So last week I was totally going to blog about this really long bike ride and other assorted and varied interesting things that happened but my gnat-like memory is failing me. Besides, I worked, and the result of that is here (in short, Roosevelt reenactors (yes, both Teddy and FDR) visited the park, gave a speech to a handful of mildly surprised and interested people then I drove all over looking for the new sign they were supposed to dedicate. As a bonus, I got to eat a really good BLT).
Anyhow, Fourth of July Longview-style. It started with a parade, as all decent Fourth celebrations do, although actually the city started celebrating Wednesday with a strip of fair booths and a stage with live music (covered live by KLTV, local access for Kelso and Longview). This is a patriotic city, no doubt.
The parade had Pro-Rodeo Thunder Queen whoever riding on her horsey with a lot of fancy gear. There were old-timey cars, a brigade of Red Hat women, who all freak me out deeply. There's just something very Mao about the uniform of the enlightened, empowered ladies. There were lots of people throwing candy at passers-by (mostly tootsie rolls, some non-chocolate flavored, like lime and fruit punch), and there was even an R.A. Long reenactor (!). He was a founding father of the city, apparently. There were some baton twirlers, a "smartsign" band (high school students, it looked like) playing Sousa and "Land of 1000 Dances," and even a bagpipe player. There was also a huge Democrat contingent, making a great showing in heavily-conservative small-town Washington state. What's more, the Obama people appeared to be getting cheers and the Dino Rossi 2-truck-hayride-and-walking-people float just got silence. He's the guy the Republicans are running against Christine Gregoire, for non-Washers.
Then it was onto the main stage, where the Northwest Wind Ensemble (actually a big group with a xylophone and percussion) was playing Sousa. Ray saw his friend's dad and granddad playing there, along with a phalanx of people he knew. During the parade, there was a sign by the driving school float that said, "Remember when Jim Kaber taught you to drive?" and I laughingly asked him and he said, "Yes, I did take lessons from Jim Kaber." Small. Town.
The timber show was next, and it was a doozy. I almost decompensated from sitting in the cool, but Kris had showed up by then with a beach towel (it had been raining and she figured we were soaked). I will have to save the tale of the timber show for another day, hopefully with links to K's pics, because frankly, I don't have time before the plane to Denver boards. Yay for the quickness! Yay for free PDX wi-fi! Yay Oregon! Yay no sales tax! I hate to leave you, Oregon, but Steamboat calls.
No Internet for a bit. Sorry, faithful reader (or me).
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Prepping for epicnicity again
So this isn't technically biking below.
Yeah, we rode the ponies in Ocean Shores. It's in preparation for an upcoming trail ride on the Colorado visit, wherein we will, with my family, all ride up into some Mt. Zirkel-adjacent gorgeousness on some horses for two hours, to return to a dinner of "healthy hotdogs (!!!)," "s'mores" and a cash bar. How many drinks will it take to soothe the aching tushies of the non-horseriding city mice? I look forward to telling you.
Now, riding horseback on the beach probably sounds ridiculously romantic and exciting. If not for the mandatory preparation, this would have been a trip I think we'd have been happy to skip. First, Ray had never ridden a horse below and he's not even crazy about dogs because when they are unpredictable, they can bite. And now he's on a horse's back (Her name is Kim. I rode Freckles). This and the extreme positivity at my banjo playing and the public dancing at the ball last year prove that he has gone over the deep end for me, as far as I'm concerned.
But the problem is that Ocean Shores is not a very romantic area to ride on. The beaches, such as they are, are lined with cheesy condos and hotels filled with cheesy people who perpetrate all kinds of redneckery, from doing donuts on the beach to holding bonfires and barbecues right next to their cars to flying those kites you can steer and buzzing everyone around. There are also hearty souls who get in the water to bathe. I was appalled by that, especially watching the kids go out. I mean, their parents must want them to be taken away by hypothermia to let them splash around when it's 53, overcast and gale-stormy out. The one-hour ride took us most of the way to the Quinault Beach Resort and Casino before turning around. And then there's the weather. It has been chilly and wet out here anyway, and the shore is far windier than is desirable. Ray's short shirtsleeves were not enough, and my bulky sweater did not manage to stop the wind from ripping into me. Not exactly a gentle, tress-tussling breeze. By the end of the hour, Ray and I were frozen solid and his hands were bright red and practically numb.
Did I mention horses don't like to get their feet wet? Every time a wave came up, we had to walk the horses around them. And only walk (and occasionally trot) them. No racing through the tide, sending up a magical sparkly spray. Oh well, we were too Donner-Party miserable to think about it.
Ray did great, and I managed to keep Freckles under control. The only damper is that our old nags had been making the shore-side run all day and were probably whipped. The horses at the ranch will likely be fresh. Well, we're ready now. I think.
To warm up we went to the Arcade and played air hockey. I beat Ray for the first time and then he beat me and took back bragging rights.
Yesterday we hit Lake Sylvia State Park, which has an extensive trail system for mountain biking (really for logging, but it's open to the public for non-motorized use). We hit a trail that went pretty steeply up about 5 miles, then turned around and zoomed down. There's no map available online, but the park kiosk has a lot of them. If I were a graphics person I'd try to turn it into a prettier and more elaborate version of the dittoed copy you get at the kiosk. It was a terrific ride, and since there was plenty of time left when we completed it, we took a brisk 5 mile or so hike. We were quite weary after that but we still had to hit the supermarket for dinner.
Luckily, when I headed to Starbucks to get my Sunday NY Times, I saw the Spooner Farms stand was open. I went to the Starbucks to get my paper (they didn't have any, the delivery didn't make it to Grays Harbor that day, and we ended up having to send Ray's dad Ray on a mission to get a copy in his neck of the woods) by bike and I booked it back to my car to get proper flat transportability. The Spooner berries are very tender and sweet, and red all the way down. They are not California abominations of sour crunchiness, and they only last 30 sublime days. Needless to say, I came back for the flat and plowed through about two pints through the course of the day, and there are still plenty left for my FMWs.
I also learned that I can play almost all Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. songs on the banjo. With ease, chord-wise, so my finger picking is going to have to pick up some steam. I can also play that "Umbrella" song and the opening riff to "Stairway." Thanks to the Internet for putting chords and tabs up for almost any song you can think of. If only more than 75 percent of those chords were correctly noted.
Yeah, we rode the ponies in Ocean Shores. It's in preparation for an upcoming trail ride on the Colorado visit, wherein we will, with my family, all ride up into some Mt. Zirkel-adjacent gorgeousness on some horses for two hours, to return to a dinner of "healthy hotdogs (!!!)," "s'mores" and a cash bar. How many drinks will it take to soothe the aching tushies of the non-horseriding city mice? I look forward to telling you.
Now, riding horseback on the beach probably sounds ridiculously romantic and exciting. If not for the mandatory preparation, this would have been a trip I think we'd have been happy to skip. First, Ray had never ridden a horse below and he's not even crazy about dogs because when they are unpredictable, they can bite. And now he's on a horse's back (Her name is Kim. I rode Freckles). This and the extreme positivity at my banjo playing and the public dancing at the ball last year prove that he has gone over the deep end for me, as far as I'm concerned.
But the problem is that Ocean Shores is not a very romantic area to ride on. The beaches, such as they are, are lined with cheesy condos and hotels filled with cheesy people who perpetrate all kinds of redneckery, from doing donuts on the beach to holding bonfires and barbecues right next to their cars to flying those kites you can steer and buzzing everyone around. There are also hearty souls who get in the water to bathe. I was appalled by that, especially watching the kids go out. I mean, their parents must want them to be taken away by hypothermia to let them splash around when it's 53, overcast and gale-stormy out. The one-hour ride took us most of the way to the Quinault Beach Resort and Casino before turning around. And then there's the weather. It has been chilly and wet out here anyway, and the shore is far windier than is desirable. Ray's short shirtsleeves were not enough, and my bulky sweater did not manage to stop the wind from ripping into me. Not exactly a gentle, tress-tussling breeze. By the end of the hour, Ray and I were frozen solid and his hands were bright red and practically numb.
Did I mention horses don't like to get their feet wet? Every time a wave came up, we had to walk the horses around them. And only walk (and occasionally trot) them. No racing through the tide, sending up a magical sparkly spray. Oh well, we were too Donner-Party miserable to think about it.
Ray did great, and I managed to keep Freckles under control. The only damper is that our old nags had been making the shore-side run all day and were probably whipped. The horses at the ranch will likely be fresh. Well, we're ready now. I think.
To warm up we went to the Arcade and played air hockey. I beat Ray for the first time and then he beat me and took back bragging rights.
Yesterday we hit Lake Sylvia State Park, which has an extensive trail system for mountain biking (really for logging, but it's open to the public for non-motorized use). We hit a trail that went pretty steeply up about 5 miles, then turned around and zoomed down. There's no map available online, but the park kiosk has a lot of them. If I were a graphics person I'd try to turn it into a prettier and more elaborate version of the dittoed copy you get at the kiosk. It was a terrific ride, and since there was plenty of time left when we completed it, we took a brisk 5 mile or so hike. We were quite weary after that but we still had to hit the supermarket for dinner.
Luckily, when I headed to Starbucks to get my Sunday NY Times, I saw the Spooner Farms stand was open. I went to the Starbucks to get my paper (they didn't have any, the delivery didn't make it to Grays Harbor that day, and we ended up having to send Ray's dad Ray on a mission to get a copy in his neck of the woods) by bike and I booked it back to my car to get proper flat transportability. The Spooner berries are very tender and sweet, and red all the way down. They are not California abominations of sour crunchiness, and they only last 30 sublime days. Needless to say, I came back for the flat and plowed through about two pints through the course of the day, and there are still plenty left for my FMWs.
I also learned that I can play almost all Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. songs on the banjo. With ease, chord-wise, so my finger picking is going to have to pick up some steam. I can also play that "Umbrella" song and the opening riff to "Stairway." Thanks to the Internet for putting chords and tabs up for almost any song you can think of. If only more than 75 percent of those chords were correctly noted.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Banjo pickin'
So I got a banjo last week. A tenor banjo, to be precise, which is necessary because there are three kinds of banjos. I have chosen one of the two non-five string banjos to play. People don't get the variety of banjos out there. They seem to think all you can play on a banjo — which they envision as a five-string banjo — are bluegrass tunes. My God, people, there is a world of music out there that can be played with a banjo. Heard of Bela Fleck?
Well, not like I'm going to be playing abstruse banjo jazz. Honestly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of chords in the world. I'm just trying to pick some songs out that I want to be able to play, and get to a point where I don't sound awful. And banjo music makes people happy.
In contrast to my parents' telling me I ought to play cello (mom — and I tried it and didn't like it) and dulcimer (dad — there is one around the house in Arkansas and it's supposed to be easy), Ray has embraced the banjo playing with an enthusiasm that almost scares me. He has actually gotten his saxaphone from his sister's house, an instrument he has not played in a decade, and some music that has chords in it so we can "jam." And though the jazz classics he has the music for is good stuff, I'm looking at chords with what appear to be fractions next to them. I thought there were a few kinds of chords, but there's apparently a whole world out there of ways to structure notes that people actually use and that sound pleasantly consonant. Go figure.
I am using a beautiful 1930s-era banjo on loan from a banjo band leader who has loaner banjos for would-be banjo players. It has inlaid mother of pearl and is heavy as all get out. So far I can play "Clementine," "London Bridge," and a few other songs that rely on C, F, G, G7, C7 and A chords. There are quite a few. I can just barely get out the D chords. I'm getting somewhere.
I've got a mess of books to read. I finished a Chandler Burr book about the making of Un Jardin Sur le Nil and Lovely (they are scents) and you know, he is one lucky duck. His book is okay, there are some draggy passages and some exceptionally self-concious writing about talking to a celebrity (Sarah Jessica Parker). It really works when he actually talks about molecules and scent, and really, that was the book I wanted to have more of. I think the book was called "The Perfect Scent."
I have plenty of books to dig into — I put them on hold a year ago and that hold expired at once and, boom, eight books drop in my lap. I have a couple that don't look that interesting to me anymore (one about the Christian Right in the U.S., another about the black market of nuclear weapons. I must have been feeling paranoid or something for that one) and others that are more appealing (Atul Gawande's notes on being a surgeon, "The Book of Air and Shadows," "Coal Black Horse," which sounds so full of rural poverty, desperation and child-in-peril plus historic setting that I am thinking of getting it for mom for Christmas. The more grinding the poverty, the more she likes it).
I had a fun surprise this weekend. I thought "Battlestar Galactica" was having its season finale, but it was just the mid-season finale. I suppose "fun surprise" is the wrong way to put it since there was kind of a depressing cliffhanger. And now I have to wait for the return of the sexy killer robots and psychologically disturbed on-the-run humanity. But if I can wait for summer weather, I can wait for BSG.
Well, not like I'm going to be playing abstruse banjo jazz. Honestly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of chords in the world. I'm just trying to pick some songs out that I want to be able to play, and get to a point where I don't sound awful. And banjo music makes people happy.
In contrast to my parents' telling me I ought to play cello (mom — and I tried it and didn't like it) and dulcimer (dad — there is one around the house in Arkansas and it's supposed to be easy), Ray has embraced the banjo playing with an enthusiasm that almost scares me. He has actually gotten his saxaphone from his sister's house, an instrument he has not played in a decade, and some music that has chords in it so we can "jam." And though the jazz classics he has the music for is good stuff, I'm looking at chords with what appear to be fractions next to them. I thought there were a few kinds of chords, but there's apparently a whole world out there of ways to structure notes that people actually use and that sound pleasantly consonant. Go figure.
I am using a beautiful 1930s-era banjo on loan from a banjo band leader who has loaner banjos for would-be banjo players. It has inlaid mother of pearl and is heavy as all get out. So far I can play "Clementine," "London Bridge," and a few other songs that rely on C, F, G, G7, C7 and A chords. There are quite a few. I can just barely get out the D chords. I'm getting somewhere.
I've got a mess of books to read. I finished a Chandler Burr book about the making of Un Jardin Sur le Nil and Lovely (they are scents) and you know, he is one lucky duck. His book is okay, there are some draggy passages and some exceptionally self-concious writing about talking to a celebrity (Sarah Jessica Parker). It really works when he actually talks about molecules and scent, and really, that was the book I wanted to have more of. I think the book was called "The Perfect Scent."
I have plenty of books to dig into — I put them on hold a year ago and that hold expired at once and, boom, eight books drop in my lap. I have a couple that don't look that interesting to me anymore (one about the Christian Right in the U.S., another about the black market of nuclear weapons. I must have been feeling paranoid or something for that one) and others that are more appealing (Atul Gawande's notes on being a surgeon, "The Book of Air and Shadows," "Coal Black Horse," which sounds so full of rural poverty, desperation and child-in-peril plus historic setting that I am thinking of getting it for mom for Christmas. The more grinding the poverty, the more she likes it).
I had a fun surprise this weekend. I thought "Battlestar Galactica" was having its season finale, but it was just the mid-season finale. I suppose "fun surprise" is the wrong way to put it since there was kind of a depressing cliffhanger. And now I have to wait for the return of the sexy killer robots and psychologically disturbed on-the-run humanity. But if I can wait for summer weather, I can wait for BSG.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Olden Times
This weekend was a weekend of simple pleasures, of experiencing the joys of the past. And by that I mean banjos. Lots of banjos.
The weather was not promising (I wore my winter coat this morning, how ya like that?) so on Saturday I dragged Ray up to Kamilche to the Little Creek Casino, where there was a convention of 4-string banjo players. I wanted to see the set of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band (which I wrote about not too long ago, and which was noticed not too long after, and yes, I can do more than seems, people, I can be obsessed with banjos myself). They were playing with Montana Red, aka Dick Lewis aka someone whose picking and grinning does not seem to be caught up on the internets like so much other cultural detritus with far less redeeming value. Montana Red was nominated for the national 4-string Banjo Hall of Fame in Guthrie, Okla., but his name does not appear to be in their online repository of banjo heros. Still, the guy must be able to play to call himself Montana Red, no?
For the record, Montana Red was in a cowboy hat and a bright red shirt with a southwestern pattern across the middle and a belt buckle with a ginormous red stone in the middle of it. The other GHBB members wore white shirts and blue satin vests.
We were a little late getting there because after we ate lunch we stopped at the home of a former client of Ray's who regaled us with his tribulations getting his garage built. It will be massive, with a slab of concrete he said is on the order of 72 cubic yards and way above street level. He's convinced it is ridiculous and he has locked horns with so many officials about it he said he has been told not to come back to city council meetings. He also told us about shooting at a nearby meth-maker's shed with flaming arrows. Ted Nugent can't touch this guy.
As it turns out, the banjo festival, held in a small event center/conference room style thing. It wasn't in the main event center, because that's where the Capitol Jubilee or something like that was being held. There were all these people milling around with badges on, welcoming us in and everything. They were so friendly and all seemed to know each other so well I was half expecting to see some sort of cult figure come by to lead them. I Googled, but nothing. Maybe it was a multi-level marketing thing? So we find the kind of distant room with the banjo band.
Well, instead of having one banjo band play at a time, all five bands are seated in a semi-circle and they are gone through in rotation, one song at a time. I have to say, the local band was the best. The GH band not only has banjo skillz, they have a guy who plays what appeared to be a straight soprano sax, which didn't sound like Kenny G but like those old timey territorial band recordings, a washboard, a bass and more non-banjo instruments than the other bands, which contributed sonic interest.
The songs that were played were so old the copyrights had expired when Bugs Bunny was singing them in cartoons. "Red Roses for a Blue Lady," "Dinah," "By The Sea," you name it, the tunes were familiar and old timey. There was an older couple, a woman in pink and a man in green, and they danced as much as their mutual inflexibility and possibly arthritis allowed them to. The man's moves were pretty limited, but then the pink lady got a new partner and they totally were getting down. There was almost an emergency when they tried to do the two-person turn, where they lifted their arms up and turned back-to-back, because their shoulders weren't flexible enough. It explained the ambulance sitting out in front of the casino.
There was also a woman from the "Orphan Band" who did a hula to "Tiny Bubbles," which I totally intend to do next time I go to a winery. And there was another woman from the Tacoma Banjo Band who got up in a cowboy hat with fake braids and a washboard around her neck and thimbles on every finger and did a kind of dance while banging out a rhythm while the band played. For some reason she reminded me of my mom.
Hugely entertaining. Then we went to the town's history museum to take in an improving lecture on women's history and getting the vote. Very Depression-style entertainment, and we had a dinner Sunday of porcupine meatballs, which is meat mixed with uncooked rice, browned and then cooked in a sauce where the rice absorbs liquid. Mom said that was very Depression-esque, and I guess we're about being prepared. I will have to learn to love beans, she told me. So be it. I can love beans, but I hope everyone around me has sufficient love for me to put up with my bean-digesting!
Maybe it was all the old timey stuff, but I was on a real trip about the upcoming Depression (reasons I think it's coming: Energy prices going out of control, food prices getting insane, generalized global instability, global warming thwarting traditional seasons and water patterns, I'm basically one of those people who swings between wild optimism and pessimism and I'm on a downward spiral without lots of great outdoor days) tonight. I was even trying to think of ways to thwart local cats from using a garden I'm likely never going to plant as a litterbox, short of killing them dead.
I was all on about how I have to hit Safeway before Tuesday, they've got the 24 oz boxes of FMWs 2/$5; I have to stock up. Like a crazy person with Great Depression issues. And at the improving lecture, in one of the "living history vignettes," I learned that in 1935, when a man could expect to make a dollar a day, a box of Bisquick cost $.30. Way to make me feel guilty about that totally unopened, unused box of Bisquick I've got in my cupboard that cost me about $1.29.
But I was also all on about ways we could entertain ourselves without electricity or anything: I could take up the four-string banjo (plectrum or tenor, however, eludes me) and Ray could play his clarinet and we could just have all-night Dixieland jam sessions. Who said the Depression has to always be completely awful?
The weather was not promising (I wore my winter coat this morning, how ya like that?) so on Saturday I dragged Ray up to Kamilche to the Little Creek Casino, where there was a convention of 4-string banjo players. I wanted to see the set of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band (which I wrote about not too long ago, and which was noticed not too long after, and yes, I can do more than seems, people, I can be obsessed with banjos myself). They were playing with Montana Red, aka Dick Lewis aka someone whose picking and grinning does not seem to be caught up on the internets like so much other cultural detritus with far less redeeming value. Montana Red was nominated for the national 4-string Banjo Hall of Fame in Guthrie, Okla., but his name does not appear to be in their online repository of banjo heros. Still, the guy must be able to play to call himself Montana Red, no?
For the record, Montana Red was in a cowboy hat and a bright red shirt with a southwestern pattern across the middle and a belt buckle with a ginormous red stone in the middle of it. The other GHBB members wore white shirts and blue satin vests.
We were a little late getting there because after we ate lunch we stopped at the home of a former client of Ray's who regaled us with his tribulations getting his garage built. It will be massive, with a slab of concrete he said is on the order of 72 cubic yards and way above street level. He's convinced it is ridiculous and he has locked horns with so many officials about it he said he has been told not to come back to city council meetings. He also told us about shooting at a nearby meth-maker's shed with flaming arrows. Ted Nugent can't touch this guy.
As it turns out, the banjo festival, held in a small event center/conference room style thing. It wasn't in the main event center, because that's where the Capitol Jubilee or something like that was being held. There were all these people milling around with badges on, welcoming us in and everything. They were so friendly and all seemed to know each other so well I was half expecting to see some sort of cult figure come by to lead them. I Googled, but nothing. Maybe it was a multi-level marketing thing? So we find the kind of distant room with the banjo band.
Well, instead of having one banjo band play at a time, all five bands are seated in a semi-circle and they are gone through in rotation, one song at a time. I have to say, the local band was the best. The GH band not only has banjo skillz, they have a guy who plays what appeared to be a straight soprano sax, which didn't sound like Kenny G but like those old timey territorial band recordings, a washboard, a bass and more non-banjo instruments than the other bands, which contributed sonic interest.
The songs that were played were so old the copyrights had expired when Bugs Bunny was singing them in cartoons. "Red Roses for a Blue Lady," "Dinah," "By The Sea," you name it, the tunes were familiar and old timey. There was an older couple, a woman in pink and a man in green, and they danced as much as their mutual inflexibility and possibly arthritis allowed them to. The man's moves were pretty limited, but then the pink lady got a new partner and they totally were getting down. There was almost an emergency when they tried to do the two-person turn, where they lifted their arms up and turned back-to-back, because their shoulders weren't flexible enough. It explained the ambulance sitting out in front of the casino.
There was also a woman from the "Orphan Band" who did a hula to "Tiny Bubbles," which I totally intend to do next time I go to a winery. And there was another woman from the Tacoma Banjo Band who got up in a cowboy hat with fake braids and a washboard around her neck and thimbles on every finger and did a kind of dance while banging out a rhythm while the band played. For some reason she reminded me of my mom.
Hugely entertaining. Then we went to the town's history museum to take in an improving lecture on women's history and getting the vote. Very Depression-style entertainment, and we had a dinner Sunday of porcupine meatballs, which is meat mixed with uncooked rice, browned and then cooked in a sauce where the rice absorbs liquid. Mom said that was very Depression-esque, and I guess we're about being prepared. I will have to learn to love beans, she told me. So be it. I can love beans, but I hope everyone around me has sufficient love for me to put up with my bean-digesting!
Maybe it was all the old timey stuff, but I was on a real trip about the upcoming Depression (reasons I think it's coming: Energy prices going out of control, food prices getting insane, generalized global instability, global warming thwarting traditional seasons and water patterns, I'm basically one of those people who swings between wild optimism and pessimism and I'm on a downward spiral without lots of great outdoor days) tonight. I was even trying to think of ways to thwart local cats from using a garden I'm likely never going to plant as a litterbox, short of killing them dead.
I was all on about how I have to hit Safeway before Tuesday, they've got the 24 oz boxes of FMWs 2/$5; I have to stock up. Like a crazy person with Great Depression issues. And at the improving lecture, in one of the "living history vignettes," I learned that in 1935, when a man could expect to make a dollar a day, a box of Bisquick cost $.30. Way to make me feel guilty about that totally unopened, unused box of Bisquick I've got in my cupboard that cost me about $1.29.
But I was also all on about ways we could entertain ourselves without electricity or anything: I could take up the four-string banjo (plectrum or tenor, however, eludes me) and Ray could play his clarinet and we could just have all-night Dixieland jam sessions. Who said the Depression has to always be completely awful?
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Pain at the pump?
Well, I set myself up for about $.85 more pain the past couple days by putting off refilling my tank. Why wait? Not because the prices were so high, but the lines to the pump were so long. I'm talking insane long. I don't remember gas lines being so long when gas was at $2.25. And I'm not talking long every once in a while, I'm talking consistently long. This is just anecdotal blather, but seriously? the best cure for pain at the pump is not driving all over the place then acting like the gas station is the new 1929 bank.
I think they're like that with gas like I am with the FMW. I have said before I have a pretty ridiculous collection of the stuff, and it's only gotten bigger since dad told me wheat prices were going to go way up. Like gas, though, I will pay whatever the cost is for my Frosted Mini-Wheats.
Unfortunately, it is still impossible to bike everywhere as it is blustery blowing mist and chill out here. If I didn't mind rust, I'd ride, but seriously. I'm reading "Bicycling America's National Parks" and "Bike! Southwest Washington" and visiting sites like this one.
In the meantime, dad is doing the Tour de Rock, raising money for cancer research at CARTI. He's able to put 20+ miles out in the dry (but hot!) Arkansas weather.
Also, I was about to give up on Natalie Angier's "The Canon," but it finally started getting kinda good. Not like I don't already know this stuff about electrons and the strong and weak forces and whatnot, but it never hurts to keep rereading it and remembering it so one's brain doesn't get too vulnerable to pseudo-science.
I think they're like that with gas like I am with the FMW. I have said before I have a pretty ridiculous collection of the stuff, and it's only gotten bigger since dad told me wheat prices were going to go way up. Like gas, though, I will pay whatever the cost is for my Frosted Mini-Wheats.
Unfortunately, it is still impossible to bike everywhere as it is blustery blowing mist and chill out here. If I didn't mind rust, I'd ride, but seriously. I'm reading "Bicycling America's National Parks" and "Bike! Southwest Washington" and visiting sites like this one.
In the meantime, dad is doing the Tour de Rock, raising money for cancer research at CARTI. He's able to put 20+ miles out in the dry (but hot!) Arkansas weather.
Also, I was about to give up on Natalie Angier's "The Canon," but it finally started getting kinda good. Not like I don't already know this stuff about electrons and the strong and weak forces and whatnot, but it never hurts to keep rereading it and remembering it so one's brain doesn't get too vulnerable to pseudo-science.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Crazy dream
So last night I dreamed I was in Target, and Jim Bakker (of the PTL Club) was following me around regaling me with tales of all the D-list celebrity bimbos his son was dating, and how it was so exciting, and how this was proof positive his son was really on his way up. And I had had dealings with his son, who (in the dream, anyway) was really annoying and obnoxious and just the kind of person so obsessed with himself and externalia that after a few minutes of pretending to be polite, I told Jim Bakker that actually, his son was a total douche, and was likely not "dating" the bimbos he claimed but rather was calling them all the time and annoying them and showing up where they were hanging out and pretending they were all the greatest of friends when they just wanted to get away from him. Then I told Jim Bakker, "But then, you're kind of a rapist so I guess you don't really understand the whole communication thing, so why don't you go away and let me buy my shampoo." That was pretty fast, even for me, and certainly for a dream.
The other new thing for me was elk. One of Ray's clients gave him elk sausage, elk steaks and ground up elk. One elk is apparently more than enough for that "Cheaper By The Dozen" family. I can only imagine how tiring it is to drag out of the woods. A friend of mine who hunts said he goes to the bike-in places and, when he kills a deer, he "vents it" (I have no idea what that means and I'm not sure I want to know), gets his bike, takes off the seat and props the deer up on the pole (via the vent, I'm sure), lashes the front paws to the handles and pushes it out of the woods. How ya like them apples?
So we busted out the ground elk and made burgers (I made the patties, Ray was grossed out by the whole touching meat thing) with a little salt and pepper and a splash of water and worcestershire sauce (water was a tip from Jeffery Steingarten, whose opinion on eating for pleasure I trust completely, the guy loves to chow down on frozen Mars bars) to keep it moist. Well, the meat tasted a whole lot like beef. It wasn't as tender, but I kind of overcooked it (safety first) and there was hardly any fat. It was really lean stuff. But it was quite yummy, and maybe next time I'd throw a little oil in instead of water.
In other bits of information that may interest the reader, we watched "The Savages," which is billed as a dark comedy, but it wasn't very funny unless you think a whole lot of bourgeois griping about nursing homes, trite stereotypes and people with MFAs are inherently funny (there is not an MFAer in the world who is remotely funny in my experience). It seriously should go on Stuff White People Like. Although its ilk of film has probably been scrutinized there before.
The other new thing for me was elk. One of Ray's clients gave him elk sausage, elk steaks and ground up elk. One elk is apparently more than enough for that "Cheaper By The Dozen" family. I can only imagine how tiring it is to drag out of the woods. A friend of mine who hunts said he goes to the bike-in places and, when he kills a deer, he "vents it" (I have no idea what that means and I'm not sure I want to know), gets his bike, takes off the seat and props the deer up on the pole (via the vent, I'm sure), lashes the front paws to the handles and pushes it out of the woods. How ya like them apples?
So we busted out the ground elk and made burgers (I made the patties, Ray was grossed out by the whole touching meat thing) with a little salt and pepper and a splash of water and worcestershire sauce (water was a tip from Jeffery Steingarten, whose opinion on eating for pleasure I trust completely, the guy loves to chow down on frozen Mars bars) to keep it moist. Well, the meat tasted a whole lot like beef. It wasn't as tender, but I kind of overcooked it (safety first) and there was hardly any fat. It was really lean stuff. But it was quite yummy, and maybe next time I'd throw a little oil in instead of water.
In other bits of information that may interest the reader, we watched "The Savages," which is billed as a dark comedy, but it wasn't very funny unless you think a whole lot of bourgeois griping about nursing homes, trite stereotypes and people with MFAs are inherently funny (there is not an MFAer in the world who is remotely funny in my experience). It seriously should go on Stuff White People Like. Although its ilk of film has probably been scrutinized there before.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Bizzy Holiday Weekend
Friday kicked off Memorial Day Weekend with a bang, with a mad rush to bake a strawberry rhubarb pie in the space between work and "Iron Man." Lemme tell you, you don't need one hour and forty five minutes to bake that bad boy. I had to stop after an hour or so because of "Iron Man." I mean, you can't just leave a pie to bake and let the oven timer decide what the appropriate on-off time is. Like it would know. And I shiver to think of leaving a fresh pie in a hot oven as it cools, drying out. As it was, the pie came out perfect. (Well, I substituted cardamom for the cinnamon, which is pungent in a bergamot-citrus way, and the berries and rhubarb are pretty pungent to start with, and I used brown sugar only, which was fine. I told Ray I was freestylin' it, and my spontenaity both thrilled him and made him nervous. SOP, really.)
Perhaps some of that had to do with using Ray's grandmother's pie crust recipe, which calls for some sugar, some vinegar and some egg in it, which is totally not the Mark Bittman/Jeffrey Steingarten way (nor, more critically, the Janice McMillan way, creator of the most intensely delicious and tender pie crusts), but it leads to a crust that browns well and is very flaky (tender, not so much, but tender vs flaky is the ultimate pie crust tension battle situation). I was happy not to make the crust, and Ray is quite good at rolling it out. I even latticed that thing. The recipe called for 7x7 latticing, I went for 5x5 because it took a ruler to get the even spacing and that was a little wide for the pie and appropriate latticing.
So then, "Iron Man." I was something of a wreck because we left five minutes before it started, hit all (like, three) red lights on the way and there was a line at the ticket booth. We didn't miss previews, even.
"Iron Man" was pretty awesome. Robert Downey Jr. can act, and Gwyneth Paltrow wasn't totally annoying. I was the only person in the theater who guffawed at the obligatory Stan Lee cameo. I'm a dork. Also I liked the 'splosions.
The tight schedule was not finished, no. See, we had to see the 6:40 showing of "Iron Man" so we'd be able to get up early enough to go clamming. We had to be out the door at eight. Shockingly, we were in a position to eat breakfast and book to Grayland. The clamming was ... meh. The clams were tiny, for the most part, and kind of hard to find. I pulled up a clam that I thought was the biggest clam I'd ever caught, but to be honest, I was looking at a lot of clams in my bag that didn't stretch across my palm so much. Also, it got warm, and Ray and I were swimming in our waders, we were so hot. Our limits didn't get nearly met.
But the tight schedule mandated we get home around 10 a.m., which we did, because that Saturday Beth and Chris came out for the day. Clams were dinner, and we had to catch something! We all got to the house at about the same time, so we pitched the clams in a bucket with water and cornstarch. We chatted then went back to Westport where we walked around enjoying the weather. Then we went to the Westport Winery, which on its surface sounds crazy -- we're on the wrong side of the Cascades, and Grays Harbor is not known for its oenophilia, but I'll be darned if the wines aren't pretty good. The Elk River Riesling is about the best Riesling I've tried (I find their reds kind of harsh, and the Compass Rose White Merlot to be, as Chris put it, "the weirdest tasting wine ever," which means it has an appeal, too), and the raspberry chocolate wine tastes like candy in a glass, but also it's wine. Seriously.
So we had a wine tasting and got happy on 5 oz of wine. We are kind of lightweights. The place was packed; there were even cyclists there. Good luck making it the next 15 miles to Westport while slightly tipsy! (Yes, the winery is not exactly in Westport, it is in Markham, which does not have its own post office so it's technically also in Aberdeen, and South Aberdeen at that.)
We made it back and Ray and Beth gutted, ahem, dissected, the clams. She was totally fascinated. Chris and I cut up vegetables. Carrie and John came over and we all had more wine. I did a fast dredge-n-drop clam bake. I fried some of our frozen clams that were pre-prepped. Everything went over great except the pie, which everyone except Beth liked. She also does not like cake. I also found out Carrie only recently has taught herself to like pie, and she did like the strawberry rhubarb pie. Who does not like dessert? I have yet to find one that I can turn down! I even ate the chocolate pyramids with odd bolus at the lair of the Numcat!!
Beth and Chris left the next morning, and Ray's dad came down with Bonnie. We had lunch and took a hike at Johns River, where we discovered what would be a really nice mountain biking trail should it get cleared. There are also trails that are overgrown by grass. Ray's dad Ray waded out there in the damp grass, we saw elk (we'd looked there the day before with Beth and Chris but did not see elk), and generally got our pant legs soaked. It was nice. We also saw the bend in the river where Ray's dad's Ray's parents had a tiny home and garden, and where a bear, startled by some men, ran up while Ray's dad Ray was playing along the riverbank. Ray's dad Ray's mother was so alarmed and angry she ran after the bear, which she did not know was fleeing but rather thought was about to attack her son, with a "rake or hoe or some such," Ray's dad Ray said. She beat that bear with her gardening tool as it ran off.
It turns out Ray's dad Ray is something of a bad omen for bears. On the Johns River trail, we came to a point where he had come across a bear after he'd been hunting. It was absorbed in scratching the bark off a trunk, and the tree was still there and barkless. There wasn't enough room to pass, Ray's dad Ray said, so he fired his gun above the bear's head, causing it to spontaneously crap before it ran off into the woods.
After Ray's dad Ray and Bonnie left, we watched "Charlie Wilson's War." Well, Ray did. I fell asleep.
On Monday, we packed out to Ocean Shores, to look at an art show in various local galleries. There was an exhibit of fanciful "portraits" of great hookers of the west (like Klondike Kate, who lost a bunch of money to the guy who started the Pantages Theater in Tacoma, and the wife of Billy Gohl, a serial killer in Aberdeen, and other sundry hookers), a woman billed as the "top feather painter in the world," which means she paints on feathers, not finds feathers to be her favorite subject, and saw a bunch of books by locals in the galleries, including one that was an epic poem about the death of a boston terrier. No kidding. Sample verse "You used to sleep with the stuffed rabbit. Now I sleep with the stuffed rabbit." and "Oh, God! The pain hurts me. The pain comforts me." I may not be blessed with perfect recall here, but you get the sentiment. We rode our bikes, hiked the Weatherwax property, finally I get to understand what it is that makes the 4,000 seniors who live there year-round so ... volatile and apt to overthrow their government in democratic revolution. Well, it definitely looks nothing like anything else in Ocean Shores.
We got back in time for "Indiana Jones and the X Files Plot," and I have to say, when I take into consideration that it is supposed to be fifties-riffic, it works better. It's sad to see Harrison Ford mail it in, though I wonder if he doesn't just lack the energy to smirk at the crazy lines he's forced to read anymore. Maybe Callista Flockhart has worn him down? Or he found Shia LaBoeuf (sp?) as soul-killing as I did? Whatever, there were 'splosions. I was pretty sure the whole South America crystal skull thing was just in order to have more Nazis to fight -- I mean, after WWII, isn't that about where they went? -- but no, it was the Ruskies. It was good to see it in a theater, in any case.
Speaking of Nazis, I just finished the purportedly YA book "The Book Thief." It is super long, narrated by Death and takes place in Nazi Germany and is unrelentingly sad. It is also quite beautiful. I highly recommend it.
Perhaps some of that had to do with using Ray's grandmother's pie crust recipe, which calls for some sugar, some vinegar and some egg in it, which is totally not the Mark Bittman/Jeffrey Steingarten way (nor, more critically, the Janice McMillan way, creator of the most intensely delicious and tender pie crusts), but it leads to a crust that browns well and is very flaky (tender, not so much, but tender vs flaky is the ultimate pie crust tension battle situation). I was happy not to make the crust, and Ray is quite good at rolling it out. I even latticed that thing. The recipe called for 7x7 latticing, I went for 5x5 because it took a ruler to get the even spacing and that was a little wide for the pie and appropriate latticing.
So then, "Iron Man." I was something of a wreck because we left five minutes before it started, hit all (like, three) red lights on the way and there was a line at the ticket booth. We didn't miss previews, even.
"Iron Man" was pretty awesome. Robert Downey Jr. can act, and Gwyneth Paltrow wasn't totally annoying. I was the only person in the theater who guffawed at the obligatory Stan Lee cameo. I'm a dork. Also I liked the 'splosions.
The tight schedule was not finished, no. See, we had to see the 6:40 showing of "Iron Man" so we'd be able to get up early enough to go clamming. We had to be out the door at eight. Shockingly, we were in a position to eat breakfast and book to Grayland. The clamming was ... meh. The clams were tiny, for the most part, and kind of hard to find. I pulled up a clam that I thought was the biggest clam I'd ever caught, but to be honest, I was looking at a lot of clams in my bag that didn't stretch across my palm so much. Also, it got warm, and Ray and I were swimming in our waders, we were so hot. Our limits didn't get nearly met.
But the tight schedule mandated we get home around 10 a.m., which we did, because that Saturday Beth and Chris came out for the day. Clams were dinner, and we had to catch something! We all got to the house at about the same time, so we pitched the clams in a bucket with water and cornstarch. We chatted then went back to Westport where we walked around enjoying the weather. Then we went to the Westport Winery, which on its surface sounds crazy -- we're on the wrong side of the Cascades, and Grays Harbor is not known for its oenophilia, but I'll be darned if the wines aren't pretty good. The Elk River Riesling is about the best Riesling I've tried (I find their reds kind of harsh, and the Compass Rose White Merlot to be, as Chris put it, "the weirdest tasting wine ever," which means it has an appeal, too), and the raspberry chocolate wine tastes like candy in a glass, but also it's wine. Seriously.
So we had a wine tasting and got happy on 5 oz of wine. We are kind of lightweights. The place was packed; there were even cyclists there. Good luck making it the next 15 miles to Westport while slightly tipsy! (Yes, the winery is not exactly in Westport, it is in Markham, which does not have its own post office so it's technically also in Aberdeen, and South Aberdeen at that.)
We made it back and Ray and Beth gutted, ahem, dissected, the clams. She was totally fascinated. Chris and I cut up vegetables. Carrie and John came over and we all had more wine. I did a fast dredge-n-drop clam bake. I fried some of our frozen clams that were pre-prepped. Everything went over great except the pie, which everyone except Beth liked. She also does not like cake. I also found out Carrie only recently has taught herself to like pie, and she did like the strawberry rhubarb pie. Who does not like dessert? I have yet to find one that I can turn down! I even ate the chocolate pyramids with odd bolus at the lair of the Numcat!!
Beth and Chris left the next morning, and Ray's dad came down with Bonnie. We had lunch and took a hike at Johns River, where we discovered what would be a really nice mountain biking trail should it get cleared. There are also trails that are overgrown by grass. Ray's dad Ray waded out there in the damp grass, we saw elk (we'd looked there the day before with Beth and Chris but did not see elk), and generally got our pant legs soaked. It was nice. We also saw the bend in the river where Ray's dad's Ray's parents had a tiny home and garden, and where a bear, startled by some men, ran up while Ray's dad Ray was playing along the riverbank. Ray's dad Ray's mother was so alarmed and angry she ran after the bear, which she did not know was fleeing but rather thought was about to attack her son, with a "rake or hoe or some such," Ray's dad Ray said. She beat that bear with her gardening tool as it ran off.
It turns out Ray's dad Ray is something of a bad omen for bears. On the Johns River trail, we came to a point where he had come across a bear after he'd been hunting. It was absorbed in scratching the bark off a trunk, and the tree was still there and barkless. There wasn't enough room to pass, Ray's dad Ray said, so he fired his gun above the bear's head, causing it to spontaneously crap before it ran off into the woods.
After Ray's dad Ray and Bonnie left, we watched "Charlie Wilson's War." Well, Ray did. I fell asleep.
On Monday, we packed out to Ocean Shores, to look at an art show in various local galleries. There was an exhibit of fanciful "portraits" of great hookers of the west (like Klondike Kate, who lost a bunch of money to the guy who started the Pantages Theater in Tacoma, and the wife of Billy Gohl, a serial killer in Aberdeen, and other sundry hookers), a woman billed as the "top feather painter in the world," which means she paints on feathers, not finds feathers to be her favorite subject, and saw a bunch of books by locals in the galleries, including one that was an epic poem about the death of a boston terrier. No kidding. Sample verse "You used to sleep with the stuffed rabbit. Now I sleep with the stuffed rabbit." and "Oh, God! The pain hurts me. The pain comforts me." I may not be blessed with perfect recall here, but you get the sentiment. We rode our bikes, hiked the Weatherwax property, finally I get to understand what it is that makes the 4,000 seniors who live there year-round so ... volatile and apt to overthrow their government in democratic revolution. Well, it definitely looks nothing like anything else in Ocean Shores.
We got back in time for "Indiana Jones and the X Files Plot," and I have to say, when I take into consideration that it is supposed to be fifties-riffic, it works better. It's sad to see Harrison Ford mail it in, though I wonder if he doesn't just lack the energy to smirk at the crazy lines he's forced to read anymore. Maybe Callista Flockhart has worn him down? Or he found Shia LaBoeuf (sp?) as soul-killing as I did? Whatever, there were 'splosions. I was pretty sure the whole South America crystal skull thing was just in order to have more Nazis to fight -- I mean, after WWII, isn't that about where they went? -- but no, it was the Ruskies. It was good to see it in a theater, in any case.
Speaking of Nazis, I just finished the purportedly YA book "The Book Thief." It is super long, narrated by Death and takes place in Nazi Germany and is unrelentingly sad. It is also quite beautiful. I highly recommend it.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
What you'd call a bloggable day
Instead of "a story to tell the grandkids," I suppose "bloggable day" is a decent substitute for a day of mishap and misadventure. Although Saturday ended up okay, there were plenty of things that went bonkers.
First there was the plan to get out and bike at Capitol Forest. We missed the turn we thought we were going to make and instead ended up at the opposite side of the forest, which might have been okay had we been prepared for the possibility but we weren't bringing the bike guides because, well, the place we were going to bike wasn't where we going. On the way in we passed a guy apparently loading a handgun. I was like, "keep going, keep going!"
So I looked at the map and said, "Here's a trailhead." It was a teensy weensy repro of the Capitol Forest map (you can't buy it from DNR, you have to download a PDF — what good is that if you don't want to bring your laptop to the woods, or unless you have an iPhone or a professional-quality printer? I just don't get it) so I couldn't see very well. So we pulled in to the trailhead and it was packed full of ATV people.
ATV people are paradoxical. They claim to love the outdoors but scrape up the trails with their quads. They also say they love the exercise, but nine out of 10 of them are over thier maximum healthy BMI, and a good portion of those are morbidly obese. Mostly I think they just love burning gas, making loud noises and sitting around on folding chairs cramming potato salad down their yap as the wind blows the party end of their mullets into the huge forkfuls they are lifting over their multiple chins. Why they don't just own up to that, I don't know. I guess many of them are so used to cognitive dissonance that it has become their reality. I will admit to liking the psycho-superhero-animesque ATV protective clothing, however. (if you click the link, it comes from a site that has pics of sexy ladies in bikinis on quads, which strikes me as even more ridiculous than SLIBs on hot rods or motorcycles. I mean, these are quads, people. They are the outdoor machine of the people, and SLIBs are not really outdoorsy types. Maybe beach volleyball, frisbee is pushing it. SLIBs are antithetically opposed to doing something that may cause a nail to break or where they might see an animal. Look, if you don't believe me, watch the living exemplars of bikini ladies on "Flavor of Love" or "Rock of Love." Those ROL girls may think they're metal rednecks, but if they saw a snake they'd flip the heck out.)
So we had half of our sandwiches in this dystopian parking lot in 90-degree heat surrounded by the large ATV people, one of whom had staked out the only picnic table and marked it with a cooler but was not actually using it. ATV people would come in on their quads and tool around the parking lot. Thanks for riding with no helmets! You are helping evolution! (Flaw in plan, most seemed to have abundantly reproduced.)
I am being quite the hater today, aren't I?
So we backtracked to a trailhead for non-motorized uses and rode up the Mima Porter trail. The trail was very uphill for about a mile and there was some hike-and-bike. There were also some god-awful mud puddles that I had to walk my bike through and grunt through. My hiking shoes were like new at the beginning of the day. No longer. So we take this one trail and it's just muddier than heck. So we turn around and I'm in front and Ray says, "Your tire is really flat." No wonder I'm huffing like the Big Bad Wolf. So our epicnicity training was cut short. At the trailhead, I was quite grumpy. I mean really grumpy. Luckily there was a horse there I was able to pet, though she was supersweaty. So I felt a little better. (Another upside: Ray saw the Mima mounds, which he's been curious about. Downside: They aren't spectacular to look at.)
To make up for the lack of bike ride I found a trail that looked modest and flat (I didn't mention my achilles was screaming, did I? I think I wore too-flat flats the day before). But when we go there and started poking around for it all through everyone's camp sites, we learned it was gone. Not before disrupting everyone's day, but...
So Ray and I went to LaVogue's bike shop, where I got a new tube (the thick kind) installed. We rode from Ray's office to the airport and back. Not super far or anything, but it was riding. Then we had to get cleaned up for the Mosaic Brass concert. Looking at the website, I now understand why Ray said he swore the tuba player was Asian. Also, the French Horn guy we saw was younger. I guess Hoquiam scored the B-team. (They were very good). Towards the end of the first half, emo music from the emo place next door started to pour in, and Ray's face just went from composed and pleased to X-treem displeasure. At intermission, he went to ask them to pipe down (shut their door, really). They totally did. The girl who did had a very distracting pierce at the bridge of her nose.
It was a little surprising for Ray, I think, because he has a great discomfort and distrust for all things emo-kid since he saw one air-hump an unaware senior citizen a few days ago, a performance for the benefit of his emo girlfriend. "They were probably drunk," Ray said in a tone of disapproval. "They were probably high on drugs," I replied. The air-humping occured in the vicinity of the 7th Street Theatre, so chances are they were going to the new emo-kid hang out around the corner.
Then, as we were leaving (it took longer for us to get out than everyone else because we had to pack up some chairs Ray borrowed from his church) the guy from LaVogue's came in and was disappointed he'd missed the concert. "Hey," he said. "Have I seen you two before?" Oh, yeah.
The guy from LaVogue's clearly knows his bicycles. But you have to hear him talk to understand why he's such a treasure to the community. There's some surfer in there, but the laid-back kind.
Not much else to say. Epicnicity is taking longer than I expected. I wonder if there are any really good beginner trails anywhere in the state. Preferably dry trails with no mud.
First there was the plan to get out and bike at Capitol Forest. We missed the turn we thought we were going to make and instead ended up at the opposite side of the forest, which might have been okay had we been prepared for the possibility but we weren't bringing the bike guides because, well, the place we were going to bike wasn't where we going. On the way in we passed a guy apparently loading a handgun. I was like, "keep going, keep going!"
So I looked at the map and said, "Here's a trailhead." It was a teensy weensy repro of the Capitol Forest map (you can't buy it from DNR, you have to download a PDF — what good is that if you don't want to bring your laptop to the woods, or unless you have an iPhone or a professional-quality printer? I just don't get it) so I couldn't see very well. So we pulled in to the trailhead and it was packed full of ATV people.
ATV people are paradoxical. They claim to love the outdoors but scrape up the trails with their quads. They also say they love the exercise, but nine out of 10 of them are over thier maximum healthy BMI, and a good portion of those are morbidly obese. Mostly I think they just love burning gas, making loud noises and sitting around on folding chairs cramming potato salad down their yap as the wind blows the party end of their mullets into the huge forkfuls they are lifting over their multiple chins. Why they don't just own up to that, I don't know. I guess many of them are so used to cognitive dissonance that it has become their reality. I will admit to liking the psycho-superhero-animesque ATV protective clothing, however. (if you click the link, it comes from a site that has pics of sexy ladies in bikinis on quads, which strikes me as even more ridiculous than SLIBs on hot rods or motorcycles. I mean, these are quads, people. They are the outdoor machine of the people, and SLIBs are not really outdoorsy types. Maybe beach volleyball, frisbee is pushing it. SLIBs are antithetically opposed to doing something that may cause a nail to break or where they might see an animal. Look, if you don't believe me, watch the living exemplars of bikini ladies on "Flavor of Love" or "Rock of Love." Those ROL girls may think they're metal rednecks, but if they saw a snake they'd flip the heck out.)
So we had half of our sandwiches in this dystopian parking lot in 90-degree heat surrounded by the large ATV people, one of whom had staked out the only picnic table and marked it with a cooler but was not actually using it. ATV people would come in on their quads and tool around the parking lot. Thanks for riding with no helmets! You are helping evolution! (Flaw in plan, most seemed to have abundantly reproduced.)
I am being quite the hater today, aren't I?
So we backtracked to a trailhead for non-motorized uses and rode up the Mima Porter trail. The trail was very uphill for about a mile and there was some hike-and-bike. There were also some god-awful mud puddles that I had to walk my bike through and grunt through. My hiking shoes were like new at the beginning of the day. No longer. So we take this one trail and it's just muddier than heck. So we turn around and I'm in front and Ray says, "Your tire is really flat." No wonder I'm huffing like the Big Bad Wolf. So our epicnicity training was cut short. At the trailhead, I was quite grumpy. I mean really grumpy. Luckily there was a horse there I was able to pet, though she was supersweaty. So I felt a little better. (Another upside: Ray saw the Mima mounds, which he's been curious about. Downside: They aren't spectacular to look at.)
To make up for the lack of bike ride I found a trail that looked modest and flat (I didn't mention my achilles was screaming, did I? I think I wore too-flat flats the day before). But when we go there and started poking around for it all through everyone's camp sites, we learned it was gone. Not before disrupting everyone's day, but...
So Ray and I went to LaVogue's bike shop, where I got a new tube (the thick kind) installed. We rode from Ray's office to the airport and back. Not super far or anything, but it was riding. Then we had to get cleaned up for the Mosaic Brass concert. Looking at the website, I now understand why Ray said he swore the tuba player was Asian. Also, the French Horn guy we saw was younger. I guess Hoquiam scored the B-team. (They were very good). Towards the end of the first half, emo music from the emo place next door started to pour in, and Ray's face just went from composed and pleased to X-treem displeasure. At intermission, he went to ask them to pipe down (shut their door, really). They totally did. The girl who did had a very distracting pierce at the bridge of her nose.
It was a little surprising for Ray, I think, because he has a great discomfort and distrust for all things emo-kid since he saw one air-hump an unaware senior citizen a few days ago, a performance for the benefit of his emo girlfriend. "They were probably drunk," Ray said in a tone of disapproval. "They were probably high on drugs," I replied. The air-humping occured in the vicinity of the 7th Street Theatre, so chances are they were going to the new emo-kid hang out around the corner.
Then, as we were leaving (it took longer for us to get out than everyone else because we had to pack up some chairs Ray borrowed from his church) the guy from LaVogue's came in and was disappointed he'd missed the concert. "Hey," he said. "Have I seen you two before?" Oh, yeah.
The guy from LaVogue's clearly knows his bicycles. But you have to hear him talk to understand why he's such a treasure to the community. There's some surfer in there, but the laid-back kind.
Not much else to say. Epicnicity is taking longer than I expected. I wonder if there are any really good beginner trails anywhere in the state. Preferably dry trails with no mud.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Discoveries of late
Spotted at the GH YMCA: A girl, of indeterminate, but young, age, in a gray T-shirt with the armpits/sleeves cut out muscle shirt style, the back emblazoned (by hand, with marker) "GET SOME." Luckily, because she had nothing on the sides of her shirt, there was a tank underneath. Also, she had a pair of shorty-shorts made of pyjama material with the Superman S all over them. Under those shorty shorts were a pair of leggings. This is a weird workout outfit, and it seems a little too constricty/hipster wannabe.
Over the weekend I tried a new recipe for a type of pudding I had yet to experience. I know! Me being a huge fan of pudding and all! It was panna cotta. I think of PC as the kind of thing classy Italian whitetrash whip up for a church potluck, because it relies on gelatin for its structure. They apparently use cream (sour sometimes) to achieve a super creamy consistency. I, however, can out-whitetrash them. So I used whole milk. For something that is basically milk, sugar, vanilla and gelatin, it tastes pretty darn good. It's like tapioca, but like the whole of the tapioca, the essence of the custard and the texture of the tapioca beads, have been combined into one sublime substance. It's okay with rhubarb sauce or chocolate sauce, but I actually like it plain best.
It's so easy -- a packet of Knox, sprinkled on a half-cup of milk, left to sit while you get a saucepan with a half cup of sugar and 2 1/2 cups of milk (or cream) up to a simmer. Pull the simmering milk off the heat, dump in two tsps vanilla and stir in the bloomed milk-gelatin mix, whisk like a mugwump, pour into ramekins and put in fridge for a couple hours or so (there is no need to strain the stuff through cheesecloth like some recipes would have you believe, just stir like crazy). Voila, white trash food with a name fancy enough for social-cutthroat Real Housewives. (No, I don't watch that show. I see commercials during "Project Runway," though.)
What else is new ... Dad remembered Mother's Day and got mom a Nano. That's kind of major. It's hard to get her stuff she not only likes but actively wants. However, the fun has just begun because she will have to figure out iTunes. GUIs and intuitive program design have nothing on my mom.
Still no clue as to what trails in the Olympic National Park have been scouted slash closed slash opened. The park's website is singularly un-user friendly. There are old newsletters which hint at the damage from the December storm, and newletters that say certain accesses are reopened, but there is no comprehensive map or page where the closures and conditions are laid bare. This is not the only park or trail or anything that does not do this service. Basically there is no governmental rec body that has a budget to do this service, which may only require wiki, really, let the users do it for popular trails, let the rangers do it for trails they have to investigate blowdown on. Because users are really the best sources, but the websites that deal with trails don't have a monopoly on them and it shows in the coverage of trail condition reportage. (I mean not updated between 10-15-07 and "spring?" the power of the blogosphere can only do so much original reporting, which I say because it's true and because my job still has meaning! Yay!)
Notes from pop culture: I have had bum DVD after bum DVD from Netflix. I actually rented "Tell Me You Love Me," which was just so mind-numbingly boring I couldn't even watch the final disc (and mostly watched the other episodes while cruising the internet or doing chores). I can't even remember the crummy movies I picked out. I hope, with the addition of "King of Kong," about a guy who loses his job and starts playing Donkey Kong competions. This is a documentary.
Books: Who has time for books? I finally finished Sally Vickers' "Instances of the Number Three." Bleah. I kept reading, believing that there would be a shocking revelation about the dead man's existence, like the cover promised. The cover lied. It killed my enthusiasm for reading other books I had lying around. However, I have great hope that I will rediscover my passion for the written word with some non-fiction I've taken off hold on my library list.
Music: A bright spot in my entertainment vortex. I discovered a band I like, The Fitness, which has this awesome song called "Chauffer." I discovered another song I'm obsessed with, She & Him's "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here." I mean, that's like six minutes of fun right there, hardly making up for all the blah stuff I've poured hours into.
Over the weekend I tried a new recipe for a type of pudding I had yet to experience. I know! Me being a huge fan of pudding and all! It was panna cotta. I think of PC as the kind of thing classy Italian whitetrash whip up for a church potluck, because it relies on gelatin for its structure. They apparently use cream (sour sometimes) to achieve a super creamy consistency. I, however, can out-whitetrash them. So I used whole milk. For something that is basically milk, sugar, vanilla and gelatin, it tastes pretty darn good. It's like tapioca, but like the whole of the tapioca, the essence of the custard and the texture of the tapioca beads, have been combined into one sublime substance. It's okay with rhubarb sauce or chocolate sauce, but I actually like it plain best.
It's so easy -- a packet of Knox, sprinkled on a half-cup of milk, left to sit while you get a saucepan with a half cup of sugar and 2 1/2 cups of milk (or cream) up to a simmer. Pull the simmering milk off the heat, dump in two tsps vanilla and stir in the bloomed milk-gelatin mix, whisk like a mugwump, pour into ramekins and put in fridge for a couple hours or so (there is no need to strain the stuff through cheesecloth like some recipes would have you believe, just stir like crazy). Voila, white trash food with a name fancy enough for social-cutthroat Real Housewives. (No, I don't watch that show. I see commercials during "Project Runway," though.)
What else is new ... Dad remembered Mother's Day and got mom a Nano. That's kind of major. It's hard to get her stuff she not only likes but actively wants. However, the fun has just begun because she will have to figure out iTunes. GUIs and intuitive program design have nothing on my mom.
Still no clue as to what trails in the Olympic National Park have been scouted slash closed slash opened. The park's website is singularly un-user friendly. There are old newsletters which hint at the damage from the December storm, and newletters that say certain accesses are reopened, but there is no comprehensive map or page where the closures and conditions are laid bare. This is not the only park or trail or anything that does not do this service. Basically there is no governmental rec body that has a budget to do this service, which may only require wiki, really, let the users do it for popular trails, let the rangers do it for trails they have to investigate blowdown on. Because users are really the best sources, but the websites that deal with trails don't have a monopoly on them and it shows in the coverage of trail condition reportage. (I mean not updated between 10-15-07 and "spring?" the power of the blogosphere can only do so much original reporting, which I say because it's true and because my job still has meaning! Yay!)
Notes from pop culture: I have had bum DVD after bum DVD from Netflix. I actually rented "Tell Me You Love Me," which was just so mind-numbingly boring I couldn't even watch the final disc (and mostly watched the other episodes while cruising the internet or doing chores). I can't even remember the crummy movies I picked out. I hope, with the addition of "King of Kong," about a guy who loses his job and starts playing Donkey Kong competions. This is a documentary.
Books: Who has time for books? I finally finished Sally Vickers' "Instances of the Number Three." Bleah. I kept reading, believing that there would be a shocking revelation about the dead man's existence, like the cover promised. The cover lied. It killed my enthusiasm for reading other books I had lying around. However, I have great hope that I will rediscover my passion for the written word with some non-fiction I've taken off hold on my library list.
Music: A bright spot in my entertainment vortex. I discovered a band I like, The Fitness, which has this awesome song called "Chauffer." I discovered another song I'm obsessed with, She & Him's "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here." I mean, that's like six minutes of fun right there, hardly making up for all the blah stuff I've poured hours into.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Monday, May 05, 2008
Emceeing
So Friday I got to emcee the 7th Street's Young Artist Showcase. I was kind of nervous, which was not assuaged much by Ray's introducing me as a "local media celebrity." Okay, it totally cracked me up. The guy is hilarious and completely unappreciated by the masses who need Jim Carrey mugging to understand a funny line. I was considered successful in spite of a few slips because I did not curse (yay me!) and I kept the show moving along at breakneck clip. I also ad libbed some stuff when the piano bench appeared to break in the middle of the concert. Not break so bad it fell apart but got wobbly in one of the legs. Luckily Ray had told me how expensive the bench was the night before (when it was just wobbly in the seat, not the legs) and I told the audience to save that particular seat would be $500.
The show was as good as it gets. I mean, I've only seen one other one (last year) and apparently the first year's attempt was marred by excessive length. The kids just poured their little hearts out. There were numerous singers in rehearsals that bonked on their lines, but that did not happen. I even got a hug from little Jordan Bridges, who seemed preciously theater-y, if that makes any sense. You know, lots of extroverted, positive but somewhat untamed enthusiasm. The one act I did not see in rehearsals was the one that stood out for me. It was a little blonde 10-year-old in a dress with a red pleather vesty top connected by black mesh across the midriff to a flouncy skirt, getting tap dance insane to Crazy Frog's rendition of "Axel F." If you do not know this song, you are really missing out. She apparently dances during Seattle Storm games twice a week, which is a real haul. I don't think there's another 10-y-o out there who can body pump like this kid; it's called attitude, and she should give classes in it.
After the show Ray and I had some raspberry wine from the Westport winery with friends John and Carrie. I am not a dessert wine person, but this was so totally awesome that Sunday Ray and I hit the winery and tried a bunch of their wines and ended up getting some for guest situations, which are sure to occur once his floors are finished.
On Saturday we met up with my friend Lindley and her husband Phill for dinner before going to the Tacoma Concert Band's Sousa Extravaganza. The band was dressed up in these black smocks with gold piping that made them look like Haley Bopp Comet cultists, and the director, who was Ray's band director at the University of Puget Sound, had on a military-esque uniform with medals and cap and even a fake moustache and glasses to perfect the impersonation of Sousa for the stage. Or, as Ray pointed out, the thing wasn't so much an impersonation as it was an experiential tribute to the man (there are some tribute artists who do not like being called impersonators, lest it make a caricature of the impersonated). The music was totally entertaining (except for the "Songs of Grace, Songs of Glory" Sunday snorer, which Lindley totally warned me about), and the band was really good. They also have a huge American flag that covered the back wall of the stage completely. I figured it cost, minimum, as a special deal to a non-profit, $5,000. Phill said $15,000 to $20,000. But no, the director said it wasn't even $1,000.
We did all this after another pre-epic bike ride prep. We went down to the national wildlife refuge to check out the local shorebirds festival on our bikes and then did the 2 mile or so trot around the plank walkway then biked back, which was so much easier on account of the wind being behind us and we stopped in at LaVogue's bike shop and I got my tires pumped. It turns out we could not figure out how to set the pump for schrader tires, only presston tires. Or however you spell those. We got it squared away and the LaV guy used the air compressor on my tires anyhow. It was also nice that the weather went from kind of gray and a bit misty to sunny on the ride out there. By the ride back it was beautiful, sunny skies all the way.
I was hoping that next weekend I'd get a rest. Not so much: I'm working. And I've got to take part in a Young Author's conference as a presenter with two bosses. I think they think I can connect with kids.
Sunday was gorgeous and so was today. Perhaps things are starting to take a turn for the better.
The show was as good as it gets. I mean, I've only seen one other one (last year) and apparently the first year's attempt was marred by excessive length. The kids just poured their little hearts out. There were numerous singers in rehearsals that bonked on their lines, but that did not happen. I even got a hug from little Jordan Bridges, who seemed preciously theater-y, if that makes any sense. You know, lots of extroverted, positive but somewhat untamed enthusiasm. The one act I did not see in rehearsals was the one that stood out for me. It was a little blonde 10-year-old in a dress with a red pleather vesty top connected by black mesh across the midriff to a flouncy skirt, getting tap dance insane to Crazy Frog's rendition of "Axel F." If you do not know this song, you are really missing out. She apparently dances during Seattle Storm games twice a week, which is a real haul. I don't think there's another 10-y-o out there who can body pump like this kid; it's called attitude, and she should give classes in it.
After the show Ray and I had some raspberry wine from the Westport winery with friends John and Carrie. I am not a dessert wine person, but this was so totally awesome that Sunday Ray and I hit the winery and tried a bunch of their wines and ended up getting some for guest situations, which are sure to occur once his floors are finished.
On Saturday we met up with my friend Lindley and her husband Phill for dinner before going to the Tacoma Concert Band's Sousa Extravaganza. The band was dressed up in these black smocks with gold piping that made them look like Haley Bopp Comet cultists, and the director, who was Ray's band director at the University of Puget Sound, had on a military-esque uniform with medals and cap and even a fake moustache and glasses to perfect the impersonation of Sousa for the stage. Or, as Ray pointed out, the thing wasn't so much an impersonation as it was an experiential tribute to the man (there are some tribute artists who do not like being called impersonators, lest it make a caricature of the impersonated). The music was totally entertaining (except for the "Songs of Grace, Songs of Glory" Sunday snorer, which Lindley totally warned me about), and the band was really good. They also have a huge American flag that covered the back wall of the stage completely. I figured it cost, minimum, as a special deal to a non-profit, $5,000. Phill said $15,000 to $20,000. But no, the director said it wasn't even $1,000.
We did all this after another pre-epic bike ride prep. We went down to the national wildlife refuge to check out the local shorebirds festival on our bikes and then did the 2 mile or so trot around the plank walkway then biked back, which was so much easier on account of the wind being behind us and we stopped in at LaVogue's bike shop and I got my tires pumped. It turns out we could not figure out how to set the pump for schrader tires, only presston tires. Or however you spell those. We got it squared away and the LaV guy used the air compressor on my tires anyhow. It was also nice that the weather went from kind of gray and a bit misty to sunny on the ride out there. By the ride back it was beautiful, sunny skies all the way.
I was hoping that next weekend I'd get a rest. Not so much: I'm working. And I've got to take part in a Young Author's conference as a presenter with two bosses. I think they think I can connect with kids.
Sunday was gorgeous and so was today. Perhaps things are starting to take a turn for the better.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thanks to NPR
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.
Forget aerobics. I'm just going to download a bunch of crappy Eurotrash techno and get spazzy with it.
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.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Recent art stuff of note
So last night Ray and I went to the Capitol Playhouse in Olympia to see "Sideshow," a musical that immediately captivated me with its catchy slogan: "Come look at the freaks." Oh, yeah.
Well, the quality of the productions at the Playhouse have been kind of scattershot. Although I enjoyed "Six Women on the Verge of Braindeath" as a Bloom-Countyesque time machine trip (it was written 20 years ago and it shows, referencing Jim and Tammy Faye quite a bit), Ray was disappointed in it. He also didn't really like "1940s Radio Hour," and who under the age of 70 would, with a title like that? I'm not one for revues, myself. Anyway, we both liked "Sweeney Todd," but who doesn't? And although the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold thing is hard for me to appreciate in this time of globalized slavery and sexual exploitation, the "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" was quite cute, if completely unrealistic.
Anyway, we liked the freaks. I thought the music was particularly good, with some of that Sondheimish rejection of verse chorus verse and a little heavy duty recitative-type sung dialogue, but catchy nonetheless. The actresses who play the lead freaks, the Siamese twins, had voices that sounded really good together, and there was a really good Egyptian-style set piece that was worth the price of admission. The costumer outdid himself with some of the outfits, especially some huge feathered headdresses. It's good to see quality local theater. It also reminded me of those head-conjoined twins, Dori and Reba (formerly Lori, but she changed her name to separate herself more from her sister and in deference to her favorite country singer, Reba McIntire), and that's always a good thing. They're some spunky ladies, Dori and Reba.
Let's see. What have I read lately. Oh, yes, "In Defense of Food," Michael Pollan's latest on how we should be organic locavores. I'm not saying he's wrong, I'm just saying he's not saying what he needs to, which is that although our western diet is killing us, the reason for we are able to produce so much is part of why this planet manages to, well, sustain isn't exactly the right word, unless you look at it like a life-support machine, 6 billion people. Farming in a sustainable fashion will not, adamantly not, support that many people. And for us to ramp down our production as a globe will be meaningful for the environment and us all eventually, it will mean there will be a lot of suffering in the meantime, and almost certainly not by the big agro-industrial companies, even if they have to give up making what Pollan thinks is the apotheosis of food product — "Go-gurt." Myself, I'm inclined to hate those fruit snacks that are basically gummi bears in fruit shapes that say they contain a serving of fruit in every package. They offend my soul.
In arts and religion news, the Methodist church across the street will hold a humorous service about the "greatest practical joke ever played on the devil" — Jesus' resurrection (drawing out Easter maybe?) and attendees are encouraged to wear "funny clothes" and last year the choir wore bathrobes, they have something else up their sleeve this time. This is not the sort of thing that would normally entice me to go to church (I have yet to find what would, although the gay, lesbian, trans etc. appreciation day at the Hoquiam Methodist church came close, except it started at like 9 or some ridiculously early hour) but the part of me that appreciates what this could be is feeling an internal sway.
The other night I went with Ray to a dinner where his friend and vice-pres of the 7th Street board, Mickey, was getting an award. She is such a cool person and totally deserved it. I have personally witnessed Ray deciding to dump work on her. Anyway, he had to give a speech and it was the best of the four, IMHO. The dinner was at the senior center and I guess we got what the seniors get. There was asparagus, roasted taters and meat and the wait staff was very good about keeping the coffee carafe refilled. I mean, they were on the coffee like white on rice. I can only imagine that the usual senior crowd chugs the stuff down as if the Yuban were the elixer of life. Not so much my table. I think I had the only cup of joe of everyone at my table. I used the creamer they provided and felt, because I had been reading Pollan, bad about all the corn syrup solids entering my body.
Next time I write I'll have to tell the tale of my mom's really brief visit to the Deen. Suffice to say everyone had a good time, she ate razor clams and the weather was (and remains) out of control. Rain, snow, hail, ice, fog ... in like a lion, still have a couple more days to turn lamb-like but I'm doubting it.
Well, the quality of the productions at the Playhouse have been kind of scattershot. Although I enjoyed "Six Women on the Verge of Braindeath" as a Bloom-Countyesque time machine trip (it was written 20 years ago and it shows, referencing Jim and Tammy Faye quite a bit), Ray was disappointed in it. He also didn't really like "1940s Radio Hour," and who under the age of 70 would, with a title like that? I'm not one for revues, myself. Anyway, we both liked "Sweeney Todd," but who doesn't? And although the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold thing is hard for me to appreciate in this time of globalized slavery and sexual exploitation, the "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" was quite cute, if completely unrealistic.
Anyway, we liked the freaks. I thought the music was particularly good, with some of that Sondheimish rejection of verse chorus verse and a little heavy duty recitative-type sung dialogue, but catchy nonetheless. The actresses who play the lead freaks, the Siamese twins, had voices that sounded really good together, and there was a really good Egyptian-style set piece that was worth the price of admission. The costumer outdid himself with some of the outfits, especially some huge feathered headdresses. It's good to see quality local theater. It also reminded me of those head-conjoined twins, Dori and Reba (formerly Lori, but she changed her name to separate herself more from her sister and in deference to her favorite country singer, Reba McIntire), and that's always a good thing. They're some spunky ladies, Dori and Reba.
Let's see. What have I read lately. Oh, yes, "In Defense of Food," Michael Pollan's latest on how we should be organic locavores. I'm not saying he's wrong, I'm just saying he's not saying what he needs to, which is that although our western diet is killing us, the reason for we are able to produce so much is part of why this planet manages to, well, sustain isn't exactly the right word, unless you look at it like a life-support machine, 6 billion people. Farming in a sustainable fashion will not, adamantly not, support that many people. And for us to ramp down our production as a globe will be meaningful for the environment and us all eventually, it will mean there will be a lot of suffering in the meantime, and almost certainly not by the big agro-industrial companies, even if they have to give up making what Pollan thinks is the apotheosis of food product — "Go-gurt." Myself, I'm inclined to hate those fruit snacks that are basically gummi bears in fruit shapes that say they contain a serving of fruit in every package. They offend my soul.
In arts and religion news, the Methodist church across the street will hold a humorous service about the "greatest practical joke ever played on the devil" — Jesus' resurrection (drawing out Easter maybe?) and attendees are encouraged to wear "funny clothes" and last year the choir wore bathrobes, they have something else up their sleeve this time. This is not the sort of thing that would normally entice me to go to church (I have yet to find what would, although the gay, lesbian, trans etc. appreciation day at the Hoquiam Methodist church came close, except it started at like 9 or some ridiculously early hour) but the part of me that appreciates what this could be is feeling an internal sway.
The other night I went with Ray to a dinner where his friend and vice-pres of the 7th Street board, Mickey, was getting an award. She is such a cool person and totally deserved it. I have personally witnessed Ray deciding to dump work on her. Anyway, he had to give a speech and it was the best of the four, IMHO. The dinner was at the senior center and I guess we got what the seniors get. There was asparagus, roasted taters and meat and the wait staff was very good about keeping the coffee carafe refilled. I mean, they were on the coffee like white on rice. I can only imagine that the usual senior crowd chugs the stuff down as if the Yuban were the elixer of life. Not so much my table. I think I had the only cup of joe of everyone at my table. I used the creamer they provided and felt, because I had been reading Pollan, bad about all the corn syrup solids entering my body.
Next time I write I'll have to tell the tale of my mom's really brief visit to the Deen. Suffice to say everyone had a good time, she ate razor clams and the weather was (and remains) out of control. Rain, snow, hail, ice, fog ... in like a lion, still have a couple more days to turn lamb-like but I'm doubting it.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Good Books
Here are two AWESOME books I recently read:
"The Worst Hard Times," Timothy Egan. Dust Bowl poverty, depression, dust storms that kill people and stir up so much static electricity they kill all Melt White's watermelons. I can't say enough about the gruesomeness of this book.
"Restless" William Boyd. Woman gets involved in WWII spying for Brits. Her daughter has a lame parallel narrative in the 70s. In the end, it's a good book and a real gripping read.
reading now: "An Oral History of World War Z," Max Brooks. It's kind of an interesting take on global crisis management, as told through a fictional war on zombies. Awfully geeky, but that's me. Seriously, delete the word "zombie" and you have a very interesting, very entertaining book.
"The Worst Hard Times," Timothy Egan. Dust Bowl poverty, depression, dust storms that kill people and stir up so much static electricity they kill all Melt White's watermelons. I can't say enough about the gruesomeness of this book.
"Restless" William Boyd. Woman gets involved in WWII spying for Brits. Her daughter has a lame parallel narrative in the 70s. In the end, it's a good book and a real gripping read.
reading now: "An Oral History of World War Z," Max Brooks. It's kind of an interesting take on global crisis management, as told through a fictional war on zombies. Awfully geeky, but that's me. Seriously, delete the word "zombie" and you have a very interesting, very entertaining book.
Been a long time since I rapped at ya
Hey there. Long time no blog. It's harder to do when you don't have your own internet connection and and you do have an actual life. Seriously. And it isn't like my inner life is so compelling that I have to share any of it. Actually it's pretty boring. I'll tell you, I spent a lot of mental energy on a really ridiculous thing about a month ago — frozen rasperries.
Y'all who are readers of this blog know that I have a thing for Frosted Mini-Wheats, and that the ONLY way to properly eat them is with berries and the ONLY berry that 1) stands up to the defrosting process without becoming a bad mushy and 2) perfectly complements the sweetness of the FMW crust with utterly sublime tartness is the raspberry. Frozen, to me, tastes better than fresh. Probably because I have gotten used to it. And the best frozen berry brand is the Safeway organics raspberry, which is a lot more expensive than the Grocery Outlet (a.k.a. Desperation Outlet) berries or the Top Food berries (which are local and I'd prefer to buy, but the lazy teens and riff raff employed in the PNW do NOT get rid of the bad berries, they put them in the sack. The Chilean people who pick the Safeway Organic berries — and I hate the idea of eating Chilean produce that's been petrochemicaled in 6,000 miles — are decent people who, in the tons of raspberries I have eaten from them, have maybe overlooked two bad berries. Now that is a track record. Chile, you should be proud of your berry pickers. Someday I will travel to your berry farms and kiss all your berry pickers.)
Where was I?
Oh, so the Safeway berries are more expensive, and they don't go on special all that often, so when they did in December I loaded up. They were $5 a bag and I bought $70 worth in a week. I saved about $6, which is a little more than one other bag. I think this is the Wayne White in me. I tell myself this whenever I make a somewhat silly purchase that has some logic to it. Anyway, I did this because I wanted to stock up for the next time it wasn't on special. Silly me, the week after that special ended another special kicked in that will last till the end of March. Anyway, this is the sort of goofy stuff I think about and obsess about when I'm not doing other things like:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/wageslavery/1801963011/
Clam digging! (Sorry, but if you're using someone else's Flickr account you can't just cut and paste the img src. And I'm not going to go through the rigamarole of downloading and uploading the photo)
To clam dig, my landlocked and citified friends, you really need a few things: A clam gun (a PVC tube with handles and a little airhole on top) and a stick. It is NICE to have waders, and it is REALLY NICE to have neoprene chest waders (like Ray's dad Ray lent to me). They are warm, and you can only clam in the winter. Also you need a mesh bag or cut up milk gallon jug or Costco-size bucket that once had laundry detergent in it (the mesh bag is the easiest, I would assume, but the old-timers often are out there in jeans and boots up to their hips in surf (cold, cold, cold surf) with their milk jug of clams and they're using an old-timey shovel (like a garden shovel but the shovel bit got bent 80 degrees or so) to dig. I'm kind of a yuppie clammer, if there is such a thing, considering how "Harbor" the activity is.
What you do is you go out an hour or two before low tide (usually right before sunset, when the moon and sun are kind of opposite) on a clam weekend on an approved beach (in the photo, it's Long Beach, but since November Ray and I usually go to Twin Harbors, which is only about 15-20 mi from Aberdeen). You take your sick (it helps if it has a square end) and you pop the end into the sand and if there is a clam nearby it will "show," which means it will go, "oh, crap! Something wants to eat me!" and start digging (these razor clams can go a foot a minute). When it digs it throws up a little bubble or dimple on the surface that is quite distinct. Sometimes you'll pound one spot and you'll see one show, and like some sort of sign has gone out to the clam community, another clam will start to dig, and then you'll have two clams to catch (why it's good to work in tandem with a partner).
Anyhow, if the clams had just stayed mum you wouldn't have known they were there at all. But they moved, so you put your PVC tube over the dimple, with a little bit more pipe over towards the seaside (clams favor digging seaward) and you shove that pipe down as far as it will go, and you twist and twist and get it at least 2/3 of the way down and you hope like crazy those sounds you hear are starfish in the way and you're not crunching the clams and making them hard to clean. Then you put your finger over the airhole and through the magic of suction and using your legs, remove the pipe from the ground, dump it out (or filter it through your fingers if a wave is coming in) and voila, chances are there's a clam there. Repeat as many times as it takes to get 15 clams (a limit, and if it seems small, you are used to those fried clam strips. Razor clams are really big.)
Then there is the joy of cleaning the clams. Ray's dad Ray was all too happy to do this for us in November, but since, I have had to cowgirl up and massacre the clams. I was a wuss to start, but that first clam didn't help none. He crapped sand as I picked him up, and boy did he wiggle. As it turned out, this was the last clam I'd ever touch that had the poop-fear reflex, so he probably didn't have any idea what was going on. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen a clam brain anywhere, and I've gutted a lot of clams, so I dunno. They filter feed, he was filtering.
So Ray and I share the burden now. He cuts the clams out of their shells (harder to do when you've crunched the shells) and I take the writhing bodies and start cutting them up. First you snip off the "neck," which is the part with the dark, barnacle-y thing on it. Then you cut up the middle of the "seam," which is obvious when you see it, and through both valves of the neck (bivalves, natch). Then you cut out the guts and detach the "digger," which is also where the anus is. Then you cut through the digger/anus area to lay it flat. There is copious rinsing at every stage, by the way. And once you get to the clam butt you scrape all the dark poop out of it.
Here's something wacky -- the butt? It's the BEST part! The digger is so much more tender than the neck it is insane. I love to eat clam tuchus! So, just because it's butt, doesn't mean it will taste like butt. But make sure you scrape it pretty good all the same.
By the time Ray and I finish cleaning the clams it's usually at least 7 p.m. or so. So often we don't bother to "prep" them for cooking. As per Kathy Quigg's suggestion, we take the clams and dredge them through flour, then egg, then cracker crumbs (Ritz is good for baking, saltines for frying) and lay them out on sheets to freeze. Once they are frozen stiff they can be bagged and fried straight out of the bag. And fried is really the only way to eat them besides chowder or baked, which calls for the same preparation but in a 500 degree oven for a few minutes (cuts down on the grease).
So clamming takes up a lot of my off-hours mental energy.
I must seem like kind of a dipstick if these are things that preoccupy me, but I do, in fact, worry about the state of the world, how long it is till spring, if I can do the whole Sunday NYT crossword puzzle and when I'll get my window fixed from the big winter storm. Also, back when granddad died there was a fair bit of mental energy in the whole grief thing. So I'm not this food-crazed person.
Also taking up the occasional amount of mental energy: "Heroes" hate. I don't watch it, but I hear there's a character who has the ability to copy any action she sees. That was totally a power I dreamed up when I was a kid and have been holding it in reserve for a character when I became a famous YA writer. Now I look like the big copycat. But here's the thing — I thought about it in relation to ice skating, and I think the chick on the TV is watching action movies. Not like I didn't think of that, but the character I had in mind was really devious in a way. Also about to be used and abused by some shadow government.
So, maybe I'll try keeping you all updated more often than once a year? It's not a NY resolution or anything, so don't hold your breath.
Y'all who are readers of this blog know that I have a thing for Frosted Mini-Wheats, and that the ONLY way to properly eat them is with berries and the ONLY berry that 1) stands up to the defrosting process without becoming a bad mushy and 2) perfectly complements the sweetness of the FMW crust with utterly sublime tartness is the raspberry. Frozen, to me, tastes better than fresh. Probably because I have gotten used to it. And the best frozen berry brand is the Safeway organics raspberry, which is a lot more expensive than the Grocery Outlet (a.k.a. Desperation Outlet) berries or the Top Food berries (which are local and I'd prefer to buy, but the lazy teens and riff raff employed in the PNW do NOT get rid of the bad berries, they put them in the sack. The Chilean people who pick the Safeway Organic berries — and I hate the idea of eating Chilean produce that's been petrochemicaled in 6,000 miles — are decent people who, in the tons of raspberries I have eaten from them, have maybe overlooked two bad berries. Now that is a track record. Chile, you should be proud of your berry pickers. Someday I will travel to your berry farms and kiss all your berry pickers.)
Where was I?
Oh, so the Safeway berries are more expensive, and they don't go on special all that often, so when they did in December I loaded up. They were $5 a bag and I bought $70 worth in a week. I saved about $6, which is a little more than one other bag. I think this is the Wayne White in me. I tell myself this whenever I make a somewhat silly purchase that has some logic to it. Anyway, I did this because I wanted to stock up for the next time it wasn't on special. Silly me, the week after that special ended another special kicked in that will last till the end of March. Anyway, this is the sort of goofy stuff I think about and obsess about when I'm not doing other things like:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/wageslavery/1801963011/
Clam digging! (Sorry, but if you're using someone else's Flickr account you can't just cut and paste the img src. And I'm not going to go through the rigamarole of downloading and uploading the photo)
To clam dig, my landlocked and citified friends, you really need a few things: A clam gun (a PVC tube with handles and a little airhole on top) and a stick. It is NICE to have waders, and it is REALLY NICE to have neoprene chest waders (like Ray's dad Ray lent to me). They are warm, and you can only clam in the winter. Also you need a mesh bag or cut up milk gallon jug or Costco-size bucket that once had laundry detergent in it (the mesh bag is the easiest, I would assume, but the old-timers often are out there in jeans and boots up to their hips in surf (cold, cold, cold surf) with their milk jug of clams and they're using an old-timey shovel (like a garden shovel but the shovel bit got bent 80 degrees or so) to dig. I'm kind of a yuppie clammer, if there is such a thing, considering how "Harbor" the activity is.
What you do is you go out an hour or two before low tide (usually right before sunset, when the moon and sun are kind of opposite) on a clam weekend on an approved beach (in the photo, it's Long Beach, but since November Ray and I usually go to Twin Harbors, which is only about 15-20 mi from Aberdeen). You take your sick (it helps if it has a square end) and you pop the end into the sand and if there is a clam nearby it will "show," which means it will go, "oh, crap! Something wants to eat me!" and start digging (these razor clams can go a foot a minute). When it digs it throws up a little bubble or dimple on the surface that is quite distinct. Sometimes you'll pound one spot and you'll see one show, and like some sort of sign has gone out to the clam community, another clam will start to dig, and then you'll have two clams to catch (why it's good to work in tandem with a partner).
Anyhow, if the clams had just stayed mum you wouldn't have known they were there at all. But they moved, so you put your PVC tube over the dimple, with a little bit more pipe over towards the seaside (clams favor digging seaward) and you shove that pipe down as far as it will go, and you twist and twist and get it at least 2/3 of the way down and you hope like crazy those sounds you hear are starfish in the way and you're not crunching the clams and making them hard to clean. Then you put your finger over the airhole and through the magic of suction and using your legs, remove the pipe from the ground, dump it out (or filter it through your fingers if a wave is coming in) and voila, chances are there's a clam there. Repeat as many times as it takes to get 15 clams (a limit, and if it seems small, you are used to those fried clam strips. Razor clams are really big.)
Then there is the joy of cleaning the clams. Ray's dad Ray was all too happy to do this for us in November, but since, I have had to cowgirl up and massacre the clams. I was a wuss to start, but that first clam didn't help none. He crapped sand as I picked him up, and boy did he wiggle. As it turned out, this was the last clam I'd ever touch that had the poop-fear reflex, so he probably didn't have any idea what was going on. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen a clam brain anywhere, and I've gutted a lot of clams, so I dunno. They filter feed, he was filtering.
So Ray and I share the burden now. He cuts the clams out of their shells (harder to do when you've crunched the shells) and I take the writhing bodies and start cutting them up. First you snip off the "neck," which is the part with the dark, barnacle-y thing on it. Then you cut up the middle of the "seam," which is obvious when you see it, and through both valves of the neck (bivalves, natch). Then you cut out the guts and detach the "digger," which is also where the anus is. Then you cut through the digger/anus area to lay it flat. There is copious rinsing at every stage, by the way. And once you get to the clam butt you scrape all the dark poop out of it.
Here's something wacky -- the butt? It's the BEST part! The digger is so much more tender than the neck it is insane. I love to eat clam tuchus! So, just because it's butt, doesn't mean it will taste like butt. But make sure you scrape it pretty good all the same.
By the time Ray and I finish cleaning the clams it's usually at least 7 p.m. or so. So often we don't bother to "prep" them for cooking. As per Kathy Quigg's suggestion, we take the clams and dredge them through flour, then egg, then cracker crumbs (Ritz is good for baking, saltines for frying) and lay them out on sheets to freeze. Once they are frozen stiff they can be bagged and fried straight out of the bag. And fried is really the only way to eat them besides chowder or baked, which calls for the same preparation but in a 500 degree oven for a few minutes (cuts down on the grease).
So clamming takes up a lot of my off-hours mental energy.
I must seem like kind of a dipstick if these are things that preoccupy me, but I do, in fact, worry about the state of the world, how long it is till spring, if I can do the whole Sunday NYT crossword puzzle and when I'll get my window fixed from the big winter storm. Also, back when granddad died there was a fair bit of mental energy in the whole grief thing. So I'm not this food-crazed person.
Also taking up the occasional amount of mental energy: "Heroes" hate. I don't watch it, but I hear there's a character who has the ability to copy any action she sees. That was totally a power I dreamed up when I was a kid and have been holding it in reserve for a character when I became a famous YA writer. Now I look like the big copycat. But here's the thing — I thought about it in relation to ice skating, and I think the chick on the TV is watching action movies. Not like I didn't think of that, but the character I had in mind was really devious in a way. Also about to be used and abused by some shadow government.
So, maybe I'll try keeping you all updated more often than once a year? It's not a NY resolution or anything, so don't hold your breath.
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