Posted on March 1, 2011
Ever notice how difficult it is these days to order a meal in a restaurant that focuses on simple food? Without adornment or accompaniment or add-ons? Well, if you haven’t, I have.
Take a Caesar salad. It’s rare that one finds a true Caesar, the one with raw egg and anchovies made at the side of your dining table by your server. Wait, you say, “I thought you were talking simple food here.”
I am, so let me define it. Simple food is food that sticks to the original definition of what it is supposed to be. Nowadays, a Caesar salad is apt to come with a side of grilled chicken, skewered shrimp, or blackened beef. To me, it is no longer a simple Caesar salad.
Yesterday Earl ordered a breakfast Monte Cristo sandwich at Leigh Ann’s. A traditional Monte Cristo includes ham and cheese on rye bread that is then dipped in egg and fried as if it were French toast. But Earl’s breakfast version included a fried egg on the inside, as well as being fried on the outside. Maybe I’m more of a purist than he is, but it seemed as if it was over the top, egg-wise.
Today Earl and I passed a sign that read “Lobster Reuben” and pointed down the road to the restaurant that featured this sandwich. Now think about it: A Reuben already has rye bread, corned beef, sauerkraut, Thousand Island dressing, and Swiss cheese. Often it’s grilled.
So now we’re going to add lobster, as if either the Reuben or lobster aren’t delicious by themselves? Or what about macaroni and cheese with shrimp de jonghe sauce? Or salmon stuffed with grapes? Or fresh mahi mahi deep fried and then covered with marinara sauce and hot peppers?
I suspect this is the wave of the future – where two and three items will blend and nobody will really remember what each individually tastes like. As for me, I expect to continue eating out – as I love eating out – but I realize I will probably have to say, “Hold the breading, hold the sauce, hold the hot peppers, hold the stuffing. Just give me the turbot and a couple lemons on the side.”
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Posted on November 29, 2010
Earl and I traveled to Colorado for Thanksgiving and arrived home tonight after driving a total of 2300 miles to share in my family’s turkey traditions.
This trip was blessed with good weather and even better road conditions, but we still had to clock approximately 600 miles a day to stay on target. Along the way we found various sites and sights we wanted to stop and visit. But we didn’t. What we did do is decide to take a leisurely trip to Colorado sometime to visit the local claims to fame.
Among them is The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument that straddles I-80 near Kearney, NE. Over the years we’ve probably passed under it a half dozen times; but we’re always in a hurry. We’ve promised ourselves that we’ll stop next time.
Fulton, MO, claims a special connection with Winston Churchill. There, at Westminster College, he gave a speech after the end of World War II where he coined the phrase ‘iron curtain’ to describe the dichotomy between self-governing Western European nations and those Eastern European nations that Russia has recently gobbled up. Today, there is both a church and a museum at the school.
The church bears special acknowledgement. It was originally built in the twelfth century and redesigned by Christopher Wren in 1677, after the Great Fire of London. After enduring German bombs during the Second World War, it was marked for demolition. However, Westminster College offered to save the building by moving it from London to the Missouri campus. Stone by stone, the building was deconstructed and then reconstructed in its present home. Today it is also a museum about Churchill, who visited in 1946.
But these are not the only two highlights of traveling through Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, and Missouri. There are the Amana Colonies, the largest truck stop in the world, a Pony Express station, Fort Leavenworth, Fort Kearney, and a myriad of other local historic sites. So Earl and I have decided that sometime soon we’re going to visit these four states and take our time immersed in the local lore. It might not rival the Empire State Building or the monuments in our country’s capital; but we think it will be most interesting and informative nonetheless.
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Posted on November 22, 2010
Almost two generations have grown to adulthood since John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, was shot and killed in Dallas on a bright November afternoon on November 22, 1963. In the space that gunshot occupies, the world changed. And everyone who is my age or older remembers exactly where they were the moment they heard to news.
I was a sophomore at Loyola University Chicago and the bell to change classes had just rung. But I was finished for the day and walked across the second story bridge that joined Lewis Towers to the newly erected Student Union where I’d planned to relax with friends.
My boyfriend Jack came running toward me as I reached the middle of the bridge. “Kennedy’s been shot, Kennedy’s been shot,” he said. I was slow to react, because it didn’t seem possible. But we went to the Student Union together where an announcement was made over the loudspeaker that it was indeed true. Not only had Kennedy been shot, he had been killed.
I was nineteen, so I hadn’t been eligible to vote in the election that put Kennedy in the White House. (It was only later that the voting age was lowered to eighteen.) But I felt as bereft as if I’d lost a close family member. My mother and grandmother had been charmed by him, and we watched the daily Huntley/Brinkley fifteen-minutes newscast as if they were verses from the Bible. We watched the following four days of bereavement and burial with similar reverence.
I still recall Vice-President Johnson’s swearing-in as President, the cortege, John-John’s salute, the riderless horse, the heads of state, the bleakness of it all. But what I think I remember most that is unique is that the night of the day Kennedy died, I had a most minor role in a student production of some forgotten play.
The actors and stage hands convened a couple hours before opening night and debated whether to go on. After all, Broadway had declared itself dark for the evening. But from some primal urging, I spoke up and said we should continue because not performing wouldn’t change anything and perhaps someone would find solace in what we offered. We were a student production and if we didn’t perform there would be no next week or next month. I suggested someone speak at the opening of the play and give our reasons for being there in case someone found this irreverent. Several other students spoke for the opposing view.
In the end, we performed our little drama. And it was to a packed house, which always led me to believe there were those who wanted to drown their sorrows if only temporarily, in theater.
See more 10 Minutes in category Nostalgia, Special Events
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Posted on November 21, 2010
Earl and I had dinner at Tabor Hill Winery and Restaurant last night; I would classify the place as white tablecloth, as opposed to bar food. One of us likes the tablecloth idea; the other prefers Buffalo wings with football and draft beer on Sunday afternoon at Pauley’s.
Setting personal opinion aside, the deciding factor in dining at Tabor Hill was a gift certificate for one hundred dollars. As we drove to the restaurant, which is nestled in a vineyard on an obscure road, we wondered if we would spend one hundred dollars for one meal for two people. I wagered it wouldn’t be hard to do, since everything was a la carte. Earl thought we’d have money left over. Maybe he thought Buffalo wings couldn’t possibly be that expensive.
But there wasn’t a single wing on the menu. There wasn’t a French fry either. Or a mozzarella cheese stick. Instead, there was lobster risotto, strawberry pecan encrusted chicken, beet salad, and parsnip puree. There was salmon wrapped in grape leaves and Japanese Mero Sea bass.
I think that’s what I mean by tablecloth dining; it’s not really about the price as much as it is about the items on the menu. We can get fried chicken or spaghetti almost anywhere, but I’ve seen pumpkin gnocchi only on the menu at Tabor Hill. Of course, I like these off-the-beaten path foods, while Earl is strictly meat-and-potatoes. He’s not a vegetable kind of guy, so the baby bok choy and the roasted leeks held no interest either.
I won’t say Earl not adventuresome. He just likes to recognize what he’s eating. In the end, he went for the spicy shrimp and sausage linguine, even after our server said ‘spicy’ was the operative word for the entrйe. I chose the lobster risotto; and – yes – we spent the entire one hundred dollars.
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Posted on November 20, 2010
Whenever I’m leaving to go somewhere Earl always says, “Drive safe.”
Besides the fact that this suggests I’m inclined to drive some other way than safe, it’s also grammatically incorrect. This morning I mentioned this. Having been in love with correct grammar and the reasons behind it since I first learned what nouns were, whenever I hear something wrong it’s like the proverbial chalk/blackboard relationship.
When I told Earl the proper phrase is “Drive safely,” he seemed appreciative. He’s always trying to do things well. But I made the mistake of explaining why it’s ‘safely’ and not ‘safe.’ He would have probably taken it on faith.
“’Safe’ is an adjective, and adjectives modify nouns,” I said, reaching autopilot immediately. “’Drive’ is not a noun; it a verb. The words that modify verbs are adverbs. And ‘safely’ is the adverb you want.”
His eyes glazed. His forehead wrinkled. “You might as well speak Portuguese, as to explain grammar,” he said. “The only things I know about are nouns. They name a person, place, or thing.”
I don’t mean to show off; it’s just happens. “Yes,” I countered, “But do you know the difference between common nouns and proper nouns?”
He got that glazed look again, and I knew I’d gone too far. I headed for the garage, and he didn’t even bother to tell me how I should drive.
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Posted on November 16, 2010
Earl lobbied for several years for us to purchase a Kitchen Aid mixer, the stand-alone variety that reeks of great chef-dom in the kitchen. I resisted. After all, my Mother managed to cook fairly decent meals with a paring knife and a hand-held, no-name mixer. Both of them were dull and old.
But finally I relented, and the forest green Kitchen Aid joined our family. It was when we lived at our previous house, where it complimented the forest green cookware that Earl owned when we merged households. It begged for acceptance on that account. And it, with the various forest green pots and pans, came when we moved to our most recent scaled-down abode.
However, I have never really liked the thing. It reeks of superiority (read: kitchen testosterone here.). It suggests we know what we’re doing. It makes a statement of superiority as it claims a corner of our granite countertop, while our other cookware huddles in cupboards and emerges only when needed. Its green-ness is always there.
Yet . . . to be fair: I have found merit of late in having such a mixer at hand. Over the fall, Earl and I have gotten into making quick breads, those sweet loaves that smell of pumpkin and cranberry and orange. Zucchini too. We’ve sifted and sorted and then mixed with the aid of our fancy-dancy Kitchen Aid; and I must admit it beats my Mother’s method of using a fork until your arm is ready to fall off.
So maybe “Trophy Mixer” isn’t the exact term I should use to explain my love/hate relationship with the green Kitchen Aid appliance. Maybe I should consider “Green-Servant-in-Waiting” or simply “Mix Master,” this latter spoken in the truest sense.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Dining/Food
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Posted on November 15, 2010
“Want to go to Wal-Mart with me?” Earl whispered in my ear as I tried to catch a few more zzzzzzzz. The look on my face must have required additional explanation.
“I have to pick up a few things, and the selection of vegetables and fruit is pretty good. Besides, nobody’s there at 8 AM.”
Eight AM was half an hour away, so I nodded a “Yes” which committed me to get out of bed and forsake the zzzzzzz altogether. No matter; every now and then you have to do something spontaneously. And I’d never been in Wal-Mart when nobody else was there.
I brushed my teeth and my hair, gargled the former and sprayed the latter. I also insisted that a stop at Starbuck’s be included in this morning’s shopping spree. Eager to have me along, Earl agreed.
Of course there was a l-o-n-g line at Starbuck’s, most likely composed of people who had to be at their offices by 8:30 AM. And, as Earl predicted, there was nobody at Wal-Mart.
We entered the front door and parted ways, he to get his special vitamin powder and me to examine the veggies and fruits. Fifteen minutes later, we met at check-out aisle 10 with our respective purchases.
Mine included iceberg lettuce that really wasn’t worth getting up for, spaghetti squash which is always worth getting up for, and cauliflower that will grace my dinner plate tonight. Earl found his vitamin powder and didn’t comment on its freshness. Nor did he comment on the fleece sweatshirt I found for eight dollars hanging out across from the oranges.
All in all, it was a successful hour of shopping, but we weren’t done. We topped the morning off with a visit to the local McDonald’s for a breakfast sandwich from the dollar menu. Then we went home. I’d say Earl really knows how to treat a lady!
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Posted on November 14, 2010
It’s that time of year when I order many Christmas gifts from catalogs, and I’m always torn between doing it via the Internet or via the phone.
The Internet provides an opportunity to order items without interacting with another human. At times, this can make the process go more quickly and you don’t have to listen to elevator music while you wait. However, many sites want you to register and provide more information than I choose to do. In addition, you have to fill in the field called “Email address,” ostensibly so the site can send a confirmation of the order you just placed.
I appreciate such confirmations, but I do not appreciate the barrage of emails that follows, reminding me of how many shopping days are left, what the latest items on sale are, and telling me that “If you bought XYZ, you’ll want to consider ABC.” I understand these emails are marketing efforts that can be deleted with the flick of a button, but I still find them presumptuous and annoying.
My issue with telephone ordering is more basic. It doesn’t matter whether you’re seeking information, trying to correct a problem, or placing an order, more often than not the call begins with an automated voice that tells me, “This conversation may be recorded for quality and training purposes.” It also doesn’t matter if it’s about a holiday gift or a call to a utility, your bank, or your credit card company.
When did telephone conversations become the manual for quality and training purposes? I would think a company wants its phone representatives to understand about quality communication and to receive clear, concise training regarding it before talking with actual customers?
So I suspect “quality and training” are really double-speak for “This conversation may be recorded in case you, the customer, becomes argumentative. It is a record of the conversation, so that if you call back and complain about our salesperson we have documentation of what was said.”
Maybe I’m becoming paranoid, but the upshot of all this is that perhaps next year I’ll forsake virtual stores and telephone lines and haunt the local mall.
See more 10 Minutes in category Annoyances, Technology, Things to Ponder
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Posted on November 13, 2010
Dear Jonathan Franzen,
I’m trying really hard to like your latest novel, Freedom, but I’m having a difficult time. I admit this is the first of your work that I’ve attempted, although I am familiar with The Corrections, Oprah’s and your brouhaha, your various recognitions, and your ten rules for writing. You are a formidable presence on the American literary scene.
Wikipedia calls your work “sprawling,” and I agree. It’s 576 pages in paperback, which translates to a lot more on my Kindle®. I’m not afraid of length; in fact, I’ve read Stieg Larsson and Richard Russo – both no slouches when it comes to word count – on my little machine without batting a critical eye or chasing a wandering mind.
There’s an old adage in fiction that says, “Don’t tell me; show me.” And this is quite possibly where Freedom’s problem lies for me. I don’t mind knowing every thing about every character through every decade of their lives, especially when I lived through the same decades you write about and can relate. But every wart, every hiccup, every stepping on a sidewalk’s crack eventually became tiring and tedious when I was “told” about it rather than saw it develop for myself.
Sincerely,
Anne
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Posted on November 12, 2010
It’s been a longer than usual summer this year. It started on June 17 and ended today. It wasn’t the usual summer either; one filled with vacation plans and suntan lotion, good books and great meals. Rather it was filled with recovery from surgery, recovery from the diagnosis of ovarian cancer, and recovery from the recovery.
Earl and I went into it knowing I needed surgery for possible cancer; what I don’t think either one of us anticipated were the emotional issues involved. The surgery date came and went; I recuperated at home and eventually went back to working out. We carried on as if it were life as usual; however, judging from our reaction today when we left the oncologist’s office, it was anything but.
We walked together to the car; Earl used his clicker to open the doors and we each slid in on our respective sides. I believe there was an audible sigh of relief, since the meeting with the doctor indicated that everything insidious had been removed and I was on the way to full recovery. We looked at each other, and I also believe either one of us could have cried. Instead, we smiled. It was the best ending to summer ever!
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