Tag: the one thing

I can’t tell you when I first fell in love with paella, but I can tell you where.

I fell in love with paella in the basement of a little Spanish cafe. Well, it wasn’t really in the basement, but I always sort of fancied myself sitting in the basement of some family-run cafe, lost in the twists and turns of the small streets and alleyways of Madrid. And it really wasn’t a cafe in Madrid. It was more like a restaurant in Mexico City, but that shouldn’t matter all that much. The fact of the matter is that I loved that little sizzling clay platter that the waiter would sit in front of me, all steaming and aromatic, piled high with chicken and sausage and clams and shrimp. That plate of Paella Valenciana was like heaven to me, and every time I went back, I fell that much deeper in love… If you happen to find yourself in Mexico City’s famous Zona Rosa, or “Pink Zone” (so named after the pink color of the pavers in the streets), look for the Antiguo Meson del Perro Andaluz. Order the Valenciana. I don’t think you’ll regret it. Tell them Ricardo sent you. They probably won’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but you might get lucky; some dude named Ricardo might have connections there. If it sucks, blame him.

Of course, I don’t eat meat anymore, so that which I craved can never be mine again. Instead, I have moved on to other things…namely making my own paella, vegetarian style. Great paella, in my experience, is all about the quality of the rice and the presence of the signature color and distinctive flavor of saffron. When I talk about the “quality” of the rice I really mean the characteristics of the rice after it has been cooked. Good paella should never be sticky. It should have a slightly oiled textured without being greasy. It should be wet, not too dry. And it should never, and I mean NEVER, be overcooked. Never.

The secret is in the pan. Saffron is vital, too, but the pan is what allows the cook to influence and tease the rice into a perfect performance. I used to feel like banging my head against a wall out of frustration when my paella wouldn’t come out right. It wasn’t until my parents bought me a paella pan, or “paellera,” that I discovered the unadulterated joy that comes from mastering the art of making paella. OK, “mastering” is a bit of hubris, but I can make a pretty good paella.

In order to make good paella, I had to be willing to screw up and make lots of bad paella. Lots of bad paella. Sticky paella; bland paella; watery paella; undercooked paella; overcooked paella; and just plain nasty paella. Apparently, making good paella is as much art as science, and success and the freedom that comes from success was mine once I let go of the result and learned to embrace the journey. When I paid attention to the path, I avoided all the stumbling and the falling off the road that kills so many travelers each year. Or causes them to make bad paella. The analogy works both ways.

I had an image in my head, a fantasy really, that defined paella for me for years. Nothing I could find in any restaurant could compare to the Valenciana at the Perro Andaluz. I searched, too; for years. I was terrified to try for myself, and I avoided my wife’s pleas for years, too. Then, one day, I gave up, gave in, and made a very mediocre paella. That’s when the journey started; that’s when the fun began.

The one thing that I learned about paella is that, just like anything else in life, you suck as long as you don’t try…then you try and suck a little less. Try again, suck a little less. Again, and even less. Repeat until you no longer suck or just have so much fun trying that the sucking doesn’t even matter any more. Then, you’ll be making great paella and serving it up in the basement of some little cafe, somewhere in the heart of Madrid.

The one thing I noticed about Resistance is that it loves iPhone games like “Trenches.”

It loves “Dancing with the Stars.”

It loves dirty dishes.

It loves being overly organized with tasks that really don’t require that much organization like taking out the trash and dumping paper shred in the recycle bin.

Resistance loves all those things because they keep you from doing the things that you really should be doing instead of whatever it is that Resistance has convinced you needs doing.  

“Don’t do your stuff!” it tells you.  “Do my stuff!”  So, you do what it tells you to do.

We have to learn to not listen to Resistance.  We have to learn to listen to…whatever you call the REAL stuff, the IMPORTANT stuff.  I don’t know…maybe we can call if LIFE.  Or, better yet, CREATION.

Yes, listen to CREATION.  Listen to the voice that wants you to build.  Listen to the voice that wants you to make something today that was greater than what you made yesterday.  It knows what’s important.  Listen to it.

Don’t worry…”Stenches” and “Trenches” will be there tomorrow.  And if they aren’t, then trust me when I tell you that Resistance really knows how to waste your time.  Creation will never do you wrong.

The one thing you need to know about random acts is that they really don’t exist, at least not in the way that we pretend they do.  “Random” is really a matter of perspective.  As observer, we can judge acts as random, but that judgment is biased.  We observe the world through filters, and our filters often keep us from seeing the world from the point of view of other people.  So, when we determine that an act is random, we are really just affirming our own ignorance and disconnectedness from the source and motivation behind the act.

If you’re the actor and not the observer, then the nature of the act changes.  There are no more filters.  There is only the act and the actions, thoughts, and beliefs that paved the way for that action to occur.  The act becomes deliberate.  It becomes a choice, not just an act.  Every human action is a deliberate choice, one in an on-going series of actions that take us from cradle to grave.  Thus, there are no random acts.

There is probably a line somewhere that psychologists draw that would refute my assertion and prove with certainty that the human mind is capable of truly random acts.  I’ll concede the point.  However, this line…it divides such a tiny subset of action from the greater accumulation of human actions that the other side of the line, the random side, is statistically insignificant in the grand scheme of all things.  What you are left with is the conclusion that the notion of a random act of human behavior is a lie that we tell ourselves to help make us feel better when we have no explanation for the “why” behind an occurrence.

Like I said…no random acts.

Why is this matter?  It matters because ignoring truth and pretending the world is anything other than what we know it to be is often referred to as “delusion.”  Delusion is the enemy of consciousness, thus the enemy of true happiness.  If we pretend that random acts exist, then we give away a piece of our ownership over our lives.  While outside forces may influence the manner in which our unique journeys unfold, ownership for the paths taken ultimately belongs to us.  No random acts to explain what we refuse to accept, and no random acts to explain the actions we may regret.

The one thing I learned while driving across half of the United States is that the answers are already within you.  I’m going to go out on a limb and add the word “always” to that notion.  That’s not to say that you can’t receive encouragment from outside (Jeff) or wisdom (Julie) or unconditional love and support (Lynn).  And then there old fashion listening (Luis).  All that is there, and all that is real. However, when you go looking for God, the Universe, or some other bolt of lighting from Above…well, just like a lightning strike, half the power and the energy comes from some place on the Earth. That’s what I learned: whatever exists out there is in “here,” as well.  I sort of knew I already had my answer.  What I needed was the peace and the quiet to listen to my inner voice, my higher self.  A little cabin in the woods helped, but it was always mainly about me.

I’m wasn’t a music major in college.  I don’t have a vast library of music in my home.  I barely have any jazz music, and even less could be considered Latin jazz.  Or mambo.  Or whatever other categorization people use for the music of Tito Puente.  So, take everything I say with a grain of salt, OK?

Pardon the language, but I could listen to Tito Puente all day long.  Seriously, all the fucking day long.  Have your tired it?  Oh, you really must.  His stuff is genius.  He does this rendition of “Take Five,” the classic Jazz piece by Paul Desmond made famous by the Dave Brubeck Quartet.  You know it, trust me.  EVERYONE with ears has heard it.  If you are deaf, then please accept my sincere apology and even more sincere condolences.  “Take Five” is like a slice of red velvet cake accompanied by a frothy cappuccino that is spiked with Kahlua.  Exquisite.  You can watch this groovy video over at YouTube to jog the memory: 

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Exquisite.  Dave Brubeck plays the piano in this piece.  Paul Desmond is the cat playing the alto sax.  There’s something unique about the time signature that I don’t understand, but, for Pete’s sake, who the heck has to understand it to enjoy this song.  It melts me.  It makes me want to cry.  It sinks in deep, deep into a warm place at my core, and grooves.  Exquisite.

So, the original is the definition of cool.  Tito’s version?  Well, imagine Latino cool.  Better yet, imagine Tito Puente cool.  Check it out here: 

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What do you think?  The original is in a class all it’s own, for sure.  Tito’s version, though, is a great homage with Tito’s undeniable fingerprint.  That piano riff that starts the song out remains the same.  Then the layers start, and that’s where the jazz becomes Latin jazz.  Tito just take it someplace different without losing the whole point of the groove.  I feel it in that same place.  It feels a little different, a little sassier.  

The recorded track that I play over and over again is about 6 minutes long.  Almost from the start, you know you’re listening to a Tito Puente track, but it isn’t until minute 5 that you can actually HEAR Tito’s signature sound.  The master timbalero doesn’t make his presence known until the end of the song.  And THAT, my friends, is what makes him great.

Tito Puente didn’t always have to have the spotlight.  When he was on stage, he owned the stage and the audience.  I went to one of his live performances when I was still in college.  It was phenomenal.  There was no mistaking why anyone was there.  You went to see Tito do his thing.  And his thing was magic.  However, when you listen to one of his CD’s, you get a different take on the man.  The showman, the ham, the rebellious timbalero sort of disappears.  He fades in and out of your consciousness.  Some times he’s right there, in your face, undeniably Tito.  Then on the next track, he’s gone.  He’s in the background somewhere, just another layer adding character to the piece.  I love that about him.  

Not to knock Kenny G, but every Kenny G song is so obviously a Kenny G song meant to spotlight Kenny G.  The dude has talent, no doubt.  And he’s also the secret in the secret sauce.  Not much of a secret, really.  With a Tito Puente album, you have to follow his thread.  He weaves in and out of the melodies, taking center stage for a spell, then adding richness to the chorus behind a classic piano piece in “Take Five.”  Like I said, I don’t know the music lingo.  What I do know is that Tito Puente loved the music, adored the music, and, above all else, respected the musicians who gave of themselves to play the music.  He honored them by sharing the spotlight with them.

So, the one thing I learned from Tito Puente is to always be generous in your work.