Beef Curry in my InstantPot...

My best recipe yet...

One of the things I miss about Hawaii is the food. It's not so haute (see what I did there? clever, ne?). In fact, it tends to be pretty basic. Teriyaki Beef, Roast Pork, Beef Stew, and occasionally something elaborate like Lemon Chicken, with a scoop of rice on the side, or for the sake of variety, two scoops of rice. Also, Macaroni Salad and even a little cup of kimchee. Very basic, heavy on the starches, and absolutely contraindicated if you are diabetic, have anyone in your family who is diabetic, or have ever heard of diabetes.

But it's delicious. So tasty. And so, as a treat for myself, I occasionally make something like that at home, but as always I tweak it to my own tastes, which makes it even yummier. And so I've come up with my own rendition of Zippy's Chili, which I will share with you (the secret is cinnamon), and a few other things--I've even figured out how to do quick malasadas that are totally cheating but still come darn close. And now this:

Paul's Expatriate Beef Curry

Cue the slack-key sitars, Phil....

Aloha, Brother Man and Miss Lady!

I did this one in my Instant Pot. That's an electronic pressure cooker that is easy and safe to use. Pressure cookers have a bad rep based on the first ones that came out in the 1930s...they are much better now, especially with the safety features and controls. That's why I use the Instant Pot. It cooks things much faster than regular techniques, but you can also do this recipe on a regular stove top or even in a slow cooker, though in the latter case you should do the browning and sauteing in something else and then through it all into the slow cooker and go from there.

Here's what you need....

Beef

I used a 2 or 2 and a half-pound Chuck Roast. It's big, cheap, and can be a bit tough (like some of my old girlfriends) but becomes tender and quite flavorful if properly handled (like some of my old girlfriends).  Chuck makes awesome beef stew or pot roast. I cut it up into squares. You can buy something called "Stew Meat" or "Beef for Stew" or like that, but if you cut it up it's a much better deal and you can cut it into cubes of much more consistent size. So that's what I do

I wanted to brown the beef cubes before stewing them, because they are much tastier that way. It's called the Maillot Reaction and it's Science, so do that. Beef doesn't brown well in liquid, do I browned it in small batches in my saute pan and then put the browned cubes and liquid in a bowl before wiping the saute pan and browning the next batch.

I have pictures:

This is the cut up chuck cubes being browned a few at a time.




Look! Browned beef. Notice the minimal liquid. That's why I do it in small batches.

Beautiful, is it not?

And here's the beef browned. I only browned the outside, just for flavor and color, since it's going to be cooked and cooked rather well before we are done,

Vegetables

So now the vegetables. I have a red onion (but use any onion you like), celery, carrot, and leek (which I have never seen used in the Islands. Like I said, very basic). I was going to add garlic, but I thought I had some but I did not. So no garlic. It turned out fine.

If you are not familiar with leeks, just be aware that they get sand and mud even between layers deep inside, and the green part is tough and bitter (man, I keep thinking of old girlfriends), so wash the white or very light green parts carefully, and finely mince them. Dice everything else.

"Is your knife sharp? Why isn't your knife sharp! My kitchen will NOT become the Last Refuge of the INCOMPETENT! GET OUT! NOW!"

That's how you yell at people if you're a chef. But really, do learn to properly sharpen your knives, and keep them sharp. Dull knives glance easily off vegetables but still slice easily into your fingers. Sharp knives are safer and easier. The time spent learning to keep them right is a good investment.

Here are the onion, carrot, celery, and leek. I used the whole onion, two carrots, minus a piece I gave to the Widow Ivy (my rabbit), two celery ribs, and the leek woithout the greener top shown upper felt above.

And here's what I did with them:

Kind of pretty. Vegetables are so beautiful.

Now comes cooking time: I'm using my InstantPot so I turn it onto "Saute"so I can saute stuff right in the pot:

I put oil in the pot (good Palestinian olive oil) and then put in some of this:

Black or Brown (same thing) Mustard Seed. The start of a good curry, as shared with me by a rather brilliant gentleman (Hi, Deelip!) put a tablespoon more or less in the hot oils, and then...

Yep, Bubba. Them there is Mustard Seeds? You ever seed mustard? Well, these here is black mustard seeds and they go pop!









After most of them mustard seeds have exploded their flavor into the oil, add the other veggies and saute them until they are soft.

We have two other major ingredients (or "ingrediments" if you're from Hawaii): 

Curry Powder and Coconut Milk.

A friend of mine from India was aghast at the idea of storebought curry powder. "My mother never bought that stuff," she said. It should always be made from fresh-ground spices!"

"How long did it take her to grind it all up?" I asked.

"Oh, the servants always did that."

So I use the canned stuff. The Sun Brand Madras Curry Powder is not only ubiquitous, but can be found anywhere.

The curry powder, while it does have a bite, is not amazingly hot. If you like it really hot, add a little cayenne pepper. Or a little more. I like it hot, but I had civilians that were going to eat this curry, so I forewent the cayenne. 

We'll get to the coconut milk later.

Add a bunch of the curry powder to the sauteed vegetables.

You can see curry powder on the edge of the pot. I threw in a lot. I threw it all over, because I am clumsy. The worst mistake you can make here is not enough curry powder. I used 4-5 tablespoons, or maybe more. I just covered the vegetables with a layer of curry powder.

Then continue to saute the vegetables with the curry powder. There should be plenty of oils and liquid from the vegetables. Keep stirring. we want to brown the curry powder a bit (Science again). And yes, it will start to stick to the bottom of your pot. Keep stirring. When you are pretty sure it's been browned a bit and a lot of it is sticking, it's time to....

Deglaze the Pot!

Which is fancy-sounding, but what you do is add a can of beef broth (I use Swanson's just like your Mom does). Add just enough to cover the bottom of the pot, and use a wooden spoon to get the tasty brown stuff stuck to the bottom off. It will come off easily. Once it's off, add the rest of the can of broth.

And there you go. Now add the beef....

"I love it when a plan comes together."












Now we are set to go. If you are using a slow cooker, set it up and turn it on. If you are cooking this on a stove top, bring it to a simmer and then cover it with a well-fitting lid and reduce the heat to let it stew for a couple of hours, stirring every so often.

But I am using the InstantPot, so I secure the lid, set the valve for pressure, and then hit the "Stew" button. It says "35 minutes" though you can adjust that. I left it at 35.

The pot will get up to temperature, the pressure of the steam will build up, and the safety lock will engage. Then it will cook your curry for 35 minutes. The whole idea is that at pressure the temperature can go as high as 270 F, instead of 212 F at normal pressure. so it cooks faster.

When the timer went off I chose to wait until the pressure went down naturally (15-20 minutes). I could have let the pressure out by turning the vent, but why? If you do do that, use a long wooden spoon to avoid scalding the shit out of your hand. Better to wait.

What about the coconut milk?

I stirred in about half a can of coconut milk. And wow!

The coconut milk adds smoothness, a tiny bit of sweetness, and lots of saturated fat. And makes it really, really perfect.

I served it on rice, of course...

The sauce was smooth and rich, but not too rich, the beef was amazingly flavorful and tender, and the spice was just perfect. Try it! You'll notice I did not give exact measurements. Just do what seems right. Make this dish your own.

I'm making kimchee too. Details in my next post!

Tales of a Boy Genius, Episode Three: When is a House not a home? Or "That Word Has Nothing to do with Soup!"

Here I am with another tale detailing just how far I am from a genius. In this tale we will travel back to the year I was in fourth grade. This was 1968–1969.

My first thirteen years were a peripatetic existence. My dad was in the Army, so we moved often. One of the reasons I never really bothered to enlist in the military was that I had already given up any semblance of a normal childhood with roots and long-term friends. I felt I owed my country nothing more. Not that I didn't have friends. I had some fine friends, but never for more than three years. One or two years were more typical.

I did get to spend two and a half school years in the same school: Thomas O. Larkin Elementary School in Monterey, California . I moved to Monterey on February 11, 1967 halfway through second grade, and got to stay through my fourth grade year. (Third grade was the first year I actually was in the same class for the entire year. Sometimes I think I might have had a more settled childhood if I had been born among the Romany people.)

My time in Monterey was golden. Not that it was perfect. There were a couple of bullies more into emotional harassment than physical battery. My parents had my dog put down because he was "a problem" (I've never told them that I haven't really been able to trust anybody, them especially, since). One of our neighbors was a pedophile. I got into trouble in third grade for not doing any homework. (This was right after losing my dog; my teacher told me "you just have to get over it." Mrs. Larsen, you were a Bitch.)

How golden does thats sound? Well, like I said–not perfect. But it was rich in experience, I lived in a beautiful place, and there were many adventures and activities for a kid my age. It was the happiest part of my childhood and perhaps the happiest part of my life. I used to go down to the Poor Scholar Bookstore with my nickels, dimes, and pennies and buy Marvel Comics. There were backyards, tree-houses, and all kinds of vacant lots to explore. The touristy and historical parts of Monterey were actually two short blocks away.

It was the historical part of Monterey that this story centers around. As anyone who has gone to public school in California knows, fourth grade is the year for California State History. I think there might be another year that does a lot of state history, but I don't know; after fourth grade I never went to school in California again.

One beautiful spring morning my class, Mrs. Clark's fourth grade, went out on a walking field trip to Monterey's nearby historical sites. Monterey was at one time the capital of Spanish California, and Thomas Larkin Elementary was lucky to be only three short blocks from the Old Custom House and many other preserved historical buildings, which were all within a very small area. Besides the Custom House, there was California's First Theatre, Where we got to watch a very silly melodrama. We stopped at the Casa del Oro, the store owned by Thomas Larkin, American merchant and the first American Consul in Monterey (yeah, my school was named after him, as was the street I lived on). There was a Spanish garden where a young man serenaded a young woman who wore a period dress. And then there was a place just a little different: the House of something or other. 

[Seriously, for years I thought it was the House of the Four Winds, but researching this I found out I might have remembered the wrong name. I in fact could not find out the right place. But I swear I am not making this story up.]

We were ushered inside and told to be very, very careful. We found ourselves in a beautifully ornate parlor with exquisite decor: crystal chandeliers, an old, ornate spinet, elaborately carved chairs. Lace doilies everywhere. It was gorgeous, and probably was the fanciest parlor in Monterey back in the day, or for that matter, at any time. Gorgeous, but a bit over-the-top even in the view of a fourth grader. A nice older lady in ornate historical dress was there to point out the decorations and tell us some vague things about the place.

I was a reader, and there were signs—historical landmark plaques—at all the sites we had visited. And I read them all, because that's how you learn stuff. The sign said—and this is as close as I can come to a quote, that this place was "a popular place of entertainment for the gentlemen of Old Monterey."

I thought about that. I pictured the gentlemen of Old Monterey—Spanish landowners, fops, and military officers—seated around the spinet as a lady played it, all singing sentimental songs. Seemed strange. And having enjoyed many a Coke in many a Officer's club with my Dad, I recognized there was no bar. No bar? Strange. 

[You may detect that some slight dysfunction affected my youth. Acknowledged.]

So I asked, absolutely innocently, "What kind of House was it?" The docent-lady stopped and stared for a second. Then she went on without answering my question. A minute or two later she finished her spiel and I asked her again, "But what kind of house? What kind of entertainment did they have?"

She kind of goggled. I'd never seen an adult do that. My teacher Mrs. Clark (who was probably the most calm teacher I'd ever had), said gently, "Paul? Let's go outside." I thought I might be in trouble, but when Mrs. Clark and I went outside, she said, "Let's not ask embarrassing questions, okay?" She smiled, and I knew she wasn't mad, but I was mystified. What was odd about my question? Why was the answer so—embarrassing?

That happened when I was ten.

Two years later, in sixth grade, my teacher, Miss Shaw, reputed to be the toughest teacher in history, gave us extra vocabulary words every week. Unfortunately for her, she accidentally included the word "brothel." This is true. I would love to have made this up, but I didn't have to. One of our assignments was that we had to look up synonyms for each word. Golly gee you should have seen the look on Miss Shaw's face when she asked a student to read his synonyms. I never heard so many synonyms; my favorite was "cathouse."

Miss Shaw slammed her hand down on her desk and shouted, "That is not funny! Sue, will you please read the correct synonyms?" Sue was a good student, so when she read pretty much the same words, Miss Shaw stopped her. She then looked into her large dictionary.

I had heard about people's mouth dropping open and hanging there swinging, and I assumed it was an exaggeration, but I have actually seen it. Had there been a breeze in the classroom, Miss Shaw's jaw would have flapped in it. She then swallowed hard, apologized, and then gave us a substitute vocabulary word. From that point on, we knew that Miss Shaw might be tough, but she obviously did not do all her homework either.

I was mystified, so that night after gauging my Dad's state of mind, I asked him what it meant. Dad has always been good about answering questions, so he asked me how it came up and I told him about Miss Shaw's gaffe. He smiled at that, then he told me that a brothel is a place where prostitutes work. I asked what a prostitute was, and he told me—a woman who has sex with men for money. When I looked puzzled he explained that a lot of men like sex, and are willing to pay for it.

I nodded and sat there, thinking of the strange behavior of adults, and hoping I didn't get too bizarre when I got older.

Then all of a sudden I remembered a walk on a nice spring morning in Old Monterey. The "entertainment." The idea of embarrassing people when asking about a house...

Oh! Then I got it! Only two years after the fact, I got it.

Like I keep telling you, I am not a genius.

My Life as a Genius Episode Two: Fakin' at the Foot of the Altar

This is a story that takes place in Monterey, California, when I was nine or ten. I had become an altar boy at the military chapel at the Presidio of Monterey.

Relax—it's not one of those stories. In fact, in the year or so I was an altar boy at the Presidio chapel, I never once had an uncomfortable moment with any of the priests I worked with. Perhaps I was lucky, but more likely they were just a bunch of decent guys who lived what they claimed to believe. [Sadly, I have close relatives who were not so lucky. Google "Pinkosh v. Diocese of Honolulu" for details.]

Anyway, we altar boys were the traditional crew of young beasts and sinners that churches inevitably get stuck with. No doubt this was because we were boys. For the most part, nine- and ten-year-old boys are young heathens. We made little exploding frisbees out of coffee stirrers and threw them at each other. We told disreputable and highly inaccurate stories about what sex might be like (it being all theoretical for us at that point). We snooped around the vestry if we could do so without being caught. Pretty mild stuff, actually, but compared to serving Mass it seemed dyed black with wickedness--well, medium brown, anyway.

It being a military chapel, the priests worked in an unpredictable—for us—rotation. There were a couple of Army Chaplains, some locals, and a lot of old chaps. A really mixed bag compared to a lot of civilian parishes.

Another feature of the military chapel is that it was shared with other groups from other faiths. All Christian, as far as it went, with the possible exception of the 2:00 PM "SUN Worship" that the sign in front listed. Well, we knew it was just an abbreviation, but we'd chuckle when imagining folks up on the roof chanting away, losing heart if a cloud should block the light.

Like I said, nine- and ten-year-old boys.

The heart of the operation was a man named John Henry. That was his name: Specialist 4 John Henry. He was the "Chaplain's Assistant," which meant he was essentially the go-to guy for everything that went on at that chapel. He made sure we altar boys knew when to show up and what to do when we got there. He took down the gold crucifix and removed the gold candlesticks after the Roman Catholic mass and replaced them with more a more modest plain cross and candlesticks in silver for the Protestants who were up in an hour. He even ran two enormous Christmas plays and a Passion play during my tenure there.

John Henry always warned us about the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar. These had become optional under the changes in the Mass under Pope Paul VI, but as John Henry reminded us, "Some of the older priests still like to say them, and so you'd better learn them." These prayers were, back in the day, quite lengthy and in Latin, and required the altar boy to resond a few times in Latin.

Fortunately, the version they were using when I was an altar boy were in English, and consisted of three statements by the priest, each having a response from the lad in question. I would like to tell you now how those went:

But I can't. I tried Google, but all I could find was an older Latin Version, the English translation of same, and all of that on Websites about the Roman Catholic Tradition, which seems to belive the Mass was perfected about 1570 or so. There's also a lot of stuff about home-schooling one's children and impeaching Obama. I am not making this up!

I can't tell you much about the version we used, because I never bothered to memorize it. I know, three sentences. Well, it was difficult because A) they were three sentences of Biblical language unlike any I spoke normally, and B) I was too busy slacking off to bother sitting down for the time it would take to remember them.

Like I keep saying: nine- and ten-year-old boys.

My ne'er-do-well peers were all similarly unconcerned about learning those three responses. As far as we could tell, when John Henry said, "some of the older priests," he meant Father Bolenciwicz, and old Polish priest who muttered the Mass with a very heavy accent.

I knew that the schedule, being somewhat unpredictable, meant that I would end up serving for Father Bolenciwicz sooner or later, so i would have to memorize those Prayers at the Foot of the Altar sooner or later.

Guess which I chose.

Finally, I made a half-assed stab at it, and to this day it is as clear in my mind as it was back then:

Priest: Something. Something. Something.
Me: Something else. Something else. Something else.
Priest: Something. Something. Something.
Me: Another something. Another something.
Priest: Yadda Yadda Yadda.
Me: And your people shall rejoice in you!

Yes, all that time and I had only one line of three memorized. I was pathetic. But time was on my side, I felt.

But one day time ran out.

It was a afternoon Sunday mass. These were not as busy as the 9:00 AM Mass, but there were a number of people who went to that mass. The chapel tended to be about a quarter full. So I hustled up the hill from our house on Larkin Street to the chapel. I got there in plenty of time, only to find out that the Celebrant that day was—and this wouldn't be much of a story otherwise—Father Bolenciwicz!

I was doomed. Unless I could wrack my brain and remember the first and second responses. I slipped on the old cassock and surplice, all the while thinking of two things: what were the responses, and what would happen when it became obvious that I did not know them? It would be very embarrassing.

Father Bolenciwicz came in in plenty of time, donned his vestments, mumbling the prayers that accompanied each item, and then sat down. He was quiet and did not say anything. We had a while before Mass was due to start. I went out to light the candles on the alter and by the lectern. I was a real whiz with the cable lighter/snuffer. (I sometimes cringe when I see people today smushing the candles out—one should be able to snuff a candle without touching it!)

I went back in, and then it was time to go. Father Bolenciwicz took up the chalice, topped with the cloth like a stole, the small dish, the folding envelope that held the host, all of these covered with the cloth that matched whatever color of vestment the liturgical calendar called for. I took up a small cruet of wine and one of water. We went out a side door, walked to the steps leading up to the sanctuary, and we knelt. It was time!

And then Father Bolenciwicz mumbled—he was a mumbler—the first line of the dreaded Prayers at the Foot of the Altar. Any hope that I might get cued disappeared. So I did the same. He mumbled and I mumbled. It sounded like this:

Father B: Mumble Mumble de Mumble.
Me: Mumble Mumble Mum.
Father B: Mumble mumbledum mummus mumble.
Me: Mumble mumble mumblety bum.
Father B: Mumble mumble Mumble...
Me: And your people shall rejoice in you!

Hey, a clear strong finish. And on to the Mass, which I knew well.

After Mass, Father Bolenciwicz said, "Come here. I need to tell you something."

I approached, my heart in my throat.

He lifted his hand and placed it on my shoulder. "You are very good altar boy. You are the only one who knows his Prayers at the Foot of the Altar."

I never think of that incident without mixed feelings of pride and guilt. I went on to bigger and worse sins, and I no longer follow the Catholic—or even the Christian—path, but I still feel bad about faking it with Father Bolenciwicz. I am sure he went to his Master many years ago, and was rewarded as the good man he was.

As for myself, I feel that the incident taught me the wrong lesson.

Exploring the Lost Cities of Geo

Here is something that I thought I'd never see again. It's my first website! Like many people back in the late 1990s, I decided that the world needed to hear my opinions and sample my creative work.

Well, that hasn't changed, apparently, but the level of sophistication has. To be accurate, the sophistication of the tools has improved; whether my thinking or my content has improved is really not for me to say.

Back then, kids, we didn't have this fancy WordPress or Blogger; we had Geocities and you actually had to know a little HTML. Which is why the pages often looked so bad; we were not skilled enough in HTML nor experienced enough in design to make an attractive webpage.

To give myself a little credit, I never had red lettering on a chartreuse background. Nor did I use flashing text. There are limits even to my poor judgement.

Geocities was closed down in 2009. The operator, Yahoo, certainly gave us plenty of advance notice and we were able to download our materials. But it closed down, and the rest was history.

But there are those who wish to archive everything on the web, and there is a new Geocities: www.geocities.ws

And so I can go back and see my first website in all it's glorious lack of consistency, taste, and value.

Actually, I am being too hard on myself. Other than big plans and small effort, it's not really all that bad, but it never really got much of an audience, and I lost interest and became too busy to think of it much. This, of course, is how adult life goes. My front page gives the usual apologies for the lack of new content, and makes the usual promises of more activity.

And there it has sat for 11 years. The three-year-old child referred to is now a young woman of fourteen, I'm officially qualified as an old fart, and I still write at a snail's pace.

Geocities.ws will actually let you reclaim your old pages and edit them. Unfortunately, It does this by scanning your page for email addresses and assuming that one of them is yours. One _was_ mine, but it was a _Mindspring_ address which has been purely defunct for many years. I am sure I can get control by contacting the good folks at the new Geocities.

But why bother? Let archives be archives. The old pages are there should anyone want to see them. My efforts should be going to newer work and I should be moving on. All the same, there they are. Look on my works, ye mighty, and be kind.

My Life as a Boy Genius: Anecdote One

I bill myself here as Paulie Rockets, Boy Genius. But I’ll let you in on a secret:

I am no genius.

Now that I’ve knocked you right out of your chair, let me explain that I do not know what a genius is. The only definition I have ever heard involved the old Stanford-Binet IQ scale, which has been shown to be inadequate when discussing all the ways that people can be intelligent. So, I do not really know what a genius is, but I am clearer on what  genius isn’t. Thus I say with certainty that I am no genius.

I used to think I was pretty bright. I now think I’m a good strong average.

But I’ve always been a bit goofy.

Let’s go back to my college days. I was quiet and kind of shy, and not one of those guys who had a rollicking college life. Still, I enjoyed my college days. But my idea of a good time was a little different from some people’s. Oh sure, I liked pizza and beer with friends, but I had a different habit when I was in grad school.

Grad School. University of Hawaii at Manoa. Early eighties…

I had a little treat for myself on Thursday nights. I would eat my dorm cafeteria dinner, go to my room, and get ready to go out. And then what I would do then was walk down the campus, down University Avenue, and then down Beretania Street. I would pause at the Fujipan bakery, just inhaling the smell of good baking—pastries and bread—and then when I got to where Kalakaua Avenue and King Street and Beretania Avenue came together, I would hit the two used-book stores on opposing corners. 


Here are a map and pictures

First I would browse in Interlude Books, the neater of the two stores, see what there was, chat a bit if my brother’s friend John McCain was working there (He was the emergency spare Pinkosh Brother) and usually I would buy a book or six. Then I would go across the street to the used-book store diagonally across from Interlude, the legendary Froggie’s. Froggie’s had been around forever, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it still existed in one form or another; it was one of those places that just survived, changing addresses every so many years, but hanging on. Inside it was chaotic and perhaps a bit dusty. Other than being sorted into very general sections, it wasn’t really organized. You could find the Literature section, or the Science Fiction and Fantasy section, but the sections themselves where chaotic. Oh, there was an attempt made to organize books by author, but the shelves were so full it was futile.

In short, it was an excellent place for serendipity. I cannot tell you how many books I found that I thought were unobtainable, or that were just too rare to show up in a cheap used paperback edition. The fun was in never knowing if you would find what you were looking for, and in finding something quite unexpected and exciting. And this happened almost every time I went there.

It really was a cool place.

Then, after spending my pre-planned allowance (I had had to learn to limit my expenditures) I would walk back to campus up King Street. Beretania and King were parallel streets about a block apart, both one-way heading opposite directions.  I might get a cold drink on the way, and then go back to my room where I would either study a bit or read my new purchases.

I did this almost every Thursday night each semester for about three years. What can I say? I was a bookish nerd English major grad student.

Then one night I decided to switch it up a bit just for the sake of variety. I decided to walk down King and up Beretania. And now that I think of it, I was going widdershins.

It was slightly different, but not really in any interesting way. I walked up King, stopped in at Interlude, went to Froggie’s, bought a couple of things, and then went up a block, and started my return trip along Beretania Street.  About halfway along, I got to the edge of the Honolulu neighborhood called “Chinese Hollywood.” Most of Chinese Hollywood had been destroyed in the building of the H-1 Freeway, but some of it remained, mostly wooden bungalow-type houses from the 1930s and 1940s, which is perhaps how it got its name.

And in the yard of one of those little bungalow-type houses I saw a girl hanging from the branch of a mango tree.

I was about 23 or 24 and I noticed female humans regardless of circumstance. And this was interesting. The house, across the street from me, was small but it had an enormous mango tree. Mango trees tend to be large, and this one was above average. There was a young Asian girl hanging onto a branch, swinging back and forth and giggling, just a bit. It was night, she was in the shade of the tree, but I could tell that she was very young and kind of cute.

Young and cute, what’s not to like? I stood and watched her for a moment. She noticed and laughed. I crossed the street.

She had a cardboard box with a few mangos in it. She was leaping into the air, grabbing a branch of the tree, and trying to pick mangos with one hand while hanging from the branch with the other. The branch easily held her up; she was small and rather slender. But her methodology was not all that productive. It’s hard to pick mangos with one hand while swinging from a branch.

“Want some help?” I asked, ever the chivalrous, genteel horn-dog. Well, In those days I thought I could de-emphasize the horn-dog part if I were genteel and chivalrous enough. But this girl  just dropped to the ground with a mango in her hand, plunked it into the box, and laughed again. I realized she didn’t speak much English.

She jumped up and grabbed the branch with both hands, and I started plucking mangos. Held down by her weight, the branch was just low enough that I could pick about eight or nine really fine mangos. She dropped again, jumped and grasped another branch, and I again picked some really fine mangos. The whole time she was swinging back and forth, her legs swinging. In her mid-calf skirt, she looked like a bell.

Then I grabbed a branch and pulled down. I did not want to damage the tree. But it was a sturdy old tree, and the branch came down quite low, and the girl was able to pluck every mango off that branch with no difficulty. We did this with several branches, and even without any words on her part, and very few on mine, we managed to coordinate our hanging and picking, switching roles every so often. It was excellent teamwork.

Finally, when we had the box about half full (it was one of those boxes apples come from the packers in), she decided  that she had picked enough. She tried to hoist the box, but it was a good crop year for mangos, and the box was heavy. So I put my bag of books in the box and lifted it up.

“Do you want me to take it inside for you?” I said, pointing to the door of the house. She shook her head. “Where would you like me to take them?

She answered by beckoning me forward, then leading me out to the sidewalk in front of the house. Then she lead past a couple of houses to the side street.

There, parked on the side street, was an enormous Cadillac. It was black, and simply huge. Standing by it were two other women, not so young and not so cute. The were dressed in slinky evening dresses with slits up to mid-thigh. Even under the streetlights I could see that they were heavily made-up, and a bit hard-looking. The one closest to me was wearing extremely high stiletto heels. She unlocked the trunk and gestured. I put the box of mangos in the trunk, and just had time to snatch my bag of books out of it before the stiletto-heeled woman slammed the trunk. Then all three women quickly got in the car, the youngest one nodding at me once, the driver fired up the engine, and they peeled out.

In Honolulu they have something called Korean Bars. They are not always run by Koreans, but often enough that the name sticks. They sell over-priced drinks and over-priced snacks to men who are encouraged to spend as much as possible by the hostesses, who usually dress in a provocative manner and sit next to customers and sometimes get into a little physical contact—anything to keep the customer buying drinks. The girls will also ask the customer to buy them drinks—usually a champagne cocktail that is beyond pricey. The “Champagne” is usually sparkling cider, as bar employees are prohibited by law from drinking alcohol while working.

I’m sure they have these sorts of places everywhere. “Hostess bars.” “Clip Joints.” Whatever.

And I realized that I had just helped some joint somewhere in town improve their bottom line. Somewhere some chump was paying big money for a dish of mangos and soy made with mangos that I had just helped steal.

So no, I am seriously not a genius.

Special Effects 2

A while back I wrote about Special Effects in role-playing games. To recap very briefly, any game will contain various special effects to create the proper feel of the genre of that particular game. The feel is achieved make capturing those moments of awesomeness that the players like about that genre. For example, If the game is a pirates campaign, and the players are into that genre, they will want lots of cool sword fights, ship-to-ship combat, and swashbuckling action. Since these genre staples are about risk and skill, the game system one chooses for a pirate campaign should be one in which the game mechanism emphasizes risk and skill. It certainly shouldn’t be too abstract a system; the player should feel like he or she is having to make the same choices and experience the same stress that a person in that situation would. Note: this isn’t really possible; it’s a game. But the game campaign’s special effects should create those feelings. Hence my use of the term special effects.

These special effects can be done on several levels.

• The game rules system should be one that includes mechanics that make such pseudo-experiences meaningful, or at least doesn’t make them dry, abstracted, or unlike the genre conventions.
• House rules can make the emotional impact greater, either by augmenting, simplifying, or even eliminating the features of the game system relating to the kinds of actions that the game should feature.
• The Game Master is the ultimate special effect. He or she should run the game so that the adventures and the emotional payoffs are in keeping with the genre.

In other words, to fit the genre with the effects that the GM and (presumably) the players want, it takes the right rules system to allow those effects, careful tweaking/house ruling to make the game better fit the genre-based expectations of the players, and a style of play that makes the game fit those genre conventions.

When we are deciding what type and genre of game we want to play, it is not just the genre we choose. We are also looking for the kind of Moments of Awesomeness we want to experience. These then determine not only what kind of genre our game will take on, but also the style with which it will be played. Thus, games taking on a medieval world can either strictly adhere to historical fact, or can be fast and loose with the facts; it can even be ridiculous parody if the players and GM like that sort of thing. The special effects leading to those potential Moments of Awesomeness must also reflect the desired style.

What Will We Play?

Getting Back In The Game, So To Speak

So here I am, 55 years old and it has been a long time since I played regularly in an RPG campaign, and even longer since I ran one as GM. This has to be changed.

A Veritable Cavalcade of Options

The key elements of any campaign I run will have to be fun and appeal. Fun, because if it isn’t fun why do it? Appeal, because I would like to attract some good players and hold on to them. These two key elements will be primary considerations in deciding other factors:

• Genre
• Game System
• Number of players
• Group Structure
• Location

Genre

What genre should the game take on? There is always good ol' sword and sorcery, in all its various sub-genres. Gritty fantasy, high fantasy—there are so many variations. Fantasy Noir. Epic or Mythic, based on either existing cultures or new invented ones. Most experienced players are comfortable with this one.
Something more technological? Science Fiction has an almost infinite range of varients: Steampunk, Dieselpunk, Near-Future, Post-Apocalypse Dystopia, Sword and Spaceship Planetary Romance. Straightforward Traveller.
Alternate History? Adventures based on 30s Pulp Magazines?
There are many that could be fun.

Game System

I do have my favorites. I like Chaosium’s Basic Role-Playing and its various relatives, like Runequest and Call of Cthulhu. GURPS is a good system if you like a bit of crunch. There are other systems I have not used yet, but which intrigue me; chief among these is Savage Worlds.
Choosing a game system would have to be done carefully and should include the players.

Number of players

Four to six seems to be the bestsize for a gaming group. A larger group can be fun if there are ways of keeping the game from bogging down. Worth a lot of thought, that.

Group Structure

The traditional group that includes one Game Master (or DM, Referee, or Storyteller) and several players is the classic mode, but not the only one. Having more than one GM, or a rotation is worth a look.

Location

Most likely the Sacramento area.

So…what will we play?