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.

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.”)

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!

"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.

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.

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...

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!

But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part I

[Since the next couple of days will be filled with doctor's appointments for RWT, time is at a premium. So for your reading pleasure, I've dredged up an old account of our move from Maryland to California.]

April, 2001 --

To make things "easier", within the last six months or so, the military has implemented a new (and improved?) system for moving household goods. Someone must have decided there were not enough layers of people involved in the old system. Now you get to talk to even more organizations…

First, there was Cendant (what that stands for still eludes me, or maybe it is not an acronym at all, but one of those touchy-feely, world-class, delight your customer names) Mobility. They are a government contractor that has taken over all the move coordination for military members. Our representative was Karen.

We started talking to Karen in January to try to find out how much extra it would cost to ship RWT's newly built sailboat (which missed the free shipping by 9” and in hindsight, maybe we should have just cut off the end off the bow). Karen gave us a copy of the boat instruction (which was full of bizarre formulas and weight calculations which basically worked out to: the more the boat and your household goods weighs, the less it costs) and told us that someone was working on determining how much extra (if any, we hoped) the shipping of our 200 pound boat would run.

Next, there was “Moving Company A” – the overall moving company. They are out of Florida and our representative was Matt (who, curiously, went to college in the very small town in MA where RWT's brother is living). Matt was very enthusiastic and, I must admit, surprisingly helpful. When they realized (after the pre-move survey) that they'd need more than one day to pack all our junk (duh!), Matt was able to convince the packers that packing Friday and Monday was not an option.

That brings us to the packers. They were from “Moving Company B” out of Woodbridge, VA and are the local representatives of "Moving Company A". Of course, Woodbridge is only local to Indian Head if you have a boat or swim really, really well. While Woodbridge is about 10 miles in actual distance from Indian Head across the Potomac, it is over an hour's drive (without traffic) since you have to drive up to D.C. and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to cross the river.

Now, one cannot confuse the packers with the movers or the driver. The driver was from “Moving Company C”, which is affiliated with “Really Big Moving Company D” and is located in Missouri (although the driver actually lives in Florida). And to help him load up in Indian Head, the driver hired a couple of guys who work for “Really Big Moving Company D” locally (actually out of Fredericksburg, VA, even farther away than Woodbridge). At the Twentynine Palms end of the move, his helpers were from “Moving Company E”. Complicated enough? It is amazing anything got here. On to the actual move…

Two packers arrived Monday (late, they had no idea there was anything in Maryland south of D.C.) and immediately started saying they could never get it all packed in time (a recurring theme from all of our moves). Luckily, they brought a third guy on Tuesday and everything was going well until… ...Thomas.

Tuesday was our first contact with Thomas, the owner and driver of the moving van. Thomas (who's last name has a very high ratio of consonants to vowels that I cannot even attempt to spell) is from Poland. He has been in the U.S. for 15 years, but still has a very heavy accent. And he is the embodiment of a stereotypical northern/eastern European – blunt, disdainful, perfectionist, and his opinion is the only correct one. I would love to get him in a room with RWT's grandmother… it would be a battle of iron wills.

Since we were originally scheduled (before Matt's intervention) for a Monday pack and Tuesday load, Thomas had nothing to do on Tuesday and wanted to come over a day early and get started. He called asked if he could check things out and I said sure. Big mistake. I told the packers that the driver was coming over to start the prep for loading and they immediately got upset. Why? They felt he would be rushing them. Much sighing and huffing. It only went downhill from there…

Thomas arrived. Boat?? Piano??? Boat???? What boat????? One of the myriad of entities handling our move sent the information for Thomas to the packers instead. Thomas was picking up three more loads after ours (our stuff was the first on and first off) and the boat would take up precious space in his truck. Much sighing and huffing.

Then the clash – Thomas wanted to start loading boxes that day. This sent the packers into a tizzy. Mere sighing and huffing turned into grumbling and muttering. Later we realized they were irritated because, by his loading of the boxes, Thomas would not be paying guys like the packers (who also do loading on other jobs) and Thomas would be keeping more money for himself.

Enough tension? No. The subject of boxing the mattresses arose. The packers said they never box mattresses and it is the mover's job. Thomas said the packers always box the mattresses. Rob and I distanced ourselves and let them fight it out. In the end, the packers boxed two of the mattress sets and the mover boxed one.

Wednesday morning started off with rain, but, luckily, it was not pouring too much. Assisting Thomas were two local Virginia boys attired with (I am not making this up) Ducks Unlimited and Bass Fishing hats. They were quite good-natured although Thomas tried his best to put a major dent in their easygoing manner. Thomas was a hard taskmaster and was packing the trailer to a density comparable to lead. I felt bad for the local guys helping him… “More flaut box, more flaut!” Bass-boy says no more flat boxes. Thomas snorts, points and says “Ironink board”.

The boat went in first and was hung against the wall with all the furniture packed around it. The loading was going well (although slowly) when about 2:00 that afternoon (when the boat was no longer even visible behind the wall of furniture and boxes) we got a call from Karen at Cendant: “It will cost you to ship the boat, but we don't know how much…” All along we had planned to simply move the boat on our trailer if it was going to cost too much to move in the truck, so Karen did something very difficult to do – she made RWT mad. It turns out the brainiac who could perform the arcane boat moving cost calculations quit the company (hmm, coincidence?) without coming up for a price for our boat!

After Rob finally threatened to have them take the boat off the truck (which would have taken hours) so we could just trailer it ourselves, they came up with a rather fair and reasonable price for shipping the boat. Then the van was finally loaded and Thomas said he would meet us in Twentynine Palms at 0900 Wednesday morning. Phew. That part was done. We were possessionless and ready to work on being homeless...

Next was checking out of the house in Indian Head. Since they were going to do major renovations to the interior of the house, we decided to clean it ourselves. We figured that we would not have to spend much time cleaning things they were ripping out and throwing away. Well, that turned out to be a hugely incorrect assumption on our part! Housing thought it would be unfair to the other housing residents if we did not thoroughly clean the whole house.

However, after RWT had a heart-to-heart with the housing officer, a reasonable cleaning plan was agreed upon. The final inspection went well, with the only hitch being that we had to wipe out the under the top of stove in case someone wanted to use our 1950's-era range for parts.

After a really nice going away party from our friends in Maryland, we headed out of Indian Head Friday morning. And since it would not cost an arm and a leg to ship the boat, we had our car loaded up on the trailer and were ready to start the cross-country trek.

To be continued...

Things Could Certainly Be Worse…

An exciting weekend for us, but not in a good way. RWT cut up his hand on his table saw while working on the new dining room chairs. He’s not quite sure how he did it, but his left hand and the spinning blade collided. Not a pretty sight and when RWT says “maybe we should call an ambulance”, I know things are bad.

Over seven hours later (two full hours of it devoted just to suturing his hand), we finally left the emergency room. Everything is okay for now, but he’ll need hand surgery in the future. And, as usual RWT was the star of the emergency room.

The last time I had to take him to the emergency room was when he got a horrible sinus infection immediately following his laser eye surgery. By the time we arrived at the ER for the second time that day, his face was swollen to the point where he did not even look like himself. After we got past the check-in nurse who insisted she interview him alone because she thought I had been beating him, it was a rather amusing visit. It seems that half of the hospital staff had to drop by to nonchalantly peer into the examination room to see such an unusual manifestation of a sinus infection. And the PA kept repeating how interesting it was, that it was like nothing he’d seen before and he was very excited.

Well, this time was not much different, but instead of his face, everyone wanted to look at his hand x-rays. I could spy doctor after doctor checking them out as we waited for his hand to be stitched up. Then as we were finally leaving, we walked past an office and there was yet another doctor looking at them

Luckily, all five fingers are still attached, it is his left hand and he has the use of at least four of his fingers. When he goes to see the specialist Bethesda tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll see Marines and Sailors back from Iraq who are in much worse shape. We are both very thankful, that in the big scheme of things, this is relatively minor.

Shall We Dance?

Those are words I hate to hear. Dancing does not comes naturally to me and until recently was something I always tried to avoid. After nine months of lessons, I am certainly much more comfortable with dancing than I was, but I still prefer not to dance with anyone other than my husband.

Now you’d think that would not be an issue, but it is. In the social ballroom dancing world, you are generally expected to dance with anyone who asks. The reasoning is that it is good for you to dance with many different partners because it will help you become a better dancer. Also, you hear “it is only for three or four minutes, how bad can it be?” Well, for me, it is three to four minutes that is on par with getting your teeth drilled at the dentist’s office... or giving a speech in front of a room full of people, naked, or worse, totally unprepared… or riding the metro (which is a whole other issue worthy of its own topic).

RWT and I started ballroom dancing because it is something we can do together, regardless of the weather and without having to drive any long distances (which is necessary to get to the good hiking spots in this area). Plus, for the most part, dancing is a lot safer than our other pursuits, such as rock-scrambling and sailing. The “together” is the most important aspect of dancing to me. I don’t dance simply to dance (although it is growing on me), but to spend time with my husband. Not someone else’s husband, not my dance classmates, and certainly not a stranger.

Maybe I’ve never quite gotten over my experiences when going out to bars while I was in college. My friends and I usually frequented the biggest meat market in town because it was the only place with live music and my roommate’s boyfriend was a bouncer there. Not only could I get in (I was underage), but the price was right -- free. The downside to going there… accepting a dance from a stranger gave implicit consent for them hit on you for the rest of the evening (and I won’t even go into what accepting a drink implied). One quickly learned to be very selective in accepting dance invitations.

Also, I dance like an exceptionally uncoordinated giraffe and I’m well known for trampling the cute little feet of our dance teacher whenever she wants me to demonstrate something with her in class. While I don’t mind occasionally stepping on RWT's toes (he reciprocates with regularity), I get quite self-conscious about it when dancing with other people. Hmm, "self-conscious" is probably too mild of a phrase… "totally stressed out" is much more accurate.

Dancing with others would probably improve my dancing, but if I am happy with how I dance with RWT and he is happy with how I dance with him, I don’t see where it makes a difference. I am definitely not going to be competitive dancing anytime in the future (I got my share of that type of craziness when I showed horses) and we are quite content to remain mediocre dancers together.

Or perhaps the biggest reason is that I’ve just reached the age (the crotchety old lady stage) that I don’t quite see the point in pretending something I find totally unpleasant is anything but -- especially in a situation that is supposed to be fun. So I think I’ll just continue to be rude and stay limited in my dancing. And the answer is “no”.

Swept Away By Emoticons

Emoticons. Smileys. Whatever you call them… little, (generally) yellow, faces inserted into electronic messages to help convey what the author is trying to get across. Or for the text-restricted… sideways faces making the use of parentheses, colons, semi-colons, dashes (if you desire a nose on your emoticon) and various letters. (A compilation and the history of smileys.)

Some people love them and feel they facilitate understanding of the intent of their messages. Others hate emoticons because they see them as something utilized to make up for a weak writing style. I have no problem with their use in many situations because I feel that online communication can use all the help it can get. For me, interacting via a computer is like talking to someone in a pitch-black room while using a voice modulator... potentially very, very frustrating.

But the use of emoticons can also be insidious and addictive and the dance forum I read is an excellent illustration of that. There are some members who punctuate every sentence with a little smiley face (and animated ones at that) and then add a whole string of them dancing along the bottom of the message. This forum is populated with very artsy and emotional folk, so maybe they feel an even greater need for more expression than is provided by mere combinations of letters and spaces.

Personally, I try not to use emoticons here in my blog (as you’ve probably noticed), but will use them in forum replies, personal messages and email (as you’ve probably noticed). Why? Generally, when I post something here, I have the time to write it, think about it, tweak it and make sure the words get the point across as I’ve intended. However, I rarely have the luxury to take the time to do that in my correspondence (or some of you would never get an answer from me and you know how I feel about that subject). Plus, I would rather over-clarify my response then have it taken the wrong way.

I guess I just view emoticons as a substitute for all the waving around of hands and arms, making faces and using different voice inflections that I do when I talk to people in person. And face to face is always my preferred form of communication. I think my own smile wins out over those little yellow faces, whether they are animated or not.

In My Wildest Dreams, Part II

Another installment of the on-going saga of my unconscious thoughts…

The Dream: As the dream started, I was standing by a large brick house, overlooking some rolling California-like hills that were dotted with valley oaks. It was a sunny day with a few big puffy clouds blowing by on a strong wind. Then I noticed that there was something else, a dark object, blowing up and around in the sky. It came down closer to the ground and a woman on distant train trestle caught it – it was her leather jacket.

Since it was so windy, I decided to put my own jacket in the trunk of the car. My mother-in-law and I were going to go someplace on foot and then planned to come back later so she could take me to the airport. As I walked toward the car, a very large, dark metallic maroon roadster (sort of like the BMW M3 my father-in-law drives, only about twice the size and with a very rounded rear-end, like an Audi TT), I noticed there were a bunch of people in woods (and these were deciduous, east coast-type woods) in front of the car. I then saw one of the women in the woods take a picture of me as I was putting away my things in the luggage-filled trunk. I asked her what she was doing, but she just walked off.

At this point, my mother-in-law came out of the house and was standing about ten feet from the passenger side of the car. I turned the key to lock the trunk and the car started up and began to move forward. Aaack. So I turned the key the other way and the car went in reverse as I jumped out of the way.

The car was going to hit the corner of the house (I didn’t recognize the house, but it was the same house from the start of the dream and on a hill like all of my mother-in-law’s various homes over the years). So I jumped on running board (!) of the car, reached through the open window, somehow got the key in the ignition and turned it the other way. The car stopped just inches from ramming the house.

But then the car was started forward toward the woods and I was stuck hanging on the side of the car turning the key back and forth to keep it from hitting things. Then, for some reason, I was thinking that it was exactly like my paper shredder after it jams -- if it goes back and forth enough, it will eventually automatically stop. And with that thought, I woke up.

The Reasons: Okay, this is one of those dreams where I have not a clue as to its meaning or even its origin. I emptied my shredder a couple of days ago and the car was vaguely shaped like the one in all the ads for the new Batman movie, but that is it. Why the California hills, my mother-in-law, wind, trains, furtive photography and so on? Who knows.

I often have dreams that I am in a car I cannot control (although it has always been one of my own cars). Usually it is the brakes that do not work, but other times it is the steering. And I typically have this type of dream when I am stressed out about something. But I cannot even figure out what could be bothering me at the moment. RWT is off on a business trip, so yesterday was and today will be pretty carefree.

Hmm, perhaps it is because of the get-together I am hosting next Tuesday for my Ballroom II class. I’ve not done much planning for it. Maybe, I’d better go make a list of things to do for the party in hopes of having less frenetic dreams tonight.

Dancing the in Streets

Let’s say you find yourself one night driving down a dark residential street, when suddenly, at the far reaches of your car’s headlights, you spot a fleeting movement… a person, no, two people out in the middle of the street. What are they doing? As you drive closer you see they are now standing to the side of the street, looking up at a big tree in front of a house. The woman points at the tree and turns to the man who is gazing at the tree contemplatively… but still… something seems not quite right… hmmm, you wonder why the man is wearing shorts with black socks and wingtip shoes… perhaps he is from Bermuda? And the woman, high heels with sweatpants? What is going on?!?

Well, if this happens to you, please stop to say hello, since it is most likely RWT and me out practicing our waltz. Yes, we sneak out in the dark of night and dance in the street in front of our house. Luckily, we can practice most of our dancing in the cool privacy of our dining room which has been semi-permanently rearranged with all the furniture shoved down to one end to create an ~12’ square dance floor. This works great for the non-traveling dances… cha-cha, rumba (our favorite), salsa and swing, but for the dances that circle the dance floor (waltz, foxtrot and tango), it is simply too small.

When we first started ballroom dancing, we practiced the traveling dances by going around the inside of the house (which fortunately, as the infamous Miss Marcia S would say, “has good flow”)... dining room to family room (watch out for the footstool!) to kitchen (aack, don’t hit your elbows on the second doorway!) to the study (no, don’t do that turn on the carpet, my shoes stick too much!) to the living room (ouch, you backed me into the couch!) and back to the relatively spacious dining room. But now that we are advancing in our dancing, we’re starting to do more and more fancy moves that require additional space for our flailing arms and legs. So outside it is…

At the moment we are working on a waltz move affectionately referred to by our dance teacher as the “18-steps from hell” (a reverse turning box). Basically we have to waltz as we’ve learned it for the last nine months, only do all the moves backward. And then alternate between the two directions. Truly mind boggling and results in a lot of stepped-on toes (usually mine). However, things are progressing well and I can even follow RWT’s leads as he randomly (at least from my viewpoint) decides which way we are turning and if I should be stepping forward with my right foot or my left or stepping backward with my left foot or my right…

Meanwhile, our neighbors lie in their beds at night wondering why they keep hearing a faint “one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…” Just wait until we start working on our tango!

Fear of Yeast

Not to sound like a broken record (hmm, maybe that phrase should be updated to “a broken CD”), but I was reading my food forum and there was a discussion on...

...the mediocrity of store-bought pizza dough. No, I am not talking about the dough already formed into large disks or (shudder) already topped, but the kind of dough available at “upscale” markets such as Trader Joe’s or Wegmans. It comes as a little blob in a bag and it is up to the consumer to stretch it, top it and bake it.

Frankly, this idea drives me nuts!!! (Even more than the thought of spending $$$ for those meringue cookies at Trader Joe’s and I know that many of you have heard me rant on and on about that topic, so I’ll drop it… for now.)

Flour, water, yeast and salt (and possibly a little oil in there too). People are buying a simple mixture of flour, water, yeast and salt. If you have the flour, water, yeast and salt, a bowl, a spoon and a little arm strength, there is no reason why you cannot make a superior product to pre-made dough you can buy.

Although many folks have a hard time believing this, there really is no magic involved in making bread. No special skills, no ritualistic sacrifices to the gods of baking, not even any essential special equipment (not that you can’t use special equipment, my pantry is testimony to that). The toppings for pizza are more of a cooking challenge than the crust!

So for the record, here are my basics of bread:

-- Yeast. Do not be afraid. Go to the grocery store and buy the little packets of yeast that are located in the baking aisle. The brand and type (rapid-rise, instant or regular) are not that important at this point. But be sure to check the back of the envelope to see that the yeast is not past the expiration date. And under no condition buy the cakes of fresh yeast in the refrigerated section. While fresh yeast can be wonderful, more often, it is simply dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead yeast will do nothing for you or your bread.

-- Flour. Buy unbleached. Save the bleached flour for your biscuits, cookies and pie crusts. Buy King Arthur brand if you can find it (many Safeway's carry it now). Gold Medal is my second choice, but most any unbleached flour will work. Like the various types of yeast, specialty flours (such as bread flour) are for when you are more experienced. And when you are ready to get into that level of baking, you’ll know it, so don’t give it another thought for now.

-- Water. Out of the tap. Don’t worry about the chlorine content – the yeast are much tougher than many make them out to be. If you are mixing the water with just yeast, it should be warm. If you are adding the water to a yeast/flour mixture, it should be as hot out of the tap as possible.

-- Salt. Table salt, iodized salt, non-iodized salt, kosher salt, sea salt, gourmet salt hand-harvested under a full summer moon by a guy named Pierre from a pristine ¼ mile stretch of coast in Brittany… It does not matter that much. The only point of concern is that the large-grained salts do not measure the same as a small-grained salt. Generally the volume given in most recipes is geared toward small-grained table salt, so if you use kosher salt, you might need a little more. But, frankly, you probably won't be able to tell anyway. Just don’t forget the salt. Unsalted bread is definitely an acquired taste.

-- Other ingredients. Oil, butter, eggs, sugar, nuts, fruits, vegetables, meats, flavorings, other grains and specialty flours. All can be added in various amounts, but I suggest avoiding them until you get a feel for basic dough. A surprising amount of flavor can be obtained just from flour, water, yeast and salt.

-- Proofing the yeast. Don’t. Really. Unless the yeast is beyond the expiration date marked on the package it will be alive. Trust me. This is the 21st century. We have the technology. (And many rapid-rise yeasts are so speedy they can easily starve to death in ten minutes in a pool of warm water containing only a teaspoon or so of sugar or flour. Don’t be that cruel!)

-- Mixing. Unless you are looking to get things up and running really, really quickly (and this exception is used in the recipe below), mix one half of the total amount of flour and the rest of the dry ingredients together and then dump in the wet ingredients. Mix with a stand mixer or by hand with a strong spoon.

-- Kneading. How much kneading depends on what you want in your final product. In fact, some gluten (the stuff that makes dough stretchy and able to rise) will form on its own without any help from you at all. Use the recipe as a guide and trust what you feel. The only advantage to hand kneading over kneading with a mixer is that when you knead by hand you cannot help but notice when the dough has had enough.

-- Consistency. How much flour to add while kneading… err of the side of too little. This is the point were most people get themselves into trouble. Some of the best breads come from the wettest doughs. If using a pan with sides and with enough time in the oven, pretty much any dough firmer than a milkshake consistency can be made into a bread. Free-form loaves obviously need a bit more body. But while your first attempts may not be pretty and tall, any free-form bread will be edible as long as it does not run off the baking stone and burn on the bottom of the oven. A rule of thumb is to never make your dough firmer than the consistency of playdough (the commercial kind, not the really soft homemade kind my mother made for me).

-- Rising. Long rises, short rises, one rise, multiple rises, cool rises, warm rises, cold rises, no rise! A myriad of options. All will affect the texture and taste. Warmer = Faster. Cooler = Slower + More Flavor. Experiment. Have fun. This stage is pretty difficult mess up.

-- Forming and Proofing. Stretching the top of the surface of the formed loaf will make it look nicer, but will not really affect the taste. So don’t stress out about this step. Worry more about the proofing (the final rise before baking). If the formed dough is over-proofed, it can deflate in the oven, or even worse to witness, as you are carrying it to the oven. Don’t let any dough proof more than double in size, and most doughs don’t even need that much of an increase (and a few are not proofed at all). And remember, you can almost always take over-proofed dough (before it is baked) and reform it and start the proofing step over.

-- Baking. Buy a baking stone. Or better yet, two. Put one on the lowest rack in your oven and the other on the highest rack. Preheat your oven at least 45 minutes before you bake with the stone(s) in the oven so they are nice and hot. Bake your breads on the lower stone with the upper stone as close above as possible without touching the baking loaves (take into account the bread might also rise some during baking). Bake your loaves until they are well-browned (short of burning it, it is hard to over-bake bread) and loaf-shaped breads should sound a bit hollow when tapped on the bottom (you’ll need to tip them out of the pan to check if they are not free-form loaves.)

And that is it. Yes, it looks like a lot of steps, but it is really a simple and, more importantly, a forgiving process. Keep in mind that it is only flour, water, yeast and salt. If things go horribly wrong, toss it and start over (although I’ve never made a bread that could not be eaten in some form – turn a dense loaf into bread crumbs, make croutons, strata, bread pudding…). Experimentation is the real key to becoming a good baker, so have good time, go wild. Get flour all over yourself and your kitchen. Bread baking is kitchen chemistry at its most fun. Overcome that fear of yeast!

And for all of you who are buying pizza dough, please, please, please try this recipe:

QUICK & EASY PIZZA DOUGH
Makes one large pizza

2 cups water, warm
2 teaspoons dry yeast (this will be a partial envelope)
2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon salt

2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour

In a large bowl (or bowl of mixer), sprinkle the yeast over the water and stir until it dissolves. Stir in the 2 cups of flour and the salt and stir briskly until smooth, ~2 minutes (~30 seconds if using the flat beater in a mixer). Mix in the remaining 2 cups flour and stir ~2 minutes longer (~1 minute if using a mixer). Stir just until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and the flour is incorporated. The dough will be fairly wet and sticky.

Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise until doubled in volume, 30 to 40 minutes. (Or, for more flavor, cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight. Remove the dough 2 hours before shaping and let it sit, covered, before proceeding with the recipe.)

Preheat the oven to 500 degrees. If you have a pizza stone put it on the bottom rack of the oven (and if using a stone, preheat the oven ~1 hour before baking).

Oil a half-sheet or pizza pan generously with the olive oil (for ease in removal of the baked pizza, I like to line the pan with a piece of parchment paper and lightly oil the parchment). Pour the dough onto the pan, scraping it from the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula or flexible dough scraper. Liberally oil your hands and the surface of the dough with olive oil and gently press and stretch the dough with your fingertips until it covers the whole pan.

Immediately, place the plain crust (without toppings) in the oven (on top of the baking stone if you are using one) and reduce the oven temperature to 450 degrees. Bake for ~20 until the crust just starts to color. Remove from the oven, top with your desired toppings and bake an additional 15 to 20 minutes until the toppings are heated through and the cheese is lightly browned.

(Adapted from a recipe in No Need To Knead by Suzanne Dunaway)

Cheesy Taste?

I went to a cheese tasting last night with my food group where we tasted ten “uncommon” Italian cheeses:

1. Pecorino Brinata – a very mild soft sheep’s milk cheese only aged for 20 days. Not only does the rind look like that of a brie, it tastes just like a young brie also.

2. Caprino with Truffles – a fresh goat’s milk cheese covered with fresh truffle slices after it is aged. While the taste of truffles surprisingly permeates throughout the cheese, it is strongest near the side closest to the truffles.

3. Rochetta – this cheese was the one that made the evening worth it for me. It is a rather innocuous cheese made from a mixture of cow, goat and sheep milk, but is one of those cheeses that’s great to serve to company. Tasty (and salty) without being overwhelming.

4. Pecorino Toscano – a 30-day sheep’s milk cheese. Nothing spectacular about this cheese other than it showed the differences between a very slightly aged Pecorino (the Brinata) and how a different style of rind treatment can affect the texture of the cheese (this one is much firmer).

5. Castelmagno – a very rare cow’s milk cheese that is notable mainly for its flakey texture. Don’t get me wrong, it has a great taste, but the mouthfeel is what really stands out.

6. Piave Vecchio – another cow’s milk cheese and my favorite of the evening, especially to eat by itself as a snack. It is similar to a Parmigiano Reggiano, but with a more nutty flavor. It also has that firm texture with bits of crystallinity that I adore in a cheese.

7. Parmigiano Reggiano Cravero – a very nice 2-year-plus aged cheese. But nothing new or noteworthy (and it seemed to suffer from following the Piave Vecchio, I would have preferred to taste it first of those two).

8. Vento de Estate – a sheep’s cheese with a very floral flavor. It’s wrapped in hay for aging and has a very herbal (and almost minty) flavor the closer you get to the rind.

9. Ubriaco – a cow’s milk cheese soaked in wine and then aged under pressed grape skins (the “must” from wine making). Initially pleasing fruity flavor that after a few bites started to taste just like Juicy Fruit gum.

10. Pecorino Fossa – another sheep’s milk cheese (as are all Pecorino cheeses) but this one is buried in the ground after its initial 3-month aging. The smell is exactly that of a horse ring – a dusty, horsey smell with a hint of manure. And it tastes exactly how thrush (an anaerobic bacterial infection horses get in their feet) smells. Exactly. All I could think of was that someone needed to squirt some Koppertox (a dark green copper solution that is used to treat thrush) on the cheese!

As people where posting about their favorite cheeses from the tasting on the food forum afterwards, someone asked (and I am paraphrasing from memory) if anyone had taken the time to memorize which cheeses were goat, sheep or cow milk cheeses, how they differed from each other and which areas in Italy produced which cheeses.

The post made me wonder if it isn't simply enough for someone to discover just one more new cheese they like? Something other than the usual Parmigiano Reggiano or Pecorino or Gorgonzola... especially if the person is not a cheese aficionado. Is learning anything additional just more Parmigiano Reggiano grated on the Fettuccine Alfredo?

For those with a foundation of cheese tasting experience to build on, it is certainly worth the extra effort to ensure that the background data is considered and learned during a tasting. But I worry that stressing the factual aspects can be too much of a deterrent to the beginner. If they think they must walk away from a cheese tasting knowing this, that and the other, the whole thing can become too daunting and they may not ever go to one.

Isn't any broadening of one's horizons desirable? Even if just by a millimeter? While working in various scientific fields, I've observed that with a totally novel idea the most one might be able to hope for after the initial exposure is a vague impression tucked away in the back of the mind. Full understanding is rarely something that occurs immediately. It requires contemplation and re-exposure.

So for beginning cheese tasters, I think just encountering the range of flavors is a great beginning and simply deciding which flavor is preferred is an even larger step. Being able to recite from memory the origin, history and trivia of various cheeses is something that will come with time and experience (and, often, the chagrin of those around you who tend to quickly tire of the subject).

Anyway, I’ll climb down from the cheese-box now. And you… yeah, you… don't take my word for it... go out and taste some cheese!

Butcher’s Cave

We spent a lot of time hiking around Joshua Tree National Park when we lived in the Mojave desert. Initially we stayed on the well-known trails, but then I started corresponding with a man who grew up in the area and he told me about all sorts of interesting hikes not listed in the guide books. In fact, the park rangers tend to remain pretty mum about some of these places because they are filled with petroglyphs and other archeological finds.

One of these “secret” locations is Butcher’s Cave. Park rangers say that when the cave was “discovered” in the 1920’s, there were over 50 big horn sheep skulls inside and anthropologists speculate the cave was used for butchering. Hence the name. But our experience makes us suspect something different…

Our hike started a bit south of the base of Queen Mountain and from there it was up and over a pretty steep ridge into a valley filled with Western tanagers in full red and yellow breeding plumage. They were flying about everywhere as we walked along through some oaks toward the next small ridge. Then, in the midst of doing a bit of rock scrambling to get over the ridge, we were stopped by the calls of rock wrens and spent about ten minutes frozen in place trying to spot one of those furtive little birds. Although not our initial focus for the day, it was turning into a great birding hike!

The directions from my pen pal said to hike down the next large wash and then branch off to a smaller wash directly across from a rock formation of three big rectangular blocks in the cliff face. Well, you’d think we’d be able to notice something that was literally as big as a house, but no… so after going too far (when the big wash started to bear south, we knew we’d missed our turn), we turned around, trudged about a half of a mile back through the sand and found the smaller wash. We didn’t mind the backtracking, it goes with navigating around that part of the park (in fact, the area adjacent to where we were hiking is called “The Wonderland of Rocks” and is a veritable maze) and can result in the discovery of all sorts of interesting things (but that story is for another day).

The side wash lead to another smaller wash and then to yet another small valley, very similar to the first, but this one also contained phainopeplas (for you east coast people, picture a svelte, black cardinal) and black-throated sparrows. Definitely a good birding day. The map showed one more small hill to cross and we’d be in the valley containing Butcher’s Cave.

We crested the ridge and expected to see the cave entrance on the far side of the valley, but there were numerous rock formations on the valley floor blocking the view. Eventually we hiked around enough of them that... there it was… Butcher’s Cave.



The cave is not at the level of the valley floor (and since the rocks are constantly eroding and filling the valleys of the park with sand, the cave was even higher up in prehistoric times) and we had to do a bit of rock scrambling to get up to the opening. RWT went in, I took this picture…



… and then he wanted to leave. Immediately. Now RWT is not one to notice the subtleties in life, but even he felt what the voice inside my head had been screaming (Amityville Horror-like) since we’d entered that valley… “get out”. There was something not right about this area. In general, most of the park has a nice, feel-good vibe to it. It can be harsh, daunting and incredibly dangerous, but not scary. However, this valley and particularly the cave were somehow different. Creepy. Bad. A purely instinctive feeling that we should not be there.

Since both of us were in complete agreement, we didn’t hang around to picnic at the cave as we’d planned. And then, as we were walking out of the valley we noticed it… no birds. None. No bird songs. Totally, eerily silent.

If the surrounding areas had not been filled with birds, we would have written it off as one of those bad birding days when all the birds seem to be napping or gone off on holiday. But as soon as we were back in the next valley, there was a pair of blue-gray gnatcatchers chattering at us from a creosote bush. And a flock of bushtits in a desert willow further down the side wash. We ended the hike by climbing up the back side of Queen Mountain and reversing the route of a previous hike (not the easiest or most direct way back to the car, but it was fun).

RWT and I often talk about that day and wonder if we were imagining things. We never had the opportunity to go back to Butcher's Cave, but even if we did, I doubt we would be able to overcome our first oh-so-strong and oh-so-negative impressions. Regardless, we’ll never know what the early people who lived there did in that cave, there were no petroglyphs and the skulls are long gone. But I disagree that the cave was used simply for butchering sheep, it is too difficult to get to and way, way too ominous.

Peony Envy

There is a street near our house that is appropriately named Mansion Drive. It gracefully curves up a hill and is bordered by huge lots hosting similarly sized houses… colonnaded southern-style homes, dignified and tastefully painted colonials (no hot pink or lavender shutters on this street) and the most gorgeous Arts & Crafts style house I’ve ever seen (whenever I’m over that way, I go by just to look at that house and by now the owners probably think I am casing the place).

The yards of these houses are also spectacular – filled with majestic oaks and magnolias, brimming with shrubs and perennials and everything tended with the most love and affection that money can buy. Even the street itself is smooth, without potholes (recently resurfaced while other more deserving but less affluently named streets are neglected) and has a charming tree and plant-filled island dividing it at the apex of the hill.

But every time I go down Mansion Drive I find myself wondering… is all the beautiful perfection on the inside too? Do the resident’s lives match the exterior? Grand, sumptuous, impressive and full. Or are they more like the peonies blooming in their flower beds? Showy and beautiful until flattened to the ground by the first summer thunderstorm. Does wealth buy happiness or (as an old friend says) does it merely pay the postage and handling? Or does wealth have little to do with one’s satisfaction with life?

I’ve noticed that in the front of one of the stately colonials on the street is a very big, very dead oak and, since it could easily fall and damage the house, I speculate why they do not have it removed... maybe the oak is a reminder of a beloved spouse who has also died. Or the owners are so busy that having the tree taken out is just something on a long list of household chores and they can never quite find the time to call a tree service. Or all their spare money is tied up in the house, the cars or college tuition, just like 99% of other people.

What is my point in all of this? I really don’t think I have one. Would I want to live on that street? Sure, who wouldn’t (especially in that Arts & Crafts house – the new couches would go perfectly). Would it be worth changing my life as it is right now to be able to afford to live there? No. So for now, I’ll stay in my austere, rented colonial on a marginally fashionable street and just visit Mansion Drive and admire and wonder…

[Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By]

I have received an inquiry as to how is the easiest way to know when I've posted something new here on my blog. A couple of options that I have personal experience with:

When I want to keep up on changes to a website (such as when ColeHaan.com puts new shoes on their sale page), I use a service called Watch That Page. It is free, you just need to sign up with an email account. Then you can enter the address for the page you are interested in and whenever something new is added to that page, Watch That Page will send you a notification via email. The only downside is that it is not immediate since the Watch That Page computer only checks for changes once a day.

Or, if you look in the bottom right corner of your browser window and you see a little orange square with a white dot and a couple of curved white lines, you have the option of using a Live Bookmark for this site. Click on it, follow the directions to add a Live Bookmark to your bookmark list, and then when you scroll over it the bookmark with your mouse, you can see if there are any new topics posted. Unlike the above option, this will show changes immediately. The downside -- you'll need to check yourself (but you won't have to open the page to do so) and Live Bookmarks do not work in Microsoft Internet Explorer (to my knowledge).

Lastly, I am making the attempt to post pretty much daily, but you know how real life can occasionally take precedence over the virtual world. So just stop on by and there should be something new!

Down Under

Caution: I’m in a mood. Read at your own risk!

It is just one of those days. I am down, dull, depressed, distressed, dissatisfied, despondent, dejected, disconsolate, disheartened, demoralized, dim-witted, dismal, driveling, dreary, dingy, drab and discouraged. Why? No good reason whatsoever.

I got plenty of sleep last night and woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Went downstairs and removed the sandwich-making-related stain from RWT’s new shirt (some tamarind paste leaked in the refrigerator, ran onto the bottom of the mayo jar and then mysteriously transferred itself to RWT’s shirt cuff). Still felt okay, maybe a little tired… And that was when I made what was my big error in judgment. I decided to go back to bed.

Zzzzzzz. 9:30. Ugh. I dragged (another “d” word) myself down to the basement to workout. 20 minutes on the treadmill. I’m tired. 20 minutes lifting weights and doing sit-ups. Blech. 20 more minutes on the treadmill. Need to fight a really strong urge to go upstairs and lay on my bed... the desire to watch the end of the soap I have taped wins out. 20 more minutes lifting weights. I had just better do the whole workout. The last 20 minutes on the treadmill. Phew! Over. Finally.

A shower might help… no. I inadvertently turned up the water too high and the world’s smallest hot water heater ran out of hot water while I was in the midst of conditioning my hair. Brrr. And speaking of my hair, it hurts. I leave it down, it bugs me, I put it up, it bugs me. Taking scissors to is surprisingly tempting. I also itch. I am covered with mosquito bites from weeding yesterday. Even though I wore sweatpants, one of those evil critters flew up my pant leg and chewed on my calf. Hmmm, maybe all the mosquito poisons are affecting my brain…

Perhaps reading my favorite food forum will cheer me up... Nope. Lots of new posts filled with witticisms and amusing insights, but it just doesn't work to lift my spirits. Everyone else seems to be in a good mood, why not me?!? The dog can tell I am in a bad mood and has made herself scarce. She’s no dummy (and is probably on the phone extension upstairs warning RWT).

I'm also feeling homesick, which is a bit strange since I've lived in so many locales and really have no place to call "home" (other than where I am currently living at the moment). But that feeling was probably triggered by the fact that RWT is going to the west coast next week while I'll be stuck in this hot, sticky jungle. Specifically, he's off to the Seattle area where my favorite aunt and two of my good friends live. No humidity, good food, good company, vistas...

Well, enough of my whining. Shoe shopping, the usual remedy for a bad mood, is out since I am trying to conserve money after the big couch purchase. There is only one thing to do... carbs and cheesy television. So if you need me, I’ll be sitting in the big poofy chair in front of the t.v., a large bowl of kettle corn in my lap, watching season three episodes of Andromeda.

If someone makes a joke in the woods…

… and no one is there to hear it, is it funny?

A venerable friend once commented that a message I sent him was too funny not to be shared. But can humor really be wasted? Is it like money in that famous line from Hello Dolly… "Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless it's spread around encouraging young things to grow." Just how big of an audience does humor need?

In the course of my average day, there are numerous things that make me laugh. Sometimes the humor comes from an outside source, such as every time someone on television says “new-cue-lar” (which is pretty often lately). But most commonly the thought originates in my own head and never escapes from the deep, dark, twisted recesses of my brain. Occasionally, I’ll have the urge to tell the dog about whatever it is that’s cracking me up, but unless it contains the words “walk”, “frisbee”, “squirrel”, or “Sadie”, she rarely finds it very amusing. And even if I did share it with another person, would they laugh at it? Or would it be just one of those “you had to be there” type things, with the “there” being inside my skull?

Which leads to the question of why people’s sense of humor varies so greatly… I’ve always assumed that it is due to life experiences and how one is raised (nurture instead nature). Outside of immediate family, I’ve only known a few people who I would say are totally in sync with my (rather eccentric) sense of humor. RWT and I certainly do not always agree on what is funny. I love movies in the style of Airplane, but he gets far more amusement from watching me laugh at them (however, he does like Monty Python flicks, so go figure). On the other hand, RWT thinks it is hilarious to mislead people as to my real personality (such as convincing a co-worker that I was a biker-chick with tattoos) and cracks up when they finally meet me. Obviously, for me, this tends to lead more toward confusion than laughter.

But I read in the newspaper last week they’ve found the part of the brain that controls the ability to understand sarcasm (click). So physiology is involved in at least certain aspects of humor and this could explain why most men find The Three Stooges funny, but women generally do not. Or why puns seem to be the humor of choice for so many engineers and scientists – maybe the pun-humor area is located next to the mathematical/analytical thinking area? (And this finding could really help me understand the behavior of some of my in-laws…especially since I’ve always suspected the possibility of brain damage.)

Perhaps the bottom line is that when humor is shared with a larger audience, there is more a chance that it will really resonate with someone. However, my point of view is that humor is not wasted if it brightens the day of just one person. And even if I am the only one laughing.

Dancing with Border Collies

A warning: The following topic has a rather small audience, but I really needed to get it out of my head. So in attempt to keep everyone’s interest, I alternated it (paragraph by paragraph) with another story (about my first border collie). Sort of like Simon & Garfunkel did with the lyrics of “Scarborough Fair” (which I never, ever noticed until RWT pointed it out -- he has an odd passion for both 60’s folk rock and contemplating song lyrics and I keep telling him that those artists were doing major drugs and the lyrics make no sense whatsoever, but he still insists on delving into their meaning.) And good luck making any sense of this!

I finally got around to reading the food section in last week’s paper and discovered a sad item… Melrose in the Park Hyatt will be closing on 31 July for a complete renovation and “re-concept”.

If they had a list of the world’s most sneaky dogs, my first border collie, Tasha, would have easily been in the top ten. Her needs always took precedence over anyone or anything else’s and she would go to great lengths to get what she wanted, especially when it concerned food.

RWT and I went to Melrose for our anniversary in May and had a rather disappointing meal that cost a considerable amount of money. So then why is the news of their closure sad? Melrose is the only place I know of in the area that provides fine dining and ballroom-style dancing.

Tasha did not start out as a food obsessed dog. In fact, early on in her life she was a bit picky like most border collies. There was a point in time when you could leave a plate of food on the floor, walk out of the room and she would not touch it. But then my mother got a hold of her during my junior year of college and my first couple of years with RWT (when I lived in apartments that did not allow dogs). After my mother convinced the dog that food was the end-all and be-all of the universe (my mother was good at doing this to people too!), Tasha turned into quite the little piggie.

The night we went to Melrose, everyone on our side of the tragically L-shaped dining room (with the exception of a group of women having a business meeting) got up to dance at one point or another during the evening. And they were all obviously experienced dancers. So I suspect the other patrons were there for the dancing more than the food, which was also our primary reason for choosing Melrose for our anniversary dinner.

People say that dogs cannot feel regret. Well, they never met Tasha. I arrived home from work one day, took a look at the dog and knew something was very, very wrong. She had “guilt” written all over her fuzzy black and white face. I walked with trepidation into the kitchen and saw it… an empty ziploc bag on the floor.

The dance floor at Melrose is basically an overgrown entryway with waiters adeptly charging across it at full speed, but at least it is a place to dance. We don’t have much interest in going out to a smoke-filled bar or deafeningly-loud club, but want to be able to get up between the main course and dessert and do the rumba or to linger over dessert and dance a tango. Melrose offered that.

When I had left for work that morning, the ziploc bag contained two freshly baked loaves of oatmeal maple bread. (Sometime while being brain-washed by my mother, Tasha had also learned that ziploc baggies always contained goodies and would rip into them no matter what the contents.) Now these were not petite little loaves of bread or light, airy loaves of bread, but big, hearty loaves. And they were nowhere to be seen. Well, that is not exactly true – one look at Tasha’s sides and it was pretty apparent where most of the bread ended up.

In addition to navigating between people foxtrotting & waltzing, the staff at Melrose is also well trained to wait for those couples to return to their tables before clearing away plates or bringing out the next course, so things ran smoothly considering all the interruptions to the service. And, although the music provided by the live band did not always provide an easy tempo for us novices, dancing was at least an option and we managed to dance to many of the songs. It was a fun night for us overall.

At that point I started yelling at the dog using a word that is particularly appropriate to call a female dog, plus a few other choice expletives. Tasha zoomed outside via the dog door and I followed to continue my tirade (and to look for the rest of the bread). As I was outside thoroughly cussing out the dog, I heard a noise from the neighbor’s yard. I looked over and there was the 10-year-old daughter of our neighbor hiding behind a tree. Our neighbor, the base chaplain. Great. So we took the lecture back inside.

It makes me start to wonder if RWT and I have simply come too late to social ballroom dancing. Did we arrive just in time to witness its demise? But one would never think that was true if they went to Melrose on a Saturday night and saw all the people who were there obviously to dance first and eat second.

After inadvertently expanding the vocabulary of my neighbor’s daughter, I walked into my living room (still yelling at the dog) and noticed that the pillows on my couch were all messed up. Aaaaack! Not only did that dog steal the bread, she was up on the couch too! I started straightening the couch pillows (while now yelling at Tasha about being on up the couch) when I stopped and started laughing hysterically.

Why are there no other places around here to get good food and dance all in one location? There are plenty of salsa dancing venues. Numerous milongas (where one goes to dance the Argentine tango). Bars & nightclubs abound. And there are also dedicated ballroom dance halls, but eating the food there is risking one’s health and the vibe is definitely more competitive than social. So even with the overpriced, mediocre food, we’d go back to Melrose, just for the ambiance and the dancing.

Stuffed way down in the corner of the couch and covered with the pillows was three-quarters of one of the missing loaves of bread. It was all covered in sand, and upon further exploration, I found a shallow hole dug in the back yard. The ground outside was too hard for proper burial, so Tasha stashed her treasure in the couch. That was funny enough, but what really cracked me up was the mental picture of the dog trying to get that large loaf of bread through the 8”-wide dog door. Did she try to walk through with it crosswise in her mouth and the bread hit on both sides of the door and stopped her in her tracks? Did she push it through? Did she go outside first and drag it out? I’m sure it was quite the dilemma for her at the time.

And wouldn’t a place like Melrose only with better food for less money have an even larger following? I do think there is an audience (exactly how many is the question) who want to put on nice clothes, go to someplace elegant & classy, eat a good meal and do some dancing. I like to think that a restaurant providing that would be a success, but I am afraid we’ll just never find out.

Luckily, there was no lasting harm done as a result of the bread theft. Tasha did not eat for two days, but was no worse for wear. I made more bread. The neighbor’s child eventually lost her fear of me. And my hissy-fit did nothing to stop the dog in her quest for self-indulgence. But I’ll save the story involving Tasha, a pound of M&M’s, a pound of Starburst and a ghostly, reappearing image of Christ for the next time I want to rant about dining and dancing…

Confused? (BTW – Scarborough Fair is a waltz.)

Astilbe My Heart

Many of my military friends wonder why I spend so much time, effort and money gardening in yards that are merely borrowed for a few years. They figure “Why bother? You’ll just be moving soon” or “Why invest in improving someone else’s property?” But then I go out into my backyard to pot up some volunteer perennials for a friend’s new garden and I see this:

Learning a whole new set of plants to culture... First it was plants that grew in the season-less warm fog of coastal southern California, then in the southern end of a different state (Maryland) and in much more summer sun than we ever saw on the coast, then I really discovered what “full sun” meant in the Mojave desert and finally back to the east coast to figure out what to plant in the shade under the towering oaks of the northern Virginia suburbs. Worth it.

(Hostas and Daylily)

Sinking $$$ into a yard that I do not own and will have to walk away from in a year or two... Worth it.

(Veronica & Anna)

Hours spent pulling up fugitive lawn grass, chickweed, henbit, chokeweed, plantain lilies, that unknown weed we always call “the sacrificial weed” because everything (from aphids to flea beetles to slugs to deer) always chews on it first, and all those miles of mock strawberries that thrive in this wild, green jungle known as the mid-Atlantic states... Worth it.

(Nicotiana and Phlox)

Hauling and spreading tons of mulch in half-empty beds while waiting for my bargain-priced perennials to get big enough to keep the rabid weeds at bay... Worth it.

(Ligularia)

Suffering innumerable bites from Asian mosquitoes that are obviously confused regarding the time zone and are not sleeping during the day like the reasonable native mosquitoes... Worth it.

(back to front: Columbine, Nicotiana, various Heucheras & Hosta)

Taking a yard containing a bunch of huge beds filled only with impatiens and a few large shrubs and turning it into a blooming, thriving garden bursting with textures, colors and smells... Worth it.

(Ferns & Hostas)

Being able to share my plants and seeds with friends and neighbors for their gardens... So very worth it.

(Astilbe with Eupatorium in back)

The Other Grandma

Before anyone starts to feel to sorry for me that I grew up with a mean, praline-rationing grandmother, you need to know about my other grandmother. Unlike my father’s mother who was a cerebral, WASP-y woman who could not cook to save her life, my maternal grandmother (always called Bama by her five grandchildren) was an Italian/Greek food pusher who pretty much resided in her kitchen. (My parents lived “A Big Fat Greek Wedding” ~40 years before it came out on film.)

Trips to Bama’s house were filled with eating that started the second we walked in the door…

Welcome! Have some food.
How was your trip? Have some food.
Tired? Have some food.
Happy? Have some food.
Sad? Have some food.
Have you lost weight? Have some food.
Bored? Have some food.
Did you fall down and skin your knee? Have some food.
Full? Have some food.

As if that were not enough, she would also send us out with our grandfather to get ice cream or doughnuts at least twice a day. And… “Oh, here is some candy. Would you like a cookie? They are just fresh from the oven…“ Luckily for my sisters and me, my mother concurred my grandmother’s food-centric views and additionally felt that grandparents are supposed to spoil grandchildren. Woo-hoo! We ran amok.

While my other grandmother lived just through the woods, Bama lived 3 to 4 hours away in the big city (well, it seemed big to me at the time, but it was only Modesto) in a pink house with white trim. And each bathroom in the house was a different pastel color – butter-mint green, baby blue and Pepto Bismal pink (the master bath) – with exact-color matching tile, tubs, sinks, toilets, fuzzy toilet lid covers, rugs, walls, towels, soap and knick-knacks (we used the blue bathroom with the cyanotic cherub soap dish that I vividly remember to this day).

Also residing in my grandparent’s candy-colored house, was always at least one pet bird belonging to my grandfather (he started with canaries, but had moved on to parakeets by the time I was around). Every morning my grandfather would save a crust from his morning toast, dip it in his coffee and place it on his empty breakfast plate. Then he’d open the door to Corkey’s cage (all the parakeets were named Corkey), the bird would climb down its little ladder and peck at the toast until it all that was left on the plate was a few crumbs and a faint smear of coffee. After eating, Corkey (probably as a result of all the caffeine he just ingested) would proceed to fly around the kitchen. That would cause my grandmother to try to cover her heavily hair-sprayed bouffant hairdo with her hands and yell: “Nick, Nick, the bird is going to get stuck in my hair!” This ritual was repeated daily until my grandfather’s death (the last of the Corkey’s came to live with us, but he did not outlive my grandfather by more than a month).

And trips to Bama’s house always culminated with a huge dinner for all the surrounding family. A long table (or maybe it was two) was set up in their large rec-room (which had been the garage before extensive remodeling) and my mother and grandmother would spend the whole day in the kitchen cooking. Then the extended family would start showing up, all bearing bowls and dishes of food. To me, everyone was “Aunt-this” or “Uncle-that” – I have no idea how many were actually relatives. I also have no idea how long those meals lasted, one moment I would be sitting at the table, leaning against my mother and then I would wake up in the next morning in the room with three twin beds and the (quite terrifying) pictures of clowns on the walls.

The oddest thing is that while I associate my Bama with food and with the exception of the rabbit ear cookies (koulourakia) that she kept between layers of wax paper in a large hat box under her bed (and how can one forget something like that!), I really do not recall any details about the things she cooked. I don’t remember what she served at those huge family dinners, what kind of cookies she stuffed us with fresh from the oven or what we ate for lunch sitting at her kitchen table next to the picture window with little pots of cacti lined up all along the sill. Not even a single memory of any food made with the huge, sweet lemons off the giant tree in her backyard.

But I am fortunate to have some of my grandmother’s old cookbooks and recipe cards so I do know that, like me, she was a copious note-taker regarding her cooking. All of her cookbooks are heavily annotated with changes, substitutions and comments on the tastiness of the resulting dishes. I have never had the opportunity to know my grandmother or to watch her cook from the perspective of an adult and avid cook myself. But when I make things from her recipes, I like to think about her cooking the same thing in her kitchen all those years ago. Now if she had only made pralines…