Of course, you know who it is, and what they are selling, so there’s no need to tell you. Not being a DITA developer (I know, I’m the last to jump on that wagon), I won’t be able to offer much in either the “zOMG we should be excited !!11eleventy!” or “puh-leeze, try again” camps until we actually get to see and play with a product.

So, in short, I’m not sure what this post is actually about. Is a corporation hoping that I market for them? Is it viral marketing if I don’t publish who it is? Is a post a post if it doesn’t contain any useful information or insight at all?

Therefore, here’s a cookie recipe:

White chocolate macadamia nut cookies
2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup light brown sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
8 ounces (1 1/2 cups) white chocolate baking squares, cut into small chunks, or white baking chips
3/4 cup roughly chopped, unsalted, toasted macadamia nuts

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a mixing bowl.

Beat the butter in a large mixing bowl until fluffy. Add the brown sugar and mix together until smooth.

Add the egg and vanilla. Blend in the flour mixture in 3 stages and stir in the white chocolate and the nuts.

Scoop out walnut-sized mounds of the cookie dough and place on a cookie sheet, leaving 2-inches between the mounds. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, until the cookies are golden.

Remove the cookie sheet from the oven and transfer the cookies to cooling racks. Eat while thinking of DITA-related press releases and odd websites.

Over a recent weekend, my wife and I opened our home to an elderly relative of hers. The lovely lady, carrying the superior genes from my wife’s side of our union, enjoyed a few days of respite in our home.

Eager to prove I wasn’t totally useless, I made a pot full of theMonkey’s famous Red Sauce. I may not do many things well, but I can cook a good red sauce. The trick is to dice a half-pound of prosciutto so thin that it disintegrates into the bubbling, steamy tomato flesh, and then… well, I’d go on, but this isn’t a story about pasta sauce. I just thought that it was information that you might need to know later in the story.

One evening, expecting a large influx of relatives coming to visit, I looked at the rather large remainder of the sauce, resting quite comfortably in the fridge, the flavors getting better acquainted with every passing hour. Then inspiration struck. You know, I thought, the only thing that separates red sauce from salsa is cilantro, spicy peppers, and some sugar. Everyone likes salsa. Yes. I shall make salsa. I shall tread to the local grocer, and acquire the necessary items. I shall tell the grocer, “Excuse me sir, but I need some cilantro. And some spicy peppers.” What a captial idea! Which is exactly what I did.

At this point, dear readers, the habaneros enter into our story.

Or, as I shall refer to them from now on: Satan’s Insanity Peppers.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, all the possible anecdotes that could arise from someone working with hot peppers. But understand: no matter what you’re thinking about, no matter how terrible your imagination, no matter how many horror movies you’ve seen, nothing can prepare you for some of the details you’re about to encounter.

Trust me, it’s worse than you can possibly imagine.

I made two batches, a “mild” batch, containing a single pepper, for the children and the elderly. A second batch included five peppers, and was off limits for anyone with a history of medical and/or gastrointestinal problems. In order to evenly disperse the demon flesh into the sauce, I had to dice it extremely fine, and gently add it to the sauce using a titanium rod and a welder’s mask. (Safety first, you know.)

First off, the salsa was a hit. The mild was quite tasty, and the hot, while spicy, wasn’t too uncomfortable. Compliments abounded. The chef was quite pleased. This was the highlight of the evening.

The evening’s descent from the Everest-like summit of jocularity into the fiery Death Valley-like misery began when my sister-in-law asked for an adult beverage. I grabbed a delightfully hoppy Ale from the fridge, popped the cap off, and passed it to her. Seconds later, I could see that she was crying. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine… but there’s something nearby that’s burning my eyes and throat,” she said, sniffing hard to keep her sinuses from emptying on the floor.

Naturally, I suspected the salsa. “Did you have some of the salsa? Did you eat from the bowl marked with the skull-and-crossbones?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “I haven’t eaten anything.”

Moments later we had tracked down the source of the foul vapor. It turns out that I still had the juice and oil from the habaneros all over my fingertips. I had dutifully washed my hands, but apparently this was stubborn stuff. Even though it had been hours since I processed the peppers, simply handling the bottle for a few seconds was enough to transfer enough oil from my fingertips to her lips and nasal cavity.

For most of you, this would have been a warning flag. But I never claimed I was a smart man.

I apologized profusely, and headed for the sink for another good hand scrubbing. Ah, that should do it. I must have not done a very good job last time, I thought. Now, that beer looked good. I think I’ll get one for myself.

The evening progressed. Family members visited. People commisserated. Food was eaten, drinks were drunk. After a beer or two, I had the same urge that any normal person has, and excused myself. After all, we only rent beer, eh? Off I went.

Here is where I must be delicate, yet somehow specific. I, uh, didn’t do anything “out of the ordinary” as I relieved myself. Nothing unusual. You men will understand what I mean. You stand, you aim, you whistle a bit. Perhaps you stare at the ceiling, testing the quality of your aim by the sound it makes when it hits the water (loud=good & down the middle; silent=hitting the side; puddling=there’s a mess to clean up). Or, maybe you prefer to aim the stream from the porcelain to the middle and back again, going in circles, creating and destroying bubble clusters. (That’s always lots of fun.) When finished, of course, there’s the requisite Body Bounce, then the Leg Twitch move, which is quickly followed by the extremely-important Shake Maneuver. Afterwards, there’s the Pack & Stow, and finally, the cautious, deliberate Zippering.

It is now that I will pause to point out that the anecdote regarding the habanero oil on the neck of my sister-in-law’s beer bottle was naught but foreshadowing in this story.

I washed up (natch), then returned to my social responsibilities. Sitting down on a couch, I engaged an in-law in a deep conversation, the topic of which I have no recollection. What I do remember was staring into her eyes as she was speaking, and feeling a slight, warm sensation. A tingle, as it were. Not a comfortable feeling, but a not entirely unpleasant one either. Hmmm…, I thought. What’s this all about?

The warmth turned into a spark, the spark into a small flame, the flame into a bonfire, the bonfire into a conflagration. Within 60 seconds, there was a forest fire in my shorts. The pain quickly ramped up to what I can only define as “childbirth level.” If you were birthing Satan’s fiery child, that is.

All the while, I sat as rigid as a statue, my eyes open wide. The woman speaking to me sounded like the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons. “Mmm-hmm,” was all that I could occasionally get out. A bead of sweat appeared on my forehead, and trickled down into my eye, stinging it. I didn’t wipe it away. Images flashed through my head. Here, bubbling lava. Next, I flashed back to a scene from my childhood: the triple-A baseball club, the peanuts vendor shouting “get yer hot nuts here!!” The hot desert rescue scene from Lawrence of Arabia popped into my head, which was followed by what I assumed was imagery from World War II era newsreels about Dresden.

“Wouldyouexcuseme?” I stammered out and made a beeline to the bathroom, where I spent a half hour scrubbing my privates with the ferocity of a surgical intern, all to no avail. I had handled myself with fingertips covered in habanero oil. Game over.

I tried everything. I washed. I bathed in cold water, then hot. I tried lotions. I made very good friends with a bag of frozen peas. But in the end, there was nothing to do but tough it out. And dance. And scream into a pillow. And go for a run. After a few hours, I noticed the pain starting to subside, and I felt disappointed that I was going to live after all. I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

I woke up the next morning older, wiser, and with a slightly funny walk. I also have a new mission in life: to convince as many of my gender as possible to not make the same mistake as I. Hence, this post.

You can finish the song, can’t you?

The best part of the beer, though, is its fantastic head. Boddington bills itself as the “Cream of Manchester,” and its creamy heads are the reason why.

Beer sold in cans can’t produce the head that you get in a mug that’s been drawn from a tap at your favorite watering hole. That’s because heads produced by CO2 fizzle quickly (think Diet Coke, here). But Boddington’s (along with a few other British beers) include the “Draughtflow System,” an engineering marvel which ensures that one has a proper British head for his beer.

Mmm… look at that firm head. This picture was taken several minutes after pouring, and you could still float a quarter 20 pence coin on it if you wanted to.

I was curious to see how this “Draughtflow System” works, so I cut the can apart.

Rattling around inside the can was a plastic “widget.”

The widget is a nitrogen-infused plastic bubble that floats inside the pressurized can. When the can is opened, the CO2 inside the ale is released, the pressure inside the can drops, and the widget releases its nitrogen in a small explosion. And it turns out that CO2 + nitrogen makes a firm, creamy, silky head; which aerates the ale to perfection. And while CO2 bubbles are going up in your glass, the nitrogen bubbles are going down. Just like when your barkeep pulls a fresh mug for you.

Turns out you can buy Boddy’s here in the States. I definitely recommend it, if not for the taste factor, at least for the gimmick factor the widget will give you. Think of how cool you’ll sound at your next football party, explaining the concepts of pressurized nitrogen and CO2 to a wowed audience.

It’s an Ale, so serve it warm, say around room temperature (”British room temp,” that is, where “warm” = ~65 degrees).

You engineering geeks might be interested in the widget’s patent.

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It has been thirty years since California established itself as an authentic wine region. The “Judgment of Paris,” as the event was nicknamed, occurred when a French wine merchant organized a blind wine tasting that included the most prestigious oenophiles in the world. When the results of the experts’ ratings were revealed, they were quite shocked to learn they had rated California wines at the top of the list, and placed their own beloved French wines at the bottom.

Yesterday, the tasting was re-enacted in honor of the 30th anniversary of the event. American, British, and French experts once again subjected themselves to a blind tasting, to see if this shocking defeat could be reversed.

It wasn’t. California won again.

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I have developed a fond relationship with a Scottish friend. A healthy relationship, mind you, and he’s quite a friendly spirit. We only visit once in a while, usually at the end of a week or at a nice restaurant. My grandfather, the one with the great sense of humor — he refers to his “bum ear” as oxymoronic — has known this Scot his entire life.

Nowadays, the three of us often get together, but I remember the first time I had the pleasure of partaking of my single friend’s company. Actually, he picked me up at a bar.

Nothing keeps you more humble than having to clean the floors and bathrooms of a bar for a living. One frigid night in mid-winter, I set out to clean such an establishment. It was the coldest night of the year, one of those nights when the car defroster surrenders, and the steam from your hissing nostrils coats the windshield in front of you with a thin, pale ice.

I arrived shortly after the last of the bar employees had left. For the first time in my life, I needed a drink. Not wanted, but needed. I had never stolen liquor before, but I desperately needed something to thaw my now-glacial blood.

My gaze fell upon a display of single malt Scotch bottles, five in a row, neatly placed in a wooden rack. All had notes written underneath them in etched brass plating. “Pure heathery softness from the glens,” quoted one. Another said something about “sharp hints of briny taste from the coast.” Whatever, I thought. Whisky is whisky.

One of the bottles had five stars etched in its brass plate. I don’t remember its name. I quickly selected the whisky and poured a modest amount into a clean shot glass that I had found beside the ice machine.

Even before it hit my lips, a strong stench of burnt wood hit my nose. Bravely, I allowed a significant amount to pass over the lip of the glass and into my mouth. Sweet, tangy fire danced around my palate for a few moments; then I swallowed. I remember actually feeling the spirit hit my stomach, and it was at that point that the fire blazed. I didn’t breathe. The most amazing wave was washing over me, a warm wave, rippling outwards from my gut, moving up and down and out and away. It ended at my fingertips, which tingled as if heated from within. Finally, I exhaled—a deep, long, breath that tasted like the campfire smoke I inhaled thousands of times as a boy. While this was happening, I was hypnotically staring into the empty shot glass, my senses overloaded.

I realized that I wasn’t cold any longer. I cleaned the floors while whistling, and even spent an extra twenty minutes spray-buffing to pay for my crime.

From time to time, my grandfather will visit, and I will uncork a bottle and turn his usual Manhattans into Rob Roys and stand beside him, sipping it neat. The names of the single malts lend themselves to conversation, and sometimes we make up limericks that have to do with the particular single malt of which we are partaking.

A lively young frog with Glenlivet
Swore that a try he would give it.
He imbibed from the still
With great gusto, until
The most he could utter was, “Cribbit.”

These are very special moments for the two of us, and I feel privileged to have the attention of the family patriarch. We drink standing, never sitting, and discuss science and mathematics and politics and whatever else comes to mind.

Old Walt was a drunk with no class,
Who drank single malt from an old glass.
He downed his Dalwhinnie
Till he felt like a ninny
And would sometimes fall on his (loss of dignity).

Eventually, my PapaStan will be gone, and I will think of him whenever I sip the nectar from Scotland. Already his age shakes his hands so badly I often have to pour it for him. But until then, when I drink it will remind me of one frigid night, and how I was warmed.

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