This is very exciting for me, because although my mother took me there more than a couple times when I was small, I have no memory of having ever been to New Orleans. I’m very happy to be remedying this omission in my Stateside travels.

Best yet: because I am an excellent husband, I’m staying in New Orleans a couple extra days beyond the conference so that The Wife can come out on Saturday to join me for some of those famous “good times”.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Depending on how things go, I might actually report back with details of what we ate and what we drank and what we saw. Or maybe not.

1. Ride my motorcycle
2. Start building bookcases
3. Hang out with friends
4. Go to the Monday CrossFit workout

Things I did do this holiday weekend:

1. Finished installing the new baseboard
2. Made lavender simple syrup
3. Took the wife out for a lovely lunch at Salt
4. Cleaned up the garage just a tiny bit
5. Cooked a bunch so we’ll have lots of easy leftovers
6. Went to the Saturday CrossFit workout and still can’t walk straight

I call that a win overall.

Posted via email from Jake Sutton’s posterous

(Also, don’t bother reading this if you don’t like cussing, because I feel like cussing. A lot.)

With that out of the way, here’s how you get this shit done:

1. Get a bag of goat bones. (I ordered a half a fucking goat so it came with a package of trimmed bones and shit. That’s fucking awesome.)
2. Roast the shit out of those bones. (Like 400 degrees F or even 450. Flip the cocksuckers every once in a while, too.)
3. Turn on the broiler for a bit just to really show those bones who’s the fucking boss.
4. Get a big-ass pot on the motherfucking stove.
5. Throw in some onion chunks, a couple of garlic cloves (bash the shit out of them first), some celery, and some bell peppers. Or whatever the fuck you want, I don’t fucking care.
6. Saute that shit on a hot fucking burner. You want to build up a serious goddamn fonde.
7. Add some motherfucking spices and shit. (Lots of salt, pepper, bay leaves, thyme, herbs de Provence, whatever the fuck.)
8. Put the fucking bones in the fucking pot(s).
9. Add a bunch of water to that shit.
10. Bring it to a goddamned boil. It’s gonna look like this — you might get a fucking hard-on, so be careful.
11. Turn it the fuck down and put a fucking lid on it.
12. Leave it the fuck a lone for a good long while.
13. Strain out all the dead shit and try to skim most of the fucking fat off.
14. Ta-da. You make some stock that’ll make your mom want to punch your dick.

Luckily for me, I was recently “promoted” to the title of Chief Mixology Officer at work. We also now host a monthly gathering of geeks with drinks known as Ruby on Beer, so I thought I’d sneak something other than beer to the next party. Since I’m not the type to fly blind, I took the opportunity last Friday to make a batch of Fish House Punch for the office, just to try things out.

The results were definitely positive. Some folks were big, big fans, but I thought the flavors needed some rounding out. There were some sharp lemon notes and a big pop of sweet that required some smoothing.

Since the next Ruby on Beer is this Thursday, I felt like I needed some more practice. Today I started into making something when I realized I didn’t have any brandy or cognac in the house (I’m generally not a big fan, so no surprise, really.). Rather than make a run out to the packy to pick some up, I figured I’d just make something up.

I broke a few “rules” by using bourbon in my mixture, but it turns out I’m pretty good at making stuff up. ;^)

Punchin’ Judy

• For the oleo saccharum, peel four lemons and muddle the rinds in a cup of small crystal raw sugar.
• Let the lemon peels sit in the sugar for at least half an hour. The sugar will draw out the oils in the rind.
• Add the following to the oleo saccharum:
  • 1 cup lemon juice
  • 1/2 cup orange juice
  • 2 oz orange liqueur (Cointreau, Triple Sec, etc.)
  • 2 cups dark spiced rum (I used Kraken)
  • 2 cups bourbon (I went with Jim Beam)
  • 4 cups black tea steeped medium-strong
• Remove the lemon rinds and let sit in the fridge for at least an hour or two (I failed at this step)
• Serve with a big brick of ice and lemon wheels floating in it

This punch is delightfully easy to drink. Perhaps also dangerously easy to drink, because it definitely packs a wallop!

Pile it all into a shaker and shake until the cider ice cubes, which are soft, completely disintegrate.
Poor into chilled cocktail glass.

I’m sure I’ll post more about it later, but if it’s your thing, you might want to follow the #mountainrb hashtag on Twitter as well as this Twitter list of attendees, speakers and sponsors I’ve tried to build.

My various social network feeds are bound to be pretty single-focus for the next few days, so fair warning.

And by “genuinely”, I suppose I mean that there’s real affection associated with that nickname. (The friend in question is also the only person I routinely call by the nickname “Boo”. I might casually throw it around, but the same person hardly ever gets it twice.)

This made me remember something formative from my summers in Destin, FL with my grandparents.

My grandfather (a.k.a. “Bapa”) would more often than not refer to me as “Bunkie”. He’d use it with probably 99% regularity when he put me to bed, but it would come out at other times too. It made me feel special and loved. I worshiped that man, and he had a fancy name for me – how awesome is that?

I only recently found out that “Bunkie” comes from the military barracks — the guy with whom you shared your steel and cotton bunk bed was your partner (whether you liked him or not); he was your bunkmate – your bunkie.

Bapa earned the rank of Lt. Colonel in the Air Force (Army Air Corps back in WWII), you see. His military background is stronger than some family trees. He found the nickname honestly, even though I had no idea at the time.

In a strange way, that makes it even more special to me.

Ignite Boulder 11 was pretty awesome.

Great crowd, amazing venue, and pretty high level sparks, too. (The one about MS being a plumbing problem rather than an auto-immune disease was a jaw-dropper for me.)

Check the pics and stuff.

This is me every time I have to call a phone number with my iPhone:

1. Press the “Home” button
2. Realize that was unnecessary because the “Phone App” is one of the four apps that shows up regardless of what screen I’m on.
3. Open the “Phone App”
4. Take a second to realize which screen I’m looking at (generally “Recents” or something).
5. Take another second to realize that I need to find the number pad and do so.

From there on, I’m cool, but it’s such a clunky interaction that I am 90% sure is my problem, not the iPhone’s. Perhaps I should make myself start calling people more often before my telephone muscles atrophy altogether…