Kiran Gandhi the Mighty Period Blood Marathon Runner.

Sounds like a bad science fiction movie right?  Period Blood Runner, starring Rose McGowan and Mark Ruffalo.  Down and out, a young independent woman forgoes her feminine hygeine products because her menstrual blood fuels her activity as it is reabsorbed through the pores on her thighs.  She’s basically a superhero.  She can’t even get out of bed for most days of the month.  But once her moon arrives, she doesn’t go calmly into that red fucking tent.  No, she practically flies out of bed, down her 7 flights of stairs, as she runs and runs, until her cycle has cycled.  Proctologist Mark Ruffalo discovers her amazing super power while checking her rectum for polyps and to top it off? Could love be any more predictable?  The two might just be heading toward the alter to tie the knot, but only if Gretchen Bramblesnatch, played by Rose McGowan, can outrun her impending crisis.  Will she have enough blood to run down her leg to win the race?  Find out in theaters next Friday.  Available in Imax and Imax 3d.  “Get outta the bloody way Uta Pippig, here comes Gretchen!”™

Well, I was never able to sell that screenplay, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying.  The story I’m actually referencing in the title of this post, is the act of this delusional halfwit, who decided to forgo feminine hygiene while running a marathon. She, and I quote, “ran with blood dripping down my legs for sisters who don’t have access to tampons and sisters who, despite cramping and pain, hide it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist. I ran to say, it does exist, and we overcome it every day.”

doge

I know I’m a bit late to the donor center, but I wanted to give a heart felt congratu-fucking-lations on dealing with your own biological functions in a completely irresponsible way.  In some parts of the world, the way shit works is, if you defecate in public, you get arrested.  Public urination is illegal in all US states, and in addition to that misdemeanor charge, it is possible to be charged with indecent exposure, or public lewdness.  With those two charges, congrats, you are now a sex offender, and Megan’s law requires you to….

Legality aside, this act of ‘protest’ actually bugged me.  As it happened in April, you can forgive me for my late rant, I was incarcerated when it occurred.  Ms. Diboo Daboo leaked her vaginal discharge all down her legs and pants through the streets of London to bring awareness.  However, she states, that she raised $6000 for breast cancer.  Sounds to me like she was just being a lazy broad.  There are thousands of types of bacteria in the female reproductive system.  Some of these bacteria server a biological purpose, but they are also responsible for odor and excretions, especially during a gals cycle.

It’s pretty fucking obvious right?  Blood born pathogens?  Not likely, but possible.  Bacteria?  Sure, if they survive exposure.  But the bottom line here is that this was absolutely disgusting.  Gross.  Hold my hair while I vomit on your running shoes.  You must realize how hard a store clerk or a cop would freak out if I was walking around with blood oozing out of some crack in my body.  Full on, stay where you are, do not move, you are a hazard to public health.  It’s just not something you do unless you are out of touch with basic human cleanliness.  It’s not something you do unless you are one sandwich short of a picnic.  I mean, it’s not something you do unless you are sandwich short of a sixpack.  Well, it’s just not something you fucking do.  It’s very, very, gross.

In doing some light reading on this subject for the purposes of writing this here rant, I found out that “free bleeding” is a thing.  (Warning, that link it to a feminist site, though the article does condemn free bleeding.)

At any rate, let’s step back a second.  I know a man, who is in his elderly years and dealing with a sort of cognitive decline.  He sometimes cannot control his bowels and such, has on occasion, shit his pants while taking a walk.  He doesn’t walk proudly around sporting his shit stained shorts.  He feels a sort of shame because he cannot control something that he should be able to control.  He then proceeds to clean up his mess and move on because even with a tougher time making rational decisions, he still wants and strives to be a civilized human being.   Where’s the activists running races with feces dripping down their leg to raise awareness for the masses of elderly who cannot control their bowels?

If this dumb cunt wanted to do something for gals who don’t have access to tampons and pads, she could have used some of her hard earned money to bulk purchase supplies and send them to the needy people.  That would have been a net positive solution.  Her act was just another testament to the absurdity that is leftist rationale.

So, Kiran Gandhi, clean up your act, you fucking savage.

All the Broken Buildings

Traveling the prison circuit, everything looks run down with decay.  It’s a desolate concrete landscape, dry and treeless.That’s not much of a surprise.  San Quentin is the oldest prison in California, clocking in at 163 years old.  I spent the majority of my time fourth oldest prison in Cali; CTF Soledad on their central yard (buildings closer to the left side of the picture below.)  I remember rolling past CTF on the bus on the way to Salinas Valley, which is basically across the street, and thinking to myself, “damn I hope that’s not me.”  It was my stop.

Correctional Training Facility - Soledad

Correctional Training Facility – Soledad

The outside of the facility had this old, rundown look to it.  All the wings were 3 tiers and that meant cell living.  Yet, I had just arrived from a 22 year old reception facility which was also run down.  I figured, well, this is just how prisons age.  I mean, most county facilities are essentially dumpsters where people sleep, so it was not too surprising.

I don’t know if it was a year away from most of the real world, but I was surprised when I got out.  Riding the train  I noticed that many buildings, roads and structures appeared worn down and ragged.  Driving through Sacramento, it was as if I never noticed the structural decay of the city.  I’m not saying everything was a wasteland, but I’m saying, it was a lot more worn down than I had previous realized.  Akin to walking around an apartment or house for the first time.  If a quick cleaning was completed recently, the signs of dirt are there on the floor boards, under lips and ledges and in dark corners.  One just has to know where to look.

All that got me thinking about people.  Humans.  The body, mind and spirit require maintenance.  “The body is a temple”.  Well, shut your hippy mouth, but you got a point. When people age and die, they’re just run down and worn out and the ol’ ticker finally gives up.  I don’t mean that everyone ends up just giving a sigh and saying “fuck it”.  Even those crotchety ass kickers who keep throwing punches until that guaranteed day are in this category.  The world wears on us, the sun cooks our bones, our life machines eventually have to seize and stop.  That process begins the opposite side of where it ends.

temple

Stolen from quickmeme.com

All that is a fact of this life.  Yet, sometimes it saddens me.

Hold on, let me explain.  Mortality is a given, I get that, but sometimes the fragile essence of it all hits me in the face like a ton of bricks.  I recently met up with a fellow from Seattle who traveled out here for a brief visit.  The last time I saw Chris was about 7 years ago in Portland.  He’s the same age as me and a very successful programmer.  When we first met up, he was also so skinny he could stand next to a phone pole and you couldn’t see his profile.  When I saw him recently, he had put on some weight.  A lot of weight.

I’m going to ask that you put all those body positive activists out of your mind for a minute.  I haven’t yet figured out if those “I’m a bison and proud of it” people fit in this category and I don’t plan to waste much time thinking about it.  When I see someone like Chris in his current state, I see, yes poor impulse control, lethargy, but I also see depression and fatigue.  Why is he depressed?  I don’t know.  But I see that depression in it’s physical form as added body weight.  Thus, as an effect of that extra cargo, I see early stressed structures.  He’d probably not say he’s depressed, but that’s how those things work.  When you’re in it, it’s all you know and you can’t see out to greener pastures.  Self actuating the reality of what is going on is an elusive process.

Much like the above, getting a grip and moving forward with a weight loss plan is an elusive process as well.  Yes, I know, people are doing it every day, and people are very successful at it as well.  Put down the fucking spoon fatty.  Have a little self control.  Sure, screaming those things on your blog or on twitter in all caps is easy.  Especially if you’ve been practicing self control / discipline for a while or naturally skinny.  Side note:  if you don’t think genes play a role in body weight, then we won’t see eye to eye on the subject (I also believe in genetic predisposition to things like mental illness and disease).  At any rate, sure all it takes is a single step, but that’s fucking hard to do in the first place.  I know, as I have fought with depression for most of my life.  Weight gain has been an issue since I was put on psychotropic medications.  So I was on antidepressants, fully depressed but not aware of it and up to 300 pounds.  I was fucking miserable but I spent about 6 months at that weight before I finally took that first step.  “I’m sick of being a fat ass.” Well do something fatty, put that fucking spoon down, go for a walk.

Thus when I see these bastions of brilliance in a state of disarray I get hit with a wave of empathy and sadness.  When I see my friend pouring his days down his throat, I’ve got love for him.  When I see a friend chain smoking out of blind habit, I’ve got some empathy.  When I see my homeboy for the first time in 7 years and he’s put on about 100 pounds, I feel some empathy and I feel sadness because life is incredibly short and even more precious.

I spend and have spent an AWFUL amount of time in self reflection so I’m mostly aware of my self destructive habits.  Times when I grab a smoke, or have an extra serving, drink to the edge of oblivion or beat myself up the block with my own thoughts.  I recognize those things in other people and it makes me sad to see them taking their lives for granted.  It makes me sad for all those times I’ve done the same because sometimes I don’t know I’m doing it.

Prison: a Practice in Preoccupation

There’s a common joke among inmates who have been sentenced.  Joke might not be an accurate term.  It’s one of those things people say, that reminds you of the obvious, yet something that is often taken for granted.  It’s not one of those repeated phrases that inspires a desire to coldcock the speaker.  Real early in my term, before I was sentenced, I’d  be asked something like “how you doing?”  or “what’s up” and found my self saying such detritus as “living the dream, one day at a time.”  Then one day, during the scorching hot summer in a central California reception center, my celly said it to me, and I never said it again.  It sounded so trite and idiotic, and perhaps it was the combination of 100+ degree temperatures or his inability to program with a cellmate, but I never said that crap again.  The phrase I’m speaking of is “you’ve got nothing but time.”

That’s the one thing I had in excess, everyday.  The CDCR puts you to “work” or “school” or “vocation”, but all you have is time.  Hurry up and wait.  Lock it up for count.  Get in line.  Wait, wait wait and all you’re really waiting for is another day to come.  But that surplus of time does give a cat some time to think.  Sitting in a two man cell and bouncing thoughts between your cranial prison walls is actually a gift.  Especially since at that point, digital distractions are almost non existent.

I had what I consider to be, the fortunate experience of getting to spend almost nine of my twelve months in cell living.  You’re either going to be in a cell or a dorm.  Personally, I dislike dorm living.  But it’s a crap shoot either way.  In a dorm you are allowed to walk around, there’s usually some sort of “day room” where you can watch some television.  However, there’s no privacy at all, there’s always someone up in your shit, and depending on the dorm you’re in, it’s always loud.  In cell’s you get a modicum of privacy.  It’s also nice because it leaves you in charge of the cleanliness of the cell.  In a dorm, you can keep your sleeping area clean, but when you live with 199 other men, it’s impossible to manage any more than that.  However, cell living is only good if you have a good celly, or you are in a single cell, which is not a common luxury.  In a cell, it’s essentially living in a small bathroom with another guy.  A good celly can make or break your experience.

At any rate, in a cell, I had a lot of time to think.  I also had a great celly for a few months there.  He was a 75 year old who was doing his second term for murder.  It was on a level II yard, as lifers can’t go any lower than level II.  Ol’ Max had been down since 1985.  Let’s go back a little bit.

When I was in county, you often could hear a number of cats complaining about the amount time they had to do.  I distinctly recall a dude carrying on about having to do 90 days.  Any amount of time you have to give up to the government is shitty, but if you did a crime and got caught, unless you have a legal Houdini, expect to do your time and please don’t complain about it.  Ol’ Max really shed light on this for me having been down (incarcerated) since he was 45 and now an aging cat, who, in his words, is going to die in prison.  He still kept up with a positive mental attitude.  Can you even imagine spending 30+ years of your life in prison?  That’s a lifetime to some.

I was able to gain some perspective on many of the things I was preoccupied with prior to my term and upon my release, interacting with free people again, it’s the thing I noticed the most.  Especially that first day out.  I think you could equate it to a superpower of some kind like x-ray vision, or a superhuman sense of smell.  I thought of it as being able to transcend the bullshit.  I’d have a conversation with some random train passenger (it took me 2 days of to get home, thanks CDCR for housing me on the opposite side of the state from where I live.)  and be able to see their preoccupation.  I could reflect on myself prior to my term and see the things I was preoccupied with.

Preoccupation is a prison unto itself.  The saying “can’t see the forest through the trees” is a sort of testament to this.  The mind is a tricky place and it can start playing tricks through obsession.  I believe this is not just a side effect of our busy short attention spanned world, but also just an inherent bug in our brains programming.  I think the simplicity of survival in an institutional environment cemented this for me, but also Max’s philosophy.

When I opened my twitter, for the first time in over a year, I was slammed.  The main thing that stuck out for me was the uproar over Mad Max Fury Road riding it as a feminist overture.   I mean, really, did they forget Tina Turner in Beyond Thunderdome?  Apparently they did.   I picked that movie as a flick I wanted to see with my aging Pops once I paroled because we had so enjoyed the previous incarnations of the story and it looked like a pretty sweet flick.  We weren’t disappointed.   Max helped those hippies get their art car to burning man.  It was a lot more exciting than I imagine that free loving festival would ever be sober.  Add in a load of acronyms I didn’t understand and twitter felt about as foreign as the streets I was walking on.

All that said, even with my current goals, I’m still carrying the baggage of having spent the last year behind bars.  You can say I’m preoccupied.  I plan on seeking some catharsis by expounding on the lessons I learned while on the inside, mayhap even telling a story or two on the experience.  The lessons might seem readily apparent to some of you, but again, perhaps you will learn something.

Short story taken from the Spirit of Tao translated by Thomas Cleary:

The Poor Man and the Gold

A poor man decided one day to get rich, so he put on his had and coat and went to town.  

As he walked through the center of town, pondering the question of how to obtain riches, his glance happened to fall on someone carrying a quantity of gold.

The poor man rushed up and grabbed some of the gold.  He was caught as he tried to flee.

The magistrate asked the poor man, “How did you expect to get away with the gold, with all those people around?”

“I only saw the gold,” Explained the poor man, “I didn’t see the people.”

I Heard that Lonesome Whistle Blow.

Is any one around here anymore?  It’s been a while folks, about 13 months in all reality, at least here on this site.  The events of this past year were enough to give me a strong sense of cosmic whiplash, the irony of my last post and twitter ramblings, well, that there is the divine between the lines.  To be honest with you all, I don’t exactly remember doing those.  I mean to say, I do recall writing a post in April, last year and I do recall using twitter in May of last year, but the specifics were foggy at best by the time I could once again, observe these walls.  I’d love to say that I walked away, to cleanse myself of the impurities and distractions of the interwebs, but I am unable to do so.

Sometimes, things fall apart.  Let’s just say, I’ve got enough experience with things falling apart that it’d be difficult to consider me a novice any more.  It comes in cycles over a period of years.  The first time things fall apart, that’s a fluke.  If you don’t know what it’s like, you can’t see it coming.  But after that, there’s no excuse, because hindsight is 20/20 and you can look back and see that you could see the fall coming.  It’s like when you’re on a good nod, for those of you who have ever been there.  You might be in the kitchen grabbing some water because the dope has stolen all your moisture and you’re feeling a bit dry.  You’re noddin, but you make it to the kitchen.  You place both your palms on the counter, the cabinet with the glasses seems a light year away.  Taking a second to look down at your hands on the counter, gravity decides to take over.  The counter is getting closer. Oh shit, here it comes.  Oh shit it’s getting closer.  Oh fuck, I’m going to hit the fucking counter.  Bam.  Forehead, meet counter.

That’s what it feels like when you feel things might fall apart.  It’s happening, but it feels like perpetual motion is already locked in and there’s no way to bail.  It’s like  when your opponents knight is in a position to check your king and attack your rook at the same time.  You’re going to take a loss there, but you’re king so save yourself.  Your rook, your castle is expendable, but you are not.  I am not.

So things fell apart, as they’re wont to do on occasion and I ended up spending a year in California State Prison.  Well, technically, 10 months, as I spent two in a county facility before I trundled onto the grey goose.  And if we’re going to get specific, I ended up at 4 different prisons since July of last year.  Cali Prison tour 2014-15.

I’ve been locked up before, the last time being about 8 years ago, for a 5 month stint in a county facility.  I looked at it with dread and a huge amount of anger.  But this time around, when I was looking down the barrel of a year in a state facility, it was just something I had to do and I did it.  What choice did I have?  Youngster ain’t got no choice to make, he made the choice months before even getting popped, and that’s the cold truth.

Stating it like the above makes it seem a bit nonchalant.  Oh yeah, hi and well met fellas, gee, yeah, I was gone for a year.  Not up to much, just you know, doing time.  Countin’ days you know?  Oh you don’t?  Well then, I guess there’s a few things I could tell you.  But I’m not going to go into all of that at this time.  It was one hell of an experience, and one I’ll never forget.  But I’m not going to get too far into it right now.  Live and learn, and I learned a lot.  Also, I’m not going to discuss my crime right now.  Let’s just leave it at, I did my time on general population yards, like everyone else who isn’t a baby toucher, mama raper, gang dropout, drug debtor or snitch.

Another interesting thing is, according to wordpress, it’s my anniversary.  That means for going on four years now, I’ve been writing here off and on.  So I took a year off, so to speak. Onward and forward, right now.  That’s all we can ever do, and boy, do I know it better than ever.  With that in mind, I’d like to say, welcome to any new readers, and thank you to those who are still around, or who haven’t disregarded this corner of the internet after a year of absence.  Also, I’d like to say it meant a lot to me to know that some people I’ve met around here were concerned of my whereabouts and well being after I disappeared.  I’ll also kindly request that you bear with me as I’ve not been on a computer but once in the past year and it’s been a little difficult to get my bearings.  Thus, things will be moving somewhat slowly in this fast paced world.  Also, if any of you have questions, drop me a line in the comment section, or hit me up on twitter at Rojo.

You Overcome and Become

That’s the gist folks.  Essentially, without trial and tribulations, you’re left with a small wake.  A good, uncommon question to ask yourself, is what have I endured that has lead me to better greatness?  What is it that motivates me to be a better person?

I understand that many cats come to the sphere seeking a method or way to attract the opposite gender.  That’s all good, and I will never, ever knock anyone who comes here for that.  However, I have found that I have issue relating to cats who have never overcome a hardship of dark proposals.  There will not be examples given for that, read my archives and see one man’s efforts.

There is a topic they talk about in 12 step rooms; the bottom.  “You hit your bottom and you’re left with no hope and no where to go so you come here and seek answers, the answer is the 12 step program.  Praise Bill, praise the steps.”

No, I don’t praise any of those.  As I illustrated before, there are a few things that plague me with issues.  The voices don’t matter. What matters is what I do with myself.  Some days, I can barely get out of bed.  Some days, I hit the streets with a vengeance.

I never look down on a cat who has no home, because I for myself know, we are all a few steps away from being the same.  The major theme of this here rant is compassion.  I write about being compassionate to your fellow man.  I do this, because there are many steps to improvement.

You cannot ever move past your past motivators without seeing them for what they are.  What is essential, is introspection.  It’s a difficult process and quite possibly will not make sense for many many months.

Some cats get it from the start.

Some cats are still digging in dumpsters.

Some cats, all of the sudden, get their paws ripped out from under them, end up de-clawed and trying to climb a wall.

Without a method of introspection, one cannot climb the wall of transcendental interference.

Look deep, think deep, sit still and make action.

Action, perseverance, and determination are what make the grade.  The bottom is not the end all of all things.  It is not the end of you.  There are many things you can overcome with solely the power of your own mind and self preservation.  Not many on this side of the sphere talk about this.  It’s all, be a fucking alpha, get some strange, be a fucking man, lift your weights, be selfish.

I am not in disagreement with those concepts, however, I think there might be some cats who have been dealing with other issues that might need a push in the right direction.  Depression, schizophrenia, substance abuse, all those things are trials to over come.

They are difficult and without the proper voices to guide you along the way, you will be lost and probably end up going deeper down your dark path.

I have often said on my twitter, “I should be on trial, for all the things I haven’t done.”

This is not a joke, I’ve made some major fuckups in my life, and I have lacked the balls to make some major moves.

I should be on trial.

But thank Odin, the government doesn’t care about me until I break a law in their face.

 

He’s Leaving

The phone rang, it was early on a Sunday to have his mother calling, he picked it up anyway.

“Nick, I’ve had it, I want your father out of here, I’m sending him to you.  You can take care of him.  He’s a liar, and I’m done.  I’m getting a divorce.”

“Woah, wait Mom, what is going on?”

It was already apparent to Nick what was going on.  The battles between his Mom and his sister in law had gone on for years.  Her testimony proved that this was the case.  Apparently his Pops had forgotten a poignant remark his sister in law made during their last visit, and left Moms on the line being accused as a liar.  Italian women never take well to that kind of thing.

“Put him on”

“Hey Nick,” his soft spoken father said into the phone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I didn’t remember her saying that, I do now, but it’s too late.”

“Do you really want to be crashing on my couch?”  Nick asked, referring to his aged lounge in the front room of his small apartment. “Surely, you don’t want that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Ok then, let me know when you’re coming.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Do you want to talk to your Mom again?”

“No thanks, talk to you tomorrow.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Nick’s head.  He was the oldest of three children.  His parents, though not perfect by any means, did the best they could with what they had.  It was truly baffling that after 35 years of marriage, Nick’s mother was going to kick his 70 year old father out of the house.  It didn’t make any sense.  When talking to others, he can vividly remember some of his friends saying that their parents should have divorced long ago, but instead inflicted suffering on themselves and their children.  Nicks parents did not fit that bill.  He used to think of them as a shining example of what a successful marriage could look like.  But here he was, looking at the prospect of having his Pops as a roommate.  Not only that, but the impeccable image he had come to admire in his own life was shattered right there during a 5 minute phone call.

Nick called up his brother, because after all, it’s his wife who’s causing shit.  He was at work and bitched about having to deal with this shit while he was working.

“Well it’s your wife, and she’s your fucking responsibility, so deal with it.”  Nick intoned angrily into the phone.

The rest of Nick’s night was spent going over the possible outcomes.  His father, now retired, living with him in an unfamiliar city, with nothing to do was not an ideal situation.  However out of love for his father, Nick decided he would endure and move forward.   He couldn’t shake the feeling of being played a pawn in a fucked up game.  He also entertained thoughts of kicking his brother’s ass but ultimately decided that was the wrong focus.

A couple beers later, it was time for bed, as that sort of emotional ride took a lot out of Nick.  He dreamed intense violent dreams over the course of his 8 hours.

The next morning, he got out of bed and grabbed his cellphone, immediately calling his father.

“Hey Nick”

“Hey Pops, what are you doing?

“I’m walking the dogs for the last time.”

“Jesus dad, she hasn’t relented?”

“Nope, she’s at work or something, maybe she’s having an affair.”

“Oh come on Pops, don’t talk like that.  What are you going to do?  My couch is still open.”

“Well, I slept on the couch last night, and I slept like shit.  I’m so tired I can’t do anything. I think I’m going to find a place here to stay, and if not head your way.”

“If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t make the drive here today.  Get some rest and then come this way, I’ll take the couch and you can crash my room.  How are you feeling?”

“I feel sick.”

Then, as if prompted by some unseen jukebox, Nicks father sung into phone, with his soft aged voice that was all too familiar, his own version of that classic John Denver song:

“The sun is up, I’m outside the door. My bags are packed and I’m ready to go.  I don’t want to leave, I’m so lonesome I could die.”

Later on, he couldn’t name the artist, he just said, “I thought it was appropriate.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.

Red’s Brazilian Shrimp Soup

I was in my local market the other day, picking up a porterhouse from the butcher.  The cat behind the counter is a guy who I had talked to a while back, during football season.  He’s a Bears fan, poor guy.  At any rate, when I first met him, I was grabbing about 2 pounds of shrimp as they were on sale.  He had asked what I was going to do with them and I broke down the recipe to him.   Fast forward to a few days ago, he says to me, “I’m so glad it’s you, I made that recipe and man, it was amazing.”  Little recognition felt pretty darn good.  Plus this is at least 2 months later.  Apparently, he got put on late shifts and missed my shopping window.

Today we’re going to look at a soup, traditionally called Moqueca de Camarão.  Moqueca is a traditional Brazilian stew like soup, based off of salt water fish, coconut milk, and a number of other ingredients.  Brazilians have been making this soup and different variations,  for the last 300 years.  I love making this soup because it fits with my minimalist cooking aesthetic.  I loathe doing dishes, so anything I whip up in a single pot is pretty keen in my eyes.  Cooking this meal will typically take about 30 minutes.  The longest part of the process is cleaning the shrimp.  This is a straight up comfort food that is warm and spicy enough to feel good in winter, yet light enough to make during summer.  It tastes even better the next day.

This is what you need:

  • One large pot.  I use a 5 qt. pot from Ikea.  (I didn’t even have to put it together.)
  • 2 lbs. of shrimp (you can use more or less depending on your tastes.)
  • 1 medium yellow onion diced
  • 1/4 cup Olive oil
  • 3-4 cloves of garlic.  Smash them with a knife, wait 5 minutes, then dice them
  • 1/2 cup of roasted red peppers diced (more or less depending on your tastes)
  • 14 oz or a single can of diced tomatoes.  Get the ones with chiles if you can find them.
  • 1 bunch of cilantro
  • juice of two limes, or about 1/4 of a cup
  • Sriracha or the chile pepper sauce of your choice
  • 1 can of coconut milk (14 oz.)
  • Salt
  • Pepper

Here’s how we do it:

I find it easiest to prep the ingredients prior to cooking, so I have them all on hand and ready once the heat is on.  Firstly, we’re going to heat our olive oil in our pan on medium heat.  Next, throw your diced onions into the pot and cook them until they are translucent.  Do be careful not to burn them.  Next, throw your diced garlic, red roasted peppers in and cook for around 4-5 minutes.  Please don’t burn the garlic.  Then take your can of tomatoes, about a 1/4 cup (more or less depending on your tastes) of diced cilantro, and your shrimps and toss them in that bad boy.  You’re going to cook these guys until the shrimp turn from translucent to opaque.

Right after adding the shrimps

Right after adding the shrimps

Once that is done, we’re on the home stretch.  Add your coconut milk and as much sriracha as you’d like.  I eye ball it because I love spicy food, but you can play with it.  At this point, we just want to heat the coconut milk through, you don’t want to boil it.  Once that is heated, we’re pretty much done.  Add some salt and pepper to taste, and mix in  your lime juice.   Server this garnished with some cilantro, and prepare to have your taste buds knocked into orbit.  This is some good stuff.

If you can’t eat shrimp, or find shrimp, and I only buy it when it’s on sale, you can sub in any white fish instead.  Crawfish would probably work, even chicken.  But as Joshua the butcher said, “the coconut milk just seeps into the shrimp and it is so tasty.”

Ready to be grubbed.

Ready to be grubbed.