Monday, September 29, 2008
The guy who invented the Fifties works right down the hall from me. Apparently, nostalgia toward the Fifties as a Happy Time (along with the invention of the Greaser as the quintessential Fifties rebel) can be dated to 1969 with the advent of Sha Na Na. And who invented Sha Na Na? The guy who works down the hall from me. Small world. I’ve never met him, by the way. I’ve never spoken with most of the people who work down the hall from me.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Pioche, Nev.
Another relic I dug up. This one was a piece I wrote after a family reunion near Pioche, Nevada in 1996, I believe. I don’t know why I never shopped it around, but here it is, complete with sidebar.
You can't visit Pioche, Nevada, without thinking that this must be what the west was really like a hundred years ago.
Pioche is often called a living ghost town, and there is something about the place that justifies that reputation. The air is clear and the food is good. The beef tastes like it was walking the range only yesterday, and the antique pump organs in the local museum look like they would still be at home in somebody’s front parlor off Main Street.
Few people visit the sleepy high desert town that claims to have once been the roughest, toughest mining camp in the west. Those who do make the two-hour trek up the two-lane Highway 93 from Las Vegas do not expect perks. This is Pioche, after all, where vigilantes once ruled the streets and the only law came out of the business end of a six‑shooter. Or so goes the legend.
Today there are no gunfights on Main Street. Most of the action has moved indoors to the Overland Hotel and Saloon, where folks gather on a weekend night to party and shoot some pool. The town’s a quiet place now, basking in the glow of its evil past and content with being a remote burg unable to conjure up a major flow of tourists.
It's a town where steak costs $12.95, and does not come with an all‑you‑can‑eat salad bar. Breakfast buffets are unheard of, and if you asked for one, you’d be laughed out of town. But there’s no better place to get a taste of old Nevada without the intrusive kookiness of the big casino culture found elsewhere in the state.
Which is the point. Tourist attractions are fun, but there's nothing like the thrill of discovering a place that's a little off the beaten track, where the people are real, the color is local and the food is solid and good without being pretentious.
If that means suffering through low-rent museums and higher food prices, so much the better. Because never do you doubt that you’re among people who are really doing what they do, instead of putting on a show.
Driving into town from the business loop off state highway 93 is like driving into another time period. The road winds through acres of stark evergreens, then turns the corner and jolts you with a genuine antique, an abandoned wooden tramway that once transported ore from Treasure Hill to the processing plant a few miles away.
Abandoned mine shafts riddle the terrain in and around Pioche, cordoned off with barbed wire and bright red signs warning “stay out, stay alive.” Pale‑pink tailings (mounded refuse from years of mining) dot half the mountainside above Pioche, mute testimony to what was once the town’s bread and butter.
During the boom years of 1870-1877, Pioche acquired a reputation as the roughest, most violent town in the west. Mining companies imported gunfighters to protect their claims, and the more than $20 million in ore they extracted. The law wasn't much use in Pioche, and legend has it that more than 70 men died violent deaths before even one died of natural causes.
Along with the boom years came exuberant graft and corruption, a seedy fact the town seems almost proud of. The old county courthouse is mute testament to that sordid fact of frontier life. Originally planned at a cost of a little over $16,000, mismanagement and old-fashioned corruption brought the total price of the courthouse to $1 million before the town finally paid it off more than 50 years after it was built.
The courthouse and “boot hill” both serve as reminders of a time when law didn't have much meaning, even to the people who supposedly upheld it. Town literature, in fact, claims the sheriff's office was such a lucrative source of bribes that it brought in $40,000 per year to the lucky occupant.
But though it's a living relic of another time, that isn't to say things have not changed. Pioche today is far from the wild mining camp of the boom years. Though the area still supports some mining, Pioche survived where other mining camps failed partly because it was designated the Lincoln County seat in 1871. Mining has been revived through the years, with new developments currently being investigated in the mountains around Pioche.
And there’s no getting around the most obvious change. During the boom years of the 1870s Pioche claimed up to 10,000 residents. Now it has 600. At its most prosperous, Pioche had 72 saloons and two daily newspapers. It now has three restaurants (one former restaurateur told us she switched to selling antiques when she realized Pioche just didn't need four restaurants) and the weekly Lincoln County News is located down the highway at Caliente.
No more boisterous minors paint the town red on Saturday night. Now the crime and corruption that once demanded and tolerated a $40,000 per year sheriff is just a memory among the shadows on Main Street.
You can't visit Pioche, Nevada, without thinking that this must be what the west was really like a hundred years ago.
Pioche is often called a living ghost town, and there is something about the place that justifies that reputation. The air is clear and the food is good. The beef tastes like it was walking the range only yesterday, and the antique pump organs in the local museum look like they would still be at home in somebody’s front parlor off Main Street.
Few people visit the sleepy high desert town that claims to have once been the roughest, toughest mining camp in the west. Those who do make the two-hour trek up the two-lane Highway 93 from Las Vegas do not expect perks. This is Pioche, after all, where vigilantes once ruled the streets and the only law came out of the business end of a six‑shooter. Or so goes the legend.
Today there are no gunfights on Main Street. Most of the action has moved indoors to the Overland Hotel and Saloon, where folks gather on a weekend night to party and shoot some pool. The town’s a quiet place now, basking in the glow of its evil past and content with being a remote burg unable to conjure up a major flow of tourists.
It's a town where steak costs $12.95, and does not come with an all‑you‑can‑eat salad bar. Breakfast buffets are unheard of, and if you asked for one, you’d be laughed out of town. But there’s no better place to get a taste of old Nevada without the intrusive kookiness of the big casino culture found elsewhere in the state.
Which is the point. Tourist attractions are fun, but there's nothing like the thrill of discovering a place that's a little off the beaten track, where the people are real, the color is local and the food is solid and good without being pretentious.
If that means suffering through low-rent museums and higher food prices, so much the better. Because never do you doubt that you’re among people who are really doing what they do, instead of putting on a show.
Driving into town from the business loop off state highway 93 is like driving into another time period. The road winds through acres of stark evergreens, then turns the corner and jolts you with a genuine antique, an abandoned wooden tramway that once transported ore from Treasure Hill to the processing plant a few miles away.
Abandoned mine shafts riddle the terrain in and around Pioche, cordoned off with barbed wire and bright red signs warning “stay out, stay alive.” Pale‑pink tailings (mounded refuse from years of mining) dot half the mountainside above Pioche, mute testimony to what was once the town’s bread and butter.
During the boom years of 1870-1877, Pioche acquired a reputation as the roughest, most violent town in the west. Mining companies imported gunfighters to protect their claims, and the more than $20 million in ore they extracted. The law wasn't much use in Pioche, and legend has it that more than 70 men died violent deaths before even one died of natural causes.
Along with the boom years came exuberant graft and corruption, a seedy fact the town seems almost proud of. The old county courthouse is mute testament to that sordid fact of frontier life. Originally planned at a cost of a little over $16,000, mismanagement and old-fashioned corruption brought the total price of the courthouse to $1 million before the town finally paid it off more than 50 years after it was built.
The courthouse and “boot hill” both serve as reminders of a time when law didn't have much meaning, even to the people who supposedly upheld it. Town literature, in fact, claims the sheriff's office was such a lucrative source of bribes that it brought in $40,000 per year to the lucky occupant.
But though it's a living relic of another time, that isn't to say things have not changed. Pioche today is far from the wild mining camp of the boom years. Though the area still supports some mining, Pioche survived where other mining camps failed partly because it was designated the Lincoln County seat in 1871. Mining has been revived through the years, with new developments currently being investigated in the mountains around Pioche.
And there’s no getting around the most obvious change. During the boom years of the 1870s Pioche claimed up to 10,000 residents. Now it has 600. At its most prosperous, Pioche had 72 saloons and two daily newspapers. It now has three restaurants (one former restaurateur told us she switched to selling antiques when she realized Pioche just didn't need four restaurants) and the weekly Lincoln County News is located down the highway at Caliente.
No more boisterous minors paint the town red on Saturday night. Now the crime and corruption that once demanded and tolerated a $40,000 per year sheriff is just a memory among the shadows on Main Street.
Pioche sidebar
Things to see and do in Pioche:
‑‑Million Dollar courthouse: Built in 1871 with an original budget of $16,400, delayed payments, high interest and either incompetence or corruption drove the cost up to more than $1 million by the time the courthouse was finally paid off in 1936. The million‑dollar courthouse was abandoned in 1938, when a new, modern courthouse was built. The old courthouse now houses a museum, and is open from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. daily. Among its unusual sites is a thick‑walled, windowless jail in the back, with deep grooves worn into the floorboards, possibly from constant pacing by prisoners in the dock.
‑‑ Brown/Thompson Opera House. Built in 1873, it is one of only three 19th‑century opera houses remaining in Nevada. It was later used as a dance hall.
‑‑ Treasure hill. Scores of open mine shafts dominate the hills above Pioche, their pale‑pink tailings evidence of the town's mining history. By 1872, $5 million in ore had been removed from Treasure Hill.
‑‑ Aerial Tramway. Built in the 1920s, the tramway carried ore from Treasure Hill to a mill in the valley. The tram was mainly gravity powered, helped along by a five‑horsepower motor.
‑‑ Lincoln County Museum: On Main Street in the center of town, the museum houses artifacts from the Pioche‑area's history. Among its many artifacts are an organ that once belonged to my great‑great‑grandmother Selina Hammond, and a desk that belonged to her husband John.
‑‑ Boot hill: Containing the graves of the town's most notorious evil-doers.
‑‑Million Dollar courthouse: Built in 1871 with an original budget of $16,400, delayed payments, high interest and either incompetence or corruption drove the cost up to more than $1 million by the time the courthouse was finally paid off in 1936. The million‑dollar courthouse was abandoned in 1938, when a new, modern courthouse was built. The old courthouse now houses a museum, and is open from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. daily. Among its unusual sites is a thick‑walled, windowless jail in the back, with deep grooves worn into the floorboards, possibly from constant pacing by prisoners in the dock.
‑‑ Brown/Thompson Opera House. Built in 1873, it is one of only three 19th‑century opera houses remaining in Nevada. It was later used as a dance hall.
‑‑ Treasure hill. Scores of open mine shafts dominate the hills above Pioche, their pale‑pink tailings evidence of the town's mining history. By 1872, $5 million in ore had been removed from Treasure Hill.
‑‑ Aerial Tramway. Built in the 1920s, the tramway carried ore from Treasure Hill to a mill in the valley. The tram was mainly gravity powered, helped along by a five‑horsepower motor.
‑‑ Lincoln County Museum: On Main Street in the center of town, the museum houses artifacts from the Pioche‑area's history. Among its many artifacts are an organ that once belonged to my great‑great‑grandmother Selina Hammond, and a desk that belonged to her husband John.
‑‑ Boot hill: Containing the graves of the town's most notorious evil-doers.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Whitney '99
I was rescuing old files from an ancient computer that we finally surrendered to the e-waste people after it had languished in our closet for three years, and came across this little piece I did long ago about Mt Whitney. So I thought I’d post it.
The great Mt. Whitney Adventure of 1999
Dave and I, accompanied by Uncle Steve, ascended Mt. Whitney last Tuesday, Sept. 14. To be scrupulously honest, Dave and Steve ascended Mt. Whitney. I, alas, only made it to within a quarter mile of the summit before succumbing to altitude sickness and collapsing in a heap. Still, it was a tremendous undertaking. All told, we hiked 21 of the most rugged, mountainous miles in the country, spent 17 hours on the trail and decided it was a trip well worth doing – once.
Steve and I drove up to Lone Pine Sunday night. From Lone Pine, Whitney Portal Road took us up to the trailhead where we searched for a campsite. No luck. We ended up sleeping in Steve’s car, which I naively assumed would be the most discomfort I would have to suffer on this trip. The next morning we staked out a site in a tent campground right next to the trailhead, then took a short acclimation hike up to Lone Pine Lake, which is at 10,300 feet. This lake is 2.5 miles up the trail and is as far as you can go without a permit.
Dave arrived that night about 7 p.m. while Steve and I were cooking Steve’s wondrous dutch oven chuck roast stew. We went a little overboard on the ingredients, so Steve ended up inviting the nice young couple from the next campsite to eat with us. This proved to be good strategy, since the next day they still liked us enough to offer me an aspirin. This was while I was picking my way down the shale-covered 14,000 foot back slope of the mountain hoping my head would stop pounding. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The night was pleasant and I was deep in a rapturous slumber when Steve’s pocket alarm clock jolted me awake at 2 a.m.
“We’re not really getting up now, are we?” I asked.
“WE are,” Steve said. “You can do what you want.”
Since I wanted to hit the trail with them I figured the prudent thing would be to get up before they collapsed the tent around me. We broke camp in the dark. As I was putting on my boots I noticed with horror that my acclimation hike the previous day had left the beginnings of a blister on my left heel. Luckily Dave had moleskin, plus I was wearing a miraculous pair of technologically advanced socks. These two factors kept my blister in check and even prevented new ones from occurring.
We were on the trail by 3 a.m. It was still quite dark. The stars were brilliant, but we had no moon. Steve wore a headlight and Dave and I alternated carrying the other light as we wound our way upward.
We didn’t notice so much in the dark, but as the day progressed we began to realize that the trail up Mt. Whitney never, ever leveled out. Except for a handful of stretches that could not have lasted more than a hundred feet each, the trail always headed up. And not a gentle up, either. It was a steep up, but we did not realize how steep until we were on our way down and Dave could not stop saying “I can’t stop being amazed at how far we climbed today.”
The trail to the summit is 10.7 miles long. The summit of Mt. Whitney is 14,497.16 feet. Since the trailhead is at 8,300 feet, that meant we would gain more than 6,000 feet in altitude over the course of the trail. To put it another way, while we were covering 10.7 miles in trail distance we were also ascending more than a vertical mile in altitude.
But misery, and the statistical realizations that accompany it, was far in the distance as we began our hike that day. We covered approximately four miles in the dark and made it to the solar toilets at Outpost Camp before 7 a.m. By now it was growing lighter. We shut off the flashlights as we headed still higher on our way up to Trail Camp. As we climbed the trees became more sparse and those we could see were twisted and weathered, their trunks shining gold in the morning light. It became rockier and our knees began to take a heavier pounding as the dusty trail of the lower elevations gave way to granite.
We found ourselves passing and repassing the same groups of people. By now we all knew each other by sight. We exchanged hearty hellos and idle trail chatter. Occasionally Dave and I would exchange glances when we saw particularly odd groups of hikers, those tricked out in wraparound shades, running tights and camelback water systems. Some were traveling very light and we were jealous, since we had decided to err on the side of caution and were carrying enough food among the three of us to feed at least a dozen people. Of course those we silently mocked were the ones who made it up and back without injury.
Six miles up from the trailhead we came upon Trail Camp. At 12,000 feet, the camp occupies a plateau near some pools of water. We trudged through Trail Camp and came to what many people consider the most disheartening and tough part of the climb: the infamous 97 switchbacks. Since everyone refers to this part with equal parts awe and dismay I should call it “The Infamous 97 Switchbacks,” like a title. We did not count them, but I believe there really are 97. These switchbacks enable hikers to climb from the 12,000 foot Trail Camp to the crest of the trail (called Trail Crest) at 13,600 feet in just over two trail miles. This is an odious, mind-numbing section of the trail. This is where the trail begins to be nothing but packed shale, some of it not looking very sturdy. We passed giant marmots, staring at us with hopeful, beady eyes. In retrospect, I guess I should have given the beasts some of my food, because by then it was weighing heavy on my back. My shoulders ached with sharp, stabbing pain and I was beginning to feel the effects of the altitude.
Shortly before we got to trail crest I felt my first wave of sickness hit me. I began to feel nauseous. I ate some triscuits and drank some water and felt well enough to make it up to the trail crest. We walked around a bend to the crest and were smacked in the face by a breathtaking view of the back side of the mountains. Climbing up we had occasionally looked eastward, down the way we came. From certain vantage points we could see all the way into the Owens Valley to the town of Lone Pine thousands of feet below. But nothing had prepared me for the view of the other side, which looks down into the John Muir Wilderness. Trail Crest marks the boundary with Sequoia National Park, but it’s a Sequoia that you never dream about when visiting the accessible parts of the park. We looked down on barren wilderness pocked with scattered blue lakes, dry mountains. There were trees in the far distance, but the high-elevation wilderness for miles around was treeless and bare. It was a stark, beautiful, amazing sight and it energized me for what I assumed was the final summit push.
From the crest the trail dips around the back side of the mountain, descends for about 300 feet, before climbing again. We passed windows between giant granite spires that allowed us to look straight down for a thousand feet. We began to climb again. At a rest point we looked toward the distant summit, which was supposed to be less than a mile and a half away, but looked like an eternity. We felt a wave of discouragement as fatigue set in. We needed a pep talk. At that moment Dave and I knew we wanted to turn around. If anyone had strongly suggested at that time that we do so, we would have done it without regret. Instead we hemmed and hedged until Steve said “I think I’ve still got something in me.” He told me later he decided he had not come this far just to turn around. Dave said later, “If Steve wasn’t so goal oriented we would have got down the mountain a long time ago.”
Resting may have been a mistake. The longer we waited and pondered our upcoming fate the more we thought maybe that fate would be more trouble than it was worth. Imagine a jogger running laps on a track early on a misty morning, wearing a hooded warm-up suit. His hood slopes from the back of his head (if it's a particularly cavernous hood, even from his shoulders) to the top, then ends as it meets the perpendicular wall of forehead that drops from the face into nothingness below. If the eastern wall of Whitney can be called its face, then perhaps the back of the mountain is its hood. From where we sat the gentle slope of this hood looked dauntingly long, but not particularly hard. We could see the stone shack perched jauntily on the summit of the mountain like a cap. We could even see people moving around.
"We're there," one of our sometime hiking companions said. The only time we spoke to people now was when we stopped to rest. Jocular hellos from early in the morning had now become grunts or merely silent nods as we passed people who had stopped to rest on the trail. This man looked to be in his mid-40s, in good shape, with silver hair. "You can't come this far and not make it," he said.
Steve was of the same attitude, so we began moving again. Chipmunks skittered among the rocks picking up stray pieces of trail mix. Each time we passed a pinnacle with its open window looking out on the depths below a great gust of wind would chill me. I held my hat, hoping it would not fly away and cause me even more problems. By now the going was slow, and the sickness in my stomach, though present, had settled into a tiny knot awaiting the right moment to unravel again. Dave was not looking much better.
"This mountain is kicking my butt," he said. He looked surprised.
Of the three of us I was the only one who had been on the mountain before, but that was 20 years ago when I was a 12-year-old Boy Scout. I made it to the summit on that occasion, and I saw no reason why I should not make it this time. But now I remembered that it was at this same place 20 years ago when I began throwing up and wishing I could turn around, or die. Whichever came first. I made it up the mountain the first time because ofpeer pressure, encouragement and the dogged insistence of the Scoutmaster.
At 32, I was the youngest member of our party. Dave is 44 and, as always, in spectacular shape. I am in the best shape of my life. It was 57-year-old Steve, however, who was the most determined to make it to the top. "I knew I was never going to do this again," he explained later. It had to be now.
We wended our way to the shoulder of the mountain itself. Here the trail more or less disappears and hikers must pick their way over and around the stones and shale that sprinkle the hillside like crushed nuts on a giant sundae. I looked up to watch the hikers above me gingerly moving upward and at that moment the knot in my stomach unraveled and I began to feel truly and miserably sick. Earlier I had been able to nibble on crackers and make the nausea go away. "Eat something," Steve said.
"I can't," I said. "I'll throw up if I do."
"Then drink something," he said.
"I can't."
"Drink some water!" he ordered, barking the command with an urgency that I had to obey.
I sipped at my canteen and suddenly my head exploded in pain, like my brain had shrunk and was rattling and banging on the inside of my skull. Tears came to my eyes, I grimaced, sat down and squeezed my head wishing the ache would go away. I sat for a long time, Dave watching me quizzically. I finally said, "I'm going to have to stop here."
"Well, if you're sick, that's probably the best thing," he said. Steve had already gone on ahead and Dave moved to follow him. "Why don't you try to pick your way down and wait for us," he said.
He disappeared behind me. I did not turn to watch him go because it hurt too much to move. I drank more water, then began to find my way down. As I descended I began to feel noticeably better, and soon I was walking at my normal pace down the trail. Up ahead I saw the nameless couple from North Hollywood who had shared our stew the night before. They brightened when they saw me and said, "you made it!"
"No," I had to confess. "I pooped out."
"Altitude?"They offered me food, which I rejected, and an aspirin, which I accepted, gratefully. The mountain has a strange way of making companions of everybody. We were fast friends at this moment, even though I knew once they continued on their way I would probably never see them again. We commiserated about altitude and the rigors of the climb. The wife had never been up so high before. I told her of the strange vertigo I had experienced where the ground in my peripheral vision seemed to swim circles as I walked.
"Yes!" she said. "The same thing happened with me."
Finally, they turned to go. Good luck, we wished each other. Be careful.
I found a sunny spot on a rock and sat down to wait for Dave and Steve. My stomach felt calmer and I looked back wistfully at the mountain and its summit, now tantalizingly close. I wondered for a moment if I should go back and try again, then promptly rejected the lunatic notion and returned to my senses.
By 2 p.m. Dave and Steve had rejoined me and we were on our way down the mountain. The batteries were low on both our lights so we decided it was in our best interest to move as quickly as possible so we could get down while it was still daylight. By now we were physically exhausted from the morning’s climb. Starting down was a rejuvenating death march, if there can be such a thing. Each downward step brought us into thicker air, which put my headache on the back burner. But we were now taxing our legs to the limit descending a trail so steep at times it more resembled a flight of stairs than a mountain path. Stopping to rest became a treacherous activity because when they were not in motion my legs quivered and throbbed to the point where I felt sure they would buckle at any moment, and when that happened I would never get up again.
Back we journeyed, down the 97 switchbacks, through Trail Camp, Trail Meadow, Outpost Camp. By now it was after 5 p.m. We could still make it down by 7 p.m., I thought. After 7 it would begin to get dark fast. Finally we came to Lone Pine Lake. Only 2.5 miles to go. These final two miles seemed to last an eternity. The sun dipped behind the mountain, the last of the peripheral, lingering light disappeared and we finally had to resort to our flashlights again. The zigzagging switchbacks went on and on. We began to see lights far below, where we knew the road to be, tickling our senses, teasing us into believing we were almost there, and frustrating us to no end when we realized that those lights were too far away to be just around the next bend.
When we emerged at the trail’s end it was 8 p.m. The nearby Whitney Portal Store was still open, and would be for another hour.
“I want a soda,” Steve declared. He ambled away while Dave and I went to wait in Dave’s truck. Neither of us was in the mood for a soda.
Now that we were resting, stiffness was beginning to set in. We ate that night at a coffee shop in Lone Pine and recognized some diners at the next table from the trail that day. They recognized us from our stiff, lurching gait and the painful way we groaned when we stood up or sat down. They called it the Whitney Shuffle. We shuffled our way back into the same coffee shop for breakfast the next day. As I ate my bacon and eggs I stared out the window at the summit of Mt. Whitney and thought, there’s no shame in going most of the way, is there?
The great Mt. Whitney Adventure of 1999
Dave and I, accompanied by Uncle Steve, ascended Mt. Whitney last Tuesday, Sept. 14. To be scrupulously honest, Dave and Steve ascended Mt. Whitney. I, alas, only made it to within a quarter mile of the summit before succumbing to altitude sickness and collapsing in a heap. Still, it was a tremendous undertaking. All told, we hiked 21 of the most rugged, mountainous miles in the country, spent 17 hours on the trail and decided it was a trip well worth doing – once.
Steve and I drove up to Lone Pine Sunday night. From Lone Pine, Whitney Portal Road took us up to the trailhead where we searched for a campsite. No luck. We ended up sleeping in Steve’s car, which I naively assumed would be the most discomfort I would have to suffer on this trip. The next morning we staked out a site in a tent campground right next to the trailhead, then took a short acclimation hike up to Lone Pine Lake, which is at 10,300 feet. This lake is 2.5 miles up the trail and is as far as you can go without a permit.
Dave arrived that night about 7 p.m. while Steve and I were cooking Steve’s wondrous dutch oven chuck roast stew. We went a little overboard on the ingredients, so Steve ended up inviting the nice young couple from the next campsite to eat with us. This proved to be good strategy, since the next day they still liked us enough to offer me an aspirin. This was while I was picking my way down the shale-covered 14,000 foot back slope of the mountain hoping my head would stop pounding. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The night was pleasant and I was deep in a rapturous slumber when Steve’s pocket alarm clock jolted me awake at 2 a.m.
“We’re not really getting up now, are we?” I asked.
“WE are,” Steve said. “You can do what you want.”
Since I wanted to hit the trail with them I figured the prudent thing would be to get up before they collapsed the tent around me. We broke camp in the dark. As I was putting on my boots I noticed with horror that my acclimation hike the previous day had left the beginnings of a blister on my left heel. Luckily Dave had moleskin, plus I was wearing a miraculous pair of technologically advanced socks. These two factors kept my blister in check and even prevented new ones from occurring.
We were on the trail by 3 a.m. It was still quite dark. The stars were brilliant, but we had no moon. Steve wore a headlight and Dave and I alternated carrying the other light as we wound our way upward.
We didn’t notice so much in the dark, but as the day progressed we began to realize that the trail up Mt. Whitney never, ever leveled out. Except for a handful of stretches that could not have lasted more than a hundred feet each, the trail always headed up. And not a gentle up, either. It was a steep up, but we did not realize how steep until we were on our way down and Dave could not stop saying “I can’t stop being amazed at how far we climbed today.”
The trail to the summit is 10.7 miles long. The summit of Mt. Whitney is 14,497.16 feet. Since the trailhead is at 8,300 feet, that meant we would gain more than 6,000 feet in altitude over the course of the trail. To put it another way, while we were covering 10.7 miles in trail distance we were also ascending more than a vertical mile in altitude.
But misery, and the statistical realizations that accompany it, was far in the distance as we began our hike that day. We covered approximately four miles in the dark and made it to the solar toilets at Outpost Camp before 7 a.m. By now it was growing lighter. We shut off the flashlights as we headed still higher on our way up to Trail Camp. As we climbed the trees became more sparse and those we could see were twisted and weathered, their trunks shining gold in the morning light. It became rockier and our knees began to take a heavier pounding as the dusty trail of the lower elevations gave way to granite.
We found ourselves passing and repassing the same groups of people. By now we all knew each other by sight. We exchanged hearty hellos and idle trail chatter. Occasionally Dave and I would exchange glances when we saw particularly odd groups of hikers, those tricked out in wraparound shades, running tights and camelback water systems. Some were traveling very light and we were jealous, since we had decided to err on the side of caution and were carrying enough food among the three of us to feed at least a dozen people. Of course those we silently mocked were the ones who made it up and back without injury.
Six miles up from the trailhead we came upon Trail Camp. At 12,000 feet, the camp occupies a plateau near some pools of water. We trudged through Trail Camp and came to what many people consider the most disheartening and tough part of the climb: the infamous 97 switchbacks. Since everyone refers to this part with equal parts awe and dismay I should call it “The Infamous 97 Switchbacks,” like a title. We did not count them, but I believe there really are 97. These switchbacks enable hikers to climb from the 12,000 foot Trail Camp to the crest of the trail (called Trail Crest) at 13,600 feet in just over two trail miles. This is an odious, mind-numbing section of the trail. This is where the trail begins to be nothing but packed shale, some of it not looking very sturdy. We passed giant marmots, staring at us with hopeful, beady eyes. In retrospect, I guess I should have given the beasts some of my food, because by then it was weighing heavy on my back. My shoulders ached with sharp, stabbing pain and I was beginning to feel the effects of the altitude.
Shortly before we got to trail crest I felt my first wave of sickness hit me. I began to feel nauseous. I ate some triscuits and drank some water and felt well enough to make it up to the trail crest. We walked around a bend to the crest and were smacked in the face by a breathtaking view of the back side of the mountains. Climbing up we had occasionally looked eastward, down the way we came. From certain vantage points we could see all the way into the Owens Valley to the town of Lone Pine thousands of feet below. But nothing had prepared me for the view of the other side, which looks down into the John Muir Wilderness. Trail Crest marks the boundary with Sequoia National Park, but it’s a Sequoia that you never dream about when visiting the accessible parts of the park. We looked down on barren wilderness pocked with scattered blue lakes, dry mountains. There were trees in the far distance, but the high-elevation wilderness for miles around was treeless and bare. It was a stark, beautiful, amazing sight and it energized me for what I assumed was the final summit push.
From the crest the trail dips around the back side of the mountain, descends for about 300 feet, before climbing again. We passed windows between giant granite spires that allowed us to look straight down for a thousand feet. We began to climb again. At a rest point we looked toward the distant summit, which was supposed to be less than a mile and a half away, but looked like an eternity. We felt a wave of discouragement as fatigue set in. We needed a pep talk. At that moment Dave and I knew we wanted to turn around. If anyone had strongly suggested at that time that we do so, we would have done it without regret. Instead we hemmed and hedged until Steve said “I think I’ve still got something in me.” He told me later he decided he had not come this far just to turn around. Dave said later, “If Steve wasn’t so goal oriented we would have got down the mountain a long time ago.”
Resting may have been a mistake. The longer we waited and pondered our upcoming fate the more we thought maybe that fate would be more trouble than it was worth. Imagine a jogger running laps on a track early on a misty morning, wearing a hooded warm-up suit. His hood slopes from the back of his head (if it's a particularly cavernous hood, even from his shoulders) to the top, then ends as it meets the perpendicular wall of forehead that drops from the face into nothingness below. If the eastern wall of Whitney can be called its face, then perhaps the back of the mountain is its hood. From where we sat the gentle slope of this hood looked dauntingly long, but not particularly hard. We could see the stone shack perched jauntily on the summit of the mountain like a cap. We could even see people moving around.
"We're there," one of our sometime hiking companions said. The only time we spoke to people now was when we stopped to rest. Jocular hellos from early in the morning had now become grunts or merely silent nods as we passed people who had stopped to rest on the trail. This man looked to be in his mid-40s, in good shape, with silver hair. "You can't come this far and not make it," he said.
Steve was of the same attitude, so we began moving again. Chipmunks skittered among the rocks picking up stray pieces of trail mix. Each time we passed a pinnacle with its open window looking out on the depths below a great gust of wind would chill me. I held my hat, hoping it would not fly away and cause me even more problems. By now the going was slow, and the sickness in my stomach, though present, had settled into a tiny knot awaiting the right moment to unravel again. Dave was not looking much better.
"This mountain is kicking my butt," he said. He looked surprised.
Of the three of us I was the only one who had been on the mountain before, but that was 20 years ago when I was a 12-year-old Boy Scout. I made it to the summit on that occasion, and I saw no reason why I should not make it this time. But now I remembered that it was at this same place 20 years ago when I began throwing up and wishing I could turn around, or die. Whichever came first. I made it up the mountain the first time because ofpeer pressure, encouragement and the dogged insistence of the Scoutmaster.
At 32, I was the youngest member of our party. Dave is 44 and, as always, in spectacular shape. I am in the best shape of my life. It was 57-year-old Steve, however, who was the most determined to make it to the top. "I knew I was never going to do this again," he explained later. It had to be now.
We wended our way to the shoulder of the mountain itself. Here the trail more or less disappears and hikers must pick their way over and around the stones and shale that sprinkle the hillside like crushed nuts on a giant sundae. I looked up to watch the hikers above me gingerly moving upward and at that moment the knot in my stomach unraveled and I began to feel truly and miserably sick. Earlier I had been able to nibble on crackers and make the nausea go away. "Eat something," Steve said.
"I can't," I said. "I'll throw up if I do."
"Then drink something," he said.
"I can't."
"Drink some water!" he ordered, barking the command with an urgency that I had to obey.
I sipped at my canteen and suddenly my head exploded in pain, like my brain had shrunk and was rattling and banging on the inside of my skull. Tears came to my eyes, I grimaced, sat down and squeezed my head wishing the ache would go away. I sat for a long time, Dave watching me quizzically. I finally said, "I'm going to have to stop here."
"Well, if you're sick, that's probably the best thing," he said. Steve had already gone on ahead and Dave moved to follow him. "Why don't you try to pick your way down and wait for us," he said.
He disappeared behind me. I did not turn to watch him go because it hurt too much to move. I drank more water, then began to find my way down. As I descended I began to feel noticeably better, and soon I was walking at my normal pace down the trail. Up ahead I saw the nameless couple from North Hollywood who had shared our stew the night before. They brightened when they saw me and said, "you made it!"
"No," I had to confess. "I pooped out."
"Altitude?"They offered me food, which I rejected, and an aspirin, which I accepted, gratefully. The mountain has a strange way of making companions of everybody. We were fast friends at this moment, even though I knew once they continued on their way I would probably never see them again. We commiserated about altitude and the rigors of the climb. The wife had never been up so high before. I told her of the strange vertigo I had experienced where the ground in my peripheral vision seemed to swim circles as I walked.
"Yes!" she said. "The same thing happened with me."
Finally, they turned to go. Good luck, we wished each other. Be careful.
I found a sunny spot on a rock and sat down to wait for Dave and Steve. My stomach felt calmer and I looked back wistfully at the mountain and its summit, now tantalizingly close. I wondered for a moment if I should go back and try again, then promptly rejected the lunatic notion and returned to my senses.
By 2 p.m. Dave and Steve had rejoined me and we were on our way down the mountain. The batteries were low on both our lights so we decided it was in our best interest to move as quickly as possible so we could get down while it was still daylight. By now we were physically exhausted from the morning’s climb. Starting down was a rejuvenating death march, if there can be such a thing. Each downward step brought us into thicker air, which put my headache on the back burner. But we were now taxing our legs to the limit descending a trail so steep at times it more resembled a flight of stairs than a mountain path. Stopping to rest became a treacherous activity because when they were not in motion my legs quivered and throbbed to the point where I felt sure they would buckle at any moment, and when that happened I would never get up again.
Back we journeyed, down the 97 switchbacks, through Trail Camp, Trail Meadow, Outpost Camp. By now it was after 5 p.m. We could still make it down by 7 p.m., I thought. After 7 it would begin to get dark fast. Finally we came to Lone Pine Lake. Only 2.5 miles to go. These final two miles seemed to last an eternity. The sun dipped behind the mountain, the last of the peripheral, lingering light disappeared and we finally had to resort to our flashlights again. The zigzagging switchbacks went on and on. We began to see lights far below, where we knew the road to be, tickling our senses, teasing us into believing we were almost there, and frustrating us to no end when we realized that those lights were too far away to be just around the next bend.
When we emerged at the trail’s end it was 8 p.m. The nearby Whitney Portal Store was still open, and would be for another hour.
“I want a soda,” Steve declared. He ambled away while Dave and I went to wait in Dave’s truck. Neither of us was in the mood for a soda.
Now that we were resting, stiffness was beginning to set in. We ate that night at a coffee shop in Lone Pine and recognized some diners at the next table from the trail that day. They recognized us from our stiff, lurching gait and the painful way we groaned when we stood up or sat down. They called it the Whitney Shuffle. We shuffled our way back into the same coffee shop for breakfast the next day. As I ate my bacon and eggs I stared out the window at the summit of Mt. Whitney and thought, there’s no shame in going most of the way, is there?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Great Moments in Dairy
I've often thought there might be a market for a human dairy, but it looks like this Swiss restaurant might have beat me to the punch.
Did McCain diss Spain?
That seems to be the question of the day, according to this Time magazine account. You can't blame McCain for not knowing who Zapatero is, though. What do you expect when the man looks like Mr. Bean?
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Writing Camp is Today
Damian, Kent, and I are off to our first ever writing camp, and so will be off line for a few days.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Calabacitas rellenas de elote (Zucchini Stuffed with Fresh Corn)
Cooking gives me a great deal of pleasure, and I also find it relaxing, which is probably why I cook when I’m stressed out. I’ve been very stressed out about work lately, so today after church I went a little crazy and spent pretty much the entire afternoon making dinner. Tonight it was pork chops in adobo paste, served with stuffed zucchini and lentils with pineapple and plantain. About the only thing I didn’t make from scratch was the cheese for the zucchini. Everything else involved much toasting of chiles, roasting of tomatoes, shaving of fresh corn kernels, blending, and tasting for salt.
Overall it was a success. The only disappointment, from my point of view, was the lentils, which I finished early and reheated in the microwave. Lentils with pineapple and plantain is an unexpected combination. It was so good coming off the stove that I thought it would be the hit of the dinner, but after letting it sit and reheating, it turned out muddled.
Tonight I’ll blog the zucchini, which was a reasonably successful dish. The squash is stuffed with a fresh corn mixture, and on its own was a little bland. But, you serve it with a fresh, warm salsa ranchera, which was out of this world. Together, the zucchini and the sauce combined into something quite tasty.
So here’s the zucchini recipe, along with the salsa ranchera, both of which come from Diana Kennedy’s The Essential Cuisines of Mexico. For the salsa, I broiled the tomatoes and the chiles together. The recipe actually calls for four serrano chiles, but I used only three, and it turned out picante enough.
Salsa Ranchera
1 pound tomatoes, broiled
3 serrano chiles, charred
1 garlic cove, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
½ teaspoon salt
Blend the tomatoes, chiles, and garlic together until fairly smooth.
Heat the oil, add the blended ingredients and the salt, and cook over fairly brisk heat for about 5 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan until the sauce has reduced a little and is well seasoned.
Zucchini Stuffed with Fresh Corn
1½ pounds zucchini
2 heaped cups corn kernels
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons milk
salt to taste
6 ounces queso fresco, crumbled (about 1 cup)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 recipe salsa ranchera
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease a large shallow baking dish.
Clean and trim the zucchini. Cut them into halves lengthwise and scoop out the inner flesh, leaving a shell about ½ inch thick (Note: my zucchini were on the small side and the shell was nowhere near ½ inch thick). Discard the pulp. Place the zucchini in the dish and set aside while you prepare the filling.
Blend the corn, eggs, milk, and salt to a coarse mixture. Do not add more liquid unless absolutely necessary to release the blades. Mix about three quarters of the cheese into the corn mixture, saving the rest for the topping.
Fill the zucchini shells with the corn stuffing, which will be quite runny. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and dot with the butter. Cover the dish and bake until the squash is tender—about 30 minutes. Serve covered with the tomato sauce.
Overall it was a success. The only disappointment, from my point of view, was the lentils, which I finished early and reheated in the microwave. Lentils with pineapple and plantain is an unexpected combination. It was so good coming off the stove that I thought it would be the hit of the dinner, but after letting it sit and reheating, it turned out muddled.
Tonight I’ll blog the zucchini, which was a reasonably successful dish. The squash is stuffed with a fresh corn mixture, and on its own was a little bland. But, you serve it with a fresh, warm salsa ranchera, which was out of this world. Together, the zucchini and the sauce combined into something quite tasty.
So here’s the zucchini recipe, along with the salsa ranchera, both of which come from Diana Kennedy’s The Essential Cuisines of Mexico. For the salsa, I broiled the tomatoes and the chiles together. The recipe actually calls for four serrano chiles, but I used only three, and it turned out picante enough.
Salsa Ranchera
1 pound tomatoes, broiled
3 serrano chiles, charred
1 garlic cove, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
½ teaspoon salt
Blend the tomatoes, chiles, and garlic together until fairly smooth.
Heat the oil, add the blended ingredients and the salt, and cook over fairly brisk heat for about 5 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan until the sauce has reduced a little and is well seasoned.
Zucchini Stuffed with Fresh Corn
1½ pounds zucchini
2 heaped cups corn kernels
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons milk
salt to taste
6 ounces queso fresco, crumbled (about 1 cup)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 recipe salsa ranchera
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease a large shallow baking dish.
Clean and trim the zucchini. Cut them into halves lengthwise and scoop out the inner flesh, leaving a shell about ½ inch thick (Note: my zucchini were on the small side and the shell was nowhere near ½ inch thick). Discard the pulp. Place the zucchini in the dish and set aside while you prepare the filling.
Blend the corn, eggs, milk, and salt to a coarse mixture. Do not add more liquid unless absolutely necessary to release the blades. Mix about three quarters of the cheese into the corn mixture, saving the rest for the topping.
Fill the zucchini shells with the corn stuffing, which will be quite runny. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and dot with the butter. Cover the dish and bake until the squash is tender—about 30 minutes. Serve covered with the tomato sauce.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Tapado de pollo (Chicken and Fruit Casserole)
Mexican summer continues, this time with a Chicken and Fruit Casserole from Diana Kennedy (The Essential Cuisines of Mexico). This one was beyond words. Why don’t they have this sort of dish at any of the so-called Mexican restaurants in this country? The cinnamon and the fruit gave it a warm aroma and a lovely, but not cloying, sweetness, while the olives cut through the sweetness.
A few substitutions and omissions: I did not have the right chicken (word to Safeway: one should not have to travel to a specialty store just to get chicken with bones and skins on it, thank you very much), I substituted chicken broth for sherry, and I left out the capers, since I don’t much care for them. Even with the wrong ingredients, it still rocked. I'm just going to write out the recipe as it appears in the book.
4½ pounds large chicken parts
Salt
6 peppercorns
1 whole clove
½-inch piece of cinnamon stick
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
¼ cup dry sherry
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
¼ cup mild vinegar
2 cups thinly sliced white onion
12 ounces tomatoes, sliced (about 2 cups)
1 small apple, peeled, cored, and cut into thick slices
1 small pear, peeled, cored, and cut into thick slices
2 Mexican bay leaves
6 sprigs fresh thyme or ¼ teaspoon dried
1/8 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano
To serve
¼ cup vegetable oil
1 large, very ripe plantain, peeled and cut into lengthwise slices
2 tablespoons large capers, drained
15 green olives, pitted and halved
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Sprinkle the chicken pieces with salt. Crush the peppercorns, clove, and cinnamon together and mix with the sugar, sherry, garlic, vinegar, and about 1½ teaspoons salt.
Spread one third of the onion on the bottom of a deep ovenproof casserole; cover with one third of the tomato slices and the fruits. Add the bay leaves and sprinkle with a little of the herbs, then put half of the chicken pieces on top of the fruits and vegetables and pour on half the vinegar-spice mixture. Repeat the layers, finishing up with a topping of onion, tomatoes, and fruit.
Cover the casserole and bake for about 1 hour, then uncover the casserole for 30 minutes longer, or until the chicken is tender and some of the juices have been reduced.
Meanwhile, heat the oil and fry the plantain pieces until a deep golden brown. Remove and drain. To serve, cover the top of the stew with the capers, olives, and fried plantain.
A few substitutions and omissions: I did not have the right chicken (word to Safeway: one should not have to travel to a specialty store just to get chicken with bones and skins on it, thank you very much), I substituted chicken broth for sherry, and I left out the capers, since I don’t much care for them. Even with the wrong ingredients, it still rocked. I'm just going to write out the recipe as it appears in the book.
4½ pounds large chicken parts
Salt
6 peppercorns
1 whole clove
½-inch piece of cinnamon stick
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
¼ cup dry sherry
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
¼ cup mild vinegar
2 cups thinly sliced white onion
12 ounces tomatoes, sliced (about 2 cups)
1 small apple, peeled, cored, and cut into thick slices
1 small pear, peeled, cored, and cut into thick slices
2 Mexican bay leaves
6 sprigs fresh thyme or ¼ teaspoon dried
1/8 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano
To serve
¼ cup vegetable oil
1 large, very ripe plantain, peeled and cut into lengthwise slices
2 tablespoons large capers, drained
15 green olives, pitted and halved
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Sprinkle the chicken pieces with salt. Crush the peppercorns, clove, and cinnamon together and mix with the sugar, sherry, garlic, vinegar, and about 1½ teaspoons salt.
Spread one third of the onion on the bottom of a deep ovenproof casserole; cover with one third of the tomato slices and the fruits. Add the bay leaves and sprinkle with a little of the herbs, then put half of the chicken pieces on top of the fruits and vegetables and pour on half the vinegar-spice mixture. Repeat the layers, finishing up with a topping of onion, tomatoes, and fruit.
Cover the casserole and bake for about 1 hour, then uncover the casserole for 30 minutes longer, or until the chicken is tender and some of the juices have been reduced.
Meanwhile, heat the oil and fry the plantain pieces until a deep golden brown. Remove and drain. To serve, cover the top of the stew with the capers, olives, and fried plantain.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Day at the Bay
I had been wanting to take Gabe on a boat ride, so on Friday we drove into the city to take a tour of the bay.
Traveling to the city involves making a series of decisions, most of them involving parking. First, do we want to drive or take a train? Drive, because I wanted to stop by my office while we were in town. Do we park near fisherman’s wharf, or farther away where parking is cheaper? Near the wharf, because we didn’t want to hoof it or take a bus. So we pulled into a parking garage behind Hooters just a block off the Embarcadero, which ended up charging us $16, even with validation.
We parked and headed to the waterfront, where we chanced upon the “Lovely Martha,” docked right at the street. A large man named Roger barked out an invitation to one and all to board and see the bay, only $15 per person.
“What do you think?” I asked my wife. Erika bit her lip, unwilling to commit. I paid and Roger helped Erika and Gabe board, while I dashed to Walgreen’s for some snacks. I returned to find that Erika had staked out a spot at the bow, next the canister holding the inflatable life raft. She sat rigid, eyes straight ahead, as if her very life depended on maintaining that posture.
Mind you, we hadn’t even left the dock yet.
Shortly after 12:30 p.m. we felt a rumbling beneath our feet. A lovely Irish woman cast off and took the helm. Was this Lovely Martha herself?
We left the shelter of the harbor and headed into the bay, where it immediately got choppy. The boat chugged sluggishly eastward toward the bridge while Lovely Martha’s voice lilted through a loud speaker directly over our heads, telling us about Coit Tower and Russian Hill, and how many miles of cable are in the Golden Gate Bridge. It all got whipped away by the wind and sea spray, leaving us no more enlightened at the end of the trip than we were at the beginning, though I did manage to hear that the 89,000 miles of cable in the bridge are enough to encircle the Earth three times.
I pointed out sailboats and fishing boats and ferries to Gabe and encouraged him to grab onto the rail and look over the edge as we crashed through hills and troughs of ocean and felt the spray bite our cheeks. Gabe was entranced; he was especially interested in the buoys.
Traveling to the city involves making a series of decisions, most of them involving parking. First, do we want to drive or take a train? Drive, because I wanted to stop by my office while we were in town. Do we park near fisherman’s wharf, or farther away where parking is cheaper? Near the wharf, because we didn’t want to hoof it or take a bus. So we pulled into a parking garage behind Hooters just a block off the Embarcadero, which ended up charging us $16, even with validation.
We parked and headed to the waterfront, where we chanced upon the “Lovely Martha,” docked right at the street. A large man named Roger barked out an invitation to one and all to board and see the bay, only $15 per person.
“What do you think?” I asked my wife. Erika bit her lip, unwilling to commit. I paid and Roger helped Erika and Gabe board, while I dashed to Walgreen’s for some snacks. I returned to find that Erika had staked out a spot at the bow, next the canister holding the inflatable life raft. She sat rigid, eyes straight ahead, as if her very life depended on maintaining that posture.
Mind you, we hadn’t even left the dock yet.
Shortly after 12:30 p.m. we felt a rumbling beneath our feet. A lovely Irish woman cast off and took the helm. Was this Lovely Martha herself?
We left the shelter of the harbor and headed into the bay, where it immediately got choppy. The boat chugged sluggishly eastward toward the bridge while Lovely Martha’s voice lilted through a loud speaker directly over our heads, telling us about Coit Tower and Russian Hill, and how many miles of cable are in the Golden Gate Bridge. It all got whipped away by the wind and sea spray, leaving us no more enlightened at the end of the trip than we were at the beginning, though I did manage to hear that the 89,000 miles of cable in the bridge are enough to encircle the Earth three times.
I pointed out sailboats and fishing boats and ferries to Gabe and encouraged him to grab onto the rail and look over the edge as we crashed through hills and troughs of ocean and felt the spray bite our cheeks. Gabe was entranced; he was especially interested in the buoys.
A brisk wind buffeted us and made us glad we had remembered our sweaters, but sad we hadn’t thought of jackets. The bridge off in the distance was half shrouded by fog. I asked Erika to take my picture, and she looked ready to smack me.
“Do not ask me to turn around,” she hissed. I got up, handed her the camera, and stood directly in front of her so she wouldn’t have to move.
We passed under the arches of the bridge and could hear the clanking of cars driving above our heads. As we passed under the bridge the water got choppier. The Irish lilt told us to hold on as we began a slow turn to starboard. A helicopter overhead flew under the bridge, no doubt to the delight of the tourists aboard.
We headed back into the bay and now that the wind was at our backs the ride felt smoother and warmer. I felt for the passengers seated at the stern, because now they were getting the brunt of it.
As we came around Alcatraz Island, the Irish lilt imparted information that no doubt would have delighted us if we had understood it, but we did not. I explained to Gabe that this had been a prison, then I had to explain what a prison was. As we rounded the island a large sign proclaimed that those aiding and abetting escaped prisoners would be subject to prosecution and imprisonment.
From Alcatraz it was a straight shot back to the harbor. As we backed into our berth Erika’s head finally turned, for the first time in an hour.
We next scoured the area for a place to eat, and I decided Erika deserved something nice-ish for being such a trouper, so we settled on Tarantino’s. Erika ordered mahi mahi, which was delicious, while I decided to try the sand dabs, which our menu declared were a local favorite. Gabe had chicken fingers, which has become his standby every time we go out. Our table overlooked the dock where Lovely Martha gently rocked, awaiting her next load of passengers. A fishing boat was docked nearby, where a lucky angler stood cradling a four-foot shark in his arms.
Our window also overlooked the stretch of the Embarcadero where the Bush man plies his trade. His brand of street theater consists of holding a pair of tree branches and crouching down, then startling unsuspecting passers by. This seems to be a singularly asinine way to make a living, but it turned out to be unbelievably entertaining. The women lunching at a table near ours were able to predict with a high degree of accuracy which oncoming pedestrian would be startled next. Another table near ours watched with rapt attention, bursting into laughter every time the Bush man succeeded.
Erika was impressed enough to drop a dollar into the man’s tip jar as we walked back to the car. As we walked by he shouted out to some nearby tourists, “If you’re going to stand there and take my picture, please donate. If I took a picture of your bush you can bet your ass I’d give you a dollar.”
As we walked away I asked Gabe what his favorite part had been.
“The buoys,” he said. Go figure.
And what was Erika's favorite part of the boat ride? Getting off.
“Do not ask me to turn around,” she hissed. I got up, handed her the camera, and stood directly in front of her so she wouldn’t have to move.
We passed under the arches of the bridge and could hear the clanking of cars driving above our heads. As we passed under the bridge the water got choppier. The Irish lilt told us to hold on as we began a slow turn to starboard. A helicopter overhead flew under the bridge, no doubt to the delight of the tourists aboard.
We headed back into the bay and now that the wind was at our backs the ride felt smoother and warmer. I felt for the passengers seated at the stern, because now they were getting the brunt of it.
As we came around Alcatraz Island, the Irish lilt imparted information that no doubt would have delighted us if we had understood it, but we did not. I explained to Gabe that this had been a prison, then I had to explain what a prison was. As we rounded the island a large sign proclaimed that those aiding and abetting escaped prisoners would be subject to prosecution and imprisonment.
From Alcatraz it was a straight shot back to the harbor. As we backed into our berth Erika’s head finally turned, for the first time in an hour.
We next scoured the area for a place to eat, and I decided Erika deserved something nice-ish for being such a trouper, so we settled on Tarantino’s. Erika ordered mahi mahi, which was delicious, while I decided to try the sand dabs, which our menu declared were a local favorite. Gabe had chicken fingers, which has become his standby every time we go out. Our table overlooked the dock where Lovely Martha gently rocked, awaiting her next load of passengers. A fishing boat was docked nearby, where a lucky angler stood cradling a four-foot shark in his arms.
Our window also overlooked the stretch of the Embarcadero where the Bush man plies his trade. His brand of street theater consists of holding a pair of tree branches and crouching down, then startling unsuspecting passers by. This seems to be a singularly asinine way to make a living, but it turned out to be unbelievably entertaining. The women lunching at a table near ours were able to predict with a high degree of accuracy which oncoming pedestrian would be startled next. Another table near ours watched with rapt attention, bursting into laughter every time the Bush man succeeded.
Erika was impressed enough to drop a dollar into the man’s tip jar as we walked back to the car. As we walked by he shouted out to some nearby tourists, “If you’re going to stand there and take my picture, please donate. If I took a picture of your bush you can bet your ass I’d give you a dollar.”
As we walked away I asked Gabe what his favorite part had been.
“The buoys,” he said. Go figure.
And what was Erika's favorite part of the boat ride? Getting off.
Monday, July 7, 2008
It's sugar, fer cryin' out loud
So I bought some soy milk to try with my cereal, because I’m lactose intolerant. The carton for Silk soymilk is all about being green, environmental, and organic. It hits all the right eco buttons: it’s USDA certified organic, and the carton proudly informs me that “this soymilk is made from soybeans that were not genetically engineered.”
Well whoop de do.
I would be inclined to buy the least organic, most genetically engineered soymilk out there as long as it tasted tolerable and didn’t cost twice as much as dairy milk.
What really gets me scratching my head, though, is on the list of all-natural ingredients we get “organic evaporated cane juice.”
Well. Turns out I use evaporated cane juice every day: I put a dash in my tomato sauce to make it tangy, I sprinkle it on my strawberries, I caramelized it with my sweet potatoes, because, wait for it, evaporated cane juice is sugar.
When we have to use euphemisms to make our organic health food pass for organic and healthy, doesn’t it seem that it’s time to admit it’s a scam?
Well whoop de do.
I would be inclined to buy the least organic, most genetically engineered soymilk out there as long as it tasted tolerable and didn’t cost twice as much as dairy milk.
What really gets me scratching my head, though, is on the list of all-natural ingredients we get “organic evaporated cane juice.”
Well. Turns out I use evaporated cane juice every day: I put a dash in my tomato sauce to make it tangy, I sprinkle it on my strawberries, I caramelized it with my sweet potatoes, because, wait for it, evaporated cane juice is sugar.
When we have to use euphemisms to make our organic health food pass for organic and healthy, doesn’t it seem that it’s time to admit it’s a scam?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Chicken in escabeche
Tonight’s dinner left me completely content, which is a rarity. Usually I find something to grumble about, something that should have been done differently. Tonight, though, was really, really good. We did Chicken in escabeche with Sweet potatoes and lime.
Chicken in escabeche
Originally, escabeche was a way for Spanish cooks to essentially pickle food as a way of preserving it. Today, if you eat chicken in escabeche in Spain, you’re eating chicken that has been cooked, then cooled, in its marinade, and served at room temperature. This dish, from Sunset Mexican is not Spanish escabeche; it’s something wildly, wonderfully different.
For the escabeche paste (you will use 2½ tablespoons of this paste)
8 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 teaspoon each ground allspice, ground cloves, ground cumin, and ground coriander
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
¾ teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
2 teaspoons dry oregano leaves
¼ teaspoon ground red pepper (cayenne)
2 tablespoons each orange juice and white wine vinegar
For the chicken
2½ tablespoons escabeche paste
3½- to 4-pound frying chicken, cut up
1½ cups chicken broth
1 tablespoon salad oil
2 large onions, thinly sliced
1 7-oz. can diced green chiles
1½ tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 1½ tablespoons water
3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
1. Prepare escabeche paste: Mix all ingredients until blended. If made ahead, cover and refrigerate for up to 2 weeks. Makes ¼ cup.
2. Rinse chicken and pat dry. Using a sharp knife, deeply pierce chicken all over. Rub paste on chicken, pushing some under skin. Place in a 9- by 13-inch baking pan; pour in broth. Cover and bake in a 400 degree oven until chicken is tender when pierced (about 40 minutes).
3. Remove chicken from broth. Drain and strain. Skim and discard fat from broth; reserve broth.
4. Place drained chicken on a preheated broiler pan 4 to 6 inches below heat. Broil, turning once, until well browned (6 to 8 minutes). Or, grill on a lightly greased 4 to 6 inches above a solid bed of medium-hot coals. Cook, turning as needed until well browned (10 to 15 minutes.
5. Meanwhile, heat oil in a wide frying pan over medium heat. When oil is hot, add onions and cook, stirring, until soft (about 10 minutes). Stir in chiles, reserved broth, and cornstarch mixture. Continue to cook, stirring, until sauce boils and thickens, Stir in cilantro. Spoon sauce over individual servings of chicken. Makes 4 to 6 servings.
Chicken in escabeche
Originally, escabeche was a way for Spanish cooks to essentially pickle food as a way of preserving it. Today, if you eat chicken in escabeche in Spain, you’re eating chicken that has been cooked, then cooled, in its marinade, and served at room temperature. This dish, from Sunset Mexican is not Spanish escabeche; it’s something wildly, wonderfully different.
For the escabeche paste (you will use 2½ tablespoons of this paste)
8 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 teaspoon each ground allspice, ground cloves, ground cumin, and ground coriander
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
¾ teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
2 teaspoons dry oregano leaves
¼ teaspoon ground red pepper (cayenne)
2 tablespoons each orange juice and white wine vinegar
For the chicken
2½ tablespoons escabeche paste
3½- to 4-pound frying chicken, cut up
1½ cups chicken broth
1 tablespoon salad oil
2 large onions, thinly sliced
1 7-oz. can diced green chiles
1½ tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 1½ tablespoons water
3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
1. Prepare escabeche paste: Mix all ingredients until blended. If made ahead, cover and refrigerate for up to 2 weeks. Makes ¼ cup.
2. Rinse chicken and pat dry. Using a sharp knife, deeply pierce chicken all over. Rub paste on chicken, pushing some under skin. Place in a 9- by 13-inch baking pan; pour in broth. Cover and bake in a 400 degree oven until chicken is tender when pierced (about 40 minutes).
3. Remove chicken from broth. Drain and strain. Skim and discard fat from broth; reserve broth.
4. Place drained chicken on a preheated broiler pan 4 to 6 inches below heat. Broil, turning once, until well browned (6 to 8 minutes). Or, grill on a lightly greased 4 to 6 inches above a solid bed of medium-hot coals. Cook, turning as needed until well browned (10 to 15 minutes.
5. Meanwhile, heat oil in a wide frying pan over medium heat. When oil is hot, add onions and cook, stirring, until soft (about 10 minutes). Stir in chiles, reserved broth, and cornstarch mixture. Continue to cook, stirring, until sauce boils and thickens, Stir in cilantro. Spoon sauce over individual servings of chicken. Makes 4 to 6 servings.
Sweet potatoes with lime
Again, from Sunset Mexican. These sweet potatoes actually call for tequila, but since I had none sitting around, I just left it out, added water, and bumped up the lime a little. I doubt that’s an adequate substitute for tequila, but it turned out great. The only drawback is the vast quantity of butter required, but it helped push the sweet potatoes from ordinary to out of this world.
1 pound sweet potato (or yam)
6 tablespoons butter or margarine
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon lime juice
½ tablespoon water
salt and pepper
Peel sweet potatoes; coarsely shred.
In a 12- to 14-inch frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Add potatoes and sugar. Cook, turning occasionally, until potatoes begin to caramelize and looks slightly translucent (about 15 minutes). Stir in lime juice and water and continue to cook for 3 more minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Makes about 3-4 servings.
1 pound sweet potato (or yam)
6 tablespoons butter or margarine
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon lime juice
½ tablespoon water
salt and pepper
Peel sweet potatoes; coarsely shred.
In a 12- to 14-inch frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Add potatoes and sugar. Cook, turning occasionally, until potatoes begin to caramelize and looks slightly translucent (about 15 minutes). Stir in lime juice and water and continue to cook for 3 more minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Makes about 3-4 servings.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Summer movie rentals I: Vantage Point
Caution: Spoilers
We rented Vantage Point the other day. This is a political thriller in which the same half-hour in an action-filled day is told from different points of view, hence the name, Vantage Point. The plot hinges around a plot to assassinate the president of the United States at an anti-terrorism summit being held in Salamanca, Spain. It’s topical and action-packed and mildly suspenseful.
However, there were some problems, some trivial, some not. Among the trivial: as a fan of all-things Spanish, I can’t for the life of me understand why they would set the movie in Spain, but film it in Mexico. That’s right: all the exterior scenes, including the never-ending chase that occupies the last half hour of the movie, were filmed in Mexico City. They even built a replica of Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor, in Mexico City. If you’re going to take the trouble to run an entire production in Mexico, why not just set it in Mexico? Here’s the thing: the movie gains nothing dramatically from being set in Spain, and therefore would lose nothing dramatically by being set in Mexico.
Quibble 2: the last third of the movie is taken up with a long chase that takes place after the last big reveal. Thus, there are no more surprises and no betrayals, so by the time the chase ends and everything is resolved it all feels anticlimactic. This seriously undermines the film’s central gimmick: that of showing the action from different points of view. This sort of gimmick implicitly promises that the audience will see something new from yet another point of view as part of the film’s resolution; the last reveal, as it were. There is no last reveal, which, in turn, shows the gimmick for what it is: simply a gimmick, and not well thought out, either.
Quibble 3: It seems to me that the whole point of showing different points of view is to examine relative truth; in other words, every change of point of view changes the tone of the film because we are not just seeing what is happening from a new angle, but we are also getting a different interpretation of what we are seeing. The problem with Vantage Point is that this change of tone does not occur. Instead of a new twist on what we are seeing, all that happens is a visual “meanwhile, back at the ranch.”
Quibble 4: I lied when I said there were no reveals at the end, or that nothing new happens. In fact, the happy ending occurs because the main terrorist—who has spent the entire movie showing himself to be a ruthless killer, not shy about blowing up an entire plaza full of innocent people to get what he wants—swerves to miss an innocent child in the street. He swerves, tips over, and the game’s up. Sorry if I’ve ruined it for you. Does this mean that the terrorist is a complicated guy who can’t be judged as bad because he won’t run over a child? Or does it mean that his character is not well thought-out? I think the filmmakers were aiming for the first, but achieved the second.
So: some good performances, especially by Dennis Quaid. A reasonably entertaining chase through the streets of Mex—er—Salamanca. But in the end, for me, anyway, unsatisfying.
We rented Vantage Point the other day. This is a political thriller in which the same half-hour in an action-filled day is told from different points of view, hence the name, Vantage Point. The plot hinges around a plot to assassinate the president of the United States at an anti-terrorism summit being held in Salamanca, Spain. It’s topical and action-packed and mildly suspenseful.
However, there were some problems, some trivial, some not. Among the trivial: as a fan of all-things Spanish, I can’t for the life of me understand why they would set the movie in Spain, but film it in Mexico. That’s right: all the exterior scenes, including the never-ending chase that occupies the last half hour of the movie, were filmed in Mexico City. They even built a replica of Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor, in Mexico City. If you’re going to take the trouble to run an entire production in Mexico, why not just set it in Mexico? Here’s the thing: the movie gains nothing dramatically from being set in Spain, and therefore would lose nothing dramatically by being set in Mexico.
Quibble 2: the last third of the movie is taken up with a long chase that takes place after the last big reveal. Thus, there are no more surprises and no betrayals, so by the time the chase ends and everything is resolved it all feels anticlimactic. This seriously undermines the film’s central gimmick: that of showing the action from different points of view. This sort of gimmick implicitly promises that the audience will see something new from yet another point of view as part of the film’s resolution; the last reveal, as it were. There is no last reveal, which, in turn, shows the gimmick for what it is: simply a gimmick, and not well thought out, either.
Quibble 3: It seems to me that the whole point of showing different points of view is to examine relative truth; in other words, every change of point of view changes the tone of the film because we are not just seeing what is happening from a new angle, but we are also getting a different interpretation of what we are seeing. The problem with Vantage Point is that this change of tone does not occur. Instead of a new twist on what we are seeing, all that happens is a visual “meanwhile, back at the ranch.”
Quibble 4: I lied when I said there were no reveals at the end, or that nothing new happens. In fact, the happy ending occurs because the main terrorist—who has spent the entire movie showing himself to be a ruthless killer, not shy about blowing up an entire plaza full of innocent people to get what he wants—swerves to miss an innocent child in the street. He swerves, tips over, and the game’s up. Sorry if I’ve ruined it for you. Does this mean that the terrorist is a complicated guy who can’t be judged as bad because he won’t run over a child? Or does it mean that his character is not well thought-out? I think the filmmakers were aiming for the first, but achieved the second.
So: some good performances, especially by Dennis Quaid. A reasonably entertaining chase through the streets of Mex—er—Salamanca. But in the end, for me, anyway, unsatisfying.
These kids today
So we were at the park having a picnic with some friends and this little girl, about 6 0r 7 years old comes over to our table and says "where are the kids' drinks?"
"There aren't any" we reply, because besides what Gabe was drinking, there weren't. She gets this wide-eyed look and gives a frustrated grunt, then goes back to her own table. Her parents and their friends continued chatting, oblivious.
Then when we're eating our delicious sausages, she's back. "Can I have a hot dog?" she asks.
"No," I say. She gives us another look of disbelief, as if to say "how dare these adults refuse me what I have so rightfully demanded?"
So, my question is, if you're at the park with your kids, and your kids start pestering another group in a not-cute way, shouldn't you intervene and tell your kids to knock it off? This girl's mom did nothing.
"There aren't any" we reply, because besides what Gabe was drinking, there weren't. She gets this wide-eyed look and gives a frustrated grunt, then goes back to her own table. Her parents and their friends continued chatting, oblivious.
Then when we're eating our delicious sausages, she's back. "Can I have a hot dog?" she asks.
"No," I say. She gives us another look of disbelief, as if to say "how dare these adults refuse me what I have so rightfully demanded?"
So, my question is, if you're at the park with your kids, and your kids start pestering another group in a not-cute way, shouldn't you intervene and tell your kids to knock it off? This girl's mom did nothing.
Friday, July 4, 2008
I want one of these
This product is no doubt a boon to many people, but I have to wonder at the marketing strategy.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Chicken in Pipián Sauce
For the pipián paste:
3 oz. hulled, unsalted pumpkin seeds
¼ cup chicken broth
½ jalapeño, stemmed and seeded
¼ teaspoon each ground cumin, ground pepper, and salt
1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro
For the rest:
1 small chicken for roasting (all I could find was a five-pounder)
1 or 2 jalapeños, stemmed, seeded and chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 can (11 oz.) tomatillos, drained
2 large romaine lettuce leaves, torn into pieces
1 recipe pipián paste
2 tablespoons salad oil
1 cup chicken broth
First, make the pipián paste.
Spread the pumpkin seeds on a baking sheet and toast, stirring once or twice, in a 350 degree oven, until seeds begin to brown, 12 to 15 minutes. (Note: I used our toaster oven, and it took about half that amount of time). In a blender, combine pumpkin seeds with chicken broth, jalapeño, cumin, pepper, salt, and cilantro. Whirl until smooth; add a little more liquid if necessary. Sauce will be grainy. Set aside.
To make the chicken:
Rinse the chicken and pat dry. Place breast side up on a rack in a shallow roasting pan. Bake, uncovered, in a 375 degree oven until done, about 1 hour and a half (90 minutes).
Meanwhile, in a blender, combine chiles, onion, garlic, cilantro, tomatillos, and romaine; whirl until smooth.
Heat oil in a 2- to 3-quart pan over medium heat. When oil is hot, add chile puree and pipián paste; cook, stirring, until sauce bubbles. Blend in broth and bring to a boil.
Pour sauce into a rimmed serving platter. Cut chicken in quarters and lay over the sauce.
We had this with rice and a sautéed medley of corn, zucchini, and red peppers.
Red Snapper Veracruz
I have declared this the Summer of Mexico (as opposed to last year’s summer of salad). Here’s Red Snapper Veracruz, also adapted from my Sunset Mexico book.
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ small green bell pepper, chopped
½ medium onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1/8 teaspoon ground pepper
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
juice of half a lime
¼ cup sliced pimento-stuffed green olives
2 tablespoons diced green chiles
2 large tomatoes, seeded and coarsely chopped
2 snapper or rockfish fillets (about 1 pound)
½ tablespoon of capers, rinsed
Heat oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. When oil is hot, add bell pepper, onion, and garlic and cook until soft (about 7 minutes). Add pepper, cinnamon, lime juice, olives, and chiles; cook for 1 more minute. Add tomatoes and bring mixture to a boil; cook until thickened, about 10 minutes. (Note: I added a little water to the mixture. Check the seasoning before adding the sauce to the fish; we found that it needed salt).
Place fillets in a lightly greased baking dish just large enough to hold them. Pour sauce over fish and bake in a 350 degree oven until fish is just slightly translucent or wet inside when cut in thickest part (10 to 15 minutes). Stir in capers just before serving. (Note: I don’t like capers, so I left them out).
We had this with white rice. It got the Gabe stamp of approval.
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ small green bell pepper, chopped
½ medium onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1/8 teaspoon ground pepper
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
juice of half a lime
¼ cup sliced pimento-stuffed green olives
2 tablespoons diced green chiles
2 large tomatoes, seeded and coarsely chopped
2 snapper or rockfish fillets (about 1 pound)
½ tablespoon of capers, rinsed
Heat oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. When oil is hot, add bell pepper, onion, and garlic and cook until soft (about 7 minutes). Add pepper, cinnamon, lime juice, olives, and chiles; cook for 1 more minute. Add tomatoes and bring mixture to a boil; cook until thickened, about 10 minutes. (Note: I added a little water to the mixture. Check the seasoning before adding the sauce to the fish; we found that it needed salt).
Place fillets in a lightly greased baking dish just large enough to hold them. Pour sauce over fish and bake in a 350 degree oven until fish is just slightly translucent or wet inside when cut in thickest part (10 to 15 minutes). Stir in capers just before serving. (Note: I don’t like capers, so I left them out).
We had this with white rice. It got the Gabe stamp of approval.
Very tasty chili
As part of my ongoing attempts to find the perfect chili recipe, I tried my hand at Chili Colorado, from my Sunset Mexican Cookbook. The recipe in the book called for 5 pounds of meat, and I only wanted to use about a pound, so I adjusted the ingredients accordingly.
Chili Colorado
1 ounce dried New Mexico chiles
¾ cup water
2 tablespoons salad oil
1 medium onion
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 pound boneless beef chuck, cut into cubes
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 teaspoon dried cilantro
½ teaspoon each ground cumin, ground cloves, dry oregano, dry rosemary, and dry tarragon
1 14.5 oz. can tomatoes (petite dice)
½ cup (or so) beef broth
Rinse chiles; discard stems and seeds. Break chiles into pieces. Combine chiles and water in a 2 ½ to 3-quart pan. Bring to a boil over high heat; reduce heat, cover, and simmer until chiles are soft, about 30 minutes. (Note: Using different directions on the package of chiles, I pureed the chiles with about half the onion and the garlic, then added boiling water to the blender, and blended until smooth. I set it aside while I prepared the rest of the dish.)
Heat oil in a dutch oven or other large, heavy pan over medium heat. When oil is hot, add onions and garlic; cook, stirring often, until onions are soft (about 10 minutes). Sprinkle meat with flour. Add meat and chile puree to pan and cook, stirring, for 5 minutes. (Note: when I make this again I’ll probably brown the meat first, then add the chile puree).
Add cilantro, cumin, cloves, oregano, rosemary, tarragon, tomatoes and their liquid, and broth. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered, stirring often, until meat is very tender when pierced (3-4 hours).
Serve with diced onion, diced tomatoes, grated cheese.
We had it cheese and sour cream, which really went nicely. Gabe even liked it. We also had some warmed up corn tortillas.
Chili Colorado
1 ounce dried New Mexico chiles
¾ cup water
2 tablespoons salad oil
1 medium onion
2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 pound boneless beef chuck, cut into cubes
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 teaspoon dried cilantro
½ teaspoon each ground cumin, ground cloves, dry oregano, dry rosemary, and dry tarragon
1 14.5 oz. can tomatoes (petite dice)
½ cup (or so) beef broth
Rinse chiles; discard stems and seeds. Break chiles into pieces. Combine chiles and water in a 2 ½ to 3-quart pan. Bring to a boil over high heat; reduce heat, cover, and simmer until chiles are soft, about 30 minutes. (Note: Using different directions on the package of chiles, I pureed the chiles with about half the onion and the garlic, then added boiling water to the blender, and blended until smooth. I set it aside while I prepared the rest of the dish.)
Heat oil in a dutch oven or other large, heavy pan over medium heat. When oil is hot, add onions and garlic; cook, stirring often, until onions are soft (about 10 minutes). Sprinkle meat with flour. Add meat and chile puree to pan and cook, stirring, for 5 minutes. (Note: when I make this again I’ll probably brown the meat first, then add the chile puree).
Add cilantro, cumin, cloves, oregano, rosemary, tarragon, tomatoes and their liquid, and broth. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered, stirring often, until meat is very tender when pierced (3-4 hours).
Serve with diced onion, diced tomatoes, grated cheese.
We had it cheese and sour cream, which really went nicely. Gabe even liked it. We also had some warmed up corn tortillas.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Five minute university
I was poking around on YouTube and I found the following clip from Father Guido Sarducci: "Five Minute University." As a professional speaker of Spanish I'm particularly interested in what he says the average college graduate remembers from two years of college Spanish. Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Chinese Chicken and Chili Soup
I’m systematically going through my cookbooks and looking for recipes to try. Tonight it was Chinese Chicken and Chili Soup, from One-pot, Slow-pot & Clay-pot Cooking, by Jenni Fleetwood (New York: Hermes House, 2002). I had to substitute a serrano chili for the red chili, regular mushrooms for the shiitake, and Japanese vermicelli for the rice noodles. Also, the recipe calls for a Chinese sand pot, which I do not own, so I used an oven-safe glass Dutch oven.
So, I used the wrong chili pepper, the wrong mushrooms, the wrong noodles and the wrong pot. Oh, and I didn't warm the bowls. It still turned out fine, though, and I think we’ll try it again. One caveat: even finely chopped the lemon grass was distracting and occasionally off-putting; we kept hitting hard chunks that were reminiscent of biting sand. Next time we’ll leave the lemon grass in bigger pieces so we can remove them once the soup is done.
1 5oz boneless chicken breast portion, cut into thin strips
1 inch piece fresh ginger root, finely chopped
2 inch piece lemon grass stalk, finely chopped
1 red chili, seeded and thinly sliced
8 baby corn cobs, halved lengthwise
1 large carrot, cut into thin sticks
4 cups hot chicken stock
4 green onions, thinly sliced
12 small shiitake mushrooms, sliced
4 oz (1 cup) vermicelli rice noodles
2 tbsp soy sauce
salt and ground black pepper
Place the chicken, ginger, lemon grass, chili, corn and carrot sticks in a Chinese sand pot. Pour over the hot chicken stock and cover.
Place the pot in an unheated oven (I forgot and preheated the oven; no big deal with the pan I was using). Set the temperature to 400 degrees and cook the soup for 30-40 minutes, or until the stock is simmering and the chicken and vegetables are tender.
Add the green onions and mushrooms, cover, and return the pot to the oven for 10 minutes. Meanwhile place the noodles in a large bowl and cover with boiling water – soak for the required time, following the packet instructions (my noodles had different directions).
Drain the noodles and divide among four warmed serving bowls (I didn’t warm the bowls). Stir the soy sauce into the soup and season with salt and pepper. Divide the soup between the bowls and serve immediately.
So, I used the wrong chili pepper, the wrong mushrooms, the wrong noodles and the wrong pot. Oh, and I didn't warm the bowls. It still turned out fine, though, and I think we’ll try it again. One caveat: even finely chopped the lemon grass was distracting and occasionally off-putting; we kept hitting hard chunks that were reminiscent of biting sand. Next time we’ll leave the lemon grass in bigger pieces so we can remove them once the soup is done.
1 5oz boneless chicken breast portion, cut into thin strips
1 inch piece fresh ginger root, finely chopped
2 inch piece lemon grass stalk, finely chopped
1 red chili, seeded and thinly sliced
8 baby corn cobs, halved lengthwise
1 large carrot, cut into thin sticks
4 cups hot chicken stock
4 green onions, thinly sliced
12 small shiitake mushrooms, sliced
4 oz (1 cup) vermicelli rice noodles
2 tbsp soy sauce
salt and ground black pepper
Place the chicken, ginger, lemon grass, chili, corn and carrot sticks in a Chinese sand pot. Pour over the hot chicken stock and cover.
Place the pot in an unheated oven (I forgot and preheated the oven; no big deal with the pan I was using). Set the temperature to 400 degrees and cook the soup for 30-40 minutes, or until the stock is simmering and the chicken and vegetables are tender.
Add the green onions and mushrooms, cover, and return the pot to the oven for 10 minutes. Meanwhile place the noodles in a large bowl and cover with boiling water – soak for the required time, following the packet instructions (my noodles had different directions).
Drain the noodles and divide among four warmed serving bowls (I didn’t warm the bowls). Stir the soy sauce into the soup and season with salt and pepper. Divide the soup between the bowls and serve immediately.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Vancouver Blues
I flew to Vancouver, British Columbia on Friday for the Pacific Northwest Renaissance Society conference, where I chaired a panel on Hispanic Literature and spent a good deal of time hanging out with the panelists, who happen to be old friends of mine from graduate school.
Vancouver, apparently, is beautiful, although after a flight that arrived an hour late, followed by another hour through customs and yet another hour on the shuttle bus for an accidental tour of the city’s downtown hotels, I was in no mood to find the place charming.
I found my friends Damian and Eric already at the hotel. I’ve seen Damian lately, but Eric I hadn’t seen in a good four years. I was pleased to see he’d acquired some grey.
We strolled down to the waterfront. It had rained earlier in the day, and the sky was still overcast (apparently in the Pacific Northwest, gloom is the default; meteorologists forecast when office workers can dash outside to catch a moment of fleeting sunshine). It was quite chilly as well.
We looked across the inlet and watched seaplanes land and take off. Out on the water floated a dock dominated by a giant Chevron sign, presumably so the planes can fuel up without coming to shore.
Gloomy or not, waterfronts always cheer me. I’ve often said that if it hadn’t been for my tendency to get seasick just by stepping on a dock, I would have been a sailor.
We ambled into Gastown, the historic downtown, which has gone from urban blight to urban renewal in the past few decades (although there’s still plenty of blight to be seen; we must have been accosted by half a dozen homeless in the space of a few blocks). In the middle of it all stands a statue dedicated to Gassy Jack, the legendary founder of Gastown. Unfortunately, Gassy Jack received his nickname for talking too much; I was hoping for a much more aromatic tale behind his moniker.
When hunger struck we went looking for someplace to eat. We rejected McDonalds, which, despite the red maple leaf emblazoned on the golden arches, struck us as not quite quintessentially Canadian. I’m not quite sure how we ended up at the Old Spaghetti Factory.
Once comfortably seated I decided to try communicating with the natives in their own dialect.
“Where’s the washroom, eh?” I asked the waitress. We achieved communication and I found the restroom.
Vancouver, apparently, is beautiful, although after a flight that arrived an hour late, followed by another hour through customs and yet another hour on the shuttle bus for an accidental tour of the city’s downtown hotels, I was in no mood to find the place charming.
I found my friends Damian and Eric already at the hotel. I’ve seen Damian lately, but Eric I hadn’t seen in a good four years. I was pleased to see he’d acquired some grey.
We strolled down to the waterfront. It had rained earlier in the day, and the sky was still overcast (apparently in the Pacific Northwest, gloom is the default; meteorologists forecast when office workers can dash outside to catch a moment of fleeting sunshine). It was quite chilly as well.
We looked across the inlet and watched seaplanes land and take off. Out on the water floated a dock dominated by a giant Chevron sign, presumably so the planes can fuel up without coming to shore.
Gloomy or not, waterfronts always cheer me. I’ve often said that if it hadn’t been for my tendency to get seasick just by stepping on a dock, I would have been a sailor.
We ambled into Gastown, the historic downtown, which has gone from urban blight to urban renewal in the past few decades (although there’s still plenty of blight to be seen; we must have been accosted by half a dozen homeless in the space of a few blocks). In the middle of it all stands a statue dedicated to Gassy Jack, the legendary founder of Gastown. Unfortunately, Gassy Jack received his nickname for talking too much; I was hoping for a much more aromatic tale behind his moniker.
When hunger struck we went looking for someplace to eat. We rejected McDonalds, which, despite the red maple leaf emblazoned on the golden arches, struck us as not quite quintessentially Canadian. I’m not quite sure how we ended up at the Old Spaghetti Factory.
Once comfortably seated I decided to try communicating with the natives in their own dialect.
“Where’s the washroom, eh?” I asked the waitress. We achieved communication and I found the restroom.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Spring Break
I was out of school for Spring Break, and so was Gabe, so on Wednesday we decided to take advantage of the time off and hit the road. My plan was to head down scenic Highway 1 so we could see the elephant seals north of San Simeon and then hit the tide pools at Cambria before heading inland to my brother’s house in Atascadero. We piled into the car and traveled southward. We had smooth sailing on the 101 and hit Salinas in good time. Then we turned off and headed over to Monterey.
We parked at the waterfront, and as soon as we stepped out of our car we heard a high pitched barking echoing across the water.
“You hear that?” Erika asked Gabe. “What do you think it is?”
“Seals!” Gabe replied.
Sea lions, actually. Through a complex process of echolocation we realized that the barking was coming from Fisherman’s Wharf. We headed over, and as we walked past the boats moored in the marina I noticed that the water was crystal clear. You could see all the way to the bottom, a far cry from the murk of San Francisco Bay. We followed the siren song of the sea lions onto the wharf, past trinket shops and a half dozen seafood joints, each offering its unique version of clam chowder in a bread bowl (“A bread bowl,” one happy customer munched behind us. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”). As we passed a row of charter boats a forlorn family of three tried to cajole us into joining them on a glass bottom boat tour. Seems the boat would leave right away if they could rustle up some more customers.
“You paying?” Erika almost asked, then thought better of it, smiled and said “nope, sorry.” We weren’t up for the glass bottom boat, although I was almost seduced by a whale watching outfit called Randy’s, when I found out there was no minimum age. It was a three-hour tour, though, and my body has to be properly prepped before venturing out into the open sea, so we opted out.
We parked at the waterfront, and as soon as we stepped out of our car we heard a high pitched barking echoing across the water.
“You hear that?” Erika asked Gabe. “What do you think it is?”
“Seals!” Gabe replied.
Sea lions, actually. Through a complex process of echolocation we realized that the barking was coming from Fisherman’s Wharf. We headed over, and as we walked past the boats moored in the marina I noticed that the water was crystal clear. You could see all the way to the bottom, a far cry from the murk of San Francisco Bay. We followed the siren song of the sea lions onto the wharf, past trinket shops and a half dozen seafood joints, each offering its unique version of clam chowder in a bread bowl (“A bread bowl,” one happy customer munched behind us. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”). As we passed a row of charter boats a forlorn family of three tried to cajole us into joining them on a glass bottom boat tour. Seems the boat would leave right away if they could rustle up some more customers.
“You paying?” Erika almost asked, then thought better of it, smiled and said “nope, sorry.” We weren’t up for the glass bottom boat, although I was almost seduced by a whale watching outfit called Randy’s, when I found out there was no minimum age. It was a three-hour tour, though, and my body has to be properly prepped before venturing out into the open sea, so we opted out.
We located the sea lions as they lounged on and around a floating dock behind Randy’s. Looking down, we could see starfish on the seafloor at the base of the wharf’s pilings. Sea lions shot through the water like torpedoes. We heard a clacking sound and looked over toward another part of the wharf and saw a gray head bobbing in the water.
“Look Gabe, it’s an otter,” Erika said, pointing.
We watched as the sea otter whacked furiously at its chest, and I explained to Gabe how otters bang shellfish against a rock to break them open and get at the meat inside. Gabe is at an age where he is always suitably impressed by his father’s vast knowledge.
We ate at a place called the Fisherman’s Grotto, where I ordered a shrimp sandwich and a bowl of their “award winning chowder” (awarded, it turned out, by the prestigious Monterey Weekly). Our window seat looked out over the waterfront, where we could watch the otter drift by on the tide. The propaganda on the menu claimed that the Grotto had invented what has come to be known as Monterey-style chowder. The soup was more thick than flavorful, as if the inventors of Monterey chowder felt that an excess of heavy cream could compensate for a lack of salt.
We left Monterey and headed down Highway 1, through Carmel and down toward Big Sur. The drive through Big Sur, down the Central Coast to Cambria is one of the most spectacular in California. The road winds through woods and skirts the edges of high cliffs. Down below the ocean ran through a startling range of shades of blue, from deep and dark, through turquoise to blue-green and frothy at the shore.
“How many people do you suppose get distracted by the view and drive over the edge?” I mused.
“Let’s not do that today,” Erika said firmly.
“Do what?” piped up a voice from the back.
I assigned Erika the task of enjoying the view, while I worked on staying on the road.
Turns out I had radically underestimated the amount of time the drive would take us. Between pit stops and a leg-stretching break, it was close to 5 p.m. by the time we got to San Simeon.
Just to the north of San Simeon is a beach that recently has become a favorite hauling-out spot for elephant seals. A heavy wind had kicked up, blowing grit and ripping our hats from our heads as we stepped out of the car. I had been hoping to see some big bulls butting chests and growling, but instead we saw a sparse passel of seals sheltering from the wind beneath a bluff, occasionally snorting, or flinging sand over their backs. After the long drive, the lack of elephant seal action was disappointing.
We took shelter from the wind in our car and headed inland to stay with my brother Dave and his family. Dave lives on a country road on the outskirts of Atascadero, which is beautiful this time of year. The rolling hills are a lush green. Winter is over, but the baking heat of summer has not set in yet.
Gabe had enjoyed the trip up to this point, but it really took off for him when we got to Dave and Christy’s house, because he met Hamlet and Belle, two dogs who were probably more excited to meet him than he was to meet them. Gabe’s previous favorite dog was Brutus, a Chihuahua belonging to Erika’s brother, Leif, but Dave’s two big dogs kicked Gabe onto Cloud 9. And then Dave’s oldest
son Rob introduced Gabe to the rabbits. The horses would come later.There is nothing quite as satisfying to a parent as seeing your child overcome with pure glee. Gabe fell instantly in love with those dogs.
“I want to live here,” he said. He was too excited to fall asleep that night. He was in love with being in the country, as he called it. At home we live on a busy thoroughfare, and traffic noise is a constant presence. The only noise at Dave’s came from the joyful barking of the dogs and the squealing laughter of my son.
The next da
y we drove out to Cambria to look at the tide pools. We spent a happy hour poking around looking at hermit crabs and sea anemones, then drove over to Moonstone Beach, where Gabe kicked off his shoes and played in the surf. Then it was back to Dave and Christy’s for a break (more dogs, and Rob showed Gabe how to play Nintendo) before piling into the Suburban for a drive over to where Dave and Christy board their horses, Mandarin and Getty. Christy grabbed a bag of carrots from an out-building and we 
ambled over to the horses. Christy showed Gabe how to hold the carrots so that his fingers wouldn’t get bitten, then let him loose. Gabe soon got the hang of it.Friday morning we headed back up the coast to Monterey to go to the aquarium. The Monterey Bay Aquarium is located at the end of Cannery Row. Monterey is Steinbeck country, but I think Steinbeck would be turning over in his grave if he could see what has become of it. Seedy Cannery Row has become a gentrified and homogenized tourist zone, with spas and chain restaurants occupying the sites of the old canneries.
We soon realized that it had been a huge, tactical error to save the aquarium for Friday afternoon during Spring Break. The building was so crammed with people we could barely move at times, let alone get close enough to see the fish. The best part of the aquarium for me is always the touch tank with the bat rays, but this time the rays were spooked by all the people and stayed in a corner far away.
Gabe did get to touch some starfish, and we saw some sharks, but overall it was a huge disappointment. Call it a $64 learning experience.
Still, it was a successful trip. We saw beautiful scenery, visited with my brother and his family and gave Gabe some good memories.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Musee Mechanique
It rained hard on Martin Luther King Day, so instead of staying at home and doing jigsaw puzzles like sane people, we decided to travel into the city. Our destination was the Musee Mechanique, a collection of some 200 vintage arcade games and attractions housed in a warehouse at Fisherman’s Wharf. On a positive note, the combination of rain and holiday made for light traffic. On the downside, parking on or near Fisherman’s Wharf costs $2 every 20 minutes up to a maximum of $32. Oh sure, you get a grace period if you get your ticket validated at one of the many overpriced restaurants in the area, but in general the impression you get is that the city fathers of San Francisco are determined to milk every possible penny out of any sap stupid enough to drive to the waterfront. But it was raining and we were bored, so on that particular day, we were those saps.
We do like the Musee Mechanique, though. Apart from the parking issue, the first thing you notice about it is that entrance is free (although you do have to run a gauntlet of seafood restaurants with their crab pots going at full boil – sad to do when you’ve already eaten and cannot be tempted). The second thing you notice is that it is filled with cool things. The third thing you notice is that those cool things (mechanical dioramas, hand-cranked picture machines, games) only cost 25 cents. Pop in a quarter and be amazed as you watch a real English execution (someone getting hanged), then head on over and see a French execution (guillotine). A Depression-era mechanical baseball game works on the pinball principle, where the player hits the ball, getting base hits, or homeruns, and keeps playing until the third out.
I lost badly to a mechanized arm wrestler, and stole a glance at a picture machine that promised to show me what the belly dancer does on her day off. If you’re curious, the belly dancer coyly gets ready to take a bath while still remaining fully clothed. Gabe and Erika, meanwhile, had fun bowling and riding a mechanical horse.
All told, we dropped about $5 at the Musee Mechanique, and considered it money well spent. Not everyone feels the same way. As I was signing the guest register I noticed that the signer before me, who had driven in from Santa Rosa, thought the whole thing was a rip-off. Judging from the penmanship, the writer was a teenager, so any opinions expressed can be immediately disregarded.
We do like the Musee Mechanique, though. Apart from the parking issue, the first thing you notice about it is that entrance is free (although you do have to run a gauntlet of seafood restaurants with their crab pots going at full boil – sad to do when you’ve already eaten and cannot be tempted). The second thing you notice is that it is filled with cool things. The third thing you notice is that those cool things (mechanical dioramas, hand-cranked picture machines, games) only cost 25 cents. Pop in a quarter and be amazed as you watch a real English execution (someone getting hanged), then head on over and see a French execution (guillotine). A Depression-era mechanical baseball game works on the pinball principle, where the player hits the ball, getting base hits, or homeruns, and keeps playing until the third out.
I lost badly to a mechanized arm wrestler, and stole a glance at a picture machine that promised to show me what the belly dancer does on her day off. If you’re curious, the belly dancer coyly gets ready to take a bath while still remaining fully clothed. Gabe and Erika, meanwhile, had fun bowling and riding a mechanical horse.
All told, we dropped about $5 at the Musee Mechanique, and considered it money well spent. Not everyone feels the same way. As I was signing the guest register I noticed that the signer before me, who had driven in from Santa Rosa, thought the whole thing was a rip-off. Judging from the penmanship, the writer was a teenager, so any opinions expressed can be immediately disregarded.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cioppino
I adapted it from our trusty Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook.
8 clams
8 oz. fish fillets (I used lingcod)
8 oz. peeled and deveined shrimp
½ cup sliced fresh mushrooms
½ cup green bell pepper
½ cup chopped onion
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon garlic, minced
1 14 ½ oz. can diced tomatoes
1/3 cup white wine
2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon lemon juice
½ teaspoon dried basil
½ teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon sugar
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper
¼ cup water
¼ teaspoon salt
Cut fish into 1½ inch pieces and refrigerate until needed.
In a large saucepan cook mushrooms, sweet pepper, onion, and garlic in hot oil till tender but not brown. Stir in undrained tomatoes, wine, parsley, tomato paste, lemon juice, basil, oregano, sugar, crushed red pepper, water and salt. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes.
Add clams, fish pieces, and shrimp to saucepan. Cover and simmer for 5-10 minutes more or till clams open, fish flakes easily, and shrimp are opaque. Check for seasoning and add more salt if necessary. Discard any unopened clams.
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