatively painless, and it's even easier to implement than the old "dietary exchanges" I remember my father trying to follow when he decided he needed to lose some weight and get back in shape in his mid-40s. (Have I told you all yet that as I grow older, I realize more and more how much I am like my father? That even extends to us both being men of letters. He sorted them for the Post Office Department, which became the United States Postal Service towards the end of his career there.) One of my more stubborn character flaws is a lack of discipline. I've started projects and let them hang; made mental notes to myself to do something and then promptly forgotten them; taken up challenges only to abandon them when the slogging got difficult. (I got a book of sudoku puzzles as a Christmas present from a co-worker the year before last. The back quarter of the book, which is where the very hard puzzles are, is full of unfinished puzzles now.) One of the things I liked about working at Widener was that the Wellness Center was just a 10-minute walk from my office. I could go down on lunch hour and get in a half-hour workout. It was easy to work exercise into my daily routine, and as a result, I did so. Now, with no gym handy and the canal towpath subject to the vicissitudes of the weather -- and, my boss warned me, of defensive mother geese in the spring -- I find I'm not getting what I need. As a result, going off dietary discipline (such as it is) has more immediate consequences. In just a little bit, you will see me go off dietary discipline spectacularly.

(Okay, here's how it goes: I had sat down around 8:30 Saturday morning to compose a post about Friday. Starting around 9, Saturday got in the way. It's only now that I'm getting back to finishing that post.) In case the Quote of the Day didn't tip you off, Friday was what has become a typical bad winter day in Philadelphia. Over most of the past several winters, our precipitation has come in the form of rain, not snow. What happens now is that the storm fronts draw warmer air up from the south ahead of them, so the temperature rises from its normal range in the 30s to low 40s into the 50s and even 60s -- then it rains. A lot. Friday was that rainy day. A co-worker had brought in a stash of pretzels, so for the second day in a row, I started my day with one. Only this time, I had the right mustard. I usually take a break from brown-bagging on Fridays. As a rebate I was expecting from buying an image-editing/vector graphics program arrived the day before, I had some cash to spare, so I asked some co-workers whether they might want to join me for lunch at Mil-Lee's. My boss agreed. Mil-Lee's is only open for breakfast and lunch, Monday through Friday. That way, the restaurant only needs a single shift of workers. My guess is that the fellow who rides up with me on Train 330 (the 7:25 R3 West Trenton train from Market East) stays after closing to clean up in the kitchen, for the restaurant opens at 7 am and closes at 2 pm. My train is scheduled to arrive in Yardley at 8:16 am; it actually arrives between 8:20 and 8:25 am. He was in the kitchen when we got there, and he gave me a wave midway through our meal. The place does very good business during the day, so they probably don't need to keep longer hours. Chickens are the dominant decorative element at Mil-Lee's. From these pictures, some of you might quibble with my description upthread of Mil-Lee's as "what Alice's Restaurant would probably look like today." But let us not forget that Arlo Guthrie sang about that place back in 1970. Alice would be a good bit older now, and quite likely have handed the place off to her daughter. Her customers, having aged with her, would probably have also gone from tie-dye to needlepoint and moved their decorating tastes closer to those of their parents. I think Alice would probably have wanted to run a cheery, homey place in her later years. Oh -- and she definitely would recycle that trash rather than dump it and get nailed by the local fuzz. And you really can "get anything you want" here -- assuming that what you want is straightforward diner fare. As a friend of mine said, "Any place that serves breakfast all the time is doing something right." Note the "Breakfast for Lunch Special" at the bottom of the specials. My boss -- I warned her I'd toss her into this report -- Kim Meiser, Corporate Communications Manager, Warehouse Distribution Group, Activant Solutions Inc. --called my attention to the "Sexiest Steak" -- "lots of beef & mushrooms & peppers & onions & bacon & melted cheese" -- but in one of those occasional outbreaks of restraint I have, I had by then decided to order the barbecue chicken breast sandwich. This grilled chicken sandwich also comes in plain and Buffalo versions. Kim, even more sensible, ordered a roast beef wrap. I told Kim I thought the barbecue sauce tasted like Cattlemen's. This prompted a brief discussion of a relative of hers who lived in Kansas City for several years and aches for good barbecue where he lives now. I also filled her in on how Rich Davis' KC Masterpiece sauce has left everyone with the wrong impression of what Kansas City sauce should taste like. This was the first time I'd eaten here and not ordered their chili, which I find I love despite its being on the mild side (I usually prefer mine incendiary, and make my own that way). It's got lots of huge chunks of onion and peppers in it. Like the chili, the sandwich was simple and tasty. One of the waitresses noticed me snapping away. When I told her what I was up to, she replied, "That's fine, just as long as you're not from the Health Department or the IRS." The menu here also states, "Is there something you desire? Ask us and we'll try our best to make it! If we don't have the ingredients, we'll try our best to get them for your next visit." I'll keep that in mind the next time I feel like lobster Thermidor. Mil-Lee's Breakfast and Lunch 75 South Main Street Yardley, PA 19067 215-369-2400 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. Monday through Friday Nearest SEPTA service (c'mon, you all know me by now!): R3 West Trenton Regional Rail line to Yardley station. Proceed north (left relative to a West Trenton-bound train) on Main Street about 1/2 mile (10-minute walk).

Am I the only one having trouble parsing this sentence? ← And a partridge in a pear tree ← And while I'm on the subject of logic: If all Zooks are Zepps and all Zepps are Zwicks, then I'm Queen Beatrix. True or false?

Am I the only one having trouble parsing this sentence? ← And they all lived in the house that Jack built, or swallowed a spider, whichever applies I got so carried away by that gorgeous cornbread, I totally missed this. And I used to be SO good at those problems where the truth-tellers wore red hats. ← It's all so simple! All you folks need to do is apply some Pretzel Logic. But to save time, I'll give you the mirror image: Most of the women were black, and most of the whites were men. There! The circle is complete. I think. What did you do the zucchini before you put it in the stew, and how long did you simmer it? That does look delicious -- I'm gonna hafta swipe your recipes!

Yes, they are. The marinade preserves them too. The way it usually works is an employee asks a bunch of co-workers who else wants pretzels. That person then goes back and takes a bunch, leaving payment for the total taken. The change filters between the bills to the bottom of the cup. That's what happened to the quarter I dropped in just after taking that picture.

You could have ordered the cheesesteak for the same price! (Or is that still on the menu?) Pray tell, what market is charging more than $50/lb for lobster now? (I'm trying to factor in the markup.) Or is this some mutant beast flown in from the Southern Hemisphere or something like that?

Right industry, wrong company. Tropicana is under the PepsiCo umbrella. The Coca-Cola Company owns the Minute Maid juice brand. I managed to miss out on this element of childhood torture, for I was as thin as a rail all the way from childhood through college. However, in college, I did pick up a smoking habit: first pipes, then clove cigarettes. I gave up the latter about two years after moving down to Philly. Within a year of that event (note that I quit cold turkey here too, with no assistance at all), I had gained 45 pounds. I don't know how long it took to put on the last 20. I've shed about ten of those, give or take a pound or two. And they all settled around my midsection, thus giving me a thin frame with a Buddha profile.** Maybe instead of losing weight, I should work on achieving Enlightenment. *"Network" is what WHRBies called WHRB; the term originated in the station's early name, the Harvard Crimson Network. A Harvard undergraduate in the early 1970s did his honors thesis on WHRB lingo; for all I know, the paper is still available for perusal by new generations of WHRBies. **Like depression and my temper, I think I may have inherited my weight gain and profile from my father too. He was thin as a lad, too; by the time I came around, he was pretty heavyset. He tried dieting and exercises in the late 1960s with not much to show in the way of results. He had put on some more weight after my parents divorced; I recall a cousin saying to me sometime in the mid-1980s, not long before my dad died prematurely, "You know, your Dad looks like a Buddha now."

As I began to post this, an e-mail landed in my box with the subject line "Sales donuts from new reps" and the text "are in the food cube (Justin's old cube)." Justin was one of the two younger, less experienced writers I replaced. They're now calling his cubicle (edited to add: which, you will recall, is right next to mine) "the food cube." I'm in trouble, folks. So, while I enjoy a late dessert, let me show you: Also known as Pretzel Day. Every Thursday, a terse e-mail appears shortly after the start of the workday stating simply, "The pretzels are in." This is the signal for people to make their way to the Customer Support department at the north end of the building, where the setup pictured above materializes. New York Times Magazine readers may recall a tale of a guy who delivers bagels to offices around the Washington area, leaving an honor box with his deliveries, and the lessons in economics and sociology the guy learned over the years (one being that about 85 percent of the population is honest). You will note that these are also made available on the honor system, and that most people here are honorable (pretzels are 25c each). I should have mentioned soft pretzels in my second foodblog, for they are as much a Philly Phood Icon as cheesesteaks and hoagies. The Philly Soft Pretzel Factory, whence these came, is a relative newcomer to the soft-pretzel market, but they have grown rapidly from a single location in the Mayfair section of Northeast Philly in 1998 to nearly 150 franchised stores from New York to Florida. I think the secret to their success is that each store bakes its own pretzels on the premises, continuously throughout the day, guaranteeing everyone a hot (or at least warm), truly soft pretzel. The big commercial pretzel bakers like Federal Pretzel in South Philly usually bake in huge batches while the city sleeps and then truck their wares to convenience stores and other retailers, where they quickly become cold and gradually become hard. Roomie loves these too, which may not be as bad a problem as it looks: there's probably less total sodium in those big salt crystals sprinkled on the pretzels than in most savory/salty snacks, Utz potato chips possibly excepted. (Look on the nutrition label on the back of the bag if you live in Utz territory: a serving of their regular chips has only 90 mg of sodium, the lowest among all the major chip brands and low enough to qualify as a low sodium food, I think.) On Wednesday, one of these was my breakfast. Unfortunately, the bottle of spicy brown mustard my boss brought in for purposes of dressing the pretzels was AWOL from the fridge, so I had to settle for plain yellow mustard. The pretzel set the tone for the day. I never ate the salad I packed -- it's still in the fridge even now; you'll see why when I get to posting Friday. Instead, I grazed throughout the day -- two cookies from the food cube here, a handful of almonds there, a couple of cups of coffee, a gulp or two from the water fountain. This is probably the closest I've come to approximating the many-small-mealettes approach Ellen follows, which I understand is actually a more effective way to control your appetite to shed pounds. I left the office early in order to head to another grazing site: an open house fundraiser for the Delaware Valley Legacy Fund, which makes grants to fund organizations that serve queers throughout the Greater Philadelphia region. (If you go to the "Mission" section of the site, you will see that the Chorus is among the fund's beneficiaries.) After I made that post yesterday, I power-walked up to the Wawa to draw some cash from the ATM, walked back down Main Street towards the train station, realized as I passed West College Avenue that I had left my camera on my desk, walked back through the office, grabbed the camera, headed out the back to the golf course, then high-tailed it down the street leading to the train station, where I saw the 4:00 train pull out as I entered the parking lot. Oops! I had read the schedule wrong. After cooling my heels for 52 minutes at the station -- okay, I walked back to the Wawa and bought a V8 juice, thus ensuring that I got some vegetables inside me -- I did catch a train that got me into the city in enough time to still attend the fundraiser before my 7 p.m. seminar. It was held in a model home in a townhouse development at the intersection of Yesterday and Tomorrow in an area of South Philadelphia that is slowly gentrifying. Long a mostly black neighborhood -- famed soprano Marian Anderson lived not far from where this development is going up in the 1900 block of Kimball Street, just north of Washington Avenue -- it's experienced an influx of young, relatively affluent whites along with a housing construction boom in Center City, to which real estate agents have been assiduously trying to annex this neighborhood. (They began calling the general area "Southwest Center City" in the late 1980s. Due to this area's proximity to the former Graduate Hospital, hipsters have taken to calling it "G-Ho.") The hosts and guests were far more mixed than that paragraph would let on, though most of the blacks were women and most of the men white, and vice versa. The hors d'oeuvres -- prepared in the house's large kitchen -- were tasty, and all of them would have probably eaten up my points allowance were I counting points. They included: Shrimp cocktail Grilled asparagus, peppers and zucchini Crab balls and clams stuffed with bacon Lamb chops Prosciutto and Cheddar cheese (pictured), mortadella, bologna, Asiago and Parmesan cheeses (on the platters in the first photo) I had a little of everything but the mortadella and bologna, a little more of the cheeses and shrimp, and a pink martini. As I helped myself to the prosciutto, one of the other guests told me he had had better. The guest was right. I hung out on the roof deck for a while, where I took in a stunning view of the city skyline, which has gotten far better ever since Liberty Place broke the informal height limit in 1987. I also got into a discussion of parking and city building codes with one of the developers and had a chat with Billy DiBruno, whose other half was not in attendance. I tipped Billy off to the Jamón Iberico thread I had started (he does know about eG; most food professionals in Philly do now) and told him I wanted to organize a syndicate to buy a pound. He got a laugh out of that. Then I told him that I'd probably ask for some as a 50th birthday present this fall. "You're almost 50?" he said. "I'd never have guessed." That's right, girl, when ya got it, flaunt it, flaunt it! -- "I'm Beautiful"

Exactly! And it's my impression that women pay more attention to what's inside than what's on the outside, and men vice versa. The sort-of in-joke about what a lesbian brings with her on the second date (answer: a U-Haul) touches on this difference, albeit clumsily. Just remember what I said upthread about the body part men confuse for their brains. (WARNING: ARROGANCE ALERT!*) I guess that's one of my problems: I tend to think with my actual brain. *Inside-baseball aside that Ellen will pick up on immediately: Candidates for membership in the Harvard Radio Broadcasting Co., Inc. (WHRB, 95.3 FM, Cambridge) had to go through a probationary period (Harvard's other undergraduate media at the time, The Harvard Crimson and The Harvard Independent, which has a history of drawing Pembroke-Country Day grads to it (the editor-in-chief of The Hilltop my freshman year at Pem-Day (I was EinC senior year) was the editor of the Indy my freshman year at Harvard (I was an Indy staffer but never rose at the paper), had -- and still have -- the same initiation process). During this time, current members share their evaluations of the candidates in a "candidates' comment book" ("CCB") that the candidates are forbidden to read. So, of course, we candidates did everything we could to sneak a look at it. I managed to get my hands on it shortly before the members were to vote on who they'd accept, and as I paged through, found a comment from a fairly pompous and full-of-himself member whose chief asset was his golden radio baritone calling me "the most arrogant a**hole I have ever met at Harvard." Luckily for me, one of my advocates managed to have a chat with me shortly before the election that probably saved my candidacy. Confidential to Ellen: Think you know who I'm referring to?

Edited to add: The quote of the day was a commentary on the previous day's New Hampshire primary election results, or perhaps more accurately, the press coverage and the polls that led up to the event. One thing about leading a jam-packed life: It offers many ways to go off a routine. Today offered some examples, and the next day another. Of course, succumbing to temptation is one's own fault. And temptation leapt out and grabbed me by the throat when I went to get my salad at lunchtime. I don't know who "The New Guy" is -- I thought that was me! I guess they must've made some more new hires -- but since he issued the invitation, I took him up on it. So I nuked a slice of cheese pizza along with my salad. Behold the Lunch of Champions: There is a toaster oven as well as a microwave in our kitchenette. Next time I need to reheat a slice of pizza, I'll use the toaster oven instead. Wednesday evening is Chorus rehearsal from September through June, with about a month hiatus during December. On those nights, and on the nights when I have a Landmark Forum in Action seminar (only three more of those left now), I don't usually get to eat dinner early. As I mentioned in my first foodblog, many Chorus members gather after rehearsal for socializing. There are two main groups, which I will call "the diners" and "the drinkers." The diners head to the Irish Pub and occupy a string of tables along one wall. I usually join them, then, after eating, go over to Woody's and join the drinkers still imbibing for a pint of Woodchuck Cider. (I do intend to weigh in on the subject of drinking and weight, just not now.) This Wednesday, I chose to short-circuit this routine by skipping the food. Instead, I went to Woody's and had two pints with the drinkers. I then went home and promptly scarfed down about 1/3 cup of cottage cheese, liberally doused with hot sauce, and about 12 Roasted Vegetable Ritz crackers with onion and blue cheese dips. Oh, and a couple of these: I marinate asparagus spears in a vinaigrette -- this one contained rice vinegar, kecap manis, tarragon, basil, black pepper and mustard powder -- and eat them as a snack. I think I ate a little worse than I would have if I had had dinner. But given that I don't always order salads at the Irish Pub, I may have still consumed fewer calories overall today.

Okay, the post after this one... I eat until I'm sated. Usually, this means that I clean my plate. But at restaurants that serve large portions, it means I take stuff home. I had a minor revelation on my trip to Seattle last April: It doesn't take a lot of really good food to satisfy you. It's not that I've never eaten in a high-end establishment before, but I do so infrequently enough that I tend to forget the portion sizes at such places. In pictures, they usually look no bigger than a bite or two -- and truth be told, some of them are. But put three or four of these together, as you might in a fine dinner, and they're just enough. On the other hand, the typical chain sit-down restaurant, such as Chili's about four blocks north of me, serves portions so large you have to take some of the haul home with you.

Damn straight! (Oops, sorry!) You had me almost ready to quote Sir Mix-A-Lot! BTW, that turkey shepherd's pie looked real good. I've got some leftover turkey in the freezer. Think I will try it (I've made turkey shepherd's pie in the past myself, but your version looks tastier than mine). I think the only one of us who does not live in a "gay ghetto" or gay-identified neighborhood is Randi -- and for all I know, there's one of these in Exeter too. You can tell you're in Philly's "Gayborhood" -- that's what everyone calls this corner of Washington Square West -- from the street signs, which went up this past spring (I'll post one before the blog's over). I'm not going to stake my life on this, but I will wager that gay men and lesbians who do not live in the established gay neighborhoods of our larger cities do not feel as much pressure to conform to a perceived ideal (or anti-ideal) body image as those who do. Should I make it out to San Diego, Ellen, I will insist on meeting you at either Bourbon Street or Lei Lounge. Those two bars are owned by the same brothers (one gay, one straight) who own three of the most popular clubs in Philly's Gayborhood: Bump, which I featured in my first and second foodblogs; Pure, an after-hours club which also made it into foodblog 1; and Woody's, long the city's busiest gay bar (trivia stat: it's the largest purchaser of alcohol in the state, according to Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board figures). The man whose nickname still graces the bar, Bill Wood, now runs an upscale restaurant called Knock in the Space That Eats Restaurants on the street floor of my apartment building right next to the building entrance. As Woody's reputation preceded him, this place will probably have a longer life than the restaurants that preceded it; the bar patronage alone will keep it afloat. Illustrated narrative to resume next post.

Answered that already. Eastern Pennsylvania, like most of the northeastern United States, was originally forest. Much of that forest was cleared in the 18th and 19th centuries for farming; after vast expanses of arable land became available through Indian removal and the Homestead Act in the later 19th century, a good chunk of this land has reverted to forest. My most memorable Harvard professor, John R. Stilgoe, who taught a course in the man-made envrionment of the United States that had a reputation as a gut course (it was popularly known as "Gas Stations" after the subject of one lecture in the course) but taught me a lot about how to read our landscape, referred to this reforested environment as the "wildered" landscape. Some of that "wildered" land has been cleared again to grow houses, but this time, the house farmers have left some of the land in its reforested state. The residents love this because it makes them think they live in "the country." I love it because I can entertain that illusion too before heading back to the real city. I hope I can answer this before running off to grab some cash at the Wawa and catch the 4:05. One of the first people I came out to after coming out to myself around age 20 was my then-roomate, a gruff but likable New Yorker (Jewish variety) named Eric Kreitzer who shared my love of jazz. (His response to my announcement was classic and very reassuring: "So what do you expect me to do? Run from the room screaming?") After he moved back to New York, I went down to visit him for a weekend. One night, we hung out at some Village jazz clubs with a friend of his named Tibor who lived on the Upper West Side and had met me on a visit to Boston, where I lived at the time. We repaired to Tibor's place for conversation and such, then I left before the others to head to a prior appointment. The next morning, at breakfast, Eric told me, "You know, after you left, I told Tibor, 'By the way, did you know Sandy's gay?' "Tibor said, 'How refreshing!' "I said, 'What do you mean?' "He said, 'A homosexual without all those annoying mannerisms!'" Gotta run -- it's 3:35 pm.

Actually, that's a chocolate-scented candle I purchased in the Hotel Hershey gift shop. I'd brought it back as a souvenir for the roomie when I attended the CUPRAP conference there back in March. (CUPRAP is the College and University Public Relations Association of Pennsylvania, AFAIK the only state-level association of academic PR professionals in the country; its membership includes institutions beyond the Keystone State, though, including a public university in Arkansas. I need to join some of the nonacademic associations now, such as the local chapter of the Public Relations Society of America.) Today's been pretty busy -- what was to have been a "success story" interview turned out to be an unhappy-camper call, and I've been in a marketing presentation to some new sales reps. I've been noshing on nuts and cookies throughout the day and thus don't feel ravenous, but will probably try to work in the salad I packed this morning before I leave early to catch the 4:05 inbound to make a 5-9 pm fundraiser, followed by a Landmark Forum seminar from 7 to 10. (You've all gotten used to my jam-packed life, right?) I will have a couple of days' worth of photos to post much later.

Wasn't it something about "don't look behind you" or "don't look at your behind," or something on that order? ← That statement had nothing to do with fried foods, but it's probably the best of all the wise advice in Paige's collection. The one about fried foods is: Avoid fried foods; they angry up the blood. The more famous admonishment is: Don't look back -- they might be gainin' on you. Tonight -- the first PGMC rehearsal of the March concert cycle -- was one of those nights that illustrate why it's a bad idea to try to lose weight by going hungry, even though that was not by design. However, you'll all have to wait until later today to find out why, or about the rest of the day.

When I worked at MBNA in its last days as an independent company, I learned about an annual company tradition stretching back to the company's origins as Maryland National Bank's credit-card affiliate in a former A&P on Route 4 in Newark, Del. This event was called the "Cornboil" -- one word. At the Cornboil, MBNA execs served corn, hot dogs and hamburgers to the company's employees, who got the workday off. As the company grew, every branch office got a Cornboil of its own, and the main offices in Newark and Wilmington had multiple Cornboils to accommodate everyone. I suspect that this event had its roots in some Chesapeake Bay tradition or other. As I was a contract employee, I wasn't eligible to attend. I have no idea whether Bank of America, which acquired MBNA in July 2005, chose to continue the tradition.

I hope that means you'll still be available to join me on pizza runs, Jan. In the meantime, it's time for me to move on to last night's dinner, which had an unplanned-in-advance theme: Pank-O-Rama! I had taken down some pork chops to defrost on Tuesday morning. When I got back into town, I decided to marinate them in this: while I ran out to get a prescription filled and buy some longer-lasting batteries for the camera. A few weeks ago, I stumbled across some panko at the Acme and decided to buy a can. I liked the results I got when I prepared chicken with the Japanese bread crumbs. So last night, free associating off teriyaki sauce, I decided I should try making the marinated pork chops with them too. I dipped the chops in beaten egg, then bread crumbs, then repeated the two steps. I then did the same (after dredging in flour) with half an eggplant that I had not cooked the previous Saturday, sliced fairly thin. The pork chops came out perfectly, as did the second batch of eggplant slices. I discovered to my chagrin that the used oil I had cooked the first batch in had broken down too much, and as a result, the crust on those slices burnt. This is the doomed batch about halfway through cooking: After changing the oil, the second batch turned out better. After this, I also reached the conclusion that eggplant was meant to be fried, not baked -- or at least not baked without sauce. I tried that on Saturday, and the slices came out chewy rather than tender the way these did. I know what Satchel Paige said about fried foods, and they do add fat and calories. But I figure that if I don't eat them too often, they should be OK to incorporate in a weight management regimen. Edited to add: Despite the name, the bread crumbs are manufactured by a company in Jeanette, Pa., next door to Greensburg, some 30 miles SE of Pittsburgh in neighboring Westmoreland County. Judging from the brand name mentioned repeatedly in a veal Parmesan recipe on the can, the company primarily makes Italian food specialties. Guess they decided to branch out -- another example of Americans' wider culinary horizons?

Okay, time for some exercise. This morning, as we were chatting, my boss informed me that when Prophet 21 moved into this building, many of the employees advocated that a gym be installed on the then-vacant second floor of my wing. That didn't happen, but people kept pushing until the growth of the company moved its accounting department into the space. So as a result, there's no convenient place for Activant Wholesale Distribution Group employees to get in exercise on their lunch hour. Delaware Canal and towpath at Milepost 14, just north of East Afton Avenue, Yardley, Pa. On the contrary: There is an excellent place to get a good aerobic workout just steps from our door. It's the Delaware Canal, which runs 60 miles from Bristol, 14 miles south of Yardley, to Easton, where the Lehigh and Delaware rivers meet. The canal's 100 years of service as an artery of commerce ended in 1931 with the passage of the last mule boat of the Lehigh Coal & Navigation Co. through the canal on October 17; on that same day, the company deeded 40 miles of the canal to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and the Commonwealth acquired the remaining 20 miles in 1940. Today, the Delaware Canal State Park -- a Registered National Historic Landmark and a National Recreation Trail combined -- is used by walkers, hikers, runners, bicyclists, nature lovers, history buffs and picnickers. You can put me in the first and next-to-last categories right off the bat, but the canal's environment might also make a nature lover out of me. I can also get some railfanning in along it where the SEPTA R3 line crosses it just below Lock No. 5; the route through Yardley is also used by CSX freights: On the first day I walked the towpath at lunch hour, I limited myself to the stretch within Yardley Borough proper (the R3 crosses its southern tip). Like the rest of Yardley, the canalside oozes charm: Even though the temperature on Monday was near 60, there was still some ice on the canal's surface. The birds pictured here are Canada geese. I noticed a few flocks of them making the same reverse commute I did -- northbound in the morning, southbound in the evening -- last week. The Lenape called these birds "wawa," presumably in imitation of the sound they make. Little did the Lenape know that some 400 years later, millions of people from New Jersey to Virginia would make the same sound when they wanted to say "convenience store." The Wawa chain dominates the convenience-store market in its (and my) home region. Perhaps another, better, indication of how much Wawa has worked its way into the Philadelphian psyche is the title of a recent Philly Fringe Festival hit, a comedic sketch revue of life in the city: "Wawapalooza!" Yesterday, I took the towpath for a fitness-walking test drive, seeing how far I could get in 30 minutes. As I stopped to snap photos fairly often, I didn't really put the towpath through its paces properly, but I did conclude that this will make a great exercise facility. I made it south to where Black Rock Road crosses the canal* in Lower Makefield Township, about 1.5 miles from my office, then turned back to return to work. About one-third of the way to Black Rock Road, the utility line that parallels the canal through Yardley crosses and leaves it. From here south, you might for a monent forget you are in suburbia: ...but a quick glance through the woods that line the canal disabuses you of that notion. The houses are even closer on the canal's west side, where they are perched atop the steep rise that ends the Delaware River floodplain. The houses in the picture are in trouble when the next 100-year flood hits. I was more surprised, though, to see this stand of bamboo right on the canal's west bank: I guess bamboo can tolerate the changing seasons of Southeastern Pennsylvania. (Though it seems they're not changing as dramatically as they used to. We've had only one serious cold snap since December 1, and almost no snow to speak of. The current balmy weather is to end on Friday, when the high temp is forecast to return to a more January-like 40 F.) At Black Rock Road is a small picnic area and a set of panels describing the canal's history and aspects of life along the canal. On the way back, I ran into the director of our inside sales department coming the other way; he was heading to his home via the towpath. So I've managed to find a place where I can work exercise back into my routine, at least when the weather's good. Maybe I should purchase some free weights I can keep under my desk. I definitely should get a bike and bring it to work with me. *Edited to add: I've marked where my office is on the map linked here as well. Just move the map around to see it.

Before continuing my saga, I'd like to ask any Greater Philadelphians reading this foodblog if they have run across the reduced-sodium Old Bay anywhere. I've not seen it at any of the markets I regularly patronize. Given that it's made in Maryland -- some say it's synonymous with the state -- I'd be surprised to find it unavailable so close to its home base. Thank you for opening this subject up a little wider. That was one of the things we thought would be worth exploring in a way that could best be explored with an all-gay tag team blog. There does seem to be a sort of inverted, Alice-in-Wonderland quality to the subject of body image among gay men and lesbians. Much as straight women might obsess over impossibly pencil-thin supermodels, gay men have people like this (straight, AFAIK) model held up as the epitome of desirability. We go to the gym not just because we want to stay healthy or build up our stamina, but also because we seek to be sex symbols too. And just as the feminists' critique of the whole equation between thinness and beauty (hello, Ellen? I'm paging you again) helped open up a space for women to accept themselves as they are, a similar, though not as intellectually rigorous, critique has arisen among gay men in the form of the Bear culture. (My guess as to why the intellectual content of Beardom seems to be downplayed is because we're talking about men here, and as you all know, we men think with our ***** first. ) The one thing both the feminist critique and the gay male subculture have in common is an assertive rejection of the conventional standards of beauty and attractiveness. The male subculture also contains an element of class criticism about it, as the Wikipedia article I've linked in this post indicates. (Black Bears, FWIW, remain an endangered species; in my years here in Philly, I've met exactly one.) But your story about your cousin does lead me to conclude this: Most people probably know inside themselves that there is an optimal weight and body shape for them, and they know when the body they have is not that body. The model industry errs mainly (but not exclusively) in insisting that the skinny female or the buff, young, muscular male is the only acceptable or desirable body type; the pro-fat crowd, in arguing that extreme obesity is nothing to worry about and any problems anyone has with it are due to their own cultural hangups. As far as where I fit on the gay male identity spectrum, I consider myself something of a gay ordinary Joe, neither too fat nor too thin, not all that muscular nor wanting to be, and neither hypermasculine nor terribly effeminate. (There's a tale I tell about myself that some might find amusing and others mildly insulting, but if anyone wants to hear it, I'd be glad to share.) I've gotten used to the "When's the baby due?" ribbing, largely because it comes from people who've known me for years and like me. And yet I've got just enough Tyson Beckford envy in me for it to nag at me at a deep level. Not enough to obsess, but just enough to say, Maybe I ought to do something about it. And so we come to this pass, and this foodblog.

I did say I'd fill you in on my commute, didn't I? It's similar in form to my previous one; in fact, it begins at the same station, and I catch the same Regional Rail train. However, I take it in the opposite direction: In my first foodblog, I gave you the history of Philadelphia's two other central railroad stations. Here's the one I missed: When it opened in 1984 as part of the Center City Commuter Connection (better known as the "Commuter Tunnel"), Market East Station bought 101 years of train service from the historic Reading Terminal above it to an end. The tunnel, which was named the Civil Engineering Achievement of the Year the year it opened, tied together the suburban services of the former Pennsylvania and Reading railroads, giving Philadelphia something only one other North American city (Toronto) and no other US city has: a single, unified regional rail network. I've actually had the occasion to ride a train all the way through the tunnel once, heading from Yardley to Swarthmore on the R3 West Trenton-Elwyn line. And this time, there's no bus. My train trip to Yardley takes about 55 minutes. The gentleman in this photo works in the kitchen at Mil-Lee's Lunch, a restaurant a block north of my office that serves decent homestyle food. I imagine that this eatery is what Alice's Restaurant would look like now, and you can get just about anything you want there. Except that. From the station, I can either take the long way to the office, via South Main Street, following the kids who take the train to the Hebrew school at the top of the College Avenue hill: or I can take the shortcut to my end of the building, through the inbound parking lot: onto a quiet residential lane: then left onto a dead-end street and right onto the 17th tee at the Yardley Country Club. That's the maintenance building for my office through the trees in the far distance. You can also see a co-worker making his way to the building. Taking the long route to my office takes about 10 minutes. The shortcut takes five. So far, I haven't deemed the extra calories I could burn worth the extra five minutes. My lunch today began with last night's dinner: While I'm at it, is it just me, or does anyone else find Hellman's canola oil mayonnaise sweeter and/or a little more liquid than their regular variety? The only other ingredients I added to this chicken salad were chopped celery and celery seed: and the result I ate during that online new hire orientation. I don't think I'm cutting calories or anything like that by buying canola mayo; I believe the main difference is that canola oil is higher in monounsaturated fats. Okay, it's getting late again, and the talking heads are still going on about the New Hampshire primary. Locally, they were talking about the Second Coming -- oops, I mean the inauguration of Philadelphia's 98th mayor: and there were huge lines stretching around City Hall tonight -- half the city's population (or so it seemed) turned out to shake his hand at an open house he hosted. But I'm getting off track and ahead of myself. When I get up, I'll get into the exercise portion of my week, such as it is for now.

There is "sober" as commonly used, and "sober" as used by those in recovery. Ordinarily, someone is "sober" whenever he or she is not displaying any signs of intoxication from alcohol consumption, even if he or she does at other times. When a recovering alcoholic uses the term, it means that he or she does not consume alcohol, period. Even though I've never been a 12-stepper*, I've used the term in that sense to refer to the period when I abstained completely. I have been known to consume four mixed drinks in a two-hour period on Saturday nights, but otherwise, I don't drink much still. *One of Philadelphia's oldest folk traditions is the annual Mummers Parade on New Year's Day. The event features elaborate, colorful costumes and handmade floats, marching bands composed entirely of string and reed instruments ("string bands") whose members wear fancy plumed backpieces, dance numbers worthy of a Broadway show -- again performed by elaborately costumed men and women -- and comic groups who either stage parody skits of current events or parade around in dresses and face paint; the last of these are all-male bands known as "wenches". One of the common dances wenches do as they strut up Broad Street is the two-step, and heavy drinking has a long pedigree among the comic wenches. So perhaps it's not surprising that, for the past decade or so, one comic club has a wench brigade known as the Twelve-Steppers. Needless to say, they march sober. No, there isn't, and there's the rub. Actually, he hasn't cut out all the sodium from his diet, but he probably should. Salt substitute is also out, of course, because it contains potassium; I don't know whether salt-free seasoning blends have too much of the same problem ingredient in them -- and if those reduced-sodium soups are any guide, reading the nutrition data may not help me. I discovered this to my chagrin when roomie asked me to buy him some canned soup on my most recent grocery trip. I discovered by reading the Campbell's soup labels that many of their lower-sodium soups have a good deal of potassium in them, enough to keep them off the shopping list. Because our labeling laws do not require manufactures to list potassium content, I had no way of knowing whether the same was true for Progresso's lower-sodium soup; all I knew was that it had to had some, for potassium chloride was listed as an ingredient. Well, well, well, whaddaya know! I really should avoid low-fat cheese and milk! Not that I'd eat low-fat cheese anyway: divalasvegas is right -- low-fat cheese is an abomination. The only exception I have found to this rule is Cabot's light Cheddar, which is actually edible. Fat-phobes who have sworn off cheese (why?) might want to take note.

I think your approach is about as sensible as it gets. Taking it off is more difficult than putting it on, and even though it may seem like we did, we didn't put it all on overnight. Taking it off overnight is equally unrealistic, and I suspect also that gradual weight loss is more lasting weight loss. This gives me a good opportunity to segue into yesterday's dinner -- you all saw the salad I had for lunch when I posted my morning shots; the only thing you did not see was the homemade dressing I put on it: This concoction is one part rice vinegar, one part kecap manis (sweet soy sauce), one part extra virgin olive oil, some tarragon, basil, and black pepper, and a dash of sriracha. Interesting, no? Anyway, last night's dinner would probably have cost me a few Weight Watchers points, or maybe not. I put the roaster into a George Foreman contact roaster that was left in my care by a friend; it was too big to fit at first but cooked into it as the juices dripped out: Before I put the chicken in the roaster, I sprinkled paprika over the outside liberally and put about a teaspoon and a half of rosemary and four lemon slices in the inside cavity. Next I peeled seven potatoes and boiled them for mashed potatoes. (Hmmmmm. Looks like the photo of the potatoes didn't upload properly.) Actually, they were whipped potatoes, not mashed potatoes, for what I did when they were soft was rice them: then add liquid. I had set aside butter and milk for this purpose (that photo didn't load either; I may upload and revise this post tonight), but ended up not using the milk. My one concession to reduced fat was to use the water the potatoes were cooked in instead of milk, but I still put in butter, plus black pepper and Old Bay. The reason I used Old Bay instead of salt is because my roomate has Type 1 diabetes and has suffered renal failure; as a result, he must limit or avoid a host of foods containing some common minerals. This does cause some problems for me, for vegetables are about the only thing that I find I can eat without incorporating some seasoning into the dish before cooking it. It also limits my ability to serve foods containing tomatoes or tomato sauce, and I used to prepare a lot of tomato-based dishes. I welcome any and all recipes that offer big flavor while avoiding those no-no substances. These, BTW, were the veggies I served: These steam-in-the-bag frozen veggies are convenient, no doubt about it, and they don't come with a bonus serving of guilt. As the chicken was nearing done and the veggies were steaming, I made gravy from the chicken drippings. As I was sprinting towards the finish, I didn't separate the fat from the rest of the drippings, so it floated to the top in the finished product: which, despite its appearance here, got perfectly smooth about a minute afterwards. I generally do well making gravies. I did note, however, that the gravy had a hint of sourness that I wasn't expecting; it wasn't until later that night that I realized that taste came from the lemon. Sorry, but I didn't get a shot of everything on the plate. I suspect someone would need that to factor in the points, but maybe if I gave you approximate amounts, someone could score it for me? 1 chicken leg quarter 3/4 cup whipped potatoes (made from 7 potatoes, 4 tablespooons butter and 1/2 cup potato water, seasoned liberally with black pepper and Old Bay) 1/3 cup mixed vegetables About 4 tablespoons gravy (2 tablespoons each chicken fat and cornstarch, 3/4 cup chicken drippings, unseparated, enough water to make 1 cup gravy, a dash of salt and ground black pepper)