Book Review: Wayne of Gotham

I just finished reading Wayne of Gotham by Tracy Hickman, and I figured I would get my thoughts down while they were fresh.

Short version: fun read, interesting story, and thought-provoking without providing a full emotional or intellectual lobotomy. Worth a read, but you may want to wait until it is available in paperback or at the library... it isn't life-altering. Just good.

Long version:

I like it. I haven't seen anyone challenge Batman "canon" like this since the Frank Miller era (The Killing Joke, Batman Year One, the Dark Knight Returns). There was a time in my life when I would join in the squalls of outrage when anyone had the nerve to change the way the story was "supposed to be" for one of my comic book idols. As I've gotten older, I find that I actually respect anyone with the salt and creativity to turn a comfortable feature on its head. I don't get any stimulation out of the same thing over and over again.

Time has passed, and I've re-examined my comic book heroes, just as I have everything else in my life. Adulthood and parenthood have piled new layers of meaning to the heroes that I have been watching my whole life. Hickman's story brings a lot of those adult questions into the four-color comics of my youth.

As long as I can remember, Bruce Wayne's parents have been set-pieces. They are a necessary foundation for the more interesting story of Batman. Hickman's preliminary question is a simple one: Just who the hell are these people? Clearly they are the motivation behind the whole Batman story, but they are often just idealized shells of real human beings.

Or perhaps, more accurately, they are people who retain the giant stature that parents occupy in the minds of their young children. An interesting piece in the Batman puzzle is how early he loses them. I can tell you about the unsettling journey I took in my twenties, when I started seeing my parents as real, flawed human beings instead of the giants I perceived them to be in my youth. I remember that time in my life as a series of painful revelations, which made the world seem a lot less simple than it had previously been. I remember questioning who I was and where I came from.

In my late teens and early twenties, I was very idealistic and set out to pursue a life that would honor the heroes, both real and imagined, in my life. As I got into the actual process of doing so, I realized that it wasn't so simple. Not all the heroes were heroes. And I didn't always get to be the "good guy", and the person I opposed wasn't always the "bad guy". In fact, most of the people I dealt with were just... guys. Or girls. Gender irregardless, most people tended to exist somewhere in the middle of the moral spectrum, as did I. It made life a lot more difficult to understand and pursue. I had to come to a much deeper understanding of who I was, and why I did what I did.

I imagine what it would be like if that journey didn't happen until my fifties. I imagine what it might be like if I built my entire life, my entire world-view on an inaccurate illusion of people who did not really exist.

I don't have to imagine too hard, because Hickman pulls it off pretty damn well in the book. The psychological conflict is often portrayed in terms of symbols and images, instead of out-and-out narrative, but I think that works fairly well in the course of his work. Some might opine that there are too many dark and decaying buildings in Hickman's landscape, but remember that the landscape is ultimately just a reflection of the mindscape of the creature who is definitely Batman and, at times, Bruce Wayne.

The apex of the book resonates pretty strongly with me, and I think it goes something like this: you come from a complex, difficult, and to some extent (greater or lesser) fucked up system (read: your family), and like it or not, their baggage is yours. Ultimately, though, you choose who and what you are, and no one else is responsible for that choice. And at times, that might mean putting to rest pieces of your identity from childhood that no longer matter.

The Race

When I first began training in Japanese Budo, I was totally consumed with it. I could not stop thinking about it. When I wasn’t training with others, I did solo practice. When I did not do solo practice, I read books. When I could not read books about it, I would think about it or, if I could find a willing victim, talk about it. At twenty, my responsibilities were virtually non-existent, so I had all the time I wanted to pursue my passion.

Missing any training was agony. Any missed training somehow registered as “losing ground” in my brain, and it would color everything that I did. Irritation would hang around me like a cloud for days on end. Everyone around me felt it. I would be short and waspish with anyone that I had to deal with.  I was like an addict without his fix. It only dissipated when I got back onto the mat.

I clung to the practice desperately. In retrospect, it was a lot like a new relationship for me. When two people fall first fall in love, they cling to each other, unsure if the whole experience is just a temporary sensation that will quickly fade away. Touching is constant, as if to reassure themselves that what they have is real and lasting. There is a lot of insecurity there.

 In my mind, the practice was a race. I had to get as good as possible, as fast as possible. I constantly compared my performance with everyone else that I trained with. I kept a careful mental tally of whether or not I succeeded more than they did, on any given night, in a thousand different ways. I had to exceed my training partners, and if I didn’t, it bothered the hell out of me.

Fast forward a decade. My responsibilities have expanded quite a bit. I am the father of a little boy, someone’s husband, and a lawyer. My father is disabled, so I have to help Mom look after him. I have a great group of friends, and they need me too.  And of course, there’s always work to do and bills to pay. I don’t have as much spare time as I used to, and by the time I do get to the little spare time I do have, I’m often exhausted and unable to muster much in the way of mental focus.

In short, I don’t train nearly as much as I used to. For a while that bothered the hell out of me. I was “losing the race”.

But my relationship with my practice has changed. Like the one I share with my wife, it has grown and matured. It is not some ephemeral thing, likely to fade away at a moment’s notice. I have faith in it. The practice is part of who I am, just as much as being a husband, a father, or a lawyer. I don’t have to touch it every waking moment to make sure that it is there.

After a decade, I know that I’m in this training for life. It isn’t just something fun to do. It is the prism through which I view the world, and the tool I use to shape my interactions with the world.

That’s the “do” part of Budo. It is a “way” or “path” because it continues, and traverses all things and places in one’s life. And each place along the path presents its own unique difficulties and rewards. I’m sure there will be places on the journey where I will have more time to train again. At any given point in my training, my intention is the same: to do the practice to the absolute best of my ability, with everything I have to offer at that point and time.

I’m not racing with anyone anymore, because that is not the point. I do want to get as skillful as I can, do the practice as best I can, and when appropriate, transmit it to others as best I can, so that future generations can reap the same rewards and use the same tools I have. I do those things because they are worth doing, not because I am competing with anyone.

Maybe it comes to this: I’d still get on the mat every day if I could. But somewhere along the way, I realized that even when I’m not on the mat, I’m still on the mat. That’s the path.

Gear Reviews: Delica and NF: Recon

Greetings! I know I've been away for a while. Got a new job, doing a new type of law, and we're coming up on a massive trial, so my writing time has been... well, pretty much non-existent. Getting going again, and I figured I'd start out with an easy warm up: a couple gear reviews. Why? Because I love reviewing anything. This is well documented... by all my reviews.

North Face Recon Daypack

My wife will tell you that I have a sick obsession with bags. I've got messenger bags and briefcases of every stripe. The one type of bag in my arsenal that hasn't changed that much is the backpack. The reason is simple. About fifteen years ago, my father gave me an L.L. Bean Daypack that I've used religiously. I have subjected that poor bastard to every form of abuse known to man (the pack... not Dad). No matter what I do to it (and this includes one that got set on fire... don't ask), L.L. Bean would send me a brand-new one whenever I sent them the old one.

That is hard customer service to beat.

The design is old, though. That bag was a design that is about twenty years old, and it is more slanted toward school books than hiking. On the advice of a friend, I decided to make an investment and see what they've improved in daypacks in the past twenty years.

Short answer? A lot.

The color scheme on mine is different than the one in the picture, but the basic build is the same. The Recon has a semi-rigid internal frame, and I love that. The problem with most soft daypacks is that the weight distribution is terrible. No matter how you shoulder or strap it, it strains your lower back. Not so with this one. That alone would be enough to sell me on it. I've kept this, fully loaded, on my back for a couple hours while standing with no problems.

There's some other cool stuff, too. There's a port for a hydration system (if you're into that sort of thing) that doubles as a laptop sleeve. Two side pockets for one-liter bottles. Everything on it is water-resistant, with a couple pockets that are fully water proof. There are good built-in cinching straps and attachment points.One of my favorite features is how air-flow channels are built into the back and the straps, so that sweat will dry easy and wick away. That might not seem important to some, but believe me, if you've ever strapped a pack to your back and covered miles in Florida heat, some way to deal with your sweat is a godsend.

It's pricey (I'm sure a chunk of the money I paid went to the logo), but you do get what you pay for. It is well thought out, very functional, and it has good ergonomics. If you take care of your stuff (I'm getting better at it as I get older), I think this would last quite a long time. And for me? Backpacks are in that same family as shoes, phones, and whiskey: if you can afford quality, don't scrimp!

I'll let you know about how good the warranty is from NF if (read: when) I bust it.

Spyderco Delica

As you know, I'm really fascinated by how our species has refined cutting instruments. I've been pursuing free-hand sharpening as a pseudo-hobby for years. As a result, I'm really picky about any kind of cutting instrument.

Most of the tools I've enjoyed in this field are in more affordable steels. I tend to range between 440A and 8cr13Mov (which is the lowest level of "super steel", made in China). For years, I've heard people gush about how fantastic Japanese VG-10 steel is. I figured I would give it a shot, so I got a Delica.

I should mention before you hear my opinions that I really like Spyderco as a company. While I don't agree with all their design choices, I really admire their obsessive research/refinement process, and their willingness to do things that "aren't done" because they work better, tradition be damned.

Delica has gone through four evolutions over the years. The current model is the result of a lot of research, and a lot of dialogue with the end users. It fits the Spyderco mold I mentioned above: the thing looks like a freaking science experiment, and I did not like it until I held it. Once I did... dude. The ergonomics on this particular tool are amazing. The Spyderhole (I always thought that was a weird term) makes opening very easy, and the shape of the handle and thumb ramp make for the best feel in hand I've ever experienced in a pocket-knife. They've strengthened the blade's point and changed its geometry, so that it isn't likely to break in the even of an accidental drop.

Not to say dropping would be safe. The best feature of this knife is the VG-10 steel that is surrounded by all the puppies and rainbows everyone mentions. The steel is mirror polished and fully flat ground, so the knife slices exceptionally. The curvature helps with that, too (though it isn't quite as curved as I like). The best quality of this steel is its ridiculous edge retention. It came sharp enough to shave with, and after two months of hard use, I can still shave with it. So, if you do drop it... get the hell out of the way before you lose a toe.

The pocket clip rides a little high for my taste, especially if you set it so that it rides point-up in the pocket (you can do up or down, left or right - that's a nice feature, too). I like the matte-black clip, but any understatement you get with that dark clip is killed by the fact that the damn thing sticks almost an inch out of your pocket when clipped. But again, that goes to Spyderco's philosophy. It is easier to grab if it sticks out... and these Spyderco people worship at the temple of practical applications.

The lock is a mid-lock. Per Spyderco, this is the lightest, strongest lock they have. It's rated to about 100 lbs per blade-inch, so call it safe to 300 lbs of pressure on this blade. Short version: this thing ain't closing accidentally. Ever.

Like the Recon, the Delica 4 is a bit pricey. Mine ran me $50 on Amazon. You're paying for that expensive blade steel. So, the question is how much you care about sharpening, appearance, and ergonomics. You can get a decent blade that will handle most anything for $20-30 bucks. Delica is a good investment if you A) use a knife a lot and B) will be able to hold onto something and use it long enough to get your money's worth out of it. I'm not sure I'd own a $50 pocket knife if I was prone to losing them. Luckily, I'm not, so I think this investment will yield good results for years to come.

Home, Not Fortress

Before we depart from the comfortable confines of the home, let me bring up a few of the things that I think are important in terms of your home and safety.

Some people feel like the solution to home security is to build veritable fortress. I would strongly caution against any heavy fortifying of your home. While bars on windows and doors might seem like a good idea at the time, there is a huge practical problem with them.

This is a good problem to examine in terms of priorities. At the the end of the day, my stuff is just stuff. There is no item in my house that justifies risking my life in a confrontation with a criminal. The only thing that justifies that risk is a direct threat to myself or my family. If a criminal wants to come in and take my stuff, he is more than welcome. I will be gathering my family and retreating out the nearest window. We can call 911 from a public place down the street and stay away until law enforcement clears the house. Our safety trumps any and all property concerns. Period.

Due to this order of priorities, I want a home that is designed more in terms of mobility than fortification. I want to be able to abandon it at the drop of a hat and have multiple options available to get us all to safety. Bars and heavily fortified doors blow that strategy to hell.

(In retrospect, I did not mention this in the first few posts because it seemed obvious, but in light of recent events in the news, I'm going to say it explicitly. The heart of my safety philosophy is the avoidance of violent conflict. If I am in a situation where I am even considering using violence to resolve a problem, it is extremely likely that I have failed in one or more of the areas that I will be discussing in these posts.)

This violence avoidance policy extends to all places, including a discussion of the home. A legal scholar will advise you that in the United States, your home is your castle and you've no duty to retreat. That is legally and conceptually correct. That said, if you stand your ground and chose to enter into a violent conflict to protect your stuff... you are an idiot. No matter how well-trained or well-armed you are, there is a risk of dramatic failure in any violent conflict. It is never, ever worth risking if you do not have to.

This "no fortress" discussion is just an articulation on this policy.

Of course, protection for humans is only a piece of the puzzle.

At no point and time will the merit of this "no bars" strategy be more apparent than when you are caught in a fire. Remember that "safety" encompasses just more than conflict with other human beings. Your thinking has to be multi-dimensional. You could make all the best safety decisions in terms of intruders, and some freak short-circuit could still set your house ablaze. Good smoke detectors are just as important in self-defense as flood lights or a devastating right hook. In the event your doors are blocked off, windows equal survival. If they happen to have bars on them, I don't think you'll be effectively employing your electric screw driver while the flames deprive you of all your oxygen.

If you really want to practice good "self-defense", spend some time seriously considering how you'd handle the various natural and man-made disasters that could afflict the area around your home.

In short, your home isn't a castle. It is just a place where you keep your stuff. Your stuff is not that important. Keep that in mind, and a lot of these bits of decision-making should take care of themselves.

Locks, Plants, and Other Exposure Mechanisms

Okay, this is going to seem like a no-brainer, but I've had enough people screw this one up that it merits discussion right up front. I would say roughly three-quarters of the burglaries I've worked involve this particular failure, and I won't dress it up to give it any dignity.

Lock your freaking doors, people.

And not just when you are away. Lock them when you are home.

For some reason, people do not do this, and it baffles me to no end. Let me explain why it is important.

Once a criminal has determined his willingness to commit a particular crime (for this example, let's say home burglary), his next step is to select a target. Understand that humans (criminals included) are opportunists. They will not select a target unless they have a fairly firm belief that they will be successful in their endeavor. One of the biggest factors in which target a criminal selects is the level of exposure, because the more exposure he has, the less likely he is to succeed.

Let's face it. Most people are not criminals. In fact, it they see someone committing a crime, they are likely to call the police and report it. Criminals know this. Therefore, their choice of target will be one where there is the lowest likelihood of them being exposed to non-criminals and, consequently, caught when their activities are reported to the authorities.

A locked door represents a barrier. Certainly, it isn't an impenetrable one. But it will require the criminal to disable the lock, break in the door (one takes time, the other makes noise-- both increase exposure), or take another route like a window (which also increases exposure, because it takes more time and puts the criminal in a place that will be hard to innocently explain away if caught).

In the vast majority of cases, if a would-be burglar encounters a locked door, he will simply move on to another house where the door isn't locked. (This goes for car break-ins as well. I don't think I had more than ten car burglaries in my entire career where the criminal actually busted out a window to get something. Way too much exposure.)  Thus, by simply using a device that is already existing in your home, you have already drastically reduced your safety with virtually no work on your part.

Of course, locked doors are just the beginning.

When you are examining your home from a safety standpoint, think "maximum exposure."

If you are particularly concerned about window entry, I suggest those little planters you can put in your windows. Moving those things around quietly is a bitch, and most burglars know that. The presence of these little things increases exposure in terms of both the time of entry and the potential noise made by the entry. (I strongly advise against barring your windows, but that is another essay I'll have to do later.)

Motion-sensitive lights are great exposure-increasing devices. Sure, we all know that they are just automated little gizmos, but you really can't overstate the effect that a sudden flood of bright light has on the skulking ne'er-do-well. 500 LM is a ton of exposure in an otherwise darkened neighborhood. Besides, while a criminal might suspect that it is just an automated light, they never really know for sure, do they?

Speaking of lights, leaving one on when you aren't home is a great way to increase your safety. Remember what I said about criminals being opportunists? The vast majority of burglars are people that want your stuff. They don't want to have a confrontation with you. They will go out of their way to find homes that don't have people in them. That one light creates a similar problem to the motion sensitive light. Sure, it is probably just a security light... but is the criminal ever really sure? Most criminals will avoid the guess-work and just move on to the next house. It may seem almost idiotic to mention this, but make sure that there are curtains or blinds in your illuminated room-- your goal is to create the fear of exposure in the criminal. If he can see that no one is in the room, all you are doing is more clearly illuminating the shit he is about to steal.

Finally, one of the best exposure-increasing mechanisms is man's best friend. You can check the research on this one. The presence of a canine in your home exponentially reduces your odds of getting broken in to. This is because of the double-threat that dogs present. As it has for ages, the barking of dogs warns us humans with our fairly pathetic sensory organs. This is your exposure factor. There is also the physical threat factor that dogs represent. Getting attacked by any dog is a scary experience.

Ironically, a client once shared with me that he was more concerned with little dogs than big ones. "The little ones can't bite for shit," he said, "so they make up for barking their heads off at every fucking little thing." He believed that it was actually easier to negotiate a big dog during a home burglary. I think there is a lot of truth to this. Thus, even a teacup chihuahua will vastly improve your safety here.

Remember, the goal here isn't to terrify the criminal into giving up his life of crime; it is just to convince him that your house ain't the best target. A dog will go a long way to doing that.

Is this an exhaustive list of exposure increasing mechanisms in the home? Of course not. But even these very basic things can make all the difference in your safety. Invest a small amount of time in looking into them. If you want to get creative come up with a few of your own.

In fact, I'd take it as a kindness if you would share them with me. I never tire of learning new, useful stuff. Besides, it would be pretty awesome to learn a way to defend my home with the blender.

Introduction: Safety First Posts

One of the byproducts of training in martial arts for about a decade is the periodic "Will you teach me basic self-defense?" that I get from friends and family. What these seekers inevitably have in mind is an investment of an hour in which they can learn some "stuff" to use in a situation where they are threatened. My general policy has been to respond politely, but firmly, in the negative.

It ain't cause I'm worried about giving away the magic.

I've inherited some of my teacher's beliefs. He always called these little self-defense primers "bag of tricks" sessions and condemned them pretty strongly.  His reasoning was fairly simple: martial arts isn't simple. A martial art is a collection of complex skills that have to be honed over time, through a process of intensive, focused repetition. Retaining access to all the education you get in martial arts while under the influence of stress takes years of exposure and desensitization.

Ever heard the phrase "a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing?" In few places is this more true that martial practices. The worst thing I could do for someone would be to give them a few extremely rudimentary skills, and endanger them with a false and unrealistic belief in their own ability to defend themselves in a violent situation. It would be like sending someone into a gun fight armed with a feather duster. Thus my firm "no".

About a year ago, I decided to say "yes", but on my own terms.

My friend asked me the inevitable question regarding my "stuff", and in that moment, a devious plan formed in my mind.

Instead of turning her down, I said, "Sure thing. I'm up in Tampa on Saturday anyway. There's a place I go up there to work on my stuff. We can meet up there at 6:30, before I'm set to meet everyone else. Just wear comfy clothes."

She agreed and I gave her the address.

I pulled up in front of the place and leaned against my car. I took out my phone and waited. See, she is a total gadget-lover, and I knew that her smart phone would be dictating the directions to her. I knew that at some point, she would figure out the problem with my plan. The phone buzzed in my hand.

"Pat, I think you gave me the wrong address!"

"I might have," I said, "Go ahead and read it back to me."

She did. "Nope, you've got it perfectly."

"But this is a Starbucks!"

"Exactly. I'm out front in my red pullover."

"I thought you said you came here to do martial arts sometimes!"

"I said I come here sometimes to work on my stuff. The beauty of the term 'stuff' is that it is inclusive... it is martial arts, but it is also a lot of other things."

"You're going to throw me around in the Starbucks parking lot?"

"Even better. I'm going to talk about some stuff that will make you safer."

I could tell she was disappointed, but she agreed to humor me. She pulled into the parking lot and we went in and got some coffee. (Well, in truth, I got a latte.. I think Starbucks has terribly burnt coffee. I can't remember what she got.)

We sat down at that point, and I talked to her. I think it took about an hour to peg down all the details. We went through all of her daily habits and I gave her some safety advice. I suspect I did more good in that one hour than I could have done with a few days of teaching her how to crank on someone's wrist or bust them in the face.

This began the evolution of a process. I've now shared this information in a similar fashion (minus the Starbucks ruse) quite a few times now. It was, in fact, just such a sharing that prompted me to write this in the first place. ("You really ought to write this down somewhere!") The following is a collection of information which I think is useful safety information, which frankly will probably keep you safer than even the fattest "bag of tricks".

Who am I to share it? Certainly no expert of any kind. I'm not an expert in martial arts, criminology, sociology, psychology, or military strategy. What I am is a guy who spent half a decade dealing with street crime as part of my job, and spent more than a little bit of that time talking to criminals in a very candid nature about what they did and why. This advice is the embodiment of a lot of the very predictable, over-arching patterns I saw in civilian criminal violence in this country.

All of the posts related to this topic will carry the label "Safety First".

Potato Glass

I've a few essays that I considered putting up today, but frankly, their importance has been circumvented by a strange discovery that occurred in our kitchen. Today, I tell you the strange tale of potato glass.

Before I get to the genesis of this miracle substance, it will be helpful if I begin by giving you a layout of our kitchen. Like the apartment itself, it is a small little thing, and a bit sad. The kitchen is a small alcove nestled in the corner of the living room. There is some cabinetry, but our passion for the acquisition of kitchen gadgetry easily dwarfs this meager offering of cupboards. It would be fair to say that our kitchen area overflows with food paraphernalia. Due to this scarcity of space, storage of gear requires some unique configurations.

Case in point: the cast-iron pan. A few years ago, I purchased a cast-iron frying pan. In short order, I discovered that there is a reason that people have been using them for hundreds of years. They heat evenly, retain said heat, and fare well on the stove and in the oven. Cast-irons also have non-stick properties without any help from space-age materials from the Kennedy era. It also bears mentioning that the damn things are nearly indestructible. (Key word: Nearly.) Unfortunately, our cabinet containing pans, like the rest of our house, was overflowing well before the cast-iron pan ever made its appearance in our kitchen.

The solution? We put it in the oven. It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. Cast-iron pans are pretty much impervious to all harm. It doesn't matter to the pan whether or not it gets baked along with tater tots, cookies, or cakes. The cast-iron pan, a true creature of the ages, shrugs off these trials and tribulations. Thus, for the past few years, it has gotten baked along with everything else we ever cooked.

It didn't give a damn.

Until today.

I have this strange tradition on Saturdays following particularly demanding weeks. See, I have my son all day. My wife works. It is a great time, because the two of us get to play and have adventures. The only real hiatus is nap-time, which falls between noon and 2. On these rough weeks, I go to the grocery store and buy a good steak. My wife and son aren't steak people, so I use this small window of "me time" while Jack is napping to cook something no one else I live with is interested in eating. (I call it "Steak-tuary Saturday", but that really isn't relevant to the story. I just like the term.)

As I've previously detailed in other places, I can make some damn fine music when I put together steak and cast-iron. It was with just such a tune in mind that I reached for my cast-iron pan this afternoon. When I did so, I discovered something strange and, upon reflection, more than a bit wondrous.

I pulled out the pan, and ran my hand over it and discovered a bizarre glassy surface instead of the rough, oily, and re-assuring one I was expecting. Upon visual inspection, it appeared that the strange gloss covered a large portion of the pan. It was totally clear and smooth.

It first it seemed a minor annoyance. Just one more pot to scrub in an otherwise tidy kitchen. With an exasperated sigh, I set to heating the pan, and scouring it with tongs and a wet towel. Given that this particular pan is well-seasoned and not prone to sticking to food, that is the most I have ever had to do in order to return it to its pristine state.

In this case, it didn't do a damn thing. Not to be deterred, I got a metric buttload (measured precisely) of kosher salt and scoured hell out of the pan with that. Again, despite vigorous scrubbing and a few suggestions about exactly where this glossy aberration should go, it remained.

By this point, my mind craved some guidance as to what the hell this phantom substance was. In all of my years of washing dishes (and we're sneaking up on three decades of doing that job), I have never encountered a substance like it in my life. I called up my wife at work.

"So, honey, what the hell did you cook in the stove last? Epoxy?"

"I'm sorry? This is the library. Who are you?"

"Oh, hi Inez. This is Pat Songy. Can you please transfer me to my wife?"

"Sure Pat. Please hold."

I heard a click and some muffled laughter. Monica picked up.

"You're baking epoxy? What the hell?" my wife asked with some amusement in her voice.

"No. Evidently, you are! There is bizarre glass on the bottom of the cast-iron! Nothing will kill it, and I've tried  everything short of holy water and a crucifix!"

"Fact: That only works on vampires, not cookware. And for your information, the only thing I've done in that oven since you last used the cast iron was bake two potatoes."

"You're kidding. Just potatoes?"

"My hand to God. Just potatoes."

"You made potato glass."

"What?!"

"There is a substance in our cast-iron pan. It is smooth and clear like glass. It is as hard as steel. Evidently, you made it with two potatoes. Potato glass could be our key to wealth."

"So, how are you going to cook your steak?"

It was a sobering question. It quickly brought me back to the heart of my dilemma. No pan, no beautifully pan-seared sirloin. Now that was a serious problem. You can't expect a man of my station to forgo Steak-tuary Saturday just because my wife inadvertently created a space-age polymer with a potato.

That would just be ridiculous.

I got off the phone with her and re-engaged the cast-iron with renewed vigor. Steel wool didn't touch it. A second round of kosher salt did nothing. Getting it smoking hot and scouring it with wet rags didn't even make a dint. Finally, more than a little miffed, I resorted to extreme measures.

The chisel isn't usually a tool that I go for in the kitchen, but I guess there is an exception to every rule. Using a hammer and chisel, I could not injure the substance, but I did manage to knock off flakes of iron that the potato glass had evidently bonded to on a molecular level. Somewhere in my frenzy of hammering, a little sane thought flew into my head.

"Pat, you bought this for $8.99 at K-Mart. Is this truly worth all this swearing and exertion?"

A friend's grandmother once said that no matter what happened to a cast-iron pan, you could throw it in a bonfire and get it just about good as new. While I briefly considered how I might create such a conflagration in my apartment complex, I put the idea aside. You really don't want to juggle toddler nap-time and a raging inferno, steak or no. That's life experience talking.

Ultimately, I cooked the steak in a lesser pan. Tomorrow I'll have to procure a new cast-iron. Though I think I'll save the original and send it off to a lab. Who knows? In a few months, you could be reading the blog of a wealthy potato glass magnate.

Of course, we'll have to come up with a more clever name. I think, given its starchy origins and my love of Star Wars, I'll call it carb-onite.

Or maybe "Monica's Badass Potato Glass". That has a nice ring to it.





... steak-tuary.