tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36285983457878791002024-03-13T21:47:03.914-07:00Adventures of Cactus and FuschiaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-20530373657751468152013-09-02T07:19:00.001-07:002013-09-02T07:19:54.458-07:00The Answer To Your QuestionChanges in life often bring the questions and concerns of others into sharp focus as we struggle to move our vision of life a little closer to reality. The quintessential question in middle class American culture <i>what do you do?</i> is replaced, when you're transitioning, by <i>what are you going to do? </i>The underlying assumption, that what I do is of primary importance, ignores and devalues the reality of who I am.<div><br></div><div>My knee jerk reaction to this question, no matter how kindly meant, is to sneer <i>Napoleon Dynamite</i> style and offer a <i>Whatever I wanna do, gosh. </i>I try to rein it in, truly, because I hope that the usual questioners simply have no concept of what it might be like to eschew traditional bourgeois values. Our ideas about what constitutes real life simply don't geehaw.</div><div><br></div><div>It is easier, by far, to list all the things I will not do. I will not settle for a life of corporate drudgery, no matter how well paid. I will not pursue material things with such fervor that a loss of income could reduce me to bankruptcy. I will not trade my leisure time for extended work hours that benefit only my employer. I will not opt-in.</div><div><br></div><div>There are some in my life who seem to mistake my antipathy towards middle-class, suburban life as an inability to succeed. An easy mistake to make, I'm sure. Let me be clear: I don't have a high powered, high paying job, because I've never sought one out. I don't have a MBA because I have no use for one. I refuse to pay the equivalent of the median household income for a family of four for a vehicle that I will wear out and consign to the junkyard eventually. I do not value the typical consumerist lifestyle.</div><div><br></div><div>When asked what I will do, the asker typically wants to know how will I support myself. In the same way I always have: by trading as little of my time as necessary for the amount of money I need to live. Only once in my life, for a period of around a decade, did I find something, professionally, to be passionate about. I was so drawn to my work in outdoor education that I financed it by serving steaks to rednecks for 8 months out of the year. My love for that time and place has never gone, but I find that my tolerance for major sacrifice to remain doing it has lessened. I won't live in Minnesota or Vermont, thousands of miles from home, to remain at camp. So that time has ended.</div><div><br></div><div>As we transition to Florida, a decision that has mystified as many as it has elated, know that we have a plan. It won't surprise a core group of friends and acquaintances, many of whom share our lust for living on the bohemian side of things. We are not going for no reason; we are going to homestead more fully. We're not just buying a house, we're building a livelihood too. In the tradition of all the current (sub)urban homesteaders, we're creating a small (mostly) self-sustaining island in the middle of traditional America. </div><div><br></div><div>We're trading our clock punching for beekeeping, cheese making, gardening, crafting, composting, baking, fermenting, and preserving. We will help ourselves to some local bounty by foraging, gleaning and fishing. We'll use our cottage industry to help us achieve a better life/work balance than what we see around us.</div><div><br></div><div>This is nothing new. The bookshelves are currently lousy with memoirs of people my age, many with Ivy League educations, who just opted out. They found more value in learning to make sauerkraut than in selling stocks and bonds. In my parents time it was buying small remote farms to get away from The Man. In the early 20th century it was self sufficiency on 5 acres. </div><div><br></div><div>The irony, of course, is that because we hail from middle class America, we have the choice, the luxury of opting out. We can become purveyors of honey at the farmers market, make very little in the way of cash, and yet never actually be part of the working class. We exist as something else, something difficult to define. Educated, primarily white, usually progressive, back-to-the-landers abound in this generation, as more and more of us acknowledge that the rat race is for suckers. </div><div><br></div><div>Maybe you still worry about what we'll do, maybe you can't help it. Remember that what we'll do is live. On our own terms. Just as you and everyone else must.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-6455117043981647702013-08-03T08:15:00.001-07:002013-08-03T08:15:32.003-07:00At the ZooYesterday was yet another anniversary of my 30th birthday, oh bother. In an unprecedented move, Fuschia allowed me to design a perfect day for us to spend, without censure. Breakfast in bed, a luxurious spa morning, spending the day on beautiful water riding jet skis, and finally retiring to the local Capitol Grille for filet and lobster. That's a perfect day, my friend. <div><br></div><div>Unfortunately, the current budgetary situation and economic climate of our household, combined with Fushia's fiduciary responsibility, did not allow for perfection at this time. Such is life, right?</div><div><br></div><div>We went with the runner-up day, instead. Recently, I've been engaging in a little frugal living via couponing. That show, you know which one, made me wonder if I could also pay 15% or less of the sticker price for my groceries and whatnot. Long story short: I can. So when I was planning a day of whatever I wanted to do, coupons became the theme.</div><div><br></div><div>We started with a quick pharmacy store run which netted me 4 bottles of dish detergent and 6 snacks for $.94. Bagel sandwiches for breakfast should've been $5, but I forgot the paper money in the car, so we paid the full $8. Bummer.</div><div><br></div><div>Our main entertainment activity of the day was the Louisville Zoo. I'd heard good things, happened to have a coupon and a whole, cloud-free day to explore, so off we went. Fuschia and I happen to be veteran zoo goers, passing many a weekend day wandering around the local menagerie. Zoos, I know about.</div><div><br></div><div>Louisvillians, I apologize, but your zoo is not so great. The exhibits are kitschy and underpopulated, the paths lack adequate shade and the interpretive info (a must for people like me) was sadly underwhelming. There were exactly three decent moments in the wild yesterday: I had a bonding moment with an orangutan; I saw a Pygmy hippopotamus for the first time ever; and I was able to buy a sno-cone with my plastic card at the little cart.</div><div><br></div><div>Two hours after arrival, we left, heading off to search for a light repast. Because I'm me, and I'm a pizza addict, we decided to kick it old school and use a Pizza Hut coupon. We both flash backed to the summer reading program while eating our little personal pan pizzas, but they were so tasty.</div><div><br></div><div>We ended the afternoon with a craft store trip for fall crafting supplies, followed by the most luxurious nap ever taken by two adults. The night was capped off by dinner (yummy Chinese) and couponing run to Target and Kroger. 80% and 75% savings, respectively.</div><div><br></div><div>Wile my birthday bore no resemblance to what a perfect day would be for me, it was exactly the day I wanted and needed this year. A whole day to putter around, be ridiculously tight-fisted and hang out with Fuschia. Perfection, after all.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-41760200537294777362012-12-30T10:18:00.002-08:002012-12-30T10:18:58.128-08:00The Beat Goes OnWhen I last left you, I was busy failing at making cheese despite multiple attempts with a friend from work. Fear not. We did eventually get it right (fifth times a charm), making mozzarella that proved yummy enough sliced onto homemade pizza despite us not being able to master the round ball aspect of mozz making. <br />
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Just a few weeks later I spent some time with my kiddos in the kitchen, teaching them how to make a variety of fruit desserts. Like all good Georgia peaches I grew up eating homemade cobblers, fried pies and ice cream. As a Girl Scout I later learned to make an excellent dump cake, which if you can get past the name, is an excellent last minute recipe to add to the ol repertoire. When it came time to teach the Mini Chefs, I figured a basic Peach Cobbler, a no fail Black Forest Dump Cake and a new (for me) Blueberry Buckle would set them up for a lifetime of easy desserts.<br />
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The Blueberry Buckle was attractive to me for one reason: streusel topping. I LOVE streusel, truly I do. I'm not sure why butter and sugar become, in a fit of alchemy, an entirely new, sinful experience, but they certainly do. And I love it.<br />
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Enter the Buckle, which turns out is essentially a cobbler with a streusel topping. Easy to make, delicious to taste, it proved a close runner-up among the kiddos taste buds which opted for the oh-so-refined Dump Cake in droves.<br />
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Furthering the lesson on fruit desserts we then moved on to baked Banana Pudding, which despite being warm and covered in meringue, is still the yummiest way to make it. By baking the bananas you get such a lovely caramely flavor missing from the time-saving one bowl, cold method. The kids were game with the traditional method so we gave it a go, realizing too late that beating meringue by hand is an exercise in torture. We did soldier on, managed to produce an excellent fluffy cloud to top the pudding and by some miracle rescued it from the oven mere seconds before "golden brown" could take the final baby step to "charcoal".<br />
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After adjusting to the warmth of the pudding, everyone agreed that this was a sweet they could get behind. Proving their point they ate until the dish was clean and had to be restrained from resorting to licking it in search of further morsels. Desserts? Check.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-91522467705740515982012-08-26T03:56:00.000-07:002012-08-26T03:56:00.893-07:00Little Miss Muffett...On my most recent 25th birthday anniversary I received a lovely gift from The In-Laws to a little place called Amazon. The wonder of that store is that I can literally buy anything my heart could possibly desire. There are thousands, if not millions, of items that I wasn't aware that I wanted, til I saw them on Amazon. So when it came time to pick out my birthday indulgence, I spent a good amount of time looking at all the possibilities. Would I go traditional and buy books and music? A DVD set of a fave TV show? My search was long and intense, but eventually I placed the very best items in my buggy and clicked buy.<br />
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You might be wondering what I didn't buy. The list of strong, Rocky-style contenders is varied and in true-Cactus style would only make sense to me. A small sampling of rejected items: a case of Red Eye Gravy Instant Grits; all of True Blood on DVD; mushroom spore logs; a trailer hitch cover; a small greenhouse. Like I said, it doesn't have to be logical.<br />
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What did I end up with? A nice assortment of lovely things. Since the season of my religion, SEC Football, is upon us, I decided I must have some new GA gear. Most of you brought up in an SEC state know only too well that you are required to declare allegiance to a team and color scheme in early childhood. Maybe this is true in states where they play football in other conferences, as well. I wouldn't know nor do I care.<br />
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My Mama can tell you that in an effort to rebel in high school not only did I declare myself a J.D. Rockefeller-worshipping Republican, but I also became a GA Tech fan. Don't worry, I quickly recognized the error of my ways and went right back to more traditional rebellious behaviors. Never has a parent been so relieved by a little underage wine cooler indulgence.<br />
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In picking out new fab merch this summer I decided that only a Tervis tumbler with lid and straw, sportin the big G would be appropriate for game day cocktails. To guarantee that I was well dressed on Saturdays this fall I picked out a lovely, vibrant red thermal Henley with the existential query "How Bout Them Dawgs?" across the chest. After those purchases, I still had enough of my gift to make one more modest purchase, but what did I still desperately want?<br />
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For some time now I've been dyin to try my hand at making cheese. I asked my daddy, Mr. RTR himself for a cheesemaking kit last Christmas, but did not receive one. As my dad is not one to skimp in the gift department, I can only assume he thought I was joking. I can assure you, I was not. So with the last of my birthday money I finally ordered the Beginner's Mozzarella Kit from Ricki the Cheese Queen. <br />
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I received this excellent package in the mail two weeks ago and have been impatiently waiting to make fresh mozz of my very own. Due to the fact that Fuschia and I are packing our house and relocating, as is our nomadic inclination, my own kitchen isn't fit to make a 3 minute Hungry Man in right now. The only other option is work, which has a huge, if ill-equipped kitchen to offer. As an added bonus I could also use the milk that we buy by the case, saving myself the hassle of procuring my own.<br />
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Tonight a co-worker, Dr. Who, and I finally worked up the gumption to give milk alchemy a try. We faithfully followed the directions, setting out all necessary tools and ingredients, scrubbing our hands like surgery awaited. It was a heady few moments when we began heating the milk, adding the citric acid, checking the temp, waiting for it to hit 90 degrees. When it finally did we moved on to the all important addition of the rennet. We added. We gently stirred. We covered the pot and waited. And waited.<br />
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Finally we pulled back the lid to discover that we had...um, chunky milk. The instructions said this was a possibility and to just wait longer, so we re-covered the pot and waited again. After a respectable time for the rennet to do its flippin job we opened the lid again to find...chunky milk. Epic fail. We quickly poured it down the drain and got to work on a second attempt. This time we made it all the way to the curd heating stage before we were forced to concede defeat. Our curds just weren't forming.<br />
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After a lengthy, bitter cleanup spent discussing how bummed we were at our inability to make the simplest cheese known to mankind, we retreated to the staff office and the soothing narcotic that is the interweb. I immediately went to <a href="http://www.cheesemaking.com/">www.cheesemaking.com</a> , Rick the Cheese Queen's site in search of tech support in my cheese failure. Almost instantly it became apparent that the real culprit is probably the chlorine used to clean the drinking water here in Louisville. <br />
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Evidently chlorine keeps rennet from working which is absolutely what prevented us from cheesemaking success. Strange that a 981 mile long vat of chemicals, human excrement and a little water would need extensive treatment to make it potable, but there you have it. Since I attempted to make cheese with the Ohio River, post chlorine, I set myself up for failure. <br />
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Although we're officially moving next Wednesday, I still plan on getting right back to mozz-making next Saturday night. This time, I think I'll pick up a little distilled water and see how we do. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-26279666805795679002012-08-18T22:25:00.001-07:002012-08-18T22:26:06.425-07:00Musings on BackpackingThe following post was written several, if not many, years ago during my days of adventure tripping masquerading as actual work. It remains the coolest job I've ever had. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coming around a bend in the trail, I let out a gasp loud enough for my companions to hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smile, they smile, for we all know the same thing: it is time for a break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There could be no more perfect spot than this creek, under these trees, in the middle of a glorious, <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country>, July day; it approaches what heaven must be like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here on the Gahuti trail, winding around <st1:placetype w:st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype> in <st1:place w:st="on">North Georgia</st1:place>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we’re a scant 2 miles into our trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The group, 12 beginners plus their fearless guides, is large and unwieldy and more than a little out of shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re taking it slow, walking for pleasure and fitness through the still forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we happen upon a beautiful stream intersecting our path, we waste no time shedding our modern torture devices and relaxing on the best seats in Mother Nature’s house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For most hikers this could be a relaxing, beautiful day-hike accomplished in time to retire to town for a hearty meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For us, the 8.2 mile loop trail is a chance to take that initial baby-step into the strange and mysterious world of backpacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve planned for a 1.5 day, overnight trip that breaks for the evening 5-or-so miles into the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The assistant guide and I have estimated that we’ll reach our <st1:place w:st="on">Adirondack</st1:place> shelter well before night fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sitting at the creek, waiting for a turn with the water filter, I’m rethinking our optimistic timeline; its approaching 3p.m with less than half the day’s distance completed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fill my bottle to the brim, knowing that this water will taste better than anything I’ve ever had; I’m not disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I recover from my near religious experience, I get out the map and my luxury item, dried pineapple, to decide on a backup plan if we continue to make molasses-in-January<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Knowing the group’s determination to complete this trip, I file away a few options in the mental folder and get to my feet; it’s time to move on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loading up is accompanied by extra sighs and groans as our bodies readjust to the packs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking the lead, I start back up a gorgeous section of trail; humming despite my deadline concern, I’m feeling at one with the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through sheer determination and willpower, no doubt fueled by a wish to avoid sleeping scattered throughout the allegedly ghost-inhabited woods, we make our shelter with thirty minutes to spare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relief is apparent in the tone of the group’s voices as we set up tents and make chore assignments for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As so often happens, boundless energy arises the moment the packs hit the dirt, and we harness that exuberance to get food on the make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Much later, after the group has drifted into their tents and bags, after the last headlamp has been extinguished, I sit alone with the assistant guide, soaking in the night noises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear frogs, crickets, cicadas, and something much larger: maybe a bear, but probably a raccoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Admiring the stars overhead I think back on the pain and effort expended to get me to this place and smile, secure in the knowledge that it will all be forgotten by morning, when only the beauty remains.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-67909350568548393582012-07-28T21:52:00.000-07:002012-07-28T21:52:54.107-07:00Cooking RockstarsLife is not all fun, games and adventure here in Cactusland. Occasionally I have to go to work and make enough money to fund the next round of excitement. For the last two years I've been putting my undergrad to good use (novel concept, I know) by working with an agency in Kentuckiana that provides residential psychiatric treatment. Basically we're 1-2 (depending on which of our programs you're talking about) steps below a psychiatric hospital. <br />
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I currently work with lower functioning clients in a group home setting, something I never could have predicted I would enjoy. Like all kids, our kids need structure and lots of it. One of the ways we provide that is to engage them in group activities, which may or may not be typical group therapy. I'm not much for sitting around talking about feelings, so when I was brainstorming ideas for a group, there was really only one option: cooking group.<br />
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In the way that all Southern women feel food is therapy, I embrace cooking as a treatment activity for our kiddos. My Mama and Mema both have shown me how much better the act of preparing a meal can make you feel; how the simple steps of a recipe can be more effective than any amount of pharmaceutical help. I was certain that if I could get them cooking, I could help them on their path to wellness. <br />
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The first meeting of cooking group had me a tad nervous, as I wasn't sure I could maintain the interest of 6-8 kids that are known for emotional outbursts. I did spend many years teaching kids and adults, so my skills for providing informal education are there, but possibly a tad rusty. I picked a recipe for our inaugural group that I had learned on the fly with Reader several years ago: Thai Peanut Noodles. It's a homemade, decently healthy interpretation of a street food favorite and it requires a fair amount of actual cooking.<br />
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My lil cooking rockstars, 7 the first week, took to the group like ducks to water. Within our hour together they had learned how to mince, saute, boil and toss; basic ideas for an accomplished food wrangler, but heady stuff for those uninitiated into the kitchen. After my groups had finished putting together the dish we all sat around the table, Top Chef style, and tried that first bite together. I couldn't help but be impressed; they had gone to town on those noodles.<br />
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After a few minutes of slurping and chewing I suggested we go around the table and share any comments, constructive or otherwise, about the dish. The responses ranged from "This is awesome" to "This is freaking amazing." Clearly, we had a winning dish and some pretty awesome newbie cooks.<br />
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Last week we worked with eggs: scrambled, as french toast and as a fritatta. This time when we went around the circle while sampling the food I was impressed to hear some comments that actually considered why the dish was good, what could have been better, etc. It was a great group.<br />
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This week I'm teaching them easy fruit cakes: a peach cobbler, a blueberry buckle and a black forest dump cake (unfortunate though the name may be) and I can't wait. To watch these kids that so often struggle to maintain their behavior focus on food for an hour every Sunday night is amazing. They are totally engaged, involved and on task. I remain their fascinated, fearless leader. By Christmas, we'll be whipping up homemade figgy pudding. Trust.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-25450056905425673922012-07-22T19:59:00.000-07:002012-07-24T12:10:11.730-07:00A Local Celeb at a Local PubFuschia and I were too exhausted after our long week in FL to do much in the way of cooking this weekend. Saturday afternoon found us at Molly Malone's in St. Matthews, hoping for a quick bite. The place was pretty much dead, something I was truly surprised by. Normally that bar is a haven for the yuppie crowd, with tons of people hanging out on the patio. Maybe only late night draws a huge crowd, cause we were holding down the joint with no more than 20 other folks.<br />
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Like most American-Irish pubs, Molly Malone's has dark wood, fish n chips and Guinness on tap. They also have a a great space with high ceilings (a bit of a rarity in the average pub), an uncluttered feel and decently friendly waitstaff. Fuschia and I chose the steak and onion sandwich and fish n chips, respectively, while electing to share a Magners Irish Cider for fun.<br />
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Over the years hard cider has become our go-to beverage, as neither one of us ever developed a real beer friendly palate. As most of you know, I can drink a beer or five, but I may not enjoy it to the fullest degree possible. But hard cider? I love cider. Introduced to me by my now bestie Spurs, hard cider is my fave indulgence; my beverage/dessert. Upon trying the Magners, a blend of 15 apples, we both agreed that the dry finish and complexity of flavor was really appealing. We had no trouble finishing the pint.<br />
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Our food arrived piping hot (truly, I have a blister to prove it) and looked nearly as appetizing as pub food is capable of looking. Although I had cheated and gotten fish n roasted potatoes, I enjoyed my meal. The roasted potatoes had a wonderful char on the skins, with a smooth interior that was perfect. They were instantly my favorite part of the meal. The cod was beer battered, deep fried and served with two things that I detest: coleslaw and tartar. I know, I know...I just can't make myself eat that stuff.<br />
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The fish was decent, although a tad undercooked, and I managed to eat 1.5 fillets. Fuschia meanwhile was steadily devouring a steak sandwich that she reported to be okay. Because she believes food is only a vehicle for condiments, Fuschia is often less than enthusiastic about sauceless entrees. That was how the steak sandwich offended her. After applying some post facto mayo, she reported the plate a success, finishing her sandwich and my leftover cod.<br />
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Due to having to work just a few hours later, I abstained from additional cider intake, though I could've easily done damage to that keg. As we're paying the check Fuschia lowers her voice, cocks her head and says "look who it is". I slyly glance in the direction she's indicated, nod sagely and say "A really tall dude and a not so tall dude." With that my lovely Fuschia, in that classic way that Louisvilles' natives reserve for those of us that just aren't from here, rolls her eyes and says "that's Pitino". <br />
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My incomprehension may have been obvious because she followed that pronouncement with a sigh and "you know, the head basketball coach for the Cardinals. you know, they were number 2 last year." Oh yeah, that guy. Clearly I was expected to know just by seeing him, but what can I say.....I'm a freaking football fan. Mark Richt I would have asked for an autograph:)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-62727989252525058112012-07-14T02:14:00.001-07:002012-07-14T02:14:40.398-07:00I Would Fly 1000 Miles...Part TwoThat night, just hours after our adventure off the beaten path, found us right back in Old San Juan at a welcome dinner hosted by Fuschia's parents. I'd actually seen this particular restaurant just a few days before while indulging in my love of No Reservations. Anthony Bourdain had visited this place (the name escapes me) to try the authentic pina colada in its alleged birthplace. He seemed disappointed with his experience and while I've had better (hell I've made better), I enjoyed it enough to have 4 or 8. For some reason I can't remember exactly how many.<br />
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As usually happens when I enjoy the libations a little too much I provided an impromptu therapy session for one of our dining companions, became besties with the older lady next to me and became inappropriately interested in the flamenco dancers' umm, abilities. Then it was time for the main event, the thing I had actually come to PR for: mufungo.<br />
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Root words aside, mufungo is not a mushroom; rest easy. Mufungo is a pile of smashed, fried plantain that has been mixed with pork fat, topped with veggies and/or meat, then covered with a sauce, usually tomato based. At the welcome dinner I had chosen the seafood mufungo, despite the fact that it would have a lil calamari on it. Perhaps it was the hype, perhaps it was the heat, more probably it was the vat of pina colada I had consumed, but I just couldn't do justice by my mufungo.<br />
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I tried several bites, delighted each time by the savory flavor of the plantain, the freshness of the scallops and shrimp and the brightness of the tomato sauce. A wonderful medley of flavors, yet heavier than I would have anticipated for tropical cuisine. I ate maybe a third of my plate, satisfied that I had experience this quintessential Puerto Rican dish and checked it off the mental to-do.<br />
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Influenced no doubt by the coconut rum that had replaced a majority of the plasma in my bloodstream, I was inclined to head straight to bed upon our arrival back at the hotel. After sleeping it off we spent most of Saturday prepping for the actual wedding. The beach was fine to stay at, but to get married at? Clearly you have to find a hacienda in the rain forest overlooking the ocean. Duh. So off we went in rented bus: the entire wedding party, the FOG and FOB, me and the Reverend (the brother-in-law in charge of marrying us all).<br />
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We literally went over the mountains and through the woods for about 40 min before I rediscovered a key piece of information about myself: motion sickness is not just a ploy to get the front seat. By the time we arrived at the venue I was too sick to appreciate anything other than the lack of motion. Attempting to climb the steps up to the main part of the hacienda I became overwhelmed with the need to avail myself of a bucket or bush and quickly stumbled off the side of the path. Realizing we had located one of the bedrooms, Fuschia helped me into one of the most peaceful, beautiful bathrooms I've ever seen so that I might <em>refresh</em> myself. And boy did I.<br />
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Thus reinvigorated we finished the climb only to find ourselves in an exquisite open air house that looked out over the rain forest. With all of the features one expects in a house sans walls, this hacienda was something I could never have imagined. Instantly I understood what The Geeks had fallen in love with, why they had gone to the trouble of carting us all up the side of a mountain. Built around an open courtyard, featuring rambling rooms, including den, kitchen, billiard room, and a hammock room, the house was definitively elegant romance at its finest.<br />
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The wedding itself was excellent with both bride and groom looking happier than I can remember ever seeing either of them. As is typical of a reception in Fuschia's family, everyone enjoyed themselves immensely, proclaiming love to one and all before catching a charter bus back down the mountain. Arriving back at the hotel well after midnight, Fushcia and I had every intention of partying in the casino, but soon realized that the same physics problem that had overwhelmed me en route to the hacienda now threatened her composure. Faced with the certainty of an uncomfortable few hours we retired early once again.<br />
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We spent the next day soaking in the pool(s), lounging by the pool and playing the ocean. Clearly, an overwhelmingly stressful day. Our last night on the island was spent once again watching TV, contemplating how old we were acting.<br />
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Monday morning found us walking on the beach and having one last soak in the pool before heading upstairs to attempt containment of the disaster area that was our room. An hour of diligent battle left us with one carry-on apiece, a purse each and a sudden readiness to be headed stateside. We caught the last US Airways flight out of San Juan for the day, scheduled to arrive in Charlotte, NC a scant 30 minutes before our connecting flight to Lexington, KY would depart. Even I, in my semi-comatose state, was willing the plane to go just a bit faster.<br />
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We hit the terminal running in Charlotte; I couldn't help thinking of the scene in Home Alone (you know the one). Pushing people aside, we really worked our quads trying to make that last flight to bluegrass country. Finding ourselves at the necessary gate we were, how can I say this politely, taken aback, to discover that our flight, already getting us home close to midnight, would be delayed by ninety minutes. Turning to the only activity available in most airports, we ate some classic American junk food and read the newest People magazine while waiting to board.<br />
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Finally hearing our gate being called we headed outside (that's not a typo) to get on our plane. Having in the past flown primarily in and out of Atlanta, I wasn't aware that planes were ever actually boarded outside (except in movies, of course). But here we were. If that wasn't confidence crushing enough the plane also happened to be my favorite variety: school bus with wings. Seating roughly 49 people, these commuter jets are the only thing capable of inducing claustrophobia in yours truly. The universe was obviously having a laugh at my expense that night since the pilots appeared to be twelve and no more capable of flying a plane than I am. Perfect.<br />
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Having sobered up by now I was mildly alarmed when our flight started out a little bumpy, but I tried mightily to focus on my Southern Living. The real problem came after drinks were served and our flight attendant received a phone call from the pilots. Like any highly paranoid person , I'm attuned to nonverbal mood indicators and this woman was screaming stress. She immediately sat down in the jump seat, strapped herself in and began pounding ginger ale. <br />
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Turns out we were flying through a rager of a storm system battering the East Coast that week. Lucky us. Our lil plane bucked and shimmied, even heaving occasionally as the turbulence played kickball with us. Fuschia, fearless Fuschia, turned an alarming shade of green and began gripping the armrests. Strangely it was a look being sported by a majority of passengers. And just like that I became the fearless one. Concentrating all my efforts on helping her feel better, I forgot that I was scared, forgot that my Sprite was sloshing violently and just comforted my partner.<br />
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As you may have inferred by now, our plane did land safely in Lexington, though that 40 minutes in the air remains the longest 2/3 of an hour I've ever spent. While I still gaze longingly at travel pieces featuring the Maldives, Tahitti or New Zealand, one thing is for certain: I'm never flying in a toy plane again. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-14419161487335258322012-07-14T00:50:00.000-07:002012-07-14T00:50:06.067-07:00I would fly 1000 miles...Part OneAnyone who knows me, really knows me, is aware that there are three things I fear above all else: sharks, serial killers and flying. In no particular order. Our latest adventure involved only one of these, although it happens to be the one that is statistically the most likely to do me harm.<br />
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Fuschia's brother and his fiance, The Geeks if you'll recall, decided roughly a year ago that they simply must exchange their vows in a tropical destination. Hearing this, I was stoked, thinking maybe a visit to the Keys was in my near future. This optimism lasted roughly twenty-four hours before I was awakened from my road-trip fantasies and informed that I would be traveling to Puerto Rico for the nuptials. <br />
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I have no problem with traveling or with wanting an exciting wedding. I do have a problem with strapping myself into a metal capsule that's being hurled 3 football fields per second roughly 5 miles above the surface of the earth. That I most certainly do have a problem with.<br />
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For months I researched alternate ways to get to PR.....bridge? takes too much government funding. boat? cruise ships will let you have a day pass on the island, but refuse to act as taxi cab. kayak? see earlier comment on sharks. Clearly if I was going, I was flying. So for love of The Geeks (and honestly fear of Fuschia), on a sunny day in late May, I headed to San Juan armed with an iPod full of Jack Johnson and enough sedative to knock out an elephant.<br />
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I assume we had two uneventful flights as I was actually higher than the airplane for most of those 5 hours. Exiting the airport we were assaulted by the kind of muggy heat I associate with Savannah in August. Tropical had a whole new meaning. We took a particularly speedy taxi to the El San Juan resort on Isla Verde, just north of the airport and arrived at a pretty swank hotel. The lobby reminded me of movies about Cuba in the 1950's with red velvet and dark wood attached to every permanent surface. Elaborate carving, dramatic chandeliers and it was basically like the set of a soap opera. On Telemundo. Our room was so South Beach as to give me a definite case of cognitive dissonance; 1950's Cuba in the lobby, 2012 Miami in the room. <br />
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After having a hearty laugh at the minibar price list and the room service menu, we suited up and headed down to the pool. Most hotels dig a hole, line it with concrete, fill it with water and call it a day. Not the good people of Hilton. The pool at The El San Juan was actually several, maybe as many as many, pools in various sensuous, serpentine shapes. We would even discover later that there was a waterfall that had a pool at the top of it with coexisting hot tub. Amazing. Covering every available surface were the most plush beach loungers I've ever seen; they in turn were covered in an assortment of mostly tan, mostly scantily clad guests. Ahhh, the good life.<br />
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We eventually caught up with some of the other wedding guests, as well as Fuschia's family. Luckily, their whiteness acted as a beacon among all the decidedly caramel flesh. After a dip in the ocean, a walk down to a local taqueria and a shower we sat down to rest for just a moment. Instead we rested for roughly 12 hours. <br />
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The next day found us exploring Old San Juan, although due to somebody's (ahem, Fuschia) reluctance to scale hills, I will never know what is at the top of that particular city. We quickly discovered that the only possible way to stay cool in the intense heat was to stop every 400 yards for another pariagua (snow cone). I tried tamarind and coconut, as well as a few other more mainstream choices. After inspecting a good number of the fort walls and assorted armaments, warning Fuschia of feral cats' rabies potential and scouting out a food truck featured on the Travel Channel it was finally time to head back to the hotel.<br />
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Our brilliant plan, cooked up in our overheated tourists brains involved saving $17 and experiencing the real PR by taking the city bus back. Check and check. As always, I had managed to lead others on a tour through the local ghetto. Keepin it real has always been my strong suit.<br />
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<em>Part Two to follow.</em><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-10055298891904212552012-06-09T01:17:00.001-07:002012-06-09T01:20:29.952-07:00Truckus Ruckus, Berry Pickin' and ZaMy favorite ladies from the Deep South did visit in late April, just in time for the annual Kentucky Derby Festival. True to my family's style we participated in none of the Derby activities on offer, choosing to forge our own itinerary for the weekend.<br />
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Without a doubt the highlight was a trip down to the Louisville Food Truckus Ruckus. It was exactly what it sounds like: a roundup of all the local food trucks into a mobile food court. All our faves were there:Lil Cheezers (gourmet grilled cheese), Grind (burgers) and Holy Mole (very interesting tacos). A few trucks we had never patronized participated including one that was selling crepes with a staggering variety of filling options. Although I had to stick with the tried and true Lil Cheezers, I did seriously contemplate the Peanut Butter and Nutella Crepe.<br />
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The day of the Ruckus Louisville was in a pissy mood, retracting spring and giving us midwinter instead. Colder than seemed normal for April 25, we shivered our way through a walk around the parking lot to decide upon a worthy lunch. While Fuschia, Mama and Mema all opted for some Texas style BBQ I kept the faith and waited, shivering and alone, for my delicious grilled cheese. Lil Cheezers never fails to satisfy me with their thick wheatberry bread, real butter, interesting toppings and hand cut kettle chips with curry catsup. This particular day I enjoyed the Courtney Jo, a hearty thin sliced roast beef, provolone and mushroom hot sandwich. <br />
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Needless to say my sandwich was WAY better than their BBQ, but I graciously allowed them to a try a bite of the Courtney Jo as a consolation prize. <br />
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A few days later I was in a baking mood, a rarity for me despite my culinary aspirations, and made use of a lazy person's no-knead bread recipe. This was a simple white, yeast dough designed to make boules (free form loaves). <br />
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As you can clearly see, the loaves may have been less than impressive looking, but I swear they had a better crumb than I would have ever imagined. Moist and flaky without the extreme density that so often accompanies homemade bread. Fuschia and I devoured the first boule in a single day, leaving me no choice but to bake two days in a row.</div>
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A few weeks after Mama and Mema went back down South and I had (shockingly) lost interest in baking bread, I realized that it was finally strawberry season here in the semi-frozen tundra. Dragging Fuschia along, I headed out to a local farm in Southern Indiana. As usual we had big plans to pick several gallons of berries, make jam and bake pies. None of that would come to pass. Due to my severe allergy to Kentuckiana I was incapacitated almost immediately upon arrival at Huber's Farm. Settling for pre-picked strawberries (and paying 2x the price) we headed back down into the smog choked valley where I can breathe easier.<br />
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Along the way we decided to sample the berry bounty, picking out a ripe looking strawberry apiece. If you've ever experienced fireworks made of champagne and ambrosia exploding repeatedly in your mouth, then you have some idea of how these tasted. I've never, ever had such perfectly ripe, succulent, tasty strawberries in all my years. After a hurried discussion about the importance of fresh fruit in a balanced diet we promptly devoured a quart of berries, staining our hands, chin and tongues a delicate shade of stuck-pig red.<br />
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Feeling the rush of all that natural sugar and the call of our bellies, we debated all the way back down the interstate about our dinner plans. I've been on an Italian kick lately, searching out excellent calzones, pastas and cannolis. Occasionally I find myself weepy at the very thought of being hundreds of miles away from my three fave Italian places in all the world: Gargano's of Albany, GA is owned by actual Italians and makes the most interesting, most authentic pizza I've ever had; Tomatino's of Montgomery, AL was the favorite haunt of my dad, Mr. RTR (that's Roll Tide Roll for the unenlightened), and myself for many years; Figo of Decatur, GA is a great Italian bistro with innovative salads and a wonderful create your own pasta menu.<br />
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Fuschia and I finally recalled a little place we'd heard about that would do for our dinner: Come Back Inn of Jeffersonville, IN. The quaint downtown is lined with historic buildings, each seemingly deserted at 5:30pm on a Saturday. We headed inside the restaurant only to discover the place was jam packed. Turns out the locals love it. Totally casual, yet lacking the kitsch of most Mom n Pop eateries, this place had the relaxed atmosphere we're both so drawn to. <br />
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A heated debate regarding entrees ensued, leaving Fuschia with no clear idea as to what she would order. Gallantly offering my services I ordered for both of us: a mushroom and pepperoni pizza, Caesar salad and the Italian roast beef sandwich. Our shared feast appeared quickly thereafter, piping hot and wafting smells that can only be termed heavenly. We went for the sandwich first, a delightful drippy mess of thin sliced beef, au jus and provolone. Each mouthful was better than the last, no doubt, but I was really stoked about the pizza.<br />
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Family lore has it that Mama ate pizza almost daily while carrying me and it seems that I have food memory of those 8.5 months. Pizza is my absolute favorite food: thin crust, pan pizza, red sauce, white, Chicago, NY, whatever. I love pizza. I live for the stuff. Our 10" shroom and pepperoni selection had an excellent crust in that it was almost nonexistent. Toppings were piled right up to the edge, with cheese and sauce making an appearance. It was fantastic, or at least the 1 piece I ate was. Turns out the stomach can only hold so much au jus soaked bread and meat before it closes for business. My pizza pie would have to slumber in the fridge while I recuperated enough to finish the job.<br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-91770928337090893172012-04-18T16:31:00.000-07:002012-04-18T16:31:02.787-07:00Ahh LifeFuschia and I had gotten pretty spoiled with a relatively slow paced life, but not anymore. We've been boobs to the wall for a month now with no signs of slowing down. Of course, we still have our priorities straight: naptime is encouraged, long contemplative walks are an excellent way to avoid chores, and veggies must be eaten (particularly if deep fried).<br />
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Just to give you an overview of what we've been up to:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bQuEuirpRHk/T49Mt0d-SFI/AAAAAAAAADs/iUZmSDK87Cc/s1600/eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bQuEuirpRHk/T49Mt0d-SFI/AAAAAAAAADs/iUZmSDK87Cc/s320/eggs.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> We hosted a small St Pat's Day do complete with deviled eggs, homemade pickles, balsamic shrooms, fruit kabobs, and a lime punch. What makes you think I've been Pinteresting?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> This past week I stumbled across a Top Chef recipe I've been wanting to try: Honey-Scallion Potatoes. These were so easy and so delicious that I'm tempted to make them everyday. Unfortunately they contain a couple of items not intended for daily usage: bacon, oil, butter and sugar. Maybe I could come up with a baked version....<br />
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We're all caught up for now, but with Mama and Mema coming to town I anticipate new adventures to relate next week...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-67285787726367661572012-03-04T22:35:00.000-08:002012-03-04T22:35:06.262-08:00In true believer style Fuschia and I made a seasonal pilgrimage to the temple of stylish, yet cheap Swedish home goods this week. Like any good church, the folks at Ikea held me up for a considerable tithe. Hey, I might be $400 poorer, but at least I communed with the one god that all Americans share: consumerism. <br />
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This is something I've engaged in a remarkable amount this year, which just goes to show that Biggie (and my dad) was totally on it when he said "mo' money, mo' problems" or at least "mo' money, mo' shopping". No doubt only privileged folks in the so-called first world have these sort of qualms over indulging in material goods. Seems like a lot of the world would be excited to have some water, rice and a few health clinics. So basically no matter what I feel silly and guilty. For spending money on luxuries in the first place and for worrying about doing so. <br />
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Funny that buying a few lamps, chairs and a dresser can bother me this much considering all the people in this country who spend thousands on their furniture, luxury cars and designer clothes. At least I can tell myself I'm not as ridiculous as those people. Or maybe I can console myself with the thought that one day I can join them in an even more enthusiastic spending orgy. It could go either way....<br />
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Despite the buyer's remorse, the traffic headed into Northern KY and the slight shadiness of the Covington, KY area, there was at least one experience from this Cincy trip that left me satisfied. Fuschia's brother and fiance (the self-named Geeks) were kind enough to offer us a trip to their favorite Korean restaurant. I was deeply hesitant about this, as my one previous Korean experience ended with me in a Chik-fil-A drive-thru. You might say my hopes were not very high...<br />
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Despite some initial challenges getting in the door (a very confusing double door situation), I immediately liked the feel of the space with it's long, high-ceilinged main room and classic Asian (not red lacquer) decor. Noticing the traditional seating on the right, I was happy to see that our party was being seated in a booth of the sort plump Americans tend to prefer. <br />
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Being a veteran in the food wars and a strong Asian cuisine enthusiast, I assumed (wrongly, as it were) that I would be able to divine my food choices through a quick menu perusal. That idea was put to rest in short order and I happily allowed The Geeks to guide me in ordering. We started with a delightful vegetable pancake called Ya Chae Pa Jun. Unlike American pancakes, this one had no starch base and seemed to fall more in the fritatta or quiche category. Since I lack Korean heritage, I'll concede that they can classify their food however they choose....even when they're so obviously wrong.<br />
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Our main course, Dolsot Bibim Bab<strong>,</strong> was served in a style reminiscent of the Mexican restaurant fajita, only in a stone bowl that had been heated to a temperature somewhere between lava and solar flare. I know this because I was dumb enough to touch it, but luckily no one could hear the sizzling of my flesh over the sizzling of the meat we were meant to be cooking.<br />
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This molten bowl of rice, chicken and veggies was truly tasty with just a hint of the spice that you find in other Asian foods. I found the flavors to be milder than those of China, less complex than Japanese or Thai food, and much less fragrant than their sub-Asian cousin, Indian cuisine. I was not initally convinced that this Korean fajita bowl was going to please me; it honestly took at least 5 bites to get there. But then something happened, a neuron fired, a sensor pulsed and I realized "hey this is pretty good". <br />
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As a bonus/side item we were served an interesting assortment of little pickled things. There were radishes, kimchi, mushrooms, and some sort of candied potato. I only tried a few of them, as my tolerance for vinegar is limited. What these little dishes really did for me was illuminate just how much Korean cuisine is involved in stimulating the umami taste in my mouth. What it lacked in saltiness, sweetness, and spicyness it made up for in this unique flavor so prevalent in Asian cuisine. I found myself wishing that I had more interest in lacto-fermentated foodstuffs, as I'm sure this takes the Korean experience to a different level.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hRlecsxtsZY/T1RYGra_wNI/AAAAAAAAADM/iGZgoyDeb1c/s1600/korean1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hRlecsxtsZY/T1RYGra_wNI/AAAAAAAAADM/iGZgoyDeb1c/s320/korean1.jpg" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>Overall it was a truly excellent meal, although I'm not convinced The Geeks believed my enthusuasm for the place. While my heart still belongs to Thai and Indian, I'm not afraid to take the occasional foray into Korean food. That alone was worth the drive.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-55726351373927062412012-01-18T21:56:00.000-08:002012-01-18T21:56:10.233-08:00And Then It Was JanuaryOh how fleet the wings of time grow in the winter...which sounds like Wordsworth, but isn't. November and December passed Fuschia and I by with a random assortment of relative-oriented activity, an unprecedented indulgence in seasonal consumerism and that nasty little Christmas Day virus that my sister, Typhoid Eeyore, managed to gift the fam with.<br />
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Already 3/4 of the way into January 2012 and I can't stop writing 2011 on everything. Occasionally I regress and write 2009 or 1993. Clearly, the Buddhist ideas about being here now are almost impossible for me to experience. What is happening here and now in the tiny metropolis of Louisville: we're experiencing a winter unlike any I've seen. Rain, snow flurries, freezing temps, tornadoes, thunderstorms, highs in the 60s, lows in the teens....we've got it all covered. What I'd like to see is some deep powder so we can do some old fashioned, death-defying sledding off the side of the Cherokee Park golf course. That's what winter should be all about: potential head trauma, a frostbitten ass and good friends. <br />
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Fushia and I've managed to squeeze in a little adventure over the past few weeks and as usual it's food-centric. One of the first things we did this year was get back into the swing of dumpster diving. Technically it was the last thing we did in 2011 since we pulled 30 bouquets of fresh flowers out of the local trendy grocery dumpster just 15 minutes til midnight on Dec 31. Hauling our bounty back to the apartment, I was skeptical that we would find any use for them, but Fuschia proved me wrong. She got right to work arranging artful, dramatic and a few cottagey buckets of blooms to brighten up the house.<br />
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A few days later, in a fit of inspiration, I woke up early on a Saturday and set about channeling Julia Child or, at the very least, Rachael Ray, into a gourmet breakfast for 2. After ODing on Top Chef and Chopped over the holidays I really felt the need to flex my culinary muscles. Twenty minutes later saw hand cut sweet potato fries roasting in the oven, French toast browning in a pan, and me leaping and laughing while deglazing bananas in bourbon and brown sugar. On a technical note, don't leap with a pan that's on fire. Even Chef Falkner can't do that and neither should you.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dBW6br5kBQ0/Txet4puMIWI/AAAAAAAAAC0/ky375SX1BrQ/s1600/407390_579938897153_151200447_31832062_6626414_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nfa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dBW6br5kBQ0/Txet4puMIWI/AAAAAAAAAC0/ky375SX1BrQ/s320/407390_579938897153_151200447_31832062_6626414_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div> I wanted pictures before the plate was mostly empty, but sadly neither Fuschia nor I could resist chowing down. Glad though I am to please us with a tasty breakfast, my favorite compliment was from Oberon. After trying a small bite, he stood at attention for 25 minutes hoping to score just a tad more. That's dedication.<br />
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We've got a new project in the works in our kitchen and for once it's not edible. We're learning to make soap and other assorted bath products. I'm so stoked to be expanding our homesteading skill set! Now we basically just need a farm and we're good to go. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-22235024124714143262011-11-02T00:48:00.000-07:002011-11-02T00:48:32.030-07:00Ice Cream Road Show: The Cincy AdventuresFuschia and I have been having so many adventures lately (some pleasant, some the complete opposite) that I've been struggling to find time to wash our delicates, much less update our loyal readers. Luckily we've hit a lull in the action, so let the stories commence.<br />
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Ahhh, September. Just a few short weeks after our rockin good time at the KY State Fair Fuschia and I were offered a couple of free tickets to King's Island during a private P&G event. With a policy of turning down only free colonics, we jumped at the chance to check out this classic amusement park just 2 hours to our north. Being random roadtrip adventure junkies, we went ahead and planned an entire weekend around our windfall. <br />
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With a three day window of opportunity for fun we decided on a modest itinerary: inspirational meditation at The Temple of IKEA, ambling stroll through downtown Cincy to admire architecture and locals' handguns, pilgrimage to the original Graeter's, supremely delicious culinary exploration at overpriced gastropub, topped off by our day with Snoopy and the gang at King's Island.<br />
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Unbeknownst to Fuschia, I had discovered that Cincy was hosting the country's largest Oktoberfest that weekend and had remembered that Cincy is home to the Findlay Market, a mecca for Ohioan foodies. Clearly the weekend was going to be nonstop, action-packed awesomeness.<br />
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We actually made it to about half our planned events and still had ample time to enjoy a lie about. By far my favorite part of the weekend was the trip to Findlay Market. I'm sure my slack-jawed countenance marked my newbie status, but the Cincy locals were kind enough to look the other way. We strolled among the vendors, marveling at the cheeses, meats, spices and prepared foods on offer. <br />
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Seeking a substitute for breakfast we stopped by Taste of Belgium, where they make waffles (didn't see that one coming, didya?) as big as your face. Opting for a classic, no namby-pamby topping for us, we got the traditional and a few soft drinks. The waffle was unlike an Americanized version of a Belgian, with a thickness and beautiful yeasty smell that nearly made me swoon. I managed to control myself and actually share a few bites with Fuschia, but it was touch and go for a moment.<br />
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In true Cactus and Fuschia style we followed the taste of Belgium up with a little taste of Italy: gelato. At the end of the market, just pass the spice guy sits Dojo Gelato, Findlay's awesome gastropub, fusion Italian creamery. On offer that day were flavors previously unimagined: malted milk, amber lager, Italian hazelnut, dulce de leche de salt, etc, etc, the end. Clearly, we would need to order the bucket size. Served in a foursome, our gelato was a delightful mix of malted milk, hazelnut, classic chocolate and dulche de leche de salt. Words fail me. The chocolate alone was worth driving to Cincy. You must go there immediately.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-waATshnDN6E/TrDrstKHNkI/AAAAAAAAAB8/DHLMEQSNljc/s1600/dojo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-waATshnDN6E/TrDrstKHNkI/AAAAAAAAAB8/DHLMEQSNljc/s320/dojo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We did eventually move on to Oktoberfest where we sampled solid bier cheese, pretzels, fried pickles and enough draught cider (yay Woodchuck Amber) to make crowd navigation just a tad more like competitive sport. After enjoying the vibe of a downtown for a couple of hours (read: sobering up) we located our car and sped off to find more debauchery in the Rust Belt.<br />
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Hours later , nap time and showers having been indulged in, we arrived in Over-the-Rhine for a trip to Senate. A simple, modern hot spot with wood details and exposed brick, Senate was a rare find: trendy food without the snotty hipster scene. As this was a meal we had really been dreaming of, Fuschia went with a signature dog, the Hello Kitty 2.0 (wasabi peas, cabbage slaw and bacon) while I stuck with the Lobster BL (you know my feelings on tomatoes) and truffle fries. I washed it all down with a Kitten Fizz (some vodka/raspberry yumminess) while Fuschia looked on with regret that she lost her license somewhere between Louisville and Cincy. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVyvq0TLEEI/TrDrzPBFNoI/AAAAAAAAACU/__Ky0hcXX8o/s1600/senate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVyvq0TLEEI/TrDrzPBFNoI/AAAAAAAAACU/__Ky0hcXX8o/s320/senate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jFFVDH0Pc8o/TrDr0dqqKiI/AAAAAAAAACc/MXVh-6vIVls/s1600/senate2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jFFVDH0Pc8o/TrDr0dqqKiI/AAAAAAAAACc/MXVh-6vIVls/s320/senate2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Rolling ourselves back to the car we determined that only a movie would make the evening more perfect. We headed north to Springdale to see 'Contagion', a relentlessly cheerful flick, if ever I've seen one. Sufficiently revived at the cinema we indulged in classic American ice cream for dessert: 2 delicious scoops of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pujsnP7Beaw/TrDrufOleSI/AAAAAAAAACE/-GkNooR-f_w/s1600/graeters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pujsnP7Beaw/TrDrufOleSI/AAAAAAAAACE/-GkNooR-f_w/s320/graeters.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Over the course of our weekend we did make it to Graeter's somewhere in the land of the yuppie suburbs where we sampled new flavors and each had a monster scoop of deliciousness. At King's Island we managed to have an excellent time despite my fear of roller coasters and other trauma-causing automated adrenaline milking machines. One of the better parts of the Island? Free P&G stuff just for showing up and the (yes, I ate tres) huge blueberry soft serve ice cream cones that the park is famous for.<br />
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If spending a weekend exploring Cincinnati taught me anything it's that I have sorely misjudged the Midwest. Cincy had so much great food, some really excellent things to do and an interesting vibe in most areas. Perhaps we'll have to visit again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-758341868907767582011-08-31T22:36:00.000-07:002011-08-31T22:36:31.565-07:00Gettin Frisky at the Fair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TN6i-I0lFmo/Tl8PG76ENwI/AAAAAAAAABQ/ThlEvtNwu6w/s1600/100_0722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TN6i-I0lFmo/Tl8PG76ENwI/AAAAAAAAABQ/ThlEvtNwu6w/s320/100_0722.JPG" width="240" xaa="true" /></a></div><br />
After all the tomatoes of late July, August was reserved for me to scrub the red stains off my cutting board, walls and self. Now that I've finished that we're getting back to the business of learning new things. The end of summer in Louisville doesn't offer much unless you're finishing up a garden, planting cover crops or already dreaming about next season or so I thought. Enter the KY State Fair (Aug 18-28). Billed as an agricultural offering with a side of thrill rides and deep fried madness, this was an event I looked forward to for months.<br />
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Last Saturday Fuschia and I finally managed to find a common day off so that we could head off to see what we could see. My initial thought upon arriving: why the hell is the fair inside? and why are there 5 million people here at 10am? Turns out the fair draws people from every holler in KY,a feat that only KY basketball can also perform.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rlccIZrTM5I/Tl8TqTheY4I/AAAAAAAAABY/4G1ygAzccXs/s1600/100_0726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rlccIZrTM5I/Tl8TqTheY4I/AAAAAAAAABY/4G1ygAzccXs/s320/100_0726.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div>We paid the entry fee (ambitiously priced at $28 for two people and 1 car), grabbed our free (or $28, depending on perspective) program and headed into the 'C' hall. Naturally being Cactus and Fuschia, we had managed to stumble into the food court. With no self control and no previous sustenance that day, we availed ourselves of the offered junk food. Breakfast of champions? Philly cheesesteaks with mushrooms. Yummy.<br />
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Finally feeling ready to throw ourselves into the milling herd (every pun intended) we headed off to the animal exhibits in hopes of seeing a few piggies. Turns out the animal areas were HUGE and filled with cows, pigs, sheep,goats, and horses. Fuschia, being a refined suburbanite had never been so close to farm animals and spent most of an hour enthralled with petting each and every creature.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HqUX68lU4eA/Tl8TVYNzIyI/AAAAAAAAABU/ZdW60q4MYqg/s1600/100_0727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HqUX68lU4eA/Tl8TVYNzIyI/AAAAAAAAABU/ZdW60q4MYqg/s320/100_0727.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div>Feeling exhausted (code for hungry) we headed off in search of 3 mythical fair foods: the donut burger, fried butter and fried Kool-Aid. Eventually we discovered the fair food area in the middle of a baking asphalt parking lot and set about seeing what was what. On offering were all the usual suspects plus a few I hadn't seen before: deep fried Derby Pie and Maple Bacon Ice Cream Sundae. <br />
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After discovering that the fried Kool-Aid was just cherry drink mix in funnel cake dough that had been deep fried, we opted for the deep fried Derby Pie drizzled with raspberry sauce and sprinkled with powdered sugar. We both were skeptical that this deep frying and drizzling would in any way enhance the already awesomeness of Derby Pie, but we're always willing to eat saturated fat in the name of research. Boy am I glad we did. That fried pie was easily the best Derby Pie I've ever had. Ever.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0AsZwjHT_7E/Tl8VS7U4SNI/AAAAAAAAABc/FmuOg5JU6GU/s1600/100_0730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0AsZwjHT_7E/Tl8VS7U4SNI/AAAAAAAAABc/FmuOg5JU6GU/s320/100_0730.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div>With the sun heating up the place, we decided against further culinary exploration, even though we had found a place with the donut burgers (cheeseburger on a Krispy Kreme). Sadly the fried butter continued to elude us. Needing to cool off we headed into the 4-H exhibit all to see the Great Pumpkin.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nEWM0DISarM/Tl8WJHlIKWI/AAAAAAAAABg/qA01XJBF4F0/s1600/100_0729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nEWM0DISarM/Tl8WJHlIKWI/AAAAAAAAABg/qA01XJBF4F0/s320/100_0729.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div>We found not one, but three gianourmous gourds. The winner came in at a whopping 996 pounds, with the second and third places right behind at 980ish and 886ish. Those things were big enough to make a hobbit condo.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_sDEZ8HCrhw/Tl8WoiJFZ5I/AAAAAAAAABk/iTI2vA3cUAc/s1600/100_0728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_sDEZ8HCrhw/Tl8WoiJFZ5I/AAAAAAAAABk/iTI2vA3cUAc/s320/100_0728.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div>Wandering deeper into the veggie/fruit/nut display we discovered 2 important things: a lot of old people really like to look at tomatoes and we're not very good judges of the relative merits of fair entries. Either way we had a good time and decided that nothing would do but for us to enter something random in the fair next year. Black walnuts possibly as there were only two entries in that field. <br />
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The rest of the afternoon we spent looking at bees, tasting honey, admiring quilts, cakes, home canned goods and really hideous hobby craft entries. We went to a petting zoo, walked inside a TARC bus (oh the fun), and entered a few drawings for trips to Disney. I was determined to get my $28 worth. By the time 4pm rolled around my feet were begging for relief so we took a spin around the fairgrounds on the tram. Approaching speeds of 3mph, the tram gave us a chance to cool off, rest and look at the motley assortment of folks milling around. Halfway round the parking lot we conceded defeat to the heat and crowds, jumped off the tram and spent a delightful 30 minutes playing hide and seek with the car. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G43ZTe-0tqk/Tl8YsNHAA3I/AAAAAAAAABo/8zzPSZbMniw/s1600/100_0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G43ZTe-0tqk/Tl8YsNHAA3I/AAAAAAAAABo/8zzPSZbMniw/s320/100_0732.JPG" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div><br />
We'll be back next year for sure, most likely with a few entries of our own and a willingness to dominate the donut burger.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-26109820900075577552011-08-09T00:21:00.000-07:002011-08-09T00:24:02.351-07:00Adventures in Rural Central KYLast week I had the bright idea that people on craigslist.com may have produce for sale at reasonable prices. So I had a look around over the course of a few work shifts and, sure enough, there were more than I had imagined posting any combination of picked or u-pick seasonal veggies and fruits.<br />
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The ad that attracted me the most, like Pooh to that damn tree, was one for a blackberry farm in Lebanon, KY. Ninety minutes south of Louisville, they were letting people pick unlimited berries for $5 per person. To put that in perspective, the local farm we usually source from charges <strong><em>$5/pound </em></strong>for u-pick berries. <br />
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With visions of thorn less, heirloom berries dancing in my head I left work, picked up Fuschia and hit the open road. After making a few superfluous loops, turning around twice and getting honked at approximately 257 times (none of them deserved), we arrived in the area where the picking was to commence. There was <span style="background-color: white; color: black;">only</span> one slight problem: there was no sign, as promised online, to mark the farm entrance. I call and get someone on the phone for the first time. It takes all of five seconds for me to discover there are no more blackberries. None. All gone. I managed to be mostly polite to the farmer, but inside I was cussing up a storm. Honestly, what kinda tool doesn't know enough to <span style="background-color: white;">take</span> the ad off craigslist when they no longer have the product? <br />
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Not to be completely stymied in my search for cheap foodstuffs, I pull into the local Golden Arches where Fuschia and I can refill our sweet tea tanks. After two hours of riding around the boonies, they're basically on empty. <span style="background-color: white; color: black;">With a quick call to Eeyore (thanks goodness for her smart phone) for navigational assistance, I point the Jeep back down the highway towards Hart County.</span><br />
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Just last week I had discovered, thanks to my obsessive use of Google, that Hart County is home to a produce auction. And it's open to the public. Clearly, I have to go. Fuschia and I get to Munfordville a little early, so we have plenty of time to scope out the situation. Horse and buggy road signs populate the length of the meandering highway. Being a tad slap happy at this point (no sleep since Thursday morning) I go on on and on and on about wanting to see some Amish folks. Fuschia ignores me and rightly so.<br />
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Maybe I didn't get my cheap berries that day, but by god I got my Amish. Turns out they own the produce auction. It was interesting to see such a large number of people who eschew modern conveniences working so closely with very typical folks there to buy cheap produce. For anyone with an appreciation of farm fresh food, hoarding tendencies, or just a love of community events, this was an awesome spectacle. Under a metal pole barn sat pallet after pallet of food grown in that very county. It was hard to maintain my dignity when all I wanted to do was hug each farmer as a show of thanks.<br />
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After a moment of confusion over the auction workings (hey, it was our virgin visit) we got a number and commenced to buying produce. Anyone who has ever known the thrill of gambling can understand the allure of the auction. It sucks you in. Although tempted at times, I managed to refrain from purchasing 50 dozen ears of corn or 25 watermelons. I did win though. I got 80 pounds of tomatoes and 40 pounds of new potatoes. Grand total cost? $54. That's not a typo. Put that in perspective: at a big box store tomatoes cost roughly $1.59/lb and potatoes are going for $1.29/lb. That's about 178.80, not including taxes. <br />
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As you can imagine I've been more than a little busy ever since we got back from the Amish auction. So far I've put up ketchup, whole tomatoes, tomato sauce, pasta sauce, and salsa. On the agenda for the rest of the week are tomato paste and BBQ sauce. Wish me luck.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-45397539322401082442011-07-31T22:49:00.000-07:002011-08-01T00:12:50.746-07:00Just One of Those Days...Have you ever had one of those completely obnoxious days where you get heatstroke while picking a bushel of beans, get stranded in said bean field for hours, chug too much Gatorade and almost vomit, drop a water bath canner lid on your head, and then ruin an entire batch of applesauce after spending three hours sweating over it? Yeah, me neither.<br />
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At least that's the lie I'm telling myself, but so far I seem to be too astute to fall for my own shenanigans. Yesterday started well enough. Fuschia and I walked the dog to the library to pick up more homesteading books and even managed to remember the Redbox movies this time. In an obvious ploy to avoid Saturday morning ritual torture (aka housework) I suggested we visit a local farm to pick up a supply of green beans so I could try out the death trap pressure-canner Mama gave me. So far so good.<br />
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We meander into Southern Indiana, arrive at the farm and wait for the tractor that will take us to the land of milk and honey. Or green beans and blackberries. Whatever. Our first stop at the berry patch is a raving, rapid success as the fruit hangs in luscious gobs just waiting to hitch a ride in our bucket. We picked 5 pounds in less than 15 minutes. Back on the tractor and off to the beans we go.<br />
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Perhaps the fact that we were the only morons wanting to pick beans should have been clue enough, but of course we failed to heed the warning. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the vines had not been trellised, but allowed to sprawl willy-nilly. To say this would be back-breaking is to state the obvious. Our goal was a full bushel of green beans and though the sun sought to beat us into the earth, we, after 45 long minutes, managed to fill the baskets. <br />
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Resting on our laurels, we waited for the promised tractor to return for us. We waited,waited and waited some more. The world just a stage? We were in Waiting for John Deere. Finally, after an agonizing ninety minutes with no fluids, no shade and definitely no energy to walk back to our car, I called the farm market and pleasantly (truly) asked that they send a car around. Just moments later here comes our savior in denim, laying the hammer down on what turned out to be a Kubota(that's a type of tractor, folks). <br />
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Rejuvenated by our rescue we popped into the market to shop for some additional veggies that weren't available to pick. We loaded up on peaches, Magnum beans (insert size joke here) and some early apples. Alas, we didn't load up on water. Being priced at a prohibitive $2/20 oz we decided to forgo hydration until we returned to town. I've always been particularly good at ignoring my body's distress and yesterday was no different. By the time we hit the store, I was as close to actual heat exhaustion as I've ever been. Gatorade chugging ensued, followed by an epic struggle to retain said fluid. Not my finest hour.<br />
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Never mind, I thought upon regaining lucidity. We had food to process. Hours passed, the temp dropped and finally I was ready to make applesauce. Just last year I learned how to make applesauce and apple butter, which a few of my friends can't get enough of. It was time to restock. Going to Fushcia's closet to retrieve the water canner from an upper shelf, I knew I should get the step ladder. Knew it, yet didn't do it. Dropped the lid directly (at a 90 degree angle, no less) upon my noggin. For the second time that day, from two unrelated causes, I almost passed out. I couldn't form words. I couldn't even articulate what I was thinking: shitassfuckfuckityfuckdamnit!<br />
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After applying a bag of frozen peas to my head wound, I managed to finish my applesauce. All my cans set up seals beautifully within just minutes of being removed from their jacuzzi. Life was good. Until this morning, when upon waking I hobbled into the kitchen to discover mysterious black flakes distributed throughout my golden brown apple goodness. Turns out my water canner was flaking enamel, only I hadn't noticed it when processing the jars. Probably cause of the post head-trauma blurry spots. The end result: I had to throw every drop of that applesauce, all 3 hours, 2 blisters, and 1 major injury worth, in the garbage. A day's work ruined.<br />
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And that dear friends is how I ended up in bed all day, depressed and possibly concussed, on the very day that was to be my pressure canner debut. With any luck I'll be back on my game tomorrow....there's a bushel of hard-won beans waiting for me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-87265389509741728342011-07-28T02:28:00.000-07:002011-07-28T02:30:33.573-07:00Warning Labels and MamaFor me at least, there's no need for a consumer product to carry a warning label. After all, I have a mama who has made it one of her major roles in my life to inform me which small electronics could potentially blow up in my face. Unlike some people's moms, mine has never done this worrying in an oppressive way, never made me scared of the world. She tells me these concerns matter-o-factly, yet with enough drama that I can't help but enjoy a frisson of fear and excitement each time. <br />
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I'm thinking about her particular concern over the frailties of consumer goods because she recently gifted me a tool that I've been lusting after for years: a pressure canner. One of the first thing a modern homesteader will realize upon perusing the <em>Ball Blue Book: Guide to Home Canning, Freezing & Dehydration</em> that first time is you simply must have a pressure canner. Without one you're stuck in jelly, jam and preserve land forever. You can maybe make tomato sauce , but even that is considered dicey. <br />
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Being the new, proud owner of this marvelous beast of an appliance, I've been daydreaming about all the things I'm going to put up before the season ends. Yesterday I realized I've had that thing for two weeks and have gotten no further in the veggie canning odyssey than moving the jars into the kitchen. What gives, you ask? I could bore you (and me) with excuses about the pressures of my hectic life, family drama, house hunting, etc. Since I like you, I'll just leave it at: I've been a little preoccupied. <br />
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Come this weekend my new canner and I are going to take that leap of discovery together. On the agenda: green beans for sure and maybe even some corn. We'll see how it goes. I definitely know this: as I fire up my turbo stove under the canning kettle no booklet from the box is gonna tell me anything I don't already know, thanks to Mama. You have to be careful with a pressure canner: they'll blow up in your face.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-58050664666793848072011-07-19T00:25:00.000-07:002011-07-19T00:25:16.669-07:00The BeginningTwo and a half years ago I had no idea that a single book purchase would launch a new lifestyle for Fuschia, me and and a half dozen others. But that's exactly what happened. To be fair, our (now)friends Biker, Hippie Chick, Reader, and The German all had some leanings in the self-sufficiency direction. In the fall of 2008, in a magical, mystical perfect storm of coincidences, all those people blew into our lives, the stars aligned and we began our group journey into homesteading. <br />
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The first major purchase, and perhaps my largest contribution to the cause, was <em>The Urban Homestead</em> by Kelly Coyne and Erik Knutzen. We called it the Bible and it was good. Filled with more projects than we could reasonably try in a year, we wore out mine and a few library copies those first few months. Our enthusiasm was boundless in the early days with various people trying home brewing, potato tires(look in the book), building furniture, vermicomposting, and gardening. It helped that part of our (collective) job was to work with some local gardens. <br />
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Months rolled by with varying successes and (ahem) learning opportunities, including my worms, until we reached the point of group fervor required to discuss founding a hippie commune. Daydreaming continued unabated until we reached a point where Fuschia and I had to make a life changing decision: stay or go? Ultimately, whether right or wrong, we went and it took us away from all our hippie friends. We would eventually be reunited with some of them, for various periods of time, but even that has proven to be bittersweet. Never again will we all be in that beautiful moment attempting to live a more authentic life, together. Everytime I can green beans, pick berries or pick up a new homesteading book I think of the commune that could've been and wonder if in an alternate universe we're all sitting on a porch somewhere, drinking Biker's brew, eating Hippie's bread and enjoying the sweet life we've built.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3628598345787879100.post-78934751898856333182011-07-14T21:59:00.000-07:002011-07-14T21:59:43.169-07:00And so it begins...Being a grownup is long on hardwork and short on reward, right? Lately it seems like Fuchsia and I do nothing but worry over work, family illness, our 401ks and the date on the milk carton. When did everyday life become such an unbelievable downer? <br />
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In an attempt to inject some fun and interest into the ol' grind we've started looking for ways to expand our homesteading adventures. Right now we're the Homesteader Lite type. We recycle, can jams, pick fruit, buy vintage, use the library and reject (most) conspicuous consumption. It's really time to step it up and become full-flavored, totally committed Homesteaders. <br />
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Our laundry list of dream projects is lengthy, but achievable: outdoor clothes line, bee hives, compost piles, vermicomposting, chickens, espaliered dwarf fruit trees, foraging, cheese making, bread making and of course, gardening. If that sounds like overly ambitious, pie-in-the-sky type business to ya, you're not alone. Most people can't conceive of doing all of that and working, too. Lately, with all the free time I have since I stopped clubbing and binge drinking (in 07), I've realized that watching TV and umm, watching more TV just aren't fulfilling for some of us.<br />
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Even HGTV and the Food Network (my absolute faves) can only hold my interest for 2-3 hours a week at best. I love to read, but even I like to occasionally get off my ass and DO something. Hence the interest in total homesteading. To really progress much further we need our own property with at least 1/10 of an acre, some sunlight and neighbors who share our passion or are a little myopic/disinterested/never around. <br />
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In this lil corner of Kentuckiana we call home (for now) there are plenty of options for low-cost, progressive-friendly neighborhoods and we've logged a lotta time looking at possibilities. Our goal is to find and move in before Oct 1 so we can get garlic in the ground, but we'll see. Wish us happy hunting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0