loud chirps / small gecko

The Myth of the Wee River Beasties

2011-03-26T11:07:00.003-04:00

Twilight on the frozen river

Our pursuit of the elusive rainbow smelt has become somewhat of a winter tradition--a futile one, but a tradition nonetheless. We've changed locations, camps, and rivers; battled snow storms, extreme cold, and unseasonable thaws; and we've gone from cheap cans of beer and failed experiments with Chelada, to a sampling of various New England craft brews. We still haven't enjoyed much success, though it is fishing, after all. Success is relative.

Smeltglow

This year, we rented a larger (5-man) smelt shack at a new site: Webb's Store in Randoph, Maine, which was basically a small gas station that sells beer, various kinds of jerky, beer [sic], and those God-awful bloodworms. I think they sell gas, too. It also rents smelt shanties, which are located on the frozen river directly behind the store. According to Paul, we would be fishing "on the Mainstem of the Mighty Kennebec! We will be near the head of tide, or rather just down stream of it, across from Gardiner and the esteemed Cobbosseecontee Stream." I had no idea what this meant, but the Internet told me that Randolph is the smallest town in Maine, geographically speaking (about 2 square miles). Fishing for small fish in the smallest town seemed to make sense.

The intense glare of the smelthunter

We arrived at our hotel in downtown Portland, ME on Friday afternoon, after a quick pitstop at the Portsmouth Brewery, halfway between Boston and Portland, and discovered the 2 “queen-sized” beds were made for hobbit queens, and no one seemed to be able to locate the hotel's roll-away bed(s). There would be 3 of us staying there and our cozy room was not for the mansqueamish.

Sisyphus of fishermen

The next evening, in our smelt shanty on the frozen river behind Webb's Store, we cut up our terrible little blood worms into tiny pieces, baited our tiny hooks, drank beer, listened to Muddy Waters, cooked kielbasa and onions in a cast iron skillet on a kerosene heater, ran out of beer (but made "last call" at the store to replenish our supply), and felt slightly uneasy by the occasional loud cracking sounds that the ice made outside. Alas, we did not catch smelt. Four hours on the ice, the tide came and went, and not one of our 15 lines moved even slightly. Their inexplicable elusiveness over the past few years has made the little buggers almost mythical. We did not catch any centaurs either, by the way.

Bloodworm carnage (and Hugh)

Worn out and slightly drunk from 4 hours on the ice drinking fancy, high alcohol beers, we headed back toward Portland. We lost one member of the group to drunkeness (we're far too old for this kind of reckless behavior) and another to an illness that hit him earlier in the day, however, two of us caught a second wind. We went to have "one more" beer, at Novare Res only to find out that their "3rd Annual BONJOUR--We're really not f@#king around (but we love you and want you to be happy)--FEST" meant that everything on tap was 9% alcohol or higher. This was not the ideal way to end the night.

Hugh poses with his streptococcus

Sunday was a bit hazy. We woke late, and went to breakfast at the usual joint, deciding on the way that we would not be tempted to order their delicious homemade donuts in addition to our breakfast, then ordered them anyway. Who can resist the "Elvis" with peanut butter and banana filling? We returned home, days passed, and the memory faded, until one day, LSB informed me that there was a surprise for me in the fridge. Turns out that smelt are not mythical. They do exist. They're available at Whole Foods.

Pictures from a young, new year...

2011-01-20T15:25:00.002-05:00

Hello, 2011. So glad you're here. We've been expecting you.

Replaced the previous message: "HOLIDAYS MEAN FAMILY. WE SELL LIQUOR." (Another SAV-MOR classic: "WINE FOR MOTHERS DAY. BECAUSE YOU DROVE HER TO DRINK")

Carnage from a 4-year-old's birthday party

The Piggly Wiggly (Bloody Marys are better with bacon)

Shucking last year's oysters

Istanbul (not Constantinople)

2011-01-11T17:11:00.002-05:00

Note: I had planned to write this post a while back, but thought that writing about Turkey (the country) so close to Thanksgiving might tempt me to make a few corny jokes. Sometimes I can't help myself, it's in my blood. So, I waited. Now LSB is pestering me, so it is time...

The final stop on my 4-day, London-Paris-Brussels-Istanbul trip was here, a megacity that straddles East and West. There is a curious geography at play here, as the city itself is subdivided by several bodies of water—the Golden Horn, Bosporus Strait, and Sea of Marmara—and sits on two continents, part in Asia and part in Europe. I was excited, as I've always wanted to visit Turkey and I really like maps.

There are also less tangible divisions: religious and secular, traditional and modern, Eastern and Western, beautiful and kind of annoying. It is a city of incredible architecture, delicious food, mosques that used to be churches that used to be mosques, modern, European-style shopping districts, ancient subterranean cisterns, spice markets and bazaars, carpet-sellers, hustlers, and palaces once lived in by sultans (you know, the guys with eunuchs and harems). It's a complicated place.

The section of the city known as Sultanahmet sits on a peninsula--the Golden Horn on one side, the Sea of Marmara on the other, and the pointy part reaching out and touching the beginning/end of the Bosporus. This is the “old town,” and clustered in close proximity are an incredible amount of postcard-worthy sites--you could sit directly in front of the Aya Sophia and look across a small park at the Blue Mosque. Both are almost indescribably impressive, yet there they are, only a stone's throw away from each other, dueling domes and minarets.

As this is where most of the tourists congregate (i.e. me), this is also where most of the people who prey on tourists hang out. Wandering from mosque to mosque, there is a continuous flow of approaching hustlers (“hello sir, where you from?”) looking for an easy money-making opportunity from the bewildered guide-book clutching masses (yes, I was one of them). I was offered food, carpets, shoe shines, directions, and tours; and while walking around a quiet corner I was even badgered by a barber who shouted out to me—in the midst of giving someone else a trim—and offered to cut my hair. Okay, I was in need of a haircut, but this seemed to be extreme.

On my second day in town, after my morning coffee, sour cherry juice, and assortment of fresh cheeses, I strolled to a little park on a hill between mosques and sat down on bench to observe The Hustle. I kept my map in my pocket in an effort to blend in as best I could (I wouldn't say that I actually look Turkish, but I wore my best scowl) and sat for several pleasant, hassle-free minutes, watching the hordes of American, British, German, and Spanish victims get picked off like it was some kind of bizarre video game (“I take you to the Blue Mosque, it is much better” “Deutsch? English? American?” “Hello, do you find Istanbul beautiful?” “Please, sir, I show you the best carpets.” “Spice Market? Grand Bazaar? I take you.”).

Contemplating my next move, I discretely (so I thought) slipped the small, folded map out of my pocket and noticed, at the edge of my peripheral vision, a man seated on a nearby bench twitch. I put the map away, stood, walked down the hill and noticed him beginning his gradual and angled approach, matching my stride and not looking at me until he was right beside me: “Excuse me sir, are you looking for the cistern?”

Once I got used to the hassle of the hustle (to be honest, it was actually kind of entertaining), I found Istanbul enjoyable. I drank raki and enjoyed nargile (apple and mint) with a colleague. I had a proper tea service on a high hill on the tip of the peninsula overlooking the confluence of the three bodies of water. I took a boat trip up the Bosporus and wandered down İstiklâl Caddesi in Beyoğlu —a pedestrian thoroughfare that apparently 3 million people walk down each day. It was crowded and a bit overwhelming, so we enjoyed a Turkish beer from a balcony overlooking the masses below.

At the airport upon my departure, I was serenaded by a full Turkish band in the middle of the terminal. It was at that moment that I realized that I won the game. I never did buy a carpet.

In the Good Old Days

2010-11-16T14:10:00.006-05:00

Sometimes I like to use the word "Flemish." I like how it sounds. "Walloon" is also a good word. Apparently, Brussels is officially in Flanders (or the Flemish region), but there are a lot of Walloons living there, from Walloonia (which is also pleasing to say). I was there as well.

I have no idea what this thing is...

I had about 4 hours to kill in Brussels, so I set out to explore the city on a--you guessed it--cold, gray, and rainy afternoon. Belgium is known for a few things that I like, most notably: beer, chocolate, waffles, mussles, and cartoons. The Smurfs (Les Schtroumpfs) were Belgian before they were dubbed. So is Tintin. I also learned that they have FNAC there, as well as a lot of people with "van der" names. I heart Belgium.

On the same wall as this politically-charged graffiti...

My walking tour took me down cobblestone streets, through quant little parks, and past intriguing statues. I bought chocolates and French music CDs for LSB, and then made my way toward the Grand Place in the center of town, where Grand Places tend to be located.

...was this.

I was looking for a specific place (near the Grand one) that a friend recommended, just as the sky opened up. I ducked into an long, covered alley--a passageway from a former convent, now full of shops--and waited out the downpour.

LSB would absolutely love Le Champagnotheque

The rain let up a bit and I resumed my search for Au Bon Vieux Temps, a old, dark, and smokey little bar hidden down an alley off one of the main streets. I needed a beer. I needed the Best Beer in The World.

The entrance to Au Bon Vieux Temps

The bar was something special, like stepping back in time: old wood, brick, and stained glass. They served a variety of Belgian beer, but were known for selling a hard-to-find, and expensive beer called Westvleteren. According to the bar's proprietor, Westvletern used to be cheaper and easier to get ahold of, until "some Americans" named it The Best Beer in the World, causing both price and demand to increase. Damn Americans. Damn capitalistic monks.

Brussels by twilight

The beer was very good--a perfectly balanced dark beer with just the right amount of sweetness, hops, and malts. Perhaps it was even the best in the world, though I think I need to drink more beer before I can make that claim. I learned later, that the beer is supposedly only sold at the monastery (and the bar across from the monastery), so the beer I drank was probably sold to me illegally (or it was The Best Fake Beer in the World).

Het Spook Whisperer

Later on in the evening, after enjoying the TBBITW, I went in search of moules frites and then returned to my hotel. Ghost Whisperer was on, but I had already seen the episode, so I turned off the television and went to sleep. Sweet dreams of delicious chocolate Schtroumpfs.

Parisian Blur

2010-11-12T03:21:00.001-05:00

I feel like I spent more time on the train, stuck on the outskirts of Paris, than I did in city. After the Eurostar debacle, I arrived in Paris (at the Gare du Nord), raced though the Metro to St. Germain des Pres, checked into my hotel, and headed to my event at Sciences Po. To save time, I changed into my suit in the loo on the train.

Later in the evening, I dined on duck foie gras and roast duck breast with Armagnac sauce (yes, I double-ducked) at La Petite Chaise, arguably the oldest restaurant in Paris, depending on who you ask. Then I went to bed, slept far too little and woke up with just enough time to linger for a few moments at a cafe on the corner and attempt to complete one important errand, a visit to FNAC. Foiled again: FNAC doesn't open until 10 AM, and I needed to head back to the Gare du Nord to catch another train bound for Belgium. Merde!

Note: LSB and I love FNAC, sort of a French audio/video/electronic/book superstore (like a French Best Buy and Borders combined, but cooler...because its French and I can't understand most of it--which adds a level of mystery to the shopping experience).

Probably The Best Blog Post on The Internet

2010-11-10T05:36:00.005-05:00

Covent Garden/Big Ornaments

I started this post at about 4:21 PM on Tuesday morning, wide awake from a brutal combination of jetlag and spicy Indo-Pakistani food from a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant that billed itself as having “Probably the best grilled and cooked items in London.” A bold and somewhat puzzling claim.

Now, as I sit in Coach 4, Seat 15 on the 10:25 AM Eurostar departing London on my way to Paris—riding backwards through the English countryside toward The Chunnel--it seems like a good time to finish in a more coherent state.

Somehow I found myself in this hallway. I did not linger.

Yesterday, I spent the early afternoon wandering through the cold, rainy streets of London, jumping on and off a double-decker tour bus, and passing by the Tower of London, The Tower Bridge, Leicester Square, Trafalger Square, and Covent Garden.

In search of a cozy pub for lunch, I came across a sign with a photo of a meat pie in front of "The Coal Hole, a potential lunch destination. The pie had a large bone protruding from it, reminding me of Sweeney Todd. In spite of the awesome pub name, I did not eat there. I ate here:

Vaguely satisfying fish and chips (with a side
of mashed peas) and a Ghost Ship IPA

Later in the evening, a group of us went to dinner at Raavi Kebab. A small, simple restaurant down a narrow street near a cluster of South Asian restaurants and markets. It was recommended by someone at our hotel, who told us that it was real Indian food and not English Indian food.

I took our waiter’s recommendation and ordered something called nihari, an “exceptionally tasteful Indo-Pakistani thick sauce dish” with chunks of lamb, ginger, garlic, spices, etc. It was exceptionally tasteful. It was also exceptionally spiceful. When we finished and it was time to pay—always an ordeal with 6 people who all need detailed, individual itemized receipts in order to expense their meal—the bill arrived.

The opposite of itemized.

Now, a bit groggy, but slowly recovering after a Caffé Nero cappuccino, I’m about to head 100 meters below sea level (according to Metropolitan, the Eurostar magazine) under the English Channel. Wish me luck.

Supermarket window display

Update: This was mostly written on Tuesday morning and I have since passed under the Channel--miraculously leaving cold, gray, and wet England and arriving in cold, gray, and wet France. At which point our super-fast and super-modern train stopped in the middle of the French countryside (about 45 minutes from the outskirts of Paris) for almost 3 hours. Sacre Bleu! Apparently, the TGV ahead of us hit "a metal object" on the tracks. They ran out of sandwiches and eventually started giving away candy bars. I feasted on a lunch of Twix, potato chips, and Bordeaux.

BOS - LHR

2010-11-07T19:40:00.000-05:00

22 Hours Deep in the Heart

2010-11-02T22:17:00.004-04:00

My work takes me to various places. These trips are often fleeting and sometimes against my will. Take Houston, Texas for example.

I've always been sort of reluctant each time I've been sent to this sprawling, characterless city; the home of chain restaurants and hordes of oil industry boogymen. Still, I like to try to squeeze at least a few hours of interesting experiences out of these brief visits and, this time, the Astros were hosting the Cubs.

After finishing a work event, I caught a cab across town to Minute Maid Park and made it in time for the third inning. I present to you a few fractured experiences/thoughts--mostly in the order in which they occurred--from my evening with the 'stros:

On the way to my seat--a Shiner Bock in one hand and a chopped beef sandwich in the other--I had to dodge a pair of tea-baggers with matching "get off our backs" t-shirts (I think they were even worn over buttoned-down collared shirts) and a dragonfly. I'm unsure of the political views of the dragonfly, as it wasn't wearing a t-shirt and it flew by too fast for me to notice if it had any bumper-stickers.

There's this weird burm-thing in centerfield that I couldn't quite figure out. Is it just creative landscaping or is there a purpose behind it? Do outfielders frequently run up the burm and leap over the wall to catch potential homeruns? After some post game research, I discovered it is called "Tal's Hill" and apparently has no purpose.

I wonder if Bagwell hit all of those homeruns in the pre-burm era.

"Mild" beat "Hot" in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®. I was disappointed in Hot's performance, though I did enjoy watching two people dressed as giant taco sauce packets race around the field.

The PA announcer sounded exactly like Will Arnett (as Gob from Arrested Development). Really, for a little while I thought he might be guest announcing.

The cheap seats were really cheap seats: $6 (you should be ashamed of yourself, Fenway). While that was nice, I was disturbed by the rigid class structure of the ball park. I sat up top with the Latino and African-American families, while the white frat boys and, presumably, tea-baggers sat down behind the dugouts and home plate. At least at Fenway, no one can afford a ticket...except for Ben Affleck.

At one point during the middle innings, the Jumbotron flashed images of people in the crowd playing air bongos, with cartoon image of bongos superimposed on the screen. Sometimes it looked as though the people were actually playing the bongos, though most of the time they were just awkwardly flailing about, occasionally looking up and into the distance to see if they were on the screen.

The leftfielder for the Astros was named Jason Bourgeois. I wonder how many intellectual baseball conversations among fans include comments like: "We don't have a chance at the penant this year--our outfield is so bourgeois."

During the 7th inning stretch, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" was immediately followed, with slightly more enthusiasm, by, "Deep In the Heart of Texas."

The day after the game, in a SuperShuttle on the way to the airport, we passed a car with a large "Don't Tread on Me" flag flapping in the wind, several purveyors of "pit trucks" and smokers, and La Luz del Mundo--a huge, and hugely out-of-place looking church by the highway. Turns out it may be a scary place as well.

At IAH, I said farewell to a jaunty George HW Bush in bronze. I wonder who he was rooting for in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®.

A Hike To The End of the World

2010-10-08T16:56:00.003-04:00

The signs posted on the wall of our cabin and throughout Camp Westwind made it clear that in the event of a tsunami warning, we were to follow the blue route, up the hill--past cabins, outhouses, and tent platforms--to the high meadow. Safe from the wall of water. Alternatively, if there were a fire, we were directed to follow the red route, down the hill to the beach. Someone asked the inevitable question: what do we do if there's both a fire and a tsunami? The response: the tsunami would put out the fire. The ying and yang of natural disasters, I guess.

The day after M+S’s wedding, LSB and I decided to take a hike, following the tsunami evacuation route to the high meadow. It was a beautiful day, and the path led us through a lush, Jurassic Park-like forest (LSB kept a sharp eye out for velociraptors) and past “Lost Lake,” an eerily silent and secluded pond surrounded by dark green, jungle-like brush. When things got too quiet we trudged a little louder and talked a bit more to avoid stumbling upon a startled Oregon critter.

The trail continued past a strange box, that apparently contained a camera used to monitor the movement of wildlife (and hikers, I guess), and then over/under a gate, before ending at a clearing at the top of the hill. The High Meadow, I presume.

We found a nice spot under a tree at the edge of the meadow, where we could sit and look at the coastline to the right and the left, or straight out at the Pacific, curving downward toward Asia. We sat under the late afternoon sun with a bottle of wine and our binoculars (a well-timed birthday gift from LSB), looking for seals and sea otters, and, unexpectedly, seeing a small pod of Gray whales. They would periodically surface near a large rock, spout, then dive again. Leah spotted a head, and we think we saw a tail, but no dramatic breaches.

After watching the whales for a half hour or so, we decided to attempt the narrow path that led to a point jutting out from the high meadow and separating the two beaches. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to attempt to walk a treacherous path after a few glasses of wine, but the wine certainly helped suppress my fear of heights. LSB reminded me of the time when I slipped and fell while hiking on our honeymoon in Kaua'i and "almost died."

We stayed out on the edge of the world until the sun got low in the sky, then left the whales behind and headed back down the quickly darkening trail.

My Name is Special Ed and I'm a Super-Duper Star

2010-09-23T18:30:00.001-04:00

The Magnificent?

I'm your idol the highest title numero uno

I'm not a Puerto Rican but I'm speakin so that you know

and understand I got the gift of speech

and it's a blessin so listen to the lesson I preach

The program for the 25th Anniversary Stoweflake Hot Air Balloon Festival clearly indicated that Special Ed would be performing at 5:00 PM, a couple of hours before the balloons were scheduled to launch.

I talk sense condensed into the form of a poem

full of knowledge from my toes to the top of my dome

I'm kinda young but my tongue speaks maturity

I'm not a child I don't need nothin for security

As a fan of Special Ed from way back--during a brief late-80's-to-early-90's Yo! MTV Raps obsession--I was quite excited about this. I was also intrigued and slightly concerned that Special Ed was now performing at family-oriented balloon festivals in Vermont. What happened, Special Ed? You used to be my idol, the highest title, numero uno.

I'm outspoken--my language is broken into a slang

but it's just a dialect that I select when I hang

I play it cool--cuz coolin is all that I'm about

just foolin wit tha girlies, yes I'm bustin it out

We arrived after 5 PM and heard music playing from inside the beer and music tent...music that was decidedly not Special Ed. The opener perhaps?

My name is Special Ed and I'm a super-duper star

every other week I get a brand new car

Got twenty, that's plenty yet I still want more

kinda fond of honda scooters--got seventy-four

Upon closer inspection, we realized that this was an entirely different Special Ed altogether--a local band that played lame covers. In other words, not special at all.

I got the riches--to fulfill my needs

got land in the sand of the West Indies

even got a little island of my very own--

I gotta frog--a dog with a solid gold bone

Well, at least the balloons lived up to their billing in the program and, in spite of the initial disappointment, LSB and I had a enjoyable evening with the M's of VT.

Though, as evening approached and we watched the beautiful balloons rise and fall, I couldn't help thinking that they would have gone a little higher and their colors would have looked a bit brighter if the scene were set to the soundtrack of my poser, hip hop childhood...

I'm kinda spoiled

cuz everything I want I got made

I wanted gear--got everything from cotton to suede

I wanted lead--I didn't beg I just got laid

My hair was growin too long, so I got me a fade

and when my dishes got dirty, I got Cascade

when the weather was hot, I got a spot in the shade

I'm wise because I rise to the top of my grade

wanted peace on Earth, so to God I prayed

Some kids across town thought I was afraid

they couldn't harm me--

I got the army brigade

I'm not a trader

if what you got is greater I'll trade

but maybe later cuz my waiter made potato -n- alligator souflee--

I got it made

Mark Valley, On The Wrong Side of History (or War is Heck)

2010-09-02T18:20:00.003-04:00

Anachronism

The city of Ogdensburg in Northern New York (simply referred to as "the city" in these parts, or "New York's Best Kept Secret!") sits on the banks of the St. Lawrence River. Once a vital port in the early American (and Canadian) fur trade and the site of important battles in the French and Indian War, American Revolution, and the War of 1812--it is now a bit rough around the edges...and, as I understand it, some places in the middle.

French reinforcements

It was home to a French fort--known as Fort de La Présentation--before the British came and destroyed it; then it was home to a British fort (Fort Oswegatchie). A century or so later, it was the birthplace and childhood home of television star Mark Valley. Recently, it hosted an historical reenactment of the famous battle in the French and Indian War, starring Mark Valley! Which brings me to today's post.

Faux indians

I'm not a fan of war, but masses of people dressed in historical garb pretending to kill each other seemed like a perfect summer excursion in the North Country. Also, there was quite a bit of hoopla in the NoCo leading up to the weekend, as Our Hero appeared on a national late night talk show and mistakenly referred to it as a War of 1812 reenactment. Outrage!

The water battle

So, we headed North from Potsdam and arrived a bit late for the water battle, an impressive spectacle of replica boats firing blank rounds at each other from cannons and muskets. After a few minutes of action we received word that the land battle was set to begin.

Modern day NoCo punks take pot-shots at the French

We stood with the other spectators and watched from behind the French (and Indian) troops with their floppy red hats (and mohawks and war paint), who did not yet know that they were badly outnumbered by the approaching, more sharply dressed, British. Well, at least the reenactors were acting like they didn't know that they were overmatched, but I'm sure they were informed of the impending final outcome through their pre-reenactment rehearsals or personal research on Wikipedia.

Victory/defeat is nigh

Watching the ill-fated French reenactors brought to mind the Washington Generals, the team that is repeatedly (and, presumably, knowingly) embarrased by the Harlam Globe Trotters in every "game." What type of person volunteers to join the pre-destined losing team? I mean, I'm sure that they're in it for the thrill of the battle and all the historical trappings, but I wonder whether they ever consider throwing the reenactment--not falling to the ground in pretend agony at the appointed time and, instead, fighting on in an endless fake war. A rogue reenactor--that would be something to see.

Mark Valley, a friend to the wounded

The land battle had a narrator--a man in historical dress who tried to explain what was happening, outlining the strategies employed by each side while making the occasional corny joke. Through the PA system, he told us about how the British were outflanking the French (Team Valley) and that this was bad news for Les Bleus.

How do you say "outflanked" in French? They must have a word for it.

The battle went on for 15-30 minutes and many shots were fired by both sides before anyone fake-died. Our narrator explained that this was due to the inaccuracy of the firearms at that point in history, but I suspect an alternative explanation related to more modern times. If you signed up to be a reenactor, bought (or rented?) the proper historical clothing, practiced your role, traveled from Ohio, Tennesee, or Quebec; and gave up your weekend for the battle; would you want to die within the first 15 minutes? I imagine that there must be some sort of unwritten rule of historical reenactments that states that the first 30 minutes is a safe period where the fake bullets all miraculously miss their targets.

Our hero (in bleu) readying his digital camera

Eventually, the bodies started to pile up and the French were retreating with the afternoon sun. When the battle had ended, Mark Valley took up position in the French camp, signing autographs for a small line of fans and/or Francophiles.

Carnage

War is hell. Fake war is kind of fun.

Unwinding from the battle in the British camp

Lobster Country

2010-06-29T20:47:00.004-04:00

They’re pretty patriotic about lobster in this part of the world. We seem to be embracing the culture more and more each year and summertime for us is starting to revolve around trips up (or down…but, usually up) the coast to sample the offerings of various lobster bungalows, fish houses, or clam shacks. Recently, we made our way up to the top of Cape Ann for lunch and had some pretty tasty (“no nonsense, no celery”) lobster rolls at this place:

The Lobster Pool is located just North of the town of Rockport, on the rocky edge of picturesque Folly Cove. It isn’t fancy—you order your food at the counter (just past the pick-your-own-lobster tanks) and when your number is called, you can either sit at one of the tables inside or take your tray of fried/steamed creatures-from-the-sea out to one of the picnic tables on a small lawn overlooking the water.

As Rockport is a dry town, they have an open BYOS policy (Bring Your Own Spirits). We planned ahead and brought beer to enjoy with our lobster rolls, though, LSB was envious of the people at another picnic table who were sipping glasses of cold, crisp-looking white wine (JOOPS: Jealous Of Other People's Spirits).

After our lunch on a picnic table in the sun, we moved to a rustic wooden swing facing the sea and stared out at the boats, as well as, a couple of shockingly large raccoons climbing among the rocks across the cove.

It was a perfect New England afternoon--well, except maybe for the small red lobsters painted on the wood floor marking the way to (and eventually into) the restrooms. I understood the point behind it, but I found it slightly unsettling--much like the giant raccoons crawling around in broad daylight. My guess is that they were there for the lobster, too. They should be able to find the restrooms.

France vs. Delaware

2010-06-21T20:27:00.001-04:00

Talloires, France (Olden Days)

I looked back at some of the more recent LC/sg posts and noticed something strange. A few days in Delaware generated more content than almost a week in the idyllic French Alps. Not that I'm knocking The First State ®, but this struck me as a bit unbalanced, considering the fact that this is what our France trip looked like:

Talloires, France (early June, 2010)

So, in an effort to restore the natural order of things and give France its due, I'll throw another French post in the mix--before Les Bleus are officially eliminated from the World Cup.

The French version is more like un petit sequoia

While it's hard to compare the two--a whole country oozing with Culture (and cheese) and a very small, flat state with bacon ice cream and lots of crabs--I did find one odd similarity.

Both the state and the country seem to have a thing for chicken mascots.

Footix the Rooster

The France 1998 World Cup Mascot

YoUDee (the Fightin' Blue Hen, I presume)

I have to say that Delaware's mascot looks a bit more intimidating than the perky Footix, especially with the huge blue index feather threatening the world at large. Though, the French team did win the World Cup that year, and Delaware did not.

Vive le Pomme de Terre (et le Fromage)!

2010-06-11T17:15:00.005-04:00

We just recently returned from a few days in the Haute-Savoie, near France's borders with Switzerland and Italy. The red spot below:

We stayed in Talloires, a perfect little town nestled in the Alps, on Lake Annecy. We hiked up into the hills; visited tiny churches, grottos, and waterfalls; gazed up into the sky at multitudes of paragliders; took ferry rides around the lake; sat on our balcony overlooking the mountains and the water; and ate enormous quantities of cheese--washing it down with the white and rose wines of the region to help prevent the cheese from forming into a hard-to-digest rock in your stomach (at least that's what we were told by the locals).

Last time, I was obsessed with the Tartiflette--layers of potatoes, sauce, cheese and lardons, baked until crisp on top and deliciously gooey in the middle. This year, I discovered a new friend and somewhat obscure historical figure. His name was Antoine-Augustin Parmentier and he, too, was a fan of the potato. While I'm sure he loved a good tartiflette, another dish bears his name.

I discovered the "parmentier" at a restaurant in Annecy. I tried to order the menu du jour--a complete mystery due to my limited French restaurant vocabulary--but, apparently they had run out of whatever it was. So, I ordered a parmentier from a list of several--each containing words I knew: pommes de terre, reblochon, canard, lardon, champignon, etc. A parmentier is similar to a tartiflette--in both raw ingredients and cooking methods. It is made with potatoes and the ubiquitous cheese of the region: reblochon. Parmentier consists of mashed potatoes, topped with a layer of something (shredded duck, minced pork, or other things I didn't understand), smothered in thick slices of cheese, then baked like a tartiflette.

Mine had minced mushrooms and shredded, smokey pork inside...I think. It was delicious. It goes on my short (but growing) list of French comfort food obsessions: cassoulet, tartiflette, and, now, parmentier.

Merci, Monsieur Parmentier. Merci.

Happy Funland!

2010-06-08T12:35:00.004-04:00

Buy the ticket, take the ride

Have you ever questioned the accuracy of your childhood memories? Were the images of youth warped by your adolescent imagination? Did it really snow that much as a kid and were the snow forts you built as massive as you recall? Was the Big Tree in the middle of the cornfield across the road as enormous as you thought at the time? Was that BMX bike that you got for Christmas back in the early 80’s really that awesome? Were the jumps you made for it as huge and scary as you remember them to be?

Well, after our recent trip back into LSB’s childhood, we discovered that, yes, the waves crashing on Rehoboth Beach were actually pretty menacing looking. It wasn’t just the warped perspective of a much smaller, 1980s version of LSB. Okay, so we’re not talking tidal waves or anything, but even to an adult LSB, they were kind of scary.

Nostalgic blur

She has other memories of the place, too—many of them documented in photographs. Such as LSB on the boardwalk with ~~a giant lollypop~~ cotton candy (a personal favorite of mine) or LSB in a tiny boat at Funland.

Yay! Bumper Cars!

Amazingly enough, Funland is pretty much exactly as she remembered it from when she was a kid and her family would visit in the summer. Apparently, Funland doesn’t change—and that’s a very good thing, because Funland is pretty great.

Funland may be responsible for happy childhood

memories, but it is not responsible for soiled clothing

The place is like how I imagine old Coney Island was, before it became old Coney Island and fell into disrepair. This place oozes nostalgia, even for someone like me who had never even been there before. Old timey ticket booths, classic carnival games, and precious amusement park rides like the tea cups, carousel, and the aforementioned tiny boats. There is even a haunted house that LSB remembered as being really scary (unfortunately, we never had the chance to test the validity of this memory, as the line to get in was too long). Perhaps the most incredible thing of all was that all of the rides, games, and amusements were not only fully-functional—they were shiny and clean!

Nostalgic prices, too.

So, in the end, Funland triumphed over Progress and I defeated LSB's family in the old-fashioned horse-racing game, heroically and romantically winning her a stuffed, gray horse in the process. All is well with the world.

32 Flavors and Then Some

2010-05-27T19:15:00.005-04:00

Pork, it's what's for dessert

A short distance from the sprong, is Rehoboth Beach, home of the boardwalk, Funland (more on this later), Dolles Saltwater Taffy, and iconic food offerings ranging from Thrasher's fries to The Ice Cream Store's bacon ice cream. Yeah, that's right: bacon ice cream.

It was a bold concept--one that I supported--but in the end, after I purchased and consumed it, I had mixed feelings about the final product. I expected some kind of creative way of working bacon (or bacon flavor) into an delicious ice cream flavor. Instead, I got ice cream (basic vanilla, I think) with large chunks of smokey bacon in it. That's it. There was no mystery, no frozen alchemy. It was like chocolate chip ice cream, only the chips were removed and replaced by bacon. In the end, I found the sweet/savory flavor combination interesting, but not magical.

If you find yourself at the Delaware coast, head to Rehoboth Beach, walk down Rehoboth Avenue toward the boardwalk, and judge for yourself. Better yet, give the "booger" ice cream a try.

Fruits de Sprong

2010-05-23T11:30:00.006-04:00

Crabs!

Before Delaware, we did not know what a "sprong" was. We were just told we would be staying in Uncle Bill's cottage located on one. We knew that boats go in it and crabs come out of it. We debated whether it was a new kind of body of water that we had never before experienced or a local Delaware colloquialism for something with which we were already familiar (bay, river, inlet, etc.). We finally settled on it being local, Dela-speak for "prong," as in the branch of a river. We liked our new word. It was satisfying to say.

Sprong?

Sadly, the word only existed in a fleeting period of accidental mispronounciation. It turns out, there is no such thing as "sprong." The cottage was actually set on a "prong," a thin body of water stretching inland from Rehoboth Bay. It was a nice little prong, with ospreys (we think) soaring above and rabbits hopping on the banks, but definitely not a sprong.

We were told that crabs live there, somewhere in the depths, and there were crab pots in the garage of the cottage. As we were short on time, we decided to let professionals do the catching and cooking, which is how we ended up here.

That's Dick on the left, with the eye patch and pipe

The place was chock full of of kitsch, americana, and all the colorful, full-blown innuendo you would expect from a place called "Crabby Dick's." That evening, we drank Yuenglings and hammered away, with our small wooden mallets, at a dozen and a half blue crabs piled on brown paper. They were delicious, whichever sprong they sprung from.

Hyperlinked Haiku About Donkeys

2010-05-20T12:17:00.003-04:00

rum punch on the beach

underneath the seagrape trees

where are the donkeys?

Resort Lizard

2010-05-18T12:01:00.018-04:00

The iguana of my dreams

As a child, my family had a lot of pets. We started with the traditional family cat and dog, then moved on to a slew of rabbits (that's slew, not stew)--starting with "Starsky" and continuing on through a steady stream of androgynously-named (no one wanted to check) soft, fuzzy, brown, black, white and grey bunnies. There were a few guinea pigs and miscellaneous rodents in the mix, the last one--a small, brown, vampire of a hamster--ended badly, with a nasty bite to my index finger, immediately followed by a slow arc through the air and soft and final thud on the carpet.

After that, I shifted my attention to cold-blooded critters. I had an aquarium full of tropical fish for some time, but I never was very good at cleaning the algae off the glass walls and plastic plants. Eventually, after they all died--it could have been way after they all died since the visibility was obscured by all of that algae--I drained the aquarium. Don't worry, the fish died of natural causes that did not involve an eyes-wide-open porcelin slide into oblivion.

Iguana tracks

This led me to my reptile phase (doesn't everyone have a reptile phase?). I really wanted an iguana, but the idea of a giant lizard roaming freely around the house eating her plants did not immediately appeal to my mom. So, I settled for a smaller version--a normal-sized lizard that could easily be contained in an aquarium and subsist on crickets and mealworms. My miniature iguana-substitute led a brief, boring life before joining the others in critter heaven (a.k.a. a small plot in the backyard or the suburban septic tank version of burial-at-sea) and I left for college.

Happiness is a palm tree and a large lizard

I guess I've never fully gotten over my iguana-thing, as I was a bit fixated on them, to LSB's amusement (or was that unease?), while on our recent vacation in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Loads of these guys roamed the hotel grounds in St. John--climbing trees, grazing on flowers, and doing other cool lizardlike things. I watched them with with interest, took way too many photos, and followed their tracks on the beach, but I did not take one home to our apartment. I think the customs people frown on that sort of thing.

Dear Prudence

2010-04-28T12:03:00.003-04:00

...won't you come out to play?

Ah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Seems like a cannon (apparently named "Prudence" by someone on the USS Constitution) is the proper way to break such a prolonged silence.

After over 10 years living in metro Boston, I finally made it to the penultimate stop on the Freedom Trail (and finally have a legitimate opportunity to use "penultimate"). Past attempts were derailed by tired feet and sudden thirst--coincidentally occuring near the same stretch of pubs around Quincy Market or the cozy restaurants in the North End. Thanks to our friends visiting from Atlanta, we finally crossed the river into Charlestown and climbed aboard Old Ironsides. An impressive old boat--worth the difficulty in trying to figure out if we could take the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge on foot (we couldn't) and then navigating a meandering set of walkways across a dam and a series of locks filled with cormorants.

Next time, maybe we'll make it all the way up the hill.

#306 (mostly)

2010-01-29T17:15:00.008-05:00

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.

May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.

- Edward Abbey
(from Earth Apples: The Poetry of Edward Abbey)
^^^^^^^^^^

I spent my last evening in Phoenix, sitting at the bar of the Pointe in Tyme Grille drinking a margarita and listening to a group of locals talk about accidents their wives got into with their pick-up trucks, "those Chinese" and "those Mexicans," and the Barrett-Jackson Collector Car Auction.

The auction, held in neighboring Scottsdale, was on most of the televisions in the bar and seemed to have held the attention of the tourists and the locals alike. One particular group of locals, a bit overserved at this point, tried to include me in their conversations about the cars being showcased. It started by me asking if this auction was a "big deal" (I got some blank, "well, duh" stares on that one) and ended with everyone trying to guess the final bid on each vehicle. The drunkest/friendliest of the group kept over-guessing by about 50-thousand dollars, which immediately brought to mind those people on The Price Is Right who would inexplicably guess the price of a toaster to be ridiculously more than any reasonable person would expect. Maybe they were drunk, too.

I left after my second margarita, to the dismay of the over-guesser who seemed to have taken a liking to me, as I needed to get up early to take advantage the first sunny day in a week and my last in Phoenix.

Hoping to get caught up in the desert spirit, I brought an Edward Abbey book with me on this trip. After two rainy days stuck on a mostly unoccupied resort complex, I was ready for the desert. It was a crisp, cool morning and had a few hours to kill before I needed to head to the airport.

At the edge of the resort was a gate. On the other side of the gate (which was locked at dusk "to protect hotel guests" according to a sign"--I imagined packs of coyotes invading the resort after dark and carrying off small tourists) was the North Mountain Preserve, a large area of protected land in metro-Phoenix with several hiking trails.

I took the Shaw Butte Trail, or #306, as it was listed as moderate to difficult and 4 miles seemed easy enough to finish with enough time to make my flight home. The trail was nice--not too rugged, not too easy--but it certainly wasn't Abbey's desert. Every scenic view was of civilization, the endless sprawl that is Phoenix, though there was usually a big cactus in the foreground. We don't see many of those in Boston.

The trail system in this little park is simple enough, yet somehow I got a little confused at the top of the butte and then ended up going the wrong way on trail #100 at the bottom. Nevertheless, I eventually found my way back to the hotel with enough time to grab lunch and a beer at the bar by the pool before heading to the airport.

Self-portrait with cactus and sprawl
(hair made awesome by desert wind and hat)

Non sequitur

2010-01-28T20:16:00.002-05:00

Zamboni

Constant Drizzle in the Valley of the Sun

2010-01-26T14:29:00.005-05:00

I came to Phoenix for the sun and heat. Okay, that's not exactly true: I came for a conference for "Advanced Graduate Admissions Professionals," but I was especially looking forward to the sun and the heat. This is the Great American Desert, after all, in a state that borders Mexico, for crying out loud.

Alas, Mother Nature had other plans and decided to dump 50-60% of the average annual rainfall for the area, all in one week. She even sent in high winds that forced officials to close the airport temporarily and caused local news teams to endanger their carefully styled news-hair by scattering throughout the area to investigate potential tornado sightings.

Thus, I spent most of my time gazing out of the conference room windows at the many vacant hotel pools (in addition to the rain, it was also pretty cold) and sandbags stacked throughout the resort to keep the water from flooding the lobby, gift shop, and workout center.

In spite of the conditions, I did manage to pass a pleasant half hour in the hot tub (I wasn't quite brave enough to attempt a swim in the unoccupied pools) and wander off the resort where I encountered many wet cacti and vestages of the Old West.

Cheer up, Dear Reader (that's you, LSB), the rain eventually stopped and the sun came out. The temperature even made into the mid-50s.

The Overhead Bins Were Full, Too.

2010-01-22T17:27:00.004-05:00

"We are 30 minutes outside of Phoenix and...uh...that's a good thing as our lavatories have reached their capacity and are no longer flushing. So, if you can refrain from using them, except in the case of an extreme emergency, we would appreciate it."

- Announcement by a flight attendent on US Airways Flight #94 (BOS-PHX)

Books vs. Wild

2010-01-10T10:01:00.003-05:00

From the center of Potsdam, NY, drive South, then east. Continue on snow-covered country roads and follow the brown wooden signs with "books" written in white paint nailed to telephone poles along the way. After a few miles, provided you don't miss a turn, you'll eventually end up at this place.

The BirchBark Bookshop, on the edge of the woods in Parishville, NY, is a sight to behold for a used book lover--a weathered old building (a converted barn, perhaps?) filled with 50,000 books (according to the sign by the road) neatly stacked on bookshelves held up by birch tree beams. It is a warm and cozy place, with antique chairs placed in snug corners, next to windows, and beside woodburning stoves; rough, unpainted wood paneled walls with old articles and advertisements afixed with thumbtacks; and creaky old floors.

In spite of the fact that the rate at which I buy books greatly exceeds the rate at which I read them--which means evergrowing clutter in our small apartment--for some reason, LSB tolerates my used book problem. I still don't know why she not only allows me to go to these places, but is an active participant in these excursions. She doesn't even like used books. They don't have that new book smell she enjoys and she feels like a voyeur if she sees something that a previous owner may have written inside the cover (i.e. "Carl, may this book remind you of our trek through Lapland so many years ago...").

I've had good luck at the BirchBark. In the past, I've picked up a copy of an interesting, and beat up, Paul Theroux book, and a rare book from my favorite Polish writer (doesn't everyone have a favorite Polish writer?) Tadeusz Konwicki. On this trip, I found Walking Words, by Eduardo Galleano. LSB was even tempted to buy a hefty and worn, leatherbound copy of A History of St. Lawrence County from a period in the 1800's, but the $150 price tag gave her pause, even though the stories of 19th century life in the NoCo were so compelling.

While Progress may have consumed my sand pit, I'm thankful that, for now at least, this little anomally has been spared by our modern world. In fact, it has even expanded: BirchBark books now fill the top floor of a hardware store in Potsdam and a odd little cafe/travel center in Canton even has a few shelves.
Long live the North Country!

Walmart Ate My Sand Pit

2010-01-04T17:05:00.012-05:00

"W" stands for evil, again.

My hometown of Victor, NY has been rapidly engulfed by "progress." It started with the McMansion housing developments with their requisite private golf courses, and continued with the expanding Eastview Mall, which has grown like some non-lethal, invasive bacteria over the past 10-15 years. The Thruway got wider and the natural habitat got smaller. Now there are churches and retirement communities where there used to be fields and forests.

We observed the latest encroachment on our post-Christmas walk to the Sand Pit. This has become somewhat of a holiday tradition to get some fresh air; burn off some calories from all of the food, beer, wine, and cookies; and escape the chaos of Inside. We walk down our (much busier) street, past the historic marker indicating a famous battle between the French and the local Seneca tribe in 1687 (which is placed in someone's front yard), continue past the Old Trailer Park--just an overgrown, swampy lot when I was a kid, the trailers gone soon after I was born, now the site of a new house with another on the way. From there we leave the road and wander up a dirt path through trees and brush. The path takes you up a hill and over a ridge where you can see the NYS Thruway (I-90) on your left and an occasional house on your right, partially obscured by trees and thorn bushes.

The path used to end at a sand pit; a childhood wonderland. It was full of enormous dirt piles that we used to ride our bikes up, down, and sometimes over. It was a parents worst nightmare--a secluded spot with ample opportunities for someone to wreck their bike or break a leg. It was so cool.

In spite of an epic battle familiar to other small towns fighting the good fight, the end of the trail looks a bit different today. Now, there's a giant parking lot, a Kohls, and a Walmart Supercenter (Opening Soon!).

Sigh. I wonder where the children of Victor, NY practice their daring bike stunts these days. And what did Walmart do with all of that sand? Maybe Progress eats dirt.

Don't call it a Fat Bag

2009-12-30T12:42:00.010-05:00

...it's a pizza roll!

After a short trip into Canton to visit the Brewer Bookstore and one of the few remaining Hacketts stores, we found ourselves back in Potsdam at lunchtime. LSB suggested Sergi's, an Italian restaurant on Main Street famous for their pizza rolls--basically a pepperoni pizza folded into a pouch, with the cheese and toppings on the inside (calzone-like), and then deep fried. Apparently, these things--colloquially known as "Fat Bags"-- are the food of choice for the late-night, post-bar crowd. I guess that's pretty obvious based on the description.

I've craved a Fat Bag for years, but for some reason I've never been able to check this off my North Country Experiences list--which also includes the aforementioned Hacketts, Lounge (a tiny dive bar, aka "The Lounge," next to a Chinese restaurant in a rapidly fading shopping plaza), the Birch Bark (I'll get to this in a future post), CJ's (where you can pick out individual beer bottles to create your own ad hoc sixpack), DeKalb Junction, the Co-op, the Hoot Owl (no checkmark, yet), Stone Valley, and a few others.

Fat Bag: check!

It was the early afternoon of Christmas Eve, and Sergi's was pretty quiet. We ordered a pizza roll to share (I was warned repeatedly not to refer to it as a "Fat Bag" once inside the restaurant, as apparently the family that runs the place is sensative about that). It was greasy. It was heavy. It was really, really good.

The List just got shorter. Anything else I should add?

Christmas Mash-up

2009-12-25T14:40:00.003-05:00

While I'm in the NoCo currently celebrating Christmas, I thought I'd share a few photos from a recent pre-Christmas, post-dinner (we had the chili and deep-fried hotdogs) walk around our snow-covered neighborhood back in Massachussetts.

Inman Square, straddling the border between Cambridge and Somerville, is home to many Portuguese and Italian immigrant families who have fully embraced the Christmas spirit, taking it to bright, colorful, and tacky new levels.

Season's Greetings from Prancer, Mary
on the half-shell, Mrs. Claus, and Blitzen.

Somerville is a magical land. I wonder what Mrs. Claus and Mary talk about. Do you think there is any resentment between them?

Frohe Weihnachten!

2009-12-23T11:48:00.001-05:00

What do you give someone who has everything?

Pickle-in-a-can

You can buy one in Berlin.

Crock of Love

2009-12-22T13:15:00.005-05:00

It began with the shoulder...

I'm rather fond of my crockpot. It was a gift from LSB last Christmas and we've put it to good, slow use this year. We've made a variety of pulled-meats (mostly pork) in it--including this mango-bourbon-chipotle masterpiece--a few soups, stews, stocks, and, of course, the delicious slow moose.

Filled to capacity with goodness

Recently, LSB documented our latest adventure in slow-cooking: Cassoulet. This remarkable dish somehow manages to incorporate most of my favorite things: pork (in three forms: shoulder, bacon, and sausage), wine, and beans (specifically, these magnificent bastards); not to mention it comes from one of my favorite places--the mountains of Southern France where I tasted my first cassoulet and nearly wept.

Next up, Bigos!

Cider Donut Nostalgia

2009-12-12T17:18:00.003-05:00

Much easier to pick than the fast ones

Soon after this post, autumn took a bit of a downturn. Now, it is December, the temperature is 31 degrees, the wind is starting to blow, I'm fighting a cold, the Christmas tree is decorated, and The Handel and Haydn Society has taken over our stereo. Before I fully embrace the holiday season, it seems like a good time to look back at one fine day in October, when fried clams and cider donuts--specifically, these cider donuts--were on my mind.

Who doesn't love an old red truck full of pumpkins?
Don't even think about touching it, though.

If I recall correctly, we were looking to get out of town and pick-our-own apples (or at least buy already picked apples from a pick-your-own apples orchard). There are a ton of PYO places around these parts and everyone has their own opinion about the best place to go. Do they have hayrides? Pumpkin patches? Corn mazes? We really didn't care about any of that--we just wanted apples, cider donuts, and the beauty of rural New England. We chose this place, mainly for the delicious cider donuts and the proximity to the ocean.

After several fresh, hot donuts and mulled cider, we selected our pre-picked apples (a mixed bag of big/small, green/red, sweet/tart) and left in search of clam shacks. We drove around Ipswitch and Essex before settling on a small shack sitting on the edge of a marsh.

On the Great Salt Marsh

We ordered waaaay too many clams (my fault) and a couple of Fisherman's Brews, paid by check (they didn't take credit cards and we had about $7.12 between us--not nearly enough for the quantity of clams we intended to order), and sat at the counter. A bit sluggish from overindulging on crispy fried bivalves, we stepped outside and lingered by the a picnic table, gazing out at the Great Salt Marsh.

Now back to December. The RealFeel temperature is 19 degrees....

How much for the cute little grey one?

2009-12-06T14:00:00.001-05:00

Just up the street and on the gritty side of the Cambridge/Somerville border (that would be Somerville), there is a place where old radiators go to die--or perhaps just hang out until they are adopted by some new family. There they sit--some with badly chipped coats of paint, and others with no paint at all--rusting on the side of Prospect Street. It's a hard knock life for old heating units.

To passersby, A1 New and Used Plumbing and Heating Supplies, near Union Square, is an odd sight. Part supply store, part orphanage, part zoo, and part plumbing museum--hundreds of radiators of all different shapes, sizes, and colors, sit crowded together behind a fence, as if they might escape and take out their vengence on neighborhood residents for upgrading to more modern means of keeping warm through the cold New England winters.

Apparently, they sell replacement toilet tank lids, too. They must keep those inside. Perhaps this is a topic for a future post as fascinating as this one.

From the Bayou to the Stars

2009-11-30T12:27:00.000-05:00

We found this on the side of the road...

Well, sort of. After emerging from the swamp, safe and sound, we boarded our bus for the return trip home. On the way, our driver took a slight detour, stopping by NASA's Michoud Assembly Facility, which had a giant rocket in front of it, specifically, the first stage of this one.

We read a plaque about the Saturn V, LSB took photos of me standing in front of it while I imagined myself as an astronaut, and then we boarded our bus and headed back to NOLA to continue the culinary onslaught.

Swampy.

2009-11-22T16:48:00.006-05:00

It wasn't like this. It was actually a pretty serene daytrip out of New Orleans to the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area, otherwise known as the Honey Island Swamp. We picked up some cafe au lait (LSB) and coffee with chicory (me), and boarded the tour bus in front of our hotel. The bus drove through the still devastated 9th Ward and over Lake Ponchartrain, rows of shotgun houses in various states of disrepair eventually giving way to an immense expanse of fresh and brackish water on either side.

Our bus driver showed us where flooding from Hurricane Katrina had washed a boat into the brush. The boat was never reclaimed by its owner, but it was quickly being reclaimed by nature--becoming less visable with the passing of time. Things grow quickly down here.

A few miles from the Mississippi border, we were dropped off near the riverbank. We boarded a flat-bottomed boat with about 15 people and set off down the river and into the swamp.

There a river under all of that green

Though it was sunny and well over 70 degrees, it was winter in Southern Louisiana, and Captain Mike told us that most of the larger alligators were hibernating (LSB sighed longingly at the thought of hibernating through the winter months), while the smaller ones tended tough out the cold. He also told us we were Yankees and considered it some kind of punishment to have Yankees on his boat. He warmed up to us once he discovered we had only been in town for a couple of days and had already eaten nearly ever Louisiana delicacy imaginable--more than everyone else on the boat combined.

One of the tough little critters

We spent close to two-hours in the peaceful swamp, motoring through cypress trees draped with spanish moss and slowly passing egrets, herons, turtles of various shapes and sizes, and alligators relaxing on logs. Captain Mike pointed out where Katrina had changed the geography of the river and swept a poorly built fishing camp way down stream, while the well-built one next door held fast. Much to LSB's dismay, we did not see any nutria.

Did you hear something? Could it be...

We were deep in the swamp, when a dark shape emerged from the cypress trees. For a split second, he/it looked at me with terrifying bloodshot eyes. LSB screamed and he disappeared into the dark green nothingness...

A Streetcar To The Underworld

2009-11-17T12:22:00.003-05:00

The Underworld is apparently closed on Sundays

We decided to get out of the French Quarter for a few hours and walk the streets of the Garden District. For all of the romance and nostalgia associated with the St. Charles Streetcar, it was slow, crowded, rickety, and loud. Then again, it was game day for the undefeated New Orleans Saints and the black and gold, fleur de lis-clad masses had to get to the Superdome somehow.

We started at the Lafayette Cemetery No. 1—the setting for many of Anne Rice’s vampire classics and featured in the film Interview With A Vampire. Strangely enough for a cemetery, it was closed on Sunday. After circling the high cement walls looking for a way in, we gave up and wandered through the streets--all historic mansions, magnolia trees, and wrought iron gates.

Ghosts of Mardi Gras Past

We had forgotten to write down the address for Anne Rice’s house, but passed a couple with a digital camera and guide book and figured they were probably looking for the same thing. It turns out that they had already been there and gave us the street number. We continued down the residential streets and stopped in front of her enormous mansion to take pictures. It was impressive, ornate, and, well, come to find out, not actually Anne Rice’s.

Anne doesn't live here (though I kind of wished she did)

After double-checking the house numbers, we realized that Anne’s house was on the other corner—smaller, more modest, and surrounded by a tangle of slightly overgrown trees and brush. Still, you could imagine Ms. Rice looking down from her glass and wrought iron balcony and imagining blood-thirsty vampires roaming around the neighborhood after dark. Either that or her bloodlust was fueled by envy of her neighbor's more impressive house.

She lives here, I think

The Ghost of Ignatius

2009-11-13T20:25:00.002-05:00

Clap your hands for Dixieland!

We slipped on down to the Big Easy for a long weekend full of jazz, obscenely giant oysters, Sazeracs, cemeteries, etouffee, and the swamp. Keeping with my admittedly contrived habit of trying to read on theme, I, of course, brought a copy of A Confederacy of Dunces with me on the plane. This happened to be the same copy I purchased for LSB several years ago--probably declaring it "one of the best books ever!"--which still had her bookmark in it on page one-hundred-and-something. For those of you who haven't read it, it's really good. Don't listen to LSB.

"When my brain begins to reel from my literary
labors, I make an occasional cheese dip."
- Ignatius J. Reilly
(John Kennedy Toole)

I'll get to the reptiles and dead people (and maybe a rocket, too), in a later post but for now, I'll touch upon my quest for the perfect Sazerac and a few other minor details, including the consumption of a massive amount of regional food. First, though, a confession. In spite of the fact that I developed a minor obsession with this drink over the past year or so, I don't think I had ever had a true Sazerac coctail prior to the trip. Upon arriving at the hotel, I headed to the rooftop bar and made up for lost time while waiting for LSB. My first authentic New Orleans Sazerac experience came in a small plastic cup that a gust of wind almost blew off the bar. My subsequent experiences here, here, and here, were better. How can you go wrong ordering a Sazerac at Sazerac Bar? You can't. I didn't.

The view after my Sazerac rooftop experience
nearly ended badly

And the food? Lawdy, what didn't we eat? We had alligator sausage (LSB had it fried, too), oysters on the half-shell, fried oysters, an oyster po-boy, gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, crawfish etouffee, Crawfish O'Conner, a Ferdi Special, a muffaletta, and delicious powdery beignets.

A dozen and a half freshly-shucked oysters later...

Seems like we washed quite a bit of it down with Abita Turbodogs. Gosh, these people know how to eat. The one light, healthy thing we ordered--room-service oatmeal one morning--never made it our room for some reason. We blamed the loud, drunk people in the hotel room next to us.

Home of the Famous Ferdi Special

We heard some Dixieland at Fritzel's--down Bourbon Street a bit, past the strip clubs and loud 3-for-1 bars--and a mix of everything else wandering down Frenchmen Street in The Marigny, before settling in at the Spotted Cat to watch a band whose music was inspired by two of my favorite directions, the South and the East.

All together ooky

2009-10-31T09:00:00.001-04:00

Altered Pumpkins (Ipswitch, MA)

Before LSB and I hit the haunted streets of Beacon Hill, I thought I would pull together some of the Halloweeniest images from the past year or so. Enjoy...

Union Square (Somerville, MA)

Menacing Towel Bunny (from a hotel in Houston, TX)

A Very Creepy Saint (Talloires, France)

If you had a B&B, wouldn't you hang
this in a guest room? (Woodstock, VT)

Christians & Pagans (Union Sq, Somerville, MA)

You don't get any ookier (Atlanta, GA)

Basement level with a view (Concord, MA)

Raw Meat + Bandaid = Gross

Their eyes are glowing!

I have lamb for hands! Muuuhahahaaa!

Happy Halloween.

Slaw Dogs on the Midnight Train

2009-10-27T17:20:00.007-04:00

On my most recent trip to ATL, I actually left the airport.

After checking into my hotel--situated somewhere in the limbo between Midtown and Downtown--I ventured into the greasy heart of the city. I started with a polarizing landmark perched above a massive highway: The Varsity. Everyone I met in the Atlanta area was adamant that I either "must go" or "must avoid" the place. Apparently, it is known equally for the greasy food (as one person mentioned, even the soda has an oily film on it) and the curt service (What'll ya have!?). I went, promptly ordered the two slaw dog combo meal, and sat in a large, nearly empty room with rows of desks situated like a classroom facing a large-screen TV tuned to ESPN. My meal was a bit heavy on the slaw and light on the dog, but I didn't notice any grease in my cola.

Midnight Train (photo credit: Gladys & Ron)

The next stop on my slog through the Southern Belly involved chicken & waffles. Specifically, Gladys Knight and Ron Winans' Chicken & Waffles. I had the "Midnight Train" (4 large, fried chicken wings and one waffle) while Gladys Knight interviews and performances flashed on the various television screens around the room. Somehow the odd combination of sweet and savory, greasy and syrupy seemed to do the trick.

Step off

We spent an afternoon wandering through crowds of people repeatedly trying to take flash photos of fish at the aquarium. If the picture-taking behavior of the aquarium masses are any indication of the human race's inability to learn and adapt, then we are all doomed. We were also reminded by a well-placed sign to step off the (slow-) moving walkway at the Atlanta Aquarium lest our brains be dashed on the fake rocks ahead. That said, it was a pretty cool aquarium and I took a lot of dark, blurry pictures of fish.

Turner Field made funky by Picasa

LSB and I were in town for a friend's wedding, and were generously invited to an Atlanta Brave's game the day before the ceremony and reception. Unfortunately, the Brave's had just fallen short a few days earlier in their attempt to land a wild card spot in the playoffs, so there was a touch of melancholy at Turner Field that afternoon. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the afternoon at the ballpark, drank tall boys of lawnmower beers in the upper deck, and Tomahawk Chopped away any guilt we felt about supporting a racial stereotype. The game went to extra innings.

I walked through this gate and

have regretted it ever since

Bjartur of Heart Rock Farm

2009-10-13T17:11:00.003-04:00

half a flock (the ladies)

A few years ago, I came across a book that piqued my curiousity. It was published in 1946, helped its auther win the Nobel Prize for Literature, and then quickly disappeared from print for several decades before being rediscovered by the literary world...and eventually me.

The setting

Independent People tells the bleak and beautiful (but mostly bleak) story of Bjartur of Summerhouses, a sheep farmer, poet, and father stubbornly trying to eke out a life for himself in early 20th-century Iceland--self-sufficient and beholden to no man. To be honest, reading this book was a bit like Bjartur's life--an endless slog through a rough, snow and ice-covered landscape. Though, in a good way, if that's possible.

A handful of sheep snacks makes
for one photogenic ewe.

Which brings me to the topic of today's post: my brother, who lives with his family in his own tiny little Iceland, in Erie County, just Southeast of Buffalo, NY. He, too, lives on a farm of sorts (dubbed Heart Rock Farm), has sheep of the Icelandic variety, is independently-minded, strives for self-sufficiency, and lives in a really cold and snowy part of the world. However, as my brother--who is not actually named Bjartur--is neither brutally stubborn nor an epic poet (his wife is the writer), that's about as far as I can carry the comparison with the fictional Bjartur.

In addition to the 5 human residents (my brother, sister-in-law, two nieces, and a nephew), Heart Rock Farm is home to about a dozen of the wooly buggers, with names such as Nora, Thunder, Cassie, and Rainbow, in addition to a whole bunch of chickens, a couple of cats, a rabbit, a dog, an old fashioned tractor, and a wooden cider press. There is a small stream, full of salamanders, that runs through a forest on the hill just beyond the barn and sheep pasture.

Scary, evil-looking rams (made possible by
cool special effects on Picasa)

I don't recall there being salamanders at Summerhouses.

October

2009-10-06T17:05:00.001-04:00

(Go Sox)

Autumn at Fenway

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg. It was built in 1912 and rebuilt in 1934, and offers, as do most Boston artifacts, a compromise between Man's Euclidean determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities. Its right field is one of the deepest in the American League, while its left field is the shortest; the high left-field wall, three hundred and fifteen feet from home plate along the foul line, virtually thrusts its surface at right-handed hitters.

Exerpt from: "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," by John Updike

Untitled

2009-09-30T22:30:00.000-04:00

The Big Blue

2009-09-29T17:15:00.001-04:00

"They that go down to the sea in ships,
That do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord,
And his wonders in the deep."

A few months ago, during our frustratingly abbreviated Northeastern summer, LSB and I headed north, up the coast, to Cape Ann. We were looking for vestages of old coastal New England--rusty ships, roadside seafood shacks serving fried clams and lobster rolls, local bars with nautical flotsam and jetsam nailed to weathered beams, and the big, blue ocean itself.

Mostly, though, we were looking for lobster rolls.

Sadly, none of these boats had names worthy of "The Deadliest Catch"

Our first stop was in Gloucester, where we ate delicious and enormous lobster rolls at Latitute 43: not exactly The Clam Box, but it had a nice view and came recommended by the friendly woman at the information booth.

Porchview of Rockport

After lunch we stopped by the Fisherman's Memorial Statue, then continued on to Rockport, where we window shopped, paused for ice cream, strolled along the beach, and bought some lemonade from Jackson before taking the scenic way home around the tip of the cape on Route 127.

Nostalgia by the Sea

2009-09-19T19:10:00.002-04:00

Our regional meanderings during our first summer with the Hatchblack took us to Newburyport. After lunch at a cool-looking place on the water with terrible service, we stopped by Oldies Marketplace, which is exactly what it looks like: a big red barn full of the sort of stuff that would make a nostalgia junky O.D.

I think LSB is secretly terrified of these types of places, for fear of what I might try to buy: used books, antique furniture, old records, assorted glassware, art, and old posters and maps. All stuff that I would love to find a place for in our basement storage cubby (some guys have a man cave, I have a basement storage cubby).

The Subterranean Author's Club

2009-09-09T21:44:00.019-04:00

R.I.P., H.D.T

Henry David Thoreau once quipped: "A man's interest in a single bluebird is worth more than a complete but dry list of the fauna and flora of a town." This quote has absolutely nothing to do with today's post--in fact, I'm not even sure I know what it means--I just like to use "quipped" whenever I have the chance (It also appears I'm stuck in a literary theme after the previous Shakespeare post).

View from The Cheese Shop

Nevertheless, LSB and I recently spent a pleasant summer afternoon in Concord, MA, which is only a few miles from Boston and home and final resting place of Thoreau, as well as, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Louisa May Alcott. They're all buried on "Author's Ridge" in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery a short walk from the center of town, where we shared an enormous sandwich in front of The Cheese Shop.

The Alcott's School of Philosophy

For some reason that I am unable to explain, I've always been oddly fascinated by cemeteries--especially really old, spooky ones. I've wandered through the haunted Greyfriar's Cemetery in Edinburgh; passed time in the "cities of the dead" in New Orleans; unexpectedly happened across Yeat's grave, under a huge, dark tree laden with hundreds of crows, in a small, rural churchyard in County Sligo; paid my respects to Jim Morrison (and Oscar Wilde) in Pere Lachaise, and spent many summer evenings drinking wine, listening to friends play guitars, and watching the stars outside the wall of a tiny cemetery near a small French village in the Pyrenees mountains.

One of several cool cemeteries in Concord

And now, I can add Sleepy Hollow to the list. Upon reflection, I guess it is kind of creepy that I have a list at all--in fact, I didn't even realize that I had a list until I started on this post. At any rate, there is no shortage of dead pilgrims, patriots, authors, artists, poets, and statesmen in subterranean New England, so I've found the cemeteries in the Boston area particularly interesting.

In spite of the fact that many of America's most famous writers (the Transcendentalists, no less) are buried on a hill a few steps from one another in a town that played a significant role in the history of our country (Lexington is next door and you heard about the shot, right?), the cemetery was mostly deserted and we were left pretty much alone to spend a few quiet moments with Henry, Ralph, Nate, Louisa, and others.

Slightly West of Shakespeare

2009-08-30T20:06:00.016-04:00

Shakespeare in the park. In his park, actually.

Thus far, I've touched on the periphery--the swine, the poutine, and the death of a small Canadian town--but not the real reason for our trip to Southwestern Ontario.

No, this wasn't the reason.

We came for the theater/re. Every summer, the cultured Canadian (and non-Canadian) masses flock to this quant, small town for Shakespeare, etc. Being the ugly, uncultured ducking among the masses, I was a bit nervous. I've struggled with the bit of Shakespeare that I've been exposed to: the plot and themes are interesting, but I've always found the language really hard to follow. LSB, on the other hand, was raised on the stuff.

Throughout her childhood, her family would pack up the car and drive close to 7 hours across the border and over Lake Ontario, to Stratford for the annual Shakespeare Festival.

Signets upon Avon

To better prepare myself, I Googled my way through various plot synopses of the plays we planned to attend--Shakespeare and others--and printed out my own Cliff's Notes prior to the trip. I had read and seen (in movie form), The Importance of Being Earnest. I had recently seen a peformance of another Chekhov play, The Seagull, so I felt relatively prepared for Three Sisters. However, I was frightened by the Scottish play.

Chinese and Canadian Food

We spent a pleasant few days wandering around Stratford, eating frozen yogurt and poutine, lingering in Shakespeare's Garden, sitting by the river (Avon, of course), eating delicious meals, and going to plays.

Tower of calf's liver

All of the plays were quite good, although MacBeth was a bit non-traditional and pretty intense, as it was set in the violent Africa in the mid-20th century. While I didn't completely solve my Shakespeare problem (I found myself seriously considering the "Shakespeare for Dummies" book in the festival gift shop), I found I could follow what was going on, for the most part. Though, I imagine that Shakespeare's original version of the play didn't have as many explosions or machine gun fire.

Pork, etc.

2009-08-19T17:01:00.004-04:00

The pig directs. We abide.

A few kilometers outside of Stratford, hugging the intersection of Perth Road 107 and Highways 7 & 8, lies the hamlet of Shakespeare, Ontario. There are two things that you notice immediately while driving through this tiny town amidst fields, barns and silos in rural South Western Ontario. The first is the imminent demise of the town itself (and, subsequently, the death of a delightful pun). The second is a giant pig.

Giant Pig

Regarding the former, large yellow "X's" were taped on the sides of buildings and trees that line the road through town and "Save Shakespeare" signs were posted about, protesting future plans to widen the highway, which would effectively eliminate a significant portion of this quaint town full of antique shops and old homes in various states of disrepair.

The sign says it all, I think

And the latter, the giant pig, marks the gateway into a wonderland of pork (and lamb, too). Set on a farm with cows, rabbits, pigs, and sheep, The Best Little Pork Shoppe is a small store with a big sign, and variety of (mostly) pork products available to satisfy your meatiest desires.

Unfortunately, we didn't buy anything, as we forgot our cooler and LSB prefers not to travel long distances with warm meat.

before

Adjacent to T.B.L.P.S. is the "Perth County Welcome Centre and Artisan Market" which sells a little bit of everything and a lot of local kitsch, but not the awesome refrigerator magnet I was looking for.

We missed the "li_e demos" of "sausage on a bun"

If the yellow "X's" along the road are a harbinger of Shakespeare's ominous future, then maybe the giant pig speaks to its delicious, yet fleeting present.

Shakespeare is for pork-lovers

Or perhaps it's just a giant pig by the side of the highway. Regardless, I bought a T-shirt.

A Joyful Amalgamation

2009-08-13T12:35:00.006-04:00

a perfect union

french fries, cheese curds, and gravy

oh poutine, what joy!

The Holy Grail is made of styrofoam

I feel it is somehow important to elaborate on my haiku and say a few words about the wonderous Quebecois creation known as poutine: a mouthwatering medley of french fries, gravy, and cheese curds.

I've always been an avid supporter of the humble potato and a bonafide cheese enthusiast. And gravy? Gosh, who doesn't like their food bathed in thick savory sauce!? Ever since I was first introduced to this dish by LSB, who grew up a few miles/kilometers from Quebec, I have been mildly obsessed with it (we even made poutine T-shirts...). Recent visits to Canada have turned into personal poutine crusades that produced mediocre results: edible, but uninspiring pub-poutine or, worse, no poutine at all. LSB had taken to giving me words of encouragement: "don't worry, we'll get it next time we're in Canada."

My luck changed a week ago, when a friendly Canadian handed us a take-out menu while we sat by the Avon River in Stratford, Ontario. It was lunchtime and Boomer's Gourmet Fries was just up the street. Small and unassuming, both inside and out, Boomer's welcomed us with a giant, chalkboard menu and a friendly greeting from the spiky-haired, heavily tatooed woman at the counter.

The key to the magic within

While the others ordered the more traditional "2 Cheese Poutine," LSB and I couldn't resist the "Goat Cheese Poutine" (with gravy, basil oil, and cracked pepper). Pure potato-based deliciousness. It was like eating happiness with a plastic fork. My only complaint is that there wasn't any bacon on the menu, though I can only imagine that the "Poutini Martini" is a little glass of heaven.

Are you ogling my poutine, punk?

Goodnight, wee apt.

2009-07-26T21:32:00.009-04:00

Moving sucks.

Not only the actually physical part of packing everything in boxes, loading it all in a truck, carrying it all up the stairs to the new place, and unpacking all of it, but the emotional and psychological aspects involved--the act of leaving a familiar place full of a lot of great memories, for an unfamiliar place of full of nothing but your stuff, in boxes.

As all near-future posts will originate from the New Apartment, I thought I would take a moment to wallow in our bittersweet departure from 89 Trowbridge Street and reflect on our 3 great years in #21...

old 89

Croghan Cocktails

2009-07-15T19:00:00.002-04:00

After recently returning from a soggy gathering at the family camp in the outskirts of the Adirondacks, I thought I would drop a quick post to honor an old friend*.

Due to new ownership of the Genesee Brewing Co., and a little help from that pesky recession, this classic, regional, and--most importantly--cheap beer has apparently undergone a bit of a resurgence. Somewhat surprisingly, it's even gone so far as to replace all-time Grandma and Grandpa V. favorite PBR*--at least temporarily--as the can of choice at the family campfire just off of Erie Canal Road outside of Croghan, NY (world famous for their Bologna)

old can

While it is on the beer menu at Bukowski, I don't think it is readily available in these parts, as New Englanders seem to have their own favorites.

older can

If you see it, pick some up--"some" being a 30-pack. You won't regret it, unless you don't enjoy semi-mediocre beer.

Cheers to you, Genny Cream.

*I'm intrigued by the "age verification" gatekeeper in place to keep all of the underage beer-site surfers from accessing all of this mature content. No way they're getting past that kind of security. I'm just thankful that kids can still access the important sites without government interference--like the one about Croghan Bologna and this one.

A Moveable Feast

2009-06-24T17:15:00.008-04:00

crêpes on a sunny day

After our weekend wallowing in The Mountain Cheese, we took the TGV from Annecy to Paris, in order to spend a few days of vacation. We checked-in to our hotel near Montparnasse and jumped on the Metro to Montmartre to take in the view of the city from the Sacré-Coeur basilica, and, more importantly, find a good place for dinner.

the other streets were really crowded

We wandered the crowded streets a bit, debated whether or not we wanted to pay the admission fee to climb the steps to the top of the dome of the basilica, considered whether or not my fear of heights would paralize me halfway up the narrow staircase, and then turned around and bought gelato. Eventually, the hoards of tourists and hunger pangs forced us back down the hill, and an inebriated vagabond, who was trailing a little bit too close behind, flushed us out of the series of narrow alleys we were strolling through to a main street lined with cafés. Still indecisive about dinner--we're always indecisive about dinner--we ducked into a bar near Abbessess to regroup over mojitos and caipirinhas.

Our cocktails came with popcorn

Fortified by our tropical libations, we headed back down the alley in search of food. After spending 4 days in the Haute-Savoie eating large, traditional French meals accompanied with much cheese and wine, we opted for something a bit different for dinner.

Le Mono, a Togolese restaurant we found in a restaurant guide given to us by LSB's folks before the trip, was a bit of a hole in the wall, but in a cozy way. Our Mozambican (which is nowhere near Togo, in case you were wondering) waiter was desheveled and more than a bit odd. He spoke English in long, slow, drawn-out phrases that left a lot space for us to make quick, slightly uncomfortable glances at each other while we waited for him to finish. He pointed out the items on the menu that he recommended, and when I asked about a few of the other things listed, he gave me a strange sideways look, as if to say, "nooo...I wouldn't advise you to order that."

It is probably needless to say, but we ordered from the list of waiter-approved items, which started with an appetizer sampler of various fried things from the sea (cod, crab, oysters, etc.) and the house punch--a seriously potent blend of rum, lemon, muddled (more like pulverized)ginger, and cane sugar. LSB ordered a whole fish (Kingfish, I believe) for the second time on the trip (in spite of her previous well-documented difficulties). I don't remember what I ordered, because something entirely different came out. It was some kind of ochre-based stew or savory broth with chunks of fish in it. I also had manioc (a.k.a yucca or cassava), which our waiter described as "a tree that grows under the ground." I guess that's a good enough way to describe a big root.

The combination of the house punch, odd atmosphere, and way too much--but quite good--food left us sleepy and lethargic, so we called it a night.

The following day started with coffee at a corner café. We wandered mostly around the Left Bank, stopping in St. Sulpice, strolling through Luxembourg Gardens, pausing for crêpes, and continuing on to the Pantheon for some after-lunch crypt-peeping. We crossed the river to visit a speciality food/baking store to buy some gifts for folks back home before heading back toward the Latin Quarter for another decidely unFrench dinner. Wait, that's not exactly true--we did have rosé with our sushi.

In the morning, after a short ride on the Air France bus to Orly, I found myself on Air Iberia once again, for my return trip to Boston (via Madrid). LSB got to sleep in before catching her British Airways flight out of Charles de Gaulle and then was upgraded from her luxurious World Traveller Plus seat to First Class.

At least my plane was not musty this time.

Je t'aime, le fromage de montagne!

2009-06-22T17:08:00.009-04:00

There, I said it. Okay, so I know that "I love you, the mountain cheese!" may not make complete sense gramatically. It does to me, though, and to my friend Bucky who first uttered the phrase over 10 years ago in adoration of a different type of cheese from a different French mountain range.

This time, it was the Alps and the Reblochon. I ate alot of it, with almost every meal in the course of our long weekend in the Haute-Savoie. To summarize, I ate it:

- with a baguette in front of a mountain chapel

- with a baguette, some terrine, and some rosé by the lake

- baked in a tartiflette (potatoes, onions, cream and bacon)...twice

- as part of an after dinner cheese course (the cheese course being one of my favorite things about France)

Me and a French dinghy

I learned that "reblochon" basically means "milked again." Further research discovered that it actually comes from the word "reblocher" which literally means: "to pinch a cow's udder again." In the olden days the Man used to tax the farmers on how much milk they produced, so they would only partially milk their cows, measure the milk, pay the taxes, then go back and milk the cow again after the taxman left. Apparently, the remaining milk was richer and used to make this delicious cheese.

Between episodes of mountain cheese consumption, I did other things. LSB has all of the pretty pictures here (including a montage of me looking contemplative on a dock). I'll try to cover the rest below.

We stopped at the store and picked up a baguette and...er...reblochon and hiked up into the mountains. Near the top is La Grotte de St. Germain and a chapel built directly above it. As I understand it, St. Germain was a monk at the priory in Talloires who, in an effort to live a more simple and rustic life, started spending his nights in a small cave (the aforementioned "grotte"). After a while, I think he went a little batty and just stayed up there, living the life of a recluse. A hermit with a view.

la grotte de St. Germain

While LSB was in meetings, I took a boat tour around the lake to Annecy. I met a couple of caravaning Scots on board with their two friendly spaniels: Paddy (a cocker) and Fudge (a springer). I never did get the names of the people, but I learned that they were traveling through France and then onto Italy. It was in Annecy that I ate my first tartiflette of the trip. I washed it down with a bottle of strong "Yeti" beer at a restaurant on a canal.

Yes, that is A Moveable Feast next to my tartiflette (I am the cliché)

Once Leah was free from work, we spent our last afternoon in Talloires, sitting in the grass on the lakeshore, drinking rosé and eating baguettes with a certain mountain cheese that I tend to enjoy.

LSB, Lake Annecy, and Reblochon

I had tartiflette again for dinner that evening and dreamed about a cave-dwelling life, double-milking cows for my livelihood. Strange. Maybe it was all the cheese. Or maybe it had something to do with this guy...

creepy saint at the chapel of St. Germain

Bon nuit!

Réponse automatique d'absence du bureau*

2009-06-06T18:45:00.008-04:00

*My mysteriously translated automated "out of office" response message after I logged-in to my Outlook account in France (I know, I know...but, I had a valid reason for checking my work e-mail on vacation. Really).

My experience with Iberia was different

It began in Terminal E. More precisely, it began at Houlihans Bar & Restaurant in Terminal E of Logan Airport, where FC Barcelona was in the process of beating Manchester United in the Champions League final (Iberia, Spain's national airline, flies out of E, which would explain the loud and proud Barcelona contingent in the bar). Fortified by a couple of beers and the winning atmosphere of Houlihans, I made my way to the applicable gate to board my flight--the first leg of my trip was to Madrid.

My plane smelled musty, vaguely like moth balls and ancient body odor, and the upholstery resembled a couch from the 70's abandoned in someone's basement. There were babies everywhere; international babies--all of them either crying or on the verge of crying. I settled into my seat, only to learn that the inflight movies were "17 Again" and "Last Chance Harvey."

Don't get me wrong, I've flown on worse airlines. Ukraine International, for example, where the landing gear was still being retracted and seat belt light had hardly gone out (or was there a light at all?) before the flight attendents were pushing carts up the aisle, loaded with nothing by liquor bottles clanking together as they hastily filled plastic cups on their way to the back of the plane. However, that flight was only a few hours, from Frankfurt to Kiev, and the liquor cart helped ease my fear.

Iberia was better in many ways, but, to be honest, I was a bit nervous about flying across the Atlantic on a plane that smelled like an old decommissioned subway car. Luckily, I had at least brought ear plugs to defend against the crying masses.

MAD

I managed to get through "17 Again" without any trouble and the babies were actually well behaved. Even the little Sikh in the row next to me who looked like trouble at the beginning of the flight, eventually settled down as her dad paced the aisles to keep her occupied. To make a long story short, I had the beef (with red wine) and discovered that Zac Efron is like Teen Wolf on the basketball court.

All in all, the 1977 flying Greyhound made it to Madrid-Barajas, where I spent my 2-hour layover before continuing on to Geneva, where I met up with LSB, fresh from her "World Traveler Plus" experience on the delightful and modern British Airways. A short (but speedy) taxi ride later we were in The Haute Savoie.

vive la france

More on this part in the next installment...

Escape to Charm City

2009-05-25T11:07:00.004-04:00

I must admit that I'm a bit sad to have to push the photo at the top of the previous post into the depths, but, alas, it is time for Klaus & his monkey to slide down the page. Today's shiny, new post has nothing to do with German madmen or tiny primates flitting about a raft. It does, however, have everything to do with Baltimore.

Back in the late winter, after several attempts at planning a tropical, early spring getaway were foiled, our friends suggested a long weekend full of crabs, baseball, and wanderings in Baltimore. I'd visited only once before, on a junior high school trip--our buses passing through town on the way to Washington, DC--and knew little about it beyond what I've seen in Barry Levinson or John Waters movies (No, we don't have real cable, so, I've never seen "The Wire," but I was aware of the troubles in Bodymore, Murderland). I knew Baltimore was an off-beat sort of place with a great ballpark and a terrible baseball team. They also named their NFL franchise named after a poem.

And, yes, I was aware of the crabs. That was the one of the main reasons for the trip in the first place. I was eager to tear into as many of the little buggers as I could get my hands on, in as many different forms at possible (fresh lump, fried cakes, steamed whole, etc.).

Crab fight!

We arrived, blasphemously, in a car with "H8RSOX" plates to find that a sea of Yankees fans had engulfed our hotel, turning an otherwise perfectly respectable Sheraton into a pinstriped nightmare. We checked in and wandered to where I suppose everyone visiting Baltimore wanders at some point: Inner Harbor for some beers, a raw bar platter, and crab cakes.

The following day was gameday and we strolled down the street to Orioles Park at Camden Yards for a Yankees-Orioles game. It is true what they say, Camden Yards is a great place to catch a game: an old-timey feel, yet newer, cleaner, friendlier, and cheaper than Fenway (but without all of those great obstructed view seats).

Evidence that Big Papi was once able to hit home runs

It was a beautiful day, so we meandered around the park, ate some pulled-pork sandwiches on Eutaw Street, bought a few beers, and settled in to our high, but well-positioned seats.

a $20 view

After the game, we caught a taxi and headed to Obrycki's to don our plastic bibs, roll up our sleeves, and hammer away at a dozen hot steamed crabs (see above photo of said creatures) covered in Obrycki's controversal seasoning (they don't use Old Bay, which is a polarizing choice in the region)

Primal deliciousness. Baltimore.

A Pleasant Evening with Klaus & Werner

2009-04-22T18:27:00.011-04:00

Warning: Explicit Language

Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes

Maybe it was an unconscious backlash to my previous delightful movie experience or maybe it was just residual curiousity from a documentary that I saw on IFC several years ago, but while LSB was out schmoozing with ambassadors and the Special Representative to North Korea, I took the opportunity to rent Aguirre: The Wrath of God.

First, some background. I've always been interested in the combative, symbiotic, love/hate relationship between the German director Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, his nemisis and frequent star of many of his earlier films. I guess that makes me kind of weird, but perhaps this quote will explain my fascination:

Herzog is a miserable, hateful, malevolent, avaricious, money-hungry, nasty, sadistic, treacherous, cowardly creep...he should be thrown alive to the crocodiles! An anaconda should strangle him slowly! A poisonous spider should sting him and paralyze his lungs! The most venomous serpent should bite him and make his brain explode! No panther claws should rip open his throat--that would be much too good for him! Huge red ants should piss into his lying eyes and gobble up his balls and his guts! He should catch the plague! Syphilis! Yellow fever! Leprosy! It's no use; the more I wish him the most gruesome deaths, the more he haunts me.

- Klaus Kinski (on Werner Herzog)

Aguirre was made by Germans, with mostly German actors, about Spanish conquistadors in 16th Century Peru. It follows the story of Aguirre, who leads a expedition up a river in order to find El Dorado and goes increasingly insane in the process. Think Heart of Darkness in the context of Spanish exploitation of South America, in German (with English subtitles). It begins with a bunch of men carrying a cannon over a mountain and ends with loads of hyper little monkeys on a raft. In the middle, people are hit with arrows, decapitated by other (German) Spaniards, eaten by indigenous Peruvians, and avoid starvation by eating the algae growing on the bottom of their raft. If that doesn't interest you enough to go out and rent it, perhaps this trailer or following quotes from the film will:

"That man is a head taller than me. That may change..."

- Aguirre (prior to the above-mentioned beheading)

"Whoever even thinks about deserting will be cut into 198 pieces
and then trampled upon until you can paint the walls with him"

- Aguirre (in an effort to inspire his men)

"If I, Aguirre, want the birds to drop dead from the trees...
the birds will drop dead from the trees."

- Aguirre (just prior to proclaiming himself "The Wrath of God")

Yeah, the movie was pretty awesome.

Two Snaps Up In a Circle

2009-04-09T18:12:00.007-04:00

Les demoiselles de Rochefort

Netflix got away from me somehow. An impulse click on the “add to queue” button by LSB left us with a copy of the 1967 classic Jacques Demy musical The Young Girls of Rochefort on a Saturday night. The photo on Netflix looked unbearably cheesy and it starred an ageless Gene Kelly. I wasn't familiar with Demy, nor had I ever seen a French musical as far as I could remember, so I was curious and, well, slightly frightened.

However, after sitting through the entire movie with a half-smile on my face (and periodic exclamations along the lines of: “this is so great!”), LSB concluded that I actually enjoyed it even more than she had and demanded that I write about it.

The Twin Song

This anachronistic, Franco-pastel explosion was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Imagine your typical MGM-style musical from the 40's and 50's: lots of song and dance routines, a romantic/dramatic/comic story involving men, women, and their misadventures. Magically transport that (or some of that) to the mid-60's, add a touch of bizarre, twisted Frenchness to it (i.e. two women smoking while singing a musical number about how they're twins and have been with lots of guys) and voila!

Delphine's Trumpet Solo!

The story follows twin sisters, Delphine and Solange, who aspire to be famous singers, dancers, musicians, etc. One actually picks up a trumpet--I think she puts down her cigarette first--and plays during one of the musical numbers. They are bored with life in sleepy Rochefort and long for cosmopolitan Paris where they hope to be famous and meet extraordinary men. They sing about this a few times, which is how I know. They also sing about how they are twins--several times throughout the film. I could be wrong, but I think it was even called "The Twin Song"--or maybe LSB named it that. Anyway, somehow the town is populated almost entirely by artists, musicians, sailors, and...carnies!

Carnies and the Feminine Ideal

On the subject of carnies, two of them feature prominently in the film. They are in town with the carnival, of course, though they spend most of their time singing and dancing in the town square and singing, dancing, and drinking at a local bar. They have funny little French pants and shoes, and, while my American sensibilities immediately deduced that they must be gay, alas, they sing mainly about women.

There's also a naval officer/artist, who is the sweet, sensitive character of the story. He paints a picture of his "feminine ideal" which hangs in a little gallery in town and looks remarkably like one of the twins—though, he’s never met her (do you see where this one’s going?). He spends most of the movie at the local bar telling people about his feminine ideal and looking all dreamy. We've all been there, haven't we?

The mother of the twins, and owner of the bar where everyone hangs out, keeps sending the carnies (who she only knows from their time spend drinking, singing, and dancing at her bar) to pick up her whiny son at school. Somewhere along the way, you learn that she used to be in love with a man, but she left him years ago because he had a funny name: Simon Dame (She didn’t want to be known as “Madame Dame”). There's more to this part, but there is no space for it here.

The movie is full of almosts and near misses...and carnies. Did I mention the carnies?

Deep in the background of the story someone kills and decapitates a woman--which serves only to provide some entertaining conversations and a few laughs for the other characters. Doesn't this kind of thing always happen in musicals?

I recall thinking to myself at several points throughout the movie: "wait, did that really just happen?" Yes, it did. Every time. While I won't give away the specifics of the ending, let's just say that it ends somewhat happily, in a slightly unsatisfying, European way.

So, if you mysteriously find The Young Girls of Rochefort at the top of your Netflix queue and aren't quick enough to change the sequence before they ship it, I suggest you give in to les jumelles and start pouring the wine...

The Magical Fruit

2009-03-24T18:03:00.005-04:00

Your cow for these beans

In a year of of forclosures, bailouts, and generally depressing economic news, frugality has become hip. Restaurants are offering special recession menus and it seems like every other food-focused magazine has spent the winter touting home-cooking and comfort food. Somehow, I became caught up in all of this and developed an interest in my new slow-cooker and a somewhat inexplicable fascination with beans. Maybe it was this article from Food and Wine, but then again, I guess I've always liked beans--even before they were trendy.

Cool beans

Recognizing my fixation, LSB presented me with the coolest Valentine's Day gift--3 sacks of Rancho Gordo heirloom beans. Legumes of love. While these beans aren't the simple, cheap fellas you can get at the supermarket, they are darn pretty looking and they came with a sexy Mexican bean lady pin-up calendar, of sorts. The company is interesting, too, as Rancho Gordo works "to help small farmers continue to grow their indigenous beans in Mexico, despite international trade policies that seem to discourage genetic diversity and local food traditions."

The "beans, come hither" look

Herein lies the problem--what do you do with such cool-looking, genetically diverse beans? I had intially planned to use them in this recipe, but at the last minute decided they weren't a good match and went with some plain old Goya pinto beans instead (which were delicious, nonetheless--how can you go wrong with the 3 B's of cuisine: beans, beer and bacon?).

Now my precious Vaquitas, Flor de Castilla, and Ayocote Morado sit perched atop our baker's rack, the eyes of the bean chica on the label gazing at me with culinary longing, while I search for a bean dish worthy of their virtue.

Slow Moose

2009-03-17T21:58:00.006-04:00

Just prior to departing Maine, on my return home from a recent smelting trip, my friend Paul gave me a somewhat odd parting gift--a top round moose steak, vacuum-sealed and frozen. Actually, it wasn’t that odd, if you know Paul. About a year or so ago, Paul won Maine’s version of the Golden Ticket, giving him the legal right to try to shoot a moose. To make a long story short, the moose got gotten, and I got a small hunk of said gotten moose.

Unsure of what to do with it, naturally I turned to the information superhighway. I offered a few key words (such as: “moose” and “recipes”) to Google, and was directed to various blogs and websites--many devoted to the worship of Sarah Palin. Governor Palin, it seems, is a big fan of moose and there are multiple listings for Sarah Palin’s Moose Stew. Strangely, I didn’t see any wolf recipes.

Not one to mix politics with my food, I ignored all of the Palin sites and decided to strike out on my own, using a recipe for beef stew as a guide.

Pucho’s Slow Moose Stew

Ingredients:

- (about) 1 lb of moose meat (top round or whatever your hunter friend gives you)
- 1 cup stock (chicken, beef, or whatever)
- 1/2 cup dry red wine (I used Malbec, but I’m sure any dry red wine would do)
- 1 teaspoon paprika
- 1 bay leaf
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
- 1 garlic clove (minced)
- 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
- 1/4 cup (or so) of flour
- some olive oil
- 1 onion (chopped)
- 3 carrots (chopped)
- 1 stalk celery (chopped)
- 5 or so smallish potatoes (chopped into larges chunks)

Directions:

Mix flour, salt, and pepper in a bowl. Cut moose into 1-inch cubes. Coat moose cubes in flour mixture. Brown moose cubes in olive oil and add onions until softened. Dump browned moose chunks and onions in slow-cooker. Deglaze pan with mixture of wine, chicken stock, and Worchestershire sauce. Pour mixture into slow-cooker (feel free to add more wine or stock, if needed--I added more wine), add bay leaf, paprika, carrots, celery, and potatoes. Set to cook on low for 10 hours or so. Go to bed. Wake up to an apartment that smells disturbingly of stewed meat. Check on the moose and get ready for work. Place stew in Tupperware containers and bring to work to impress your coworkers at lunch.

Yeah, it looks nasty, but it really was delicious

Bon appétit!