Sunday’s Bumper Sticker
Autumn Cometh
You feel it in the air and see it in the trees. That official arbiter, the calendar, claims its summer in Ashland. We in the real world know that autumn has supplanted summer. Whether summer grows aware of this and attempts to heat-blast us one last time, we will see. Weather forecasters present claim we won’t see a high temperature above seventy-nine degrees until September 26. Forecasting temperatures that far out isn’t historically successful.
We feel it, though, as I started out this thing saying. We all feel the air difference and state, “It feels like fall.” Accepting that as the de facto situation, we went out to celebrate summer’s end last night. Lake of the Woods Resort was the location. Colonel Mustard provided the music on the lakeside.
We visited a friend’s cabin for a start. The Civilian Conservation Corps built a few hundred cabins in the thirties and forties. Our friends bought one in two thousand one. It’s beautifully rustic, with minimal updates and upgrades. Everything done to it was completed with a mindset of keeping it resembling its origins. No running water, they have an outdoor shower under the deck and a two-hole outhouse. A small propane furnace was added, so they have some heat to drive out the mountain’s cold.
They provided us a boat-tour of the lake, and then ferried us to the resort. Colonel Mustard were already into their Beatles medley by then, so it was easy to jump up there and dance. Drinks, dining – with an excellent, freshly made mixed-berry cobbler, made and served in an iron fry pan, and topped with three scoops of vanilla ice cream, for dessert – and more dancing followed. The fun, social evening was a wonderful means to say good-bye to summer, and hello to autumn.
Pickin’ and Grinnin’
Why would you have sex with a chain-link fence?
I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t see how a man would do it, and I didn’t understand the attraction. I later learned the man was drunk, and thought the sex was a female.
That’s the thing with picking fruit: you have time to think.
h/t to Fables and Flora for the photo
Information was exchanged yesterday that the blackberries were looking good, and there were a lot. We were welcome to come and pick. We took up the offer this morning, driving the short distance to the property on the border between Talent and Phoenix.
As mornings go, it was normal, and glorious with sunshine, blue skies, and budding clouds. Summer’s heat had withdrawn to re-organize and energize, so the air was a comfortable seventy degrees. Most of the area’s wildfire smoke had hitched a ride out of the valley on the wind.
I’d heard about the sex with the chain-link fence on the radio during the drive. Neighbors had it on video. Seeing the video isn’t on my bucket list.
Starting out your berry picking is about looking around to find a ripe offering, sampling them to confirm your visual assessment, and then embracing the mechanics. Like blueberries, the key is color, and its easy release. If the berry is ready to be picked there’s no effort. Just a slight tug, and it rolls off the bush and into your hand. If they don’t come off like this, the product is likely to be sour.
Differences arise between blackberries and blueberries. While I enjoy their sweet juiciness, the largest difference from a picking point of view is that blackberries are in thorny brambles. There are many gorgeous gems hanging there, but getting to them is challenging without sacrificing some blood. Unlike my wife, I’m not a person willing to reach for a berry too far. That’s probably why she’s a better picker than me, collecting about one hundred and fifty percent of the produce that I acquire in the same period.
I’m not jealous; she’s just a better picker. Besides, once we get home, they belong to us, and are shared.
Shouting, “You’ll never take me alive, picking man,” the blackberries sometimes leap to freedom as I approached. The blueberries do it the same, so I don’t take it personally.
Unfortunately, some strange streams empty into this vacant space of thoughts. We had three television stations in southern West Virginia, where I went to high school for my final three years. All three stations featured a show called “Hee Haw.” It may be my imagination, but “Hee Haw” seemed to be on thirty hours a day.
“Hee Haw” was a syndicated variety show that featured country and western music, buxom women, and corny puns and jokes. Roy Clark and Buck Owens were the show’s hosts. One segment was called, “Pickin’ and Grinnin’.” Naturally, out there, my mind invited the segment in: “I’m a pickin’,” Roy or Buck would say, and the other would reply, “And I’m a grinnin’.” Then they’d play some music, stopping for a joke before resuming. They’d do this three or four times.
My mind mercifully cut the stream off after a while. Thereafter, I turned resources toward scenes I was contemplating, character development, and pacing and plotting.
It was a short pick, about an hour. We ended up with twelve pints. Of course, it was the year’s second pick, so we’ll freeze them, and be set for at least a few months.
Not A Bumper Sticker
“One of the important things with Russell and the elite athletes is that none of the foods he consumes are inflammatory foods, which means no yeast, no mold, no dairy, no gluten,” Goglia said. “Dairy’s like eating moderately hard phlegm. It adversely affects oxygen. No dairy, no breads — muffins, bagels — nothing that is yeast, mold and gluten-bound. So starches are always one-ingredient guys like potatoes or rice or yams or oatmeal. If it’s got more than one ingredient in it, he couldn’t eat it.”
Paragraph from an ESPN article about Russell Wilson’s nine meal, forty-eight hundred calories a day diet to lose weight. Russell Wilson, a professional athlete, is the Seattle Seahawks’ quarterback. He’s trying to get down to two hundred fifteen pounds. This diet has helped him. He’s gone from two hundred twenty-five pounds and sixteen percent body fat in March, to two hundred fourteen pounds and ten percent body fat now. Of course, he exercises and conditions hours each day.
Overall, there’s a lot to think about here. No dairy, no gluten, no yeast; is it a diet you could endure?
Is it a healthy diet?
Double Bonus Day
I’ve made one thousand posts on this site since I began posting in May of twenty sixteen. This is also National Donut Day. To honor these two events, I’m having pancakes.
I will probably drift down toward Puck’s Donuts in downtown Ashland and linger. The smell of freshly fried donuts blending with the wood smoke of pizza places, grilling burgers and onions, is maddening and delicious. If a town can be said to wear a scent, Ashland’s eau d’ cologne by the Plaza is Puck’s Donuts.
Maybe I should start marketing and selling food scents.
Cheers
The Geezer Discount
My buddy, Dr. Frank Lang, turned eighty years old this month. As an age, more are achieving it. Technically, he’s an octogenarian, but once upon a time, he started calling himself a geezer. This led to beer-fueled debates about what age one becomes a geezer. Is geezer a matter of years lived, or a state of mind, or maturity? Perhaps, it’s all these things. I’ve known some thirtysomethings who seem like Geezers.
In honor or Frank and our aging population, I believe we need to reconsider our restaurant discounts. Senior discounts vary on when they’re applied. Some are honored once fifty-five years old is achieved. I suspect that’s a ploy to increase their market share. Others pin their discounts to the age at which people can begin withdrawing social security, so it’s a sliding scale, with later generations forced to be older to enjoy a senior discount.
I think that’s wrong.
I call upon Congress to fix it. We’re a society that’s supposed to honor our elderly. A food and beverage discount is a great way of doing so. I think, though, with more people aging, we should have a Geezer discount alongside the Senior discount. If you reach sixty-five, you’re eligible for the Senior discount. Once you’ve celebrated your eightieth birthday, you should be authorized the Geezer discount. If the Senior discount is ten percent off, the Geezer discount should be fifteen percent off.
It just makes sense. For one thing, Geezers tend to consume less. Businesses can accommodate the Geezers and still protect their bottom line by providing them smaller portions. I know some businesses, like Bob Evans Restaurants, already do something like this for Seniors.
Of course, it would be unfair of us to not also extend a greater discount for those who reach one hundred years old. If you get that old and you’re out eating at a restaurant, you deserve a Centenarian discount. That would be a one hundred percent discount.
Yes, Centenarians would dine for free.
The News, Oh, Boy
Did you see the news today? Oh, boy. Nabisco announced an exciting new Oreo flavor. They’re putting Pop-rocks candy in their cookie and calling it the “Firework” Oreo. I think the only that could make that better is if the center was an ice cream filling with Pop-rocks candy, and they rolled it in funnel cake batter, deep-fried it, sprayed it with chocolate sauce and splashed confectionery sugar all over it.
Bet that’s coming to a county or state fair soon.
Not satisfied with resting on their flavors, Nabisco is challenging us, the public, to come up with the next new flavor of Oreo cookies. For that, they’ll pay five hundred thousand big ones, which is to say, American dollars. That’s a lot of cookies.
Naturally, I struggled to come up with an idea. The only thing that entered my feeble mind was a classic Neapolitan Oreo. The bottom would be a strawberry cookie. Vanilla cream would be in the middle, topped with the traditional chocolate Oreo. Sadly, I don’t think that’s special enough. Instead, I think they need something like red hot Oreos, all red and fiery with cinnamon flavors.
No, that’ not crazy enough. Well, someone will come up with something sufficiently crazy. It just won’t be me. Bummer.
I could use an extra half a rock.
Cheeseburger and Beer Ice Cream
I’m working on the chapter, “Ice Cream Headache”, which is part of the science fiction novel, “Long Summer”. I’ve been writing about the cheeseburger and beer ice cream that Carla once made for Brett.
Unlike many things in their society, her concoction wasn’t compiled, but was handmade. As an expert in Earth culture with an emphasis on the twentieth and twenty-first century in America, she likes sampling ‘the real thing’. The cheeseburgers are one inch in diameter, with real cheddar, bacon, onion, mustard and pickle, as Brett likes them. After freezing them, she made ice cream with Venus Mon IPA, folding the frozen cheeseburgers into it, “Just like they did in state fairs,” she says.
She scoops it into a malt cone ‘that she made herself’. Brett restrains himself from his observations about her use of bots. She’s always using bots but claims she does things herself. In a flash into the future, he knows he eventually tells her this, causing a rift that can’t be mended.
Before letting him sample the ice cream, Carla asks if his taste buds are turned off. See, the sensory input from taste buds in the future can be controlled so you never taste anything foul by your standards. But she wants him to have the real experience, not something filtered by his taste buds and his preferences index. He lies, telling her, “Of course, it’s off,” while checking with his systems to turn it off. Then he samples the ice cream.
The sample is not the one I described, but another one, a moderately dark chocolate flavored with bourbon, with small chips of bittersweet chocolate, nuts, and marshmallows and swirls of salty caramel. This is one of the problems with being shuffled through moments of now. One thing is being experienced and then details change.
For some reason, after writing all of that, I now want a cheeseburger and beer, followed by some ice cream.
Time to go eat.
The Prune Solution
A study begun in 2001 concludes osteopenia dried prunes can improve bone density and strength.
My wife was instantly all over that. Old distrusts arose, however, as she regarded the bag at Trader Joe’s. “They look like giant raisins.” Distaste crossed her face. “I hope they don’t taste like raisins.”
My wife and I are the raisin version of Jack Spratt and his wife. I love them; she hates them. I suggested we buy some for our away kit. Everyone has an away kit, don’t they? Away kits are packed with emergency supplies so you can survive or flee from natural disasters like a tRump Presidency. Raisins are rich with nutrients and have a long shelf life. I thought they’d be ideal for the away kit.
My wife gagged. “I’ll die before I eat raisins.”
She has firm opinions about foods. She loves mushrooms and swoons over onions in any permutation but peas appall her. Don’t even bring up lima beans with her unless you want to witness her horror. Meanwhile, I’m not fond of mushrooms. I eat them grilled in various dishes and pizza (like, of course), and they’re great in a spinach salad, but I won’t eat them out of the jar, as she does. Peas are number five in my list of favorite veggies.
She also loves figs. I can’t say I love them, but I do eat them. I didn’t until recent years, though.
The thing about prunes, though, is, they might be great for bones, but they do have certain other side-effects. So…ahem…the next morning….
Eating my first prune, I read the bag label after reaching home and stowing our purchases. A serving size of prunes was five. Knowing of their side effects, I stopped at three. Call me a pessimist, but I wanted to see what happened in my body after those prunes joined the fray. Sure enough, the next morning, quite abruptly, my bowels sent a flash message to my brain: “Get to the bathroom now! Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
Without sharing too much information, everything was fine for that movement, along with the other two morning engagement. By that third, I’d decided, maybe I’ll ease into the prune solution.
You know, just to be prudent.
And that’s why I wrote that whole thing.
As for my wife, she announced, “They do taste a lot like raisins.”
“Not to me,” I replied. “They have a slight cherry sweetness to them.”
She nodded in agreement. It appears the prunes are acceptable.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Coffee Snob
Yes, I confess: I’m a coffee snob.
I can’t abide most American mass produced ground coffee, like Folger’s, Maxwell House, and Hill Bros. Worse of the worse is Sanka instant.
No, worse of the worse could be the Folger’s Instant Coffee Crystals. Instant coffees taste off to me, as though the coffee has been recycled.
I have friends who swear by Dunkin’ Donut’s coffee. Not me. Dunkin’ Donut cofffee provides a taste that I imagine comes from a dirty tee shirt being soaked in coffee and then wrung out in a cup. Just below it are the foul offerings provided at McDonald’s, Burger King and other fast food establishments. I haven’t had coffee from any of those places in decades. Haven’t eaten at them since around 1992, when I returned to America from Germany.
I became such a snob, as with many things, when I was exposed to offerings in other places. Being stationed in Germany was the changing point for my appreciation of not just beer, but coffee, pastries, asparagus and French fries. German coffee seemed so very strong and clear that I was instantly drawn to it. I started buying different Italian coffees available in Germany, examining flavors the way others do with wines.
The same process was followed with wines, and then beers, along with cigars, ports, whiskeys, fruits, chocolate, cheese, fish, oils, vegetables and meats. I learned that an experienced palate will be drawn toward fresher, clearer flavors. Becoming more mindful among the differences in flavors, I became more mindful as I consumed food and beverages. Fresher and more refined foods offered unique flavors on my tongue.
Of course, it ruined me. Returning from Germany and settling into the Bay area, I drove by a KFC. KFC chicken! I remembered eating it as a child. A sudden nostalgic flame consumed me. I ordered a chicken dinner. The eating experience ruined my memories of KFC and made a skeptic of me about all my American favorites.
So, I’m a coffee snob, but I’m also a beer, wine, chocolate, pie, cheese, fruit, vegetable, meat and pastry snob. I’ll eat things because they’re sustenance, and it’s my nature to accept that food is fuel. But I now know that some foods don’t work nearly as well as fuel.
Something about the eating and drinking experience also affected my reading, news reporting and movie watching. Overall, I became a snob, more watchful, more critical, more mindful. Part of me often wishes that I wasn’t a snob, that I can just turn on the television and be titillated by the latest number one show like so many others, or that I don’t need to research and vet news headlines and reports for the truth and accuracy, or that I can just trot on down to a fast food place for a meal.
With that, time for breakfast, locally sourced and organic, featuring berries and fruit we picked and froze ourselves, and a cup of coffee. It’ll be Major Dickinson today, from Peet’s.
Michael Seidel, writer 