I saw an ad today for a “No-See/No-Touch” mousetrap. It basically looks like a giant roach hotel and is designed so you can catch mice, but not have to look at dead mouse bodies. And this concept bothers me.
In our current house, we have gotten rid of at least two dozen mice (with the high point being three mice in one day, December '03) using plain, old-fashioned “snap” traps. Is it unpleasant to dispose of the dead mice? You bet. In fact, I usually make RWT do it because it gives me nightmares. And I don’t even want to get into what happens when a mouse is caught in the trap, but not killed. However, I have no desire to use one of those new “No-See/No-Touch” mousetraps.
I feel that if you are going to kill an animal (for any reason), you should feel bad about it. For me, it is better to look at that dead mouse, feel remorse that it could not continue with its simple short life, and tell it that I am sorry it had to die to make my existence better. With one of those new traps, I could choose to consciously ignore that my actions have killed a living creature. But I shudder to think what my unconscious mind could do with that knowledge...
It would be wonderful to be able to use humane traps and be able to relocate the mice. But to where? If they are dumped immediately outside of the house, they will quickly come back inside. Taking them for a ride to another location is not a good option either, because they’ll then become someone else’s problem. Humane traps are nice in theory, but their practicality is limited in an urban environment.
Ideally, the mice would just stay quietly in the basement walls and not be so destructive (and reproductive). Then we could all live together in harmony. Unfortunately, that is just not going to happen. So we will continue to put a baited snap-trap under the kitchen sink, continue to kill the mice that come to scrounge for goodies in the kitchen trash can and continue to feel bad about it.
I’m sorry little mousie.
25 October 2005
18 October 2005
Z vs. K
When my über-foodie sister was visiting last fall, we went to a high-end restaurant that had just opened in the D.C. area. Running the kitchen is a New Young Chef who formerly worked for a Very Famous Chef at a Very Famous Restaurant in California (of which, my sister is a Very Big Fan). The meal was wonderful, but as can be expected with a newly opened establishment, the execution of some of the food still needed a bit of work (specifically, the distribution of salt – too much in some things, not enough in elsewhere). As to the taste of the dishes… even with the glitches, they were still fantastic with the big, yet elegant, pure flavors that made the Very Famous Chef very famous.
Since I had not been back in over a year and RWT went to Hawaii last week without me (what a bum), I decided it was a good time to go back to the year-old New Young Chef’s restaurant with some of my food-group friends. My overall impression... while the cooking during my previous visit was more uneven, I liked the food better last time. Not that my more recent dinner was anything other than great (and everything was cooked perfectly), but it was just not quite as breathtaking.
Why? On my first visit, (according to my know-it-all sister) the New Young Chef was mainly cooking variations on dishes he cooked under the tutelage the Very Famous Chef at the Very Famous Restaurant. I suspect that now the New Young Chef is coming up with his own recipes and they are just not the same caliber as those of the Very Famous Chef. Or, are they just different?
Perhaps the real question is if it is fair to expect the New Young Chef to forever cook food in the style of the Very Famous Chef. The New Young Chef could certainly continue to cook things à la the Very Famous Chef and have a very successful restaurant. But I would think the he’d want to develop his own repertoire and eventually step out of the shadow of the Very Famous Chef. Hmmm, I cannot help but wonder if the New Young Chef lays awake at night fretting over this exact thing.
But regardless if the New Young Chef's stays with the tried-and-true or progresses on to something else, I won’t be going back for another taste of his food for another year or so at the earliest because of the cost (after all, we are just poor military folk). And, even then, maybe I’ll save my pennies and instead go to the Very Famous Chef’s Very Famous Restaurant the next time I’m in California since that style of food is that I'll really be craving.
Since I had not been back in over a year and RWT went to Hawaii last week without me (what a bum), I decided it was a good time to go back to the year-old New Young Chef’s restaurant with some of my food-group friends. My overall impression... while the cooking during my previous visit was more uneven, I liked the food better last time. Not that my more recent dinner was anything other than great (and everything was cooked perfectly), but it was just not quite as breathtaking.
Why? On my first visit, (according to my know-it-all sister) the New Young Chef was mainly cooking variations on dishes he cooked under the tutelage the Very Famous Chef at the Very Famous Restaurant. I suspect that now the New Young Chef is coming up with his own recipes and they are just not the same caliber as those of the Very Famous Chef. Or, are they just different?
Perhaps the real question is if it is fair to expect the New Young Chef to forever cook food in the style of the Very Famous Chef. The New Young Chef could certainly continue to cook things à la the Very Famous Chef and have a very successful restaurant. But I would think the he’d want to develop his own repertoire and eventually step out of the shadow of the Very Famous Chef. Hmmm, I cannot help but wonder if the New Young Chef lays awake at night fretting over this exact thing.
But regardless if the New Young Chef's stays with the tried-and-true or progresses on to something else, I won’t be going back for another taste of his food for another year or so at the earliest because of the cost (after all, we are just poor military folk). And, even then, maybe I’ll save my pennies and instead go to the Very Famous Chef’s Very Famous Restaurant the next time I’m in California since that style of food is that I'll really be craving.
04 October 2005
Stop Malling Me
On my favorite food forum (of all places) there has been an ongoing discussion about the new expansion of one of the large shopping malls in the area. Specifically, Tysons Corner Center (the middle-of-the-road mall, not Tysons Galleria, the pricey one). They’ve added some new stores, restaurants and a movie theater. The reason it has been a topic of interest with the foodies is that it was rumored that some of the restaurants would be of the more up-scale variety.
But (and, apparently, quite shockingly to some), the restaurants are a disappointment. With “The Cheesecake Factory” being the most popular place at the high-end Tysons mall across the street, the lack of fine dining at the more pedestrian mall did not really surprise me much. But what I did find notable was how some of the folks on the forum think that the malls at Tysons Corner are known across the country. Ha!
With the exception of people such as my uncle Joe, who worked for a mall management company, and a shop-o-holic, frequent-flyer who I worked with back in California, I know no one who knows about any malls outside of a one hundred-mile radius of their home. Sure a lot of people know the best place to go for a day of clothes shopping or where the nearest Williams-Sonoma is located, but outside of a reasonable driving distance?
And why should anyone? A mall is a mall is a mall. They are all pretty much the same thing. Sure, there are super-large malls like the Mall of America (the only mall I’ve never been that I can name, but since it is considered the “biggest”, it does get a lot of press), or the outdoor malls (I’ve been a couple of times to one in Corte Madera, CA, but I cannot tell you anything about it other than there is a J. Crew located there where RWT’s little sister worked one summer and it is really, really hard to find parking there during the holiday season), or the malls with really cool and artistic fountains (such as Newport Fashion Island), or the malls that smell of mildew (which can be found in Guam, Houston and Austin). But whether they are indoor malls, expensive malls, mediocre malls, decidedly down-scale malls, small malls, hard-to-get-to malls or whatever malls… go to enough of them and they all pretty much blur together.
To me a mall is somewhere you go when you are on a mission to purchase something. A mall is not a destination in itself. The only exception to this is when visiting a friend in a faraway city and there is nothing better to do. But such trips are not the result of a specific mall – any mall will do. We go to look and comment on the merchandise (and the other shoppers). We go to try on clothes that we’d never think of buying when shopping by ourselves and then get the giggles at how we look in them. And we eat at the mall restaurants only because if we don’t consume some calories ASAP, we will pass out (or get incredibly grumpy and then no one has any fun).
Now don’t get me wrong. I love to shop and going to a mall is a great way to squeeze maximum shopping into a minimum amount of time and effort. But the reasons I go to the Tysons Corner malls are simply that they have a good number of stores where I like to shop and are reasonably close to where I live. Any other mall amenities… décor, layout, dining options, movie theaters, skating rink, carousels and so on… they are just things to walk past when getting from one store to the next.
So, other than having a few more stores to peruse on my next shopping quest, for me, the best thing about the new addition to the Tysons mall is the possibility that, for at least a little while, everyone will park in the new parking garage near the expansion and I’ll be able to easily park at the other end near the Bloomingdales!
But (and, apparently, quite shockingly to some), the restaurants are a disappointment. With “The Cheesecake Factory” being the most popular place at the high-end Tysons mall across the street, the lack of fine dining at the more pedestrian mall did not really surprise me much. But what I did find notable was how some of the folks on the forum think that the malls at Tysons Corner are known across the country. Ha!
With the exception of people such as my uncle Joe, who worked for a mall management company, and a shop-o-holic, frequent-flyer who I worked with back in California, I know no one who knows about any malls outside of a one hundred-mile radius of their home. Sure a lot of people know the best place to go for a day of clothes shopping or where the nearest Williams-Sonoma is located, but outside of a reasonable driving distance?
And why should anyone? A mall is a mall is a mall. They are all pretty much the same thing. Sure, there are super-large malls like the Mall of America (the only mall I’ve never been that I can name, but since it is considered the “biggest”, it does get a lot of press), or the outdoor malls (I’ve been a couple of times to one in Corte Madera, CA, but I cannot tell you anything about it other than there is a J. Crew located there where RWT’s little sister worked one summer and it is really, really hard to find parking there during the holiday season), or the malls with really cool and artistic fountains (such as Newport Fashion Island), or the malls that smell of mildew (which can be found in Guam, Houston and Austin). But whether they are indoor malls, expensive malls, mediocre malls, decidedly down-scale malls, small malls, hard-to-get-to malls or whatever malls… go to enough of them and they all pretty much blur together.
To me a mall is somewhere you go when you are on a mission to purchase something. A mall is not a destination in itself. The only exception to this is when visiting a friend in a faraway city and there is nothing better to do. But such trips are not the result of a specific mall – any mall will do. We go to look and comment on the merchandise (and the other shoppers). We go to try on clothes that we’d never think of buying when shopping by ourselves and then get the giggles at how we look in them. And we eat at the mall restaurants only because if we don’t consume some calories ASAP, we will pass out (or get incredibly grumpy and then no one has any fun).
Now don’t get me wrong. I love to shop and going to a mall is a great way to squeeze maximum shopping into a minimum amount of time and effort. But the reasons I go to the Tysons Corner malls are simply that they have a good number of stores where I like to shop and are reasonably close to where I live. Any other mall amenities… décor, layout, dining options, movie theaters, skating rink, carousels and so on… they are just things to walk past when getting from one store to the next.
So, other than having a few more stores to peruse on my next shopping quest, for me, the best thing about the new addition to the Tysons mall is the possibility that, for at least a little while, everyone will park in the new parking garage near the expansion and I’ll be able to easily park at the other end near the Bloomingdales!
20 September 2005
Contingency Planning
My food group is having a picnic in a couple of weeks and I have been tasked with helping to coordinate the food. Basically, I need to keep track of who is bringing what, determine which categories of food are lacking representation and then assign people to bring things in the aforementioned categories. Sound like fun? To me – YES!
I adore planning things. And to a rather fanatical extent. Of late, I typically only get to exercise these skills when entertaining guests. For example, dinner parties. The more complex the better. Determining the menu, décor, seating and writing out a timetable (in 10-minute increments) are almost as much fun as the cooking itself. I’ve even been known to create Gantt charts to help with the scheduling. To choreograph the cooking and serving so it all runs smoothly and flawlessly is a thing of true beauty and about as close to true artistry as I can manage.
I must have inherited this trait from my mother (certainly not from my father – he expected God to provide, which did work out since God provided him with my mother). When I showed horses, way back when in a former life, my mother would always pack my tack trunk with all sorts of stuff. And it was all inventoried on a checklist to ensure that nothing was left behind at the barn.
If a strap broke, we had a heavy-duty leather sewing kit (it belonged to her father, a shoemaker), extra leather straps and a leather punch. Nail polish remover to take care of spilled spots of hoof polish? Check. Extra boots, hats, gloves (which have a penchant for falling irretrievably into porta-potties), bits, cinches and reins. Yarn for braiding people’s and horses’ hair? Sure, which color would you prefer – brown, black, navy or beige? Sunscreen, bug repellant, hair spray (which, in a pinch, can also remove hoof polish), and pepto bismal. Indelible black marker and duct tape? Check, check. If it was not in the trunk, the horse trailer or the truck, it was something that was simply not needed, under any circumstance, at a horse show. My mother could put any boy scout to shame.
And she taught me well. By fourteen years old, I was planning our county 4-H horse shows. Typically, around 75 total entrants and each one showed, on average, in 5 to 10 of the 20 to 30 classes offered. I did all the accounting (various flat fees, plus a fee per class), number assignment (one number per horse/rider combo), judges sheets (entrants, by number only, for each class and spaces for final ranking), announcer’s sheets (name of rider, name of horse, and their number for each class), and official result sheets (signed by the judges). Plus, press releases, mailing of entry forms, ordering trophies and ribbons and contracting with the judge(s). The one thing I did not do was check-in the morning of the show because I was busy getting my own horse ready for showing (which I did by myself since my mother did the check-in of entrants).
Getting a scientific degree and working as a chemist only encouraged my list-making, chart-making and data-recording tendencies. On our corrosion surveys of Pacific Navy bases, I was always the one taking notes on a clipboard (this was back in the stone-age before PDAs). My organizational skills have also come in handy as a military wife when I've been put in charge (because no one else wanted to do it) of disbursement, by means of scholarships and grants, of charitable money raised by the spouses' group.
I’ve often thought about getting into the event coordinating business, but not sure if I have the patience for the histrionics that are so commonly associated with “special” events. Perhaps, planning for “real” events would better – FEMA is obviously in need of some competent people and the Department of Homeland Security is always hiring. But for moment, I’ll be content with the little stuff, like picnics. And it is never too early to start planning for our biennial Holiday Open House Cookie-fest…
I adore planning things. And to a rather fanatical extent. Of late, I typically only get to exercise these skills when entertaining guests. For example, dinner parties. The more complex the better. Determining the menu, décor, seating and writing out a timetable (in 10-minute increments) are almost as much fun as the cooking itself. I’ve even been known to create Gantt charts to help with the scheduling. To choreograph the cooking and serving so it all runs smoothly and flawlessly is a thing of true beauty and about as close to true artistry as I can manage.
I must have inherited this trait from my mother (certainly not from my father – he expected God to provide, which did work out since God provided him with my mother). When I showed horses, way back when in a former life, my mother would always pack my tack trunk with all sorts of stuff. And it was all inventoried on a checklist to ensure that nothing was left behind at the barn.
If a strap broke, we had a heavy-duty leather sewing kit (it belonged to her father, a shoemaker), extra leather straps and a leather punch. Nail polish remover to take care of spilled spots of hoof polish? Check. Extra boots, hats, gloves (which have a penchant for falling irretrievably into porta-potties), bits, cinches and reins. Yarn for braiding people’s and horses’ hair? Sure, which color would you prefer – brown, black, navy or beige? Sunscreen, bug repellant, hair spray (which, in a pinch, can also remove hoof polish), and pepto bismal. Indelible black marker and duct tape? Check, check. If it was not in the trunk, the horse trailer or the truck, it was something that was simply not needed, under any circumstance, at a horse show. My mother could put any boy scout to shame.
And she taught me well. By fourteen years old, I was planning our county 4-H horse shows. Typically, around 75 total entrants and each one showed, on average, in 5 to 10 of the 20 to 30 classes offered. I did all the accounting (various flat fees, plus a fee per class), number assignment (one number per horse/rider combo), judges sheets (entrants, by number only, for each class and spaces for final ranking), announcer’s sheets (name of rider, name of horse, and their number for each class), and official result sheets (signed by the judges). Plus, press releases, mailing of entry forms, ordering trophies and ribbons and contracting with the judge(s). The one thing I did not do was check-in the morning of the show because I was busy getting my own horse ready for showing (which I did by myself since my mother did the check-in of entrants).
Getting a scientific degree and working as a chemist only encouraged my list-making, chart-making and data-recording tendencies. On our corrosion surveys of Pacific Navy bases, I was always the one taking notes on a clipboard (this was back in the stone-age before PDAs). My organizational skills have also come in handy as a military wife when I've been put in charge (because no one else wanted to do it) of disbursement, by means of scholarships and grants, of charitable money raised by the spouses' group.
I’ve often thought about getting into the event coordinating business, but not sure if I have the patience for the histrionics that are so commonly associated with “special” events. Perhaps, planning for “real” events would better – FEMA is obviously in need of some competent people and the Department of Homeland Security is always hiring. But for moment, I’ll be content with the little stuff, like picnics. And it is never too early to start planning for our biennial Holiday Open House Cookie-fest…
15 September 2005
Yes, I am alive...
My nephew and father were in town for a visit last week and I was busy, busy, busy showing them around and stuffing them with their favorite foods. Sated with sightseeing and a bit heavier (my father gained 4 pounds during the week), they boarded a plane on Monday and flew back to California. Life around here is returning to normal and I should be back to blogging soon.
31 August 2005
Guacamole!
On my favorite food forum there is currently a thread on the best place to obtain guacamole. The short answer... California.
RWT's mom and stepdad are farmers in central California and have about 135 Hass avocado trees on their 40-acre farm (most of the remainder is planted with citrus and blueberries). From them, I've learned that nothing his better than a "fresh" avocado. By fresh, I mean one that has never, ever been refrigerated. Non-refrigerated avocados are richer, nuttier and buttery-er than those from a grocery store. But take one and refrigerate it, even for a short period, such as overnight, and it will taste like any other store-bought avocado. Certainly still good, but something detrimental happens to avocados when they are chilled.
However, even with "regular" avocados, I've found that you can make better guacamole at home than in most any restaurant. Below is my favorite recipe, but feel free to tweak it to your tastes. It does contain cilantro, so if you absolutely hate it, leave it out. Also some folks like to add a bit of chopped tomato to their guacamole. Personally, I think it just dilutes the flavor of the avocado.
If you are not serving the guacamole immediately, press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the top of the guacamole (it is contact with the oxygen in the air that causes it to darken) and refrigerate.
GUACAMOLE
Makes 2½ to 3 cups
3 medium-sized, ripe California Hass or similar rough-skinned avocados (do not, I repeat, do not use the big smooth-skinned variety from Florida, see here for more information)
~2 tablespoons juice from 1 lime
2 tablespoons minced onion
1 medium garlic clove, minced (IHMO, this is what makes good guacamole into great guacamole!)
¼ cup minced fresh cilantro leaves
1 pinch cayenne (I prefer cayenne to fresh jalapenos, both for ease and because I think jalapenos can add a bit too much of a vegetal flavor)
¼ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground cumin
Halve, pit and peel the avocados, drizzle with ~1 tablespoon of the lime juice and mash to the desired consistency. Add the onion, garlic, cilantro, cayenne, salt and cumin. Mix and add additional lime juice and salt to taste.
And for those who prefer graphic instructions...
Ingredients (I've used four avocados here because two were pretty small and one was over-ripe and I knew I'd not be able to use all of that one.)
Slice the avocados in half lengthwise.
Twist the halves in opposite directions to loosen one side from the pit.
Ta-dum!
(Caution: This may be the quickest, but is not the safest method of removing the pit. Proceed at your own risk or be safe and use a spoon to pop out the pit.) Gently, but firmly, whack the sharp side of your knife into the pit...
and twist to loosen the pit from the other side of the avocado.
Remove the pit and discard. (But I am certainly not advising you use such a dangerous method of pit extraction!)
Slice the halves in half so you have avocado quarters (this helps in peeling them).
Pull the peel back from the flesh. If the peel does not come off easily, you can also use a spoon to scoop out the flesh.
Don't be alarmed!!! Here is that avocado that I knew was a bit over-ripe (I could tell because it was too soft -- downright squishy, see here for more information on selecting and ripening avocados). The piece in the foreground shows a darkened over-ripe area and how it can also become a bit fibrous (and long fibers in the guacamole are not very appetizing). The piece in the background shows dark spots that are from bruising. But don't worry, all is not lost...
Simply cut off the dark areas and the rest of the avocado can be used.
Squeeze some of the lime juice over the avocado before mashing (the acidity will help to prevent the avocado from darkening).
I like to use a fork to mash the avocado. If it is too firm to mash with a fork, the avocado was not ripe enough (in a pinch, you can use a knife or food processor to chop an under-ripe avocado, but under-ripe avocados are also usually lacking in flavor and will be merely filler in your finished guacamole).
Don't worry about mashing completely, the avocado will develop a creamier consistency when the rest of the ingredients are mixed in.
And speaking of the rest of the ingredients... stir them in now.
Taste, taste, taste! You will probably need to add more lime juice and possibly salt. The richer the avocados, the more lime juice you’ll need. I like to taste it with one of the chips that I'll be serving it with, especially when trying to determine if it needs more salt since some brands of chips are much saltier than others.
And the finished guacamole. Dig in!
RWT's mom and stepdad are farmers in central California and have about 135 Hass avocado trees on their 40-acre farm (most of the remainder is planted with citrus and blueberries). From them, I've learned that nothing his better than a "fresh" avocado. By fresh, I mean one that has never, ever been refrigerated. Non-refrigerated avocados are richer, nuttier and buttery-er than those from a grocery store. But take one and refrigerate it, even for a short period, such as overnight, and it will taste like any other store-bought avocado. Certainly still good, but something detrimental happens to avocados when they are chilled.
However, even with "regular" avocados, I've found that you can make better guacamole at home than in most any restaurant. Below is my favorite recipe, but feel free to tweak it to your tastes. It does contain cilantro, so if you absolutely hate it, leave it out. Also some folks like to add a bit of chopped tomato to their guacamole. Personally, I think it just dilutes the flavor of the avocado.
If you are not serving the guacamole immediately, press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the top of the guacamole (it is contact with the oxygen in the air that causes it to darken) and refrigerate.
GUACAMOLE
Makes 2½ to 3 cups
3 medium-sized, ripe California Hass or similar rough-skinned avocados (do not, I repeat, do not use the big smooth-skinned variety from Florida, see here for more information)
~2 tablespoons juice from 1 lime
2 tablespoons minced onion
1 medium garlic clove, minced (IHMO, this is what makes good guacamole into great guacamole!)
¼ cup minced fresh cilantro leaves
1 pinch cayenne (I prefer cayenne to fresh jalapenos, both for ease and because I think jalapenos can add a bit too much of a vegetal flavor)
¼ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground cumin
Halve, pit and peel the avocados, drizzle with ~1 tablespoon of the lime juice and mash to the desired consistency. Add the onion, garlic, cilantro, cayenne, salt and cumin. Mix and add additional lime juice and salt to taste.
And for those who prefer graphic instructions...
Ingredients (I've used four avocados here because two were pretty small and one was over-ripe and I knew I'd not be able to use all of that one.)
Slice the avocados in half lengthwise.
Twist the halves in opposite directions to loosen one side from the pit.
Ta-dum!
(Caution: This may be the quickest, but is not the safest method of removing the pit. Proceed at your own risk or be safe and use a spoon to pop out the pit.) Gently, but firmly, whack the sharp side of your knife into the pit...
and twist to loosen the pit from the other side of the avocado.
Remove the pit and discard. (But I am certainly not advising you use such a dangerous method of pit extraction!)
Slice the halves in half so you have avocado quarters (this helps in peeling them).
Pull the peel back from the flesh. If the peel does not come off easily, you can also use a spoon to scoop out the flesh.
Don't be alarmed!!! Here is that avocado that I knew was a bit over-ripe (I could tell because it was too soft -- downright squishy, see here for more information on selecting and ripening avocados). The piece in the foreground shows a darkened over-ripe area and how it can also become a bit fibrous (and long fibers in the guacamole are not very appetizing). The piece in the background shows dark spots that are from bruising. But don't worry, all is not lost...
Simply cut off the dark areas and the rest of the avocado can be used.
Squeeze some of the lime juice over the avocado before mashing (the acidity will help to prevent the avocado from darkening).
I like to use a fork to mash the avocado. If it is too firm to mash with a fork, the avocado was not ripe enough (in a pinch, you can use a knife or food processor to chop an under-ripe avocado, but under-ripe avocados are also usually lacking in flavor and will be merely filler in your finished guacamole).
Don't worry about mashing completely, the avocado will develop a creamier consistency when the rest of the ingredients are mixed in.
And speaking of the rest of the ingredients... stir them in now.
Taste, taste, taste! You will probably need to add more lime juice and possibly salt. The richer the avocados, the more lime juice you’ll need. I like to taste it with one of the chips that I'll be serving it with, especially when trying to determine if it needs more salt since some brands of chips are much saltier than others.
And the finished guacamole. Dig in!
23 August 2005
Pssst! So you want to buy something cheap?
I think I may have been a personal shopper in a former life. Friends and family seem strangely compelled to contact me when they are trying to find something. And I am certainly not complaining. I love the thrill of the hunt.
An oval glass coffee table with a brass/bronze Art Deco base? Sure. Chinese black vinegar? No problem. A driver for a no-name second-hand video card? Done. An artificial Christmas tree in August? No need to wait for Santa.
I’ve found that, with the internet, almost anything can be obtained these days. But you really don’t need me, you can do it too. Here are some of my tricks:
Google – My search engine of choice and the starting point in any internet quest. It also does well with numbers (see here for more information). For example, if you enter an area code, it will give the region covered. Searching a part number (printed in a microscopic font) lead to the identification of that second-hand video card which, in turn, lead to a source for the driver. And remember to use quotes around the search term if looking to exactly match a phrase.
Also at Google, is Froogle, their new shopping search site. It works pretty well for the more commonplace items (such as coffee tables), but falters when faced with the more odd-ball and specialty goods (such as paillete feuilletine).
A bit off-topic, but if you have a newer computer with plenty of RAM, disk space, CPU speed and a quality video card, be sure to check out Google Earth, their new mapping program that utilizes satellite images. A very cool way to find where you are going (or just to look at a satellite picture of your house).
craigslist – Want ads for the cool & hip. This site was started by a guy named Craig in the San Francisco area in 1995, but it now covers cities all across the country. It is a good place to look for cheap, used furniture and other miscellaneous items. Plus reading the personal ads can be quite entertaining. (Just an FYI – the term “420” is defined by Wikipedia as “a euphemism for cannabis and its associated culture” and goes to show you can learn something new everyday.)
Freecycle – Like craigslist, it is structured by region and city, but everything is free. And no item is too small or seemingly worthless to be listed. But there are some really good finds on Freecycle – we obtained a trundle bed frame to use as a base for a daybed RWT plans to build (once he is ready to again face his nemesis, the table saw).
Not only is Freecycle a good source for free stuff, but an excellent method of getting rid of your own junk. A friend put in an ad giving away the ivy that had taken over her yard and people came, happily dug it all up and toted it away.
[A side note – Around the Los Angeles area, anything that is placed out in the alley is scavenged, usually within an hour. Our Belmont Shore next-door neighbor put an executive-sized desk out and within 15 minutes a couple of guys were strapping it to the roof of a car that was shorter than the desk itself. I always threatened RWT that I was going to park his evil little Spitfire next to the garbage cans so someone would haul it away too. Good thing for him and his beloved Triumph that Freecycle did not yet exist!]
Amazon – Even if I don’t buy the item from Amazon itself, the reviews can be very helpful, especially when buying electronics or appliances.
Amazon is also a great source for used books. I just scored a pristine copy of Bruce Healey’s out-of-print and much-coveted Mastering the Art of French Pastry for $100 less than it usually costs. How? I saved the book to my “Wish List” and regularly checked on the “Used & New” price. I had to wait about six months for the well-priced copy I bought to turn up, but it was worth it.
And if you purchase something from one of Amazon’s third-party sellers using “Amazon Payments”, Amazon handles the transaction and the third-party seller does not have access to your credit card information. Plus, Amazon guarantees the item under their regular policy. It is a good way to purchase from a small-time seller with less risk.
eBay – Don’t forget this giant e-flea-market. Just be careful you are not being overcharged on the shipping fees and the final price is competitive (it is easy to get carried away with bidding). Also, be sure to check the seller's feedback before bidding. Yes, eBay is a bit riskier way of purchasing stuff, but for finding discontinued crystal, china and flatware, it cannot be beat.
Well, that is it for now. I feel I’ve done my part in stimulating the economy for today. Happy hunting!
An oval glass coffee table with a brass/bronze Art Deco base? Sure. Chinese black vinegar? No problem. A driver for a no-name second-hand video card? Done. An artificial Christmas tree in August? No need to wait for Santa.
I’ve found that, with the internet, almost anything can be obtained these days. But you really don’t need me, you can do it too. Here are some of my tricks:
Google – My search engine of choice and the starting point in any internet quest. It also does well with numbers (see here for more information). For example, if you enter an area code, it will give the region covered. Searching a part number (printed in a microscopic font) lead to the identification of that second-hand video card which, in turn, lead to a source for the driver. And remember to use quotes around the search term if looking to exactly match a phrase.
Also at Google, is Froogle, their new shopping search site. It works pretty well for the more commonplace items (such as coffee tables), but falters when faced with the more odd-ball and specialty goods (such as paillete feuilletine).
A bit off-topic, but if you have a newer computer with plenty of RAM, disk space, CPU speed and a quality video card, be sure to check out Google Earth, their new mapping program that utilizes satellite images. A very cool way to find where you are going (or just to look at a satellite picture of your house).
craigslist – Want ads for the cool & hip. This site was started by a guy named Craig in the San Francisco area in 1995, but it now covers cities all across the country. It is a good place to look for cheap, used furniture and other miscellaneous items. Plus reading the personal ads can be quite entertaining. (Just an FYI – the term “420” is defined by Wikipedia as “a euphemism for cannabis and its associated culture” and goes to show you can learn something new everyday.)
Freecycle – Like craigslist, it is structured by region and city, but everything is free. And no item is too small or seemingly worthless to be listed. But there are some really good finds on Freecycle – we obtained a trundle bed frame to use as a base for a daybed RWT plans to build (once he is ready to again face his nemesis, the table saw).
Not only is Freecycle a good source for free stuff, but an excellent method of getting rid of your own junk. A friend put in an ad giving away the ivy that had taken over her yard and people came, happily dug it all up and toted it away.
[A side note – Around the Los Angeles area, anything that is placed out in the alley is scavenged, usually within an hour. Our Belmont Shore next-door neighbor put an executive-sized desk out and within 15 minutes a couple of guys were strapping it to the roof of a car that was shorter than the desk itself. I always threatened RWT that I was going to park his evil little Spitfire next to the garbage cans so someone would haul it away too. Good thing for him and his beloved Triumph that Freecycle did not yet exist!]
Amazon – Even if I don’t buy the item from Amazon itself, the reviews can be very helpful, especially when buying electronics or appliances.
Amazon is also a great source for used books. I just scored a pristine copy of Bruce Healey’s out-of-print and much-coveted Mastering the Art of French Pastry for $100 less than it usually costs. How? I saved the book to my “Wish List” and regularly checked on the “Used & New” price. I had to wait about six months for the well-priced copy I bought to turn up, but it was worth it.
And if you purchase something from one of Amazon’s third-party sellers using “Amazon Payments”, Amazon handles the transaction and the third-party seller does not have access to your credit card information. Plus, Amazon guarantees the item under their regular policy. It is a good way to purchase from a small-time seller with less risk.
eBay – Don’t forget this giant e-flea-market. Just be careful you are not being overcharged on the shipping fees and the final price is competitive (it is easy to get carried away with bidding). Also, be sure to check the seller's feedback before bidding. Yes, eBay is a bit riskier way of purchasing stuff, but for finding discontinued crystal, china and flatware, it cannot be beat.
Well, that is it for now. I feel I’ve done my part in stimulating the economy for today. Happy hunting!
19 August 2005
The Bad Karma Bed
When we first moved to this area a couple of years ago, RWT’s sister lived with us for about nine months until she found a good job, an apartment and some roommates. She arrived with only the possessions that could fit in her vintage BMW (which she totaled within two months of her arrival) and immediately started looking for a bed.
She quickly found a queen-size mattress set with frame for a good price on craigslist and made arrangements to purchase it. RWT took her in our “big” car to pick up the bed from a fifth floor apartment in a building with no freight elevator. They lugged the box-spring down the stairs and loaded it on the car and had just made it down to the parking lot with the mattress when they saw the Bed Owner gesturing frantically to someone standing next to our car.
It turns out that the Bed Owner had already promised the mattress set to someone else (and taken their payment check!) but then thought they were not going to ever pick it up. Actually, the First Buyer had been busy arranging to rent a U-Haul to move the bed and, in fact, the U-Haul was sitting right next to our car. The reason for this whole misunderstanding – the First Buyer was deaf and communication had been limited to only a few brief emails. By writing in the dust of a dirty parked car, the First Buyer conveyed that he still wanted the bed, had paid in full, gone to the expense of renting a U-Haul and was very, very displeased (I think he also made that part clear with a few universally-understood hand gestures). But the Bed Owner would not relent and insisted the deal was off.
RWT asked his sister what she wanted to do and she said she really wanted that bed. Although RWT did not agree with her, he felt that she was an adult now and needed to make her own decisions. So they sheepishly packed the mattress and frame into the car and left the Bed Owner and the First Buyer arguing next to the U-Haul.
They arrived back here with the bed and decided the best way to get it into my sister-in-law’s room in the finished basement was through the side door that opens directly into the basement. Unfortunately, the box-spring could not make the turn at the bottom of the stairs to fit though the door. Nor was the stairwell wide enough for the box-spring to be lowered down to the doorway from above. So they took the box-spring around through the front door to the inside staircase to the basement. And… after much scraping of paint from various walls and the ceiling... it would not fit through there either. There was no way, short of cutting it into pieces, that queen-size box-spring was ever going to get into our basement.
RWT’s sister immediately contacted the Bed Owner for the name and address of the First Buyer to check to see if he was still interested in the bed (which RWT would have been more than glad to deliver and even haul up twenty or more flights of stairs), but the Bed Owner would not give out the information. So it was back to craigslist to sell the queen-size bed (which was temporarily residing in our dining room) and look for a full-size bed. (My sis-in-law briefly considered attempting to sell the queen-size bed for more than she paid, but I assured her that she would most certainly go to hell if she did.)
Within a day, RWT’s sister had procured a full-size bed (which did fit through the inside staircase) and found a buyer for the queen-size bed. But when the sweet young man (also a California native) came to pick up the queen-size bed, I felt really sorry for him. I considered warning him, but decided it was not my place (and he'd probably think I was stark raving mad). However, I fear he is doomed to sleep alone as long as he owns that bed. It is the bad karma bed.
She quickly found a queen-size mattress set with frame for a good price on craigslist and made arrangements to purchase it. RWT took her in our “big” car to pick up the bed from a fifth floor apartment in a building with no freight elevator. They lugged the box-spring down the stairs and loaded it on the car and had just made it down to the parking lot with the mattress when they saw the Bed Owner gesturing frantically to someone standing next to our car.
It turns out that the Bed Owner had already promised the mattress set to someone else (and taken their payment check!) but then thought they were not going to ever pick it up. Actually, the First Buyer had been busy arranging to rent a U-Haul to move the bed and, in fact, the U-Haul was sitting right next to our car. The reason for this whole misunderstanding – the First Buyer was deaf and communication had been limited to only a few brief emails. By writing in the dust of a dirty parked car, the First Buyer conveyed that he still wanted the bed, had paid in full, gone to the expense of renting a U-Haul and was very, very displeased (I think he also made that part clear with a few universally-understood hand gestures). But the Bed Owner would not relent and insisted the deal was off.
RWT asked his sister what she wanted to do and she said she really wanted that bed. Although RWT did not agree with her, he felt that she was an adult now and needed to make her own decisions. So they sheepishly packed the mattress and frame into the car and left the Bed Owner and the First Buyer arguing next to the U-Haul.
They arrived back here with the bed and decided the best way to get it into my sister-in-law’s room in the finished basement was through the side door that opens directly into the basement. Unfortunately, the box-spring could not make the turn at the bottom of the stairs to fit though the door. Nor was the stairwell wide enough for the box-spring to be lowered down to the doorway from above. So they took the box-spring around through the front door to the inside staircase to the basement. And… after much scraping of paint from various walls and the ceiling... it would not fit through there either. There was no way, short of cutting it into pieces, that queen-size box-spring was ever going to get into our basement.
RWT’s sister immediately contacted the Bed Owner for the name and address of the First Buyer to check to see if he was still interested in the bed (which RWT would have been more than glad to deliver and even haul up twenty or more flights of stairs), but the Bed Owner would not give out the information. So it was back to craigslist to sell the queen-size bed (which was temporarily residing in our dining room) and look for a full-size bed. (My sis-in-law briefly considered attempting to sell the queen-size bed for more than she paid, but I assured her that she would most certainly go to hell if she did.)
Within a day, RWT’s sister had procured a full-size bed (which did fit through the inside staircase) and found a buyer for the queen-size bed. But when the sweet young man (also a California native) came to pick up the queen-size bed, I felt really sorry for him. I considered warning him, but decided it was not my place (and he'd probably think I was stark raving mad). However, I fear he is doomed to sleep alone as long as he owns that bed. It is the bad karma bed.
18 August 2005
Frequency
Well, as you’ve probably all noticed, I am just not able to post to my blog every day. Obviously, a total delusion on my part to really ever consider keeping it up for any length of time.
As much as I enjoy writing blog entries, I was doing so at the expense of other things in my life… reading, sleeping, cooking, watching old sci-fi on DVD and, most importantly, spending time with RWT.
Also, RWT’s accident unleashed a bunch of dark stuff within my head. I seriously considered writing about those thoughts here, but for the time being, I’ve decided to abstain. The downside is that those moods make it pretty much impossible for me to write anything other than morose, depressing drivel. And, while things are definitely looking brighter, I still have my moments.
So to try to keep some balance in my life and not drag everyone down, I am aiming for posting something here once a week. Maybe more, maybe less (hopefully not too frequently).
[And I’ll have the time to once again pursue my latest knowledge quest:: learning to identify Eastern U.S. trees, both native and ornamental/yard trees. What is growing in your front or back yard?]
As much as I enjoy writing blog entries, I was doing so at the expense of other things in my life… reading, sleeping, cooking, watching old sci-fi on DVD and, most importantly, spending time with RWT.
Also, RWT’s accident unleashed a bunch of dark stuff within my head. I seriously considered writing about those thoughts here, but for the time being, I’ve decided to abstain. The downside is that those moods make it pretty much impossible for me to write anything other than morose, depressing drivel. And, while things are definitely looking brighter, I still have my moments.
So to try to keep some balance in my life and not drag everyone down, I am aiming for posting something here once a week. Maybe more, maybe less (hopefully not too frequently).
[And I’ll have the time to once again pursue my latest knowledge quest:: learning to identify Eastern U.S. trees, both native and ornamental/yard trees. What is growing in your front or back yard?]
10 August 2005
Must Be a Southern California Thing…
On Monday, Clarence Page from the nearby PBS station, WETA, was using our street as a backdrop (keep your eyes peeled for the front corner of our house on The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer during one of Mr. Page’s segments airing sometime within the next three weeks, also be sure to note our garden hose strewn sloppily across the lawn and the neighbor's semi-dilapidated Alfa Romeo semi-permanently parked in front of our house). Now a real television camera, crew and on-air personality in our neighborhood are certainly exciting enough on their own, but it didn’t end there… as they were filming, a red sports car blew down the street at 50+ mph! And, in hot pursuit, was a black pick-up truck moving at a similarly high rate of speed.
Unfortunately, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies for dinner (Thai pepper chicken with carrots, spicy garlic eggplant and rice, if you must know) and missed it. But our neighbor Max, a one-man neighborhood watch, witnessed it all and was more than happy to give a play-by-play account when I ventured outside to throw the vegetable peelings and chicken trimmings into the trash. It turns out the red car was car-jacked and following in the black pick-up was an off-duty policeman. Instead of heading toward the nearby Beltway as expected, the car-jacker drove through residential neighborhoods (with speeds approaching upwards of 80 mph according to the off-duty cop) in an attempt to get to 395 and into D.C..
The guy did make it to 395, but crashed on the 14th Street bridge and that was the end of the chase. The police later returned to our street to get a copy of the tape from the television crew for use in any future legal proceedings (like being found in a car, not of his belonging, crashed into the side of a bridge is insufficient evidence to convict the guy?!?). After getting the scoop from the neighbor, I went inside, turned off the Tivo’ed Iron Chef I was listening to while wielding my knife against the carrots and switched the channel to the local news to hear about the car chase. Nothing. Tried another channel. Nothing again. What is wrong with these people? There was a high-speed chase! Where is the footage?!? Then I remembered… I’m not in southern California anymore.
In southern California, car chases are a favored form of entertainment. This includes high-speed chases, OJ Simpson-like slow-speed chases, and, the most common, low-to-medium-with-bursts-of-high-when-between-clots-of-traffic-speed chases. Maybe because the news people there don’t have snow storms to cover, they rush to even the most serene and short-lived of chases (and ignore the pleadings of the mayor and law enforcement officials that television coverage only leads to more car chases, which is probably true since the car-jackers waving out the car windows to the viewing audience at home is a common sight). And people do watch. RWT and I watch. And we’re not the type of folk who watch “Cops” or shows like that normally. But there’s something about a car chase…
An episode of the short-lived sitcom, It’s Like, You Know…, covered this phenomenon to a tee. In that episode, the characters, who all live in Los Angeles, drop everything to watch a live car chase on television. One guy pulls out a notebook containing statistics from previous chases and the group starts debating the best route for the car-jacker to take to avoid traffic. Then they take bets on the duration of the chase and yell advice at the television. RWT and I were practically rolling on the floor while watching that episode because it is so true.
There is just something compelling about watching a live car chase on television. Initially, it is the curiosity of where it is occurring – I once watched a chase (involving a bus!) that went by the exit to my friend ADD’s house at least a half a dozen times. Then, it is figuring out the overall strategy of the chase – it’s surprising how often the pursued car will make great big circles around the Los Angeles area. But other times they are totally random in their route (lost?) and only very rarely do they attempt to run in a straight line up or down the coast (which almost invariably ends in either mechanical breakdown of the vehicle or simply running out of gas). And what will the police do? Will they use the spike strips? Or will the speeds drop enough for the PIT maneuver? Next comes my favorite part, just how much abuse will the car take before it stops – one guy drove a Ranger Rover over four spike strips (which only blew out the left front tire), then on the flat tire, then on the rim (which got smaller and smaller with each passing mile), then on the end of the axle and finally drove for a few miles scraping the undercarriage of the car on the road surface before grinding to a halt (what a great advertisement for Range Rover!). But once the car stops, I turn it off. I have no desire to witness the actual arrest (possibly due to seeing too much Rodney King incident footage).
I’ve been pondering why car chases are not seen (and I mean this literally, I’m sure just as many occur) as much on the East coast. Perhaps all the trees block good helicopter views or there are not enough long stretches of freeway. Or do we have too much restricted air-space around here for all the newscopters?
But just like putting “The” in front of freeway numbers (“The 101”, “The 405”, and so on), In-N-Out Burgers and ever-present smog, very few things say “southern California” to me like a televised car chase.
Unfortunately, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies for dinner (Thai pepper chicken with carrots, spicy garlic eggplant and rice, if you must know) and missed it. But our neighbor Max, a one-man neighborhood watch, witnessed it all and was more than happy to give a play-by-play account when I ventured outside to throw the vegetable peelings and chicken trimmings into the trash. It turns out the red car was car-jacked and following in the black pick-up was an off-duty policeman. Instead of heading toward the nearby Beltway as expected, the car-jacker drove through residential neighborhoods (with speeds approaching upwards of 80 mph according to the off-duty cop) in an attempt to get to 395 and into D.C..
The guy did make it to 395, but crashed on the 14th Street bridge and that was the end of the chase. The police later returned to our street to get a copy of the tape from the television crew for use in any future legal proceedings (like being found in a car, not of his belonging, crashed into the side of a bridge is insufficient evidence to convict the guy?!?). After getting the scoop from the neighbor, I went inside, turned off the Tivo’ed Iron Chef I was listening to while wielding my knife against the carrots and switched the channel to the local news to hear about the car chase. Nothing. Tried another channel. Nothing again. What is wrong with these people? There was a high-speed chase! Where is the footage?!? Then I remembered… I’m not in southern California anymore.
In southern California, car chases are a favored form of entertainment. This includes high-speed chases, OJ Simpson-like slow-speed chases, and, the most common, low-to-medium-with-bursts-of-high-when-between-clots-of-traffic-speed chases. Maybe because the news people there don’t have snow storms to cover, they rush to even the most serene and short-lived of chases (and ignore the pleadings of the mayor and law enforcement officials that television coverage only leads to more car chases, which is probably true since the car-jackers waving out the car windows to the viewing audience at home is a common sight). And people do watch. RWT and I watch. And we’re not the type of folk who watch “Cops” or shows like that normally. But there’s something about a car chase…
An episode of the short-lived sitcom, It’s Like, You Know…, covered this phenomenon to a tee. In that episode, the characters, who all live in Los Angeles, drop everything to watch a live car chase on television. One guy pulls out a notebook containing statistics from previous chases and the group starts debating the best route for the car-jacker to take to avoid traffic. Then they take bets on the duration of the chase and yell advice at the television. RWT and I were practically rolling on the floor while watching that episode because it is so true.
There is just something compelling about watching a live car chase on television. Initially, it is the curiosity of where it is occurring – I once watched a chase (involving a bus!) that went by the exit to my friend ADD’s house at least a half a dozen times. Then, it is figuring out the overall strategy of the chase – it’s surprising how often the pursued car will make great big circles around the Los Angeles area. But other times they are totally random in their route (lost?) and only very rarely do they attempt to run in a straight line up or down the coast (which almost invariably ends in either mechanical breakdown of the vehicle or simply running out of gas). And what will the police do? Will they use the spike strips? Or will the speeds drop enough for the PIT maneuver? Next comes my favorite part, just how much abuse will the car take before it stops – one guy drove a Ranger Rover over four spike strips (which only blew out the left front tire), then on the flat tire, then on the rim (which got smaller and smaller with each passing mile), then on the end of the axle and finally drove for a few miles scraping the undercarriage of the car on the road surface before grinding to a halt (what a great advertisement for Range Rover!). But once the car stops, I turn it off. I have no desire to witness the actual arrest (possibly due to seeing too much Rodney King incident footage).
I’ve been pondering why car chases are not seen (and I mean this literally, I’m sure just as many occur) as much on the East coast. Perhaps all the trees block good helicopter views or there are not enough long stretches of freeway. Or do we have too much restricted air-space around here for all the newscopters?
But just like putting “The” in front of freeway numbers (“The 101”, “The 405”, and so on), In-N-Out Burgers and ever-present smog, very few things say “southern California” to me like a televised car chase.
04 August 2005
Sleeping with a Piano
My adored nephew is coming to visit in a month and, in preparation for his visit, I am getting the piano tuned. Why? My nephew is a pianist. At one point, he’d planned on becoming a concert pianist, but has since decided that what he really wants is fame and fortune and there are much better ways to go about obtaining those. However, he is still quite passionate about his music and is looking forward to having the time and opportunity to play the piano while on vacation.
Unfortunately, my nephew normally does not get to play as much as he likes because his beloved baby grand did not move away from home with him and is still located at my sister’s house. The piano currently resides in their newly-built music room where it sits innocently, but before that…
First off, a couple of facts about the daily routine at my sister’s house… My sister does not run her A/C at night, but uses a whole-house fan for a couple of hours right before bedtime. The fan is located in the ceiling in hallway between all the bedrooms and with surprising force, sucks air up and out of the house (I suspect it could also suck their cat up and out of the house if she ventures too near while it is running) and draws the cooler night air in through the opened windows. Also, my sister does laundry every night until midnight or so.
But back to the piano. RWT and I were visiting one summer soon after my nephew received his piano. Since this was before the construction of the music room, the piano dominated my nephew’s bedroom. Pretty much all that fit in the room was the piano and the bed and that was the room where we would be sleeping. We’d tried my niece's bunk beds on our previous visit and just could not overcome the discomfort of the wooden slats lurking under the thin mattresses (not to mention the claustrophobia), so we opted for my nephew’s room with the piano looming over the bed.
Around 10:00 p.m., when RWT could not longer even feign semi-consciousness, we said we were heading to bed. My sister then turned on the whole-house fan and started to open windows to let in the cool air. As RWT was wrestling with the blind in my nephew’s room so he could get to the window to open it, my nephew came in a said “Oh, you can’t open the windows in here, the colder air will make my piano get out of tune.” Okay. We’ll just leave the door open and pray for a bit of air circulation.
At 10:15 p.m., we were in bed, the lights out (but still plenty of illumination from the hallway shining through the half-open door) and the whole-house fan sounding like a jet landing on top of us. BZZZZZZ. Time to change loads of laundry in the laundry room right across the hall. RWT then got up and shut (actually, "shut" is a bit too mild of a word) the door. Quieter. Darker. Hotter.
I finally fell asleep only to have vivid dreams that I was clinging for dear life to the edge of a mountain in a rain forest. It was then that I noticed the slant to the bed. When we first went to bed, I thought that RWT’s side seemed lower than mine, but figured he was just sinking into the mattress more since he weighs more. But no. There is a definite sideways tilt to the bed and I was on the uphill side. Every time I relaxed the muscles in my body, I would roll down into RWT. Not necessarily a problem (we can even sleep in a twin bed together, if necessary), but in the stuffy hotness preferred by the piano, it was torture. Warm, sleepy, sleepy, roll, hot, hot, sweaty! Eventually it occurred to me to wake up RWT and have him lay on the uphill side where his greater mass worked to even out the bed or, at least, kept him from rolling down it. Ah, sleep.
It was a great visit as always and the lack of sleep did not stop us from having a good time (and we took our airbed and slept in the family room the next time for an even better time). But, while I love my nephew and I love his piano playing, I still have a few issues with his piano. And I absolutely refuse to sleep with it again.
Unfortunately, my nephew normally does not get to play as much as he likes because his beloved baby grand did not move away from home with him and is still located at my sister’s house. The piano currently resides in their newly-built music room where it sits innocently, but before that…
First off, a couple of facts about the daily routine at my sister’s house… My sister does not run her A/C at night, but uses a whole-house fan for a couple of hours right before bedtime. The fan is located in the ceiling in hallway between all the bedrooms and with surprising force, sucks air up and out of the house (I suspect it could also suck their cat up and out of the house if she ventures too near while it is running) and draws the cooler night air in through the opened windows. Also, my sister does laundry every night until midnight or so.
But back to the piano. RWT and I were visiting one summer soon after my nephew received his piano. Since this was before the construction of the music room, the piano dominated my nephew’s bedroom. Pretty much all that fit in the room was the piano and the bed and that was the room where we would be sleeping. We’d tried my niece's bunk beds on our previous visit and just could not overcome the discomfort of the wooden slats lurking under the thin mattresses (not to mention the claustrophobia), so we opted for my nephew’s room with the piano looming over the bed.
Around 10:00 p.m., when RWT could not longer even feign semi-consciousness, we said we were heading to bed. My sister then turned on the whole-house fan and started to open windows to let in the cool air. As RWT was wrestling with the blind in my nephew’s room so he could get to the window to open it, my nephew came in a said “Oh, you can’t open the windows in here, the colder air will make my piano get out of tune.” Okay. We’ll just leave the door open and pray for a bit of air circulation.
At 10:15 p.m., we were in bed, the lights out (but still plenty of illumination from the hallway shining through the half-open door) and the whole-house fan sounding like a jet landing on top of us. BZZZZZZ. Time to change loads of laundry in the laundry room right across the hall. RWT then got up and shut (actually, "shut" is a bit too mild of a word) the door. Quieter. Darker. Hotter.
I finally fell asleep only to have vivid dreams that I was clinging for dear life to the edge of a mountain in a rain forest. It was then that I noticed the slant to the bed. When we first went to bed, I thought that RWT’s side seemed lower than mine, but figured he was just sinking into the mattress more since he weighs more. But no. There is a definite sideways tilt to the bed and I was on the uphill side. Every time I relaxed the muscles in my body, I would roll down into RWT. Not necessarily a problem (we can even sleep in a twin bed together, if necessary), but in the stuffy hotness preferred by the piano, it was torture. Warm, sleepy, sleepy, roll, hot, hot, sweaty! Eventually it occurred to me to wake up RWT and have him lay on the uphill side where his greater mass worked to even out the bed or, at least, kept him from rolling down it. Ah, sleep.
It was a great visit as always and the lack of sleep did not stop us from having a good time (and we took our airbed and slept in the family room the next time for an even better time). But, while I love my nephew and I love his piano playing, I still have a few issues with his piano. And I absolutely refuse to sleep with it again.
26 July 2005
Truly Awesome
[Between houseguests and the release of the latest Harry Potter book (which, in turn, triggered the rereading of the two previous Harry Potter books), real life and fantasy-book-life overtook blog-life. My apologies to those who’ve missed me!]
If you were to ask me what I though was the most incredible experience of my life, without pause, I would say that it was watching a space shuttle launch from less than two miles away.
When I worked for the Navy as a Paints & Coatings expert, I regularly traveled to Cape Canaveral AFB to observe some paint samples we had located there in racks near the ocean as part of a decades-long exposure experiment. The last time I went to rate the paint samples coincided with a shuttle launch and our Air Force hosts at Canaveral arranged a great viewing location for us to watch the event.
There is a little spit of land just across the water (on the Canaveral side) from the shuttle launch pad at Kennedy Space Center. Some hush-hush group is housed in a large glass-faced modern office building on that bit of land and access is only granted to those with special security clearance. Much to our surprise, our hosts kindly went out of their way to get our group the needed clearance (which explained why they suddenly needed so much background information on us four weeks prior to our trip) so we could observe the shuttle from that ideal location.
The morning of the launch, we had no problems getting through the security checkpoints in our host’s official government vehicle and we proceeded to the far side of the parking lot, the farthest from the imposing “secret” building and the closest to the water. One of my colleagues removed his camera from his bag to get some pictures of the shuttle in the launch structure, when a security guard appeared (seemingly) out of the nearby bushes. After a heated discussion regarding the use of a camera so close to a classified structure (which looked like every other glass-covered office building in the world – rectangular and shiny), it was agreed to that my co-worker would only take pictures facing away from the building (and the guard watched him the whole time we were there to guarantee that fact).
So after the nearly being carted off due to the camera issue, we settled in to wait for the launch. It was a bit odd because we could only hear the birds, the bugs and the lapping of the water against the shore, not any of the announcements that you hear when watching the launch on television. We had to keep an eye on our watches and the shuttle to know when the excitement was to begin. About 10 minutes before the scheduled launch time, I turned around and there were about 50 people standing behind us (which I assume were denizens of the office building, they were certainly sneaky).
Suddenly, someone said “there it goes” and everyone looked to the launch pad. Before I could hear the roar of the engines, I saw the bright orange flames and white smoke from around the base of the shuttle. Then the noise hit. “Loud” is not the right word… the sound was totally encompassing. I could actually feel the sound waves travel through my body as the shuttle gained altitude. That sensation somehow really made me feel I was part of the launch itself. And then, far too soon, the shuttle (and the noise) were gone. It was nothing more than a bright dot up in the sky.
Until that day, people leaving earth and going into space had always been a bit unreal to me. Intellectually, I knew that it happened, but it still always just seemed like another piece of Hollywood (actually Marin County) special effects. But personally witnessing the shuttle launch changed all of that, I could not help but know I was watching (and feeling) something incredible. Truly awesome.
If you were to ask me what I though was the most incredible experience of my life, without pause, I would say that it was watching a space shuttle launch from less than two miles away.
When I worked for the Navy as a Paints & Coatings expert, I regularly traveled to Cape Canaveral AFB to observe some paint samples we had located there in racks near the ocean as part of a decades-long exposure experiment. The last time I went to rate the paint samples coincided with a shuttle launch and our Air Force hosts at Canaveral arranged a great viewing location for us to watch the event.
There is a little spit of land just across the water (on the Canaveral side) from the shuttle launch pad at Kennedy Space Center. Some hush-hush group is housed in a large glass-faced modern office building on that bit of land and access is only granted to those with special security clearance. Much to our surprise, our hosts kindly went out of their way to get our group the needed clearance (which explained why they suddenly needed so much background information on us four weeks prior to our trip) so we could observe the shuttle from that ideal location.
The morning of the launch, we had no problems getting through the security checkpoints in our host’s official government vehicle and we proceeded to the far side of the parking lot, the farthest from the imposing “secret” building and the closest to the water. One of my colleagues removed his camera from his bag to get some pictures of the shuttle in the launch structure, when a security guard appeared (seemingly) out of the nearby bushes. After a heated discussion regarding the use of a camera so close to a classified structure (which looked like every other glass-covered office building in the world – rectangular and shiny), it was agreed to that my co-worker would only take pictures facing away from the building (and the guard watched him the whole time we were there to guarantee that fact).
So after the nearly being carted off due to the camera issue, we settled in to wait for the launch. It was a bit odd because we could only hear the birds, the bugs and the lapping of the water against the shore, not any of the announcements that you hear when watching the launch on television. We had to keep an eye on our watches and the shuttle to know when the excitement was to begin. About 10 minutes before the scheduled launch time, I turned around and there were about 50 people standing behind us (which I assume were denizens of the office building, they were certainly sneaky).
Suddenly, someone said “there it goes” and everyone looked to the launch pad. Before I could hear the roar of the engines, I saw the bright orange flames and white smoke from around the base of the shuttle. Then the noise hit. “Loud” is not the right word… the sound was totally encompassing. I could actually feel the sound waves travel through my body as the shuttle gained altitude. That sensation somehow really made me feel I was part of the launch itself. And then, far too soon, the shuttle (and the noise) were gone. It was nothing more than a bright dot up in the sky.
Until that day, people leaving earth and going into space had always been a bit unreal to me. Intellectually, I knew that it happened, but it still always just seemed like another piece of Hollywood (actually Marin County) special effects. But personally witnessing the shuttle launch changed all of that, I could not help but know I was watching (and feeling) something incredible. Truly awesome.
15 July 2005
The Birds!
Way back when, when I was a chemist in the QA lab at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard, I worked with lady named Hattie. Hattie was one of the two administrative assistants (but she was of an era that she preferred the term "secretary") in an office staffed with crazy chemists and a couple of slightly-less-insane metallurgists. But everyone there knew that all of our degrees and schooling did not change the fact that Hattie was the ranking person in the lab. She eclipsed us all in both age and number of years working at the shipyard, but her attitude was the real reason for her supremacy.
At that point in time, I often wondered why Hattie had not long since retired. She was a widow and, while not wealthy, was certainly financially secure. But I now realize that she really had a good deal going. Her only official responsibilities were to check in samples brought into the lab for testing and to answer the phone. The rest of her day was split between watching our antics (I’ll save those stories for another day), keeping Sally (the other administrative assistant who always wore pastel-colored, velour sweat suits that were the antithesis of her personality) in line and reading the Bible. With her civil service seniority, Hattie was probably getting paid more than I was as a chemist.
Every morning the sailors from the ships being repaired at the shipyard and those based at the adjacent Naval station, would bring in samples of fuel to be tested in the lab. For decades, Hattie checked in the samples using pen and paper, but “recently” the lab had switched to an all-computerized system (this change occured at least five years prior to my working there, but civil service years are the opposite of dog years with seven solar years being equal to one civil service year) . Hattie would sit down in front of her computer terminal, press some keys, hit "enter" just once and the whole system would crash. Every single time. Then my dear friend and co-worker, ADD, would have to reboot the lab’s server, while Hattie would disdainfully look at us and ask what we did this time to the database to break it.
Luckily, Hattie always fared better with the phone and intercom system. There were about twenty of us working there with only one main phone line into the lab. Of course, being a bunch of scientists we really were not that popular and did not get many calls, but the phone would still ring pretty much all day long. Hattie always answered the line and then, over the intercom, announced who needed to pick up the phone. The senior metallurgist, with the last name of DeVries, received the majority of the phone calls since he did most of the failure analysis for the shipyard. Typically, once an hour, I’d hear Hattie over the intercom announcing: “Devrie, Devrie, line one”. At this, ADD would always yell from his lair in the back lab: “Where is the S?” “What happened to the S?!?” (For you DR.com readers – perhaps this is the source of the S’s that keep appearing on the end of Chef Power’s name?) I never had the nerve to ask Hattie why she consistently mispronounced that name, but I wonder if Mr. DeVries or ADD had somehow incurred her wrath…
And Hattie was a person that you certainly did not want to cross. I found that out one slow afternoon when she started talking to me about her husband. She told me of the months and months of painful suffering her husband had endured before dying of stomach cancer. I opened my mouth to say that I was sorry they both had to go through that, but before I could get the words out, Hattie then added… “and he deserved every minute of that agony because God was punishing him for how he lived his life.” I just stood there with my mouth open, while Hattie nodded to me and walked back to read her Bible at her desk.
Only once did I see Hattie behave in a less than dignified manner. Early one morning, just as I had arrived for the day, I was met with the sight of Hattie running toward me, waving her arms above her head and yelling “the birds, the birds!” She flew right past me without pausing and slammed shut the door to the front office (until that point, I had not even realized there was a door to that office). With great trepidation, I ventured on in the direction of the origin of Hattie’s trajectory – the fuel QA lab. That door was also shut (and was the second door that morning that I was surprised to see actually existed). With Hitchcockian imagery flitting about my mind, I peered through the glass window into the lab and saw… a mourning dove.
On warm days, we’d open the windows in the fuel QA lab to let out some of the ever-present fumes and someone had forgotten to close the windows the evening before. Apparently a dove had ventured into the lab and, when Hattie went to deliver the day’s fuel samples, she startled it and the bird began to fly around. Luckily, our resident environmentalist chemist (a graduate of CSU Humboldt, no less) captured the hapless dove under a lab coat and released it back out the window. However, it took a bit longer to unruffle Hattie’s feathers that day.
But those shipyard days are a long time past for both Hattie and me. It has been fourteen years since I got married, followed my husband to his new duty station and left that job. I don’t know what ever happened to Hattie. She probably finally retired from civil service when the shipyard shut down almost ten years ago, but I suspect she held out for a hefty bonus resulting from her job being eliminated during the closure. And, although she would be easily into her 90’s by now, I like to picture Hattie still keeping order somewhere, making sure everyone is doing their job and imperious to the very end.
At that point in time, I often wondered why Hattie had not long since retired. She was a widow and, while not wealthy, was certainly financially secure. But I now realize that she really had a good deal going. Her only official responsibilities were to check in samples brought into the lab for testing and to answer the phone. The rest of her day was split between watching our antics (I’ll save those stories for another day), keeping Sally (the other administrative assistant who always wore pastel-colored, velour sweat suits that were the antithesis of her personality) in line and reading the Bible. With her civil service seniority, Hattie was probably getting paid more than I was as a chemist.
Every morning the sailors from the ships being repaired at the shipyard and those based at the adjacent Naval station, would bring in samples of fuel to be tested in the lab. For decades, Hattie checked in the samples using pen and paper, but “recently” the lab had switched to an all-computerized system (this change occured at least five years prior to my working there, but civil service years are the opposite of dog years with seven solar years being equal to one civil service year) . Hattie would sit down in front of her computer terminal, press some keys, hit "enter" just once and the whole system would crash. Every single time. Then my dear friend and co-worker, ADD, would have to reboot the lab’s server, while Hattie would disdainfully look at us and ask what we did this time to the database to break it.
Luckily, Hattie always fared better with the phone and intercom system. There were about twenty of us working there with only one main phone line into the lab. Of course, being a bunch of scientists we really were not that popular and did not get many calls, but the phone would still ring pretty much all day long. Hattie always answered the line and then, over the intercom, announced who needed to pick up the phone. The senior metallurgist, with the last name of DeVries, received the majority of the phone calls since he did most of the failure analysis for the shipyard. Typically, once an hour, I’d hear Hattie over the intercom announcing: “Devrie, Devrie, line one”. At this, ADD would always yell from his lair in the back lab: “Where is the S?” “What happened to the S?!?” (For you DR.com readers – perhaps this is the source of the S’s that keep appearing on the end of Chef Power’s name?) I never had the nerve to ask Hattie why she consistently mispronounced that name, but I wonder if Mr. DeVries or ADD had somehow incurred her wrath…
And Hattie was a person that you certainly did not want to cross. I found that out one slow afternoon when she started talking to me about her husband. She told me of the months and months of painful suffering her husband had endured before dying of stomach cancer. I opened my mouth to say that I was sorry they both had to go through that, but before I could get the words out, Hattie then added… “and he deserved every minute of that agony because God was punishing him for how he lived his life.” I just stood there with my mouth open, while Hattie nodded to me and walked back to read her Bible at her desk.
Only once did I see Hattie behave in a less than dignified manner. Early one morning, just as I had arrived for the day, I was met with the sight of Hattie running toward me, waving her arms above her head and yelling “the birds, the birds!” She flew right past me without pausing and slammed shut the door to the front office (until that point, I had not even realized there was a door to that office). With great trepidation, I ventured on in the direction of the origin of Hattie’s trajectory – the fuel QA lab. That door was also shut (and was the second door that morning that I was surprised to see actually existed). With Hitchcockian imagery flitting about my mind, I peered through the glass window into the lab and saw… a mourning dove.
On warm days, we’d open the windows in the fuel QA lab to let out some of the ever-present fumes and someone had forgotten to close the windows the evening before. Apparently a dove had ventured into the lab and, when Hattie went to deliver the day’s fuel samples, she startled it and the bird began to fly around. Luckily, our resident environmentalist chemist (a graduate of CSU Humboldt, no less) captured the hapless dove under a lab coat and released it back out the window. However, it took a bit longer to unruffle Hattie’s feathers that day.
But those shipyard days are a long time past for both Hattie and me. It has been fourteen years since I got married, followed my husband to his new duty station and left that job. I don’t know what ever happened to Hattie. She probably finally retired from civil service when the shipyard shut down almost ten years ago, but I suspect she held out for a hefty bonus resulting from her job being eliminated during the closure. And, although she would be easily into her 90’s by now, I like to picture Hattie still keeping order somewhere, making sure everyone is doing their job and imperious to the very end.
14 July 2005
Wining Whining
I must confess that I am woefully lacking when it comes to wine knowledge.
While I know the rudimentary facts, can tell a bad wine from a good wine from a great wine and can manage basic wine/food pairings, I certainly cannot blind-taste a wine and tell you the region, vintage or even the grape. I’ve read the very best wine books, gone to a few wine-tastings and always listen carefully to the opinions of oenophiles, but I just cannot seem to get motivated to really learn more.
So in my own defense here are the Top Ten Reasons why I’m so uneducated about wines…
10. Vanity. Pure and simple. After a night of drinking, I look my age. And don’t even get me started on the calories.
9. Laziness. When it comes to choosing wines, I typically default to the Blanche DuBois approach ("I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."). Sommeliers and wine merchants certainly know more than I ever will.
8. Procrastination (or the Scarlett O’Hara approach, since I am quoting female fictional characters). “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”
7. Lack of motivation. Our home wine rack is perpetually full without my buying a single bottle. We entertain enough and drink so little that wine brought as gifts by our guests keeps us very well stocked (until the in-laws come to visit).
6. Ditziness. I cannot memorize numbers to save my life. I frequently assume the “deer in headlights” pose when asked for my phone number or zip code. So that vintage… was it 1959? Or 1995? Or 1895? Or 2005… ???
5. Side effects. I am a lightweight on allergy meds. One glass of wine and I’m rather inert for the rest of the evening.
4. Uptightness. And when I hold off on the prescription meds, I am still a lightweight control-freak. I have much more fun when in command of all my faculties and do not need to worry about the appropriateness of the words coming out of my mouth.
3. Memory overload. My brain seems to have a finite amount of space and, if I cram in factoids about wine, it might crowd out vital sci-fi trivia.
2. Preference. After nearly a score of years of drinking pretty much only water, I’ve lost my taste for drinking anything flavored with food.
1. Likeability. I am tedious enough with my spontaneous spouting off of facts regarding food, plants, birding, baking, baseball, horses, science and so on. I am afraid that if I add wine information (with its considerable pretentiousness potential) to that list, I’ll no longer have any friends.
While I know the rudimentary facts, can tell a bad wine from a good wine from a great wine and can manage basic wine/food pairings, I certainly cannot blind-taste a wine and tell you the region, vintage or even the grape. I’ve read the very best wine books, gone to a few wine-tastings and always listen carefully to the opinions of oenophiles, but I just cannot seem to get motivated to really learn more.
So in my own defense here are the Top Ten Reasons why I’m so uneducated about wines…
10. Vanity. Pure and simple. After a night of drinking, I look my age. And don’t even get me started on the calories.
9. Laziness. When it comes to choosing wines, I typically default to the Blanche DuBois approach ("I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."). Sommeliers and wine merchants certainly know more than I ever will.
8. Procrastination (or the Scarlett O’Hara approach, since I am quoting female fictional characters). “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”
7. Lack of motivation. Our home wine rack is perpetually full without my buying a single bottle. We entertain enough and drink so little that wine brought as gifts by our guests keeps us very well stocked (until the in-laws come to visit).
6. Ditziness. I cannot memorize numbers to save my life. I frequently assume the “deer in headlights” pose when asked for my phone number or zip code. So that vintage… was it 1959? Or 1995? Or 1895? Or 2005… ???
5. Side effects. I am a lightweight on allergy meds. One glass of wine and I’m rather inert for the rest of the evening.
4. Uptightness. And when I hold off on the prescription meds, I am still a lightweight control-freak. I have much more fun when in command of all my faculties and do not need to worry about the appropriateness of the words coming out of my mouth.
3. Memory overload. My brain seems to have a finite amount of space and, if I cram in factoids about wine, it might crowd out vital sci-fi trivia.
2. Preference. After nearly a score of years of drinking pretty much only water, I’ve lost my taste for drinking anything flavored with food.
1. Likeability. I am tedious enough with my spontaneous spouting off of facts regarding food, plants, birding, baking, baseball, horses, science and so on. I am afraid that if I add wine information (with its considerable pretentiousness potential) to that list, I’ll no longer have any friends.
13 July 2005
Alright?
Last weekend RWT and I walked to a local chain restaurant/”brewery” (although I highly doubt they actually brew any beer there) for a late lunch. We’d had a generous breakfast, so RWT wanted just appetizer-snack-type food and we figured what would be better for bar-food than a bar? Well, it ended up being one of the most unremarkable dining experiences of my life, which, ironically, made it remarkable.
As we were looking at the menu, the waitress brought a basket of soft pretzels and a little container of some type of mustard mixture. Now I’ve eaten enough ballpark pretzels not to get too excited about such things, but these pretzels defied even my paltry expectations. To use words normally only uttered by RWT in describing plain couscous: “it sucks the flavor right out of your mouth”. No discernable taste. None. I had not realized that it was possible to make flour have such little flavor. Heck, eating a spoonful of dry flour would have been a more pleasurable. And the mustard mixture tasted of nothing other than Dijon mustard. Whatever they’d mixed it with to lighten both the texture and color was obviously the same flavorless substance used in the pretzels.
From that inauspicious (and portentous) beginning, we decided to go with some artichoke & spinach dip and then split a fish & chips plate (RWT was hungrier than he thought once we got there). When they brought the dip to the table, RWT asked me if he had imagined reading on the menu that it was supposed to contain spinach or was it artichoke-only dip. The bowl of dip contained all of a half dozen pieces of spinach total and the artichokes were not any better represented. Okay, maybe it will be really garlicy…
No. The dip was amazingly devoid of flavor with just a hint of hot sour cream taste. Now RWT considers sour cream the perfect food (he says it goes with everything), but even he thought this dip lacking. It was so pitiful that the flavor of the stale corn chips threatened to drown out the few sub-atomic particles of taste present in the dip. Then our waitress stopped by the table and asked: “Does the dip taste alright?”
Aack. I never know how to answer in circumstances such as this. And what is the waitress going to do if I say “No, it is totally bereft of spinach, artichokes and flavor”? Should I offer to go back in the kitchen and fix it? Give them a better recipe? So without a better course of action I said: “Yes, it is alright.” “Alright” as in: okay, admissible, average, fair, indifferent, mediocre, not bad, ordinary, passable, so-so, sufficient, tolerable, unexceptional, unobjectionable…
Next was the fish & chips. Well, the fish had flavor and plenty of it. Unfortunately, the taste was merely testament to the days-past-its-prime, over-cooked fish abuse. The accompanying chips must have been basking under a heat lamp since the early lunch rush and the side of coleslaw was in the same category as the (non) spinach & (non) artichoke dip – deficient of any flavor other than a vague impression of dairy (oh, my kingdom for some celery seeds).
Not surprisingly, we passed on dessert since we just wanted to get home as soon as possible to brush our teeth and get the fishy flavor out of our mouths. But I highly doubt we missed anything other than cholesterol and calories since I suspect dessert would have tasted exactly like the pretzels, or the dip, or the chips, or the slaw…
I have had worse meals, with horrible tasting food, and better meals, with epiphanies of flavors, but never a meal that was just so... alright.
[For the grammarians out there (especially the venerable ones): Yes, I realize that “alright” is not an accepted standard usage (“all right” is preferred). But since “already” and “altogether” are acceptable, I don’t see why “alright” is not alright. Hence my mini-crusade in its use.]
As we were looking at the menu, the waitress brought a basket of soft pretzels and a little container of some type of mustard mixture. Now I’ve eaten enough ballpark pretzels not to get too excited about such things, but these pretzels defied even my paltry expectations. To use words normally only uttered by RWT in describing plain couscous: “it sucks the flavor right out of your mouth”. No discernable taste. None. I had not realized that it was possible to make flour have such little flavor. Heck, eating a spoonful of dry flour would have been a more pleasurable. And the mustard mixture tasted of nothing other than Dijon mustard. Whatever they’d mixed it with to lighten both the texture and color was obviously the same flavorless substance used in the pretzels.
From that inauspicious (and portentous) beginning, we decided to go with some artichoke & spinach dip and then split a fish & chips plate (RWT was hungrier than he thought once we got there). When they brought the dip to the table, RWT asked me if he had imagined reading on the menu that it was supposed to contain spinach or was it artichoke-only dip. The bowl of dip contained all of a half dozen pieces of spinach total and the artichokes were not any better represented. Okay, maybe it will be really garlicy…
No. The dip was amazingly devoid of flavor with just a hint of hot sour cream taste. Now RWT considers sour cream the perfect food (he says it goes with everything), but even he thought this dip lacking. It was so pitiful that the flavor of the stale corn chips threatened to drown out the few sub-atomic particles of taste present in the dip. Then our waitress stopped by the table and asked: “Does the dip taste alright?”
Aack. I never know how to answer in circumstances such as this. And what is the waitress going to do if I say “No, it is totally bereft of spinach, artichokes and flavor”? Should I offer to go back in the kitchen and fix it? Give them a better recipe? So without a better course of action I said: “Yes, it is alright.” “Alright” as in: okay, admissible, average, fair, indifferent, mediocre, not bad, ordinary, passable, so-so, sufficient, tolerable, unexceptional, unobjectionable…
Next was the fish & chips. Well, the fish had flavor and plenty of it. Unfortunately, the taste was merely testament to the days-past-its-prime, over-cooked fish abuse. The accompanying chips must have been basking under a heat lamp since the early lunch rush and the side of coleslaw was in the same category as the (non) spinach & (non) artichoke dip – deficient of any flavor other than a vague impression of dairy (oh, my kingdom for some celery seeds).
Not surprisingly, we passed on dessert since we just wanted to get home as soon as possible to brush our teeth and get the fishy flavor out of our mouths. But I highly doubt we missed anything other than cholesterol and calories since I suspect dessert would have tasted exactly like the pretzels, or the dip, or the chips, or the slaw…
I have had worse meals, with horrible tasting food, and better meals, with epiphanies of flavors, but never a meal that was just so... alright.
[For the grammarians out there (especially the venerable ones): Yes, I realize that “alright” is not an accepted standard usage (“all right” is preferred). But since “already” and “altogether” are acceptable, I don’t see why “alright” is not alright. Hence my mini-crusade in its use.]
11 July 2005
The Few, The Proud
When we were stationed in the desert of southern California, I liked to tell people we resided at an exclusive, gated community with great security...
Our house at The Marine Air Ground Task Force Training Command was only a few years old and the nicest military quarters we’ve been assigned, but the very best thing about living on that base was getting to know our Marines Corps neighbors and their families.
As a whole (and, as with any generalization, there are always exceptions), Marines remarkably live up to their stereotypical image of being honest, no-nonsense, loyal, hard-working and dedicated. Exactly the kind of people you want on your side in most any situation. And whether or not you agree with what they are tasked with or where they are deployed, Marines do jobs that I (and most people I know) simply cannot even imagine undertaking.
Since RWT’s accident, we’ve been spending a good deal of time at a military hospital and are once again around a lot of Marines. However, this time is more heartbreaking. The majority of these Marines are at the hospital to be put back together after being injured in Iraq. And most of them are so very, very young.
But the Marines and their families are still as tough and strong as those we met in California. While sitting in the waiting room during RWT’s hand surgery, I spoke at length with a mother of a 22-year-old Marine who had lost a good deal of one leg due to an improvised explosive device. The Marine was in the tenth hour of his sixth surgery in the eight days since the explosion. The docs where doing everything they could to save his leg even though there is a 95% chance of infection that will result in the loss of his leg (at the very least). His mother’s view on the situation: “He is a smart boy who can do a lot regardless of his legs.” Then she told me how her son is determined to get better as soon as possible so he can return to his unit.
Now I imagine there are plenty of Marines who are hurt in Iraq and never, ever want to go back there. No one could ever fault them for feeling that way and it is certainly an easier sentiment to understand. But what is more puzzling to the average person are those Marines who do want to return. From how I understand it (and not being a Marine, I don’t think I can ever really know), they realize how much of a positive effect their actions can have on other people's lives and how what they do is important on a scale much larger than themselves. (And how many people can really say that about their job?)
Regardless of their views on returning to active duty, I hope that some of the young Marines we've seen at the hospital will eventually become leaders of our country. Their bravery and first-hand experiences with combat can provide them with a perspective on war that could be invaluable in determining our nation's role in future conflicts.
But mainly, I wish them all well no matter where they end up. And, as hokey as this sounds, I appreciate their sacrifice of their youth and health in the support of our country. These Marines have certainly earned the right to be proud and I pray the numbers of them that are permanently disabled and killed are few.
Our house at The Marine Air Ground Task Force Training Command was only a few years old and the nicest military quarters we’ve been assigned, but the very best thing about living on that base was getting to know our Marines Corps neighbors and their families.
As a whole (and, as with any generalization, there are always exceptions), Marines remarkably live up to their stereotypical image of being honest, no-nonsense, loyal, hard-working and dedicated. Exactly the kind of people you want on your side in most any situation. And whether or not you agree with what they are tasked with or where they are deployed, Marines do jobs that I (and most people I know) simply cannot even imagine undertaking.
Since RWT’s accident, we’ve been spending a good deal of time at a military hospital and are once again around a lot of Marines. However, this time is more heartbreaking. The majority of these Marines are at the hospital to be put back together after being injured in Iraq. And most of them are so very, very young.
But the Marines and their families are still as tough and strong as those we met in California. While sitting in the waiting room during RWT’s hand surgery, I spoke at length with a mother of a 22-year-old Marine who had lost a good deal of one leg due to an improvised explosive device. The Marine was in the tenth hour of his sixth surgery in the eight days since the explosion. The docs where doing everything they could to save his leg even though there is a 95% chance of infection that will result in the loss of his leg (at the very least). His mother’s view on the situation: “He is a smart boy who can do a lot regardless of his legs.” Then she told me how her son is determined to get better as soon as possible so he can return to his unit.
Now I imagine there are plenty of Marines who are hurt in Iraq and never, ever want to go back there. No one could ever fault them for feeling that way and it is certainly an easier sentiment to understand. But what is more puzzling to the average person are those Marines who do want to return. From how I understand it (and not being a Marine, I don’t think I can ever really know), they realize how much of a positive effect their actions can have on other people's lives and how what they do is important on a scale much larger than themselves. (And how many people can really say that about their job?)
Regardless of their views on returning to active duty, I hope that some of the young Marines we've seen at the hospital will eventually become leaders of our country. Their bravery and first-hand experiences with combat can provide them with a perspective on war that could be invaluable in determining our nation's role in future conflicts.
But mainly, I wish them all well no matter where they end up. And, as hokey as this sounds, I appreciate their sacrifice of their youth and health in the support of our country. These Marines have certainly earned the right to be proud and I pray the numbers of them that are permanently disabled and killed are few.
10 July 2005
Comments
After much thought, I have decided to no longer allow just anyone to comment on my blog.
In addition to clearing stuff out of my mind, this blog is mainly written for those who know me well enough to realize when I am joking or being sarcastic. And while it is sort of flattering that my blog can occasionally provoke responses from total strangers, I do not have the time or mental energy to clarify the meaning of my writings for them.
The best option would be to just ignore the negative comments, but, unfortunately, I am simply too thin-skinned for that. And it does not feel right to delete some comments (even if they are little more than personal attacks and name-calling) and not others. So disabling the comment function is the only solution I can see for the time being.
Those of you (and you know who you are) with comments (good or bad) that really matter to me, can always reach me via email (which most of you already do anyway). Everyone else will have to either read contentedly in silence or click on that little "Next Blog" button up in the right top corner of the screen and look for something more to their tastes.
Sorry to be such a wuss about this, but I have enough strife in my life without more being piled on by people I don't even know.
In addition to clearing stuff out of my mind, this blog is mainly written for those who know me well enough to realize when I am joking or being sarcastic. And while it is sort of flattering that my blog can occasionally provoke responses from total strangers, I do not have the time or mental energy to clarify the meaning of my writings for them.
The best option would be to just ignore the negative comments, but, unfortunately, I am simply too thin-skinned for that. And it does not feel right to delete some comments (even if they are little more than personal attacks and name-calling) and not others. So disabling the comment function is the only solution I can see for the time being.
Those of you (and you know who you are) with comments (good or bad) that really matter to me, can always reach me via email (which most of you already do anyway). Everyone else will have to either read contentedly in silence or click on that little "Next Blog" button up in the right top corner of the screen and look for something more to their tastes.
Sorry to be such a wuss about this, but I have enough strife in my life without more being piled on by people I don't even know.
09 July 2005
I Feel Dirty
The other night we watched the conclusion of Dancing with the Stars. I normally avoid reality TV as much as possible (I find enough unpleasantness in everyday life without actively seeking out more negativity), but I could not resist watching this show since it involved ballroom dancing. And I even allowed myself to hope for just a bit that it would actually be real…
After the first show where the ABC soap opera star got undeservedly low scores (her dancing was bad, but not any worse than some of the other dancers), I said to RWT that they were setting her up as the underdog and eventual winner. Well, I should have taken the time to wager something on that outcome.
The sixth and final show pitted her against John O’Hurley (best known for playing the character of J. Peterman on Seinfeld) and, by getting perfect scores for their last performance, the soap opera star won by just one point. Gee, what a shock. So close… who could have imagined…
Of course, there was also the requisite audience voting that was rather shrouded in mystery. But what could be more popular than a scantily clad (complete with a wardrobe malfunction), former playboy bunny who is currently playing a good/bad girl on the ever-popular soap General Hospital?
Maybe I should console myself with the fact that ABC recognizes the loyalty of soap opera followers and is willing to cater to them. And it was great exposure for ballroom dancing. However, the obvious manipulation of the outcome left quite the unpleasant aftertaste.
Will I watch the next season? Probably. Will I allow myself to think, if even for a second, that the most deserving person will win? Ha.
After the first show where the ABC soap opera star got undeservedly low scores (her dancing was bad, but not any worse than some of the other dancers), I said to RWT that they were setting her up as the underdog and eventual winner. Well, I should have taken the time to wager something on that outcome.
The sixth and final show pitted her against John O’Hurley (best known for playing the character of J. Peterman on Seinfeld) and, by getting perfect scores for their last performance, the soap opera star won by just one point. Gee, what a shock. So close… who could have imagined…
Of course, there was also the requisite audience voting that was rather shrouded in mystery. But what could be more popular than a scantily clad (complete with a wardrobe malfunction), former playboy bunny who is currently playing a good/bad girl on the ever-popular soap General Hospital?
Maybe I should console myself with the fact that ABC recognizes the loyalty of soap opera followers and is willing to cater to them. And it was great exposure for ballroom dancing. However, the obvious manipulation of the outcome left quite the unpleasant aftertaste.
Will I watch the next season? Probably. Will I allow myself to think, if even for a second, that the most deserving person will win? Ha.
05 July 2005
Random Questions
Why is setting the thermostat at 76 degrees too cold in the winter, but too warm in the summer?
Is it the humidity making my flour wetter the cause of all of my summer sourdough baking problems and it really has nothing to do with the ambient temperature?
Why do I feel guilty writing in my blog when RWT is at home? And why do I think I need to keep him company in front of the T.V. (and be bored out of my mind) if it does not matter to him if I am there or not?
Did Robert Rodat (and Steven Spielberg) intend for each of the characters in Saving Private Ryan to portray a virtue (or a failing)?
Private Caparzo (Vin Diesel) = Strength
Medic Wade (Giovanni Ribisi) = Compassion
Private Mellish (Adam Goldberg) = Vengeance
Private Jackson, the sniper (Barry Pepper) = Faith
Sergeant Horvath (Tom Sizemore) = Bravery
Capt. Miller (Tom Hanks) = Duty
Private Reiben (Edward Burns) = Logic & Intelligence
Corporal Upham, the translator (Jeremy Davies) = Fear
Private Ryan (Matt Damon) = Hope
And does that mean that to survive you need to be scared, smart and burdened with the expectations of others?
Why do I feel bad squishing fireflies that are in the house, but not other beetles?
Do other people find Sudoku as incredibly addicting?
Is drinking guava juice daily really making my 76-year-old aunt’s hair turn from grey to blond? And is my cousin just being spiteful in refusing to see the change?
Will RWT get a new splint on Thursday that will allow him to tie his own shoes & tie and cut the bread for his sandwiches so he does not have to depend on me to get up at 0615 to assist him?
What should I have for lunch?
Is it the humidity making my flour wetter the cause of all of my summer sourdough baking problems and it really has nothing to do with the ambient temperature?
Why do I feel guilty writing in my blog when RWT is at home? And why do I think I need to keep him company in front of the T.V. (and be bored out of my mind) if it does not matter to him if I am there or not?
Did Robert Rodat (and Steven Spielberg) intend for each of the characters in Saving Private Ryan to portray a virtue (or a failing)?
Private Caparzo (Vin Diesel) = Strength
Medic Wade (Giovanni Ribisi) = Compassion
Private Mellish (Adam Goldberg) = Vengeance
Private Jackson, the sniper (Barry Pepper) = Faith
Sergeant Horvath (Tom Sizemore) = Bravery
Capt. Miller (Tom Hanks) = Duty
Private Reiben (Edward Burns) = Logic & Intelligence
Corporal Upham, the translator (Jeremy Davies) = Fear
Private Ryan (Matt Damon) = Hope
And does that mean that to survive you need to be scared, smart and burdened with the expectations of others?
Why do I feel bad squishing fireflies that are in the house, but not other beetles?
Do other people find Sudoku as incredibly addicting?
Is drinking guava juice daily really making my 76-year-old aunt’s hair turn from grey to blond? And is my cousin just being spiteful in refusing to see the change?
Will RWT get a new splint on Thursday that will allow him to tie his own shoes & tie and cut the bread for his sandwiches so he does not have to depend on me to get up at 0615 to assist him?
What should I have for lunch?
04 July 2005
Independence Day...
... is occuring on the 5th this year in our house. RWT will go back to work after five days of being stuck in the house recovering from his hand surgery and I can get back to my regular routine. Definitely cause for celebration for both of us!!!
02 July 2005
Seven
RWT’s hand surgery last Wednesday went very well, but our day ended up being much longer than expected. We arrived at the Ambulatory Procedure Unit (APU) at the requested time of 11:30 a.m. and his surgery was scheduled for 1:30. At 1:10, they came in to tell us that his surgery would be delayed for two hours. Okay. More waiting. It turns out the operating rooms were very busy that day with numerous procedures taking hours longer than anticipated and multiple emergency surgeries.
We considered ourselves lucky that RWT had the surgery at all on Wednesday and the only reason he was fit in was because of the obstinate insistence by his doctor. His surgery finally got started at ~6:20 p.m. and finished at 9:45. At that point there was a question if RWT would be able to go home that night or not. I’d already made arrangements for friends to come by to feed the dog her dinner and let her outside for a bit, but there was no way she could wait until morning. Also, RWT really wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. Unfortunately, he was still a little too drugged up to figure out what he needed to do to get released…
In the post-op recovery room the nurse asked him what his pain level was on a scale of 1 to 10. His reply: “Seven, seven to eight”. Okay. That was expected. He eventually came out of the sedative enough that they were able to send him back to the APU where the nurse there inquired as to RWT’s pain level and his reply: “Seven.” Once again, not a surprise since he still had not taken any additional pain meds. So after finally ingesting some ginger ale and soda crackers, RWT took some medication to relieve the pan about 12:45 a.m.. While waiting for that to kick in, I went about running around the deserted hospital getting leave papers stamped and picking up his prescriptions.
Upon my return to the APU, RWT tells me that his hand is feeling much better and the meds have really started to help. About 1:45 a.m., with everything set for RWT’s departure, the APU nurse asks the last criteria that needs to be met for his release – what is your pain level? “Seven.” Aaack!!! I’m sure I had a totally peeved expression on my face and even the nurse looked surprised. Well, without any decrease in his pain (upon further questioning RWT said it was more of a 6/7 than the previous 7/8, but that was not good enough), he would have to spend the night.
After joking with RWT that he should have lied about his pain level (apparently some readers were confused by my original post and thought I was actually serious about wanting him to lie), I went home to take care of the dog, lie down for 45 minutes, change my clothes, wash my face and then drive the 30 minute return trip to the hospital. I arrived back at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. (where the first thing the APU said to me was “he really should have gone home last night”), the on-call doctor saw RWT at 5:50, we were out of there by 6:30 and home at 7:00. On the drive home, RWT said he had decided that they did not let him leave earlier because of how he answered the pain level question. Hmmm, really?
The moral of the story: If someone asks you your pain level and you really want to go home, say something less than “five” and under no account answer “seven”.
We considered ourselves lucky that RWT had the surgery at all on Wednesday and the only reason he was fit in was because of the obstinate insistence by his doctor. His surgery finally got started at ~6:20 p.m. and finished at 9:45. At that point there was a question if RWT would be able to go home that night or not. I’d already made arrangements for friends to come by to feed the dog her dinner and let her outside for a bit, but there was no way she could wait until morning. Also, RWT really wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. Unfortunately, he was still a little too drugged up to figure out what he needed to do to get released…
In the post-op recovery room the nurse asked him what his pain level was on a scale of 1 to 10. His reply: “Seven, seven to eight”. Okay. That was expected. He eventually came out of the sedative enough that they were able to send him back to the APU where the nurse there inquired as to RWT’s pain level and his reply: “Seven.” Once again, not a surprise since he still had not taken any additional pain meds. So after finally ingesting some ginger ale and soda crackers, RWT took some medication to relieve the pan about 12:45 a.m.. While waiting for that to kick in, I went about running around the deserted hospital getting leave papers stamped and picking up his prescriptions.
Upon my return to the APU, RWT tells me that his hand is feeling much better and the meds have really started to help. About 1:45 a.m., with everything set for RWT’s departure, the APU nurse asks the last criteria that needs to be met for his release – what is your pain level? “Seven.” Aaack!!! I’m sure I had a totally peeved expression on my face and even the nurse looked surprised. Well, without any decrease in his pain (upon further questioning RWT said it was more of a 6/7 than the previous 7/8, but that was not good enough), he would have to spend the night.
After joking with RWT that he should have lied about his pain level (apparently some readers were confused by my original post and thought I was actually serious about wanting him to lie), I went home to take care of the dog, lie down for 45 minutes, change my clothes, wash my face and then drive the 30 minute return trip to the hospital. I arrived back at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. (where the first thing the APU said to me was “he really should have gone home last night”), the on-call doctor saw RWT at 5:50, we were out of there by 6:30 and home at 7:00. On the drive home, RWT said he had decided that they did not let him leave earlier because of how he answered the pain level question. Hmmm, really?
The moral of the story: If someone asks you your pain level and you really want to go home, say something less than “five” and under no account answer “seven”.
30 June 2005
Scrumpets, Butches & Kill-Blocks
RWT is somewhat famous for his made-up words and terms. Some are said purposely, others are inadvertent. One of his most notable: Butches. You know, those vanilla cookies with a cinnamon-sugar coating that are more commonly called Snickerdoodles. They just happen to be RWT’s favorite cookies, but he absolutely refuses to say such a silly word as “Snickerdoodles”. Hence, the term “Butches” was born. And it has become widespread among our family, even though upon hearing it, my niece immediately questioned her uncle’s authority to unilaterally change the name of cookies.
When my aunt visited a few years ago, she made us munker which are regional Norwegian spherical pancakes (similar to Swedish aebleskiver) that she learned to cook from her mother-in-law. Well, RWT didn’t like that name either, so Scrumpets was born, which is a combination of scrumptious and crumpets (not that he’s eaten a crumpet in his life).
Galoop is another RWT-ism. “Don’t be such a big galoop”. He says it just sounds more appropriate than “galoot”. The same goes for Swarmy (aka smarmy).
Not satisfied with the ones out of his own brain, RWT also collects malapropisms. The best two he heard within mere months of each other when we where stationed in Twentynine Palms. He was at a meeting discussing the landscaping options for around the various buildings on the base and someone brought up xeriscaping (using drought-resistant plants and alternate materials to cut down on water usage). But they did not say it as such… the person said “Zero-scaping”. RWT asked “zero?” and the reply was “Yes, it uses almost zero water”. Perhaps it was all Greek to them.
We laugh about the other term from Twentynine Palms quite frequently because it is such a part of life on military bases and around this area. It has to do with the barriers utilized as anti-terrorist protection to prevent car-bombings of buildings, gates and other valuable assets. Unlike the Air Force that can afford the attractive faux-brick-faced concrete barriers or the huge, decorative planters seen around the White House and Capitol, most Navy bases make do with old blocks of concrete that were initially used to keep ships upright while they are in dry dock. The blocks are large & heavy and have a handy-dandy loop built in to the top to facilitate moving them with a crane (but why the Navy seems to have an inexhaustible supply of them is a mystery). What they should be called are “keel-blocks” since they are put under a ship’s keel (the spine along the bottom). What the Marines called them… Kill-Blocks. Obviously, it is all a matter of one’s perspective.
My favorite RWT-ism of all is Invalint. Where he came up with this one is beyond me, but it has become very appropriate since the table saw accident because, for the time being, RWT is an invalint (although others are more apt to say “invalid”). But what makes this one even better is that RWT's injured hand had been in a permanent splint wrapped in beige cotton gauze (and it bears a striking resemblance to Sheri Lewis’ puppet Lambchop). Well, that cotton gauze tends to leave fuzz all over everything. And (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) we decided the best term for that fuzz… yes, invalint.
When my aunt visited a few years ago, she made us munker which are regional Norwegian spherical pancakes (similar to Swedish aebleskiver) that she learned to cook from her mother-in-law. Well, RWT didn’t like that name either, so Scrumpets was born, which is a combination of scrumptious and crumpets (not that he’s eaten a crumpet in his life).
Galoop is another RWT-ism. “Don’t be such a big galoop”. He says it just sounds more appropriate than “galoot”. The same goes for Swarmy (aka smarmy).
Not satisfied with the ones out of his own brain, RWT also collects malapropisms. The best two he heard within mere months of each other when we where stationed in Twentynine Palms. He was at a meeting discussing the landscaping options for around the various buildings on the base and someone brought up xeriscaping (using drought-resistant plants and alternate materials to cut down on water usage). But they did not say it as such… the person said “Zero-scaping”. RWT asked “zero?” and the reply was “Yes, it uses almost zero water”. Perhaps it was all Greek to them.
We laugh about the other term from Twentynine Palms quite frequently because it is such a part of life on military bases and around this area. It has to do with the barriers utilized as anti-terrorist protection to prevent car-bombings of buildings, gates and other valuable assets. Unlike the Air Force that can afford the attractive faux-brick-faced concrete barriers or the huge, decorative planters seen around the White House and Capitol, most Navy bases make do with old blocks of concrete that were initially used to keep ships upright while they are in dry dock. The blocks are large & heavy and have a handy-dandy loop built in to the top to facilitate moving them with a crane (but why the Navy seems to have an inexhaustible supply of them is a mystery). What they should be called are “keel-blocks” since they are put under a ship’s keel (the spine along the bottom). What the Marines called them… Kill-Blocks. Obviously, it is all a matter of one’s perspective.
My favorite RWT-ism of all is Invalint. Where he came up with this one is beyond me, but it has become very appropriate since the table saw accident because, for the time being, RWT is an invalint (although others are more apt to say “invalid”). But what makes this one even better is that RWT's injured hand had been in a permanent splint wrapped in beige cotton gauze (and it bears a striking resemblance to Sheri Lewis’ puppet Lambchop). Well, that cotton gauze tends to leave fuzz all over everything. And (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) we decided the best term for that fuzz… yes, invalint.
28 June 2005
Perspective vs. Provincialism
A poster on my favorite food forum recently got into a debate with a local food critic for his review stating that a couple of local Mexican food places have tacos that “were as good as it gets”. The native southern-California poster argued that while the food she’d had at one of those restaurants was good and certainly better than most Mexican food available around in this area, it was pretty mediocre when compared to the Mexican food she grew up eating in Los Angeles. The exchange then quickly morphed into a discussion on what scale of comparison should be applied in cases such as this.
First off, let me say that I tend to side with the poster on the food forum. I don’t think a critic does anyone any favors by heaping unqualified high praise on a restaurant because it is the best representation of that type of food that can be obtained locally. I would much prefer to see something along the lines of “_________ has the best _______ that can be found within driving distance” or “While not as good as you’ll find in (insert place of food origin here), the __________ at _________ illustrates the potential of this dish.”
Also, when someone has tasted a great version of something, it is very difficult not to compare it to every other take on that dish they eat subsequently. The best salmon I’ve ever had was caught just a couple of hours previous to my eating it and is how salmon should taste to my palate. So whenever I eat salmon, I automatically think back to that meal and use it as a benchmark.
However, in comparing the food of one locality to another, the possibility of rosy memories or loyalty to a home country/state/town coloring one’s judgment cannot be ignored. The whole dining experience… the setting, the dining companions, the occasion… can add to the perceived taste of a particular meal, especially in one’s memory and, even more so, over time. Or having a strong geographical bias such as those expressed in conversations I often had while going to school in Texas:
Texan: “I would never want to live anyplace other than Texas because it is the best.”
Me: “Oh, where else have you lived?”
Texan: “Nowhere else!”
Me: “Then how do you really know Texas is the best?”
Texan: “I just do. How can it not be the best?”
(At this point, I would hurriedly change the subject before start of the second half of this conversation which would inevitably be the “Texas should be a country, not just a state” argument.)
On the other hand, the majority of Mexican food served in restaurants around here is pretty dismal and any bright spots definitely deserve to be noted. I applaud the critic for “discovering” a place to obtain real Mexican food and his encouragement of others to go check it out. Since there is no place to get great Mexican food, I am more than happy with adequate and appreciate not having to waste my time trying out the bad Mexican restaurants that abound.
But the problem I see with the critic's more regional approach is that he risks doing two things… giving people with no previous experience of that type of food an inaccurate impression of what it tastes like at its best (and if they never eat better, they’ll never know). Or, disappointing the folks (such as the poster) who are familiar with that type of food and have their hopes dashed once they taste the food. Unfortunately, I think both issues weaken the critic’s authority.
So while I feel it is the duty of a restaurant critic to encourage the readership to explore and try new things, it is also important to educate and give as complete of a picture as possible. Of course, the bottom line is that taste really is subjective and previous experiences cannot be ignored whether they are representative of reality or not. And a critic's opinion is merely that -- an opinion. It is a place to start, but whether something tastes bad, good or great (and the myriad of other judgments in between) is a decision that is up to each individual.
(And to throw a wrench into the works… RWT’s response to this topic: “Geez, it's just tacos.”)
First off, let me say that I tend to side with the poster on the food forum. I don’t think a critic does anyone any favors by heaping unqualified high praise on a restaurant because it is the best representation of that type of food that can be obtained locally. I would much prefer to see something along the lines of “_________ has the best _______ that can be found within driving distance” or “While not as good as you’ll find in (insert place of food origin here), the __________ at _________ illustrates the potential of this dish.”
Also, when someone has tasted a great version of something, it is very difficult not to compare it to every other take on that dish they eat subsequently. The best salmon I’ve ever had was caught just a couple of hours previous to my eating it and is how salmon should taste to my palate. So whenever I eat salmon, I automatically think back to that meal and use it as a benchmark.
However, in comparing the food of one locality to another, the possibility of rosy memories or loyalty to a home country/state/town coloring one’s judgment cannot be ignored. The whole dining experience… the setting, the dining companions, the occasion… can add to the perceived taste of a particular meal, especially in one’s memory and, even more so, over time. Or having a strong geographical bias such as those expressed in conversations I often had while going to school in Texas:
Texan: “I would never want to live anyplace other than Texas because it is the best.”
Me: “Oh, where else have you lived?”
Texan: “Nowhere else!”
Me: “Then how do you really know Texas is the best?”
Texan: “I just do. How can it not be the best?”
(At this point, I would hurriedly change the subject before start of the second half of this conversation which would inevitably be the “Texas should be a country, not just a state” argument.)
On the other hand, the majority of Mexican food served in restaurants around here is pretty dismal and any bright spots definitely deserve to be noted. I applaud the critic for “discovering” a place to obtain real Mexican food and his encouragement of others to go check it out. Since there is no place to get great Mexican food, I am more than happy with adequate and appreciate not having to waste my time trying out the bad Mexican restaurants that abound.
But the problem I see with the critic's more regional approach is that he risks doing two things… giving people with no previous experience of that type of food an inaccurate impression of what it tastes like at its best (and if they never eat better, they’ll never know). Or, disappointing the folks (such as the poster) who are familiar with that type of food and have their hopes dashed once they taste the food. Unfortunately, I think both issues weaken the critic’s authority.
So while I feel it is the duty of a restaurant critic to encourage the readership to explore and try new things, it is also important to educate and give as complete of a picture as possible. Of course, the bottom line is that taste really is subjective and previous experiences cannot be ignored whether they are representative of reality or not. And a critic's opinion is merely that -- an opinion. It is a place to start, but whether something tastes bad, good or great (and the myriad of other judgments in between) is a decision that is up to each individual.
(And to throw a wrench into the works… RWT’s response to this topic: “Geez, it's just tacos.”)
26 June 2005
It’s Not Just Me
RWT likes to act like I am the only Type-A person in our household. And I freely admit that I can certainly be anal and rather exacting about many things.
Like my "rules" for loading the dishwasher – any loose tupperware-type containers must be weighed down with a bowl so they don’t flip during the wash cycle and fill with water and the lids must be placed parallel to the front of the dishwasher, not along the sides of the rack where only drinking glasses are allowed.
Or how I go ballistic if anyone reads my magazines before I do (I suspect this one is directly related to being the youngest of three sisters and having to share magazines while growing up) and I also need to rip out all the smelly perfume ads and any other heavier-stock tear-outs and pages before I begin reading.
At least I do not alphabetize my pantry contents like my sister or go nutso over water spots in the sink like my dad. And at the age of three, my niece would ride her tricycle around their neighborhood on recycling day, straightening all of the recycling bins so they were in line with the sidewalk. Yes, it certainly runs in the family.
However, as much as RWT likes to think he is as chaotic as his family, it is simply not true. This weekend, we spent a good deal of time determining which of his suits go with which ties and which shirts. Wearing civilian clothes to work is still rather novel for him and he does not want to look like all the other military folk who can be pegged in an instant by their poor fashion taste.
But merely determining what goes together is not where it ended. After the various combinations were recorded, the data was then transferred into a spreadsheet. And he plans on analyzing the distribution to see if any of the suits need more ties to match. He is also toying with the idea of a program to randomly generate acceptable outfits and of course, it must take into account that each suit, the colored shirts, and a general color of tie cannot be worn more than once a week or, at the very least, on subsequent days.
And this is not the first time I’ve witnessed this type of behavior out of him. When we lived in Indian Head and had a vegetable garden, RWT requested that I weigh all of the produce I harvested. He took those numbers, some pricing he researched at the local grocery store and all of the costs to set up the garden and, yes, put them all into a spreadsheet and performed cost analysis on the gardening endeavor (the basil was the big “cash” crop).
So although RWT acts like Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky Guy, deep, deep down he is actually Mr. Let’s-Analyze-This Man. Don’t let him fool you into thinking differently!
Like my "rules" for loading the dishwasher – any loose tupperware-type containers must be weighed down with a bowl so they don’t flip during the wash cycle and fill with water and the lids must be placed parallel to the front of the dishwasher, not along the sides of the rack where only drinking glasses are allowed.
Or how I go ballistic if anyone reads my magazines before I do (I suspect this one is directly related to being the youngest of three sisters and having to share magazines while growing up) and I also need to rip out all the smelly perfume ads and any other heavier-stock tear-outs and pages before I begin reading.
At least I do not alphabetize my pantry contents like my sister or go nutso over water spots in the sink like my dad. And at the age of three, my niece would ride her tricycle around their neighborhood on recycling day, straightening all of the recycling bins so they were in line with the sidewalk. Yes, it certainly runs in the family.
However, as much as RWT likes to think he is as chaotic as his family, it is simply not true. This weekend, we spent a good deal of time determining which of his suits go with which ties and which shirts. Wearing civilian clothes to work is still rather novel for him and he does not want to look like all the other military folk who can be pegged in an instant by their poor fashion taste.
But merely determining what goes together is not where it ended. After the various combinations were recorded, the data was then transferred into a spreadsheet. And he plans on analyzing the distribution to see if any of the suits need more ties to match. He is also toying with the idea of a program to randomly generate acceptable outfits and of course, it must take into account that each suit, the colored shirts, and a general color of tie cannot be worn more than once a week or, at the very least, on subsequent days.
And this is not the first time I’ve witnessed this type of behavior out of him. When we lived in Indian Head and had a vegetable garden, RWT requested that I weigh all of the produce I harvested. He took those numbers, some pricing he researched at the local grocery store and all of the costs to set up the garden and, yes, put them all into a spreadsheet and performed cost analysis on the gardening endeavor (the basil was the big “cash” crop).
So although RWT acts like Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky Guy, deep, deep down he is actually Mr. Let’s-Analyze-This Man. Don’t let him fool you into thinking differently!
25 June 2005
"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?"
... my favorite line from Billy Crystal in the movie Analyze This when his psychiatrist character is confronted by a couple of federal agents from the Organized Crime Division who flip open their badges and say “OCD”.
Unfortunately, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is rarely that funny for those who suffer from it. And while I am lucky that I do not have OCD, the path leading there is very clear in my mind and one I make a conscious effort not go traipsing down.
But I still obsess plenty. And RWT’s accident has really pushed me pretty far into that realm. Instead of sleeping at night, I lay awake and picture the immediate aftermath of when he cut himself on the table saw last Saturday (but I will spare you all the gory details). And this evening, when going to the grocery store that is also the same way we took to get to the hospital emergency room, I even got a bit rattled.
Silly, yes. Unprecedented, no. After one of our more harrowing hikes in Joshua Tree National Park (when we nearly fell to unspeakable doom not once, but twice), I woke up in the middle of the night for weeks reliving that experience. However, I also know that it faded with time and so will this incident.
In the meantime, I fear that my writing here in this blog will suffer for a bit. My mental state tends to oscillate between obsessive worrying about RWT’s fingers and sleep-deprivation-induced blankness (often aided by playing far too much Spider Solitaire on the computer). I hope that after RWT’s surgery on Wednesday I’ll regain full brain function. Until then, please forgive me for lack of wit and creativity.
Unfortunately, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is rarely that funny for those who suffer from it. And while I am lucky that I do not have OCD, the path leading there is very clear in my mind and one I make a conscious effort not go traipsing down.
But I still obsess plenty. And RWT’s accident has really pushed me pretty far into that realm. Instead of sleeping at night, I lay awake and picture the immediate aftermath of when he cut himself on the table saw last Saturday (but I will spare you all the gory details). And this evening, when going to the grocery store that is also the same way we took to get to the hospital emergency room, I even got a bit rattled.
Silly, yes. Unprecedented, no. After one of our more harrowing hikes in Joshua Tree National Park (when we nearly fell to unspeakable doom not once, but twice), I woke up in the middle of the night for weeks reliving that experience. However, I also know that it faded with time and so will this incident.
In the meantime, I fear that my writing here in this blog will suffer for a bit. My mental state tends to oscillate between obsessive worrying about RWT’s fingers and sleep-deprivation-induced blankness (often aided by playing far too much Spider Solitaire on the computer). I hope that after RWT’s surgery on Wednesday I’ll regain full brain function. Until then, please forgive me for lack of wit and creativity.
23 June 2005
But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part III
[Wrapping it up with all the unwrapping... the conclusion of the tale of our April 2001 move from Maryland to California.]
Since the household goods arrived, most of my time has been spent unpacking boxes. These days, I often find myself wondering if the packers purposely write cryptic and misleading descriptions of the box contents. For example… six dish packs (large 18"x18"x28" boxes), all marked “Kit Glasses”. Now, I do own a lot of glasses, but not that many.
It took me two and a half days to find my large Tupperware containers full of flour. Were they in any of the three boxes marked “Tupperware”? No. Apparently, in packer lingo, that designation belongs to anything in the general vicinity of the kitchen that is made of unbreakable material. I finally found the flour in one of the “Kit Glasses” boxes, in addition to the body of my KitchenAid mixer and not a single piece of glass…
In unpacking the spices (which were not in the box marked “Spices” of course), I noticed a couple of the bottles were missing the labels. These are little round labels glued to the tops of the bottles so the spices can be easily identified in the spice rack. But the labels were nowhere to be found, not in the paper, not in the box, and I don’t recall seeing them in Indian Head… Hmmm, perhaps one of the packers knows someone named Ginger (they are nice looking labels)… but wait, that does not explain the nutmeg label.
The best box inscription of all goes to the living room box marked “Intendo”. What does that make the next generation machines? “Super Intendo”? “Intendo 64”? Anyone want to come over and play some Intendo? A game of Etris, perhaps?
In the midst of my first day of unpacking frenzy, I got a call from gung-ho Matt from “Moving Company A” about scheduling the delivery of our household goods… “What? They delivered yesterday?” Ooops. I guess Thomas never told them.
I am happy to say the house is finally starting to look like more than a mini-storage unit. It is very nice, very new and much bigger than our old house. Lots of kitchen counter space and the counters are off-white, just the color of unbleached flour – very convenient. And I can hardly wait for the luxury of hanging pictures on flat walls rather than our Dali-esque walls in the Indian Head house.
The weather has been quite variable since we've been here with highs ranging from 50 to 95. However, the one thing that is reliable is the wind. It tends to be calm in the mornings, but then really picks up in the afternoons and evening. At night, the howling wind is reminiscent of that Star Trek: Original Series episode where Harvey Mudd is supplying women to the lonely men on the harsh mining planet. Too bad there is no water for sailing the boat in all this wind.
Although I had heard reports to the contrary (that Navy/Marine Corps rivalry thing), all the neighbors are really nice. We’ve been inundated with welcome gifts of food (mainly sweets) and have been eating them for breakfast. The lady who lives directly behind us, informed me that she made us some chocolate chip cookies, but then ate them all in a fit of depression. I am beginning to see why they call it 29 Pounds instead of 29 Palms.
And I imagine that I’ve really impressed the neighbors with my ability to summon the Fire Department within the first week of arrival. As soon as I finally located the elusive flour, my mixer and some bread pans, I got busy making bread (RWT was actually tiring of cookies for breakfast). I turned on the oven and soon smelled a bit of gas. Not a lot, but the smell of incomplete combustion that happens when the burner needs to be cleaned. So I called RWT, who called housing to let them know the oven needed servicing. A mistake. I then received a phone call from housing telling me not to be alarmed when I heard the sirens. Great. Any mere hint of a gas leak and they are required to call the Fire Department.
The firemen arrived with all the predicted fanfare in full suits with respirators and electronic gas detectors. After determining there were not dangerous levels of gas in the house (my calmly standing there observing them should have been the first clue), they took off their respirators… sniff, sniff… what is that smell? It smells like… bread?!? Yes, I had put the bread in the oven while I was waiting for them to arrive. I suspect they were thinking: "crazy Navy wife."
So here we are, a bit embarrassed but safe and sound with the majority of our possessions intact and unpacked. Gee, I can hardly wait until the next move.
Since the household goods arrived, most of my time has been spent unpacking boxes. These days, I often find myself wondering if the packers purposely write cryptic and misleading descriptions of the box contents. For example… six dish packs (large 18"x18"x28" boxes), all marked “Kit Glasses”. Now, I do own a lot of glasses, but not that many.
It took me two and a half days to find my large Tupperware containers full of flour. Were they in any of the three boxes marked “Tupperware”? No. Apparently, in packer lingo, that designation belongs to anything in the general vicinity of the kitchen that is made of unbreakable material. I finally found the flour in one of the “Kit Glasses” boxes, in addition to the body of my KitchenAid mixer and not a single piece of glass…
In unpacking the spices (which were not in the box marked “Spices” of course), I noticed a couple of the bottles were missing the labels. These are little round labels glued to the tops of the bottles so the spices can be easily identified in the spice rack. But the labels were nowhere to be found, not in the paper, not in the box, and I don’t recall seeing them in Indian Head… Hmmm, perhaps one of the packers knows someone named Ginger (they are nice looking labels)… but wait, that does not explain the nutmeg label.
The best box inscription of all goes to the living room box marked “Intendo”. What does that make the next generation machines? “Super Intendo”? “Intendo 64”? Anyone want to come over and play some Intendo? A game of Etris, perhaps?
In the midst of my first day of unpacking frenzy, I got a call from gung-ho Matt from “Moving Company A” about scheduling the delivery of our household goods… “What? They delivered yesterday?” Ooops. I guess Thomas never told them.
I am happy to say the house is finally starting to look like more than a mini-storage unit. It is very nice, very new and much bigger than our old house. Lots of kitchen counter space and the counters are off-white, just the color of unbleached flour – very convenient. And I can hardly wait for the luxury of hanging pictures on flat walls rather than our Dali-esque walls in the Indian Head house.
The weather has been quite variable since we've been here with highs ranging from 50 to 95. However, the one thing that is reliable is the wind. It tends to be calm in the mornings, but then really picks up in the afternoons and evening. At night, the howling wind is reminiscent of that Star Trek: Original Series episode where Harvey Mudd is supplying women to the lonely men on the harsh mining planet. Too bad there is no water for sailing the boat in all this wind.
Although I had heard reports to the contrary (that Navy/Marine Corps rivalry thing), all the neighbors are really nice. We’ve been inundated with welcome gifts of food (mainly sweets) and have been eating them for breakfast. The lady who lives directly behind us, informed me that she made us some chocolate chip cookies, but then ate them all in a fit of depression. I am beginning to see why they call it 29 Pounds instead of 29 Palms.
And I imagine that I’ve really impressed the neighbors with my ability to summon the Fire Department within the first week of arrival. As soon as I finally located the elusive flour, my mixer and some bread pans, I got busy making bread (RWT was actually tiring of cookies for breakfast). I turned on the oven and soon smelled a bit of gas. Not a lot, but the smell of incomplete combustion that happens when the burner needs to be cleaned. So I called RWT, who called housing to let them know the oven needed servicing. A mistake. I then received a phone call from housing telling me not to be alarmed when I heard the sirens. Great. Any mere hint of a gas leak and they are required to call the Fire Department.
The firemen arrived with all the predicted fanfare in full suits with respirators and electronic gas detectors. After determining there were not dangerous levels of gas in the house (my calmly standing there observing them should have been the first clue), they took off their respirators… sniff, sniff… what is that smell? It smells like… bread?!? Yes, I had put the bread in the oven while I was waiting for them to arrive. I suspect they were thinking: "crazy Navy wife."
So here we are, a bit embarrassed but safe and sound with the majority of our possessions intact and unpacked. Gee, I can hardly wait until the next move.
22 June 2005
But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part II
[Continuing the saga of our 2001 move from Maryland to California...]
The first couple of hours of our drive west were a bit rough due to the traffic (it was the Friday before Easter and Spring Break). But as we headed into the wilds of Virginia, things improved. Soon we noticed that the southwestern corner of Virginia is home to many, many road signs… Bristol 27 mi, Bristol 22 mi, Bristol 17 mi, Bristol 12 mi, Bristol 7 mi, Bristol 2 mi. We finally arrived in Bristol (right on the VA/TN border) and our stopping point for the night. I got out.. sniff, sniff… burnt brakes? No, a fuel farm right behind the motel we’d chosen.
The next day, our goal was to get through Tennessee and Arkansas. Apparently Tennessee is the home to many of the “World's Greatest/Biggest/Best __________”. Hmmm. It was also the state of smells – first the oil at the motel, then we stopped at a rest stop to check the tie-downs on the car and the place reeked of urine. And just when that stench finally worked its way out of the Expedition's ventilation system, we drove through a low valley filled with thick fog that smelled like... burnt turkey!?! Odd. There were also numerous road signs in Tennessee pointing out equivalence between miles and kilometers (“Town X – Y miles, Y miles = Z kilometers”)… “Gee, what's a keelo-meter?”
Then we were on to Arkansas. Ugh. One cannot accuse Clinton of funneling federal funds to Arkansas road projects -- the roads were horrendous -- old concrete that had separated and unevenly settled. It was so rough, the vibrations loosened the screws on the license plate on the trailer and we nearly lost the plate. We didn't quite manage to make our goal that day and stopped for the night in Arkadelphia (which is everything the name implies), about 60 miles outside of Little Rock. And it was in the middle of a tornado/thunderstorm warning with reports of 3” hail. We watched the weather channel for a couple of hours and when it looked like death was not impending, went to bed.
Easter Sunday we were up early (luckily no hail damage to our cars) and heading for Texas where we detoured through Austin to visit some friends. Texas pride is really something… can you imagine someone putting a big ol' sticker in the shape of California on the rear window of their SUV? We had a great time in Austin and got back on the road Monday morning (would not want to be late meeting Thomas and the truck) and it turned out to be our most harrowing driving day… In El Paso, we had a very impressive lesson on momentum involving us, a wreck in the middle of the freeway and a semi directly in front of us. Our rig stopped with just a few inches to spare and we were well into New Mexico before all the muscles in my neck relaxed.
And, finally, out of Texas. It really seemed like we were in the west now. We stopped for gas in Las Cruces where we noted that no one used the credit card reader on the gas pumps and wondered why… Do people in New Mexico have bad credit? And were people looking at us strangely? Were we becoming paranoid?
That evening was spent in Deming, NM, a town that is really no more than a truckstop, convenience stores, gas stations and a handful of motels. But the weather… oh, pure heaven. Warmth without humidity. (as a native Californian friend is so found of saying -- it's a dry heat). We got up pretty early on Tuesday – if we got to Twentynine Palms before the housing office closed, we could spend that night in our new house (we'd had it with motels by that point).
Great scenery in Arizona. Lots of cacti and cool rocks, just like a Roadrunner carton. Outside of Phoenix, we spotted a “Really Big Moving Company D” van… was it Thomas? No, but we followed it most of the way to California anyway. California – at last! I've never been so happy to hear the words “Do you have any plants or fruit?”
The last three hours were the longest of the trip. We finally arrived in Twentynine Palms, but not in time to pickup the keys, so we had to be satisfied with peeking in the windows. The neighbors must have thought I was insane when they saw me standing outside the kitchen window jumping up and down excitedly yelling “Gas! Gas! Gas!” Yes, a gas range. Woo-hoo!
We unloaded the car off the trailer (which instantly drew a half dozen neighborhood children – like we needed an audience), dumped the trailer, assured the neighbors we would not be leaving the trailer permanently in front of the house and headed off to the local Motel 6 (one of the few motels in town that accept pets). Not a great choice – it's where all the young marines who live in the barracks stay when their girlfriends come to visit. I swear the guys next door were having party in the shower!
We picked up the house keys 0800 Wednesday morning and Thomas drove up at exactly 0900. Thomas had hired two local desert guys to assist in the unloading and both of them were appropriately scruffy looking (and the one guy repeatedly told us how he did not like to live near other people and of the merits of barbed-wire topped chain link fences). However, when requesting their choice of Subway sandwiches at lunch time, the one with the bad teeth tells Rob to be sure to get his on sourdough bread. Ah yes, we certainly are in California.
To be continued...
21 June 2005
When Good Forums Go Bad (A Cautionary Tale)
No matter what the topic, it appears that with time, most internet discussion forums eventually implode. Is it simply unavoidable? Entropy at work? Are the people in charge in any way to blame? Or is the cause linked to irreconcilable differences between the people who post?
Just about three years ago I joined an up and coming food forum. It was great – there were sub-forums for different types of cooking, regional sub-forums and sub-forums to discuss off-topic items. I was warmly welcomed by one of the big-wigs (for those who are wondering, it was a person who has misplaced the vowels in his last name) and not only did he want to talk about cooking, but also about the merits of the sci-fi series Farscape. Our pets, the best internet browser (at the time it was Mozilla) and one member’s experiences showing chickens were all as popular topics of conversation as the cooking/eating/dining threads. It was great – intelligent, fun, informative discourse with like-minded people.
Fast forward two years and things started to change. What had been a very casual organization, officially became a not-for-profit “society”. The first modification was that the very popular bio forum (where people talked about off-topic things relating to themselves, mostly in a blog-like manner) was removed. Members screamed, the management told them it was a necessary step for the society to been taken seriously. Some people got mad and left to start their own food discussion forums. Life went on.
Then the next step taken by the board of the forum was that impromptu gatherings arranged via the site and get-togethers that had not been approved by the powers that be, were banned. Once again members complained, only to be told that the social aspect was not part of the society and we were there to talk about food, not have personal interactions. Topics were locked to stop further debate and members were bluntly told they had no say in the matter. More people left and some started new forums. And some of the previously most active forums are now languishing.
I was one of those who left and while I occasionally check in on the old one, I now only post on a new food forum. But from experience, I wonder… how long will this one last? I worry because I’ve seen the same thing happen time and time again.
I used to regularly read a health & beauty forum hosted by a beauty products company. It was wonderful. There were some members who were avid product junkies and would post about the latest and greatest face potions, make-up and hair goop. I found some great beauty products through that forum. But then, the management started to crack down on what they perceived as discussing the competition too much. Posts regarding anything other than the sponsoring company’s products were deleted. Then the requisite rescinding of membership status of those who complained a bit too vehemently started. And, yes, people got mad and left to start their own forums. Then there were issues on those forums and people left to start even more forums. After five years. the original beauty forum has still never recovered and none have risen from the ashes to take its place.
The only forum I’ve seen maintain its activity and avoid these problems is a baking forum hosted by a large flour and kitchenware company. Why does it endure? At first I thought it was because of the members – a bit older than on the average forum, certainly more mature and down-to-earth also. It was always a happy place. But then a huge war erupted involving the merits of organic food and I thought to myself, okay, this is where it ends. But it didn’t. Why? With the exception of spammers and crazies, I’ve never seen a post deleted by the forum moderators. Ever. Even during fights between members the moderators have remained mum. People have had name-calling fits and not a single post censored. None. Is that the key?
One thing I've also noticed is that all the forums like to think they are totally unique and nothing else out there is like them. I disagree. While the topics might be unique, the dynamics of the forums tend to remain the same regardless if it is food, bird watching, gardening, dancing, beauty, or whatever is being discussed. In fact, there is a site dedicated to illustrating the various characters that inhabit most discussion forums (Can you guess which one I am? And which are you?).
So while I enjoy my time reading and participating in online discussion forums and I’ve learned so very much from some of them, I try to keep in the back of my mind that we are all posting on borrowed time. Sooner or later… kaboom!
Just about three years ago I joined an up and coming food forum. It was great – there were sub-forums for different types of cooking, regional sub-forums and sub-forums to discuss off-topic items. I was warmly welcomed by one of the big-wigs (for those who are wondering, it was a person who has misplaced the vowels in his last name) and not only did he want to talk about cooking, but also about the merits of the sci-fi series Farscape. Our pets, the best internet browser (at the time it was Mozilla) and one member’s experiences showing chickens were all as popular topics of conversation as the cooking/eating/dining threads. It was great – intelligent, fun, informative discourse with like-minded people.
Fast forward two years and things started to change. What had been a very casual organization, officially became a not-for-profit “society”. The first modification was that the very popular bio forum (where people talked about off-topic things relating to themselves, mostly in a blog-like manner) was removed. Members screamed, the management told them it was a necessary step for the society to been taken seriously. Some people got mad and left to start their own food discussion forums. Life went on.
Then the next step taken by the board of the forum was that impromptu gatherings arranged via the site and get-togethers that had not been approved by the powers that be, were banned. Once again members complained, only to be told that the social aspect was not part of the society and we were there to talk about food, not have personal interactions. Topics were locked to stop further debate and members were bluntly told they had no say in the matter. More people left and some started new forums. And some of the previously most active forums are now languishing.
I was one of those who left and while I occasionally check in on the old one, I now only post on a new food forum. But from experience, I wonder… how long will this one last? I worry because I’ve seen the same thing happen time and time again.
I used to regularly read a health & beauty forum hosted by a beauty products company. It was wonderful. There were some members who were avid product junkies and would post about the latest and greatest face potions, make-up and hair goop. I found some great beauty products through that forum. But then, the management started to crack down on what they perceived as discussing the competition too much. Posts regarding anything other than the sponsoring company’s products were deleted. Then the requisite rescinding of membership status of those who complained a bit too vehemently started. And, yes, people got mad and left to start their own forums. Then there were issues on those forums and people left to start even more forums. After five years. the original beauty forum has still never recovered and none have risen from the ashes to take its place.
The only forum I’ve seen maintain its activity and avoid these problems is a baking forum hosted by a large flour and kitchenware company. Why does it endure? At first I thought it was because of the members – a bit older than on the average forum, certainly more mature and down-to-earth also. It was always a happy place. But then a huge war erupted involving the merits of organic food and I thought to myself, okay, this is where it ends. But it didn’t. Why? With the exception of spammers and crazies, I’ve never seen a post deleted by the forum moderators. Ever. Even during fights between members the moderators have remained mum. People have had name-calling fits and not a single post censored. None. Is that the key?
One thing I've also noticed is that all the forums like to think they are totally unique and nothing else out there is like them. I disagree. While the topics might be unique, the dynamics of the forums tend to remain the same regardless if it is food, bird watching, gardening, dancing, beauty, or whatever is being discussed. In fact, there is a site dedicated to illustrating the various characters that inhabit most discussion forums (Can you guess which one I am? And which are you?).
So while I enjoy my time reading and participating in online discussion forums and I’ve learned so very much from some of them, I try to keep in the back of my mind that we are all posting on borrowed time. Sooner or later… kaboom!
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