1986 Honda Shadow 500cc. Shaft-driven. Only 7500 miles. Damn me for being short 1500 dollars.

So, my life continues to be rather minimalist. Still with no valid photo ID or ATM card, I do in fact have money, but no means to get it out of the bank. The problem is thus: I asked for a new card to be mailed to me when I changed my address at the branch downtown, but the banker I talked to mentioned he'd have to first change my address, wait a day, and then order the card so it wouldn't be shipped to my old address. Obviously the bastard forgot to do that, because I called the bank yesterday and the order was never placed.

All is set right now. I'm going to get a new ID soon, I got some cash so I could eat and not die, and I yelled at my bank. Enough about bills: I'm going to talk about cooking now.

Sautè is exhilarating. And clean. No tempura batter, deep-fryer, sticky rice. I sear fish in an almost scientifically precise way--the oil in the pan must be a certain quantity, an exact temperature, the fish must hit the pan the perfect way, and be turned over flawlessly, or it will stick/fall apart and look like hell. It's all a matter of being in tune with the laws that govern the products you work with. Blanch your rissolè potatoes too long, and when you sautè them they'll stick to the pan and be a pain in the ass. Add your garlic too early, and it will absorb the residual heat of the pan and burn, even without a flame. Sear duck breasts too hot and you won't render any fat out, etc. It's true that you get a feel for it, that there's a subjective intimacy with your equipment and food that you acquire. But it's all just the mastery of a craft, a science, using facts and technique to put out some good shit.

I've also got to say that it's a bit more dangerous, unexpectedly, than working the fryer. My first week I was nervously searing and flipping halibut fillets, and had an unsavory habit of rinsing the flesh off my forearms with hot oil. Also, attached to the range is a shelf that we keep all the pans on--it's the grill cook's job to take the clean ones out of the window and put them away. During a big party when I had six all-clad sautès on the range, all with fish in them, my buddy reached over with some still-wet pans and dripped cold water onto all six of my burners, creating a five-foot inferno before my eyes. Luckily I saw it coming and ducked by the steam table behind me, but considering all the junk I was working on at the time, it unnecessarily made me more on edge than I already was. In any case, with some experience under my belt now, the number and intensity of the burns on my hands and arms have lessened a bit.