Back to Los Angeles; Or, the Situation of My Meatloaf

Hello again. It seems eons have passed since I last wrote, and since Jenifer and I ventured to L.A. and back again. And eons since I’ve been able to get back to actual screenwriting. But now that my protagonist is nearly out of Norway and facing the ice storms of December, I guess I can let you in on my recent doings.

Our trip to L.A. was an exploratory journey in two senses: establishing relationships and scouting locations for the move. I pitched to some industry types I’d met through the Austin Film Festival or online channels while Jenifer visited a number of neighborhoods to see where we might unload our belongings, at least initially. There’s still no definitive timeframe for either effort coming to definitive, tangible conclusion, but the sense of imminence, especially on the move, could not feel much more imminenty.

Any trip requires appropriate preparation, and, boy, was I prepared. I Google-Mapped the hell out of my various destinations, triangulating every conceivable pathway between them. I wasn’t going to be stranded in Beverly Hills Adjacent, nosiree.

Another key part of the pre-trip prep (trep?), especially for screenwriters with needy, anxious metabolisms, is food. So, I thought to myself, I’ll make a meatloaf. (Or as Eric, the only other mortal to sample it, likes to call it, meatcake. It is somewhat dense.) This would be a simple way of preparing multiple, portable servings of savory and economical protein to be enjoyed whenever the grumblings arrived.

THE SETUP

I had mixed the ingredients the night before so that I would be able to pop it in the oven for the requisite 90 minutes of cooking time before going to work. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, this is also the exact amount of time it takes me to get ready in the morning.

7:00 am—the all-important Time of Departure for an eastbound white-knuckler on Route 422—was fast approaching and the meatloaf was finally finished. I pulled its bubbling mass from the black maw of the fire pit and placed it on the counter. I would cut this thing to pieces, I would, and I selected a J.A. Henkels steel blade for the deed. A blade forged, not coincidentally, in Solingen, Germany, the heart of medieval swordmaking.

I’m not a licensed volcanologist, so take this observation with a grain of sea salt, but cutting a meatloaf before it has cooled will generally result only in frustration and a steaming pile of ground beef.

I had failed to take into consideration the required cooling time. I was late. I was sinking deeper and deeper into the rush-hour maelstrom. There was no choice, therefore, but to fuss and stomp and scream to the heavens for an exemption of basic thermodynamics just this once. Ryan mad! Ryan smash! These actions, of course, are also subject to the laws of physics and therefore occupy linear time.

Jenifer waited patiently, laughing all the while, as I collected my scattered things and thoughts and whatever dignity I once possessed . . .

THE PAYOFF

Later, having survived another day deskbound at the Sphere and having been whisked to the airport by Tom's Taxi Service, I found myself hungry for dinner and realized to my horror that my trusty bag was a little too light and unbulky. There was my stack of Google maps, my USB drive, my copies of Breakfast With Sharks and the I Ching, but little else. Certainly no box of meat. It was gone. Destroyed by the Empire.

A quick survey of the corridor revealed no Death Squad Commanders or other agents of evil, so I considered the possibility that my meatloaf was in the trunk of Tom’s car. So far he hasn’t said otherwise. Maybe I’ll get an irate e-mail in another week or two. Or maybe I'll end up the unfortunate subject of one of Tom's stand-up routines.

I’d like to say that Jenifer and I had a good laugh over the whole affair, the futility of stressing out, the nonsense of getting worked up over nothing. The irony. And we did. And then we bought some eight-dollar wraps.

IMPLICATIONS

Implications, implications. I don’t know, maybe because I got all my anxieties out early, the trip was productive and fun. I also wasn’t confronted with the challenge of eating crumbly beef bits with my fingers while airborne and eavesdropping on the tales of an honest-to-God French Foreign Legionnaire speaking in a David Blaine-esque monotone. Did you know that for breakfast they have a piece of bread and a bowl of coffee and then go for a 20-kilometer run?

We managed to get from our hotel—featured in last night’s episode of CSI: New York—to all of our destinations with ease. The industry folks I met with were generous, supportive, and interested, and also really cool people. One of my meetings was held at Elixir Tonics and Teas, a tranquil Zen oasis tucked away on Melrose.

Our last night in L.A. we had dinner at Toi on Sunset with fellow writers Shawna and Warren. I had met Shawna at Austin in October, and Warren through The Artful Writer, where he was an early champion of the teaser video Tom and I made for our script American Jedi. The next morning, we had a sun-drenched breakfast with Fun Joel at Delice, a French bakery, before heading to the airport. We had a great time, and were thankful for a sense of the community awaiting us. Even without the meatcake, I did alright.

POSTSCRIPT: THE RECIPE

I can’t leave you hanging. So here is the recipe for Ryan’s Authentic Meatcake for Superheroes (six servings).

Ingredients (amounts approximate):

½ cup raw milk

2 organic, free-range jumbo eggs

½ cup Trader Joe’s Double Roasted Salsa

½ cup Amy’s Premium Organic Family Marinara pasta sauce

½ organic pepper (yellow, orange, or red), chopped

Several shakes Trader Joe’s Coarse Sea Salt

6 grinder-turns Trader Joe’s Black Peppercorns

Dash Frontier Seasoning Blends Mexican Fiesta

Several squirts Woodstock Farms Organic Stoneground Mustard

2 lbs. organic, grass-fed ground beef

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Assemble all these pretentious ingredients, in order, in a big-enough casserole container and mix together with your hands. They will get quite cold. You can always imagine that you are playing with fresh Tauntaun guts. When you’ve produced a uniform mass of red stuff, place in the oven. Let cook for 90 minutes. Get ready for work. Write a scene or two.

When the time is up, remove and test the temperature. When it reaches 160 degrees F, let cool for a nice long while. Cut in half and then each half in thirds. Or cut crazy shapes if you like. I don’t care. It’s your meatcake.