Slim Man Cooks Italian (Lacinato) Kale with Shallots, Port and Cranberries

Click on the pic to see the YouTube video

I grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, about two miles from Memorial Stadium. That’s where the Baltimore Orioles played baseball. It’s where the Baltimore Colts played football.

My brother and I were crazy about the Orioles and Colts. Our Uncle Oscar loved the Colts, took us to lots of games when we were kids. Fans at football games can get a bit rowdy. If you’re a 10 year-old, it’s good to have a sleeve to hang on to. Especially a sleeve connected to a guy like Oscar.

But baseball? It’s a bit gentler, safer for a kid.

In the summertime, my brother and I would go to Orioles games by ourselves. We knew the players’ names, jersey numbers, statistics. We collected Orioles baseball cards. We belonged to the Junior Orioles.

We did all this on our own.  It’s not like our parents didn’t care; they just wanted us to figure things out for ourselves.  So my brother and I just found our own way.

We’d get to the stadium anyway we could; walk, ride a bike, take the bus; we’d get there early—so we could catch batting practice. We’d stand out in the left-field bleachers with our gloves, two raggedy young kids, hoping to snag a batting practice home run. Or maybe a pitcher in the bullpen would throw us a ball. Anything.

Section 9 was our spot for baseball in Memorial Stadium. There were rows of yellow aluminum benches with no backs and no padding; when the weather was hot, it was like sitting on a stove, when it was cold, it was like sitting on a block of ice.  It didn’t matter to us. We loved the O’s.

My brother and I played little league baseball for years. My brother was really good; he got all the trophies. I wasn’t any good, but I loved playing.

I still like throwing a ball around. I like batting cages. You stand in a fenced-in cage, and a pitching machine throws baseballs at you, and you try and hit them with your bat. My Dad lived in upstate New York.

Cooperstown—where the Baseball Hall of Fame is—is not far away. My Dad was an extra in a Tom Hanks baseball movie—A League of Their Own—that was filmed on the baseball field in Cooperstown.

The batting cages there were difficult—I tried the pitching machine that threw knuckleballs, and I didn’t hit one good ball.

The next time I stepped into a batting cage, I hit two good balls.

My band BootCamp was playing in a rock club in Ocean City, Maryland, one summer and there was a batting cage in an amusement park right behind the club.

The afternoon before our Big Show, the drummer, Hit Man Howie Z, and our friend Roger—who would later name his son Brooks, after Brooks Robinson, Orioles third baseman—went down to the batting cage. We were the only ones there.

All I had on was a thin, baggy, nylon bathing suit and a T-shirt. It was the beach, it was summer. I grabbed a bat, put my money in the machine and stepped into the cage. This was hardball; I was staring at an 80 mile per hour fastball machine. I stood next to home plate, bat poised, waiting for the first pitch. It catapulted out of the machine, and screamed towards me.

I swung, and hit the ball with all my might. The ball shot straight down, hit home plate, and shot straight up like a rocket and hit me squarely in the you-know-whats.

I hit the ground like a sack of cement. I curled up in the fetal position, racked in pain, breathless. Fastballs were screaming over my head, smacking into the backboard, and bouncing all around. Hit Man and Rog were trying to grab me in between pitches, trying to avoid getting hit.

My legs wouldn’t uncurl. They eventually dragged me—still curled up tight in the fetal position—by my feet, out of harm’s way.

The BootCamp show that night was not as lively as usual. I sang while standing in one spot, all night long. I couldn’t move.

But I did hit some high notes I’d never hit before.

In 1983, BootCamp sang the national anthem at Memorial Stadium for the Baltimore Colts football team. Not long after, the Colts moved to Indianapolis. I hope our rendition of the Star Spangled Banner didn’t affect their decision. I thought we sounded great.

In 1986, BootCamp sang the national anthem at Memorial Stadium for the Baltimore Orioles baseball team. Earl Weaver, their long-time manager, retired a couple weeks later. I was starting to think maybe we were a jinx.

In 1992, the Orioles moved from Memorial Stadium to a new ballpark in the heart of downtown Baltimore, probably to get rid of the curse of BootCamp.  The new stadium was called Orioles Park at Camden Yards, and it was a beauty.

In 1995, I released the first Slim Man CD, End of the Rainbow. I wanted to take a copy to my dentist, who was also a friend.  Going to his office was like going to the Playboy Mansion; all the assistants looked like Playboy Bunnies and he was like Hugh Hefner–he even dressed in silk pajamas and ascots rather than scrubs and a mask.

I drove to downtown Baltimore, parked in an underground lot, and got in a limited access elevator–it only went to the top two floors.

Guess who got in right behind me? Cal Ripken, Jr., shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles. Rookie of the Year, 1982. Most Valuable Player, 1983 and 1991. I’d seem him play hundreds of times, but had never met him. I introduced myself, told him I was a big fan.

Cal Ripken, Jr. shook my hand. I gave him the End of the Rainbow CD that I was saving for my dentist. I told Cal it was my first CD; he gave it a look, and thanked me.

About five years later, the Orioles asked me to sing the national anthem at Orioles Park. I guess they were desperate.  I’m a patriot. I love the USA. And singing the anthem is an honor, plain and simple.

But the first time BootCamp sang it, the Colts left town. The second time we sang it, the Orioles’ beloved manager retired. What next? The whole team gets abducted by aliens?

I practiced day and night for weeks. My neighbors probably thought I was either really crazy or really patriotic. Or both.  I tried singing the anthem every way I could.  I sang it slow.  I sang it fast.  I sang it half-fast, which is the way I normally sing.

The day finally arrived.  I got to Camden Yards that September evening, 2000, and a young woman from the Orioles office led me on to the field. The sky was cloudy, it looked like it might rain. Hit Man was with me, so was Roger. So was Griff, the guy who signed me to Motown—he’s a huge baseball fan. My Mom, in her wheelchair, was in the stands nearby.

The players were standing by. I walked up to the microphone at home plate, the crowd stood on their feet, hats off, hands on hearts. The announcer introduced my name, and I started singing.

I did the Star Spangled Banner Slim Man style—low and slow. The woman who had led me on the field kept waving her arms in a circle, motioning for me to speed it up. She looked like a third base coach waving a runner home.

But, like Frank Sinatra, I did it my way.

I thought it sounded good. Nobody booed and nobody left, which to me is a successful gig. The anthem is not an easy song to sing. At least I remembered all the words.

When I finished, I walked by Cal Ripken Jr., who was warming up outside the dugout. I was hoping he’d come up, give me a high five and say, “Slim Man! That CD you gave me in the elevator is incredible.”

He didn’t. But he did say, “Nice job” as I walked by.

Thanks, Cal. I’m just happy to be here, hope I can help the ballclub.

And after I sang?  The Orioles didn’t move to Maui.  Their manager didn’t join the circus.  But the Orioles did make it to the post season…fourteen years later.

Italian Kale with Shallot, Port and Cranberries

I like sunflower seeds. Sunflowers are my favorite flowers.

When I’m at an Orioles game, I’ll get a bag of salted sunflower seeds in the shell, and eat ‘em while I watch a game.

One time, on the way back from a Slim Show in Santa Rosa, California, I stopped at a roadside fruit and nuts stand. I was thinking I might run into some of my nutty and fruity relatives there.

The Slim Family wasn’t there, but there were bags of salted, roasted sunflower seeds, without the shell. I bought one. They were delish. I saved some…

I’ve been noticing a lot of Italian kale in the grocery stores these days, and not just the ridiculously expensive Whole Foods-type stores. Most normal grocery stores have Italian kale, it’s called lacinato kale, most of it is organic and it’s ridiculously inexpensive.

How inexpensive? A buck a bunch at my local grocer.  I bought some and took it back to Slim’s Shady Trailer Park in Palm Springs, California.

Kale is so good for you. The only problem is it tastes like old hedge-clippings.

I cooked it in some olive oil and garlic, just to see what it tasted like. It was not as bitter as normal kale, but it needed a little something. I tried cooking the lacinato kale different ways. With tomatoes.  With red bell peppers.  With white wine.  Nothing was working.

One night I decided to cook it with some port wine. Why?  It was all I had!  I took a sip, it tasted great, so I added a 1/4 cup to the kale.  The sweetness of the port cut the bitterness of the kale.

It needed a little saltiness, so I added some sunflower seeds from the roadside stand. I added some dried cranberries, and it gave it some some color and a nice texture.

It was good. It was real good.


You can use any sweet wine or port or sherry. Sweet vermouth would work, so would Marsala, or sweet sherry.

Cleaning kale is a pain. Here’s how to do it: start at the top of the leaf. Start tearing by hand into strips, about an inch or two wide. When the stalk in the middle gets tough–about 1/3 of the way down the kale leaf–start pulling the leaves from the side of the stalk, and throw away the stalk.

Clean the leaves with cold water and spin dry. You need 4 cups.

Add the sunflower seeds and dried cranberries last–you don’t want your nuts to get soggy, or the cranberries soaking up the port.



1 bunch of Italian kale, also known as lacinato kale, 4 cups cleaned

2 tablespoons chopped shallot

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Crushed red pepper to taste

¼ cup of port (or any sweet dark wine—Marsala, sweet vermouth)

¼ cup dried cranberries

2 tablespoons salted roasted sunflower seeds


Here we go…

Put the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, and let it heat up for 2 minutes.

Add the 2 tablespoons of chopped shallots, and crushed red pepper to taste, and cook for a couple minutes, until the edges of the shallot start to turn golden brown.

Add the port, or whatever wine you’re using. Turn the heat to high, and let it cook off for a minute or so.

Reduce the heat to medium. Add half of the kale.

Cook and stir until the kale wilts, a couple minutes.

Add the rest of the kale. Cook and stir until the kale wilts, a couple minutes. Add a sprinkle of Kosher salt, stir.

Add the dried cranberries and stir.

Add the sunflower seeds and stir.

Taste for salt and adjust.

Dish it up!

This is a great side dish, I made it with chicken piccata, and it was a delish.


Slim Man Cooks Chicken Stuffed with Goat Cheese

Click on the pic to see the YouTube video

3,059 days.

That’s how long I had Batu.  He arrived on Christmas Eve, 2005, from Chile, South America, and departed from Palm Springs, California, on May 11, 2014.

3,059 days, exactly.  8 1/2 years, roughly.

In some ways it seems like a long time.  But right now, it doesn’t seem nearly long enough.

Batu was born on Cinco de Mayo–the 5th of May–2004.  He was born in Argentina.  Batu’s grandfather was a famous bull terrier from Germany named Rock.   Batu’s owner paid $15,000 for Rock.   He could’ve bought a car for fifteen grand.

I’m glad he didn’t.  But that’s a lot of money for a dog.

So Batu’s owner had high hopes for the young pup.  Batu was entered in a few South American dog shows, but there was some technical defect in his bone structure, which prevented him from advancing any further in his show dog career.

Their loss.

Batu was a neglected champion, much like Yours Truly.  He was kept in a crate, not like Yours Truly.  No one knew what to do with him.  He just sat in his crate.

I had wanted a bull terrier ever since I saw the movie Patton.  Patton had a bull terrier named Willie.  When my cousin–a true dog lover who knew I wanted a bull terrier–found out about Batu, she decided to get him for me for Christmas.

She has a house in Chile.  She’s well-connected in the dog world down there.  She left Baltimore, flew down, rescued Batu, and brought him to me on Christmas Eve, 2005.  I was at my Uncle Oscar’s house on the river.  Cattail Creek, outside Baltimore, Maryland.

Batu and my cousin, Christmas Eve, 2005, Batu’s First Night

Batu came out of the bedroom that Christmas Eve, walked up to me, and stuck to me like Velcro.  He stayed by my side for almost every one of those 3,059 days.

Batu came with that name.  I don’t know how he got it.  So I Googled Batu and all that came up was the grandson of Genghis Khan.

Batu Khan.  So that’s the story I’m going with.

At the time, I was living in an apartment in Roland Park, an incredible place in an old mansion that used to be a country club.  The woman who owned the house lived upstairs.  She was 100 years old.  The apartment downstairs had three bowling alleys—a bit dilapidated—and two grass tennis courts, both of which had seen better days.

I loved the place.  When I brought Batu home, he would not leave my side.  If I walked into the kitchen, he’d follow me.  If I walked into the living room, he’d be right behind me.  If I went into the bathroom, there he was.

The first few nights I had Batu, he slept in bed with me.  But when I found a tick on the sheets one morning, I decided to get him his own bed.  I put it on the floor by my bed, and that’s where he slept.  If I woke up in the middle of the night, I would reach down and pet him.  For most of his life, he was always within reach.

I think Batu had separation anxiety.  Or maybe it was me.  Whenever I’d leave, he’d howl.  That’s what the 100 year-old woman upstairs said, and she was deaf.

Truth was, I missed him, too.

So I took him just about everywhere I went.  If I went to a recording studio, I’d call in advance and make sure it was OK.  DC, Philly, New York—if I had a session, Batu went with me.

If I went on vacation, Batu went with me.  If I went to visit my Dad in upstate New York, Batu went with me.

Whenever I’d sit down and play piano or guitar, Batu was there.  Almost every song I wrote for the past 8 years, Batu was at my feet, eyes closed halfway.  He was probably dozing off.  My music has that effect on people.

The apartment in Roland Park had a crazy little kitchen with a small four-burner stove.  I got a video camera, and I started shooting cooking videos; short, goofy little 5-minute home movies, that featured Batu.

I had heard about this new website called YouTube that had just started a few months before.  I started posting the cooking videos on YouTube.  One of my five or six fans saw the videos, and brought them to the attention of their friend who was involved in a new network, the Italian American Network.

They liked the videos.  They loved Batu.  The Italian American Network started posting the videos on their channel.  They encouraged me to do more.  So, Batu and I started making more cooking videos in that little kitchen.

And I started writing those recipes down, so the Italian-American Network could post them along with the videos.  Batu and I kept on making videos and posting recipes.


A few years later, Batu and I were at my Dad’s house in upstate New York on the Fourth of July, 2009. It had just rained, and there was a double rainbow reaching across the mountains.  I took a photo.

I walked inside my Dad’s house.  The phone rang.  My Dad lives on top of a mountain, a place called Rat Tail Ridge, and there aren’t too many neighbors.  And the phone doesn’t ring too often at my Dad’s.

I picked up the phone.  I got the news that Oscar had died.  I told my Dad.

My Dad said “Fuck!” about a hundred times in a row.  Then he cried.  I’ve only seen my Dad cry twice.  When his best friend died, and when Oscar died.

Unc—that’s what I called him–had fallen down his basement steps at Cattail Creek and died immediately.  He was extremely wealthy, in good health, had a beautiful young wife.  He was 88 years old.  My Uncle and I were real close.  He was like a second father to me,  my go-to guy, in the good times and the bad.  I had lived with him for a couple years.

I packed up Batu and my Dad, and we drove for six hours from Rat Tail Ridge down to Cattail Creek.  We didn’t talk much.  I was heartbroken.  I felt so bad for my Dad; Oscar was his only brother, they had grown up poor on the mean streets of New York, and Oscar was always looking out for his younger brother–throughout their whole lives.

Unc was like the Godfather—our world seemed to revolve around him.

After the funeral, there was a wake at Unc’s house.  The next day, I took off for a show in San Antonio, Texas.  I had no idea how I was gonna get through it.

I left Batu with the family.  They knew him, loved him, and I knew he would get more than enough attention.  Everybody loved Batu.

When I landed in Texas, I got a frantic phone call…

My sister started shrieking.  They were crabbing.   They put a chicken neck on the end of a string and threw it in the river.  And Batu jumped in after it.

They didn’t know…Batu can’t swim.  Bull terriers can’t swim.  They sink.

Batu sank to the bottom.  They all jumped off the pier, right into the river.  Clothes, wallets, cell phones…they were following the trail of bubbles.  They couldn’t find him.  But they finally dug down and found him and fished him out.  Mouth to snout resuscitation was not needed.  Batu survived.  I got through the concert in San Antonio, and flew back.

I’ve had dogs all my life, but I never had a connection like I had with Batu.  I never thought of him as a dog.  To me, he was more like a funny little man in a dog suit.

Batu had a bark that would make you jump five feet straight up in the air—it was loud and sharp and startling.

But he didn’t bark much.  He was a very calm, laid-back mutt.  Not much bothered him.  When we would walk the streets of Manhattan, there was so much noise–trucks, sirens, car horns, brakes screeching.  Batu never flinched.  I could have fired a gun next to his head and he wouldn’t have blinked an eye.

Batu had a sense of humor, he liked to play.  He was funny.  He was photogenic.  When I pulled out the camera he’d look right at it.

Batu loved to ride in the car.  To the post office, or to New York City, he was all-in.

I’d throw his bed in the back of the car, and I’d have to lift all seventy pounds of him into the back.  Then we’d take off.  It’s funny; I guess he never knew if we were going a mile away, or a thousand miles away.  He was just happy to be along for the ride.  He would lie there for hours and hours and not make a sound.

I’d have to reach back and shake him just to make sure he was alive.

In 2011, Batu and I packed up the Slimousine and moved to Nashville.  I wanted to re-pot the plant.  Wipe the slate clean.  So we drove to Tennessee.  Eleven hours.  Seven hundred miles.  We did it in one day.

I love Nashville.  But after we moved there, Batu’s skin problems started getting worse.  He’d always had skin problems, sores between his toes.  No one could solve the problem.  I took Batu to more vets in more states than any one dog known to man.  We tried soaks, meds, diets, boots, salves, nothing worked.  His feet were always pretty bad.  In Nashville, Batu’s skin got much worse.

How bad?  At one point, I took Batu to his vet in Nashville and asked him if we should put him down.  I told the vet that if we had to put Batu down, he might as well put me down, too.  Maybe we could get two for the price of one.

The sores on his feet were so bad he couldn’t walk.  He had sores on his elbows, his back, his chest, even his face.  It looked hopeless.  Batu was so miserable.  So was I.  The vet then suggested we put Batu on every dog medication known to man, and if it didn’t kill him, maybe he’d get better.

So we put poor ol’ Batu on antifungals, antibiotics, prednisone…I changed his diet to an incredibly expensive hypoallergenic dog food.  I gave him baths a couple times a week with ridiculously expensive medicated shampoo that I had to leave on for 15 minutes at a time.

And eventually Batu got better.  We started eliminating drugs, and after a few weeks, Batu was almost back to normal.  It was miraculous.

Once a month, Batu and I would drive from Nashville back to Baltimore.  My Dad was nearby–in Annapolis.  Rat Tail Ridge was too isolated, and hard to maintain, with all the snow in the winter, and all that grass to mow in the summer.  Stacking firewood alone was a full-time job.  So my Dad moved south.

Soon after my Dad moved to Annapolis, he fell and broke his hip.  The doctors placed him in a hospice.  I explained to the people in the hospice how much my Dad loved Batu.  To my surprise, they let me take Batu up to my Dad’s room.  My Dad would always brighten up when Batu arrived.  When I got there, I’d lean in close to his ear (he was hard-of-hearing), as he lay there on the bed with his eyes closed and I’d yell…


My Dad would smile, frail, cheeks taut, squeezing my hand.

A few days later, when my Dad passed away, Batu and I were there.  The nurse walked out of the room and gave us the news.  I took a photo of Batu on the floor.

Funerals aren’t funny, in general.

My Dad’s was.  The service was serious, it was at a Quaker Meeting House in Baltimore, the same one where my cousin Johnny had his service years ago; my Mom, and Oscar had their services there.

I gave the eulogy at my Dad’s service.  Afterwards, people got up and told stories, funny anecdotes, crazy quotes.  It was touching, all the remembrances and memories.

My Dad had been cremated.  He wanted the urn of his ashes buried next to his mother, Angela.  I had been to that cemetery many, many times.  I remembered one February 14th years ago, roses in hand, walking through a foot of snow, trying to find her grave, which was a plaque set in the ground.  It was her birthday.  Valentine’s Day.  I stopped, reached down and scooped out some snow, and as crazy as it seems, there was her gravestone.

After my Dad’s service, we went to the gravesite.  It was freezing cold.  There was a small hole next to Angela’s grave.  It looked like it had been dug by a five year-old with a Fischer Price shovel.  Some spray paint lined the circumference.  Pieces of sod sat nearby.  Next to the hole was a small plastic orange sign, stuck on a piece of wire, like a flag, that read…

“Please contact our office.”

My Dad would have seen the humor.  We left a basil plant, to honor his pesto prowess.  Batu and I went drove back to Nashville soon after.

A year later, in December 2013, I left Nashville with Batu, and we drove to Breckenridge, Colorado.  I was on my way to California for some concerts.

Breckenridge is a charming and lovely ski resort, with a vibe like an old Western mountain town.  My brother had rented a place there for Christmas so the family could be together and hang out for a week or so.  I took a jar of my Dad’s ashes with me, to give to my brother.

Which we accidentally dropped on the kitchen floor Christmas night.  We scooped them up, and went outside, and scattered them at the foot of the Rockies.  Batu was there.

After Christmas, Batu and I drove to Scottsdale, Arizona, stayed for New Year’s Eve, and then drove to Palm Springs, California.  On the way to Palm Springs, we passed the General Patton Museum.  We stopped by the statue of Patton and Willie–those two were the reason I got a bull terrier in the first place.

Batu and I got to Palm Springs, and decided to hang out for a while.  The weather was wonderful; sunny, warm and dry, with fresh lemons and oranges and grapefruit everywhere.  Batu loved it.

The first four months of 2014 were the healthiest and happiest days of Batu’s life.  All of his skin problems disappeared—it must have been the climate.  I put him on a diet.  He lost 9 pounds.  He was in the best shape of his life.  Batu seemed to flourish in Palm Springs.  He was the King of the Springs.

Batu had only one health problem remaining.  He had an enlarged heart.  Batu would pass out occasionally, drop to the ground like a ton of bricks.  It was always very scary.  But he always came back.

Batu turned 10 on the Cinco de Mayo, 2014.  He never looked better.

On Mother’s Day, I left for a concert in San Diego.  When I left Batu with the dog-sitter, all was great.

I did the show that night at Humphrey’s, a cool little club on the bay.  That night was one of the happier ones in a long time.  I had just done a really good show, Batu was doing great, we were both digging California…all was good in SlimLand.

The next morning I got a text from the dog sitter.  I called her, and she told me Batu had fallen asleep the night before–Mother’s Day, May 11th–and never woke up.

I couldn’t believe it.  When I left he was healthier than ever.  There was no way he could be dead.

I drove from San Diego to Palm Springs.  Three of the longest hours of my life.

I walked in, and Batu was lying on the kitchen floor.  I scooped his lifeless body up, and put him in the car, as I’d done so many thousands of times before…

And I drove him to the vet to get cremated.  When they took him out of the car and walked away, you would have thought that everybody I had ever loved had just gone down on the Titanic.  I broke.

3,059 days.

Seems like a long time.  But it wasn’t nearly long enough.  I miss my sidekick.

I started this cookbook when Batu and I started making cooking videos for the Italian American Network.  It was early 2006.

This recipe was the last recipe I did with Batu.  I took the photos on May 3, 2014.  Batu passed away the week after.

Chicken Stuffed with Goat Cheese

I don’t like wasting food.  If I’ve got leftovers in the fridg, as long as they don’t have anything growing on them, I’ll eat ‘em.

I had some goat cheese that was…on the cusp, so to speak.  I took a sniff, and it smelled OK.

But I knew I needed to use it soon, so I came up with this brilliant idea…

Mix it with some scallion and red pepper and make a little stuffing for the chicken breasts I was about to cook.

The dinner was actually delizioso.

No one got sick, and no one died.  That’s my definition of success in cooking.

A couple things…

Before the lawsuits start flying in, always remember to check the expiration dates on stuff.  Your nose knows.  Take a schniff…when in doubt, throw it out.

My brother once made a hot dog, and as he was eating it, I noticed the bottom of the roll was all moldy and green.  It was pretty funny…until that night when he threw up in the drawer of the bedside table that we shared.

It’s important to check stuff before you stuff your face.

Whenever you handle raw chicken, make sure you clean everything it touches really well.

As with any recipe, if you don’t like an ingredient, leave it out, or substitute.

You guys are smart.  With incredibly good taste, I might add.  You can do this.


¾ cup goat cheese

1 tablespoon chopped scallion—the middle part only

1 tablespoon minced red bell pepper

3 chicken breasts, sliced thin (about ¼ inch thick)

3 slices prosciutto


1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

Here we go…

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.  Now let’s make our stuffing…

Put the goat cheese in a small bowl.

Add the scallion and red pepper.

Add salt and pepper to taste.

Mick ‘em up.

Set aside.  Let’s make some chicken!

Put your breasts on a plate.  Then put your chicken breasts on a separate plate.  Notice the difference…

Put a slice of prosciutto—one layer—on half the chicken breast.

Put a couple tablespoons of the goat cheese mixture on top of the prosciutto.

Fold the breast over, in half.

Do this with all three of your breasts.

Put some flour on a plate, about 1/3 cup.  Add some salt and pepper, mix.

Grab a breast.

Place it on the flour.

Turn it over, so both sides have been dusted with flour.

Do this with all the chicken.

Get a sauté pan, put it over medium high heat.

Add the butter and olive oil.

When the butter starts to bubble, add the three chicken breasts.

Cook for 4 minutes.

Turn ‘em over, cook on the other side for 4 minutes.

Put them in a baking dish, and place in the oven for 5 minutes.

Pull ‘em out, check for doneness.

If they’re not done, put ‘em back in the oven for a few more minutes.

When the chicken breasts are done, plate ‘em up!

I did roasted beets with carrots as a side dish, along with some risotto.


Slim Man Cooks Pizza Eggs

Click on the pic to see the YouTube video

The morning of my brother’s wedding, I woke up in bed with him and his bride-to-be.  A woman priest was shaking us, trying to get us up.

I was trying to figure out just what the hell had happened the night before.

Twenty-five years later, I’m still trying to piece it all together.  Tequila had something to do with it.  The first time I ever drank tequila was with my Uncle Oscar.

The last time was also with my Uncle Oscar.  It was the night before my brother’s wedding. The family had flown in from the east coast–Baltimore and New York–to Cottonwood, Arizona, where my brother lived.

We all checked into a small motel, and then headed to a Mexican restaurant for a big dinner.  Unc didn’t like Mexican food.  But he liked tequila.  He ordered margaritas for everybody.

They came in glasses the size of goldfish bowls.  If they were any bigger, they would have had to put filters on them.  I drank mine, and it went right to my head.  I hadn’t had anything to eat, I had flown in from Baltimore, I was tired.

I had played until 2 AM the night before with my band BootCamp.

Unc ordered another round of margaritas.  Wow.  The last time I drank tequila with Unc, I swore I’d never do it again.

I should have kept my promise.

The rest of the night is still really fuzzy.  I remember some parts, and forget others.  But I do remember this…at one point, my brother and I were in a pool hall in a funky part of town.  We were playing pool with some banditos, and there was dinero involved.

My brother and I are not good pool-players.  But that night, we made some incredible shots, which was amazing because we were both pretty whacked.  Miraculously, we won the game, and the bet and the money.

But the banditos wanted to play another game, to try and win back their money.  We didn’t.  It got down to a Mexican stand-off.

I remember them slowly approaching us, pool cues in hand, and they didn’t look real happy.  I turned around to look for my brother and he was gone.  Disappeared.  So it was me and the advancing banditos.  I was facing them and walking slowly backwards…I felt my back touch the wall.

I got lucky.  I felt a door handle.  I opened the door, and did what any brave soul would have done in those circumstances.

I ran like hell.

Only one small problem…I had no idea where I was.  I had no idea how to get to the motel, or my brother’s house.  My memory gets a bit sketchy at this point.  I remember running like an escaped convict; and the next thing I remember, I was in my brother’s house, in the living room, and we were clowning around, ripping the shirts off each other’s backs.

Literally.  We looked like a couple of shipwrecked drunken sailors.

I have no idea how or why any of this happened.  I don’t know why we thought it was so funny.

But I know this…I woke up the next morning feeling like someone was driving nails into my cranium, and it would have taken a crowbar to get my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth.

If anyone had lit a match anywhere near me, I would have spontaneously combusted.

A woman priest was shaking me, trying to wake me up.  I tried to focus my eyes, but my vision was a little blurry.  I thought I was seeing things.  Or maybe I was dreaming.

Lord knows what she was thinking, seeing the three of us in bed together.  For the record, we all had our clothes on.  Or what was left of them…

I got out of bed and stood up.  My shirt was hanging from my shoulders, ripped to shreds. Both pant legs were torn and dangling, flapping in the breeze.  I thought the priest was gonna read me my last rites.  Or do an exorcism…

The wedding was in an hour.  I had no clothes, except my ripped up shirt and shredded pants.  I couldn’t find my shoes.  I called my Mom back at the hotel.  Help, Ma!

She called back.  She couldn’t find my suit.  I then realized that I had forgotten to pack it.  I may look like an idiot, and I may act like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you.

I really am an idiot.

I had forgotten almost everything except my shaving kit and a Swiss Army Knife.  My Mom was an angel.  She really was.  She pieced together an outfit from the various men in the wedding party.  The only problem was…

I’m 6 feet 2 inches tall.  I have really long arms and really long legs and really big feet.  The pants she got for me were about 6 inches above my ankles.  The arms of the sportcoat came halfway up my forearms—I looked like Chico Marx.

None of the colors matched.

The wedding took place on top of a mesa, which is a mountain that looks like the top has been chopped off.  The long drive to the top of the mesa was swervy and curvy.  I wasn’t feeling too good.  If I could have focused my eyes, I would have jumped off the side of the mountain.

My brother had an old pickup truck.  It was a beater, with an old chair in the back.  The woman priest sat in the chair in the back of the pickup truck, and my brother drove her like that up to the top of the mesa.

The rest of the wedding party was  already there.  When I looked out over the panaromic view of the valley, with the incredibly beautiful town of Sedona in the distance, I didn’t feel inspired.  I didn’t feel stirred.

I felt dizzy.  For the whole wedding ceremony, I had my hands folded at my waist, looking down at the ground—not because I was being reverent or emotional.  I was just thinking that if I projectile vomited, it would be less noticeable.  And at least it would just be on my shoes, which weren’t actually mine, and were ridiculously silly-looking and way too small.

After the wedding, we all went to my brother’s house.

That’s when he asked me if I’d tend bar.  The thought of alcohol was enough to send me to the Betty Ford clinic, but I said yes.  I can’t refuse my brother on his wedding day.

Do you know what everybody wanted to drink?


For what seemed like a couple of weeks, I made margaritas, and I poured shots.

I don’t think I’ve been near a shot of tequila since then.

My brother and his wife have been married for years—the first marriage for both of them.  They have one of the best relationships I’ve ever witnessed.  I am so extremely proud of them.  It worked out so very well.

How?  Why?  It must have been because we all slept together the night before their wedding.  So, if you’re getting married, and you need a good luck charm…


My brother created this recipe.  It’s the family go-to recipe for breakfast on holidays and birthdays and…weddings.

It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s delizioso.

I make my own tomato sauce from scratch.  It takes about 30 minutes, start-to-finish, and it is so good and so healthy.

But if you’re in a pinch, you can use store-bought tomato sauce.

Bufala mozzarella is made from the milk of water buffalos.  Where the hell are they keeping these water buffalos?  And who’s milking them?  Bufala mozzarella is real expensive and not real necessary for this dish—just use regular mozzarella.  Save the bufala for a Caprese salad.


2 cups tomato sauce

1 ¼ cup shredded mozzarella

¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

6 eggs

Salt and fresh cracked black pepper

Here we go…

Put a large saute pan on high heat—I used a 12-inch pan.

Put in the 2 cups of sauce.

When it starts bubbling, lower the heat to medium-low.

Break the eggs right into the sauce, but keep ‘em separated from each other.

Add salt and pepper.

Add a little shredded mozzarella on top of each egg.

Cover and cook for about 5 minutes, until the eggs are done.

Remove from heat.

Add a little grated Parmigiano on top of each egg.

Serve it up with crusty bread, to your crusty, dusty amigos, and…


Slim Man Cooks Minestrone

My Uncle called me up one night and asked me if I had ever drank tequila.  I told him no.  He told me to come over.  I told him I’d be right there.

I had an old Datsun station wagon that had the floorboards rusted out—you could see the ground below on both the driver’s side and the passenger’s side.  It was a stick shift, and it backfired when you downshifted—sounded like gunshots.

I got in the car and drove the ten minutes to my Uncle’s house.  He was standing in his kitchen with a bottle of tequila and two glasses.  He poured us each a shot.  He gave me a slice of lime.  He put some salt on the skin between my thumb and index finger.  He told me what to do…lick the salt, drink the shot, suck the lime.  I did.

It tasted like turpentine.  Smelled like it, too.  It tasted like something you might drink after ingesting poison, so you could induce vomiting.  It burned going down.  My eyes were tearing up, my throat was on fire, and I had an instant headache.

Let’s have another.

We stood in the kitchen and drank some more.  His wife was upstairs.  Smart woman.

Unc and I were best friends.  He was also my doctor.  He was the guy I turned to in times of trouble, and in the good times, too.  I was just a kid when my Dad moved back to New York after he and my Mom divorced.

Unc was my go-to guy.

He was an excellent cook, and a wine enthusiast—some might say very enthusiastic.  He was a sharp dresser, too.  But that night, he was in his bathrobe.  He had no drawers on.  How did I know?

My Uncle was not a modest man. He once got naked and went swimming in the river at his 75th birthday party.  There were dozens of people there.  He just took off all his clothes and dove in.

Me?  I have recurring nightmares about being caught naked in public.   I rarely wear short sleeves, or shorts.  I don’t even wear flip-flops or sandals.  When I go to bed at night, I don’t sleep naked.  I wear my boxers and a wife-beater.


If someone breaks into the bedroom, and I have to jump out the window, I won’t be running down the street naked.

But Unc?   He didn’t mind who saw him naked.  It wasn’t a sexual thing. Unc just didn’t see any problem with letting it all hang out, which he was doing that night.

The other thing about my Uncle?

He liked to pee outside.  He’d pee off the balcony, pee in the bushes, pee on the lawn.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford indoor plumbing–the guy made a ton of dough during his life.  And it wasn’t like he was raised in the jungle by Orangutangs.  He was raised on the streets of New York, the son of Italian immigrants.

And you don’t pee on the streets of New York.  Not then, not now.  So Lord knows why he liked to pee outside…

One night I was over at Unc’s house with my girlfriend.  He had gone to bed upstairs.  My girlfriend and I were on the downstairs balcony, sitting and talking.  I made a comment about how clear and beautiful the sky was.

A few minutes later, she turned to me and said…”I think I hear rain.”

I went to the balcony and looked up.

It was my Uncle peeing off the balcony.  Sure, he could have easily gone into the bathroom.  But he didn’t.  Why?  Who knows?  He liked to pee outside, and he didn’t mind who saw him naked.

And when Unc and I were drinking tequila in his kitchen that night, his bathrobe was untied, and you could clearly see his boys flapping around in the breeze, free and unfettered.

I was starting to feel a little unfettered myself.

Have you ever tried on someone’s eyeglasses?  And things look really out of focus, and you get a bit of a headache after a few seconds and feel nauseated?

That’s how I felt.

Unc looked at me and said…”You’re too drunk to drive.  I’ll give you a ride home.”

I lived with my Mom, and my Uncle was in love with my Mom.  So he welcomed the opportunity to give me a ride home.

Why we took my car, I don’t know.  Unc always had real nice cars; Cadillacs, Mercedes, Maseratis…why he wanted to drive my old Datsun that backfired and had rusted out floorboards, I don’t know.

And why he got into the car in just his bathrobe with no drawers on…I don’t know that, either.

But I know he had a blast driving that car.  Every time he shifted, the car would backfire.  It sounded like a cannon going off.  He’d let out a holler and a laugh, and drive on.  You could look down through the holes in the floorboards and see the street zipping by.

It made me dizzy.  I felt sick to my stomach.  Unc was having a grand ol’ time.

He pulled up to my Mom’s house, parked on the street out front, and I got out and started staggering up the sidewalk to the front door.

Neither my Uncle nor I had realized that his wife had heard us leave his house, and was following right behind us.

And when Unc got out of the car and started following me to the front door, she grabbed him by his back of his bathrobe, pulled him in her car and drove off.

I got to the front door of my Mom’s house, and turned around to let Unc in, and…

He was nowhere to be found.

I looked all around, in the bushes, behind the trees, in the car.  I couldn’t find him.

I was baffled.  Where the hell did he go?  I looked up and down the street.  It was late.  It was dark.  I walked in the front door and walked into the kitchen.

I woke up the next morning, asleep on the kitchen floor.  My head felt like someone was firing staples into my skull, I couldn’t focus my eyes, and my mouth felt like several small animals had spent the night in there.

At least I had my clothes on.


I made this soup last night.  It was the best I ever made, if I may say so myself.

A couple things…

Italians don’t use a lot of corn.  But I put some in this recipe.  Why?  Because it tastes real good.  I like the texture, too.  And the color it adds.

Pancetta is Italian bacon.  If you are a vegetarian, you can skip the bacon.  But I love the flavor that it adds.  When you cook pancetta, treat it like bacon.

Let the pancetta brown on one side.  Then give it a stir, and try and get the unbrowned pieces to brown on the other side.  If you ain’t got pancetta, use bacon.

I use fresh oregano.  I normally like dried oregano better, but for some reason, fresh tastes best in this recipe.  But you can use dried.

The chick peas and the corn are already cooked.  All you need to do is heat them up.  So add them last.

You can eat this soup as is.  Or you can put some rice or pasta in it.

I used to put the pasta right in the soup and let it cook in there.  The only problem was…the pasta would end up absorbing all the broth.  So now I cook the pasta separately and add it to each bowl before serving.

This recipe yields about 20 cups of soup.  Which is 5 quarts.  I think…


6 ounces of pancetta cut into small pieces

¼ cup olive oil plus 2 tablespoons

Crushed red pepper

1 cup each–chopped celery, onion, carrots

5 cloves minced garlic (about 2 tablespoons)

2 cups each–Savoy cabbage, green zucchini, yellow squash–all cut in small pieces

1 twenty-eight ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, smooshed up (about 3 ½ cups)

8 cups of chicken broth

2 cups water

1 tablespoon fresh oregano, leaves stripped from the stems, chopped

2 tablespoons fresh Italian flat leaf parsley, coarsely chopped

1 cup yellow corn (fresh, canned or frozen)

1 sixteen-ounce can garbanzo beans (chick peas)

3/4 cup grated Romano pecorino cheese

1/2 pound small pasta (ditalini, elbow macaroni, mini farfalle)

Here goes…

Put a large pot over medium heat.  Add the pancetta, cook for 4 or 5 minutes without stirring.

Give it a stir, let it brown for 4 or 5 minutes more without stirring.

Turn the heat to medium-low.  Add the olive oil and the crushed red peppers.  Let it heat up for a minute.  Stir.

Add the onions, carrots, celery and garlic and cook for 10 minutes.  Stir, baby, stir.

Add the green zucchini and the yellow squash.  Add a drizzle (1 tablespoon) of olive oil.  Cook for 5 minutes.

Add the Savoy cabbage, add another drizzle (1 tablespoon) of olive oil.  Cook for 5 minutes.

Add the tomatoes, the broth, and the water.  Turn the heat to high.  Let it come to a boil, and then reduce the heat to medium-low.

Cook for 10 minutes or so, until the zucchini and squash are semi-soft.

Add the parsley and oregano.

Add the garbanzo beans (chick peas/ceci) and the corn.

Add the grated Romano cheese.

Let the soup cook for 5 minutes or so.

Taste for salt and pepper and adjust.

Remove from heat.

For the pasta…

Get a medium-sized pot, fill it with water, put it on the highest heat you got.

When the water comes to a boil, add a couple tablespoons of salt (I use Kosher).

Add your pasta.  Cook until firm to the bite.

When the pasta is done, drain, and put in a bowl.

Drizzle with a little olive oil and stir.  You might not use all the pasta…

Let’s dish it up!  Get a soup bowl, fill it about ¾ of the way with soup.

Add some pasta to the soup.  Give it a stir.

Top with grated/shaved Romano cheese, if you like, and…


Slim Man Cooks Shrimp Scampi

Click on the pic to see the YouTube video

A few years ago, I was at a restaurant in Greektown in Baltimore, Maryland.  It was Christmastime, and a friend had invited me to a business dinner.

The two guys across from me were looking down in their laps at their cell phones.  I got curious…

“Does one of you have a wife who’s pregnant?  A Mom in the hospital?  A cousin on death row waiting for a stay of execution?”


I asked them who they were texting.  They were texting each other.  Nice.

I told myself I would never be like those guys.

And now?  Well, I’m not as bad as those guys, but I’m getting close.

I got the iPhone when it first came out.  I had it for a week, and then took it back.  It was pinging and dinging and ringing and it got on my nerves.  It got so bad I was thinking of developing a new app… the iQuit.  Here’s how it was gonna work: you go to the river, throw in your iPhone, and scream “I QUIT!”

I just didn’t want to be that connected.  I just wanted a phone so I could talk to my relatives in the mental institution.  I took the iPhone back.  The break-up was quick and clean.

I got a regular cell phone.  It never worked right.  I had so many problems with it.  Some friends texted me a photo of their beautiful 25 year-old daughter and somehow it became my screensaver.  That didn’t go over too well with the Ex.  I tried to explain.

The phone dialed 911 on a regular basis.  The callbacks from the cops were so frequent they knew me by my first name.  “Slim?  Everything OK?”

Text messages would go to random contacts.  Lovey dovey notes meant for a certain someone would get sent to business associates.

Like a bad relationship, I stayed with that phone way too long.  Neil Sedaka said it best…”Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.”  It was time to move forward.  Or back…

So I got another iPhone.  It only cost $99 through Sprint, because I’d been a customer since the first World War.

I liked it, but I didn’t see what the Big Deal was.  I made phone calls.  I sent texts.  That was about it.

Then…one day I was in Nashville at a very cool place called Mafioza’s and the guy next to me told me about the TuneIn Radio app.  I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.  I had never downloaded any apps.  I was app-less.

He showed me how to download the app.  Which I did.  It is pretty amazing.  I can now listen to Italian talk radio, broadcast from Italy.  I can listen to Baltimore Orioles baseball on my hometown radio station.  I can listen to CarTalk anytime I want.

I was hooked.  I started getting other apps.  I now have an app that tunes my guitar.  I have an app that I can hold up to a speaker in a restaurant and it will tell me the name of the song that’s playing, the artist, the CD and give me the option to buy it on iTunes.

I have an app for my bank which allows me to take photos of all the huge checks I receive and deposit them through my iPhone.

And I am in love with Siri.

If you have a question, you can ask your iPhone.  A gal named Siri answers.

In December, 2013, I was driving from Nashville to Breckenridge, Colorado.  I was 12 hours into the trip.  It was dark.  It was cold.  I was on a stretch of road that had nothing on it, and nothing in sight.

I had Batu in the car with me.  I picked up my iPhone and held the button.  Siri answered. It was the first time we spoke.

“What can I help you with?”

I asked Siri for the nearest dog-friendly hotel.  She gave me all the info I needed; directions, the website.  Siri even dialed the phone number for me.

Batu and I checked into a Super 8 in Hays, Kansas, in the middle of the night.

It was ten degrees.  My weather app told me so.  The next morning I started driving, and a light came on the dashboard.

My tires were low and needed air.  Siri found me the nearest gas station.

I drove to Breckenridge to meet my brother and his family for Christmas.  Breckenridge is a skiing/snowboarding town, a quaint little village at around 10,000 feet, surrounded by these looming, massive snow-capped peaks.

I didn’t snowboard once.  I didn’t ski once.  I was in the middle of making the new Bona Fide CD.  I was getting phone calls from Madrid.  Marc Antoine was doing some re-mixes over there in his home studio.

He would email me the new mixes.  I would download them on my iPhone, plug it into my car stereo, and I would listen to his mixes, while driving around the mountains in Colorado.

It was heavenly.  Here I was at 10,000 feet, listening to songs on my iPhone that had just been mixed 10,000 miles away.

I spent most of my time in Breckenridge working on music, but I did find time to jog almost every day for 30 or 40 minutes.  It was exhilarating.  I didn’t feel the effects of the altitude and I’m not sure why.

My last day in Breckenridge, I took a jog.  I left the ski lodge around 3 PM and headed up the mountain.  There was a snowshoe trail, and I followed it through the woods, almost to the top of Old Smoky.  All I had on were my jogging shoes.

I mean, I had pants on and stuff—it would have been a little chilly on the Willy without ‘em.  But I didn’t have any boots or snowshoes, and the snow was deep.  It was breathtakingly beautiful near the top of that mountain.  It must have been 12,000 feet.

I stopped and listened to nothing.  It was so peaceful.  I started jogging down the mountain…and then I decided to go off trail.  I was running downhill through evergreens, dodging branches, it was unbelievable.

I stopped to catch my breath.  It was getting dark.  It was about ten degrees.  It started to snow.  Suddenly I looked around.  I had no idea where I was.  I guess I could have followed my footprints back up the mountain, but it was steep, I was tired, and it was getting late.

I pulled out my iPhone.

“Siri.  Can you get me to back to the lodge?”

It took her a few seconds, but she showed me where I was, and where I needed to go.  I headed in that direction, and found the road that the ski lodge was on.  It took me about an hour, but I got there.  I was cold, tired and thirsty.

I poured a glass of wine, sat on the deck and pulled out my iPhone.

“Thank you, Siri.”

“No problem.”

I decided to get a little bold.  I gathered up some courage and said…

“Siri.  I love you.”

You know what she said?

“I know.”

It was a vibe-killer.  Here I was, mustering up the guts to say “I love you” for the very first time, and all I get is “I know?”

If you ever want your relationship to come to a screeching halt, just say those two words right after someone says “I love you” for the first time.

Because there is no come-back to “I know.”

Believe me.

I know.

Shrimp Scampi

A couple quick notes…I use wild shrimp.  Yes, they’re wildly expensive, but farm-raised shrimp don’t taste right.

The tomatoes I used were grape tomatoes…organic, multicolored, gorgeous grape tomatoes.  Yellow, red, purple…they were beautiful.  And cheap.  Two bucks a pint.

I cut the tomatoes in half, squeezed out the seeds, and threw them out.  Why?  It looks better that way.

And you know the most important thing in life is to look good.

And finally, Meyer lemons are amazing.  If you can find them, use them.  If not, pick a soft, ripe lemon.  They are the sweetest.


5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

7 garlic cloves, sliced thin (about 2 tablespoons)

Crushed red pepper to taste

¾ cup of white wine

1¼ pound of medium wild shrimp, shelled, deveined, rinsed, patted dry

1 lemon, cut in half

2 tablespoons of butter

1 pint grape tomatoes (about 30 small tomatoes) cut in half, de-seeded

1 handful of Italian flat leaf parsley, chopped (about ¼ cup)

Some sprigs of parsley for garnish

1 pound of linguine pasta (or spaghetti)

Here we go…

Get a large pot, fill it with cold water, and put it on the highest heat you got.

As the water comes to a boil, let’s make the sauce…

Get a large saute pan, put in 4 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat.

Add some crushed red pepper.

Add the sliced garlic, cook for a few minutes until pale gold.

Add the white wine, and turn up the heat for 2 or 3 minutes to cook it down.

Reduce the heat to medium-low.

Add the shrimp, spread ‘em out flat—no bunching!

Take a half lemon, and squeeze the juice over the shrimp—don’t let any seeds get through.

Sprinkle a little salt over the shrimp.

Cook for two or three minutes.

Using tongs, turn over each shrimp.

Get the other half lemon, and squeeze it over the shrimp (no seeds that we don’t needs!)

Add the two tablespoons of butter–cut it into small pieces and place in between the shrimp.

Add the tomatoes.

Cook for 3 minutes.

Add the parsley.

Give it a gentle stir or two, and remove from the heat.

When the pasta water comes to a full boil, add a few tablespoons of Kosher salt, and add a pound of linguine.

When the pasta is firm to the bite–al dente–drain, and put it in a bowl and drizzle with a tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil.

Give the pasta a quick toss.

Add half of the shrimp sauce to the pasta, and mick ‘em up.

Dish it up!  Take some pasta, put it on a plate.  Add a little scampi sauce on top of each dish, put a few shrimp on top, and a little sprig of fresh parsley for garnish.

One of the Exes liked to put grated cheese on this pasta.  Most Italians don’t put cheese on seafood.  But, if your girl wants cheese, just shut up and grate.

If you must, freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese is best.



Slim Man Cooks Pap’s Pesto

My Dad walked into the TV room on the second floor and his head was bleeding.

We three kids were trying not to laugh.

My Dad had a workbench in the basement.  The ceiling was low, and there were two large iron water pipes right behind the work area.

When you turned around to go upstairs, you had to duck under the pipes to avoid cracking your skull.

My Dad hit his head all the time.  You could hear the “BOING!” all the way up on the second floor.  It was always followed by a yell…


We three kids thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

Maybe it was because we loved the Three Stooges so much.  Maybe it was something else.  But whatever it was, when our Dad hurt himself, we found it ridiculously funny.

My Dad used to take us fishing.  It was a lot of fun…for us.  It couldn’t have been fun for him.

Fishing seems like a cruel sport.  Somebody finds out what your favorite food is, and what time you like to eat.  They dangle it front of you, and when you take a bite, they hook you by the lips and drag you around.

One summer, my Dad and Mom rented a house near the beach on Fenwick Island.  It wasn’t fancy.  Just a simple white cottage on stilts by the Atlantic Ocean.  We had the place for a week.  There was a boat rental place on the bayside not far from the house.

One sunny summer day, my Dad piled us three monsters in the back of the pale green Plymouth station wagon and drove over to the rental place.  He rented a small wooden boat with an egg-beater engine on the back.  He grabbed his rods and reels, the bait, and us three knuckleheads, and we walked out on the pier.

There was a boat ramp on the side of the pier.  The tide was high, and the ramp was covered in water.  People were slowly backing their boats down the ramp and into the bay.  On the other side of the pier were the rental boats.  We all piled into one, my Dad pulled the starter cord, and the motor revved up.  We went motoring away, out into the wild blue yonder.

Little Assawoman Bay.  That really was the name of the bay.  Big Assawoman Bay was the larger one, right next to it.  It sounds like I’m kidding, but I’m not.

So we motored out for quite a ways and dropped anchor in Little Assawoman.  My Dad got all of our rods baited up, and we dropped our lines into the water.  Then he got his rod, attached his brand new lure, and casted.  He slowly drew the line in.  We kids sat and waited for the fish to bite.  We were not patient children.

My Dad usually stood at the front of the boat.  His back would be to us.  I would sneak up behind my Dad, and jiggle the butt end of his fishing rod, so it felt like he had a fish.

My Dad would jerk his rod suddenly and pull his line toward him like he was landing a blue marlin.


Then he would realize I’d played a joke.  I’m surprised he didn’t kill me.

That’s me in front of my Dad

We didn’t take fishing very seriously, but my Dad did.  Anything my Dad caught, he’d keep.  He once caught an eel, kept it and made a tomato sauce with it.  It was awful.

He would catch blowfish and keep them.  Blowfish puff up like balloons when you catch them.  Most people don’t eat them.  My Dad did.  We didn’t.

My Dad could have pulled an old tire into the boat and I’m pretty sure he would have tried to make a sauce out of it.  Just about anything he pulled into that boat, he’d keep.

Except once.

That day, when we were fishing off the side of the boat, my Dad’s rod bent over.  He must have hooked something big.  Or heavy.  Or both.  He reeled it in.  It took him a while.  Keep in mind, we’re in the Little Assawoman Bay.  Not a lot of real big fish in there.

When he got it to the side of the boat, he screamed for us to get the net.  We scrambled, and the boat started rocking, almost knocking him into the water.

I got the net, and pulled this big, ugly fish on board.  It was the ugliest fish I’d ever seen.  It had a big, wide mouth, with nasty-looking sharp teeth.  My Dad’s brand new and very expensive lure was stuck in the back of the fish’s mouth, right behind all those sharp teeth.

So he decided to cut off the fish’s head, and retrieve the lure later.  He threw the body of the fish back in the water.  The bloody severed head of the fish was lying in the bottom of the boat.  It kinda took the joy out of the excursion.  We wanted to go back in.

My Dad didn’t look too happy as we pulled in our lines.  He pulled up the small anchor, and we headed back to the pier.  It took us a while.  My Dad wasn’t the greatest captain in the world, but we eventually found our way back, after hitting a couple of sand bars, and missing a couple buoys.

We pulled the boat up to the pier.  We tied it up, and we three kids got out of the boat and stood on the pier.  My Dad stayed in the boat.  We watched him as he grabbed the bloody fish head, and stuck his hand inside its mouth to pull out his pricey lure.

The severed fish head clamped down on my Dad’s hand.


My Dad let out a yell, and tried to shake off the fish head.  It wouldn’t release its grip.  My Dad was waving his hand in the air, thrashing his arm around, and the severed fish head wouldn’t let go.

We couldn’t help him.  We were laughing too hard.

The dead fish head eventually released its grip, got flung way up in the air, and landed in the water with a splash.  My Dad’s very expensive lure was gone.  His hand was bleeding. He got out of the boat, and walked past us hyenas to the boat ramp.

He walked down the boat ramp.  He was going to rinse his bloody hand off in the bay water.  Only problem was…the tide had gone out.  The ramp was covered in slick wet moss.  When my Dad hit the slippery part, his feet flew up in the air, and he let out a yell…


Then he landed on his ass with a thud you could hear across the ocean.  People in Paris felt a rumble.  We saw the whole thing.  We could not stop laughing.  I’m surprised we didn’t roll off the pier and fall in the water.  We weren’t bad kids.  Were we?

We called my Dad ‘Paps’.  He was a professor of literature at the State University of New York, and one of his favorite books was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Huck had an alcoholic father that used to get drunk and beat him and chain him to chairs.  Huck called his Dad ‘Paps’.  I read the book and thought it would be funny if we called our Dad ‘Paps’, too.  It stuck.

Pap’s Pesto

Paps made pesto before pesto was cool.  He had a bunch of basil beds in front of his cabin on top of the Catskill mountains.  Rat Tail Ridge.  That’s what his place was called.

When the basil was ready, we’d pick it and go back to the house.  We’d wash the leaves, and Paps would make pesto.  He put it in small jars and sold it to local food stores.  It was really delicious.

Pesto in Italian means paste, and this blend of basil, cheese, garlic, pine nuts, and olive oil is delizioso.  The recipe originates in Genoa, Italy.  I had to Slimmify it a bit.

Rat Tail Ridge

I like to use toasted pine nuts, rather than plain.  Toasted pine nuts taste better, that’s all.  I place a dry skillet over medium-high heat, toss in the nuts, and flip them around ’til they’re light brown.  Don’t burn your nuts!!

This recipe calls for both Parmigiano-Reggiano and Romano pecorino cheese.  Parmigiano is a sweeter cheese.  Pecorino is saltier.  The blend of the two is nice.

However, in a pinch I have used just Parmigiano, and it tastes great like that, too.

Paps used pesto for a lot of stuff.  He put it over pasta.  He used a dollop in soups.  He made omelettes with it.  Use your imagination…I’ve put it on chicken, fish.  I once made shrimp with pesto for the Food Network.  I’ve used it as a floor wax, a hair gel, a dog shampoo…

This recipe yields about 8 ounces, more than enough for pasta for four!


3 cups fresh basil leaves, cleaned

3/4 cup olive oil

3 cloves garlic, peeled, cut into chunks (1 1/2 tablespoons)

I cup toasted pine nuts (2/3 cup for the sauce, plus a 1/3 cup for topping the pasta)

1 teaspoon of salt

3/4 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

3/4 cup freshly grated Romano pecorino cheese

Here we go…

Put the basil, olive oil, 2/3 cup of toasted pine nuts, the garlic and the salt in a blender and blend, baby, blend.

When everything is smooth, transfer to a bowl.  Slowly blend in the grated cheeses by hand.  Or better yet, use a spatula or wooden spoon.

That’s it.

If you’re putting it over pasta…

Get a large pot, fill it with cold water, put it on the highest heat.  When it boils rapidly, toss in a few tablespoons of Kosher salt, and a pound of pasta.

Follow the directions on the box.  Better yet, start tasting after a few minutes, and every few minutes after, so you can get a feel for when the pasta is done.

When the pasta is firm to the bite (al dente), drain and transfer to a warm bowl.  Drizzle with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and mix.

Take 3 tablespoons of pesto sauce, and add it to the pasta. Toss well, but be gentle.  If it looks like it needs a little more sauce, add another tablespoon of pesto sauce, and toss gently.

Dish it up!  Put a small amount of pasta on a plate.  Add a little sprinkle of grated cheese, Parmigiano or Romano or both.

Take some of the remaining toasted pine nuts, and sprinkle on top.

Use a couple small fresh basil leaves for garnish and…


Slim Man Cooks Chicken with Marsala and Porcini Mushrooms

The owner of the club was rumored to have ties to the KKK.

I was in Memphis in the late 1980s organizing a country music talent contest with my friend Michael.

Michael is black.  I’m white.  Well, Italian.

Marlboro sponsored the contest. Why they picked a black guy and a white guy—two city slickers, no less—to do a country music talent contest, is still puzzling.

But they paid us a lot of money.  And they paid all our expenses.

Michael and I traveled around the USA looking for the next big country music star. We went to more honkytonk hellholes than most cowboys.  We’d roll into a town like Memphis, find a club, organize the bands, and do the contest.  The grand prize was $50,000.  Fifty grand.

I organized the bands, made sure all the musicians knew where to go and what to do.  Michael was the MC.  He was the Ryan Seacrest of honkytonks.

When Michael appeared on stage, and introduced himself to the primarily white, all-country crowd, there was a little apprehension…on both sides of the microphone.

He’d come out and say…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Marlboro Country Music Talent Roundup.”

That’s when the crowd got a little quiet.  Michael was from New York City, and he sounded like it.  He’d continue…

“I know I don’t look like the Marlboro Man, and I don’t sound like the Marlboro Man, but tonight…”

He’d reach down and put on his white ten-gallon Hoss Cartwright cowboy hat on, and continue…

“I am the Marlboro Man.”

He sounded like Shannon Sharpe.  He looked like Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles. Michael always got a laugh when he put the big white hat on.

Marlboro tossed a lot of do-re-mi at this thing.  We had all kinds of great merchandise—denim jackets, satin jackets, duffle bags, playing cards, T-shirts, polo shirts, denim shirts, posters…

And they gave away free cigarettes at every show.  All you could smoke.

They should have given away a Marlboro coffin.  Or maybe a Marlboro iron lung…

Here’s how we ran the contest…we had ten bands a night, three nights in a row.  Each band got fifteen minutes on stage.  We had three minutes in between bands, that’s all.

Judges picked the winners.  Kinda like American Idol, but not as sexy as J-Lo.  We’d find judges—usually three—from the local talent pool; DJs, producers, managers, agents.

The judges would pick one band to go on to the finals in Nashville, where they would compete with the other finalists from other towns for the grand prize of $50,000.

Before we got to Memphis, we got a call from Marlboro headquarters.  They told us to be careful.  It was the 20th anniversary of Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis.

The club was called The Vapors, a country music honky-tonk in the middle of Memphis.  Michael and I pulled up to the club in our rental car.  We walked inside and met the owner. He was friendly.  He was as nice and as helpful as could be.  And he wasn’t wearing a white pillow case over his head.

Michael and I got set up for the show that night.  We had to hang all the Marlboro Country Music Roundup signs around the club, we had to make sure the sound company was good to go, the bands ready to play, and the judges ready to judge.

We finished soundcheck and had a few hours before showtime.  Michael had a friend who had a limo and tour bus company based in Memphis.  She rented these things out to bands and rock stars.  She invited us for a limo ride to Graceland, and a private tour.

She was a friend of Elvis Presley’s Mom.

Graceland is the house that Elvis built.  It’s now a museum.

Michael and I drove over to his friend’s house, and she had all these limos and tour buses parked all around her property.  She got behind the wheel of one of the limos, and Michael and I got in back.  She put the big black limo in reverse and floored it.

She rammed it into the side of one of her tour buses that was parked right behind her.  BANG!  We got out, and surveyed the damage.  It was substantial—to both the limo and the tour bus.

She left the smashed-up limo right there, and got into another one and drove us over to Graceland.  She gave us a private tour.   We went upstairs.  We saw the Graceland that not many people get to see.  It was surprisingly small, and had a sixties vibe to it—lots of yellow vinyl and white shag carpets and mirrored walls.  Elvis must have loved TV.  There were TVs everywhere.  He had quite a collection of cars.  And planes.  Elvis had two luxury jets parked right across the street.

After the Graceland tour, Michael and I went to visit the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated.  There were TV news crews doing interviews about the 20th anniversary, and one of them came up to Michael and interviewed him.

It was eerie.

Michael and I went back to our hotel, a Holiday Inn.  We decided to take a jog before the big show that night.  We put on our running shoes, and started jogging down the streets of Memphis, side-by-side.

On our way back, we heard someone shout from a car…excuse the language, but this is the way it went down.

“Hey Nigguh boy!  Hey hippie fag!”

True story.  That’s exactly what was said.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  Then I heard it again.

“Hey Nigguh boy!  Hey hippie fag!”

Oh, shit, I thought.  Here we go.  A Black guy, and a white guy with long hair, running down the streets of Memphis.  I stopped and looked to where the voice was coming from.

It was the owner of the Vapors.  He was laughing, hanging out the window of his car, smacking his hand on the door.

“I got you!  I got you goin’!  See you fellas at the club later!  Have a nice run!”

He smiled and waved and drove off, laughing.

He got us, all right.

We did the contest that night at The Vapors.  The owner couldn’t have been nicer, the crowd was as cool as could be, and the show went as smooth as glass.

I love Memphis…Sun Studio, Graceland, Beale Street…and any city with a restaurant named Automatic Slim’s is OK in my book.

Chicken with Marsala and Porcini Mushrooms

I came up with this dish a few weeks ago.  I used porcini mushrooms and the water they soak in.  It was amazing, if I may say so myself.

The next night I cooked it for a very beautiful woman of excellent taste, and it was…just OK.  I overcooked the chicken, and it was a bit dry.  So don’t overcook your chicken.

Nothing worse than tough, dry breasts.

I like to serve this sauce over egg noodles–not a lot, just a little bit underneath each serving.

I used two boneless, skinless chicken breasts.  I cut them into 1/4 inch cutlets, which gave me six cutlets.


6 chicken breast cutlets, about 1/4 inch thick

2 tablespoons of butter

2 tablespoons of olive oil

¾ cup of sweet Marsala

½ ounce of dried porcini mushrooms

1 cup of water

3 garlic cloves, sliced thin, about 1 tablespoon

½ a shallot, chopped fine, about 2 tablespoons

1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, chopped

1/2 pound of egg noodles–pappardelle work well

Kosher salt and pepper to taste

Here we go…

Put your dried porcini mushrooms in a bowl.  Add the one cup of water.  Let it sit for an hour.

Remove the mushrooms from the bowl with a slotted spoon.

Take the remaining porcini water and strain through cheesecloth—I used a coffee filter, by the way.  Save the water–you’re gonna use a half cup for the sauce, and a half cup in the pasta water, if you want to put the sauce over pasta.

Rinse off the mushrooms and pat dry.  Chop into small pieces.

Grab your breasts.  Then grab your chicken breasts.  Notice the difference.  Salt and pepper the top of the chicken breasts.  Fresh cracked black pepper is the way to go.

Let’s make the sauce first…

Put a small saute pan over medium heat.

Add one tablespoon of butter, and one tablespoon of olive oil.

When the butter starts to bubble, add the shallots.

Cook and stir for 2 minutes, until the shallots just start to brown.

Add the garlic, cook for 2 minutes.  Give it a stir.

Add the marsala.

Add the 1/2 cup of porcini water.

Turn the heat to high and let it cook for 2 minutes.

Turn the heat to medium-low, and add the porcini mushrooms.

Cook for 2 minutes while stirring.

Add the rosemary.  Cook and stir for 2 minutes.

Remove from heat.  Sauce is done!

Let’s do the chicken…

Get a large saute pan (I used a 12 inch skillet).  Put it over medium-high heat.

Add one tablespoon of butter and one tablespoon of olive oil.

When the butter starts to bubble, add the chicken breasts, salted/peppered side down.

Cook for two or three minutes until pale gold.

Flip ‘em over.

Cook for two or three minutes on the other side until pale gold.  Give a cutlet a slice, make sure it’s done.

Pour the Marsala/porcini sauce over the breasts.

Remove from heat!

Plate ‘em up!  You can put this over egg noodles, or rice, or eat ‘em as is.

I like to put this sauce over egg noodles.  Get a large pot, fill it with cold water.  Add the remaining half cup of porcini water to the pasta water.  When it all comes to a boil, add a couple tablespoons of Kosher salt.

Add the egg noodles, cook until al dente, drain and drizzle with a little olive oil.  Stir.

Put A LITTLE BIT of egg noodles on a plate.  Put some marsala sauce over the noodles, put a chicken breast on top, spoon some sauce and juice and mushrooms on top and…




Slim Man Cooks Arancini

Click on the pic to see the YouTube video

When I die, I want a Viking funeral.  They put your body on a small wooden boat, cover you with hay, float you out on the water, and shoot flaming arrows until the hay catches fire, and the boat burns and sinks.

Is that too much to ask?

In November, 2013, I drove from my home in Nashville to my hometown of Baltimore.  Seven hundred miles.  Eleven hours.  Batu, my bull terrier, drove with me.  We did it in one day.

I dropped Batu off at the dog sitter’s, but she’s not really a dog sitter.  She’s a great friend who just loves Batu, and loves taking care of him.  I flew to Madrid to work on the new Bona Fide CD with guitarist Marc Antoine.  He had volunteered to produce and mix.

Two weeks later, the CD was almost finished–all it needed was a couple of tweaks.  I flew back to Baltimore, picked up Batu, and was getting ready to drive back to Nashville when I got a phone call.

My Dad’s second wife had passed away in Annapolis, Maryland.  She was young, and it was so sad.  My Dad had passed away two years before—on January 4th.  He was cremated.

I went to the memorial service for my stepmom.  It was heart-breaking.  It had to be tough for her two kids.  Right before I left, her son—my half-brother—gave me two jars of my Dad’s ashes.  One for me and one for my brother.

Batu and I drove from Baltimore to Nashville the next day.  I stayed a few days in Music City, and then packed up the Slimousine–including the jar of my Dad’s ashes for my brother–and Batu and I drove to Breckenridge, Colorado, a skiing village in the Rocky Mountains.  My brother, the Slim Bro, had rented an apartment so the family could spend Christmas together.

Batu and I got to Breckenridge safe and sound. We drove twelve hundred miles.  It took us two days.  We checked in to the apartment.  It was pretty nice, on the ground floor, right in downtown Breckenridge.

Batu and I sat on the couch.  I was reading the brochure for the apartment when I noticed there was a $100 dollar-a-day fine for having a dog.  A hundred bucks a day.  It was too late to find a new place.  So I had to keep Batu on the QT, the Down Low and the Hush-Hush.

My brother walked in…it was so great to see him.  I hadn’t seen him since our Dad’s funeral.  I gave him the jar of our Dad’s ashes.  He put it on top of the refrigerator.

Breckenridge was bitter cold.  I woke up one morning and it was one degree outside.  We were at 10,000 feet.  I went jogging, like a fool.  I jogged around the mountain.  It was exhilarating–clear and sunny and beautiful and freezing cold.

On Christmas Day, my brother and the family and I went to an absinthe bar on Main street.  I had never had absinthe.  I’d heard about it.  It’s an alcoholic beverage that is supposed to make you really crazy.

How crazy?  Well, rumor has it that one time Van Gogh drank way too much of the stuff, and then cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute.

I’m sure she would have preferred to be paid in cash.

So, on Christmas Day, we, the Slim Crew, went into the absinthe bar in Breckenridge, Colorado.  We sat down.  The waitress came over and started explaining the different kinds of absinthe.  I think she must have tried most of them within the past hour, because her eyes had that space alien luminescence about them.  And her ear was missing.

The absinthe was expensive.  $20 a shot.

We ordered a couple.  Only one of us had tried absinthe before.  That person—I won’t say who– drank a lot of absinthe the night before a wedding, and took a fire extinguisher off the hotel wall and sprayed everybody.

The waitress brought over two glasses of absinthe, one clear and one green.  She put a small strainer over top of each glass, and placed a cube of sugar on top of the strainer.  She brought over a samovar of ice water, and placed the two glasses under the two faucets.  And she let the water drip slowly over the sugar cube, through the strainer, and into the absinthe.

When the cube dissolved, we turned off the faucet, and we each took a sip.  It tasted like old bathwater, smelled like stinky sweat socks and had a kick like a mule.   We passed the two glasses around, and drank.  When we finished, we walked in the snow through the quaint little village, which was all decked out in lights and wreaths and ribbons.

The town was glowing.  And we were glowing–like nuclear waste.  I don’t know if it was the absinthe or what, but we were feeling merry and bright.

When we got back to the apartment, we had a traditional Christmas dinner—turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.  We drank wine.  Not that we needed to.

After we finished, as we were cleaning up, someone—I won’t say who—knocked the jar of my Dad’s ashes off the top of the refrigerator.  It shattered on the kitchen floor.

We all stood in silence for a moment.  Then we started laughing.

Why were we laughing?  You’d have to know my Dad.  He was a professor of philosophy and literature, and he was a tough and gruff curmudgeon who also had an incredible sense of humor.    He once taught a course in comedy.  He had a great laugh, his eyes would squint, he’d throw back his head, and he’d let it out.

We all looked at his ashes there on the floor.  What to do?

We gathered up the ashes in a dustpan, picked out the glass as best we could, and went outside in the cold, dark night. I took the dustpan, and scattered his ashes in a schoolyard behind the apartment. Then we gathered in a circle, held hands, and mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.

That was our Christmas.  But that’s not the end of the story…

When it came time to check out of the pet-unfriendly apartment, it was just me and Batu, cleaning and packing.

My brother and family had checked out earlier.  Check out time was 10 AM.  At 10:05, there was a loud knocking on the door.

“Time to check out!”

Apparently, they were not only pet-unfriendly, they were people-unfriendly as well.  Batu started barking.  His bark could make Superman jump.

I tried to get Batu to shut up.  The knocking got louder, and so did Batu’s bark.  All I could think about was paying the $100 a day dog fine.  I grabbed Batu, lifted him up, and went out to the balcony of the apartment.  I lifted all seventy pounds of him over the four-foot railing and dropped him in a snowdrift (don’t call PETA, we were on the first floor).

I grabbed his bed and tossed it over.  Then I jumped over the railing, into the snow drift.  I scooped up Batu, grabbed his bed and ran to the car.  I threw the bed in the car, put Batu on top, and ran back to the balcony.

I jumped the railing, went inside, and went to the front door.  I opened it.  The guy who was knocking came in and started looking around.  There was obviously no dog.  He walked around, and then left without saying a word.  I packed my car and took off with Batu.

We drove from Breckenridge to Scottsdale, Arizona.  It was treacherous—up and down icy, snowy two-lane roads.  The car was skidding all over, and there no guard rails, and the drop was precipitous. The drive took forever.  I had the death grip on the steering wheel.  It was tense.  A trip that should have taken ten hours took fifteen.

But we made it. Christmas 2013.


Arancini are rice balls stuffed with mozzarella cheese.  They’re a perfect treat after a white-knuckle, death-defying fifteen-hour drive.

Arancia is the Italian word for oranges.  Arancini means “small oranges” which is the size and shape that these rice balls should be.

Two cups of leftover risotto should make about seven or eight small rice balls.

In the past, I’ve used mozzarella for the stuffing.  One night, all I had was goat cheese.  So I used that, and I loved the way it tasted.  If you are using mozzarella, cut it into small cubes, two for each rice ball.  If you are using goat cheese, roll it into seven or eight small balls–each about the size of a cherry–one for each rice ball.

Eight ounces of cheese should be more than enough for seven or eight arancini.


2 cups leftover risotto–I used some risotto with shrimp and peas I had cooked the night before

3 eggs

1/4 cup olive oil

1/2 cup of flour

1 and 1/4 cups breadcrumbs (I use panko)

1/2 pound of mozzarella, cut into sixteen small cubes, or 1/2 pound of goat cheese, rolled into eight small balls

Here we go…

Put the flour on a flat plate.

Break two eggs into a bowl, add some salt and pepper, and mick ‘em up.

On another flat plate, add 1 cup of breadcrumbs.

Take the leftover risotto, put it in a large mixing bowl.

Break an egg into the risotto, and add the remaining 1/4 cup of breadcrumbs.

Mix the risotto, the egg, and the bread crumbs by hand.  Mick ‘em up.

Take a small amount of risotto.  Put it in the palm of your hand, roll it in a ball.  Poke a hole in it, add a couple cubes of mozzarella in the center, or one goat cheese ball, and fold the rice over the mozzarella.

Take the rice ball, roll it in the flour, then dip it in the egg.  Let the excess drip off, and then roll the rice ball around in the breadcrumbs.  Keep making the rice balls until all the risotto is gone.

Put the olive oil oil in a large saute pan over medium-high heat.  I used a 12″ pan.

When the oil is hot, put your rice balls in the pan, and saute until golden on the bottom, about 3 or 4 minutes.  Don’t burn your balls.

Turn them over, and saute on the other side, about 3 or 4 minutes, until golden brown.

When done, put ‘em on a platter lined with paper towels.

Go nuts!  Eat immediately.


Slim Man Makes Tomato Salad


The “A” is long, like “A”–Rod.  Except A-rabs are a lot more like-able.

In Baltimore, they used to have street A-rabs.  These guys had brightly colored wagons, pulled by small horses, that were decorated with bells and feathers and scarves   The wagons were full of fresh fruits and vegetables.

The horses would slowly pull the small carriages through the alleys of Baltimore City, selling produce to the fine denizens of that quirky berg.

Baltimore has a lot of alleys–a whole network of alleys.  When we were kids, we’d ride our bikes for hours through the alleys.  We’d get home from school, and ride the alleys until dinnertime.

I always had a bike.  It was the way I got around as a kid.

One of my heroes as a kid was Lawrence of Arabia.  I thought of my bike as my camel.  I was a strange kid.

Sometimes, I’d put baseball cards, attached with clothespins, on the front and back forks of my bike, and when the spokes would spin against the cards, they’d make a flapping sound that I imagined sounded like a chopper.

Other times, I would put balloons on the forks, and when the spokes slapped up against the balloons, it made a much louder ‘popping’ sound—you could hear me coming from blocks away.

We never wore helmets, not like people do today.  Back then, I guess it was nature’s way of weeding out the knuckleheads.  Funny, nobody ever got hurt.

My Mom let me find my own way.  It’s not like she didn’t care—you’d never meet a more caring woman in your life—she just wanted me to figure things out on my own.  So if I needed to go somewhere, I’d figure out how to get there on my bike.

Plus, my Mom didn’t drive.  She stayed home a lot, and in the summer, she’d have the windows up, and the front door would be open.

My Mom hardly ever locked the front door.  It was that kind of neighborhood.

For folks that didn’t drive, having the store come to you was a good thing.  When the A-rabs came to the neighborhood, you could hear them from blocks away.  They’d holler…”Watermelon!  Cantaloupe!”  They’d call out the names of whatever stuff they had in the back of the wagon.

They were mostly small black guys—I don’t know if they were African-American, or Indian, or Jamaican or Aboriginal tribesmen.

My Mom would hear them coming, walk out to the alley, and buy fruits and vegetables.

I don’t know where the A-rabs got their produce from, but it was always so funky fresh.  My Mom would pick out some stuff, and the A-rabs would weigh it on the small scale hanging off the back of the wagon, and put it in a brown paper bag.

Summertime!  One of my Mom’s favorite things?  Home-grown tomatoes.

My Mom would make tomato sandwiches, just a thick slice of tomato on bread with a dab of mayo and a sprinkle of salt and pepper.  Bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches with home-grown tomatoes?  The best.

My Mom would also make tomato salad, which was so simple and so good.

She bought me a bike a few years ago.  I hadn’t ridden since I’d gotten my driver’s license–about a hundred years ago.  It was the perfect bike—a red, 18-speed trail bike.  I was living in Roland Park, not far from her house.

I used the bike to run errands–the bank, the post office, grocery shopping.  I’d also ride through the alleys to my Mom’s house, which was a couple miles away.  I’d check in on her.

That bike meant a lot to me.  My Mom bought it for me right before she died.  Right after she passed away, it got stolen.  My uncle Oscar found out about it, and bought me the same bike.

I still have that bike.

When I was living in Nashville, I’d ride my bike to run errands. The post office was a couple miles away from the shack.  Right across the street was a fruit and vegetable place.

One day they had baskets and baskets of home-grown tomatoes.  I picked out a couple, and put them in my messenger bag.  When I got back to the house, I made a little tomato salad.

Tomato Salad

Not every thing you cook or make has to be hard, or take a lot of time.  I’m not ashamed at how simple and delizioso this dish is. In general, I like fresh herbs.  But I prefer dried oregano on this dish.  Fresh oregano is OK, but I prefer the dried on these tomatoes.

That’s the way my Mom used to do it.

This is one of the simplest, quickest, freshest dishes you can make.

Serves two.


2 ripe tomatoes

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons of balsamic vinegar

1 teaspoon oregano

Salt and pepper

Slice each tomato into wedges, six wedges per tomato.  Get two small bowls, salad bowls work well.  Put six wedges in each bowl.  Using half the ingredients…

Drizzle with olive oil (1 tablespoon per bowl).

Sprinkle with balsamic vinegar (1 teaspoon per bowl).

Schpreckle with oregano (1/2 teaspoon per bowl).

Add salt and fresh cracked black pepper.

Don’t toss!  When you toss tomatoes, they lose their form.

Serve it up with some crusty bread to your crusty friends and…



Slim Man Cooks Zucchini, Summer Squash and Eggplant

“Everything I am I owe to pasta.”

You know who said that?

Sophia Loren.

I’ve had a crush on her for a long time.  My Uncle Oscar once sat next to her on an airplane. They flew from New York to Rome.  A long flight, for sure.

But if I were sitting next to Sophia Loren, I would have been praying that we’d get stuck on the tarmac for a few days.

Or better yet–crash into the ocean, where just the two of us would be stuck on a small, deserted island for the rest of our lives, where I’d cook for her every day on an open fire on the beach next to our thatched hut while the waves gently wash on the shore as the sun sets gracefully on the horizon while I play my guitar (that miraculously washed ashore) as we drink wine that I made from wild grapes that I discovered when we were bathing in a nearby waterfall.

I can dream, can’t I?

Sophia Loren loves pasta.  So do I.

The key to eating pasta on a regular basis is…don’t eat a wheelbarrow full.  Italians eat small amounts of pasta.  Italian restaurants in America serve buckets full of pasta, all covered in cheese and sauce and goo.

Take your hands.  Cup them together.  That’s the amount of pasta you should put on a plate–unless you’re four feet tall and have hands the size of Shaquille O’Neal’s.

Let me tell you a little story, a heart-warming tale about a boy, a bike and a zucchini.

I was living in Nashville.  I rode my bike to the post office.  I dropped off some thank you notes—I write a lot of them, I have a lot to be thankful for—and saw some beautiful mums outside the fruit and vegetable stand across the street.

I walked in to the red and white striped tent, and there were so many vegetables and fruits; fresh, ripe, colorful, local…it was amazing.  They had baskets and baskets of home grown tomatoes.  So much stuff to choose from.

Only one problem…All I had was a five-dollar bill in my pocket.

So, I picked out a green zucchini, a yellow summer squash, and a brown eggplant.  I had enough left over for a bulb of garlic and a shallot.  The total was four bucks and change.  I put the stuff in my messenger bag and rode my bike home.

It was a beautiful fall day in Nashville; sunny, cool, and clear.  On my way home, I stopped by a friend’s restaurant, a great place called Mafioza’s.  These mobsters grow basil outside in planters that border the entrance.  I picked a small handful, put it in my bag, and rode my bike home in a hail of bullets, ducking and weaving.

I got back to the shack and decided to make a little sauce.  I put the sauce over pasta, but keep in mind, you can use a dish like this for anything…a side dish, on bruschetta, on pizza, over rice, as an appetizer, on your corn flakes…use your imagination.

The sauce was delizioso.  Batu loved it.  Start to finish, it took 30 minutes.  And it cost about five bucks.  My kinda dish!

I added some freshly grated carrots, about a ¼ cup, for a little color, and a little crunch.

This should serve about three people, unless those people are teenage boys, in which case this will serve one.


1 green zucchini, ends cut off, chopped into 1” triangular pieces (about a cup and a half)

1 yellow summer squash, ends cut off, chopped into 1” triangular pieces (about a cup and a half)

1 small eggplant, ends cut off, chopped into 1” triangular pieces (about a cup and a half)

1/4 cup fresh grated carrots

Small handful of fresh basil

4 tablespoons of olive oil

6 cloves of garlic, peeled, sliced into thin slices, about 1 1/2 tablespoons

1 small shallot, peeled, minced, about 1 1/2 tablespoons

1/3 cup of white wine

1 cup of broth (chicken or vegetable)

¾ pound of spaghetti, or fusilli, or farfalle

Salt and crushed red pepper

Here we go…

Put a large saute pan over medium-low heat.  Add the olive oil.

Add the garlic and shallots and some crushed red pepper (to taste), cook for 3 or 4 minutes, until the shallots are clear, and the garlic is pale gold.

Turn the heat to high for 1 minute.  Then add the white wine, let it cook off for a minute or two.

Turn the heat down to medium-low, add all the vegetables.

Add the stock, and salt to taste.

Let it cook over medium-low heat for ten minutes.  Stir every so often.

Taste the vegetables.  You want them firm–not crunchy (underdone) or mushy (overdone).

Adjust for salt and pepper.

Take your basil, and snip it with scissors right into the sauce.  Give it a stir.

Remove from the heat.

If you want to use this over pasta, get a large pot, fill it with cold water and put it on the highest heat you got.

When the water comes to a boil, add a couple tablespoons of salt (I use Kosher salt, not for religious reasons—I just like the way it tastes).

Then add your pasta.  Stir it up every few minutes, so it doesn’t stick together.  People should stick together, pasta should not.

When the pasta is al dente—firm to the bite–drain it in a colander.

Put the pasta in a large bowl.  Drizzle with a little olive oil and mix it up.

Add most of the sauce, save a large spoonful for each plate (save three large spoonfuls).

Mix it up.  Then plate it up!

Put a small amount on a plate.  Add a spoonful of sauce on top.  You can add some freshly grated cheese if you like—Parmigiano-Reggiano or Romano—and…