The persistence of memory…

The Persistence of Memory is a haunting painting by Salvador Dali which is well-known for it’s images of melting clocks set against a strange, angular, somewhat apocalyptic backdrop.  It is one of the most well known paintings in the world, a touchstone of surrealism.  Most people assume the painting is quite large, although the opposite is true, as it is 9.5″ x 13″.  The first time I saw it in person, I was struck by not only the size, but the intensity of the painting.  The colors were both striking and subdued, and the technique downright eerie.  I was also intrigued by the name,  The Persistence of Memory.

Memory and time are two subjects that fascinate me.  I am blessed with an abundance of memory, it seems, but a dearth of time. The two stand in opposition to each other.  Memory, the past, is the ticking metronome which informs the future.  It is the days gone by which are just out of reach, but can never be recovered.  I often find myself thinking that it seemed like just yesterday, when in fact it was 20 years of yesterdays ago.  Memory can be comforting and suffocating.  It connects you with people that have long left you.  It also can freeze you — the high school quarterback or homecoming queen trapped in the amber of their greatest accomplishments — those who peaked early and never moved on.  Memory is resistance to change, or the impetus for it.  It is the reason that thirty year olds are living like twenty year olds, long after college has passed; it is also recognizing mistakes and learning from them, if you are lucky enough to be blessed with perspective as well.  Memory is in fact persistent.  It can sear you with the pain of something that you are removed from by fifty years.  It can take you somewhere you can’t go physically, but put you in the exact spot.  It is our only true defense against time, and we spend a great deal of time trying to preserve it; we write, read, take photographs, preserve, curate, and even create Facebook pages in the interest of capturing time, trying to curtail it.

In the end, time always wins.  We know that early on in life.  Time is a strange quantity too, because it is life’s most important asset, but you never know how much you start with and how much you have left.  It is ethereal.  We go to great length to measure it, but it is really unquantifiable.  It is unidirectional, always moving forward with little regard to the past.  It works hand in hand with memory, but dismisses it as well.  We try and control it, by planning out the hours of our days, but really time has no master. The older I get, the more I realize that it is time I want.  Time to spend with my loved ones.  Time to work on my craft.  Time to create the memories that will comfort me in my hopefully older age.  In the United States, we spend a great amount of time pursuing money in the hopes that it will buy us more time.  It is a funny way to look at things in my opinion.  When I think about getting ahead, I think not about what is in the bank, but the days I have left in the tank, and hope they are days well spent.  I suppose I want to use this time to create more more memories, persistent as they may be…

Superfluous…

One of the issues that vexes me is our society’s penchant for giving a position of prominence to people or things of little value. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Lady Gaga dominate the headlines in this country despite the fact that they contribute little to nothing other than lurid fascination.   The same people that pour over the lives of these “celebrities” can’t name more than a handful of elected officials or find  Vietnam on a map.  We stand in line for the newest Playstation, but won’t stand in line to vote. We care more about Facebook friends then people that we meet in real life, and we get our information in sound bites, tweets, and from comedians.  We seem to lack the seriousness to “digest” a newspaper.  We care more about how the issues are framed then the issues themselves.  We invest in hollow promises pandered by politicians because they feel good, not because they are based in reality.  Then we find ourselves disillusioned by these same leaders as our hope fades and the change we were expecting never arrives.

Yet instead of confronting the harsh realities that face our country in these times, we continue to remain rapt with the inane and imbecilic.  The headlines still focus on Lindsay’s bail and Paris’ nasty coke habit, or dresses made of meat when half of the world starves everyday.  Our students keep falling further and further behind the rest of the industrialized world academically, but lead it in hours spent on Facebook.  The dreams that our grandparents fought so hard for are withering in the light of a generation born standing on home plate and never questioning how they got there, entitlement a birthright in our times.  All the while, slowly and steadily, the things that really matter are slowly slipping away amidst the distractions we call truths in our time…

The cynic in me is the cynic in you…

As I have gotten older I’ve realized I rarely accept things at face value.  Part of that, for sure, is experience.  As a child you believe what you are told.  Why would someone lie or have ulterior motives?  You are taught the value and the importance of the truth, usually while being lied to by adults the whole time.  This gradual jading — which begins with finding out about Santa Claus and is exacerbated by failed high school romances, college disappointments, and workplace backstabbing — takes it toll over the years.  In my case, I have gotten especially dubious about all things, but especially when it comes to the very rich and charity.  I just have a hard time buying the altruism.

This is not to say I don’t think the donations are a good thing.  I do.  No one really needs to have a personal fortune greater than half the African continent, so any time one of the uber-wealthy gives any amount, it is worthwhile.  I guess it is more about the perception.  This all hit me this morning when I read that Mark Zuckerburg, the founder of Facebook, had given $100 million to the Newark School System.  As a descendent of born and raised Newark grandparents who has spent a fair amount of time in the city, something just seemed off to me.  First, the timing.  A very unflattering movie about Zuckerburg is about to come out, as well as a new issue of Forbes which now ranks him above Steve Jobs in wealth, and suddenly he has become the most charitable man in America.  It just doesn’t seem right to me.  Then the choice of Newark itself, which as someone who was born and raised in Queens, Zuckerburg has no real connection.  Did he try to choose what he thought was the most downtrodden city in America? One can only guess.  I could probably offer him places in greater need of help, but as a NJ resident I’ll gladly take the extra money.

And that leads me to the money itself.  Giving $100 million dollars for “education” certainly seems promising, but what does that really mean?  Does that means the money is going to go to school improvements and textbooks?  Is it going to teacher’s salaries? Or is it going to the police to help bust gangs and drug dealers to get kids to school safely?  Money has never been the problem in NJ.  We have one of the highest tax bases in the United States.  The problem is implementation.  And corruption.  And a urban culture that has become both morally and financially impoverished.  And an industrial base that no longer exists…. I could go on, but I think my point is apparent.

Thus, while I appreciate the gesture, it almost seems hollow.  The rich like to throw money at things and feel good about themselves.  The boots on the ground, who are in the trenches day in and day out and never really see the effects of the money, much less receive the accolades, are in an unwinnable war.  Still, keep sending the money, because maybe eventually we will have the leadership and the courage to use it for the greater good, and we can change our hearts, minds and country… one cynic at a time.

Back to the drawing board…

I have always hated working for other people.  I make no secret about this.  Punching the clock is not and has never been my thing. It is not because I am lazy.  Far from it.  I will work from sunup to sundown  for something I believe in.  It has more to do with the culture the workplace in general.

I have always been the kind of employee that looks after my employers interests as they are my own.  I put a great deal of pride and effort into my work.  The one thing I will not do, however, is cut corners in the interest of saving money.  It is your job to run the business, my job to do the work with the proper craftsmanship and pride.  The customer shouldn’t suffer because of mistakes that were made do to carelessness or poor management.  This attitude has often run me afoul of supervisors who are all about the bottom line.  It probably doesn’t help either, that in the past I have had a somewhat scornful attitude towards many bosses, who seemed to hang on despite being decidedly less capable.  I was told I had to learn to play the game better.  In my mind, I am not at work to play a game, I am there to do a job.  When I can’t do it the right way, that’s it, I am done.

Now I have the opportunity to either do something on my own, or take another job, and I am truly torn.  Smart money says take the job.  I need the money.  I have some small projects that are keeping me afloat, but not nearly enough.  On the other hand, I don’t want to get into another situation where I am unhappy.  I have always wanted my own business, and there is never really a right time to do anything risky, just better and worse times.  So now it is back to the drawing board again.  No matter which choice I make it will be a hard one.  Hopefully one seems clearer than the other…

Built to Last…

I have a Lodge Cast Iron skillet.  It is a modest cooking utensil by any standards.  It has a permanent patina, a crust if you will, created through years of seasoning that gives it a natural non-stick quality.  It is heavy.  Really heavy.  It often requires two hands to lift, especially if it contains a cornbread or some similar weighty fare.  It is equal adept at frying chicken or making a black roux, in the hands of the right cook that is.  It is the Kathy Bates of my cookware, decidedly unsexy next to the Bridget Bardot-like colors and curves of my French pans, yet solid, versatile and durable.  More importantly, it is built right here in the United States in South Pittsburg, TN, and it is built to last.  Someday I hope to pass it on to my own son, and it will probably last his lifetime as well.

I think often about how disposable our society has become, and how my Lodge skillet stands in stark contrast to this trend.  The amount of waste created in America is mind-boggling.  From paper towels to plastic bottles, appliances and electronics, America has increasingly become a throw away society.  When I was a kid, I still remember the TV repairman fixing our television.  The idea of throwing it out and buying a new one was not even on the radar.  This was only twenty-five years ago.  Now many people buy a new set every time the technology changes, whether they need it or not.  This speaks to the idea of necessity in general.  I often argue about the difference between want and need, although many don’t really differentiate the two.  Increasingly, I think the two have become confused.  While I may want an IPhone, the absence of one from my life doesn’t constitute any real loss, as I don’t measure myself against others in terms of money or possessions; the problem that exists is that many people do. Americans are going into debt to make sure they have the right phone, the right car, the right shoes, etc., choosing ignorance and profligacy over education and economy.  We have become enraptured with fads and styles over substance.  We pander to the lowest common denominator, glorifying people and things that have little intrinsic value or social worth.  We are addicted to the cheap and superfluous.

This “addiction” is manifested in our shopping habits.  We would rather buy cheaply made, abundant foreign products than pay more for products made in the United States.  Some of this, I realize is out of necessity.  When you are counting every penny, every purchase becomes a major decision.  I guess I am saddened that this decision often means buying low-grade discount food and foreign made goods at a Super-Walmart so you can still buy a Playstation.  I also realize our choices, when it comes to American-made products, have become very limited.  We have systematically dismantled our industrial base, and now largely rely on imports to stock our shelves with the good we once proudly made here.  Whole towns have died in the process, never retooling to the new reality of the American service economy.  While we consume more than ever, we are producing at an all time low.  As anyone from a farmer to an economist can tell you, this is a recipe for disaster.

This brings me back to my skillet.  It is as far from superfluous as you can get.  It is rock solid, a tool with which to create.  If I take care of it — if I am a good steward of it — it will last me forever.  It was forged in a small town in the U.S. where they still make things, and that makes me happy too.  While others may wish to always have the newest and sleekest things, I am comforted by the heft of my aged skillet as I make a roux for my gumbo or sear a perfect steak.  It is solid and lasting in a world which seemingly is not.  It is old friends and family to me.  It is the memory of everything that used to be, and I still believe, can be again.  It is heavy, a burden not to be taken lightly, but which can create magic in the right hands.

Labor Day and the American Dream…

Uncle Elger and Aunt Betty’s house was on a small street of a mid-sized New Jersey factory town known as Linden.  It was modest, as most houses in Linden are; a ranch house with a quarter acre of property that sat unassumingly on an unassuming street.  The mid-sized, fenced in backyard that was host to our family’s baby showers and barbecues and everything else in between was still neatly trimmed, although the garden that was in perpetual bloom lay silent this year.  While Uncle Elger had passed away six years previously, Aunt Betty had only passed away this winter, and the house that still bore her countenance, was preserved exactly as I remember it save the new siding and roof.  It was here, on the Sunday before Labor Day, that my family was once again gathering for a backyard party — a family reunion that seems to occur all too infrequently these days and always seems to be marked by the absence of one more person, although sometimes marked by the joy of new additions as well.

I pulled up to the house with my son and my fiancée after winding my way through the streets of the old neighborhood and I couldn’t help but be overcome with emotion.  The little town of Linden, which had always been pin-neat, looked run down.  As are many of the towns in NJ’s rust belt, Linden’s best days look clearly behind it.  Once the home to a thriving and industrious middle class — a middle class who were the factory workers, auto workers, refinery workers, truckers, laborers, etc. — the people who did things and built this country, Linden now looked tired, as if the years of hard labor had taken their toll.  These thoughts poured over my mind as I looked at the small house on Hussa Street that for many years had epitomized the American Dream.

As was common in days gone by, the house next door to my Aunt and Uncle’s belonged to their daughter.  Family stuck much closer together back then.  We walked up the narrow concrete path to her house, and were greeted warmly.  We walked through to the backyard, and then opened the gate that separated the two properties.  I found it funny, in some regards, that a gate even existed, and that a fence separated the backyards that were always used in tandem at these family parties… close but not too close I guess.  We were the first to arrive, and we helped set up for the rest of the guests, our side dish, sausage and peppers already in the oven.  Tables were brought out, tents constructed, coolers wheeled into place, and the gas and charcoal grills readied for action.  Slowly, guests started filing in, aunts and cousins that greeted me as if they had known me forever, although I only had a dim recollection (if any) of them.  It started a little slowly, as these things often do, but soon was rollicking, as the old days were relived, and as the food and beer started to flow.  One particular topic of discussion was the great finished basement of Aunt Betty and Uncle Elger’s house.  Everyone told me I had to see it before I left.

A finished basement was a sign of upward mobility during the 50′s, 60′s and 70′s, as homeowners would make the most of their small lots.  It was the original man-cave, made of wood paneling, always with a bar, and if large enough, maybe even a dart board or a pool table.  As I descended the stairs into my Uncle’s basement, I could see his was a particularly fine example of this period.  The walls and columns were made of knotty pine, and a small wooden bar graced the far corner.  A TV was in the near corner, opposed by couches.  It had a small poster near the bar with recipes for the classic cocktails of the day illustrated on it.  In the far corner of the bar a Ballantine Ale neon sign hung, looking as though it hadn’t been lit in more than a few years.  It was eminently comfortable, and even had it’s own half-bath tucked away.

The basement was perfect to me, although by today’s standards, it wouldn’t be considered much.  It was modest, yet maybe explained the story of my family better than any other room in the house.  It told the tale of hard working people who were trying to carve out a life for themselves in the shadows of the great factories.  About Sunday afternoons spent with family, the men discussing the games over a few beers, while the aunts and daughters sat in the shade of the backyard.  It was where we rejoiced after births and mourned after wakes.  I don’t really have the words to say it all, but being in this basement on Labor Day weekend was profoundly moving to me.  This was what the whole labor movement was about.  It was not necessarily about people trying to get rich, but merely get something.  Something they could call their own.  And they didn’t expect to get it through any other means than hard work and sacrifice.  They never complained, even in the face of  hard hours; they didn’t complain because it was never about them.  It was about the family as a whole, and making life just a little bit better and easier for the generations to come.  This basement was the antithesis of the rampant greed that seems to be so commonplace today.

My mind racing with thought, I knew that I  needed to return to the party, although I could easily have spent the entire evening alone in the basement.  I slowly walked up the stairs to the side door of the house and out into the twilight air.  I thought to myself that this house would be on the market soon, and most likely the basement would be altered.  I felt a twinge of pain at this, and wished that I could sell the basement, intact, to the Smithsonian.  It belongs in a museum, as it represents a time and a spirit in American life that I am not sure exists anymore.  It also represents a desire I have in myself, to find this small place, this basement, where my hopes and dreams can modestly flourish in the shadows of the Goliath… remember all those who have worked to diligently to give us this better life.

The Passage of a Year…

I awoke uncomfortably this morning, a dream waking me earlier than normal; it wouldn’t have been a particularly memorable dream except for the fact that I was having a conversation in the basement of my parents house with my cousin Andrew, who committed suicide last year.  I awoke slightly startled, put on a pot of coffee, and came over to the computer to search this blog.  My thoughts were confirmed:  it was almost a year to the day when I posted my first entry, which incidentally enough was about the suicide of my cousin.  I have no idea if this was in my subconscious, if my cousin came to me to let me know he was alright, or if it was the result of too much red beans and rice and Abita before bed, but it got me thinking… a year has passed… what are the contents of a year.

The traditional measure of a year starts on January 1st and ends December 31st, but I realized this is probably not how most people measure time, and certainly not how I do it.  I measure a year from the events that have occurred in my life; my birthday; my son’s birthday; the anniversary of my marriage and my divorced; my time spent at my current job; and, I guess, somewhere in my mind, the death of my cousin.  So there I lay, startled and awake, thinking about the events of the past year in my life… starting with the death of my cousin.

My cousin ended his life last July; that was probably the reason I ran to the computer to search the date; it couldn’t possibly have been a year already.  It was however… in fact a little over a year.  In my own self-absorbed manner I realized I never even sent a note to his wife, but honestly, it still seems like it was just the other day.  I still remember the last message he sent me on Facebook, and I knew there was something wrong, but I never expected what was to come.  When I finally pulled up my first post on this blog and saw it was over a year ago, I was dumbfounded.  The passage of time was a blur, and somewhere in this blur was me, still pushing forward even though I was stuck in the past.

Then my thoughts turned to my son, who is not with me this week, but instead down at Long Beach Island with his mother and her extended family enjoying another week at the summer house.  Has it been a year already in his life too.  Last year at this time he was a toddler, and a timid one.  Now he is a strapping little boy, 40 inches tall and almost 40 lbs. that can talk in complete sentences and read books by himself at three years old.  He has also become my little pal, as I have spent the last three years caring for him daily until I left for work.  I will never say the past three years were easy, as I averaged 5 hours of sleep a night so I could be with my son, but they were my most worthwhile.  Now this too is coming to an end, as he is about to enter an all-day pre-K program in September, and I am about to move into a different phase of my job.

The job occurred to me too.  It has been 2 1/2 years for me here, standing in front of a hot stove nightly, pounding out food, expecting the best of myself and everyone around me, and now it too has changed.  I was offered a position in management, which means much less cooking and much more paper pushing.  Honestly, I am not sure how I feel about this.  I love cooking, but it is hard on the body and the mind.  It can consume you.  I was honestly ready to leave my current job in the fall for something more academic, like a job at one of the cooking schools in the area, and probably would have if I hadn’t been offered this position.  Still, I am unsure of myself and how to manage this new position.  It is somewhat foreign to me.  I am a cook’s cook.  I love talking food, reading about it, making it, and eating it.  Now I will be a manager, the boss of people I consider friends.  I suppose the only way I can do this is my way:  to lead by example and hope for the best.  This wasn’t even on my radar a year ago…

And along with the aforementioned, I met new friends; lost old ones; watched my team win the World Series once again; celebrated holidays; cooked fish on Christmas Eve; celebrated marriages and the birth of children; mourned for dear old friends and childhood heroes; suffered along with family; visited new places; found my style, got engaged again myself; and am expecting a new niece or nephew… all this in the passage of a year.

Is an American…

Years ago, when I was on a trip to the former Soviet Union, I was accused of being British.  When I asked why, the Russian people told me that I was too polite and well-mannered to be American.  At the time, I thought that was cool.  When you are sixteen, you think a lot of things are cool.  To be considered British was to be considered sophisticated and cultured, or so I thought.  Being American, you were the ugly and crass world traveler.

On some level, I spent many years denying the fact that I was American.  I traveled mostly abroad, in Europe (it is somewhat embarrassing how woefully little of the United States I have seen) and claimed my Irish or Italian heritage in international sports.  There was something, it seemed, inherently uncool about being an American.  Something to be ashamed of or denied.

This is easy to do living in the New York City area.  Everyone, it seems, is from somewhere else.  You walk down the streets in certain neighborhoods and you are more likely to hear Cantonese , Spanish, or Arabic than English.  Exotic foods and products are available from around the globe.  Multiculturalism is embraced on a scale that is probably seen nowhere else in the United States, and this is not a bad thing.  One byproduct of this cosmopolitan culture, however, is a feeling of superiority over other parts of the country, such as the South and Midwest.  People in NYC have it all figured out, and other parts of the country just don’t get it.

I have to admit that I have felt this way in the past myself.  Although I have never lived in NYC, I was from NYC by proxy by living just outside it all my life, and that gave me the superiority complex that all NY’ers have, even the ones that come from Kansas and Oklahoma.  But recently, over the past few years really, my attitude has changed.  I don’t think we have all the answers up here.  I have gotten out into the country, our country more, and seen some things and met some really good people, and realized many of my assumptions were wrong.  More importantly, on some levels, I’ve embraced my Americanism more than ever before.

Why now, after all these years, you might ask.  Well, things like this just happen sometimes, especially when you fall in love with a girl from Louisiana, and more specifically from New Orleans.  Because of her, I have had the opportunity to spend time in New Orleans and Southern Louisiana, and have not so quietly fallen in love with not only a person, but a place and it’s people as well. In Louisiana I learned that things don’t have to happen immediately; that spending time in the company of good people and good food is far more important than money; that music can really save your soul; that culture, continuity and tradition are good things, not something to be derided; and that despite what we think up here, there are other places in the world with good restaurants.  I have to say, I fell for it immediately and hard.  I fell for the uniqueness of a place right in my own country, in a part of the country I have never thought much of previously.  I fell for it in a way that I had previously only reserved for Paris or Galway, and I sensed a change in myself.

The events happening currently happening in the Gulf have only galvanized my feelings.  Americans are notoriously generous when foreign disasters occur, yet when an epic disaster occurs on our own soil, even our own politicians try to apologize for the inconvenience BP is causing, and the benefits and charity drives are few and far between.  Almost as if we are embarrassed. Embarrassed in who we are, and helping ourselves.  It is always the other guy, it seems, and as long as it is the other guy, it is okay.  As an American, I say this is wrong.  The need for a sense of brotherhood has never been more important!  That oystermen that just lost his job is that finance guy that lost his job and that farmer who lost his farm.  They are all us.  Until we realize that as a nation, we will never be a truly great nation again.

As I am writing this, by the way, the US team has just scored the game-winning goal over Algeria in the World Cup.  I am proudly rooting, not for Italy or Ireland this time, but for the United States!  And I get the sense that others are too.  The last time the World Cup was played, the performance of the US team was something of an embarrassment.  This time, they played heroically, even in the face of officiating adversity.  I walk the streets and see more US jerseys and less foreign jerseys than ever before, even in NYC.  When that goal hit the back of the net, I was more excited than I have been in a long time over any sporting event, including my beloved New York Yankees winning the World Series.  And I realize, I am not just proud of a team, but the country it represents.  And I am not always proud; sometimes I am appalled by the way we treat our poorest and weakest in this society; sometimes I am saddened by the violence and despair in our culture; I am often angered by the corporate greed I see; and often dismayed by the ineffectiveness and corruption of our government; and yet there is no place I would rather live.  I love my country, and maybe that is why in the past I felt embarrassment, because I hold us to a higher standard!  At any rate, I see hope.  If we can all root for the same team, even for a few weeks, maybe we can all pull together… I certainly hope so, because otherwise we are lost, and the promise that we are yet to fully deliver on lost too.  This is what I am thinking as I watch my freshly hung American flag flutter against the backdrop of NYC outside of my window…

I’m still here!

I haven’t written in a while, I realized today, and I got upset.  Part of that has been the stress of day-to-day life:  raising a son, potty training said son, working 50-70 hour weeks,  meeting family obligations, and a little travel mixed in as well.  Part of it has been my preoccupation with world events, and a sense of feeling overwhelmed, and maybe even a little depressed.  One thing I can say, however, it is definitely not because I have run out of things to say.  On the contrary, words, thoughts, and ideas have been percolating inside my mind.  Thoughts fermenting, roots taking hold, things happening in my brain that are only now become focused enough to write about.  And write I will.  Because I am still here.  There are plenty of people who are not.  And because I am still here, I have to honor the memories of those who are not, and keep fighting.  We are up against it right now in this country.  We have a disaster of epic proportions in the Gulf, an economy that is in the tank, a food supply system that is deeply flawed, and a healthcare system that serves everybody but the people.  People are feeling increasingly powerless, and without voice; it seems as if a few big boys are handing down all the decisions for us, while we have less and less control over our own destiny.  What power do we have?  I don’t know, per se.  What I do know, however, is I have this voice, and this page, and that I am still here.  That just may have to be enough…

Recipe for Salmon Cakes

This recipe is for the salmon cakes I made the other day; this general ratio will work with crab as well, although you may need to add more binder as crab is less oily than salmon.  Also, the garnishes for crab would be different (that would be the diced veggies inside, I like to used red bell, jalepeno, scallions, lightly sauteed).

Ingredients:

16oz Salmon, cooked

1 Apple, peeled and cored, small dice

1/2 Leek, whites and light green, washed and finely chopped

1 celery stalk, washed and small dice

1 lemon, juiced

1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

2 tsps. Thyme, freshly minced

1 egg

2 cups breadcrumbs

Method:

Preheat the oven to 350.  Saute apple, leek, and celery in butter and olive oil over medium low heat until soft, but has no color.  Allow to cool.  In a medium bowl, flake the salmon apart with two forks until it is in small chunks.  Add the egg, the dijon, the lemon juice, the thyme and fold together.  Season with salt and pepper.  Add cooled, sauteed garnish as well, and fold until the ingredients are incorporated together.  On a baking sheet or a large plate, spread the 2 cups of breadcrumbs.  Form the salmon mixture into four aprroximately 4-5 oz. balls, squeezing to remove excess moisture, and roll around in the breadcrumbs to coat completely.  To finish, saute the salmon cakes in olive oil in an oven proof pan until lightly browned, and then transfer pan to oven, turning the salmon cakes once until a golden brown color is achieved, and the salmon cake is heated through, approximately 10 minutes.  Serve with a tablespoon of country dijon mustard, a nice side salad, and a glass of sancerre or chardonnay.  Enjoy and please provide me with feedback as to the accuracy of the recipe.