Trout Creek Beebe Experiment

A Letter From the Health Inspector

2010-10-14T21:38:00.002-06:00

Dear Wayside Bar:

You may have noticed that you are more than three months overdue for your annual Food Safety Inspection. (Thought you were getting away with something, didn't you?!?) We are aware of this problem and are taking steps to expedite your inspection. (We haven't forgotten about you; dream on). At the moment, the Department of Health and Food Safety is significantly understaffed, which has caused some unfortunate delays in our annual inspection program. (In other words, there are more sheriff deputies on night patrol than there are health inspectors in Sanders County at this time). We are making every effort to fulfill our inspection protocols, and ask that you continue to maintain high levels of food safety. (We know this is screwed up, so please try not to kill anyone with your food).

Love,

Your Friendly Health and Food Safety Education Worker
(I'm stressed, overworked, and in desperate need of at least a double when I do show up. Don't mess with me.)

Desire Expressed to see Movie Title

2010-03-30T19:18:00.010-06:00

Insightful critical analysis preceding trailer.

Witty remark intended to provoke responses.

Is it wrong to go along with the insanity?

2009-10-14T00:31:00.009-06:00

No, really ... is it?

Bonus: a couple of pictures that just resurfaced from the 04 July - post-cooking before and after images of the banana leaf wrapped pork. It shredded nicely after the photo shoot.

<---

Snuggly Wrapped

--->
Naked and Alone

Wondermous Eats, for true

2009-09-04T22:56:00.003-06:00

I love seeing heads pop over or through the swinging doors to the kitchen, because they are frequently followed by hands bearing offerings of freshly harvested ingredients. Today was an exemplary day for such offerings.

A grocery sack of sweet, crisp carrots - still bearing garden dirt and morning dew,
An assortment of chiles,
Half a dozen fresh-caught crawfish,
Four fingers of purple okra,
A handful of just-harvested fava beans,
A tablespoon of fresh-churned butter,
Thirteen of the most beautiful, fingertip-size huckleberries,
A swig of B's new batch of white lightning.

Damn!

I sautéed a couple of the carrots with the butter and some fresh herbs from the planter behind the kitchen.

The crawfish, once cleansed of their mud-love, worked well with a chili, the okra, the fava beans, and some rice to create a scrumptious gumbo. All told there wasn't more than a soup bowl worth of the dish, but it made for an exquisite dinner.

To finish off the day, I swigged the white lightning, as instructed, and then savoured the huckleberries in all of their juicy righteousness as a lovely chaser.

Yum! I love people who bring me treats!

Drunken Medal of Spirit

2009-08-27T23:25:00.002-06:00

(pun intended)

The "Drunken Medal of Spirit" honours those who, having engaged in the Bacchanalian rites, put forth those comments about which mere mortals can only fantasize.

The inaugural recipient of the Medal goes to Mr. Yakko, for his distinguished performance tonight. Yakko, after ten grueling hours of Bacchanalia, staggered over to Mrs. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, threw his arm around her shoulders (thus thoroughly violating her personal space as they are not in the least friendly), and asked if she was leaving. Upon being told that she would not be staying to join in his revelry, he looked her square in the eye and declared, "You're just a candy ass."

Raise your hand if you haven't wanted to say that to Mrs. Mapp-Flint at some point in time.

Yeah, didn't think there would be any upraised hands on that one.

Ventriloquist Nightmare: Vote Now!

2009-08-25T22:08:00.005-06:00

This represents an important phase in the development of my fantasy football team, and your vote is urgently needed. Be a part of the process that is getting me to actually participate in fantasy football for the first time ever (if you don't count last year's Montana Lottery Fantasy Football follies).

People, help me out! After much (silly) deliberation on (not-at-all serious) team name titles, the lovely LaVonda suggested "Ventriloquist Nightmare". That was just too good to pass by, so away I went. Now the catch. I simply cannot abide the default non-logo, and must substitute my own. That being said, I'm throwing it open to a vote. The poll gadget on this site appears to be sufficiently lame as to not allow visual images, so we're going old-school call-and-response style.

(Speaking of old-school, did anyone else see the news today about atms in East London soon functioning in Cockney Rhyming Schemes? How sweet is that?!? Instead of accessing your card, the machine will now access your bladder of lard. Awesome!)

Here are your options:

Option A

Option B

Option C

Vote early! Vote often! Just vote! Do not leave this up to me. I'll take off at a left angle, as always, and that isn't always a pretty sight. You've been warned.

Kilts and Dog Collars: Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly #s 3 & 4

2009-08-16T00:49:00.003-06:00

Why stop with just one way to clear a bar quickly when you could have two on the same day?

Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly #3
The Albeni Falls Pipe and Drum Band participated in today's Huckleberry Festival events, which involved men in kilts. Men, in kilts, who dared venture into the Wayside, whilst still wearing said kilts. All anyone heard at first was, "Baroness, Baroness, No! No! Baroness! No, Baroness! Uh oh. Someone help the man in the skirt get away from the Baroness, please." Yeah, she was curious and decided it was time to answer the age-old question for herself. Poor guy.

This led, somewhat understandably, to an earnest conversation about the potential efficacy of an electric dog shock collar for modifying and controlling the Baroness' behaviour. Oddly enough, there were none who thought this would be a cruel idea. Everyone polled was vastly in favour of the idea; of course, they also wanted possession of the trigger mechanism.

Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly #4
Did you know that a frozen shrimp tail barb can penetrate the human thumb quite easily? To a depth of an eighth of an inch?

If you want to clear a bar quickly, or at least the kitchen, start asking around for a wickedly sharp, yet thin-tipped knife. Almost everyone in the bar will have a knife, but they'll also want to know why you need to borrow their knife. Then you get to explain that you would like to cut a shrimp barb out of your thumb. Suddenly you'll find yourself surrounded by a pile of rather nice pocket- and hunting knives, but utterly abandoned to your grisly task. At least it was the thumb in which I have very little feeling on the best of days. The knife I went with was a hunting knife, extremely sharp, and well-balanced. The incision itself is an eighth of an inch deep by a quarter of an inch long, but really only two or three millimeters wide. Like I said, a wonderfully sharp knife. Of all the days for me to not have one of my own knives in my pocket.

To cap off the evening, the Baroness provided some sage advice to Dot. Dot burst through the kitchen door doing a "spider in my shirt" dance, though the cause was not a spider, but rather, "A creepy guy just touched my arm." The Baroness merely shrugged and said, "You'll get accustomed to it."

Glass Houses (and all related jazz)

2009-08-13T22:55:00.004-06:00

The Background

Doing laundry yesterday morning involved putting up with a running dialogue about the "backwoods-ness" of Trout Creek that was taking place between a youngish couple passing through on their way home to South Dakota. Not just South Dakota, but Gary, South Dakota (population 231). The couple in question? They were the real life models for Meg and Hamilton Swan - the obnoxious, awful preppy couple - in the film Best in Show. I was a very good girl, however, and held my retorts in check all morning long.

Today, or, "How It Went Down"

I was sitting at the bar shortly after opening this morning, making out a prep list for the Baroness when in walked the terrible two-some, aka, Meg and Hamilton.

Meg: "What do you think they have for a soup today?"

Hamilton: "I don't know, probably Campbell's Chicken Noodle. Oh! Look, another poster for "The Tempest". I bet it's popular here because it's an eighteenth century Poseidon Adventure."

Meg: "Likely, but they would have to get Jeff Foxworthy to rewrite the script for them so that they would maybe be able to follow the story. Excuse me, what's the soup?"

Oh, yeah, it was war.

My reply: "If I may, "The Tempest" is completely unlike The Poseidon Adventure, or to be temporally accurate, the inverse is true, but the point remains. Likewise, you're off on the century; the play was actually written in the very early seventeenth century. Also, we prefer our Shakespearean plays in their intended meter and form, in this case neoclassical structures expressed in iambic pentameter verse. The redneck-speak version must be a South Dakota thing. As to your question, today's soup is Italian Sausage and Cheese Tortellini. Would you like a drink?"

Huh ... they left.

Then Violet Newstead (after Lily Tomlin's unflappable character in the film 9 to 5) said: "I take it they were friends of yours? Too bad they had to leave so soon. That could have been fun." This was followed by a muttered, "Jerks."

Trout Creek may only be an unincorporated census-designated place, but if you are from Gary, South Dakota, should you really be thinking that you have that much room to throw stones?!?

So much fresh seafood ...

2009-07-30T23:19:00.005-06:00

... so few open minds or adventurous eaters in town right now.

I have no idea what She Who Orders was thinking this week, maybe just hitting some killer sales, but in the space of three hours today I found myself staring at fresh Hawai'ian Mahi, Yellow Fin Tuna, Alaskan Halibut, and Steamer Clams. Such an orgy of seafood happiness. If only there were more people to include in said food orgy.

I feel like putting together a fancy seafood plate for the weekend dinner specials, but on what shall I focus? I have to do something with all of this lovely seafood - it'd be a shame not to do so, and would certainly tack on several decades to my time in Food Purgatory. Freezing fresh seafood definitely earns a few extra tours through the "Food Abuse" level of Purgatory.

Oooh ... Mango Mahi-Mahi (yeah, go ahead and try to remember The Rules of Be ing S teve from The Tao of Steve); I have freshly made Mango Chutney sitting in the walk-in, the product of an afternoon when Stef had too little with which to entertain herself. That would be a nice way to showcase the Mahi, and I have managed to pull the Mahi/Mango combo over once before without anyone getting terribly suspicious and falling back on the brown food menu.

The tuna is crying out for a ginger-sesame treatment, and the halibut has so many different options. I like my steamers sauteed with white wine, garlic, onions, diced tomatoes, and parsley. Those are always a nice appetizer option.

Hmmm ... a whole night to dream about fresh seafood, to think about what is possible, and then realize what is plausible in Trout Creek, Montana. Aw, hell ... I live to challenge people with the food offerings, so why not go for broke?

"I see a clinic full of cynics" - Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly #2

2009-07-18T00:02:00.011-06:00

I warned you - did I not say that "Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly" would likely become a recurring segment?!? The only amazing thing is that the Baroness has yet to feature prominently in a rash of segments.

If one's musical selections affect the course of the day's events, then I most certainly chose poorly this morning. Somehow, early in the a.m., it seemed like a good idea to kick the day off with Collide's 2004 electrogoth/triphop cover of the 1981 new wave Fun Boy Three song "The Lunatics (Have Taken Over the Asylum)". For those who find that life has passed them by these musical genres and moments, here's a (SFW) data dump to further your musical education.

More Trout Creek drama follows after the jump.

Frequently I find the chorus to this song racing through my mind; I'm beginning to think that it may be the Wayside theme song. (Yes, I understand the original sociopolitical context of the song, but right now I am working from a more superficial level of engagement). Shall we take a look at a few of the moments in which lunatics overtook the asylum that I call "work".

The Baroness slipped a key cog today and threw a tantrum of epic proportions that scared Hickey Boy so badly that he fled as soon as humanly possible. I have never seen him unload a delivery quite that quickly, and didn't know that it was possible to peel out in a tractor trailer parked on dirt. The tantrum was non-specific, but incredibly out of control all the same. Even Louise was scared to reenter the kitchen after experiencing that little episode.

But, as the John Hyatt song says, "Thank god the tiki bar [was] open," offering a nice place of escape. The lunacy continued onto the porch, however. Normally the porch is filled with regulars, but this afternoon it was invaded by a large group of black leather clad bikers, hanging out in the 95 degree weather on the covered portion of the porch. The disconcerting bit was that the bikers were decked out in colourful leis, drinking mango margaritas from fluted glasses garnished with flower bedecked straws. Imagine the tour guide: "And on your left, our local biker gang who pride themselves on being absolute tough guys." My kingdom for a fully functional digital camera!

This was a mere prelude - a scum on the evolutionary pond of disasters - for what was to come. 'Twas a night of revelations and confrontations on a magnitude that requires something of a flowchart, expressed in chess terms:

(White Queen) - Leaves her husband, White Pawn.
(Black Queen) - Leaves her husband, Black Pawn.

(WQ) - Hooks up with The Knight.
(BQ) - Hooks up with The Knight.

(WQ) - Becomes aware of competition for The Knight's attention.
(BQ) - Becomes aware of competition for The Knight's attention.

(WQ) - Hooks up with married man whose wife has purportedly left him.
(BQ) - Puts beeline on The Knight and successfully dominates his time.

(WQ) - Upset at having lost The Knight competition, successfully devises a plan to steal him from the Black Queen.
(BQ) - Realizes that she has been overthrown by White Queen in The Knight's attentions, devises plan for revenge.

(WQ) - Relegates The Knight to backseat and carries on with married man.
(BQ) - Seeks out and hooks up with White Pawn.

(WQ) - Discovers that married man's wife is none-too-happy about his involvement with the White Queen.
(BQ) - Tells others about involvement with White Pawn, but wants it kept secret (as if).

(WQ) - Hooks up with White Pawn on occasion.
(BQ) - Learns that White Queen is once again hooking up with White Pawn.

(WQ) - Rifles White Pawn's cellphone and discovers text message history between White Pawn and Black Queen; confronts White Pawn.
(BQ) - Tipped off by White Pawn about cellphone violation, vents her distress to one of the town busy-bodies.

(WQ) - Solicits advice from others as to course of actions since she is unhappy that Black Queen is hooking up with her White Pawn.
(BQ) - Awaits public acknowledgement by White Queen of the bombshell.

All night long the tensions build ....

The tension in the bar formed an almost visceral blanket through which few people wanted to venture, and yet, true to the soap opera addiction style, few people wanted to leave. As I was closing the kitchen, I said to Mongo, "A more suspicious person might think that you and Louise are tag-team babysitting this situation tonight." His only reply was that there would be a discussion about bringing your personal shit to work. Ahhh ... another moment in the "stay or leave" debate. "Leave" carried the day when Mongo discovered that the Black Queen had a rather suspicious flat tire on her car. I can count on hearing the details at least twenty times tomorrow.

Today was definitely one in which "the lunatics ha[d] taken over the asylum."

As I climbed into my car to go home, a voice cut through the music, coming from the front porch: "You cheap [madre malditos] need to buy me a drink!"

***Update***
The local tire shop confirmed that the puncture was, indeed, suspicious, seeing as how its source was a knife.

Cowboys Don't Eat That Stuff

2009-07-10T08:53:00.008-06:00

Cowboy rode again Thursday night, in fine entertaining form.

Planning for a slow Thursday night, the dinner special was designed to clear stuff from the freezer (why, yes, that is code for "leftovers"). Grouped as a "South of the Border Steak Platter", the special was:

Thinly-sliced grilled flank steak
Kickin' Spanish rice (made with love and a healthy dose of Valentina)
Grilled onions and mixed bell peppers
Fresh, grilled tortillas.

Enter the Cowboy. Acting in the role of my favourite "special pusher" of the moment, Satsuki (as in Totoro) asked Cowboy if he was going to have the special. His exact reply:

"Cowboys don't eat that stuff!"

Followed promptly by:

"Can I please get an order of mini-corndogs?"

Yeah, because all cowboys love bite-sized processed chicken wieners dipped in a honey batter. It's the obvious choice, really.

(I love the twisted Totoro logic whereby a character is called "Satsuki", which means "May", and her little sister is "Mei" (pronounced similarly to May) which most often means "sprout".)

Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly

2009-06-19T00:30:00.007-06:00

It was inevitable that there would evolve recurring segments of the Beebe Experiment (other than the exploits of the Baroness, that is). Today marks the start of "Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly" - true happenings that stop the bar in its tracks and cause everyone there to consider making a hasty exit.

Remember Monty Montgomery's character "Cowboy" in David Lynch's severely navel-gazing film Mulholland Drive?

(This will segment will do one of three things: 1) help you remember, 2) confirm that you never saw the film, 3) confirm that you saw the film, but found it to be terribly self-involved to the point that David Lynch didn't really care if anyone "got" the film but himself).

Cowboy: A man's attitude... a man's attitude goes some ways. The way his life will be. Is that somethin' you agree with?

Adam Kesher: Sure.

Cowboy: Now... did you answer cause you thought that's what I wanted to hear, or did you think about what I said and answer cause you truly believe that to be right?

Adam Kesher: I agree with what you said, truthfully.

Cowboy: What'd I say?

Adam Kesher: Uh... that a man's attitude determines, to a large extent, how his life will be.

Cowboy: So since you agree, you must be someone who does not care about the good life.

Moving on from that walk down cinematic memory lane, the star of today's "Ways to Clear a Bar Quickly" is, and shall be known here as, Trout Creek's own version of Cowboy.

Cowboy had been in the bar drinking for a couple of hours when, around 9:30pm he looked up at the bartender and said, "I need you to kick me out, cut me off, or tell me the bar is closed." Mind you, Cowboy has been known to drink for hours on end without appearing to lose much of his grip on sobriety.

Our stalwart bartender replied, "Why is that, Cowboy? You haven't been here that long, and it's early yet."

Cowboy: "Well, I've still got to get that load of dynamite in my truck home safely."

Bartender: "The load of what?"

Cowboy: "Dynamite. I've got a truck full of dynamite out there waiting for me to finish getting it home and stowed away."

Bartender: "How much dynamite is out there?"

Cowboy: "A full truck load, the maximum I was allowed to haul under the paperwork I had for today."

Bartender: "Hope no one flicks a butt that direction."

Cowboy: "I've got signs all over the truck, and I parked it away from anyone else."

Bartender: "If that truck goes up, that'll leave a huge hole in the parking lot for Mongo to fill in when he gets back from Seattle."

Cowboy: "Honey, if that truck goes up, there won't be a Trout Creek for him to come home to. There's enough dynamite in that truck to take out everything in at least a ten mile radius."

Bartender: "Two questions, Cowboy. Number 1: Are your dogs on the truck like they always are?"

Cowboy: "No! I left them at home today. No room for 'em once I got all the dynamite loaded."

Bartender: "Number 2: Is your truck locked?"

Cowboy: "Yeah, truck's all locked up, though I had to find the keys and remember how to lock all the doors on the truck."

(No one locks their car around here. A lot of people don't even take their keys out of the vehicle. It was amusing a few weeks ago to hear a car alarm going off on a vehicle with out of state tags. Who was going to pay attention to a car alarm going off when no one really bothers with securing their vehicle in the first place?!?)

Bartender: "Well, looks like you just finished that drink, but there's another been bought for you."

Cowboy: "Can I get a go cup for it?"

Bartender: "No! Dynamite needing to go home. Safely. Remember?!?"

Cowboy: "Oh ... well then I guess I better slam it and get going."

Bartender: "Folks, the bar is now closed for Cowboy. You want to buy him a drink, let me know and I'll leave a token at the bar for him."

Cowboy: "Night folks. Gotta get that dynamite home."

Bartender: "Watch out for deer, now."

The obvious questions that no one asked:
1) What is Cowboy doing with all that dynamite in the first place?"
2) Why did he feel the need to stop off at the bar for a couple of hours before securing the dynamite?"
3) Where do you get that much dynamite in the first place?

It is fairly self-evident that Cowboy made it home safely .... That's tonight's "Way to Clear a Bar Quickly", coming to you from within the ten mile radius.

Barmaid Strangled by Rattlesnake

2009-06-16T15:24:00.010-06:00

Once upon a time, the Baroness was hard at work stripping meat from poached Eastern Diamondback Rattlers.

Then it occurred to us: a humourous headline for next week's grammar- and style-challenged Ledger - Barmaid Strangled by Rattlesnake. The Ledger is so atrocious that it would be some completely convoluted rendering of the events. We even were willing to supply the accompanying photo:

(I love the partially obscured "Call Police" sign visible over the Baroness' right shoulder)

Naturally, there would have to be a dramatic scene at the trial where the prosecutor would place the murder weapon in the Baroness' hands and ask her to model her actions. Nancy Grace would sneak a camera into the courtroom and endlessly rerun the footage on Headline "News". The freeze frame to title image of the story would look a little like this:

The only disappointment of "Taste of Texas" was that the label on the boar ribs was so small. We really needed the section that read "Meat from Feral Swine" to be much larger than it is on our label wall of shame.

The End

Taste of Texas

2009-06-09T13:09:00.003-06:00

The new issue of Saveur reveals our special this week as being far too close to trendy for Trout Creek standards. Granted, Louise's and Wakko's drunken brainstorm for this event occurred during the dark and gloomy winter, but the timing makes us dangerously "hip."

Our "Taste of Texas" event has been moved forward from Saturday to Friday night so as not to conflict with the summer poker run. The menu is finalized and going to press today, so here, for your amusement, is the menu.

Slow-roasted Barbecued Boar Ribs
Grilled Marlin in Creamy Pepper Sauce
Rattlesnake Scampi
Smoky Black Bean Salad with Salsa Fresca
Elote (Mexican Grilled Corn)
Adobo Cornbread with Honey Butter

Not to mention a lovely rattlesnake drink special and "wrangle your own rattlesnake" fun. If I can remember the camera and find time to swing a snake, there may be pictures in our future.

Zombies were trying to eat my plants ...

2009-05-29T02:38:00.004-06:00

... and naturally I had to fight back, but now it is 3am and I have to be at work at 10.

Damn zombies ... especially Elvis zombie and his band of solid gold dancers.

UN Night at the Wayside

2009-05-24T01:33:00.002-06:00

Last night was "United Nations Visits Trout Creek Night" at the Wayside. The most innocuous incident was the French-speaking four-top who walked in after having been refused service across the street ("the kitchen was closing"). Tough ... mine was closed too, but I was still there with equipment turned on, and, of late, I relish serving people that are turned away across the street.

The French Incident:

"Can you speak enough French to help this four-top that just walked in?", asks my innocent server.

My response?

"Well ... not unless you want to say:

I am a transvestite (Je suis travesti);
This is military terrain (Ceci est le terrain militaire);
Those are great pants! (Ceux-là sont de grands pantalons!); or
Are you mental? (Etes-vous mental?).

These are my personalized phrases in addition to the more run-of-the-mill phrases that I've picked up from reading or watching (British) television."

Brave little server ... "Nooooo ... not helpful, but it sounds like there may be an interesting story there."

Ah, but it gets better. The night also involved a fair amount of Spanish language skills.

The Forest Service, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to post to the Kootenai fire crew this season a young Hispanic man who, until last night, had never set foot outside of Texas. And he landed in Trout Creek, Montana.

The newbie is fluently bilingual, but uses Spanish mostly where he lives. Poor guy - all night long his body language screamed "I'm scared to death!" When I was dispatched to take my turn on the welcome committee, I couldn't help but ask him: "¿Quién fastidia usted ser enviado aquí? ¿Está usted seguro que ellos no joden justo con usted?" Well, at least he laughed.

The group he was with took him "on tour," ending with several hours' drinking shots at Sneakers in Noxon. Then, round about 3:30am, he got to meet the Sheriff himself when their vehicle was pulled over. Is it any wonder the number of DUIs in the county dropped so markedly last year when an obvious dui/open container/etc. violation gets written up only for speeding and littering?!?

Later this week, the Forest Service is adding two guys from Arizona to the fire crew. They're rumoured to be nowhere near as ... sheltered as the kid who was saddled last night with the unfortunate nickname "The Foreign Exchange Student." That has the feel of a name that is going to stick around.

A chipmunk cried "Whiskey" ...

2009-05-18T00:12:00.003-06:00

... and the Baroness answered "Water".

Or at least that is the story she tells.

Louise kicked off today's mushroom-hunting adventure by telling us of her dream last night: while we were out hunting mushrooms (and eating miniature-sized pineapples), she found a chipmunk who she attempted to befriend and name. Instead, she was savaged by said chipmunk.

The joke of the day quickly became anything and everything chipmunk related. Any strange sound, odd track, or random occurrence was the chipmunk's doing. Naturally, the chipmunk quickly developed a rabies affliction.

In the first location that we stopped to go a'huntin', we were all within visual range of one another for most of the time, but then suddenly, the Baroness was simply gone. She was nowhere in sight and stopped responding to vocal calls. Louise and I were turning up nothing in the way of fungus except for the lovely poisonous mushrooms. Louise was rather bang-on at finding skulls as well; she chalked up two deer and an elk. Finally we decided it was Beer:30 and trekked back to the car. Mind you, the Baroness is still missing at this point. We wandered the woods near the car, calling for the Baroness, looking for mushrooms, and finding nothing more interesting than an abundance of young fiddlehead fern tops (yummy!). We even took to periodically honking the horn, all to no avail. Ultimately we decided that it was time to continue on to our destination a bit further down the trail, so we laid a huge arrow made of tree trunks in the parking clearing and inscribed the Baroness's name in the dirt above it. There was no missing that map.

Unless the chipmunk decided to rearrange things.

No more than 50 yards down the "road", twenty feet into the woods, what do my little eyes spy, but the Baroness. She was in quite a state, running with sweat, scratched, dirty, her shoe laces untied and wrapped around her ankles a few times, clutching to her knife and her punctured bag, containing six lonely morels. The explanation, of course, was that she had been attacked by a chipmunk. She claims not to have heard any of our attention-attracting noises, but did say that at one point she heard someone yell, "Whiskey," and replied, "Water!" That, too, was attributed to the chipmunk.

At our second hunting location we finally hit the morel jackpot.

Lovely, happy clumps of morels - hidden from the campers who couldn't be bothered to step three feet off the service road into the scary woods.

Once we exhausted our mushroom hunting mojo, we parked ourselves on a cliff edge and threw rocks for Chai, who was madly swimming along in the river. She swam for a steady hour before she decided that it was time to come back to shore. The only bit of excitement there came when the Baroness reached a bit too far over the cliff for a rock and nearly went ass over elbow down the sheer face and into the river. Fortunately Louise grabbed the Baroness's bra strap, I grabbed her belt, and we hauled her back for all we were worth.

During the excitement, the chipmunk ran around and dropped bits of nature into our beers.

Louise and I couldn't decide which fate was worse: returning to the Wayside missing the Baroness because a) she wandered off in the woods, or b) she toppled over a cliff into the river. There just wouldn't be a way to explain either situation. Louise kept remembering how her family use to put a goat bell on her deaf grandmother when they went out picking huckleberries.

Unfortunately, the chipmunk was hoarding all of the available goat bells today.

A day like any other, in which ...

2009-05-17T01:21:00.007-06:00

... our dog, Chai, loses her first bar fight, to a cat;

... a cat is 86'd from the bar for the first time in current memory;

... said cat is summarily marched off of the premises, all the while being lectured by Louise on how his starting and prolonging of fights was completely unacceptable;

... we discover that Shock Top beer and Baileys are a more efficient way of making a cement mixer than traditional recipes;

... Shock Top and Baileys create a glassful of solid matter from two liquids;

... I win the betting draw on the Preakness Stakes, my first time ever betting on a horse race in any form;

... 13 is "unlucky for some", but certainly not me;

... the word "watermelon" is revealed to be the all-purpose word to mouth to hymns for which you do not actually know the words, thus appearing to be singing with great fervor;

... a planned solo mushrooming day tomorrow evolves into an outing for three humans and two dogs;

... Louise, Wakko, and I manage to plan out all of the "Taste of ..." specials for the summer.

All of this, and more, without the presence of the Baroness.

The summer "Taste of ..." schedule at the Wayside is as follows (all dates are Saturdays):

20 June - Taste of Texas (featuring rattlesnake, boar ribs, and blue marlin)

04 July - Polynesian Night (featuring a pig roast, poi, remaining menu tbd)

25 July - Taste of Northwest Montana (featuring elk, moose, morels, huckleberries, etc.)

15 August - Low Country Crab Boil (featuring mussels, clams, dungeness crab, black tiger shrimp, andouille sausage, corn, potatoes, hush puppies)

05 September - Fresh Seafood Extravaganza (featuring oysters on the half shell, octopus, whatever else tickles our fresh little fancy).

“It Learned Mouse” or, I am such a Geek

2009-04-25T21:44:00.002-06:00

Random lines of fiction surfacing today, but without context.

“It learned mouse.”

An isolated quote in a forgotten file lurking on a, until recently, nonfunctional laptop. The file itself reads as a dissertation prospectus, and one that is actually interesting to me now in a way that it clearly wasn’t at the time. The mouse references puts in mind Wen Spencer’s “Ukiah Oregon” series, but the writing itself is not the proper style for those novels. The sentence has more the feel of China Miéville’s work, but not one of his novels; more likely this is from the short story “The Familiar.” Lovely, creepy story – must locate the book and reread the story to see if my memory has actually decided to stand up and be counted for once. Ah, the dissertation prospectus that was wrestling not with representations of the fragmented self in post-cyberpunk science fiction, but rather a fractal self – a coherent individual who, depending upon angles and outside influences, switches among selves as necessary or appropriate.

Uh huh … fascinating, but ultimately worth what in the grand scheme of things? That may have been one of my biggest obstacles in grad school – it was (almost) all interesting, but had very little relevance to daily life. Or, as one of the women in my political science grad cohort said after she left the program, “Just try telling one of these homeless guys that you have to run a regression analysis before he exists. He’ll kick you right in the Chi-squared.” What I learnt my first semester of undergrad: the Greek alphabet. Three suite-mates rushing various sororities and I was the one who ended up learning the antiquated alphabet. Go figure. It does help to make me hell on wheels with crossword puzzles.

I finally have (almost) everything squared away for the spring/summer menu changes, have ordering, scheduling, and inventory streamlined, and have given myself permission to bring a book to work for those lovely afternoon slumps between lunch and dinner. There really is only so much preparation and cleaning that can be done during this time before you find yourself cleaning perfectly clean shelves. Boredom, tedium, desuetude – these are not good looks on me. I once quit a job because the level of desuetude far exceeded the engagement and activity opportunities.

Having been away from grad school for a couple of years, I find myself strangely drawn back to the theory texts that I always loved, but couldn’t bring myself to read once they became assignments. This isn’t a grad school specific problem, either. For as long as I can remember, the moment something became assigned, I was absolutely dead-set against reading it. Oddly enough, this came to include materials that I assigned to my own students. If I didn’t finish all of the reading before the course started, I was in deep trouble. Example: I once taught the first “Ukiah” book, Alien Taste, in a course on Science Fiction and Fantasy, but didn’t read the book myself during that three month period. I absolutely love those books, but simply couldn’t get past my mental block to actually read the damn thing.

Given the wide range of books out there, what have I chosen for my “work book” this month? Michel Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. Right now it is fun and lovely to read. Yep … that fairly well laminates me in the geek category.

Actually, this feels like the precursor to a summer reading trend. I always have several books that I’m reading at a time, but frequently there is a thread of continuity that runs through the books. One book will suggest the next, which then shapes my subsequent selection, and so forth. This theme feels like one of theoretical texts and novels that then embody or illustrate these thought systems. Foucault will inevitably lead to Delaney’s The Mad Man. That, in turn, will likely lead to revisiting Marx (either Das Kapital or “Communist Manifesto” and “The Eighteenth Brumaire”). The accompanying fiction will be Miéville, probably Perdido Street Station and the short story “Jack”. In fact, that choice will be influenced as well by what I’m leaning toward as the follow-up theory/fiction combination. If my mood is waxing epic, then I’ll likely switch out Perdido Street for Iron Council and movement toward Clive Barker’s Imajica and Edward Soja’s Third Space; the more economic my groove, the more likely that Perdido Street will remain, to be followed by Richard K. Morgan’s Market Forces and the relevant international economic and post-colonial theories. Either way, “Jack” will remain in the picture.

“Jack” is an amazing story in which the dominant structures in the New Crobuzon power system literally creates the means, if not of its own destruction, then of its own radical destabilization. The Remakers craft with the tools of the penal system the Remade who becomes Jack-Half-a-Prayer. One of Jack’s Remakers is conscious of his role in the creation of Jack’s rebellion. The penal system literally remakes the bodies (human and otherwise) in the image of its own punishment, but in so doing creates a group of people, many of whom are uniquely equipped for jobs and employment in the New Crobuzon labor market. In some ways, then, the Remade represent the roots not only of the prevailing system’s inherent weakness, but also the economic forces by which that change or destabilization shall occur. They represent a new form of labor – one that the capitalist/ruling economic class of the old/current system cannot either become or embrace without placing themselves, in the moment of conversion/inclusion, by default outside the “normal boundaries” of the system within which they previously exercised power.

In this sense, then, the penal system of New Crobuzon is not just an exercise of power or a node within which power is concentrated (or through which power flows), but it is also a point in which power becomes diffused out of the networks or wills of the system that created those very power pathways. Nowhere does this diffusion of power become more evident than aboard the ship in The Scar. Here there is an even further transition as being Remade in specific ways becomes not merely acceptable, but highly desirable and something which individuals in some social classes/circles begin to aspire. Being Remade evolves into a necessary and sufficient condition of employment in key arenas in the functioning of the ship city.

Eep! This is coming dangerously close to linking with Soja’s Third Space as well as suggesting that more Foucault may be in order. What I really want, however, is to find the fiction link that will let me justify rereading Herbert Marcuse’s Three-Dimensional Man. Hmm, that will take some pondering.

Wow! You made it this far?!? You’re still reading???

Geek.

A little reward is in order for your persistence, delusions, or ability to scroll in your sleep: the story, in brief, of how Mr. Mossy Oak also came to be known as Hickey Boy.

After finishing his delivery one Friday, Mr. Mossy Oak was on his way toward the back door, but had to pass by the Baroness in order to do so. Just as he passed she took one look at his neck and exclaimed, “Whoa! Your woman put one hell of a hickey on your neck last night!” Needless to say, that stopped him in his tracks. Then she looked a bit closer. “That’s not just one hickey! There must be half a dozen there. And I’m pretty sure they weren’t all made by the same woman. No way that one,” she said, pointing, “could be made by the same size and shape mouth as the one that made these two. And these! That woman must be half octopus!”

Poor guy, he was absolutely beet-red by this time, but he managed to paste on a silly grin, square his shoulders and say, “Sweetheart, it was a long night, but I bet she would have nothing on you.” The Baroness started laughing and said, “Bye-bye cutie. You drive safe Hickey Boy, and maybe she’ll give you another busy night tonight.”

Sometimes geekdom has its own debauched rewards.

Musical Kitchens

2009-04-24T21:54:00.003-06:00

My Friday delivery driver, Mr. Mossy Oak, stopped dead in his tracks this afternoon, stared at the tiny pair of speakers sitting on a shelf, and asked, “What’s that?!?” Once we sorted out that he was referring not to the jankety sound system but rather the music issuing forth, I told him that the current song was “Can You Feel Me” by Dru Down. “Drew who??” East Side Oakland rapper … concurrent with Digital Underground and MC Hammer, part of the Bay Area Mobb hip hop style. Yeah, anyway. The previous song had been “Shadows of the Night” by DJ Bobo with Sandra. Mr. Mossy Oak commented that each kitchen he delivers to has its own musical tastes (where music is allowed), but that mine was by far the weirdest and most eclectic. Yep – weird music taste – that’s my dictionary definition.

Mr. Mossy Oak is a man of many names around here. (Some day I’ll share the tale of how he came to be dubbed “Hickey Boy”). This particular nickname derives from his head-to-toe garb of Mossy Oak camouflage. Now, there is something very not right about a non-hunter, non-camo person being able to identify – by name, mind you – various patterns and designs of camouflage. Not uncommon is an exchange such as this:

“Hey, did I leave my jacket here last night?”
“What does it look like?”
“Men’s large, Mossy Oak ‘Obsession’.”
“Let me check. Nope, that’s a Mossy Oak ‘Tree Stand’, and this one is US Woodland.”

Not. Right. At. All.

Mr. Mossy Oak’s comment started me thinking about the musical idioms of the various professional kitchens in which I’ve worked.

The first professional kitchen in which I worked was an absolute boy’s club. There were a couple of women who worked there, but they always were assigned the least desirable and most tedious tasks. Guys who had less experience were given more responsibility, better jobs, etc. I was the token dyke, which was mostly okay, but not always an entirely comfortable role. This kitchen’s musical tastes ran high to Public Enemy, Beastie Boys, DJ Shadow, DJ Spooky, Princess Superstar, and Beck.

U2 occupied a unique love/hate space for these boys. On the one hand, there was the infamous “Lemon” incident in which, faced with two dozen bushels of fresh lemons in need to slicing, peeling, zesting, and otherwise mutilating before a looming deadline, the chef commandeered the cd player and set “Lemon” on an endless repeat at maximum volume until the task was complete. The kitchen was separated, geographically, from the front of the house by a long hallway featuring a right angle turn half-way along the path. Careful experimentation had allowed us to determine the maximum volume at which music could be played in the kitchen before it filtered out to the dining room. Given the unidirectional nature of sound wave travel, the “maximum” volume was only a step below the point at which sound degradation began through the speakers themselves. Turning the corner that morning, one was met with a wall of sound, a wall of Bono screeching “Lemon! Circle in the Sky. She wore Lemon!” Yeah … even the dishwasher was drafted into lemon duty that morning, but the process was still several hours of one song. I will say, however, that at least it is a song with a beat that lends itself to a nice, steady, and rapid knife beat. This, I am obligated as “journeyman of the obvious” to point out, was the genesis of the “hate” component of the kitchen’s relationship to U2.

On the “love” side of the equation was the ritual early Friday morning playing of The Joshua Tree. Only, this was The Joshua Tree unlike you have ever heard that album before. For some people, multiple repetitions of a song or album are necessary before they can even begin to learn the lyrics. For others, however, frequent repetition breeds a whole new relationship with the song lyrics – the ability to improvise, rewrite, and customize – on the fly. Few people were ever in the house for Joshua Tree time, and the chef’s lyric improvisation ran wild. Some songs on that album are fairly well permanently ruined for me. Prior to that job, I loved the whole album, and had a particular fondness for “With or Without You.” Now I can’t hear that song without hearing the revised lyrics, featuring a chorus of “And you give yourself away/Cause you know your Dad is gay/And he’s fucking the neighbor.” Damn. This is a level of aural association on par with the Emily Dickinson/Gilligan’s Island pairing* that leaves you rather unable to ever hear the original version again without some sort of internal editing. Thus the love/hate relationship, though the lines of both categories were, and still are, irreparably blurred.

The next kitchen in which I worked was located in a fine arts college, so frequently our musical accompaniment involved student pieces or practice sessions right outside the door. Some of these individuals and groups were excellent; others not so much. When left to our own devices, our three person kitchen favoured Audioslave, Dru Down, Los Tigres del Norte, Alice in Chains, Boom Bap Project, and Blue Scholars. It was gangsta (the pantry cook was actually a former ESO gang member), it was male, it was aging punk, and it was all heavily tempered by the student population in which we found ourselves.

Incidentally, my first day in this kitchen was almost my last. I had subbed for a week on the coffee bar in this restaurant, with no problems at all other than some vague amusement at the freshmen practice dance routines in the middle of the dining room. When I hired on full-time and moved into the kitchen, well, that was a bit rough. As we were about to begin lunch service, a group of haphazardly clothed students ran through the dining room yelling “Clowns!” Turns out it was “Clown Day” at the school, when the junior clown troops performed various routines during lunch. Stef doesn’t do clowns. Stef hasn’t done clowns since attending a Pride of the Piedmont Jubilee clown performance when I was a kid. Said clown used a miniature guillotine to apparently chop off the index finger of an audience member, complete with blood. I didn’t see how the trick was performed (that’s kind of the point, no?), but I’m definitely scarred by the imagery. Add into the mix more than my share of reading about associative disorders among clown performers, and a neighbor who would troop by our sliding glass door at sparrow fart o’clock in full clown gear off to a performance and I’m done for where clowns are concerned. Interestingly, though, I don’t have any particularly bad associations because of Stephen King’s It, and count Killer Klowns from Outer Space as among my favorites of 80s “B” cult films. A museum security guard did once offer to beat up the “creepy clown” performer at an event, but only if I went with him and watched his back. He didn’t do clowns either, and this clown was particularly far along on the sliding creep scale.

MoMo’s kitchen – the last professional kitchen in which I worked in Seattle – ran high to Lucinda Williams, Nina Hagen, Steve Earle, Jurassic Five, The Roots, and the Sunday morning KEXP reggae show (until about 11am, after which it was deemed to be crap). Occasionally bits of Mos Def would filter in from the baking area, as well. This is by far the most musically talented kitchen in which I’ve worked, and having people randomly break into bits of song was not uncommon. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the month long one line repeat of “Santa Baby”; almost enough to drive a crazy person sane, that was. There was so much music surrounding the whole company that to speak only of what existed in the kitchen is to offer quite a limited view. That’s what you’re getting, though. :)

If Mongo had his way, music around this place would be limited to Johnny Cash, Brooks and Dunn, Toby Keith, Alan Jackson, Elvis, and Elton John. In that order, always. Fortunately the speakers in the kitchen slaved to the house speakers were easily disconnected. Now the kitchen music is far more eclectic, faithless to genre, tempo, country of origin, or classic groupings or clashes. There is still a fair amount of Public Enemy, Beastie Boys, Dru Down, Blue Scholars, Jurassic Five, and Nina Hagen. Joining the party are many other artists, creating a lovely cacophony of unpredictable play lists. There are very few things that I flat-out won’t listen to (at least to give a fair try), and even those things that I absolutely abhor have gained that title through repeated listening attempts. Artists that once graced my “I’d rather poke my ears out” list have crawled onto the “Don’t like them as a general rule, but make exceptions for songs x, y, and z” list. Such a wide range of music can make for a wild ride for others.

So, as Mr. Mossy Oak, the Baroness, and I stood talking about music, Dru Down gave way to Coyote Grace (a segue that actually worked well, believe it or not), and all Mr. MO could do was shake his head, laugh, and take his leave of our insanity. He had barely made it down the ramp, not yet out the door, before the Baroness cried, “Play that ‘constipated and pale’** song! I like that one best of all.” Mr. MO missed a step and walked face first into the screen door, I kid you not. Poor guy. You think he’d have learned not to turn his back on the Baroness by now.

*(E.D./G.I. in brief – almost all of Dickinson’s poems can be sung to the Gilligan’s Island theme song. The one exception I can think of off the top of my head is “I Cannot Live with You”. It was high school, senior year, English class was boring, and anything went when it came to staying awake. This trick later insured that I got at least one answer on the GRE Literature Subject Test correct.)*

**She was referring to the Blue Scholars song “Fifty Thousand Deep,” a song about the 1999 WTO protests, in which they refer to Seattle Major Greg Nickels as looking “constipated and pale” in the press, trying to deal with an escalating situation. The Baroness doesn’t know artists or song titles; instead, she has a tendency to group songs into “danced (professionally) to that” or not. The primary exception to this rule is John Fogarty. She’ll never remember his name when she hears one of his songs, but once you tell her, she’ll be off and running, telling the tale of her night of wild passion with the man himself. I’ll spare you the sordid details until I can guarantee that you are seated, with an appropriate beverage available for the requisite spit-takes.**

“I’m a hot, hot mama!”

2009-04-23T21:32:00.001-06:00

“HELLO!”
“I’m a hot, hot mama!”
“I’m not ridden hard! This is my windblown look!”
“Jawohl!”

Sometimes you don’t even have need to look. Even when the bar is empty; even when you’re busy thinking about changes for the spring menu; even when you’re listening to a new cd – some things permeate all layers of consciousness and announce as bright and clear as a trumpet the presence of the Baroness.

“Hey! You mad, drunken woman! Someone out there is talking to you. Well, I just heard it, another horse’s ass whinny.”

Not just the Baroness, but the Baroness and Major Benjy. What else could one wish for at the start of happy hour? The whole floor show, loaded for werebear by the sounds of it. Now, this would have been a bigger issue for me in the past, but with the advent of a new health inspector in this area, Louise pulled a fast one on the Baroness. Louise claimed that a new health code had gone into effect which forbids anyone not scheduled to work from being in the kitchen. This has the lovely result of keeping the Baroness from hiding in the kitchen while when they are arguing or when Major Benjy gets drunk and gambles to his heart’s content. The Baroness asked me about this new health code before Louise had a chance to tell me about it, but it sounded like such a grand idea that I confirmed it simply by saying that Louise had mentioned a new set of health codes coming into play immediately.

Reports from the front today indicate that the Baroness is pissy, Major Benjy is cranky, and that they are working up to one of their truly epic floor shows. Hopefully it won’t result in her forcing him to go home before he is ready. Last Saturday, when things unfolded as such, they hadn’t been gone twenty minutes when he walked back in, much to everyone’s surprise. See, Major Benjy’s driver’s license has been suspended for at least the last decade. He had helped himself to the Baroness’ convertible and driven himself back down to the bar, though. When he told us he had driven himself in the convertible, no one believed him; Louise, J.J., Wakko, and I were like crows on a power line looking out the side window where he had parked the car. Realizing that he was facing ten days and several thousand dollars in fines if he got caught, he decided that it would be best to wait until after dark before heading home. Ultimately someone else drove him home, and the Baroness begged a ride from me yesterday so that she could retrieve the car.

“Major Benjy, back off! You’re biting everybody’s ass, and not all of them have their shots current.”

Then Mongo runs through yammering on to himself. On his way back through he stops and says, “You know it’s bad when you start talking to yourself, answering back, and arguing with yourself out loud. But I’ve been living here two years now, and it’s starting to rub off. I’m going native.”

All that can really be said in response is “Word”, which a certain lobster boatboy – J3 – was fond of defining as “urban vernacular for ‘I hear and understand you’”.

To that, I say “Double True”.

The Case of the Dastardly Belt Buckle

2009-03-07T22:48:00.002-07:00

What goes through your mind when you hear hysterical laughter emerging from a single-stall women's restroom?

Most likely it took only a minute to think of several different answers.

Alright, now, picture that scenario again, but factor in this information: the Baroness is alone in that bathroom. Seriously. Go on - take more than a few minutes - give your imagination scope. This is the Baroness after all.

While I feel confident that everyone came up with something amusing (and would love to know what you dreamt up) - Louise, J.J., and I came up with some beauties of our own - I'll lay wager that no one conceived of the actual scenario that played itself out today.

Folks, what the good Baroness had managed to do this morning while getting dressed was to put her belt on backwards. Now, by backwards I do not mean upside down; nor do I mean inside out. By "backwards" I mean "straight-jacket-fastens-in-the-rear" backwards. The maniacal giggling was the soundtrack to her frantic attempts to reach behind her back to undo the buckle. This was a task made more complicated because one of her shoulders no longer moves in that direction and tends to lock out from her body at a thirty degree angle when she forgets this bit of trivia. So, there is the Baroness, thrashing about in the bathroom, left arm incapacitated, trying to remember from her stripper days how to skin out of tight jeans with one hand. Of course, she had never tried this stunt with the jeans belted on tightly from behind.

Finally, to the cry of "Balls on a Monkey!" she burst forth from the bathroom door and shouted, "Someone get over here and undo my belt buckle." Now, we didn't know what was going on at this point, but that was one customer's cue to step outside and smoke.

Eventually, having been freed from the belt trap, the Baroness reemerged from the bathroom, struggling this time to buckle her belt (in front this time). Throwing up her hands, the Baroness cried, "Sugar shit! I can't see past my tits! Somebody buckle this belt for me!" Well, J.J. took one for the team on that request (which is unusual as I seem to have permanently drawn the shortest straw in the universe where the Baroness and Major Benjy are concerned). Unfortunately, when confronted with the belt buckle, J.J. quite literally fell down laughing because now the difficulties stemmed from the belt buckle being upside down and inside out, though at least aimed forward.

The kicker? The Baroness was stone-cold sober at this point in the day.

Perhaps Eddie Izzard is correct in suggesting that fastening the seat belt should be a basic competency test for being allowed to travel on an airplane. Or, in the case of the Baroness, properly buckling your own belt buckle. Can't handle it? Oops ... not allowed out in public today.

Initiation Rites of the Brotherhood of Odocoileus virginianus

2009-03-05T22:04:00.006-07:00

Are deer capable of waking up in the morning feeling suicidal? Or is there some sort of deer game akin to Paperboy? Perhaps they play a game akin to the driving game whereby you gain extra points for hitting pedestrians, small children, or other moving objects. Maybe they are playing some deer version of chicken?

I ask because this morning I had a close encounter of the suicidal deer variety. The only explanation that makes any sense at all is that it was a complex hazing ritual as a prelude to initiation into the Brotherhood of Odocoileus virginianus. I imagine the roadside conversation to have gone a bit like this:

Master of Rituals (MR): Hey, man, see that huge Montana Rail Link truck coming down the highway?

Pledge Deer (PD): Wha ... ? Montana who ... ?

MR: Oh, man, you haven't even learnt to read yet! This'll be great! I'm talking about that giant thing hurtling (that means moving rapidly, plebe) down that weirdly textured path.

PD: Yeah, I can sorta see it. It's a friggin' snow whiteout though ... I can barely see anything!

MR: Alright, well, walk this way a little. Okay, see that smaller thing cruisin' along about 100 yards behind the big thing?

PD: I can see lights! Pretty lights! What's a hundred?

MR: NO!!! Do NOT look into the lights. Never look into the lights - they paralyze you and make you do stupid things.

PD: But they're so swirleeeeeeeeee ....

MR: Snap out of it! Here's whatcha do - this'll be fun. After the big thing passes, you gotta get to the other side of the weird trail before the little thing gets here. That'll prove you're cool enough to go on our big adventure this morning.

PD: Okay ... between the big thing and the little thing ... to the other side of the path. Here it comes! There it goes! Here I go!

MR: Remember, don't look at the lights!

PD: Don't look at the lights. Don't look at the lights. Don't look ... WHEEEE!!!

MR: Whoa! Brothers, come check this out! That idiot actually made it across the highway between the two vehicles. I guess that means we have to let Virgil into the club. The driver of that second car doesn't look half scared, though!

I did not hit the deer, nor did I ditch myself. Hell, I didn't even have time to think about swerving.

Seriously, though, what is up with deer pulling those kind of stunts? It's not like it could have not seen the huge Rail Link vehicle. I'm going with the secret whitetail deer fraternity explanation; you aren't allowed to move into the cool den until you pass some spectacular rite of initiation.

Thanks to Deer in the Yard for the above image.

Comparative Jail Cells 101

2009-02-27T23:38:00.002-07:00

Ah, the comparisons that take place in casual conversation, today's involving jail cells of Sanders County. Yes, there actually are multiple cells - three, if I gathered correctly from the conversation. Based on the thirty years' experiences amongst the half-dozen people participating, the cells break down as such:

"Solitaire Confinement" - not officially, but true by practice. The special features of this cell include a non-functioning television and a lack of windows.

"Male Underwear Cell" - so named for the ancient pair of men's underwear that seems to permanently reside in the cell. These underpants have been confirmed to exist by conversation participants over a twenty-two year period.

"Western Genre Cell" - notable because it is the most frequently utilized cell. Features of this cell include a poorly-seated window which may be sufficiently wedged open to allow free passage for a small cat (making this an undesirably frigid cell in winter), a functioning television set with tricky volume controls, and a tremendous collection of western genre novels.

In how many conversations have you participated that included threads such as:

"Which cell did you have?"
"Oh, which time do you mean?"
"The most recent time, of course!"
"I had the westerns cell."
"Didja think it was cleaner than last time?"
"Now that you mention, yeah, it was!"
"That's because I cleaned that cell the whole two days I was in last time. They gave me the run of the jail so long as I was cleaning, and all I wanted was a clean cell. Guess it's better than rereading those same cowboy books."

Why, yes, that last bit was courtesy of the Baroness. She drew a DUI last year (and is peeved that hers is one of only four for the year in the whole county) and was to spend twenty-four hours in the drunk tank. This being Montana, however, they never stipulated that those twenty-four hours be continuous. She opted for two twelve hour shifts, separated by a week, and arrived stone-cold sober for the second shift.

At the end of today's jail cell round robin, the Baroness pondered aloud that, in all likelihood, the infamous underwear belong to Major Benjy. Apparently their appearance, at least within the range of the gathered memories, would coincide with one of his earliest DUI experiences. Others in the conversation conceded the possibility. Thanks to a drunken water skiing incident last summer, all of our regulars have seen Major Benjy's tighty-whiteys. Before laundry day. Not a pretty sight. Neither tighty nor whitey. Since they weren't together then, though, she cannot be certain. If she remembers to do so, she plans to ask his ex-wife the next time they talk. Can't you just imagine that one: "Did he ever come home from jail missin' his tighty-whiteys???"

Bought a kilo from the Mennonites

2009-02-26T22:12:00.004-07:00

One of the highlights of my weekend is the trip to the Moldy Store, aka the Dented Can Store, aka Grocery Surplus. The moldy food store, located some twenty miles from home, is run by part of the local Mennonite contingency. When the nearest "full service grocery store" (sounds like a gas station more than a grocery store), located about eighteen miles from home, looks like a Western Family truck overturned, the Moldy Store is a veritable treasure trove of diverse and unpredictable food options for our pantry.

When the Moldy Store received stock from an Asian market, we scored fish sauce, fun sauce, sesame oil, and coconut milk. Salvage from a Latino bodega yielded enchilada sauce, chipotles in adobo sauce, Cafe Barilla espresso drinks, annatto seeds, and the coolest development in sweetened condensed milk: the upright squeeze bottle. My girlfriend's Christmas stocking (her chosen alias is LaVonda (from Sordid Lives)) featured a selection of gum with psycho flavours like Spearmint-Watermelon and Apple-Raspberry. The day I discovered their stock from a gourmet store was a grocery budget buster. At the Moldy Store, you never know what you're going to find, and when you do find something awesome, you'd best stock up and then decide whether or not to tell a friend.

My most recent visit to the Moldy Store yielded a kilo of yerba mate. Imported direct from Argentina, not a speck of English on the packaging ... a kilo of loose leaf yerba mate. For $1.99. Go team! The cashier was pleased that I bought some, as they had no idea what it was. She said they were a little nervous about selling a "loose leaf killed herb" in kilo packages with only Spanish information. That was the best translation they could piece together from their pocket Spanish-English dictionary. I explained that maté is Spanish for "I killed ...", but that without the accent mark, the word had an entirely different nomenclature.

We're still working out the best home brewing method to avoid that whole "grit/sludge at the bottom" issue since we lack a true mate. That being said, however, I'll be looking to pick up another kilo next week.

The Moldy Store is, incidentally, also the source of some amusing additions to our kitchen "doorway of doom". The door frame is, in a throw back to the first professional kitchen in which I worked, decorated with amusing signs, logos, and labels. The best contribution from the Moldy Store is the one that reads "Bimbo Bakeries U.S.A."

In addition to remaindered food items, the Moldy Store is also a source of cheap farm-fresh eggs, local honey, hand-rolled Amish butter, beef, elk, bison, and buffalo, as well as Hutterite chickens and turkeys.

On this same most recent trip, I was excited to find chorizo, but then a closer look at the ingredients thoroughly deflated my elation. The chorizo was labeled as "all beef", but the ingredients list started naming names, or rather specific body parts. Less-than-savory body parts. Total T.M.I. overload. I, understandably, spent the rest of the day pining for the amazing Aurelia's Chorizo that Eggy Confit and I discovered at Spanish Table one day. Oh well; I'll know to stock up next time we're in Seattle. Until then, though, it's the Moldy Store for me!

A squirrel, a lesbian, and a dominatrix ...

2009-02-19T22:26:00.002-07:00

... walk into a bar - it just reads like a joke set-up, doesn't it?

Remember the scene in On Golden Pond when Norman Thayer, Jr., reading the local newspaper, discovers that one of the lesbians across the lake died? He circles back to the news at a later point and answers Billy's concerns about wildlife by saying: "Oh, sure. Black bears, grizzlies. One of 'em came along here and ate an old lesbian just last month." Well, last Friday for me went a little something like this:

"One of the Plains lesbians died last weekend - did you hear?"
"Hey! I hear one of them dykes in Plains finally kicked it."
"'Suppose you heard one of the Plains girls died."
"Didja know that Plains lesbian passed?"

And so on ... person after person, one after another.

Unlike Norman's paper, in Trout Creek, the newspaper - such as it is - only comes out once a week. Propriety requires that an obituary appear in the Missoulian, but funeral arrangements are usually publicized through word of mouth, with signs being posted at the post office, the Local Store, and the bars. This, incidentally, is also the approved method of distributing wedding or party invitations, birth or graduation announcements, and thank you cards. In this case, word of mouth was alive and well, everyone talking about "one of the Plains lesbians" dying, no names mentioned at all.

Because there are only two lesbians in Plains. (Right ....)

Naturally, being a lesbian myself, I'm assumed to know them. This, despite the fact that I've only been to Plains once, and would be hard-pressed to find cause to voluntarily return.

As it happens, I do not know this particular lesbian, but I do know of her. Truthfully, I know far more about this woman and her partner than any casual observer should know.

All thanks to the Baroness. (Like you didn't see that one coming).

In the wonderful book of essays My Mama's Dead Squirrel: Lesbian Essays on Southern Culture, Mab Segrest analyzes the Southern dilemma of either burying some bit of information or being the first to hold it up in plain view and name it. In the title essay, Segrest's mother is faced with a unique dilemma: as a group of cohorts gather at her home for an afternoon of cards and refreshments, Mom discovers a squirrel - deceased and in full rigor - under the table. She stuffs the squirrel under a couch cushion and forgets about the uninvited guest until much later when she sits upon it. There she reaches the pivotal point on what I have taken to calling the "dead squirrel decision tree." She must either endure sitting rather awkwardly on the dead squirrel, or she must decide to reveal that which has been previously concealed. Mom chooses to whip it out and be the first to comment.

Granted, the larger philosophical issue (if not the squirrel specificity) is a fairly widespread human conundrum, but I would argue that , as a dilemma, this point on the decision tree is particularly significant one in Southern culture. The path chosen sets one firmly along a course of action that is bounded by the SCC (that's the Southern Code of Conduct for those of you who don't speak South). The path of concealment sends one down a path of non-naming that effectively silences the topic for years, if not generations. That silence is as sacrosanct as the Australian aboriginal taboo against imagery of the dead. (On that topic, I'd highly recommend Eric Michaels' book Bad Aboriginal Art). The second path - revelation - serves to stake a claim for the individual or family in the grand tradition of Southern eccentricity, with all the rights and responsibilities attendant to that role.

Incidentally, I believe that the inviolability of the SCC is one reason that Southern families love family reunions, complete with a gaggle of small children. These miniatures may freely violate the SCC by asking what no adult would dare, thus reactivating the "dead squirrel decision tree". Flashback: I'm seventeen, not known to be dating, a tomboy, and Everyone is Wondering.

Along comes the family reunion, replete with my eighty gazillion younger cousins. After lunch, sitting in my aunt's living room, one of the gazillion - all of six years old - asks me: "Who's your boyfriend?"

Silence.

Absolute, complete, pin-dropping silence.

College football commentary on the television mysteriously mutes.

The dog stops snoring.

My uncle stops snoring.

The silence of a tomb awaiting the closure of a zombie raising spell.

Dead Squirrel Decision Tree

Silence Response: "Why you are, of course!"

Revelation Response: "No one, but the postmistress' cute daughter asked me to the movies last week."

I still get letters from a great-aunt wondering when I'm going to get married. Being out of contact with the rest of my extended family, she exists in a sort of "Cone of Silence" where family matters are concerned.

While not Southern, the Baroness is firmly rooted in the "look at my dead squirrel, y'all" social mode. Thus, I know the following about C & P, the Plains lesbians:

they were together for twenty-two years until P's death;
they were born within three minutes of one another: C at one minute to midnight, P at one minute after midnight;
they met when C's husband, Major Benjy, persuaded his wife, C, and his friend, P, to have a three-way in the hot tub (the Baroness said, "I didn't tell you that! Oh, balls on a monkey, I DID tell you that. Well, serves the old bastard right.");
they were fast friends with the Baroness, much to Major Benjy's eternal concern;
Major Benjy, on hearing of P's death, joked that he, the Baroness, and C should have a three-way in a hot tub;
both C and the Baroness promised him that, should he press the issue, history would repeat itself.

Speaking of the dead, I answered the bar phone early this morning and had an entertaining, the-coffee-can't-brew-fast-enough conversation, with Robin (named for the character in Spider Robinson's Lady Slings the Booze:

Stef: "Good morning, Wayside."

Robin: "Who's this? Is Louise there?"

"She is, may I tell her who is calling?"

"Not until you tell me your name."

"Okay, you first."

"Where's the fun in that? You don't say, I hang up, keep calling until I get Louise. Then you'll never know because she won't tell you if I ask her not to, but I'll know who you are."

"True, unless I disable the phone which, frankly, would be neither difficult nor improbable around here. Then you lose and I get peace and quiet for the day."

"Ohmygod! This has to be Stef! It's Robin!"

"Well aren't you the clever boy. It's great to finally talk with you. How are things on the home front?"

(Robin's wife of twelve years has been gradually dying of systemic cancer. She'd recently decided to stop having her lungs drained. Both of them are very practical, matter-of-fact people, and are ever joking about her imminent demise).

"Mistress Cynthia (see the same Spider Robinson book) finally called it quits on Tuesday, which is a relief for all involved. The obit is in today's paper. That and having been so drunk that I don't really remember my travel plans are the reasons I'm calling."

"You didn't write the obit, did you?"

"No! Her daughter did that."

"Let me track down Louise so she can remind you of your plans. See you soon - just a sec."

Louise: "Hi Robin! How're you doing?"

...

"Oh no ... you didn't write the obit did you?!?"

...

"Not everyone, I'm sure, just everyone who knows you! Yours would read 'We first met when she was my dominatrix, tied me up, spanked me, and tickled me with feathers ....'"

Robin had made plans with Louise before Mistress Cynthia died to come down for a weekend of day-drinking once the Mistress finally passed. He needs to be with someone who understands their gig, Robin and Mistress Cynthia's relationship, as well as their coping methods. Mistress Cynthia's adult children are, understandably, involved in their own grief process right now.

At any rate, it'll be nice to finally meet the guy who has decided that I am to be his second Trout Creek BFF. We know each other vicariously through stories, but that's about it. Personally, I'll wait and see. He sounds great, but I doubt he'll be my new Cabana boy.

Robin's parting shot to Mistress Cynthia on the phone was:

"Tell Stef I'll wear my new eye-shadow, unless I find a new mistress who forbids it. Of course, if I do, I might wear it anyway just to see what the punishment might be!"

Did I mention that Robin and Mistress Cynthia met when she became his dominatrix?

Just play "Billie Jean"

2009-02-17T20:14:00.009-07:00

Poker Run 2008 High/Low Lights

This past weekend hosted the Poker Run - a charity event involving snowmobiles, alcohol, and poker hands. The evening caps off with an auction held in the bar. While the whole event is insanely busy and action packed, there are certain moments that stand out above the rest. Back-to-back twelve hour plus work days fried my memories a bit, but here are some of the high- (or low-, depending on your point of view) lights.

Louise: "I beat it to death with a bottle of Clamato. By the time I stopped, the label was flying off of the bottle and all that remained was a pile of disintegrated spider pulp."

Banner hanging on the porch: Welcome Snowmobilers! Thank you for using a designated driver. (Is that inherently contradictory, or is it just me? It seems the whole point of the event is to get as drunk as possible while snowmobiling the course.) Beeresponsible. (Yes, that was all one word).

Auctioneer: "And the winner of the year's subscription to the Sanders County Ledger is ... oh no, the winners are our visitors from Mount Vernon, Washington. That is really too bad. I was hoping someone local would win this prize; the last thing we need is for people in another state to be regularly seeing what passes for a paper here. I'm sorry folks ... it really is too bad ya'll are gonna hafta see that in your mailbox every week."

Poker Run Organizer: "Not surprisingly, since tonight is Valentine's Day, we have a couple of anniversaries in the house. One of our celebrating couples has been together 25 years tonight! Give them a round of applause. The other anniversary I know about is 13 years running. I've got a special song I'd love to play just for them. Mongo's put it into the cd player, so let's hear it." (And, then, I kid you not, played "Billie Jean". Am I being stalked by that song?!? Five years and running ... not a single exception to the "Billie Jean"/wedding rule).

Mongo, by the way, is Louise's husband, named after the giant gingerbread man in Shrek 2.

On the long list of t-shirts that I want to design for myself is a rather simple one. On the front: "Catering Mercenary"; on the back: "Just play 'Billie Jean;". On black, of course ... to go with that catering assassin chic look.

The Baroness: Oh yeah, you just knew she was going to factor into this whole thing somewhere. She was flying solo, having left her husband (to be known as Major 'Benjy' Flint, a recurring character from E.F. Benson's Mapp and Lucia series) at home after a fight. At the end of the auction she strolled into the kitchen with her top pulled low, an eight inch, talking, Jeff Foxworthy action figure peeking out over the top of her cleavage. As difficult as it is to take the Baroness seriously when she is pixelated (to use her term), it becomes infinitely more challenging when Foxworthy is peering out of her cleavage saying "You might be a redneck if ...."

I mustn't forget to mention the lovely note left for me Friday night by my bartender and servers, thanking me for all of the help "stalking." From this note Louise was left to conclude that I was either a) creeping about the place with my hands over my head in my best silent film style, or b) threatening people with bits of celery. She refrained from correcting the note lest she make an ass of herself by revealing that she wasn't a part of the inside joke. No ... there was no inside joke, nor did I spend the night skulking about, with or without veggies. I must have done a damned fine job of "stalking" the beer cooler during the bar rush, though.

Elmer's Glue versus Apple Juice: The Showdown

2009-02-13T08:57:00.003-07:00

Maybe it is the company I have tended to keep in my life, but when I think of "hair lacquered-solid", the technique that springs to mind involves diluting Elmer's glue until it will spray through a squirt bottle.

This town is just computer literate enough to be dangerous, so recurring individuals are to be represented as well-known historical persons or characters. Yes, it is a "cya" strategy, but the choice of moniker will also provide insight into that person's character.

Our story today involves two such individuals, to be known as Louise Brooks and Baroness Else von Freytag-Loringhoven. While short biographies will suffice as background knowledge of these two individuals, let it be said that the Baroness is perhaps my absolute favorite of the 1920s trust fund ex-pats. She was an absolute wild card, positively bowling over almost everyone she met. William Carlos Williams wrote rather frequently about her, most notably as a chapter in his autobiography.

Recently Louise and I were positively flabbergasted when the Baroness strolled in sporting a lacquered-solid Tammy Wynette. Once the amazed petting tapered off, BEvFL (for short) revealed her beauty secret: apple juice sprayed on the styled hair. Well, the Baroness was still sporting her festively coiffured Tammy do at the end of her shift, much to everyone's awe. For sheer staying power, however, Louise and I were unable to decide which would be better: Elmer's glue, or apple juice.

Environmental concerns aside - and as an aside, I'm having quite the time imagining what an environmentally sensitive drag queen movement would look like - which would be easier to wash out at the end of the night? Louise wondered whether synthetic versus natural hair concerns would filter into the equation. Also, while the kitchen in winter has been described by the Baroness as "hotter than the hobs of hell," would the apple juice styling be able to withstand Montana summer kitchen temperatures? Also, should the stylee (or styler, for that matter) be criminally inclined, would the fingerprint retaining quality of the glue be a deterring factor?

I think spring needs to hurry along now ... the slow season is paving the path to madness, methinks.

Gone to the Dogs, or the Death of a Thousand Missed Heartbeats

2009-02-05T20:42:00.005-07:00

Augh!!

Until tonight, I felt fairly secure in my knowledge that "the worst things to have happening when the health inspector walks in" had already occurred. Seriously, folks, how would you top the day that the health inspector shows up while the following are taking place:

In the kitchen: hundreds of pounds of ground beef are being processed into miniature hamburgers; while,

In the annex room, hundreds of breakfast yoghurt parfaits are beings prepared; at the same time,

In the office, a dog (of the canine variety) has dropped by for a visit.

Well, I found out tonight what could be worse....

Having just finished closing the kitchen, I walked out to the bar to sign out. One of the televisions was airing an ESPN breaking news clip about Pat Summitt's 1000th career victory. Being rather intrigued by the television, feeling confident in my ability to traverse an open floor area without needing to look at my feet, I strolled mindlessly along until I stumbled over something.

Err ... make that several somethings.

Make that several furry somethings.

Of the canine variety.

Just inside the entrance from the porch, sprawled on the rug, were no less than an half dozen dogs. It was the most motley collection of dogs possible: one sharpei, two black labs, two Australian shepherd crosses, and at least one undefinable "ur-dog". At some point I gave up counting, unable to visually separate the tangle of furry limbs.

I mustn't forget to mention the cat sprawled contentedly amongst them. That would be Marvin, the neighbourhood non-stray. I am not certain that an animal qualifies as a stray if it has more than one bed and more than three places to get food on a regular basis.

Yup, the locals had decided that it was too bloody cold outside for their dogs, and had been given permission to bring them inside, seeing as how there was no crowd, per se, but just an intimate collection of the best of the regulars.

Enter our health inspector.

We only are inspected once a year, but see our inspector a few times a month, usually for lunch on her way through the area. We have been repeatedly warned that our particular inspector is one of the most strict in the state, having been hospitalized because of food poisoning in a restaurant. I have never known her to come in at night, though. She isn't a fan of night driving on the back highways and tends to hunker down rather than extend her trips into the late evenings.

So there I am, dying the death of a thousand missed heartbeats, eyes ricocheting between the dog pile and the inspector, waiting to see how fast the "closed forever" notice can be whipped out and posted. Neither the bartender nor the server on duty had ever worked when the inspector had stopped by, so they continued on oblivious to the stench of doom that had just entered the joint. All they saw was a stranger to break up the monotony of a slow night.

I greeted her, asked how she was doing, the usual social niceties, all the while waiting for the axe to lop of my head. That would be a fun phone call to make. "Hi boss! The health inspector just closed the restaurant for the foreseeable future. If you're available, she'd like you to join us down here as soon as possible."

She surprised me, however. She looked around, took stock of the room, and asked, "Would it be alright if I brought my dog in from the car? It's a bit cold for her outside."

Well slap my face and call me "shirley".

Gotta love my bartender - her response being, "Sure, as long as she plays nicely with the other dogs who were here first and leaves the cat alone. Tommy doesn't like people or animals messin' with the cat."

Only in Montana ... only in small town Montana, my friends.