So, what's with the hat?

The name of this blog is Under My Hat, which has a couple meanings. Most of what I say has double meanings, but that's another blog.

1. Under My Hat refers to what's going on in my head at any particular time. Since my brain is inside my head, and my head is Under My Hat, it seemed a natural title.

2. Keeping something under your hat means to keep a secret, kind of implies this stuff is just between me and you. Since there are currently two people following the blog, the secret is well kept.

3. Under My Hat references one of my for-better-or-for-worse trademarks. I love hats. Real hats. Sure, I'll slap on a ball cap from time to time when convenience or the situation calls for it. But take note of the term "ball CAP"-- it says right there it's a cap and not a proper hat.

I don't feel properly dressed without a hat. Yeah, it's old fashioned, but that's not a bad thing. People at work know I'm in the building because they see The Hat sitting above my desk. I always know where my keys are, because they are in My Hat.

My main Hat is brown, well-travelled, dusty, and a bit beat up. It is my unashamedly disreputable hat--it gets crushed into carryon bags, covers my head in the rain and wind and dust and hail and NERF darts and snow and falling rocks and whatever else the world has thrown at us. Because that's what a Hat is for.

I respect what this lid does for me, and, as such, even capitalize it--it is The Hat.

The Hat is an Akubra Federation fedora. Made out of real critter fur, by Australians who know a thing or two about making long-lasting, durable, and good-looking hats. They've only been up to it for about 100 years, after all.

Yes, it is an Indiana Jones hat--but a good one. It's NOT like some of the licensed ones, with the wrong materials, the wrong structure, the wrong lining, the wrong brim, the wrong, well... everything. Akubra made this one with the classic 30s styling, broad brim, quality critter fur materials under it, and it came with a high, open-crown, meaning it could be bashed into whatever shape works for my head. Sure, it's a good Indy hat at its core, but its first-and-foremost My Hat.

What something looks like, or reminds you of, is an aspect of that thing. Since perception is reality, the connotations of The Hat are part of what it is. You may look at My Hat and think "Indiana Jones!" or of those great movies you saw as a kid, or connotations of adventure, or sneers of "fan boy!" It's all good.

In a world of generic fashion, of hipster uniforms, of ubiquitous jeans-and-t-shirts, and the fashion-of-the-month, I enjoy wearing items with a long personal history, and typically immediate recognition. It may be a kilt, or a pair of boots an extra wore filming "Saving Private Ryan," or The Hat. Something you see and know "there's a story behind that."

Yes, with me, there's a story behind EVERYTHING.

The Fire, The Meat, and The Rum

We had steaks planned for dinner, and today, the charcoal Weber called to me. For convenience, I often wuss out and use the gas grill, but not today. Today called for FIRE. The real stuff, with smoke, and sparks, and ashes.

Stuffed the charcoal starter chimney with newspaper, poured the charcoal in the top, and... hmm. No matches. Look in the kitchen drawers. Nope. Look in the bathroom. Nope. But I did find my flint-and-steel kit in there.

You ask: why do you have flint-and-steel in the bathroom? I... uh, nevermind.

Couple good strikes of the flint, and a bit of puffing, and I had the charcoal going. Steaks came out great. Even toasted up some buttered sourdough slices. Mmm.

But I had all this perfectly good charcoal burning. Shame to put it to waste. In the depths of the freezer, I dug up a forgotten beef roast. Didn't bother thawing it. No time! There were perfectly good charcoal BTUs going to waste! On the grill it went with a glorious hisssssss. Closed up the lid, and enjoyed our steak dinner.

Checked on the roast after dinner, and it had a nice sear going. The coals were going strong, glowing with content that their heat was appreciated and useful. When I flipped the roast, the meat, too, hissssed rejoicing its freedom from the frigid plastic shroud. Here, with The Fire, it became its true self--The Meat.

In the fullness of time, The Meat was wrapped in foil, resting and awaiting the glory of sandwiches and dinner to come on Monday.

And The Fire, again it called to me. But what to do? Then The Love Of My Life spoke: "What's for dessert?" Hmm, dessert, indeed.

Inspiration struck, and out came the cast iron dutch oven. Sliced up a bunch of apples, stirred them into the cast iron with brown sugar, cinnamon, and a little water. But something was missing... something... ah, yes. The Rum. A generous splash of The Rum, and then another for good measure, and we returned to The Fire.

As I arranged the coals around, and atop The Iron of the dutch oven, The Fire again released sparks of joy. The Iron, The Rum, the sweetness, the sour, the magic, thickened and coalesced beneath The Fire.

And it was good.

The Fire has cooled, and the ashes bear mute testimony to the evening.

The Fire, The Meat, The Iron, The Rum.

Dammit, now I have to do The Dishes.