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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (May 27, 2004)
Allison Bias Odd Days One of these mornings, I'm going to be abducted by aliens while 1 grind coffee in my white bathrobe with yellow duckies. One of these mornings, I'm going to look at my frazzled hair, vacant gray eyes and blotchy skin, crack my neck and flush the Prozac down the toilet. One of these mornings, I'm going to flip on the radio and not hear the words "gun" "accident" "death or "fear" but "peachy keen" "nifty" "swell" and "lollipop". One of these mornings, I'm going to drive to school in an ice cream truck, eating ice cream and play duck-duck-goose and hide-n-seek all day. One of these mornings, instead of waking up at the crack of dawn and doing all the things no one wants to do but does, I'll just go back to sleep. Allison Bias is a freshman majoring in journalism. Aaron Shakra To a jilted poetry teacher: a viilanelle You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own" "Away from the norms, never conformed, this is how writing is bom" So what's this that you say about poems? You approach the unknown by line editing your soul "That rose isn't red — it's all been said — you have to reform" You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own" But this teaching is all preaching outgrown tomes Clothed in blind traditions like religions of an oath you've sworn So what's this that you say about poems? Give us readymade quotes so that we may clone the ashen smoke you exhale on all that won't conform You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own" Could you ever be taught, will you never be shone? Past stillborn authority that says "It's always better in the form" So what's this that you say about poems? An old way withers, your clothes, now unsown Still I learn with rhythm unturned, so I shall cease to scorn What you say is your own, you say is your own Now what's this that you say about poems? I see my life reflected in a cup of chai by the poisoned river writing poems on my hand. r Contact the Pulse editor at aaronshakra@dailyemerald.com I the erill and makp inirvhppf Wayne Bund Feasting the Siren Give me more of tor to weigh and store do feast my blood on shore a lore the least. East more: high noon in noun, deep verse in verb; hollow my fallow and pump upon meat. More 1 score of food to flesh the mouthing cord; I hoard before buoy, beast, or bellow boy, water prior to the waves within: thirst raise ocean, eye dawn star, and more and more my endless skin. My voice vectors volatile. Meal are symphonies: teeth sinking skin syncopation; bones breaking bones tambour; outpouring blood a river harmonious; flowing syntax my pores. I reach your breach, fulfill my treat. More food to dine: knowing calfs, showing stomach of young slaughter, breast, thigh, hip and rib, shoulder, neck, chin and grin, more in take, more mountains in which to eat. Together we dine. I ache the arches of your castle form, I crush your columns down, strike soft your stone. Come on wings made aural and find your place. I flesh solitude. Do feast on sound to call to death my own. Do rhyme do writher and come here hither, food to dine an entire line to end. Consume and perish. Heap the plates, unleash the mounds, murkle drawn circles to pact intact, derelict the story made lust by fact. You fly, you flee, alone I lie and die to crest my lyric in coherent brook of house and home. Abhor my shore and intake more. Wayne Bund is a senior majoring in theatre arts. Iris Moon Benson David Bowie With one match at thirteen, I lit your cigarette birthday candles 1 leaned forward, blew out sucked smoke in kissed coals in my mouth words cleaned on my tongue As we sang lips wet "time takes a cigarette" time takes a quarter in the slot and I play the juke box wipe years off my lips napkins a chalk board windshield wipers smoke sucked down my throat Iris Moon Benson is a senior studying landscape architecture and a student in the University's Kidd Tutorial creative writing program. fphahc whirh arp QnrinUp not-itockc uritK oil* in/1 r\n Recipes: By Natasha Chilingerian Pulse Reporter Well-prepared Middle Eastern food has a spe cial poignancy; the rice is buttery and covered by a crunchy golden crust, the hummus is laden by a smooth garlic and olive oil taste and the beef kebabs have a distinct zing. But locking in this cuisine's flavors can be tricky. Timing, temperatures, ingredients and care all play crucial roles in mastering the art of Middle Eastern recipes. Here, 1 will take you step by step through three of the most loved recipes from the Arab countries. First, you'll discover how to perfect tadeeg, a crispy oust that forms at the bottom of a pot of rice, for a creation of basmati with sliced potatoes. Next, I'll show you how to make real, ethnic hummus (you'll never buy the packaged kind again), perfect with warm pita bread. Finally, you'll learn how to take charge of delicious wrapped in flat chewy lavash bread and fresh greens. • Potato Rice with Tadeeg Basmati, the rice used in this recipe, is most notable for its aromatic, nut-like flavor and scent. It is small, yet long-grained, and is sold at most grocery stores. This recipe calls for turmeric, a spice which gives the rice a yellow color and an aromatic orange-ginger scent. T\irmeric can be found in the spice section of most grocery stores. 1 large russet potato 2 cups basmati rice 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 7 cups water dash of salt dash of pepper dash of garlic salt dash of turmeric 6 tablespoons butter Slice potato into thick slices across, leaving skin. In a heavy, nonstick pan, heat 2 table spoons olive oil and add the potato slices. i-— i--— rvrr one side only until the cooked side is golden. Set aside. In a large pot, bring lightly salted water to a boil. Add rice, bring back to a boil and low er heat to medium. Boil for about 5 minutes, then taste the rice — it should be soft on the outside but crunchy on the inside. Drain rice into a colander. Rinse rice with cold water. Dry off pot, pour 2 tablespoons olive oil on bottom of pot and place potatoes on top, uncooked side down. Add rice in three layers, adding 2 ta blespoons butter (cut into chunks) and a dash of turmeric after each layer. Sprinkle top of rice with garlic salt, pepper and turmeric. Place pa per towel sheets on top of pot, cover with lid and cook on low heat for 35-40 minutes. Rice is done when paper towel becomes wet. Trp: Adding extra-virgin olive oil at the bot tom of the pan is the most essential step for a crisp tadeeg, as is keeping the heat low to ensure the crust won't bum. • Hummus This dip from the Mediterranean and Mid dle East regions has become increasingly pwpuiai ixi nit uuucu vJlalCo WlUl pdLlvdgCU flavored varieties. This recipe guarantees an original homemade taste. Tahini, which gives hummus its toasted, nutty flavor, is a paste de rived from ground sesame seeds. You can buy tahini at high-end or specialty grocery stores. White pepper comes from ripe peppercorns which have been shelled of their skin (black pepper is the result of dried, unshelled pep percorns). Paprika, a spice made from ground and dried chili peppers, is used simply to add color. White pepper and paprika can be found at most grocery stores. 2 cans chickpeas (reserve 4 tablespoons chickpea juice) 6 cloves garlic 4 tablespoons tahini 1- 2 tablespoons lemon juice 2- 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil pinch of salt pinch of white pepper 1/4 cup black olives 1 bunch parsley pinch of paprika Empty drained chickpeas into a food piuctrssoi aim auu ‘i laDiespoons or cnicicpea juice from the cans. Blend with garlic, tahini, salt and pepper, adding lemon juice a little at a time until smooth. Scrape onto a platter, sprinkle with paprika, drizzle with olive oil and decorate with black olives and parsley. Serve with heated pita bread. Tip: Begin blending with 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and taste hummus before adding a second tablespoon. The flavor should have a slight citrus tone, but not be overpowered by the lemon. • Beef Kebabs A sprinkle of sumac is recommended here to add a real zip to kebabs. This spice comes from the fruit of a wild Mediterranean bush, and is often used as a souring agent in Arab cooking, as is lemon and vinegar. It can be found at spe cialty international or Middle Eastern grocery stores. Lavash is a soft, flat unleavened bread of Armenian origin which comes in the form of a large sheet most upscale and high-end grocery stores carry it. 2 pounds ground beef (15 percent fat) i onion legg pinch of salt pinch of pepper pinch of allspice 1 package lavash bread parsley, green onions, and sumac (to serve) 3-4 flat, 20-centimeter, stainless steel skewers Grate onion into the meat Add egg, salt pep per and allspice and knead together. Cover with wax paper and let stand for 30 minutes. Wet hands and mold meat into long, thin shapes around skewers. Grill about 5 minutes on each side Add a portion of the bread to the grill for the last 2 minutes to heat. Place kebabs on a platter on top of warmed bread. Serve as a sandwich with green onions, parsley and a sprinkling of sumac and wrapped in remain ing and warmed bread. Tip: The secret to a great kebab is making sure the meat stays put on the skewers. It can take some practice, but be sure to pack meat on good, and tight before taking it to the grill. Contact the Pulse reporter at natashachilingerian@dailyemerald.com. ay oari aurmoerg Pulse Columnist It's these places that th< real source of humanity ex ists. It's these dark and hu mid rooms, halls, bars anc garages that people will se< that it's still okay to b< alive. To know that th< sickness that persuade! people to do evil thing; with their minds and bod ies can be forgiven anc that inner peace will be found again. The horror; of our modem America ex ist elsewhere. This is 2 place of music. This is a hall of sound. These musicians who stand on their soapbox in a significant circle lay out the real truth. Music is the only truth. No matter what peo ple try and do, music will never lie. It will never mis lead. It will never die. It ex ists without us, amongst us, in every breeze, in every sunset, in the birds, in the ocean and in the moun tains. It is everywhere. It has a will of its own. The outside of this place will be in stark opposition. People around, frightening. Thoughts, terrible. Actions, disgusting. Killing, raping, stealing, hurting, shoving, lying. The Ten Command ments sacrificed on any giv en street comer, in any giv en home, at any given time, somewhere. But not here. This is a holy ground. Not in any religious sense, but a spiritual sense, if you will. A room, a simple room with people playing music that speaks in the universal tongue. Expressing pain, ex citement joy, anguish, sad ness, and pleasure. Talking in a way that any man, woman or child can hear and complete with their own minds and souls. It does not impose fear, dom, this jazz, this rock, this funk, this blues. This spilling from the instru ments. Tonight it is a saxo phone. Alongside that, it I could be drums and guitar. Across the stage maybe a bass and a violin. These : players, all of them, any of ( them, are helping us out 1 here. They are helping us become one mind, for maybe a short interval, a song duration, a tempo change, but there it is. Nothing mind-boggling. Nothing complex. This is simply music. Here I sit no longer pain ing myself over events that have taken place in the past. It's stupid to let any war, any drunk, any rainy day, any conflicting inter ests, or any one person make me feel any sort of mental distress. No, tonight I will choose to listen on my own. Away from every one, in the comer, if that is i what it takes, with a smile 1 on my face, no longer ac cepting judgment or dish ing it out, however hard that is. I can only place the jazz in my head and con vert it to energy to use to 1 gain strength from the ’ small things that may just 1 come to mean nothing. I'm trying to empty the sickness, expel the misery. I clear my head at these dark nightclubs of bleed ing jazz and roiling blues, | and these little things, the notes, they make me re member who 1 am. , Sometimes I forget that I i love nothing more com- < pletely than music until I hear it again as it fills me up and flows from me. It is a ! sacred and personal peace. And I will remain with it as , it will with me, until I die. The saxophone line is < avviiiiug in my iiCdU ... the guitar is coming in over the top, doubling the sax in fourths, the violin plays a tremolo pitch that is so eerie and bohemian, perfect as the drummer belts out a driving back bone of 7/8 time, behind that the bassist is grinding away with a bow, creating this lulling swing gypsy rhythm that has placed me near the fifth sun, the place I have come to recognize is die final resting place of the soul, the last stop before we forge into new material, that place that makes us re alize we still have a long way to go. And you can see it burn ing red now and you can feel the music lifting you up past the fence of your dumb awareness so that fou can get a glimpse of it, he music pushing you ligher and higher, until it las hit its peak, extended its ?rasp, and you are almost trying, because you know here will be a time when rou will no longer be able :o know this music, where ill earthly connections will >e lost, except possibly fad id strange memories, and rou will know this is true ight before you reach up ind touch the sun, for the ast and only time, as it falls indemeath like the last lotes of that powerfully xanscendent hypnotic nelody that these simple lumans have created, right here in front of you. Contact the Pulse columnist it carlsundberg@ lailyemerald.com. His opinions do not lecessarily represent those >f the Emerald, rhis piece is from in upcoming short itory/poetry collection, The Unjust Righteous ind the Idiot Savant.” Photo illustration and design by Killian Mcllroy
