Rising Floods

More and more, you see young, evidently fashionable men intentionally wearing long pants that expose not only ankle and sock, but even an expanse of the leg itself. In the vernacular of my youth, such pants were known as “floods,” and you could commit no greater fashion sin—or more readily expose yourself to ridicule—than wearing them. Can it really be that they are fashionable now?

I first learned about floods when I was about 10 years old or so, at the age when you first become dimly —and then pointedly—aware that there apparently is a prevailing approach to the world and if you vary from the acceptable norm you are exposing yourself to uncomfortable mockery. It was about the same time you realized that you might want to plead that your Dad stop giving you a buzz cut with the home barbershop kit he bought and let you go to a licensed professional so you could get a haircut that looked somewhat like what other guys had. But whenever the precise epiphany occurred, at some point the jeering comments and derisive laughter at the fact that your long pants weren’t quite long enough powerfully drove home the point that flood pants are an unforgivable fashion transgression. And ever since I’ve been acutely focused on making sure that any pants I’m wearing brush my shoe tops, if not (in the ‘70s) engulf my shoes altogether in monster bell bottoms.

But fashions change, obviously, and now it is abundantly clear that floods are not the anathema they once were. Maybe male ankle-displaying pant length will capture the culture and be seen everywhere—or maybe they will be as short-lived as past brief fads like Nehru jackets or Earth shoes. But even if floods become the norm, I think my indoctrination has been too strong and too ingrained. I’ll just keep my ankles to myself.

Three Days In A Row

What do you do if you haven’t had a chance to have your favorite meal for weeks?

Me? I get my favorite meal—lamb korma, medium-plus on the spice scale, served by the friendly folks at Indian Oven—three days in a row.

It’s tough to do without your favorite meal for weeks at a time—that’s how you know they’re your favorite—and when I came back to Columbus I wanted to be sure to scratch that itch. So I scheduled lunches at IO for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Each lunch was at IO as part of a separate tradition involving summer clerk meals, thank-you recognitions, or mentoring catch-ups, so by going to IO I not only was getting my lamb korma fix, I was furthering the important role of tradition in our culture and supporting a great Columbus restaurant. Admittedly, though, the main reason to go three days in a row was to thoroughly reacquaint myself with the delectable combination of lamb, curry sauce, chopped egg and nuts, and basmati rice, all carefully mixed to make sure every grain of rice has been coated before lifting forkfuls to my mouth and relishing every bite.

I like trying different dishes and experimenting with new venues, but it’s important to stay in touch with those tried-and-true classics that always deliver a great meal. Is three straight days enough to serve that function? We’ll see, because today I’m having lunch somewhere else.

But I’ll be back at IO on Friday for lamb korma, round four.

Freezer Follies

Freezers were a crucial invention in the march of modern civilization. They allow us to store and preserve food until we are ready to consume it. They allow us to make the ice that permits us to enjoy those ice-cold drinks we crave on sweltering summer days, and they typically hold some of our guiltiest guilty pleasures, like pints of ice cream and frozen pizza. Where would we be without freezers?

But every freezer houses a deep, frozen secret. It’s that leftover item, carefully sheathed in aluminum foil for safekeeping, that’s been in the freezer so long, and has accumulated so much frost and freezer burn, that its true identity is no longer reasonably discernible. Once, long ago, at a point lost in the mists of time, it was wrapped and placed in the freezer with the best of intentions, to be preserved for certain future consumption. But those good intentions went unrealized when the glittering foil rectangle was buried under other freezer items, shunted into a remote, icy corner of the freezer, and forgotten. Days, weeks, and months passed as the once-edible item maintained its lonely, frigid vigil and felt itself changing from a potentially delectable food item into a sad, frozen brick that has been in the freezer so long that the aluminum foil has permanently bonded to its surface and cannot be completely removed by any process known to mortal man.

At some point, though, the freezer is cleaned out and the item is uncovered. The freezer explorer looks at it, doubtfully, and asks, with genuine curiosity: “What is this?” But careful, skeptical visual examination, and prodding with a finger, can provide no illumination. Is it chicken, or beef, or a remnant of a veggie burger, or perhaps something else entirely? Is that its true color and texture, or has its prolonged arctic experience created those unusual hues and bumps and ridges?

There’s only one way to know for sure—let it thaw, cook it somehow, and take a bite. Few souls, however, are hardy enough to accept the risks of gross discovery and that stale, freezer burn aftertaste that lingers in your mouth like a rank dish towel. No, the better, wiser, safer course is to discard the item. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.