Is this the industry's shot at differentiating shampoo and conditioner bottles? A packaging fad to make them appear more dynamic? Did the hair care big wigs agree to an arbitrary standard? Maybe conditioners tend to have a higher viscosity than shampoos and they took a page from the ketchup folks.

This brings me to another grip about the Dove packaging. When the bottles are designed to be top-opening, you should still be able to stably balance them on their tops to let the substance creep down, as we'd learned to do long ago when packages were made with right angles and perfect circles. Come on, Dove.

I'm going to sell french fries with ketchup inside of them.

Maybe I'll put "mayonnaise" inside the ones sold in Europe and "poutine" in the ones for all those French Canadians.

.

note: image from here.

double note: Stompin' Tom really does sing about all the things that truly matter.

triple note: I will bury all those "little package condiment people".

quadruple note: Money Making Scheme #1 and #2 and #3 are still scheming.

http://humor-blogs.com/

It is the first annual Iraqi refugee picnic here in Rochester.  There are 4 million Iraqis displaced, half within their ravaged nation and the other half wandering about the world.  The United States has agreed to receive 6,000.

Twenty are gathered here at Soldier's Field Veteran Memorial Park.  One came after Desert Storm and is proud of her long-standing status in America. The others came two months ago, two weeks ago.  They are trying to understand why everyone here is in their house by 9:00, so unlike Amman, so unlike home.  They are trying to get used to hamburgers and tikka, kosher pickles and their pickled artichokes, ketchup and kebabs, chocolate cake and hummus.  They are also getting used to each other.

In Rochester, Minnesota, the women wearing designer hijabs are laughing as they help make a chicken dinner with Iraqi Christians and American Catholics. Back in Iraq, the women wearing the trendy hijabs wouldn't associate with the girls wearing all black garb, and would certainly not associate with anyone who followed the Jew named Jesus.  Here, as they struggle to learn English and acquire their first American jobs, they are all banded together as so many immigrants before.

One is a professional upholsterer hoping to get a job as a concierge.  Another was the first-place winner of the national Lebanon competition for mosaic washbowls who can't speak English and is eager to do anything to make that first American dollar.  Some have lived for the past few years in Jordan, waiting for their opportunity to come to the U.S., others just left a country changed beyond recognition.  All are amazed at the rural America so unlike the movies. Each of them is intrigued by the fact that American high-school teachers seem to care, that classes are easier but more fun here, that the buses are new and the lawns are bigger.  This is America, immigrants coming to it thinking they've discovered something new and little realizing that they are making it new every day.

My friend Scott says that I am an anomaly because I like French (and other "foreign") food. He likes food that goes well with ketchup. We met up (with our spouses) on Saturday night and went Persimmon Cafe. I ate a falafel sandwich and Elli had a persimmon salad. Scott ate ketchup with a steak sandwich and Jen (his soon to be wife) ate a falafel sandwich, also. We stayed up way to late talking, but we all had a great time, parting ways shortly before eleven pm (which is late for me).

The next morning, Elli and I awoke early to catch a BART train to downtown Berkley to eat breakfast at La Note, which turned out to be a very enjoyable place. Much like a combination of Axios and Bluebird Cafe (both in Kansas City, MO), it was great. I ate gingerbread lemon pancakes with poached pears and blueberries on top. It was like eating the best cookie in the world. Elli ate a ham and cheese omelet that was very light and creamy. We sat in the shade on the back patio where it was quiet and the weather was nice. After breakfast, Elli took the BART back home which I went to Games of Berkley to play a game or two of Star Wars minis.

Spent the afternoon working on homework for the Academy of Art. You'd think will all the money I'm spending on education (and being a Grad Student) that I wouldn't have to do anything, but you'd be wrong. I still have a few rolls of film to get through and a few small papers to write.

Elli spent the afternoon working on a baby blanket for the homeless prenatal center.

Ingredienti che occorrono:

- crocchette di patate surgelate
- fagioli rossi in scatola
- olio di oliva
- ketchup

Strumenti che occorrono:

- forno
- frullatore

Preparazione:

- cuocere le crocchette in forno secondo le indicazioni riportate sulla confezione
- frullare i fagioli rossi con un cucchiaio d'olio sino a ottenere una salsa omogenea
- una volta cotte le patate unire in un piatto le crocchette assieme alla salsa di fagioli e al ketchup

Il piatto è pronto.

Now, when I was in college, friends would dip their french fries in a mixture of ketchup and mayo, which seemed gross, so I never tried it, but I guess it's kind of popular.  I like ketchup, and I like mayo...just not together!  Someone said they liked peanut butter and mayo on bread, and that grossed me out!  How is mayo so versatile?????

Do you like any food compinations that others may deem strange?????

SERVES 8
Prep Time: 30 min
Cook Time: 4 hr

• Salt and pepper
• 1 tablespoon garlic powder
• One 6- to 7-pound trimmed beef brisket, patted dry
• 2/3 cup beef broth
• 2/3 cup ketchup
• 1/3 cup apple cider vinegar
• 2 teaspoons hot pepper sauce

1. Soak 3 cups wood chips in water according to the package directions or for 1 hour. Meanwhile, mix together 2 1/2 teaspoons salt, 1 tablespoon pepper and the garlic powder; sprinkle all over the brisket.
2. Remove the racks from the grill. Arrange a large drip pan or disposable baking sheet on one side of the grill to catch the drippings. Drain the wood chips and transfer to a 2-foot-long sheet of heavyduty foil. Wrap tightly, creating a secure pouch, then poke 10 holes in the top to create a smoker box. Place the pouch on the side of the grill opposite the drippings pan. Set the racks in place, close the grill and preheat to 350°.
3. Arrange the brisket, fat side up, over the drip pan. Grill, covered, turning once, until lightly charred, about 30 minutes. Wrap with a large sheet of heavy-duty foil and return to the grill, fat side down. Lower the heat to 325° and grill until fork-tender, 2 1/2 to 3 hours. (Be careful when unwrapping the brisket, since there will be lots of juice inside the foil packet.).
4. In a medium saucepan, bring the beef broth, ketchup, vinegar and hot sauce to a boil. Lower the heat to medium and simmer until thickened, about 10 minutes.
5. Let the brisket rest, wrapped, for 30 minutes; carefully unwrap and pour the juices into a cup. Thinly slice the meat against the grain, arrange on a platter and pour the juices on top. Serve with the barbecue sauce on the side.

**Personal Review: No Review Yet**

SERVES 8
Prep Time: 30 min
Cook Time: 4 hr

• 1/2 cup plus 2 1/2 tablespoons brown sugar
• 2 1/2 tablespoons hot paprika
• 4 teaspoons onion powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons celery salt
• Salt and pepper
• 2 racks pork spareribs (about 7 pounds total)
• 2 cups ketchup
• 1/4 cup honey
• 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar

1. Soak 3 cups wood chips in water according to the package directions or for 1 hour. Meanwhile, combine the 2 1/2 tablespoons brown sugar, the paprika, onion powder, celery salt and 4 teaspoons each salt and pepper. Run a paring knife down the length of the bone side of each rack to split the skin, then season all over with the rub.
2. Remove the grill racks. Arrange a drip pan or disposable baking sheet on one side of the grill to catch drippings. Drain the wood chips and transfer to a 2-foot-long sheet of heavy-duty foil. Wrap tightly, creating a secure pouch, then poke 10 holes at the top to create a smoker box. Place the pouch on the other side of the grill, opposite the drippings pan. Set the grill racks into place, close the grill and preheat to 325°.
3. Working quickly, arrange the ribs, meaty side up, over the drip pan. Grill, covered, turning occasionally, until the meat shrinks away from the bone and is fork-tender, about 3 1/4 hours.
4. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine the remaining 1/2 cup brown sugar, the ketchup, honey and vinegar over mediumhigh heat and season with salt and pepper. Bring just to a boil, then lower the heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until smooth, about 5 minutes.
5. Brush the ribs all over with the sauce, arrange meaty side up and grill, turning once, at 200° for 20 minutes. Cut the racks into individual ribs and serve with the sauce on the side.

**Personal Review: No Review Yet**

Når vi er på McDonalds er det ketchupen som er hovedpunktet :) Hva er det med unger og ketchup? Av og til har jeg lurt på om det hadde vært nok å sette noen kopper med ketchup på bordet enn hamburger ;)

So in this dream, it was kinda chaotic, scenes were changing very fast and I was in some sort of hall and I was walking towards the stairs and I saw this man in a wheelchair. When I went up to him, and he turned around to greet me, lo and behold it was George Michael! Yes, in a wheelchair. What's up with that right?

I have no idea. We talked and it became apparent that we kinda knew each other and have met before which is weird. Coz before that dream, I have not been a fan or anything like that.

It was brief but who can forget GM in a wheelchair?? So after bumping into him..I went up the stairs and met LK (who is someone I know online but haven't met at this point, we finally met tho sometime later after this dream) and he gave me his number but he wrote it out on this huge piece of paper, the size of a drawing block paper. 

And that was the end of the dream. This is right up there with my other favourite dream of being chased by a bottle of ketchup who was wearing sunnies. I dreamt that in my early teens and the location where I was chased was near my old apartment block. That was a totally bizarre dream. I can't really recall anything else from that dream. However I suspected that it might be influenced by my brother, who, at the time, love to eat ketchup sandwiches. That is, he spread out ketchup on white bread and eat it just like that. Weird, I know.

Returning home with some fish and chips, my husband found me in the same position in front of the computer as I had been when he left, and not ready to eat as I should have been. Fearing the food would freeze over, (spring in Perth seems to be very backwards in coming forwards this year) he stuck it in the oven to keep warm until we were ready to eat.

All was fine until he came to take the fish out. Somehow, and we're not sure how, the paper it was wrapped up in caught on fire on its way out of the oven. As Gorden Ramsey (the air turned a lovely shade of blue) stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the burning tray out, our natural sense of urgency and lightening fast reactions stepped up a gear. We both stood there, our mouths open as our dinner combusted in front of us and did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Well when I say nothing, what I mean is we stood there watching the flames leap higher and higher and the paper burn faster and faster. Our daughter stood nearby, watching us and no doubt wondering why her parents were being so completely useless in such a potentially dangerous situation.

The reason for our obvious lack of fire drill skills and our indecisive nature was the dilemma that we were both silently mulling over. The bonfire before us was, after all, still our dinner. We were both starving hungry and more to the point reluctant to wave goodbye to $16 worth of fish. If we sprayed the tray with the fire extinguisher (the one that we bought in case such a fire should ever occur) then the fish would be rendered completely inedible. If we doused it with water, it would be soggy.

When we realised that we couldn't blow the fire out and it wasn't going to simmer down by itself, my husband carried the blazing fish out into the garage and stood next to my car. Or should I say rather he stood next to just under half a tank of petrol. Genius move. If we set fire to the garage we could also BBQ the entire contents of the house at the same time.

Eventually we moved away from the fuel tank and put the snapper, which was now on it's last fins, on the ground in front of us. At this point my common sense finally woke and my Girl Scout training kicked in. I wet a tea towel and threw it over the tray. Ruined the tea towel I have to say, but a small price to pay I suppose.

Now most people would probably have binned the burnt offering and thrown out the remains, smouldering fishy funeral pyre and all. Not us. Oh no. We picked off the worst of the burnt paper, whipped the chips out of the oven and sat down to eat.

Funnily enough I'd lost the edge off my appetite by this time, which was just as well. I'd like to say that aside from the overpowering whiff of ashes and the fairly unpleasant carcinogenic taste that it wasn't too bad, but I'd be lying. It was absolutely disgusting. Ketchup, it seems can only do so much to mask charcoal. Worst of all by this stage, despite it's roasting the fish was stone bloody cold and the chips were soggy.

So what did I learn from this? Well never to put hunger before a house fire for one, and I suppose never to let small children, pets or husbands loose when armed with an oven mitt.

Interestingly enough and actually fairly worrying now I come to think of it, the smoke detector never went off. Normally if I toast bread on any setting higher than level 2 it bursts my ear drums, yet it failed to so much as beep with a greasy flaming fish flam-baying less than 3 feet away. Hmmmmm. I really must check that battery....

I should add (otherwise I will never be cooked for again) that despite nearly burning down the house, my lovely husband is normally a budding Jamie Oliver. Only better looking..

: : : : : : : : : : :

McDonald's -god love McDonald's! I often hear ;"You only eat McDonald's!" in which I reply with; "But that's because that's only place that is open late in Stockholm!"

This is true. It is the only place where you can get food late at night. McDonald's in the city centre of Stockholm. Filled with poor students that just came out from the pub and junkies that have nowhere to keep themselves warm.

One thing that struck me in Ireland was that you can not have as much ketchup as you want in fast food places.  They give you ketchup when you order the food, but they are also very stingy about it. You get one small portion each and if you ask for more it will cost you 20 cents. Usually they will give you more and not everyone asks for money but once in a while you get a person that will make you pay for another bit of ketchup. What is the deal with that? Why is ketchup not Free ? Do they think that someone will live on merely ketchup then? And even if one person takes too much will it bankrupt McDonald's in any form of way? People do not go there for ketchup, they go there for the hamburgers, atleast last time I checked. Every time I walk in to a McDonald's I miss Sweden. I do not understand that I pay money and then get told that I cannot have as much of ketchup as I want for my fries.

I think that it is insane that Ireland, the country where you can get almost any fast food you want, delivered to your door, the country where a lot of people live off of Chinese take-away make me pay for ketchup. I also think that it is hilarious that McDonald's that is a multimillionaire food chain makes people pay for their ketchup.

I love Ireland but I'm sorry when it comes to ketchup it is one-nill to Sweden. We might not have food places open late, but in the only place that actually is open we atleast get Free amount of ketchup and we even get it in little white cupholders! Now that's worth more than a little something in my book.

I finally found some Silver Swan brand Soy Sauce at Wally World.  They've had Kikoman in stock, but that's far too salty for everday use (perfect for dipping yum-cha though).  And the Asian Grocery Store had ridicously over-priced their sauces.  So I'm finally the owner of Golden Shell Awardee soy sauce.  I know, you must be green with envy.

I also bought some hummus this week.

A little warning, you should avoid the Blue Moose Roasted Red Pepper Hummus.  #1, the first package I grabbed had a dollap of mold on the top, and #2, the flavor is very mild.  I know that hummus has a very mild flavor as is, but if your going to prominently display Roasted Red Pepper, it should at least taste like that a bit, and not just have a rosy hue.

And I really hope that I'm able to finish all this ketchup by September 2009. Perhaps shopping at work is not always advantageous.

El crédito de esta se foto es de Manuel, un joven buen amigo.

Having never been the kind of girl that 'gets around', I can recall very few (if any) experiences in which I awoke in a strange and repugnant place early, quietly packed up my things, and burst through the door into the cold morning air feeling as though I'd just pulled off a prison break. This was such a morning, and I don't think I would've felt more relieved had I just swam to shore from Alcatraz.

I've never slept in a homeless shelter, but now I kind of feel like I can say I have – only I paid good money for the experience. Old men continued to pile in throughout the night (one arrived at 2am, two more at 3am), each adding their own brand of phlegmy cough, chainsaw snore, urine-soaked smell, and moaning – moaning like you might imagine in a medieval dungeon – to the terrible symphony. To my own utter amazement, I managed to think myself asleep by practicing some relaxation techniques I know from hypnosis. Admittedly, I was still awoken every couple hours and it would always take another 45 minutes to work through the range of emotions (horror, disgust, fear, misery, despair, etc.) and fall back asleep again.

It was also incredibly cold, which didn't help. The hostel had no heat (of course not. It wouldn't qualify as the single worst lodging on earth if it provided any kind of human comfort), and I don't remember being so cold in the night except for a couple times I went camping without proper equipment. I used to have this 1971 Volkswagen Westfalia and one time my boyfriend at the time and I went to a Native American ceremony up on Orcas Island in the San Juans. After a really long, strange, nauseating 18-hour 'ceremony' in a smoky teepee (the fire wasn't set up right, apparently), we stumbled back to the van to sleep. I woke up many hours later and my hair had frozen. Condensation had built up in the van from our breathing and gotten in my hair and it was like a solid block of ice in some places. This hostel was not quite, but almost that cold. And louder.

Anyway, when I woke up I saw that one of the guys had opened the windows. It was 6 Celsius out last night (about 40 degrees for those of us, such as myself, that know all but nothing of the metric and Celsius systems. I know that 40 celcius is over 100 and the Europeans consider that the same as melting in hell and 0 is freezing. Does anyone know: Why do we still use all those antiquated systems in the U.S. - ounces, miles, degrees?? Because we're stubborn?). Anyway, it was damn cold out there, but someone opened a window anyway. It sounded to me like some of those guys had emphysema or at least tuberculosis, but it's their funeral, I guess.

The worst of it – and I hesitate to mention this because the emotional scarring is still quite raw – was something I saw. For those of you easily nauseated, you may want to skip ahead. Okay, last night I left the room and went into one of the bathrooms to wash up, brush my teeth, and change into pajamas. At the time, the two men I originally mentioned (down and out Dennis Hopper and his friend) were not on the premises, It was my goal to get to bed before they returned. I had heard Dennis Hopper wheezing on the couch earlier (while he was awake), and figured we were in for a loud night.

Anyway, the door to the room (a room for ten people, despite the fact that my reservation was for the four-person room, and I'd paid extra for that) was ajar, and I walked in to find the two men standing there in black briefs (the cousin of tighty whiteys – tacky blackies?). and with obvious boners. As if just seeing them naked but for their underwear wasn't bad enough.

After I got over the relief that witnessing such a horror hadn't immediately turned me to stone, I realized they were talking to me in German and giggling like schoolgirls. I averted my eyes in what was intended to be a VERY obvious “I am so disgusted it is all I can do not to throw up” kind of way, put my toiletries in my bag, and climbed up to my bed (in a first, I moved myself to an upper bunk. I figured it would be harder to mess with me – the only woman in the whole joint besides the very heavyset and unfriendly Lithuanian girl in charge, now locked safely in her private heated room).

Okay, so do you ever have nightmares where something bad is happening and you cannot scream? Someone has come up on you in the stairwell of the hotel (this was a common one for me when I used to travel a lot for business, I would always take the stairs, and I guess on some level I was always a little afraid that something bad could come of that?) and you know you have one chance to alert someone else before this goes bad, but you can't make a sound? This is, of course, because your body paralyzes you while you're asleep so that you don't act out your dreams and hurt yourself.

Anyway, last night I dreamed that those two horrible old black underwear boner men were trying to molest me. One of them was reaching under my blanket and the other was climbing up the stairs to the bunk, and I tried and tried to scream and nothing would come out, and I was so disgusted and horrified and violently opposed to this that I put out one final effort and let out a blood curdling scream IN REAL LIFE. I swear to God. I screamed like I was being murdered at around 4am in a hostel bedroom because I'd seen two sleazy old men in their underwear five hours earlier.

I was asked in about six different languages if I was okay. Thankfully, I was. Moments later, the snoring and hacking and nose blowing and moaning recommenced.

So I'm out of there now, and slowly calming down and feeling better. There are some fun British people on the bus singing, “Riga, Latvia” to the 'Viva Las Vegas' tune. It's a rare and pleasant treat to be in an English-speaking majority (and a bunch with such sly senses of humor), and I'm relishing it.

When we got on, the local newspaper (Bakaru ekspresas) was in all of our seats, and the woman across the aisle from me was leafing through it. One of her friends asked what she was doing, and she replied, “I'm catching up on a bit of the local news. I'm looking at the pictures, if you must know.” Then she flipped to the back page, “Look, the stars! Diane, I'll read them to you!” Apparently my sign, Libra, is called “Svarstykles” in Lithuanian. I recognize one word in the last sentence: “Taclau vakaras zada romantikos.” I'm assuming that means, “You are not feeling the least bit romantic” or maybe, “You have just suffered unspeakable torment and may never experience romantic feelings again.” Either way.

As for Lithuania itself:

• They have a real thing for miniature Yorkshire Terriers. It's like the national dog or something. Every third person has one – in a basket on their arm, trailing them in the grocery store, under the seat on the plane, perched on their arm like a parrot. If only I could've borrowed one for a few days, I could've really “gone native.”
• The ketchup obsession continues. Latvians have it too. I've started collecting photographic proof.

• I went to the “Curonian spit” (the peninsula of land between Klaipeda and the Baltic Sea, where they bandy about the word 'spit' as if it's a common term we use for land). The area is famous for the amber that washes up on the shores and the extensive sand dunes along the coast. Apparently it's a big vacation spot in the summer. However, as you can see, it's vacant come winter...uhhhhh, September.
• I stand by my earlier post – friendly these folks are not. However, I've given it some thought and I offer them an out: For the last 225 years, the Baltic countries (Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia) have suffered greatly at the hands of Russia and Prussia (Germany). As near as I can tell, those who weren't rounded up and killed, rounded up and put into concentration camps (and then killed?), rounded up and sent to Siberia, or rounded up and put in Russian prisons (and then killed?) still didn't have it very good. I have kind of a mental image of some guy toiling on his farm and a truck comes by and someone screams out “You are Russian now!” and then fifteen years later they come back, “You are Lithuanian again!” and then ten years later, “You are German now!” and then again, “Lithuanian!” “Russian!” “Lithuanian!”

All this with a lot of bloodshed and suffering and loss and they're kind of a people that have hardened their hearts. They see any obvious signs of outsiderness, and they don't like it. Sometimes they're a little extreme in their reaction - I met a couple guys from Hong Kong who were chased down the street with people screaming at them in Riga. (They could only figure it was because they were Asian.), but we'll give these battered souls a couple generations to (hopefully) soften and come around.

Eastern Europe is a constant reminder of the worst of humanity (Hitler, concentration camps, the KGB, Siberia, communism, the Holocaust, etc.), and I can only hope that what I take away from all this horror could somehow contribute something good back to the world.

Case in point: I walked around the Pokrov Cemetery in Riga today, and there was a group grave for about a dozen orphans who died because the Nazis drained all their blood. I feel sad because the really nice guys from Hong Kong (who looked out for me last night in the weird hostel turned homeless shelter situation) were made to feel so terrible by people who probably didn't realize how racist and thoughtless they were being. I don't even know how to process people torturing children.

This I suppose, is both a good and bad of travel : Getting up close and personal with horrible things you kind of didn't want to know and the related desire to make a true positive difference in the world.

But anyways, they're really simple to make, so you should try it! Get the full recipe after the jump.

Homemade French Fries (from e-How.com)

Here's what you will need to make it:

• 4 potatoes (duh)
• cooking oil

Here's what you have to do:

1. First, heat (the highest your stove will go) a tremendously frightening amount of oil in your biggest pot. Literally, the whole bottle of Wesson. Don't freak--deep frying isn't the heinous, artery-clogging affair everyone thinks it is. After you've fried your crispy fries, most of the oil will remain in the pot and you can pour it back into its original container (once cooled--duh) for the next round of these blue-ribbon frittes.

Wash about four large russet potatoes and slice them into thinnish, lengthwise slices. Then slice THOSE ovals lengthwise into french-fryish sticks. If you're awesome, you'll trust me when I tell you to leave the skins on. If you're not, you'll peel them and have an inferior fry--your choice. 

Prepare a platter with plenty of paper towels for de-greasing and cooling after extracting. 

4. Your perfect fry will be crisped in separate batches. Each batch shouldn't include any overlapping fries--the more you deposit into your oil-boiling pot, the more the temperature drops and you will be left with an oily, soggy fry--not the heavenly "crisp on the outside, mealy on the inside" french-fry of your wildest dreams.

5. Once you see your fries turn a golden color with a deep caramel-colored edge, it's time for them to cool on their paper-towel covered platter. It's best if you have a wide, slotted metal spoon of some kind when you extract them from the pot. Tongs will work in a pinch, too.

6. Salt your first layer with a thick, kosher salt and let sit--repeat this step with every remaining layer. In the meantime, DON'T put in a warm oven or they'll become soggy and not worth eating. Repeat this process until every spud is crisped, cooked and salted and then HAOWMP them into your open maw by the fistful.

View the complete recipe on e-How's site.

2008 September 14

Originally uploaded by chado1982

A meal that I won't be having very often from now on. Oh pizza, I will miss you and your cheesy goodness...

SERVES 4
Prep Time: 10 min
Cook Time: 4 min

• 1 1/2 pounds asparagus, quartered crosswise on an angle
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
• Salt and pepper
• 2 tablespoons finely chopped chives
• 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice, plus lemon wedges for serving
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ketchup
• One 8-ounce container lump crab, picked through

1. Rinse the asparagus in a colander; leave wet. In a medium nonstick skillet, add the olive oil and asparagus and cook over medium heat until crisp-tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.
2. In a medium bowl, stir together the chives, mayonnaise, lemon juice and ketchup. Add the crab and toss gently to coat. Season with pepper.
3. Divide the asparagus among 4 plates and top with a mound of the crab mixture. Serve with the lemon wedges.

**Personal Review: No Review Yet** 

Por la mañana habíamos tratado infructuosamente de pescar

Ernesto Che Guevara, Diarios de motocicleta

Che Guevara se levantó con el mismo desayuno de todas las semanas ante sí. Huntó el donut de mermelada y después lo mojó en la leche.

Che Guevara se pasó en el retrete peinándose más de media hora, reventó un grano y casi le tumba el retroceso. Por eso llegó tarde a su trabajo. Su jefe le puso cara a la pared y le redujo el sueldo a la mitad. ¡A partir de ahora nada de casco en las tareas peligrosas!.

Che Guevara habla con sus compañeros de que el estado debería incentivar la pequeña y mediana empresa y de que hay demasiados negros por las calles. Che Guevara alega que tiene que defecar para poder seguir peinándose.

Che Guevara coge de vuelta su coche, sintoniza Kiss FM a todo volumen y sigue el compás golpeando el volante.

Che Guevara llega a casa y le pone ketchup al pescado. En el informativo, el presentador comenta la noticia: 766 muertos en catástrofe natural, por fortuna sólo debemos lamentar 5 víctimas españolas.

El hijo del Che Guevara no progresa en el colegio. Necesita más libros y más cuadernos.

Che Guevara sale de compras con su mujer. Precisan urgentemente de una alfombrilla para el baño. Además compran dos sueters, bufandas, un abrelatas de diseño, un mantel, almohadones estampados para el sofá, velas perfumadas y otro sofá, que llegará en camión dentro de una semana.

Che Guevara y esposa cenan en un restaurante con olor a tabaco y ambientador.

Che Guevara se pone su pijama de marca, se hace mil fotos, todas en la misma pose, así como mirando a la virgen, y se acuesta.

Makes: 8 servings
Cook: 8 minutes
Prep: 15 minutes

• 8 ounces elbow macaroni, or other pasta shape
• 1/2 cup light mayonnaise
• 2 tablespoons ketchup
• 1 tablespoon sweet pickle relish
• 1/2 to 1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
• 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
• 1/8 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup grape tomatoes, halved
• 3 stalks celery, trimmed and sliced (1 cup)
• 2 large carrots, trimmed, peeled and grated (about 1 cup)
• 4 ounces pepper-Jack cheese, cut into 1/4-inch pieces
• 1/2 of a sweet green pepper, seeded and chopped

1. Heat a medium-size pot of lightly salted water to boiling. Add macaroni and cook for 7 minutes or until desired tenderness. Drain and rinse with cool water to halt cooking.
2. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together mayonnaise, ketchup, pickle relish, hot sauce, pepper and salt.
3. Transfer drained pasta to a serving bowl. Add tomatoes, celery, carrots, cheese, green pepper and slightly more than half of the mayonnaise mixture. Stir gently to combine and coat all ingredients with dressing. Refrigerate until serving. Just before serving, stir in remaining dressing.

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This time of year – when the last of the summer tomatoes are still around and apple season is in swing – is time to make this ketchup. Sweet and zingy, it is the perfect accompaniment to grilled beef or hamburgers, sharp English Cheddars and lemony goat’s cheeses.

(This recipe makes one large jar.)

Ingredients
1 tbsp olive oil
5 red onions, peeled and roughly chopped
1kg apples
2.5kg ripe tomatoes
2 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
400g caster sugar
500ml red wine vinegar
10 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
3 bay leaves
12 juniper berries
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method
Place a preserving pan or large heavy-based saucepan on a low heat and add the olive oil. When it is warm, tip in the onions and sweat gently for 10 minutes until soft and translucent. Meanwhile, core and roughly chop (but do not peel) the apples and tomatoes.

Add the garlic to the pan and sweat for a minute, then add the apples and tomatoes. Stir in the sugar and red-wine vinegar. Tie the spices, bay leaves and juniper berries in a piece of muslin and drop into the pan.

Stir the mixture to combine all the ingredients, then turn the heat to low and cook gently for one and a half hours, stirring occasionally to make sure that the mixture doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.

The ketchup is ready when it has cooked right down to a glossy, pulpy sauce. At this stage, add a generous pinch of salt and a few grindings of pepper, to taste.

Allow to cool, then spoon into one large or two small, sterilized jars. Seal and store in a cool, dark place. Use within a few months and keep in the fridge once opened.

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