Games bartenders play
September 7, 2011
This is why it pays to develop a relationship with your bartender. (I don’t know if it actually warrants its own blog entry, but when has that ever stopped me?)
Remember Wiley the usually quiet bartender at Pizza Lucé? I had enjoyed my first St Lupulin this afternoon prior to going to the Twins game and was ready for another. Wiley set down the above half-full glass in front of me. (1)
“What’s this?”
*smirk*
“Guess 1”, no.
“Guess 2”, no.
About five wrong guesses total.
*smirk* “What did [other bartender] just go downstairs to do?”
“Change the 90 Shilling to Cutthroat Porter.”
“Yeah, and…?”
“Uhh, erm…”
“The St Lupulin just ran out and…?”
“OMIGOD THAT WAS THE LAST HALF GLASS OF ST LUPULIN AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!” (2)
*smirk*
So then Wiley sets down this full glass.
“So what’s this?”
*smirk*
*taste* *dawning comprehension*
*smirk*
“So he also just changed the St Lupulin.”
*smirk*
“Psych!”
Tip your bartender well in appreciation of the games he or she will play with you!
(1) Wiley did not serve me the first one. He well could have checked my tab in the computer to learn what I had. Regardless, I was impressed with the game.
(2) I freaked out so because St Lupulin is seasonal, and it’s a short season, and that very likely COULD have been the last half glass for this year.
Pooh and Pinkle Purr
September 7, 2011
I didn’t anticipate that memories of being a child, reading, would flood over me when I pulled this A.A. Milne anthology from my bookcase this evening. I didn’t anticipate how familiar nearly all of the illustrations would be, as if I had last seen them yesterday. I didn’t remember that I had known and memorized Milne poems that weren’t even about Winnie-the-Pooh.
It takes me right back to our house on Main Street. I suppose when I was a kid I had individual volumes (and they’re probably in a box at my parents’ house). I don’t really remember the vessels, I just remember the content. Sitting on the hassock next to the window that looked out on the front porch, absorbing Winnie-the-Pooh.
I didn’t remember how much there is. Granted, the book I have now is set in a pretty large point size. Nevertheless, it’s a big book! Stories and poems, and so many wonderful illustrations. E.H. Shepard must have tossed off these watercolors like it was nothing in order to be so prolific.
I guess this makes the case for paper books sticking around, a question about which I’ve thus far been ambivalent. I can’t imagine that I’d be having these waves of nostalgia if I had looked at the stories on an iPad. I’ve “read” a Peter Rabbit story on the iPad, and sure, it’s cute that you can tap on things to make them jump or squeak, but I think it’s a novelty that detracts from consuming the words and feasting on the illustrations. I don’t think forty years later I’d be sitting here thinking, “Gosh, those were the days when I touched Peter’s ear and it wiggled.” Or, I’d remember that I could touch Peter’s ear to make it wiggle and not much else.
Leafing through this Milne anthology, I was transported. And it became immediately obvious that I know what book I’m going to read next.
For a long time they looked at the river beneath them, saying nothing, and the river said nothing too, for it felt very quiet and peaceful on this summer afternoon.
“Tigger is all right really,” said Piglet lazily.
“Of course he is,” said Christopher Robin.
“Everybody is really,” said Pooh. “That’s what I think,” said Pooh. “But I don’t suppose I”m right,” he said.
“Of course you are,” said Christopher Robin.
Cooking with beer: Odell IPA ???Hop On??? Chicken
September 6, 2011
All in all, it was a decent Labor Day weekend. I had kind of meant to go to the Minnesota State Fair. The weather was perfect with highs barely reaching 70°F/20°C, but I ended up doing a lot of cooking instead. My favorite vegetables have come into season at the Nicollet Mall farmers market—zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant, red bell peppers–and for each of the last two weeks, I’ve bought far too much. So I must cook it all up into tasty dishes. Today’s tofu zucchini stroganoff was okay at best, but last night’s dinner rated an A+.
For most of the week I had been trying to finish the Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix audiobook so that I could watch the movie at the weekend. Didn’t quite make it after falling asleep on it twice, but I got to the last chapter and I’ve come to learn that the main action is usually concluded by the second or third to last chapter so I decided not to worry about it.
Also for most of the week, I had been chomping at the bit to make the Odell IPA “Hop On” Chicken recipe that they posted. As you may recall, I tried making the Double Pilsner bread substituting whole wheat flour (with baking powder and salt) for white self-rising flour. The flavor if not the density was good, so I was excited to try another beer recipe.
To make use of a lot of the vegetables, I found a recipe for Italian Stuffed Eggplant from one of my favorite cookbooks, The Low-Fat Way to Cook (Oxmoor House, 1993, p. 126). I adapted it to use lentils instead of brown rice, and feta cheese instead of mozzarella.
The eggplants went into the oven to heat through and I set to work on the chicken.
I assembled those ingredients. This was the first chance I had to practice what I would like to be my new meat-buying philosophy after seeing the Wikipedia article about that horrible Smithfield pork producer. I don’t mind eating animals but I decided that I’d at least go to the co-op for more humanely raised meat. The chicken breasts were about three times more expensive but I think it was worth it.
I had gotten the chicken marinating the afternoon before, so they ended up marinating for 24 hours. I only got three breasts (or breast halves, I guess) because they were giant, and cut each of those in half.
I used my grill pan. I wanted to sear both sides before I left the chicken cooking. The pieces were thick, I think it ended up being about 20 minutes.
The eggplant halves came out of the oven looking perfect.
The chicken grilled up in the pan and came out looking perfect.
But more importantly, this was one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever made for myself! I put in the Harry Potter movie, poured one of the remaining Odell IPAs and had a very enjoyable date night for one. Who needs a restaurant?
Unintentional iPhone photos
September 1, 2011
I am always taking unintentional photos with my iPhone and what I feel sometimes is the overly sensitive touch screen. But a lot of times I like how they turn out, just a blur of colors or some weird composition, and I keep meaning to make an album of them all. I think this one is my leg through my car’s steering wheel. Here are a few others.
Cooking with beer: Odell Double Pils beer bread
August 29, 2011
As I await an official Odell Brewing beer dinner in the Twin Cities (I am told I missed one last year and if I think about it, I perhaps vaguely remember its announcement), I decided to do my own mini-dinner at home centering around the baking of a loaf of Odell Double Pilsner beer bread, to serve with the vegetables I grilled and roasted last night.
Odell Todd gave me the recipe when I went to a beer and cheese pairing Wednesday night. Turns out he had made the three loaves of the bread that they served. I only had a taste because I got there a little later, compared to the whole slices that were served earlier. Todd assured me it was easy, and indeed, it only has three ingredients:
3 cups self-rising flour
1/2 cup sugar
12 ounces Odell Double Pilsner
Combine ingredients in a large bowl. Spoon into buttered pan. Bake at 350°F for 50 minutes, brush with butter, bake for 5 minutes more.
I decided to make it with whole wheat flour, because I try to avoid the processed, white versions of things if at all possible. So I did:
3 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 cup sugar
4-1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
12 ounces Odell Double Pilsner
I baked at 375°F for 50 minutes, brushed with butter, baked for 5 minutes more.
If I made it again with whole wheat flour, I would use 6 teaspoons of baking soda and less sugar, maybe only 1/4 cup, as well as use my smaller loaf pan. Or just use white, self-rising flour. It tasted good but I was disappointed that it didn’t rise up higher than the sides of the pan. I do realize that “whole wheat quick bread” is probably an oxymoron.
I cut a couple of slices, topped them with thin slices of feta cheese, and baked for 10 or 15 minutes and broiled to brown. I served with my leftover vegetables and had a nice meal.
Is that an afro or a helmet?
August 25, 2011
Every place I go within my little five-mile radius has been under construction this summer. Doesn’t matter whether I’m driving, biking or walking. Construction and detours.
There are many lane shifts and traffic pattern changes in my home neighborhood as the city’s second light rail line makes its path through. The front way, the back way, it’s all disrupted. Going in the opposite direction, a mystery project on Interstate 94 creates other problems. The way to my favorite beer store is detoured.
And now the off-road bike path on the home end of my work commute is detoured because that’s where the new rail line comes in to join the existing one. I haven’t been able to find information about whether that will be a permanent situation. In order for the bike path to reopen, there would have to be little bridge over the train tracks and I’m guessing that’s not part of the plan.
The mile and three-quarters between home and work has been a constant obstacle course. It would seem that every street downtown is being shaved down and resurfaced this summer. My bike route to work is one of those streets, so I now enjoy nice, smooth blacktop where it had been cement, seamed, cracked, and pitted. And most excitingly, a bike lane is now marked where previously it had just been an extra-wide driving lane.
In addition to the stripes there is, of course, a pictogram biking dude (or dudette). The first few times I rode over them I thought, wow, the fresh, white paint really contrasts with the fresh black asphalt. Then I realized why I was really paying extra attention. Safety has come to the bike lane pictogram. The dude (or dudette) either has a flattop afro, or that’s a bike helmet. A bike helmet on the pictogram! It has been weeks since I comprehended it and I still get a giant kick out of it.
Being the over-documentarian that I am, I began to notice and photograph other bike lane pictograms that I encounter. On a street near the riverfront that has recently been tarred and chipped, I kept seeing these blocky shapes (left). I thought, oh that’s cute, somebody graffitied abstract skyscraper shapes on the road. After seeing three or four of them, duh, it’s in preparation for a biking dude (or dudette). The bike lanes to and from the grocery store already had theirs (right).
The bike trail between my home light rail station and the grocery store (I continued on to the store on my way home after work) had some faded, older, stenciled ones (left) in which the biking dude (or dudette) was riding a bike with zeroes for tires and wearing cargo pants. On some newer pavement, though, the biking dude (or dudette) was very modern indeed, sporting a rounded helmet and riding what appears to be a “comfort” bike.
The bike lane on the street was helpfully marked with a sign letting me know that should I wish to bike after a snowfall, it would be a good route to take.
Then and now (this is my life)
August 17, 2011
These two photos are the earliest and latest ones I have of myself. What has happened in between? Funny you should ask. Let’s take a look.
Ages ½–10
I’d swear I remember when the baby picture was taken. I have other toddler memories, such as what the kitchen in our first house in Manteno, Illinois, looked like. Yellow and floral.
We spent many summers in Bloomington, Indiana, while my dad worked on his PhD at Indiana University. He finished the work but his committee denied him of the degree.
To this day I have dreams that involve the house on Main Street in Ada, Ohio, where I grew up. I’d love to get back inside that house for a look. I remember listening to Winnie-the-Pooh and Peter and the Wolf records in the living room on our big, console stereo. It was a big deal when I got to operate it myself. We moved to a different house when I was eight.
Ages 11–20
Our new house was a block inside city limits. Most of the time I’d walk or bike to school, but if I wanted to ride the schoolbus, I walked over to Grandview Boulevard.
I spent countless hours in the city swimming pool. I spent countless hours playing Kick the Can with the neighborhood kids. I crashed my friend’s brand new bike that I rode around while she was inside eating supper. There was a horse at the end of the block, where the town suddenly turned into the country. There was a woods at the end of the block that seemed very big at the time. In it there was a treehouse.
We moved to Wisconsin two days before I turned fifteen. During the first year, my sophomore year in high school, it was novel and fun and not completely awful because it was to the small city where my grandparents lived and I already had a couple of friends. Then in my junior year, I grew to resent having been plucked from where I had grown up. I became a troubled teen. I stayed out all night one time without communicating with my parents. I broke up with my boyfriend which upset my parents who liked him a lot. Their reaction was very formative. I considered dropping out of high school.
I worked as a professional radio deejay.
I graduated high school. I started college. I dropped out of college.
I moved out of the house. I moved into the house.
I went back to college. I dropped out of college.
I moved out of the house. I moved into the house. I still have nightmares that for one reason or the other, I have been forced to move back in with my parents at my current age with my youth issues, such as no boys in my bedroom.
Ages 21–30
I started technical college. I transferred technical colleges. I dropped out of technical college.
I moved out of the house. I went back to college. I dropped out of college. Rinse and repeat.
I moved to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to go back to college. I finished college! My mom proudly told a friend that I was graduating at age twenty-six. Her friend asked what my PhD was in. Sadly, it was just my bachelor’s degree, in English, after eight years.
I went to Europe for the first time on a trip with my parents that was a graduation present.
I worked for a year at a job that was pretty dead-end but which got me lots of promotional copies of albums on cassette. I decided to go to graduate school.
I moved to Madison, Wisconsin, to go to the University of Wisconsin for meteorology. I learned that a boy who had been one of my best friends growing up and who also went to Wisconsin for meteorology was, in fact, gay and that we’d never have that chance to get together that I had been denied when my parents ripped me away at age fifteen.
I flunked out of graduate school when I failed calculus for the second time. I began to get serious about bowling.
I went to the local technical college, Madison Area Technical College, and met Chris Gargan. I graduated with my commercial art degree and have been a graphic designer ever since.
Ages 31–40
I moved back to Minneapolis. I worked through a temp agency and met my two best friends, Jim and California Rob. I became employed at my current position which I’ve held for over sixteen years. Oh my goodness, I began to grow up!
I became a published author, though not in the way I imagined as a kid. But my name now appears in the Library of Congress, so that’s something.
I went to the United Kingdom for the first time and fell in love with it. I realized that London is my soulmate. I will live there someday.
I got more serious about my bowling.
Age 41–present
Along with other spending, all of my trips to England contributed to my declaring personal bankruptcy. I learned that it’s not actually that difficult, in the big scheme of things, to live without credit. Except for being deprived of more trips to England.
I kept getting more serious about my bowling. People think I’m joking when I say I take three balls with my to league. The people who are really serious take six or eight.
California Rob moved to California. Jim got married. Possibly in the opposite order. I began my descent into curmudgeonhood.
Oddly, still in my bankruptcy, I was able to procure a mortgage and buy my first home, a condominiumized apartment. Gotta start somewhere. The housing market tanked. I am stuck unless I want to take a significant loss in my selling price.
I began to develop my love of craft beer. I hate saying “craft beer” because it’s such a buzz-term right how. But if more people like it, more will be made and that’s not a bad thing. My gateway beers were Bell’s Oberon and the local Summit Extra Pale Ale.
I have slowly and surely been gaining weight.
Last night, I picked up a twelve-pack of Summit’s Silver Anniversary Ale. Then I went to the preseason meeting for my Monday bowling league. Then I stopped at a bar that had a firkin of a special, grapefruit-infused version of Odell Brewing St. Lupulin Extra Pale Ale, a current favorite of mine. I was chit-chatting with the young patrons on either side of me about beers in general and India Pale Ales (my preferred variety) in particular. My bartender asked me—almost accusingly, as though I were a spy for a distributor—who I worked for. When I said a small graphic design company, he blinked and said, “You know a lot about beer.”
That made me feel really good.
Tonight, I enjoyed some of that Summit Silver Anniversary Ale.
Best day ever? Maybe?
August 13, 2011
It would be hard for me to choose the best ever day of my life. Not because there have been so many, but because I’d probably end up not remembering the one that would qualify as best ever. I can pick out good days here and there, but by and large, none strikes me as the winner. But if I had to say, I’d go with the day last summer when I traveled to and arrived in my beloved London for the first time in six years. I met two friends for the first time and had a week of fun to look forward.
As I was pondering that day in general, I remembered that it was also my birthday. I don’t make a big fuss about birthdays. Maybe that’s because my birthday is smack in the middle of summer and I never had a party in my class at school, so it never got cemented it in my brain as a big deal.
The celebrations at home were usually pretty low-key. I vaguely remember a couple of little parties. There was the one when Mike C came over and my mom made eierkuchen because that’s what I wanted (recipe, recipe). Then there was the one, um, er … I guess the eierkuchen one is the only one coming back to me at this moment. I’m sure there were other dandy get-togethers with my other friends in other years. Please don’t feel slighted because I don’t remember what happened in the 1970s.
The birthday for which I have the strongest memory for as an “adult” was my twenty-fifth. I was in college and had a part-time job at a service station. One of my part-time coworkers was in a “band.” After work, the lot of us would often go over to his house and drink beer (regular beer, not the fancy kind I like now). One such hanging-out was on my birthday and though I’m sure I didn’t make any prominent references to it, the word got out. I had gone to sit by myself on the front steps for a few minutes and one of the roommate/bandmates came out with his guitar and sang Happy Birthday to me. He didn’t really know me from Adam, but it was very sweet and to this day remains one of my favorite birthday memories. And apparently, also, one of my few concrete birthday memories.
Fast forward to last summer.
It was intentional on my part that I booked my flight so that I’d arrived on my birthday, once I learned that the discount airfare departed on Thursdays. My birthday seemed like as good a Friday as any to arrive. I knew I’d be wiped out from traveling on the one hand, but that the adrenaline from excitement would keep me going on the other. Dan and Spiros picked me up at Liverpool Street Station and we wandered around on foot from there. I only had a carry-on and my backpack, so I was pretty portable.
I think we ended up in Hodge the cat’s courtyard because Dan’s office is nearby. I was tickled because on my previous trip, I had sought out the statue and now there we were, fairly randomly, at it again. I considered that to be a good omen for a successful upcoming week. We eventually went to Dan’s, where I was staying. I had a shower and we had a snack. Then the three of us went to the Honor Oak to watch the USA World Cup match.
I fell into bed completely satisfied with the day.
The day in fanboy: pilgrimage to Bell???s Brewery
August 11, 2011
You’re going to have to live with a few goofy pictures of me. BECAUSE I WENT TO BELL’S!!! When I think back on it, my enlightenment via Oberon might have been my entry into my current beer obsession.
Unfortunately, my sojourn to Michigan was due to my visiting my cousin in the hospital. I knew I-94 would be taking me right past the mothership, but because of the timing regardless of the direction, it wouldn’t work out for me to experience much enjoyment. I’d have either 100 or 550 miles still to drive after having been there. The impetus of the trip was not pleasure so I didn’t feel like I could take an extra night to pause in Kalamazoo.
But I couldn’t not at least drive past the place. So on my way back to Minneapolis from Ann Arbor, I made it work as best I could. I had consulted the Bell’s website and thought I had learned that about all I’d be able to do would be to drive up to the place, take my picture, and drive off.
The brewery (the existing brewery in Kalamazoo, versus the new facility under construction just out of town in Galesburg) is conveniently located right on Business 94, minimizing the effort required to find it. It’s a very unassuming group of small buildings and, in fact, I almost drove right by.
I was delighted to discover that the General Store was open. I dutifully dropped a couple bucks on Oberon and Two Hearted t-shirts, as well as this bottle of Wedding Ale which is only available at the brewery.
I was excited when the guy in the store told me that the Eccentric Café, the brewery’s bar, opened at 11:00 rather than noon as I had been under the impression. That meant I only had twenty minutes to wait. As I had eaten breakfast at 7:00, I was ready for lunch.
In the meantime, I walked back to the brewery and saw a load of fresh barrels waiting to go somewhere. Kalamazoo seems to be pretty old and railroady; I wish I could have taken time to drive around and explore a little. I bet there’s a lot of neat architecture. Bell’s is situated where three tracks intersect.
At long last, the twenty minutes had passed and Carly opened the door to the café. She probably rolled her eyes behind my back when she saw me sitting on the steps, having slipped the Oberon t-shirt on over my other shirt. Oh well. It’s people like me who make her establishment a destination.
When I saw the beer board, I was supremely sad that I couldn’t partake. In addition to all the varieties that have made it to Minnesota, there were a bunch of others that are only available on draught at the brewery, the ones with the yellow tags by their names. I couldn’t stand it. Carly gave me a taste of the Le Batteur farmhouse ale. IT WAS SO GOOD!
I made do with my turkey croissant sandwich. Before I left, I discovered the gallery of Bell’s- and beer-related license plates in the restroom hallway. Ha! Then I realized that I hadn’t thought to look for a Hopslam t-shirt and promptly forgot about it because I walked around and looked at the rest of the space.
Up in the balcony, there was a variety of custom wrought iron work, including the wonderful Oberon sun. Out the back door, there was a garden for hanging out and enjoying a lovely Midwestern summer’s evening.
Then I realized that there were several installations of hop vines. HOP VINES! Squeeeeee! Hops! Alas, none of them had developed flowers yet, but oh well. Now I know what I’d be in for as I consider planting some decoratively at home.
It was a ninety-minute stop during a 650-mile drive that ultimately took me sixteen hours to complete (I make a lot of pit stops). But hey, that was better than the seventeen that it took me to get to Ann Arbor. I knew I’d have regrets if I hadn’t spent the time that I did.
The next beer pilgrimage will be to Odell in Fort Collns, Colorado, next summer.
Pet Instructions, August 2011
August 4, 2011
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 