The highlight for me in this one has to be Dawkins’ line:

Matter flows from place to place,
And momentarily comes together to be you.
Some people find that thought disturbing.
I find the reality thrilling.

In the meantime, I’m going to push forward the gaming agenda of this blog a little more. Because in addition to being an eater, I’m a gamer. And I even design games. Even games that have YouTube videos made of them:

My gaming stuff is all over the place, but in all sorts of official capacities. My Dread blog is all about, well, Dread. My Dig a Thousand Holes blog is about the games I’ve published myself, which at the moment is dominated by my latest: Time & Temp. And the Imagination Sweatshop is about a group of friends who get together to make games up as they go along. And as many and varied as these links are, a lot of my gaming interest and thoughts tends to fall through the cracks. I intend to employ this blog in preventing such crack falling through.

Let’s talk about the green bean.

Oops, sorry. My fault.

I meant, “Let’s talk about the green bean.”

Though these two vegetables share the same origin, they’re about as different as any two vegetables can be. (Originally I was going to go with this whole pre- and post-black album Metallica metaphor, but I didn’t want to taint either of these noble foodstuffs with “The Unforgiven” and company.)

Despite this common origin, and their homophonic relationship, these are two very, very different foodstuffs. To swap them up in a recipe is to invite disaster into your kitchen.

For the most part, it’s easy to keep them separated. If you’re making a stir-fry, you’re using fresh green beans. If it’s a casserole, it’s canned. Take today’s lunch, for example.  It will be brought to me by the canned variety of green bean. And despite the fact that I’ll be using a process very similar to what is commonly knowns as a stir-fry, I’ll actually be making a casserole, because I’ll be using canned green beans. Post hoc ergo propter hoc.*

Growing up in Ohio, my family had a garden behind the house, which sounds quite pleasant, and it was, but was also very useful. There was a lot of money saved via that garden, though as a child I was quite oblivious to this. We’d frolic — yes, frolic — in those salad days, among the squash and chives and beans, nibbling like little rabbits as we go, heedless of necessity of the crop to my parent’s bank account.

I have vivid memories of canning marathons that took place late in the summer. Tomato sauces and whatnot, stored for the winter. And one of the most vivid memories of this is sitting with my grandmother on my back porch snapping green beans in preparation.

Can’t you just smell the bucolic?

As we snapped them, I’d occasionally pop a furry bean into my mouth. Partly for the fuzzy feel, partly for sweetish taste, and mostly because idle hands will do that when you’re toying with food. And there lies another one of the fundamental differences betwixt the beans. I’d never eat a canned bean raw. Once you can them, you’ve sealed their fate to that of a cooked bean. Well, technically, you’re cooking them to can them, but you know what I mean. Eating a green bean off the vine: delightful. Eating a green bean right out of the can: desperate.

Okay, damn it, I’m hungry and I’ve got a casserole to make before I can enjoy some green beans. I wish I could leave you on a pithy note, but my salacious desire for these tin-bound morsels is getting the better of me.

* I know that’s not the right fallacy, but it sounds so smart in Latin.

For months, I looked forward to my lunch hour (more of a half an hour, when all was said and done) and the time I got to spend with Melville and his whaling crew. During those same months, I was rarely on the ball enough to pack a lunch. I had to fend for myself in the financial heart of New York City. It was during this time when I discovered the falafel cart.

$2.50 for a platter of stuffed grape leaves, freshly fried falafel balls, hummus, baba ghannouj and a spicy giardiniera salad all drowning in rich tahini. And warm pita on the side. Heaven!

Every week day I sat in that tiny break room with my wire book stand and my falafel platter and disappeared into Moby Dick. And after pages and pages of sensual details of whale hunting, an activity I had absolutely no frame of reference for, I began to trick myself into associating the various alien smells and tastes described in the book with tahini, falafel, and company.

I had not realized this until, long after I finished reading it, I was enjoying a falafel sandwich and thought to myself, “I bet this is what whale tastes like.”

In much the same way, I’ve trained myself to associate Chinese takeout with D&D. After months of meeting up with folks twice a month to enjoy a little General Tso’s Tofu while pursuing the minions of Demogorgon, I managed to permanently link frustrating die rolls, exploding monsters and that deliciously sweet-with-a-hint-of-spicy sauce of the general’s.

But this story isn’t about D&D or the white whale. It’s about potatoes in vinegar sauce.

Elsewhere in my gaming world, there is a group of explorers known as the Imaginauts. An intrepid squad of experimental gamers willing to delve the depths of not just one game, but a myriad. A myriad, I tell you!

And when the Imaginauts meet, we often order Chinese takeout as well. From a different restaurant, because we love variety and because we meet in a completely different neighborhood than my regular D&D group. The chefs at this particular restaurant like to lean a bit on the spicy lever as they go along.

Now, I’m no shrinking violet when it comes to the hot stuff. Some of my favorite meals have left me sweating and in an alter state. And while this place has yet to elevate my conscious, it has managed to make my eyes water just for opening the containers dinner came in.

I love it.

By far my favorite dish of their’s is tofu in spicy black bean sauce. But every time we go to order, I find myself in a quandary. Because, just two spots above the tofu in spicy black bean sauce on the menu is one of the most simple, concise and enigmatic dishes I have ever encountered. Potatoes in vinegar sauce.

It is what it says it is. Potatoes. And they’re in a vinegar sauce. The potatoes are not fried. Nor do I think they’re baked. Perhaps boiled or steamed, or otherwise warmed. Grated, tricking your brain into expecting hash browns. And vaguely vinegar-y.

The Internet tells me, through context alone, that this is a Sichuan entrée. Which makes sense, given the rest of the menu; but to my North American, excessively corn-fed palette, they are a mystery.

Part of that mystery is due to the fact that I have a poor memory for tastes. And I swiftly forget what they taste like. And every few weeks, when we pull out the menu, I see it listed, with it’s tantalizing title: potatoes in vinegar sauce. And I think, “Oh, that would hit the spot right about now.” And the temptation to order it would grow.

But the thing is, there’s nothing to this dish. It’s not all that appealing. Not to say it’s unappealing. It’s just bland. Which is very hard to believe. I know. I mean, vinegar and potatoes were made for each other. Vinegar potato chips. A nice malt vinegar on french fries or a baked potato. These are some of the best things in life.

But potatoes in vinegar sauce pales in comparison. It’s a shadow of a potato caught in the hint of vinegar. Neither sharp nor . . . potato-y. Kind of just there.

And yet, it’s a struggle not to order them. Every time. We’ve even annotated the menu with instructions not to order them, even if I want to. And still I have to depend on the rest of the Imaginauts to talk me out of it.

I can’t explain it. I’m not a fan of this food, I don’t particularly enjoy eating it, but I can’t shake my desire for it.

]]> http://libraryoftable.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/potatoes-in-vinegar-sauce/feed/ 2 Eppy Potatoes in Vinegar Sauce http://libraryoftable.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/a-way-for-the-cosmos-to-know-itself/ http://libraryoftable.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/a-way-for-the-cosmos-to-know-itself/#comments Tue, 20 Oct 2009 21:31:33 +0000 Epidiah http://libraryoftable.wordpress.com/?p=196 ]]> From the same talent that brought use “A Glorious Dawn“:

These fill me with such joy, not just for the content — though that on its own would be enough — but also for the medium. I love the texture of the voices, how their enthusiasm powers through the auto-tuner effect. I can’t wait to see more.

So here it is, three of my favorite vegan places to eat in Western Massachusetts.

First on the list is Cafe Evolution, my one-stop shop for Sheese, delicious pastries, toothsome meals, and just plain old enjoyable atmosphere. Also, a wide variety of seating options, including booths, chairs, stools and couches. Which is something more places need. And a Ms. Pac-Mac game, if I’m not mistake. Which is something every place needs.

Then there’s the Green Bean, which doesn’t seem to have a webpage.

In 2009.

No webpage.

It’s almost as if it doesn’t exist.

Okay, so here are some folks talking about it. I had their brunch, and loved it. Especially the corn cakes, so don’t believe everything you read on the Internet. Not everything’s vegan there, but what is vegan is clearly labeled. Very vegan friendly. Also, they have a tree of coffee mugs, which is quite charming. If they had a webpage, I’m sure I could find a picture of it that would swiftly illustrate why I love it. But they don’t, and I really don’t feel like typing the requisite thousand words said picture would be worth. So just go see for yourself.

And now for some sad news I didn’t know about until I started this post (otherwise I would have protected you, dear reader). My third entry is not long for this world.

Tofu A Go-Go is a wonderful little vegetarian place with mostly vegan options, which is surprisingly rare in the vegetarian world. Their Crack Tofu is as habit-forming as the name implies. Despite this, they’re disappearing at the end of the month. I suppose they’ll have to fill the vacant storefront with a methadone clinic. Tis a shame.

Coffee is more than just warm, dirty water. It’s the best warm, dirty water nature has to offer. I know that’ll elicit controversy from the tea crowd, and I apologize, but sometimes we have to take a stand for the truth.

I do enjoy tea, and the incredible variety it brings. But tea is tea and coffee is God’s own brew.

I cannot, however, talk endlessly about either, for I am no connoisseur.  My palette welcomes all manner of coffee as long as it’s not flavored. Something about most flavored coffees just rubs me the wrong way.

Black, that’s the way to best enjoy it.

There was a point to this post, which has slipped away from me. I’m sure it’ll come back to me, but for now the takeaway point is that coffee is vegan.

Just for a moment, consider the lowly orc. There’s all manner of debate in the roleplaying crowds about whether or not it’s okay to fight them unless you are in imminent peril or there’s clear evidence they’re up to no good. Do you need just cause to kill an orc, or because orcs are considered by their very nature to be evil, is it cool to kill them on sight?

(Or is it even out and out racist to have a race of purely evil beings in your game to begin with. Though those who object to universally qualifying orcs as evil start to lose their objections when we swap orcs with the various sorts of undead, demons, or devils, who in our pseudo-Christian culture it’s downright kosher to think of as inherently evil. And they pretty much think it’s a-okay to do whatever you want to a Nazi soldier in your game, which raises all sort of questions about priorities when you stop to consider they’re the only folks on the list to have ever existed and are not by their inherent nature beings of evil. These, of course, are questions I won’t be addressing here.)

But D&D has far deeper ethical issue than who you take a sword to.

Speak With Animals

You can comprehend and communicate with animals. You are able to ask questions of and receive answers from animals, although the spell doesn’t make them any more friendly or cooperative than normal. Furthermore, wary and cunning animals are likely to be terse and evasive, while the more stupid ones make inane comments. If an animal is friendly toward you, it may do some favor or service for you.

Now editions differ on just how this works, but the quote above (from the 3.5 edition System Reference Document) is pretty typical. Druids and other like-minded nature folk in the game generally have the ability to talk with animals. Hold conversations with them. Even have tea with them as Mr. Tumnus might.

This pretty staggering. Speak with motherfucking animals. And not like crazy cat lady speak with animals, either. You get to literally ask them what’s on their minds and they can, if they so wish, respond.

Conversations one would imagine would go something very much like this:

Frankie the Druid: Hey Bessie, how about some steak for dinner?

Bessie the Cow: Fuck you, Frankie.

It doesn’t get much clearer than that.

The elves, dwarves, halflings, humans and sundry other peoples of D&D have, at their disposal, a clear and succinct method of settling 97.34% of all the vegan v. non-vegan debates I have ever witnesses or participated in. One little spell (or spell-like ability, or ritual, or whatever your edition calls for) and we’re done. Animals can finally tell us their thoughts on our diets. Case closed.

Well, that was a pretty good VeganMoFo post. Got to talk about D&D, made some a Narnia reference, posted one of my favorite pieces of art from the original Players’ Handbook, and ended with a strong message about how even imaginary people should be vegan. All in all, I’d say a job well–

Speak with Plants

You can comprehend and communicate with plants, including both normal plants and plant creatures. You are able to ask questions of and receive answers from plants. A regular plant’s sense of its surroundings is limited, so it won’t be able to give (or recognize) detailed descriptions of creatures or answer questions about events outside its immediate vicinity.

Fuck!

I don’t what to know what a goddamn potato thinks about being sliced and deep fried. I suspect it’s not happy about it. This is the end of guilt-free cuisine.

And it doesn’t stop with plants. No. Last Thursday night, a bunch of mushroom dudes mopped the dungeon floor with my sorcerer and his companions. In then end, we bested them. But not until after we took a savage beating.

Some copper miners dug too deep into a mountainside and uncovered a colony of these myconid bastards, who then enslaved the miners–and I half suspect they were using them as fertilizer for their young.

So we stepped in and put a stop to it. But as I shot spouts of flame from my magic staff* to broil the beds of baby mushrooms, I couldn’t help but wonder about the ethical ramifications of the miners’ industrial encroachment on this indigenous species in the first place.

And I was also thinking about how I could go for a nice mushroom masala.

*Yes, my magic staff spouts flame and, no, I haven’t seen a doctor about it. I’m waiting to see if it clears up on it’s own.

All right, enough beating around the shrubbery, it’s confession time.

Several summers ago I had a chance to play in Ben Lehman‘s as of yet unpublished game Adventures in the Land of a Thousand Kings. A delightful romp in the style of Alice in Wonderland or Narnia, where you play yourselves as you’re transport through some portal in the room you’re playing in to the Land of a Thousand Kings.

The game has all these charming bits that help the players get to know each other better and encourages them to go out and play with strangers. I loved it. But at this first session, something happened that’s cast a long shadow over the intervening years.

We were confronted with the Kingdom of the Empty Heart Vegetables–botanical beasts I remember being something like a cross between an eggplant and Ripley’s alien. They had been invading a neighboring kingdom or kingdoms, I’m not sure how many. It’s a bit telling that I can’t recall many details of the beyond the vegetables themselves. This horrid vegetation devoured all in its path. And we were pressed into stopping the invasion.

I hit upon a plan. With some steam and a crop-dusting of spices, and we made them smell so delicious that the vegetables turned their insatiable hunger on themselves. Ally ravenously consumed ally. A horrible cannibal ghannouj holocaust.

We saved the day! Big fucking heroes! And in the heat of the moment I was elated.

But soon after it started to set in. I was the instrument for a near genocide. Sure, they were vegetables, and their hearts were empty, but they were at least as aware as any pig or cow. It was just a game, but I couldn’t hide behind that. I wasn’t playing some crafty wizard or dashing spaceman. I was playing myself, Epidiah Ravachol, in the Land of a Thousand Kings.

To illustrate this point, several times in during the adventure my veganism was an issue. I needed clothes and they had to be vegan. I needed food and it had to be vegan. Because I was Eppy and Eppy is vegan. There’s no escaping my ethics here.

And so I became the Chef de Mort. The guilt of my actions swiftly got to me, but not swift enough. I now have a standing invitation with Ben Lehman to play the game again so I could return to Kingdom of the Empty Heart Vegetables and make my reparations. But he lives on another coast and in all that time since my crimes I’ve not seen him.

So I stand before you, a war criminal and a lousy imaginary vegan.

Oh well, there’s still time.

My friend Jim has managed to recapture this last bit in a blog called The Lone Panel, where you can appreciate comics in their atomic state.