Friends, Rumball Season is upon us.
That’s right. Nothing says the holidays like a dense, boozey confection. In fact, with the amount of both baked goods and alcohol consumed by the average American during the month of December, it’s no wonder some brilliant pastry chef somewhere along the way decided to combine the two and enable multi-tasking. I think that should be enough to make us all say a little prayer of thanksgiving.
And so, to get back into the rumball spirit, honor The Season, and recognize the fact that Restoration Hardware is already on its 83rd day of Christmas, I decided it was time this blog paid a little homage to its roots.
Ever since I started this little adventure (in March) and with each of the countless (5) postings I have written, I have been bombarded (once) with the same question: What is a rumball?
Rumball [`rëm `bo´l]: From the German rumründ and Old Norse lusHbeall.
A truffle-like confection, being sweet dense balls flavored with chocolate and rum.
Yes, the inspiration for my blog and the object of my life’s pursuits is, more or less, an alcoholic Milk Dud. But such a Dud few have ever tasted! The original ball hailed from a Swedish bakery in Tiburon, CA, the aptly named Sweden House Bakery. It is a humble place, whose sole claim to fame may be its immediate proximity to Sam’s Anchor Café. But once you’ve tried the rumballs within, you realize that there is no place quite like it on earth.
But, as with the holiday season, we must not spend the entire blog dwelling on what was. We must forage onward in search of rummier pastures. That said, and because wheresmyrumball is still a travelog at heart, I take you now to the most appropriate destination I could think of for the season. I take you to Snow Village.
As much as I would like to remain non-denominational right now, there is no denying that The Village is a Christmas affair. Not so much in the sense of religious beliefs, but in the sense of shameless commercialism. Nonetheless, it is a glorious tradition, one of fine ceramic craftsmanship and strategic batting* arrangement. And, at least in the Rinder family, it is serious business.
Snow Village entered our lives on December 25, 1994, when my father – ever desperate for ideas for my mom, whose idea of a “helpful” Christmas wish list includes items such as 4” x 6” photo paper (glossy) – gifted her The Snow Gothic Farmhouse, just to see if it would take. And, as no Snow Building can be without at least a few accessories, he threw in The Snow Mailbox and The Snow Fire Hydrant too. With such emergency response preparedness and USPS compliance, how could Mom object? Snow Outpost was established in the dining room.
With this initial success under his belt, Dad continued the “tradition” next year and gave Mom another Snow House, a few Snow Benches, and (gasp) the first Snow Inhabitants. Snow Outpost successfully transitioned into Snow Settlement. And there was much rejoicing.
I cannot recall whether it was the next year or a few years later that Snow Village experienced a real estate boom similar to Silicon Valley circa 1999. Dad happened to stumble into the lower level of our local Christmas tree vendor, where he discovered nothing less than Snow Mecca. Every available surface of the store was covered with it – Snow Houses, Snow Shoppes, Snow People, Snow Foliage, Snow Pigeons, you name it. Dad’s decision was clear: Snow Presents for everyone.
It should be said at this point that I personally thought Snow Village was the best thing to happen to Christmas since the Barbie Dreamhouse of '87. So you can only imagine my delight when I joined the ranks of proud homeowners, and my near ecstasy when I became the proprietor of not only the Snow Skating Rink (the people really move!), but also the Snow Chimney Sweep and Snow Trash Cans.
A few Christmases later, for completely unrelated reasons according to Mom, my parents decided to set a present limit for each other. 3 items. No more, no less. One might think this stipulation would lend itself to gifts such as nice jewelry, or elaborate vacation packages, or expensive electronics. Or a pony. One might think it would not lend itself to gifts such as lip balm, or day planners, or the unthinkable, Snow Tchotskies.
On Christmas morning, we all gathered ‘round the tree and began to open presents (which we do one by one, in turns, to allow for the appropriate oohing and ahhing and togetherness). It quickly became clear (because I looked) that the very large package toward the back of the tree had Mom’s name on it. The anticipation mounted – definitely the electronics! or the pony – and finally she ripped it open to discover…
That was the year that Mom realized she needed to set some Snow Zoning Ordinances. Ignoring Dad’s somewhat feeble protestations re: the subtleties of “item” versus “wrapped item,” she firmly declared that she was not going to let us become “one of those families that can’t even play their piano because it is covered with Snow Village.” We would happily remain one of those families that can’t play their piano because we don’t know how.
From that point onward, Snow Development in the Rinder household would adhere to the following code:
I) All Snow Dwellings, Offices, and Commercial Establishments would hereafter be relegated to one (1) surface in the house, that being the buffet cabinet in the dining room.
II) The aforementioned surface could be expanded via artificial means, i.e. plywood, provided that the offended party could still access her dishware.
III) Failure to comply would result in the offending party’s immediate removal to Snow Hell.
Thus, Snow Village quickly settled into a happy and stable no-growth economy. And there was much rejoicing.
I need a rumball.
* Note that, contrary to popular belief, batting is the fluffy white stuff used as quilt filler, fake snow, and impromptu après ski blanket as needed. Bunting is the cloth crap used to make flags and other flag-themed trimmings.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Accidental Entomologist
In 1990, shortly after my family moved to Chicago for the first time, I was introduced to the Midwestern delight of the 17-year cicada. To commemorate this potentially once-in-a-lifetime experience, we have a picture of my dad and I standing in our front yard, which is literally carpeted in the bugs, and the expression on my 7 year-old face is clearly letting Mom (behind the camera) & Dad (stage left) know that when the cicadas have dispatched them and sucked out their juices, I am going to live with my real parents. 17 years later, with a keen sense of timing and skills equivalent to those of a bluejay that flies into the same window over and over again, I managed to coordinate my second move to Chicago just in time for the Next Coming.For any of you who haven’t managed to be in the greater Chicagoland area between late May and early July of 1939, 1956, 1973, 1990, or 2007, allow me to explain the phenomenon that is The Periodical Cicada.
Basically, these are bugs that have a longer life span than your average goat. The cicada youth are called “nymphs,” a word which has apparently expanded from the classical definition of “beautiful maidens dwelling in the mountains, forests, trees, and waters” to include enormous pre-pubescent insects. These nymphs hibernate underground for the first 16 years and 10 months of their lives, emerging from the soil in late May of their 17th year (possibly upon realizing that they are now eligible to drive in the U.S.) Once topside, the nymphs undergo their final molt, littering the terrain with peapod-like shells and revealing that they are in fact albino. The other bugs’ vicious teasing drives the cicadas to scamper up the nearest tree, where they cling for several days while their exoskeletons harden and darken to a nice normal brown color. The cicadas’ eyes remain red to secure their supporting role on Fear Factor.
So many of these creatures emerge over a 1-2 week period that they pretty much cover the entire surface area of certain Chicago suburbs. Then the mating ritual begins. The males produce their mating call using structures in their abdomen called tymbals, and after 17 years of celibacy the competition for a mate can be pretty fierce. You can imagine the scene in the locker room: “My exoskeleton is harder than yours” and “Check out the tymbals on that guy!”
After slapping each other on the thorax and crushing a few deciduous rootlets on their heads, the males begin to collectively belt out a chorus that can reach up to 96 decibels (the equivalent of a low jet fly-by). This obviously makes the females come a-running. So drunk on love are they that both males and females proceed to fly into anything that moves. Or doesn’t. In fact, you can basically dropkick these things and they won’t even bat a beady red eye, thanks to those exoskeletons. Simultaneous with the mating symphony, the molted shells that are still covering the ground from the initial emergence begin to decompose and produce a smell that has been unanimously classified by entomologists as “dirty diaper.”
At this point, many Chicagoans do the sensible thing: They eat the cicadas. That’s right, cicadas are a delicacy in many cultures! But really, who wouldn’t want to eat a gigantic winged insect that has been marinating in pesticides and fertilizer since before the fall of the Soviet Union? Apparently the cicada has a nutty flavor and, if harvested at the right time, its texture is similar to the soft shell crab. You can batter them, fry them, serve them as appetizers, put them on pizzas, or bake them into yummy desserts. [For more info, see wheresmycicadaball.com. And don’t even bother coming back here.] But watch out – for those of you with shellfish allergies, cicadas may cause a flare-up as well. One website also warns cicada snackers to “be wary if you are prone to the gout.”
A handful of Chicago merchants have taken the cicadamania still farther, coming up with the truly brilliant idea of using the giant bugs as a marketing ploy. Walter E. Smithe Furniture is having their “Cicada Sale” which boasts such ingenious taglines as “Miss it and wait another 17 years!” and “Escape the noise and save a bundle!” The TV commercial features 3 men with their heads superimposed on cicada bodies, singing about their low prices to the tune of “You Might Think” by the Cars. Other, less inventive products include “I Heart Cicada” t-shirts, key chains, and of course cookbooks.
By late June, most of the adult cicadas will have gone to that great piece of tree bark in the sky, but not without leaving their spawn behind. Females can lay up to 600 eggs apiece, ensuring the continuation of their species for another 17 years. (But don’t worry, their long life cycle means that periodical cicadas escape natural population control and can achieve astounding densities as high as 1.5 million per acre! No need for that endangered classification just yet.) The eggs incubate for a month or so until late July or early August, when they hatch, pour down from the trees like raindrops, and burrow underground until 2024.
Right about the time I move into my treehouse in Elmhurst.
My tymbals are bigger than yours.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Derby Days, or The Demon Daybreak Goes to Kentuckiana
Had you asked me two months ago (around the time of my last post… shhhhh) where I would be on May 3, 2007, I might have said Chicago. I might have said New York. I might have even said Tushka, OK.
I would not have placed myself in a 36’ RV called the Demon Daybreak gunning down I-65 toward scenic Clarksville, IN with a handful of unidentified Irishmen and a fridge full of raw meat.
And yet that is where I found myself just a few short days ago. For those of you who are questioning my life choices right now, let me clarify a few things:
1. The RV was not actually named the Demon Daybreak. It was the Daybreak model by the highly respectable Damon Motor Coach Company. The demons came along later in the trip.
2. One does not necessarily “gun” an RV. We kept it at a civilized 60-65 mph, slowing down for curves and while attempting to retrieve bottled beverages from the fridge.
3. Clarksville, IN was not our final destination. Our final destination was the KOA trailer park just up the road.
4. We cooked the meat before we ate it. (Mostly.)
5. While I may not have known the Irishmen’s names for portions of the trip, neither did they.
The ultimate destination, before you get really concerned, was the Churchill Downs and the 133rd Kentucky Derby. And, we reasoned, if one is checking this epic event off the life To Do list, one had best do it in proper style and with the necessary vehicular bling. Methinks Xzibit would be the first to agree.
My goal today, however, is not to give you all the details of the weekend (for that, please see "Chamillionaire & Krayzie Bone") but rather to address a few myths and stereotypes that you may have (and I certainly did) regarding the Derby itself, the nature of RV travel, and the entire nation of Ireland. Let’s begin.
MYTH: Proper Derby attire is similar to what you might find at a debutante ball.
VERDICT: True.
This I discovered a bit late in the game. As in, upon my arrival at the Churchill Downs clad in a Guinness t-shirt, the pants I had slept in the night before, Reefs, and a trucker hat with my name written on it that I purchased on the streets of New York for $10. Now, let me disclaim that it was raining outside and threatening to continue for the entire day. Let me also note that we weren’t sitting in the grandstands but rather standing in the infield, which would presumably turn into a muddy pit by the end of the day due to the precipitation. This did not seem to concern the coiffed and feathered J Crew models on steroids surrounding us. Nor, presumably, did it concern the Queen of England, who was also in attendance and who I’m betting was not carting around a roll of toilet paper “in case the Port-o-Johns run low.”
MYTH: The Kentucky Derby is a horse race.
VERDICT: Unclear.
I am guessing that this one is true but could not confirm it because from no spot on the infield is a live horse actually visible. We peasants had to sneak into the paddock area, and from there we had a view of the large screen TVs that were broadcasting the races. I’m guessing that those who dished out the $3000 for grandstand seats got HD. Queen Elizabeth may have had plasma.
MYTH: The Mint Julep is a Derby delight and the drink of choice for all race goers.
VERDICT: False.
The Mint Julep is whisky on the rocks with a sprig of mint floating on top. Even the infamous Woodford Reserve $1000 Mint Julep, made with ice from the Arctic Circle, fresh mint flown in from Morocco, and sugar imported from Mauritius, served in a gold-plated cup with sterling silver straw, is no Derby delight. And the drink of choice for this race goer was (clearly) Miller Lite. Although, in a pinch, Smirnoff + Sunny D = crazy delicious.
MYTH: RVs are a means to an end, the perfect ride for anyone who doesn’t like stopping every time they need a bathroom.
VERDICT: False.
While it is true that motor coaches offer the comfort of ensuite facilities for the efficient traveler, the Daybreak by Damon is so much more than a mode of transportation. Picture an exceptionally roomy living area with inviting home-style décor and elegant furniture selections, an efficient kitchen with rich cabinetry and lots of useable storage space, and a master bedroom designed for comfort and charm. The Daybreak made the KOA motor park, and the interstate, feel like home – thanks Damon! (In a sidenote, should you feel inclined to refund the fees assessed for damages to the convertible table-bed and spot cleaning of the carpet, I do have a PayPal account for your convenience.)
MYTH: It is impossible to get bad barbecue in the South.
VERDICT: False.
I have actually disproved this theory multiple times in the past two weeks, which is perhaps why I have been experiencing some symptoms of depression. Both on this trip to Kentucky and on a trip to Nashville the weekend prior (yes, yes that does mean I drove the same stretch of I-65 four times in a ten day span) I was a victim of bad barbecue. It started in Nashville. I had signed up for the Country Music ½ marathon purely on the pretext that I would be able to consume massive amounts of pulled pork after crossing the finish line. Had I known that the payoff was going to be slightly raw pork on a soggy bun with a dollop of what appeared to be watered down marinara sauce with oregano sprinkled on top, I might have chosen differently. Especially when I discovered this to be the condiment of choice in Kentucky as well, and that it was not limited to pork. Needless to say, we stuck with burgers for the rest of the weekend and formulated plans to report several local restaurants to the Better Business Bureau. And ship them a crate of Sweet Baby Ray’s.
MYTH: The Irish drink more than any other people on the planet.
VERDICT: True.
Names have been changed to protect immigration status, but let’s just say that observing “Martin” and “Francis” and “Bart” over the course of the weekend prompted one member of our party to declare: “It makes my liver want to jump out my mouth and run away.”
Or maybe that was the bad barbecue.
I would not have placed myself in a 36’ RV called the Demon Daybreak gunning down I-65 toward scenic Clarksville, IN with a handful of unidentified Irishmen and a fridge full of raw meat.
And yet that is where I found myself just a few short days ago. For those of you who are questioning my life choices right now, let me clarify a few things:
1. The RV was not actually named the Demon Daybreak. It was the Daybreak model by the highly respectable Damon Motor Coach Company. The demons came along later in the trip.
2. One does not necessarily “gun” an RV. We kept it at a civilized 60-65 mph, slowing down for curves and while attempting to retrieve bottled beverages from the fridge.
3. Clarksville, IN was not our final destination. Our final destination was the KOA trailer park just up the road.
4. We cooked the meat before we ate it. (Mostly.)
5. While I may not have known the Irishmen’s names for portions of the trip, neither did they.
The ultimate destination, before you get really concerned, was the Churchill Downs and the 133rd Kentucky Derby. And, we reasoned, if one is checking this epic event off the life To Do list, one had best do it in proper style and with the necessary vehicular bling. Methinks Xzibit would be the first to agree.
My goal today, however, is not to give you all the details of the weekend (for that, please see "Chamillionaire & Krayzie Bone") but rather to address a few myths and stereotypes that you may have (and I certainly did) regarding the Derby itself, the nature of RV travel, and the entire nation of Ireland. Let’s begin.
MYTH: Proper Derby attire is similar to what you might find at a debutante ball.
VERDICT: True.
This I discovered a bit late in the game. As in, upon my arrival at the Churchill Downs clad in a Guinness t-shirt, the pants I had slept in the night before, Reefs, and a trucker hat with my name written on it that I purchased on the streets of New York for $10. Now, let me disclaim that it was raining outside and threatening to continue for the entire day. Let me also note that we weren’t sitting in the grandstands but rather standing in the infield, which would presumably turn into a muddy pit by the end of the day due to the precipitation. This did not seem to concern the coiffed and feathered J Crew models on steroids surrounding us. Nor, presumably, did it concern the Queen of England, who was also in attendance and who I’m betting was not carting around a roll of toilet paper “in case the Port-o-Johns run low.”
MYTH: The Kentucky Derby is a horse race.
VERDICT: Unclear.
I am guessing that this one is true but could not confirm it because from no spot on the infield is a live horse actually visible. We peasants had to sneak into the paddock area, and from there we had a view of the large screen TVs that were broadcasting the races. I’m guessing that those who dished out the $3000 for grandstand seats got HD. Queen Elizabeth may have had plasma.
MYTH: The Mint Julep is a Derby delight and the drink of choice for all race goers.
VERDICT: False.
The Mint Julep is whisky on the rocks with a sprig of mint floating on top. Even the infamous Woodford Reserve $1000 Mint Julep, made with ice from the Arctic Circle, fresh mint flown in from Morocco, and sugar imported from Mauritius, served in a gold-plated cup with sterling silver straw, is no Derby delight. And the drink of choice for this race goer was (clearly) Miller Lite. Although, in a pinch, Smirnoff + Sunny D = crazy delicious.
MYTH: RVs are a means to an end, the perfect ride for anyone who doesn’t like stopping every time they need a bathroom.
VERDICT: False.
While it is true that motor coaches offer the comfort of ensuite facilities for the efficient traveler, the Daybreak by Damon is so much more than a mode of transportation. Picture an exceptionally roomy living area with inviting home-style décor and elegant furniture selections, an efficient kitchen with rich cabinetry and lots of useable storage space, and a master bedroom designed for comfort and charm. The Daybreak made the KOA motor park, and the interstate, feel like home – thanks Damon! (In a sidenote, should you feel inclined to refund the fees assessed for damages to the convertible table-bed and spot cleaning of the carpet, I do have a PayPal account for your convenience.)
MYTH: It is impossible to get bad barbecue in the South.
VERDICT: False.
I have actually disproved this theory multiple times in the past two weeks, which is perhaps why I have been experiencing some symptoms of depression. Both on this trip to Kentucky and on a trip to Nashville the weekend prior (yes, yes that does mean I drove the same stretch of I-65 four times in a ten day span) I was a victim of bad barbecue. It started in Nashville. I had signed up for the Country Music ½ marathon purely on the pretext that I would be able to consume massive amounts of pulled pork after crossing the finish line. Had I known that the payoff was going to be slightly raw pork on a soggy bun with a dollop of what appeared to be watered down marinara sauce with oregano sprinkled on top, I might have chosen differently. Especially when I discovered this to be the condiment of choice in Kentucky as well, and that it was not limited to pork. Needless to say, we stuck with burgers for the rest of the weekend and formulated plans to report several local restaurants to the Better Business Bureau. And ship them a crate of Sweet Baby Ray’s.
MYTH: The Irish drink more than any other people on the planet.
VERDICT: True.
Names have been changed to protect immigration status, but let’s just say that observing “Martin” and “Francis” and “Bart” over the course of the weekend prompted one member of our party to declare: “It makes my liver want to jump out my mouth and run away.”
Or maybe that was the bad barbecue.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Brooklyn: Ordinary Burough or Dream World of Magic?
I spent the past weekend in New York, primarily visiting one Liz Shearer and secondarily enjoying art and culture and stuff. And what better way to do the latter, we asked ourselves on Saturday morning (morning being 1pm NYT, which I have discovered is very different from EST), than by attending a barleywine festival in Brooklyn?
It was not our original plan to attend a barleywine festival in Brooklyn. However, Liz received some email correspondence late Friday evening that read something like this:
Drink as a Hobbit Drinks
Train for St. Patrick's Day at the eighth annual Split Thy Brooklyn Skull Barleywine Festival this weekend. On tap: 34 different brews, from winter wheats to chocolate stouts to the exceptionally strong namesake ales. Or as Eric Asimov writes: "Barley wines are not for chugging after a workout. They are not refreshing but thought-provoking, sip by contemplative sip ... I like to think of Bilbo Baggins, comfortable and secure in his paneled Hobbit hole, with a cupboard full of seedcakes and a mug of barley wine."
When one receives an invitation to a beer festival, the name of which appears to be written in pirate-speak and which someone named Eric Asimov* has likened to a cozy evening hearthside with Bilbo Baggins, one does not say no.
Or at least Liz and I do not.
Instead, we asked ourselves were we worthy of such an undertaking? We asked ourselves what we must do to properly prepare for said fest? We asked ourselves what would Bilbo do?
Now, I must pause my tale as it occurs to me that there may be a few of you out there who are not so familiar with the realms of fantasy literature and who I still deign to call ‘friend.’ (We won’t even go into whether those persons deign to call me friend or even acquaintance, nor whether they would deign to read this blog. Outlook not so good.)
But on the off chance there are some fantasy novel non-familiars in my reading audience, allow me to provide some background. When I speak of fantasy novels, I am talking Tolkien. I am talking Narnia. I am talking Lloyd Alexander. I am even talking Susan Cooper. Much as I love him, I am not talking Harry Potter.
Characters must include at least one hobbit, dwarf, gnome, or other such person of small stature. One character must have an animal friend and one must play a woodwind or stringed instrument (percussion and brass need not apply). Ideally one of the characters will be enchanted, although this requirement can also be filled by the animal friend. Once assembled, the cast of characters will form a band and proceed to rove.
For the most part this roving is through forests and in the best fantasy will involve a tree dwelling of some sort. While on the move, the travelers carry their worldly belongings and provisions strapped to their backs in rough burlap-style sacks. (When strapped to their belts, the sacks are made of leather and are called “pouches.”) Their food comes almost entirely in dense cake form, including oatcakes, wheatcakes, corncakes, seedcakes, and the aptly named “mealcakes.” Occasionally the forest will provide dietary supplements of wild berries or roots; perhaps even mythical beings would suffer ill effects from fiber deficiency in an entirely cake-based subsistence. Their drink is characterized only as “ale.” It is presumably dark, it is presumably strong, and it is most definitely carried in a pouch and enjoyed by all.
That said, the answer to our question WWBD? was all too clear. Faced with the prospect of a journey to far-off Brooklyn to imbibe of the fine barleywine, Bilbo would bake some oaten cakes and find a haversack in which to transport them.
Now, I am not sure that Bilbo would procure his oats at an organic grocery on 107th and Broadway, nor would he impulse purchase some pear and pecorino as a delightful hors d’oeuvre for his oatcake main dish, but sadly we were in Manhattan not Middle-earth and did I mention we like cheese?
So, with our haversacks (Liz’ was at least made of a canvassy material; mine was pathetically cotton) full of oatcakes and our hearts full of joy at the prospect of encountering other like-minded barley loving fellows, we set out to break our Brooklyn skulls.
Upon our arrival at Mug’s Ale House in the somewhat hipster neighborhood of Williamsburg, we were a bit surprised to find that our compatriots were not so much settled into large armchairs by the fire. Nor were they roving in the tiny wilderness of the back beer garden. There was ale all right, but it was served in miniature snifters rather than pouches or even earthenware mugs. No pipers piping, no lutists luting. There was not a cake in sight.
Nor was there a waiter in sight, for that matter. After consuming our first snifter of barleywine, we waited a solid 45 minutes to order our second, nibbling half-heartedly on an oatcake, only to be told by a very harassed looking waitress that they were just “really swamped” at the moment. Although our ears perked up momentarily at the mention of “swamp” (Gollum?), we decided perhaps it was time to rove onward.
We decided Bilbo would go to the delightful German beer haus up the way.
* Eric Asimov appears to be the chief wine critic for the NY Times. And a closet fantasy lover. I aspire to be Eric Asimov. Tragically, I know nothing of fine wines and my love of fantasy is no longer the well-kept secret it once was.
It was not our original plan to attend a barleywine festival in Brooklyn. However, Liz received some email correspondence late Friday evening that read something like this:
Drink as a Hobbit Drinks
Train for St. Patrick's Day at the eighth annual Split Thy Brooklyn Skull Barleywine Festival this weekend. On tap: 34 different brews, from winter wheats to chocolate stouts to the exceptionally strong namesake ales. Or as Eric Asimov writes: "Barley wines are not for chugging after a workout. They are not refreshing but thought-provoking, sip by contemplative sip ... I like to think of Bilbo Baggins, comfortable and secure in his paneled Hobbit hole, with a cupboard full of seedcakes and a mug of barley wine."
When one receives an invitation to a beer festival, the name of which appears to be written in pirate-speak and which someone named Eric Asimov* has likened to a cozy evening hearthside with Bilbo Baggins, one does not say no.
Or at least Liz and I do not.
Instead, we asked ourselves were we worthy of such an undertaking? We asked ourselves what we must do to properly prepare for said fest? We asked ourselves what would Bilbo do?
Now, I must pause my tale as it occurs to me that there may be a few of you out there who are not so familiar with the realms of fantasy literature and who I still deign to call ‘friend.’ (We won’t even go into whether those persons deign to call me friend or even acquaintance, nor whether they would deign to read this blog. Outlook not so good.)
But on the off chance there are some fantasy novel non-familiars in my reading audience, allow me to provide some background. When I speak of fantasy novels, I am talking Tolkien. I am talking Narnia. I am talking Lloyd Alexander. I am even talking Susan Cooper. Much as I love him, I am not talking Harry Potter.
Characters must include at least one hobbit, dwarf, gnome, or other such person of small stature. One character must have an animal friend and one must play a woodwind or stringed instrument (percussion and brass need not apply). Ideally one of the characters will be enchanted, although this requirement can also be filled by the animal friend. Once assembled, the cast of characters will form a band and proceed to rove.
For the most part this roving is through forests and in the best fantasy will involve a tree dwelling of some sort. While on the move, the travelers carry their worldly belongings and provisions strapped to their backs in rough burlap-style sacks. (When strapped to their belts, the sacks are made of leather and are called “pouches.”) Their food comes almost entirely in dense cake form, including oatcakes, wheatcakes, corncakes, seedcakes, and the aptly named “mealcakes.” Occasionally the forest will provide dietary supplements of wild berries or roots; perhaps even mythical beings would suffer ill effects from fiber deficiency in an entirely cake-based subsistence. Their drink is characterized only as “ale.” It is presumably dark, it is presumably strong, and it is most definitely carried in a pouch and enjoyed by all.
That said, the answer to our question WWBD? was all too clear. Faced with the prospect of a journey to far-off Brooklyn to imbibe of the fine barleywine, Bilbo would bake some oaten cakes and find a haversack in which to transport them.
Now, I am not sure that Bilbo would procure his oats at an organic grocery on 107th and Broadway, nor would he impulse purchase some pear and pecorino as a delightful hors d’oeuvre for his oatcake main dish, but sadly we were in Manhattan not Middle-earth and did I mention we like cheese?
So, with our haversacks (Liz’ was at least made of a canvassy material; mine was pathetically cotton) full of oatcakes and our hearts full of joy at the prospect of encountering other like-minded barley loving fellows, we set out to break our Brooklyn skulls.
Upon our arrival at Mug’s Ale House in the somewhat hipster neighborhood of Williamsburg, we were a bit surprised to find that our compatriots were not so much settled into large armchairs by the fire. Nor were they roving in the tiny wilderness of the back beer garden. There was ale all right, but it was served in miniature snifters rather than pouches or even earthenware mugs. No pipers piping, no lutists luting. There was not a cake in sight.
Nor was there a waiter in sight, for that matter. After consuming our first snifter of barleywine, we waited a solid 45 minutes to order our second, nibbling half-heartedly on an oatcake, only to be told by a very harassed looking waitress that they were just “really swamped” at the moment. Although our ears perked up momentarily at the mention of “swamp” (Gollum?), we decided perhaps it was time to rove onward.
We decided Bilbo would go to the delightful German beer haus up the way.
* Eric Asimov appears to be the chief wine critic for the NY Times. And a closet fantasy lover. I aspire to be Eric Asimov. Tragically, I know nothing of fine wines and my love of fantasy is no longer the well-kept secret it once was.
Friday, March 2, 2007
The Road Not Traveled: Top Ten Scenic Vistas and Sites We Decided to Give a Miss
We brake for animals, border patrolmen, even the occasional traffic signal that Oklahoma likes to insert onto the interstate, but we didn’t brake for these.
Note: Much of what you are about to read is courtesy of the fine folks at AAA Tourbooks, producers of unintentional comedy since 1947.
For anyone new to AAA Tourbooks, there are a few things you should know before we begin. First, these books are not intended as serious guidebooks. While their stated purpose is tourism, they are geared toward motorists; anyone who has ever been on a road trip knows that motorists are in far greater need of entertainment while on the road than they are tips for sightseeing off the road. Thus, AAA Tourbooks sets itself apart within the industry through sheer breadth of coverage. Picture an entire 683-page volume devoted to things to see and do in Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma. The possibilities are staggering. Then, AAA hands these books out like Starlight mints to anyone even claiming to be a card-carrying member, such that one could theoretically tear out Kansas and use it to spit out one’s gum and still have enough reading material to drive the 40 from Bakersfield to Wilmington and back again.
AAA employs the infamous “Diamond’ rating system for accommodations, which ranges from 3 Diamonds for superior establishments (Hampton Inn) to 1 Diamond (Pit Stop). Single Diamond hotels should be considered only if the undersides of all bridges within a 50-mile radius are already spoken for.
The second important metric for AAA insiders is the recommended time for site visits. For example, the California Tourbook recommends that visitors to the Getty allow 3 hours minimum. Anything with a recommended time allotment of 15 minutes or less should be avoided. However, please bear in mind that AAA did recommend at least an hour for someplace in Albany, TX called the Old Jail Art Center; reader discretion is therefore advised.
It was with these Gold Standards held close to our hearts that Dad and I left San Francisco and ventured out into the Great Unknown. And it was with the AAA Tourbooks as our Roadway Bibles that we pretty much floored it through much of the Mountain & Central zones. Yet, as we drove, scanning maps and flipping through the books to see just exactly what we were missing, a few places caught my eye and drove home the road tripper’s mantra: Never look back.
So, I give you The Road Not Traveled:
10. National Border Patrol Museum - El Paso, TX
AAA tells us that this hallowed institution documents “over 100 years of U.S. Border Patrol history throughout the United States.” On top of this amazing feat, the museum offers visitors an up-close look at the “canine units” and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually sit inside a border patrol vehicle (read: white sedan).
9. Willcox, AZ
While Willcox does boast the one and only Rex Allen Arizona Cowboy Museum and Cowboy Hall of Fame (storyboards! genuine leather! ranch implements!), it is also home to the Willcox Dry Lake Bombing Range (AAA: Allow 1.7 seconds minimum).
8. North Maricopa Mountain Wilderness, Arizona
I hear that the South Maricopa Mountain Wilderness is much nicer this time of year.
7. Jackrabbit Statue - Odessa, TX
This 8-foot statue of a Texas jackrabbit is billed as “the world’s largest known hare.” Despite this convincing claim, Dad and I remained skeptical.
6. George W. Bush Childhood Home - Midland, TX
For those who truly want to get inside the psyche of the man himself, this “fully restored” home boasts “furnishings authentic to the period of 1952-1955” when the Bush family lived there. How the fine folks in the curatorial department managed to get their hands on a real “cracked ice” Formica tabletop and matching chrome & vinyl chairs is anyone’s guess!
5. Burro Peak - Somewhere north of Lordsburg, NM
They say those that visit the Burro come back much altered.
4. Biggest Burger King in Arizona - Yuma, AZ
Dad and I would’ve been all over this one but the ball pit was closed for “renovation” (read: bi-annual hosing off).
3. Tushka, OK
Despite the overwhelming temptation to pick up a “My husband / daughter went to Tushka and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” t-shirt for Mom, we decided our time was better spent 5 miles up the road at the Boggy Depot State Park & Recreation Area.
2. Mastodon State Historic Site - Imperial, MO
They didn’t take American Express.
1. Frontier Texas! - Abilene, TX
Frontier Texas Exclamation Point is the main event in (where else?) Abilene, TX. According to AAA Tourbooks, the facility “offers a look at frontier life through audiovisual and interactive exhibits.” Attractions at Frontier Texas Exclamation Point include a surround-sound ride that allows visitors to experience both a buffalo stampede and a shootout; a holographic presentation that introduces frontier (!) folk, settlers, and Indians; and interactive exhibits featuring a stagecoach and a saloon. AAA also advises that “Life-size buffalo replicas may be seen.”
Note: Much of what you are about to read is courtesy of the fine folks at AAA Tourbooks, producers of unintentional comedy since 1947.
For anyone new to AAA Tourbooks, there are a few things you should know before we begin. First, these books are not intended as serious guidebooks. While their stated purpose is tourism, they are geared toward motorists; anyone who has ever been on a road trip knows that motorists are in far greater need of entertainment while on the road than they are tips for sightseeing off the road. Thus, AAA Tourbooks sets itself apart within the industry through sheer breadth of coverage. Picture an entire 683-page volume devoted to things to see and do in Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma. The possibilities are staggering. Then, AAA hands these books out like Starlight mints to anyone even claiming to be a card-carrying member, such that one could theoretically tear out Kansas and use it to spit out one’s gum and still have enough reading material to drive the 40 from Bakersfield to Wilmington and back again.
AAA employs the infamous “Diamond’ rating system for accommodations, which ranges from 3 Diamonds for superior establishments (Hampton Inn) to 1 Diamond (Pit Stop). Single Diamond hotels should be considered only if the undersides of all bridges within a 50-mile radius are already spoken for.
The second important metric for AAA insiders is the recommended time for site visits. For example, the California Tourbook recommends that visitors to the Getty allow 3 hours minimum. Anything with a recommended time allotment of 15 minutes or less should be avoided. However, please bear in mind that AAA did recommend at least an hour for someplace in Albany, TX called the Old Jail Art Center; reader discretion is therefore advised.
It was with these Gold Standards held close to our hearts that Dad and I left San Francisco and ventured out into the Great Unknown. And it was with the AAA Tourbooks as our Roadway Bibles that we pretty much floored it through much of the Mountain & Central zones. Yet, as we drove, scanning maps and flipping through the books to see just exactly what we were missing, a few places caught my eye and drove home the road tripper’s mantra: Never look back.
So, I give you The Road Not Traveled:
10. National Border Patrol Museum - El Paso, TX
AAA tells us that this hallowed institution documents “over 100 years of U.S. Border Patrol history throughout the United States.” On top of this amazing feat, the museum offers visitors an up-close look at the “canine units” and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually sit inside a border patrol vehicle (read: white sedan).
9. Willcox, AZ
While Willcox does boast the one and only Rex Allen Arizona Cowboy Museum and Cowboy Hall of Fame (storyboards! genuine leather! ranch implements!), it is also home to the Willcox Dry Lake Bombing Range (AAA: Allow 1.7 seconds minimum).
8. North Maricopa Mountain Wilderness, Arizona
I hear that the South Maricopa Mountain Wilderness is much nicer this time of year.
7. Jackrabbit Statue - Odessa, TX
This 8-foot statue of a Texas jackrabbit is billed as “the world’s largest known hare.” Despite this convincing claim, Dad and I remained skeptical.
6. George W. Bush Childhood Home - Midland, TX
For those who truly want to get inside the psyche of the man himself, this “fully restored” home boasts “furnishings authentic to the period of 1952-1955” when the Bush family lived there. How the fine folks in the curatorial department managed to get their hands on a real “cracked ice” Formica tabletop and matching chrome & vinyl chairs is anyone’s guess!
5. Burro Peak - Somewhere north of Lordsburg, NM
They say those that visit the Burro come back much altered.
4. Biggest Burger King in Arizona - Yuma, AZ
Dad and I would’ve been all over this one but the ball pit was closed for “renovation” (read: bi-annual hosing off).
3. Tushka, OK
Despite the overwhelming temptation to pick up a “My husband / daughter went to Tushka and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” t-shirt for Mom, we decided our time was better spent 5 miles up the road at the Boggy Depot State Park & Recreation Area.
2. Mastodon State Historic Site - Imperial, MO
They didn’t take American Express.
1. Frontier Texas! - Abilene, TX
Frontier Texas Exclamation Point is the main event in (where else?) Abilene, TX. According to AAA Tourbooks, the facility “offers a look at frontier life through audiovisual and interactive exhibits.” Attractions at Frontier Texas Exclamation Point include a surround-sound ride that allows visitors to experience both a buffalo stampede and a shootout; a holographic presentation that introduces frontier (!) folk, settlers, and Indians; and interactive exhibits featuring a stagecoach and a saloon. AAA also advises that “Life-size buffalo replicas may be seen.”
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Six Days on the Road
Let me start by saying that it is my firm belief that everyone should drive across the country at some point in their life. Preferably their young life. My most recent road trip, moving back to Chicago after almost 7 years in the Bay Area, has convinced me that, if possible, one should share this experience with one’s father. However, if your own father is unavailable, don’t let that stop you. Take mine.
I have always known that I take after my dad in a number of ways, but this trip added a few more to the list. My secret fascination with really nice hotels, although I rarely actually stay in them; the not-so-secret joy I find in the worst kind of country music (such as Sawyer Brown’s early hit “800 Pound Jesus”); my pre-travel anxiety, mostly related to packing efficiency and general tardiness; the prematurely white hair (oh wait, no, I’ve known about that since I was 5); my dislike of Oklahoma; and finally, my love of road trips.
That said, I would go ahead and venture that Dad & I were perfect travel partners. Especially if your idea of a great trip is one that starts with some nervous packing, ends with some grey hairs, and involves a lot of Mike Reid, Hampton Inns (best beds, hands down), and general scorn for the landscape around Tulsa in between.
The adventures started before we even left San Francisco, namely last Sunday afternoon as we attempted to cram my life’s possessions into my car while still leaving ample room for airflow. For those who may not know, my car is a Toyota Celica. Small. Very small. It is also silver. This has absolutely no bearing on its cargo capacity; I mention it here because the color will come into play later on in our tale.
After shoving (read “carefully aligning”) everything into my car and slamming the trunk shut, my dad picked up two abandoned rubber bands from the floor of my now-empty room and put them around his wrist, declaring for the general benefit: “Rinders’ Second Rule of Travel: Leave nothing useful behind.” And so we began. (I decided not to tell him just then about the handfuls of nickels I had thrown away earlier that day, after deeming the effort it would take to pack them to cost me far more than 5 cents.)
Over breakfast the next morning (Day 1), which was eaten at my dad’s eccentric Victorian B&B just down the road from my old apartment on Sutter, he starts telling me about a radio show from his youth called Captain Midnight. For those of you who may not have been tuned in, Wikipedia informs us that Captain Midnight was a WWI fighter pilot recruited by the U.S. military to head up the “Secret Squadron,” a group fighting sabotage and espionage prior to the U.S. entry into WWII. Like all good heroes, Captain Midnight had a trusty sidekick, the unfortunately named Ichabod Mudd. I did not know where this seemingly casual reminiscing was headed until Dad informed me that his most vivid memory of listening to the show is Captain Midnight’s tagline as he and Ichabod embark on a new adventure: “Ok Icky, fire up the silver dart!”
It is at this point that I realize that my name for the duration of our journey would be “Icky.”
I won’t bore you with the details of the early portion of the trip, or even many details of the trip as a whole. I will instead bore you with the details of one particular evening in El Paso.
[You may note that El Paso is not, in fact, en route from San Francisco to Chicago. This is true. However, having gauged that the Silver Dart was not so much built for snow and/or mountains, we had opted for what my dad calls the “Southerly Southern” Route. This took us all the way down to San Diego, then across the lower portions of Arizona, New Mexico, into Texas, and finally north through Oklahoma, Missouri, and Illinois.]
So it happened that on Valentine’s Day we found ourselves in El Paso dining at the local (and when I say local I mean it was in the lobby of our Holiday Inn) watering hole called the Cactus Rose with a guy in an enormous black Stetson, a woman who looked like Mrs. Robinson and dressed like my second grade teacher, and various members of the Canadian militia.
Rinders’ Third Rule of Travel (and not-so-coincidentally one of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People): First things first. My dad orders his now standard Maker’s Mark manhattan (I went away to college and apparently my parents discovered hard alcohol) and I, thinking that a place named the Cactus Rose would know how to handle tequila, asked for a margarita. The confusion in our waitress’ eyes should have been our first clue.
The drinks arrive. Dad looks suspiciously at his glass, which appears to be a whole lot of bourbon whiskey with a maraschino cherry floating on top. It seems the bartender was focusing so hard on the type of whiskey requested that he forgot a few key ingredients, like vermouth. As for my marg, let’s just say that a quick taste and a glance around the restaurant confirmed that, when the Romans are wearing Stetsons and packing heat, one drinks beer.
However, Rinders’ Eighth Rule of Travel dictated that we must drink what had been placed before us, and so we did. Then it came time to order food. After 3 days on the road, we were both searching for something that could possibly contain a nutrient on a menu full of ribs, ribeye, country fried steaks, and various other battered items. We both opted for a grilled catfish, the key attributes being that it was grilled and that it came with salad.
Dad and I amused ourselves while waiting for the food by drawing on the paper tablecovering with crayons handily left on the table in a miniature cowboy boot. Mrs. Robinson, looking like she had had a few, stumbled by, nearly losing a heel off one of her festive red pumps. At one point, a man with a handlebar mustache wearing an electric blue vest came over and offered me a rose, which I took. The Canadian militia looked on.
The salads arrived, and we were each provided with what can only be described as a tureen of dressing. So far, so good – at least it was on the side. The food arrived. And continued to arrive. It seems that our catfish were not working alone, but came armed with potatoes, coleslaw, entire loaves of bread, Saltine crackers (stuffed into our bags for later, per Rinders’ Second Rule), and, last but surely not least, beans. Our astonishment at what appeared to be the entire Harrah’s buffet transplanted onto our table must have shown in our eyes because our waitress kindly informed us as she placed the last dishes down that “Everything in Texas comes with beans!”
As we learned at breakfast the next morning, this is true.
But when in Rome, one does as the Canadians do. One eats the beans. And one orders another Budweiser.
I have always known that I take after my dad in a number of ways, but this trip added a few more to the list. My secret fascination with really nice hotels, although I rarely actually stay in them; the not-so-secret joy I find in the worst kind of country music (such as Sawyer Brown’s early hit “800 Pound Jesus”); my pre-travel anxiety, mostly related to packing efficiency and general tardiness; the prematurely white hair (oh wait, no, I’ve known about that since I was 5); my dislike of Oklahoma; and finally, my love of road trips.That said, I would go ahead and venture that Dad & I were perfect travel partners. Especially if your idea of a great trip is one that starts with some nervous packing, ends with some grey hairs, and involves a lot of Mike Reid, Hampton Inns (best beds, hands down), and general scorn for the landscape around Tulsa in between.
The adventures started before we even left San Francisco, namely last Sunday afternoon as we attempted to cram my life’s possessions into my car while still leaving ample room for airflow. For those who may not know, my car is a Toyota Celica. Small. Very small. It is also silver. This has absolutely no bearing on its cargo capacity; I mention it here because the color will come into play later on in our tale.
After shoving (read “carefully aligning”) everything into my car and slamming the trunk shut, my dad picked up two abandoned rubber bands from the floor of my now-empty room and put them around his wrist, declaring for the general benefit: “Rinders’ Second Rule of Travel: Leave nothing useful behind.” And so we began. (I decided not to tell him just then about the handfuls of nickels I had thrown away earlier that day, after deeming the effort it would take to pack them to cost me far more than 5 cents.)
Over breakfast the next morning (Day 1), which was eaten at my dad’s eccentric Victorian B&B just down the road from my old apartment on Sutter, he starts telling me about a radio show from his youth called Captain Midnight. For those of you who may not have been tuned in, Wikipedia informs us that Captain Midnight was a WWI fighter pilot recruited by the U.S. military to head up the “Secret Squadron,” a group fighting sabotage and espionage prior to the U.S. entry into WWII. Like all good heroes, Captain Midnight had a trusty sidekick, the unfortunately named Ichabod Mudd. I did not know where this seemingly casual reminiscing was headed until Dad informed me that his most vivid memory of listening to the show is Captain Midnight’s tagline as he and Ichabod embark on a new adventure: “Ok Icky, fire up the silver dart!”
It is at this point that I realize that my name for the duration of our journey would be “Icky.”
I won’t bore you with the details of the early portion of the trip, or even many details of the trip as a whole. I will instead bore you with the details of one particular evening in El Paso.
[You may note that El Paso is not, in fact, en route from San Francisco to Chicago. This is true. However, having gauged that the Silver Dart was not so much built for snow and/or mountains, we had opted for what my dad calls the “Southerly Southern” Route. This took us all the way down to San Diego, then across the lower portions of Arizona, New Mexico, into Texas, and finally north through Oklahoma, Missouri, and Illinois.]
So it happened that on Valentine’s Day we found ourselves in El Paso dining at the local (and when I say local I mean it was in the lobby of our Holiday Inn) watering hole called the Cactus Rose with a guy in an enormous black Stetson, a woman who looked like Mrs. Robinson and dressed like my second grade teacher, and various members of the Canadian militia.
Rinders’ Third Rule of Travel (and not-so-coincidentally one of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People): First things first. My dad orders his now standard Maker’s Mark manhattan (I went away to college and apparently my parents discovered hard alcohol) and I, thinking that a place named the Cactus Rose would know how to handle tequila, asked for a margarita. The confusion in our waitress’ eyes should have been our first clue.
The drinks arrive. Dad looks suspiciously at his glass, which appears to be a whole lot of bourbon whiskey with a maraschino cherry floating on top. It seems the bartender was focusing so hard on the type of whiskey requested that he forgot a few key ingredients, like vermouth. As for my marg, let’s just say that a quick taste and a glance around the restaurant confirmed that, when the Romans are wearing Stetsons and packing heat, one drinks beer.
However, Rinders’ Eighth Rule of Travel dictated that we must drink what had been placed before us, and so we did. Then it came time to order food. After 3 days on the road, we were both searching for something that could possibly contain a nutrient on a menu full of ribs, ribeye, country fried steaks, and various other battered items. We both opted for a grilled catfish, the key attributes being that it was grilled and that it came with salad.
Dad and I amused ourselves while waiting for the food by drawing on the paper tablecovering with crayons handily left on the table in a miniature cowboy boot. Mrs. Robinson, looking like she had had a few, stumbled by, nearly losing a heel off one of her festive red pumps. At one point, a man with a handlebar mustache wearing an electric blue vest came over and offered me a rose, which I took. The Canadian militia looked on.
The salads arrived, and we were each provided with what can only be described as a tureen of dressing. So far, so good – at least it was on the side. The food arrived. And continued to arrive. It seems that our catfish were not working alone, but came armed with potatoes, coleslaw, entire loaves of bread, Saltine crackers (stuffed into our bags for later, per Rinders’ Second Rule), and, last but surely not least, beans. Our astonishment at what appeared to be the entire Harrah’s buffet transplanted onto our table must have shown in our eyes because our waitress kindly informed us as she placed the last dishes down that “Everything in Texas comes with beans!”
As we learned at breakfast the next morning, this is true.
But when in Rome, one does as the Canadians do. One eats the beans. And one orders another Budweiser.
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