Where I learned about the latest French dance craze: Le Tecktonik. Of course, since radio can't give you much beyond a word picture of "moving like a rubber band," I decided to hit Le YooToob et, je descouvrir (that is a stab at le Francais. Je ne pas par peu, je par espagnole) that the dance looks like Michael Jackson on E, or like me in aerobics class. Maybe with a little more rubber in the joints than I've got, obviously.
Forget aerobics. I'm just going to download a bunch of crappy Eurotrash techno and get spazzy with it.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Old people: they can be hardcore
Today on the way to Starbucks to get the NYT, I saw George at Mac's Card Room, a place that I have been informed is "less sketchy than you'd think." I can't really figure what his age is — he could be anywhere from 80 to a hard-lived 60. He's retired-ish, and I have it on good authority that he spends his days in a, well, "relaxed" state. Obviously, if he's at a bar at 10 in the morning. He was standing outside, but his van is hard to miss.
So George is hardcore.
But old people can be hardcore in other ways, too. Yesterday, as part of my preparation for Epic Summer 2008, I did what I would call an epic ride. The weather was stunning. 70 degrees, sunny. I got my bike at about 11 and headed out for Junction City, a good three-and-a-half miles away. When I got back towards home, I thought, I'm a fresh as a spring daisy, I should keep going to my usual ride, down to the airport and around the bay.
That's about a six mile ride in and of itself. So about four miles in I felt less-than-fresh. It was past noon, when I had received a call from Ray and I was about halfway there. But I was at the bridge, and all the good stuff was coming up. So I pressed on.
An unusual weather feature was that the wind was out of the east. Usually, it's out of the West and coming back from Hoquiam is a breeze. So it was not a good sign that I was already pooping out, with no money in my bag for a recharging lunch at the Sweet Shoppe.
I ended up going down to the airport, the bird watchers were already there, and started coming back. At the intersection on 7th Street, where the tempting but oh-so-unlikely-to-give-me-free-food Sweet Shoppe is, there was a stooped over old lady carrying a couple of bags dressed in a white pantsuit, green shirt and one of those old-lady hair covering scarfy-thingys. We nodded hello, I went on down the street, on my bike, rode around the Emerson and up back across the bridge and then down behind the pilings of the big bridge to cross over to the less-traveled east-west roads, and who do I see crossing the street ahead of me with her bags, but the old lady. Somehow she had streaked there while all bent over.
Now, I was winded, but this lady somehow made it about a mile in a few minutes. Stooped over and everything. I felt like such a hoser. But I also felt something a little more noble — I was impressed and hopeful and proud of her.
Rock on, lady. It's cool if you can move like that, and it's cool if you know how to teleport. And if you know how to teleport, will you teach me?
So George is hardcore.
But old people can be hardcore in other ways, too. Yesterday, as part of my preparation for Epic Summer 2008, I did what I would call an epic ride. The weather was stunning. 70 degrees, sunny. I got my bike at about 11 and headed out for Junction City, a good three-and-a-half miles away. When I got back towards home, I thought, I'm a fresh as a spring daisy, I should keep going to my usual ride, down to the airport and around the bay.
That's about a six mile ride in and of itself. So about four miles in I felt less-than-fresh. It was past noon, when I had received a call from Ray and I was about halfway there. But I was at the bridge, and all the good stuff was coming up. So I pressed on.
An unusual weather feature was that the wind was out of the east. Usually, it's out of the West and coming back from Hoquiam is a breeze. So it was not a good sign that I was already pooping out, with no money in my bag for a recharging lunch at the Sweet Shoppe.
I ended up going down to the airport, the bird watchers were already there, and started coming back. At the intersection on 7th Street, where the tempting but oh-so-unlikely-to-give-me-free-food Sweet Shoppe is, there was a stooped over old lady carrying a couple of bags dressed in a white pantsuit, green shirt and one of those old-lady hair covering scarfy-thingys. We nodded hello, I went on down the street, on my bike, rode around the Emerson and up back across the bridge and then down behind the pilings of the big bridge to cross over to the less-traveled east-west roads, and who do I see crossing the street ahead of me with her bags, but the old lady. Somehow she had streaked there while all bent over.
Now, I was winded, but this lady somehow made it about a mile in a few minutes. Stooped over and everything. I felt like such a hoser. But I also felt something a little more noble — I was impressed and hopeful and proud of her.
Rock on, lady. It's cool if you can move like that, and it's cool if you know how to teleport. And if you know how to teleport, will you teach me?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Girding for Epicnicity
So the planned trip to Frontier-cum-Rich-People's-Haven, and all the outdoorsy stuff I want to do then, has given me some impetus in going to the Zumba class at the Y today. I think I am the biggest spaz of all time in the class. I'm a little gawky for all the booty shaking, so I geek out, with jumping and big arm motions and whatever. I kind of can't help but make fun of myself in the name of getting a better workout. But Denise, Regina, Mark and all the gang from Tacoma aren't there to appreciate it. Two years later and I can't let go of my old Y.
Which reminds me, I spent a girls' weekend a few weeks ago with some of the gals from my old Y. We all drank a bunch of wine, "enjoyed" the blustery weather and ate at the Ocean Crest, which was really, really good. I shared an appetizer of lobster fingerlings on crostini and had a seafood alfredo-type pasta, which I totally couldn't finish. When Lindley tried to help me by taking a bite, I saw her go for noodles, and I said, "No! Take the lobster!" I mean, I'm value-minded. It about kills me to not be able to eat all the lobster. I eat that about once a decade.
But all that creamy pasta with underwater creatures composed almost wholly of cholesterol does terrible, awful things to the body. Especially when washed down with ungodly amounts of Pinot Noir. Not the sort of things that get one in shape to do what the mountain biking community call epic rides.
Not that I'm planning on an epic ride in Steamboat. Maybe half of one. But there are trails to be ridden, by horse, by bike, by foot. It's a shame not to hit as absolutely many as possible, especially if the reason is because they are kicking my tuchus.
So of course, the only option is shaping up. Forgoing my annoyance at the Hoquiam Y for not being what my old Y was — a community full of cool people with their arms open and, although the parking lot was often crowded, never quite as bad as the Hoquiam Y in terms of crowding in and out of the Y. I think it helped that the Morgan Family Y isn't afraid to use the gym for classes, so they weren't limited to 30 people. I also liked the fact that Denise, Mark and Regina taught classes that weren't trademarked. But there you are. Zumba was okay, I guess.
I am also getting healthy by eating well. For dinner the other night, Ray and I roasted a heap of veggies. We did beets with a little olive oil, salt and pepper — six of them — and yams, with orange juice, a little vegetable oil and some nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and something else. I didn't put cardamom in but that would have been awesome. I sprinkled a little brown sugar on it at the end. It was like a sweet potato pie but not as unhealthy. We also had asparagus and salmon. Talk about healthy. The beets had an interesting side effect. I now know what happens when Barbie goes to the bathroom. Anthocyanins. A miracle of nature. You're welcome. Eat about two whole beets and enjoy the show.
I expect once the (dreadful, awful, wretched, miserable, galling) weather stops being rainy, hail-y and bitterly chilly I'll get Ray to hit the Capitol Forest and do some trails. Prepare our quads and sensitive little heinies for what lies ahead. Which is epic, or near-epic, stuff.
So the road to epicnicity, it begins with pink pee and Zumba.
Which reminds me, I spent a girls' weekend a few weeks ago with some of the gals from my old Y. We all drank a bunch of wine, "enjoyed" the blustery weather and ate at the Ocean Crest, which was really, really good. I shared an appetizer of lobster fingerlings on crostini and had a seafood alfredo-type pasta, which I totally couldn't finish. When Lindley tried to help me by taking a bite, I saw her go for noodles, and I said, "No! Take the lobster!" I mean, I'm value-minded. It about kills me to not be able to eat all the lobster. I eat that about once a decade.
But all that creamy pasta with underwater creatures composed almost wholly of cholesterol does terrible, awful things to the body. Especially when washed down with ungodly amounts of Pinot Noir. Not the sort of things that get one in shape to do what the mountain biking community call epic rides.
Not that I'm planning on an epic ride in Steamboat. Maybe half of one. But there are trails to be ridden, by horse, by bike, by foot. It's a shame not to hit as absolutely many as possible, especially if the reason is because they are kicking my tuchus.
So of course, the only option is shaping up. Forgoing my annoyance at the Hoquiam Y for not being what my old Y was — a community full of cool people with their arms open and, although the parking lot was often crowded, never quite as bad as the Hoquiam Y in terms of crowding in and out of the Y. I think it helped that the Morgan Family Y isn't afraid to use the gym for classes, so they weren't limited to 30 people. I also liked the fact that Denise, Mark and Regina taught classes that weren't trademarked. But there you are. Zumba was okay, I guess.
I am also getting healthy by eating well. For dinner the other night, Ray and I roasted a heap of veggies. We did beets with a little olive oil, salt and pepper — six of them — and yams, with orange juice, a little vegetable oil and some nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and something else. I didn't put cardamom in but that would have been awesome. I sprinkled a little brown sugar on it at the end. It was like a sweet potato pie but not as unhealthy. We also had asparagus and salmon. Talk about healthy. The beets had an interesting side effect. I now know what happens when Barbie goes to the bathroom. Anthocyanins. A miracle of nature. You're welcome. Eat about two whole beets and enjoy the show.
I expect once the (dreadful, awful, wretched, miserable, galling) weather stops being rainy, hail-y and bitterly chilly I'll get Ray to hit the Capitol Forest and do some trails. Prepare our quads and sensitive little heinies for what lies ahead. Which is epic, or near-epic, stuff.
So the road to epicnicity, it begins with pink pee and Zumba.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Dad comes for a visit
So dad had a work thing to do in Los Angeles and he managed to detour North for the weekend. Friday Ray and I picked him up and took him to Shanghai Garden with Beth and Chris. Then we took a tour through Uwajimaya to look at the geoducks and assorted odd produce.
We brought dad back to Grays Harbor, and the next day went to Quinault for lunch, a hike and a lovely drive.
The weather was sick. It was the first truly beautiful, warm spring day of the year, and it did not really come early enough but I was glad to get it. But not all was awesome in Quinault. The damage from December's storm is still pretty bad. There were enough trees knocked down that Ray got some sun. There were bald spots on the Quinault Loop trail and a lot of places where debris littered the woods. A whole big portion of the loop was closed by Gatton Creek. There are areas off to the east where no one is quite sure how the trails are. A waiter at the Lodge said there are 100 ruined acres over the ridge that are not being cleaned up in spite of the fact that the timber would be a boon in terms of income for the area. People aren't happy about it.
Dad tended to hog the camera — my camera — but I did manage to snap this of him at the Lodge. This is where FDR ate in 1937. I interviewed one of the people who sat next to him, Alice Esses, who at the time was a young teacher who had left her home in Oklahoma. FDR couldn't tell her enough how much he was doing to conserve soil in the Dust Bowl. The then-owner of the lodge would occasionally stop by to argue with FDR, who was voluble about wanting to make the area into a national park. Apparently the lodge owner thought it would kill business. 80 years later, the lodge wouldn't have much to offer visitors without the park nearby.
At night, we went to the Myrtle Street Jazz concert at the 7th Street because driving to the awesomest bar ever was just kind of a drive after going to Quinault. This way we got to see Ray in action as theatre board prez, introducing the two schools' musicians with a line he stole from me and which flopped. Sorry 'bout that, baby. Dad loved the Hoquiam Jazz Band and even called out their lead trombonist, Casey, to shake his hand and tell him he did a great job. Dad is a former trombonist for his high school band. Also performing were the Aberdeen Goldenaires and the all-girls "All That Jazz." One of the singers, a sophomore, was preggers and I thought she was pretty brave, but shaking someone's hand for not being afraid to go out in public is kind of silly. I particularly loved how, after Hoquiam band director Roger White said some of his kids did sports and they had to come to band practice at 7 a.m., Pat Wilhelms trumped it by saying her kids had to start practice at 6:50 a.m. And they didn't get the high school rivalry joke of mine Ray told. Is irony dead?
On Sunday we went to Seattle after running into my boss at Starbucks. We hit Olympia first, where dad got a snootfull of the hippie-redneck nexus that is the farmers market. Ray got Wagner's cinnamon bread and I got purple collards. We took a walk at Tumwater Falls. Very pretty place.
We then went to the Ballard Locks, pictured above. A bunch of little boats (well, the merrymakin' was a pretty dang big yacht, as was the M.Y. Happy Place) went through, and tied in as the water level raised them 20 feet. The Happy Place had some serious issues. I got the vibe that the guys in it didn't really know what they were doing. You could see the big Schnapps bottle inside the back end. They got yelled at by the locks guy. The Drifter was the coolest boat — wood trim, typical fishing vessel styling, a crew of young hipsters couldn't detract from the pretty blue boat. We got kind of wet, but it was fun, and the botanical gardens were pretty and smelled nice.
We ate at Ray's Boathouse. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
We got caffeine at Pike Place in an art cafe. I should start painting bright, abstracted-but-not-completely graphic flowers and sell them for like $150 a pop. People seem to like them, judging from the red "sold" stickers on the tags at the place. We also saw a guy at the newsstand with a knotted, dread-locked beard (two locks) that hung past his waist. It must be kind of heavy.
Ray and I dropped dad off at the Sea-Tac Crest. Here are some reviews that make me feel like a bad person for putting my parents up there. This is Hugh and Janice's favorite place to stay if they'll be gone a week. It was definitely cheap, but my oh my, it is certainly a Roach Motel. It did not help that dad's neighbor got a 4 a.m. "wakeup call" from the staff about an underage girl in the lobby. Yikes.
We made it back home by about nine.
We brought dad back to Grays Harbor, and the next day went to Quinault for lunch, a hike and a lovely drive.
The weather was sick. It was the first truly beautiful, warm spring day of the year, and it did not really come early enough but I was glad to get it. But not all was awesome in Quinault. The damage from December's storm is still pretty bad. There were enough trees knocked down that Ray got some sun. There were bald spots on the Quinault Loop trail and a lot of places where debris littered the woods. A whole big portion of the loop was closed by Gatton Creek. There are areas off to the east where no one is quite sure how the trails are. A waiter at the Lodge said there are 100 ruined acres over the ridge that are not being cleaned up in spite of the fact that the timber would be a boon in terms of income for the area. People aren't happy about it.
Dad tended to hog the camera — my camera — but I did manage to snap this of him at the Lodge. This is where FDR ate in 1937. I interviewed one of the people who sat next to him, Alice Esses, who at the time was a young teacher who had left her home in Oklahoma. FDR couldn't tell her enough how much he was doing to conserve soil in the Dust Bowl. The then-owner of the lodge would occasionally stop by to argue with FDR, who was voluble about wanting to make the area into a national park. Apparently the lodge owner thought it would kill business. 80 years later, the lodge wouldn't have much to offer visitors without the park nearby.
At night, we went to the Myrtle Street Jazz concert at the 7th Street because driving to the awesomest bar ever was just kind of a drive after going to Quinault. This way we got to see Ray in action as theatre board prez, introducing the two schools' musicians with a line he stole from me and which flopped. Sorry 'bout that, baby. Dad loved the Hoquiam Jazz Band and even called out their lead trombonist, Casey, to shake his hand and tell him he did a great job. Dad is a former trombonist for his high school band. Also performing were the Aberdeen Goldenaires and the all-girls "All That Jazz." One of the singers, a sophomore, was preggers and I thought she was pretty brave, but shaking someone's hand for not being afraid to go out in public is kind of silly. I particularly loved how, after Hoquiam band director Roger White said some of his kids did sports and they had to come to band practice at 7 a.m., Pat Wilhelms trumped it by saying her kids had to start practice at 6:50 a.m. And they didn't get the high school rivalry joke of mine Ray told. Is irony dead?
On Sunday we went to Seattle after running into my boss at Starbucks. We hit Olympia first, where dad got a snootfull of the hippie-redneck nexus that is the farmers market. Ray got Wagner's cinnamon bread and I got purple collards. We took a walk at Tumwater Falls. Very pretty place.
We then went to the Ballard Locks, pictured above. A bunch of little boats (well, the merrymakin' was a pretty dang big yacht, as was the M.Y. Happy Place) went through, and tied in as the water level raised them 20 feet. The Happy Place had some serious issues. I got the vibe that the guys in it didn't really know what they were doing. You could see the big Schnapps bottle inside the back end. They got yelled at by the locks guy. The Drifter was the coolest boat — wood trim, typical fishing vessel styling, a crew of young hipsters couldn't detract from the pretty blue boat. We got kind of wet, but it was fun, and the botanical gardens were pretty and smelled nice.
We ate at Ray's Boathouse. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
We got caffeine at Pike Place in an art cafe. I should start painting bright, abstracted-but-not-completely graphic flowers and sell them for like $150 a pop. People seem to like them, judging from the red "sold" stickers on the tags at the place. We also saw a guy at the newsstand with a knotted, dread-locked beard (two locks) that hung past his waist. It must be kind of heavy.
Ray and I dropped dad off at the Sea-Tac Crest. Here are some reviews that make me feel like a bad person for putting my parents up there. This is Hugh and Janice's favorite place to stay if they'll be gone a week. It was definitely cheap, but my oh my, it is certainly a Roach Motel. It did not help that dad's neighbor got a 4 a.m. "wakeup call" from the staff about an underage girl in the lobby. Yikes.
We made it back home by about nine.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Weird restaurant
I just had to say, briefly, that Ray and I tried out a restaurant so eccentric it deserves its own post. I will call it "Numcat's Lair" to preserve its anonymity, since I may be tempted to cross into territory that will offend someone and I don't want any trouble here.
We'd been curious about this place, as once before we'd tried to just walk in (at about 6:45ish) and were turned away, even though there were customers and the restaurant was quite empty. First thing about the Numcat's Lair, you have to have a reservation.
The reasons for the mandatory reservation was soon apparent. There is only one server and maybe two cooks (chef/sous chef or chef/prep cook, it's hard to say) in the place. That means they need airtight table times. But it means the Lair will never be more than half full. It has two, whole, massively decorated rooms with booths and tables. The booths had a Soviet kind of comfort to them.
So we got there at 5:30 and there was only one special left. What kind of restaurant only has a single special left that early on? We were curious. Also, how could the menu (expensive) support such a variety of meats and foodstuffs if a maximum of about 10 tables — mostly two-tops — could be filled each night? The mystery deepened.
Then the food arrived. I had ahi, which was cooked down to canned tuna quality. I was, frankly, shocked. Well done ahi is a culinary sin that is, in religious terms, mortal in nature. This isn't the sort of thing that bothers Ray, who had salmon that didn't seem to be too overdone. The ahi was sort of dry, as a result, and had been drenched in a lemon basil sauce that was composed with a great deal of garlic and olive oil to compensate. The vegetables served with were good, though the rice was old people's rice like you get in a lesser eating place — no grain sticks to other grains, and there's an overcooked orzo quality to it.
We had dessert. There were three options, two of which involved chocolate mousse. We got the mousse in a chocolate pyramid. Ray said, "This is so good," but I really wonder at his ability to taste. I just found out he's kind of colorblind, and the grainy, greasy texture of the mousse was pretty bad. Ray clarified: "It's sweet, you know, it has sugar in it." Well, true enough. Inside the pyramid (interesting, 80sish presentation) was not only the mousse, but some sort of bolus of ... cheesecake? Another poorly-constructed mousse? I wasn't sure. It was sour-ish. Tart is a word I'd use had it tasted good. It was just sour. I did something ridiculous, I have to say. Both of us had had bites of this bolus, but I wanted to spare Ray from eating any more of this awful stuff, so I ate it. I was like Tinkerbell taking Peter Pan's poison. It put a foul taste in my mouth water could not get out.
Oh, Numcat's Lair, that was one of the strangest meals I've eaten. It would just be mediocre-to-disappointing food that flauted good culinary sense if it hadn't been for the insane atmosphere.
I can't wait to go back.
We'd been curious about this place, as once before we'd tried to just walk in (at about 6:45ish) and were turned away, even though there were customers and the restaurant was quite empty. First thing about the Numcat's Lair, you have to have a reservation.
The reasons for the mandatory reservation was soon apparent. There is only one server and maybe two cooks (chef/sous chef or chef/prep cook, it's hard to say) in the place. That means they need airtight table times. But it means the Lair will never be more than half full. It has two, whole, massively decorated rooms with booths and tables. The booths had a Soviet kind of comfort to them.
So we got there at 5:30 and there was only one special left. What kind of restaurant only has a single special left that early on? We were curious. Also, how could the menu (expensive) support such a variety of meats and foodstuffs if a maximum of about 10 tables — mostly two-tops — could be filled each night? The mystery deepened.
Then the food arrived. I had ahi, which was cooked down to canned tuna quality. I was, frankly, shocked. Well done ahi is a culinary sin that is, in religious terms, mortal in nature. This isn't the sort of thing that bothers Ray, who had salmon that didn't seem to be too overdone. The ahi was sort of dry, as a result, and had been drenched in a lemon basil sauce that was composed with a great deal of garlic and olive oil to compensate. The vegetables served with were good, though the rice was old people's rice like you get in a lesser eating place — no grain sticks to other grains, and there's an overcooked orzo quality to it.
We had dessert. There were three options, two of which involved chocolate mousse. We got the mousse in a chocolate pyramid. Ray said, "This is so good," but I really wonder at his ability to taste. I just found out he's kind of colorblind, and the grainy, greasy texture of the mousse was pretty bad. Ray clarified: "It's sweet, you know, it has sugar in it." Well, true enough. Inside the pyramid (interesting, 80sish presentation) was not only the mousse, but some sort of bolus of ... cheesecake? Another poorly-constructed mousse? I wasn't sure. It was sour-ish. Tart is a word I'd use had it tasted good. It was just sour. I did something ridiculous, I have to say. Both of us had had bites of this bolus, but I wanted to spare Ray from eating any more of this awful stuff, so I ate it. I was like Tinkerbell taking Peter Pan's poison. It put a foul taste in my mouth water could not get out.
Oh, Numcat's Lair, that was one of the strangest meals I've eaten. It would just be mediocre-to-disappointing food that flauted good culinary sense if it hadn't been for the insane atmosphere.
I can't wait to go back.
Mom comes for a visit
So mom came for a visit for about the space of a weekend. We ate Estrella creamery cheese, took a drive on 105, prettiest road in the state that I've yet to be on, and mom got to eat fried razor clams Ray and I caught. We visited mostly because there wasn't a whole lot of time and because the weather was absolutely the pits. When mom left, she said the crummy hail/rain/cold was a "revelation" to her and helped her appreciate what I go through. Ha! We've passed the equinox! She still doesn't know the full extent of the mind-numbing tragedy that is a Northwest coastal winter.
We went to Westport, and we ate at this one place that has crazy bloody marys, obviously. I believe there is a bit of Slim Jim on it. In spite of the presentation, the consensus was that it was not the best bloody mary in the world. It's hard to find really good mixed drinks out there, I've found. Most places don't bother to use good ingredients, or they get too watery off the bat. It's just another factor that keeps me from going out and getting a drink.
As you can tell, the weather wasn't completely awful the whole time, thank goodness. This cranberry farm was really picturesque.
Also, on my latest Flickr downloading excursion, I learned there are three other people who put frosted mini-wheats in their hobbies. The mini-wheat revolution will come; you will be assimilated. In other mini-wheat news, I recently bought seven boxes of FMWs and stacked them with about another seven or eight boxes sitting on my kitchen floor. I have to buy them in bulk when they're on sale — I eat a lot of them, and I need to save the $$$ when I can — and in this particular case, they were on sale, I had a coupon for 70 cents off one box and another coupon for $10 off my "shopping order" if I bought seven or more boxes. Reader, I bought a bunch of them. I was worried that mom would take this abundance of FMWs as a possible sign of mental illness (she said she was a little concerned). I mean, one day it's a bunch of boxes of FMWs that won't fit on the fridge, the next it's stacks of junk you have to go sideways to get through, Collier brothers-style. Or cats everywhere. As if.
Up next: Dad's visit.
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