I hadn't found my real keys in three days, meaning that the mail in the pigeonhole mailbox was building and maybe the mailman thought I was passed out on the bathroom floor. The duplicate key doesn't fit, and should be tossed, even though when I hold the two together, the teeth seem to match.
You know the routine. Dig through the pockets of the last clothing worn. Excavate the bottom of the purse. Shake the coats. Toss blankets, lift cushions, clear papers. Then, then in guilt because you left Catholicism over twenty years ago when religion became another fence to jump, you humbly say a prayer to St. Anthony, finder of lost things. I have a medal of him hanging from the rearview mirror, for him to help me not lose my mind. Serious. One last plunge into the purse.
Nope, nope, nope; the three main pockets do not hold anything resembling the clunk of keys I want. It hasn't been thirty seconds since asking St. Anthony for help that I then think a swear word. Not the worst of them, but a damning one. God damn it. Goddamit!! Where are those keys!? My hand goes into a little used back pocket of the purse and as my fingers coil around the errant cluster of keys, I feel my face redden for the swear, especially after my faithless request. Brother.
I am happy and relieved to find them, and really, swearing is a great way to blow off steam; just not right after prayers. How did "God damn it" get such a reputation? God, the Cosmos, the Big Cheese is certainly not going to listen to some frustrated human and send down a lightning bolt of justice against whatever you're crabbing about. Can you imagine? No one would be left alive, for all the goddaming that goes on worldwide.
What about the other words, the derogatory, sexualized ones? Personally, I don't care much for them and find them more insulting to the person using them, pointing out a weak vocabulary used as an excuse for brain. Nah. The stuff that gets me going has a name, blatherskate.
To blather comes from a root word, "bledh" that went to "bladder" and then to "blather" meaning "to blow" as in blowhard. Skate, also found in the word cheapskate indicates a mean, contemptible person, related to the fish. You can use the word as blatherskite, but they both mean nonsense, codswallop, taradiddle and tommyrot.
Here's an example, wonderful for when you drop a dish whereby you can cuss out the dish for being recalcitrant: "You bleeding horse's ass, if I were walking down the street and saw you coming, I'd cross before our paths met. You thin-skulled fool thing, die and make the crows a pudding". Then spout out a string of dammits, and you feel better. Anyways, of course you realize that everything is transient, so a broken dish, even if it were grandma's bone china from before the Hungarian Wars, is just a broken dish. Get rid of it, make art from the shards, or try gluing it back together.
It's late, and I've been awake since 3:30 a.m., just couldn't get back to sleep. Time to get to bed, enough of trying to stretch out the weekend; I'm getting dull and thickheaded. Hey. I heard that. Tuck under covers and fall into Dreamville, where there are no monsters under the bed. I'm here, things are fine. Good night.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Alien Invasion Cake Day
Lookit the birds!! This was a communal shout from the kids in the front row, who get to watch Uncle Squirrel come and eat peanuts that we strew outside for him. Maybe it's Auntie Squirrel. One child asked, How do we know if it's an Uncle? The wise child next to him said, I don't wanna look. But there was also an immense winter flock of starlings picking through the dormant grass of the park outside the school, at least three hundred birds needling their beaks amongst the flattened blades in search of sleeping beetles.
They had swooped down in a flowing wave of dark brown bodies, you've seen them as they rise and fall, or spiral in the sky. It's a survival technique not used during summer. When clustered to roost inside a pine or hedge at night, the collective body heat can raise the surrounding temperature a few degrees. Think of being in a room with many people, and how you are suffocating from stuffiness in about 30 minutes. There you go.
Where do they come from, where do they go, why are there so many, wish I had my Dad's gun, (cripes), what are they doing? So much for the vocabulary words I was listing on the board. I figured a five minute briefing on animal habits was okay, for how many urban kids get that excited about wildlife? These are the kids who go bananas if they find a bug outside, these are the kids whose foot you have to stop from squashing said insect. I think this squirrel feeding is raising some sort of awareness, at least that is the hope of the bigger world.
Starlings, so many. An invasive species that pushed out many native songbirds, introduced from only 80 birds in 1890. Earlier, to keep nostalgic European immigrants happy, the house sparrow was introduced in Cincinnati, Ohio and have become so ubiquitous, many humans have no idea that they are non-native birds. Robins, bluebirds, finches, chickadees, thrushes, martins and song sparrows have been displaced by these tough, aggressive little things.
The yellow butter-and-eggs flowers that resemble tiny snapdragons are not originally from here, but then neither is any livestock except for llamas, American bison, and turkeys. Apples are from China, tomatoes from South America, but mostly only grow where cultivated. Nothing ever stays the same, so we might as well get used to it, with an eye to controlling future exchanges. We received Dutch Elm Disease, we gave Europe grey squirrels and poison ivy.
Going on, it's to be a baking day just right with the snow coming down in a few half-hearted flumphs here and there, melted by tomorrow's predicted warm temperatures. Global warming may very well displace many species we are used to seeing, replacing them with more moderate climate organisms. Like those big mosquitoes and bigger spiders. No thenk yew.
Well, now to the Lemon Syrup Cake for someone's 33 birthday, a good boy become a good man Who Could Live a Little Closer to His Family and Furthermore Ask Her to Marry You Already. I don't think he reads this blog, but a wish is a wish that may knock him in the head.
Treat each other well, it will reflect in your dreams, and bring your cakes to rising heights.
They had swooped down in a flowing wave of dark brown bodies, you've seen them as they rise and fall, or spiral in the sky. It's a survival technique not used during summer. When clustered to roost inside a pine or hedge at night, the collective body heat can raise the surrounding temperature a few degrees. Think of being in a room with many people, and how you are suffocating from stuffiness in about 30 minutes. There you go.
Where do they come from, where do they go, why are there so many, wish I had my Dad's gun, (cripes), what are they doing? So much for the vocabulary words I was listing on the board. I figured a five minute briefing on animal habits was okay, for how many urban kids get that excited about wildlife? These are the kids who go bananas if they find a bug outside, these are the kids whose foot you have to stop from squashing said insect. I think this squirrel feeding is raising some sort of awareness, at least that is the hope of the bigger world.
Starlings, so many. An invasive species that pushed out many native songbirds, introduced from only 80 birds in 1890. Earlier, to keep nostalgic European immigrants happy, the house sparrow was introduced in Cincinnati, Ohio and have become so ubiquitous, many humans have no idea that they are non-native birds. Robins, bluebirds, finches, chickadees, thrushes, martins and song sparrows have been displaced by these tough, aggressive little things.
The yellow butter-and-eggs flowers that resemble tiny snapdragons are not originally from here, but then neither is any livestock except for llamas, American bison, and turkeys. Apples are from China, tomatoes from South America, but mostly only grow where cultivated. Nothing ever stays the same, so we might as well get used to it, with an eye to controlling future exchanges. We received Dutch Elm Disease, we gave Europe grey squirrels and poison ivy.
Going on, it's to be a baking day just right with the snow coming down in a few half-hearted flumphs here and there, melted by tomorrow's predicted warm temperatures. Global warming may very well displace many species we are used to seeing, replacing them with more moderate climate organisms. Like those big mosquitoes and bigger spiders. No thenk yew.
Well, now to the Lemon Syrup Cake for someone's 33 birthday, a good boy become a good man Who Could Live a Little Closer to His Family and Furthermore Ask Her to Marry You Already. I don't think he reads this blog, but a wish is a wish that may knock him in the head.
Treat each other well, it will reflect in your dreams, and bring your cakes to rising heights.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Books From Sneaks
Isolated in a dry spot are four books purchased online; they are lovely, whole, unding-ed and had been advertised in Very Good Condition. Just what I was looking for. I was especially impressed by how two of them had been packaged, wrapped in plain paper folded in origamic precision, taped neatly, and supported by cardboard panels before being slipped into the ingenious boxing of layered, solidly glued finality.
More fun than a puzzle: opening the seductive peels of papers thick and thin between bubble wraps until, until, there it is! The desired core, the authored work, the book of books; anticipation frothed up further by the positive reviews, and so far the external examination of cover, binding and corners is as the seller offered. A few nips in the dust cover do not bother me, nor stains or an occasional bend, for what I want is the information. However, when these proffered tomes are cracked open...
Fungal spores wing upwards in victory; mildew has invaded, flinging microbial tendrils throughout what are now My Books. Tell you what. I don't give up easily and so dug through online suggestions of how to get rid of the smell forever simply and without extended effort. Wrap the books in a plastic bag with a cup of cat litter. Freeze them. Slip newspaper between pages to absorb odor. Har and har and har.
Plenty of piney cat litter later, the cats are now digging through now-mildewed litter dumped back into their kitty boxes, without complaint. The next trick, three weeks in the deep freeze, resulted in frozen books that proved mycelium continue to live at temperatures colder than ice cream. Diligence is all I got from inserting newspaper between the pages, for which the mildew said thanks, lady, more paper to digest. I went as far as the three-way blast of littering and newspapering the books, and again stuffing them into the freezer.
The one thing left to try is baking soda, again a cup in a plastic bag with the affected literature. After that, I will inquire at the library as to procedure, for it's always good to learn how to do something. The hardest part for me so far was to provide realistic reviews for the sellers; it didn't make sense with the cost of shipping to return the books as they really didn't cost as much as a bag of Chinese take-out. Further, someone who sends out a mildewed book knows darn well the book is damaged, so "contact the seller" chit chat is like telling the mugger you want your wallet back.
The other twenty or so books purchased since summer have been adopted and shelved by category, all in the decent condition advertised. None of them were wrapped as securely as the damaged ones, so now if you send me a book cloaked in neat, obsessively straight, folded paper, my antennae are up. Sneaks and miscreants must have folding skills and access to metal-edged rulers for exacto cutting of cardboard panels.
So they stand alone, like the cheese at the end of the Farmer in the Dell. Worthy books, once clean books, they may be revivable but I will forever keep them apart from the rest of the library. This place is pretty dry, so new growth making forays and settling in the new world isn't expected. I love books and find them a wonderful way of communicating. I don't do as well with online reading as the glare of the screen tires my eyes, and usually paging through paper bookmarks is faster in hand than waiting for a stubborn web page that I've lost track of anyways to load. Nope, like books better, even with the amount of information accessible online.
At night, before bed, I dig through the pile of them under the table stand, reading of mycology (I know Thee well, O Fungus!), conchology, film history, or of people who have contributed to living; currently and forever Twain, Dali, Buster Keaton. It's a small respite from the turmoils of the day. Night is for a separate life, one that recharges through dreams and layers of deepening brain activity. Winter night is lovely, for the stars are brighter in cold air. Physically, it holds fewer particles than warm air, making a clearer path for the light from thousands of years ago to reach us.
Here is another reason: in our part of the world, the summer sky actually has more stars, for we are then looking inwards towards the dusty center of the Milky Way galaxy, which makes things hazier and more congested. In winter, we are turned towards one of the spiraling arms of the galaxy, where there are fewer stars that shine without as much competition, showing off in clarity. Our sun is in one of those arms, where stars are larger and also a bit closer to us. So, see what you learned? Kind of gives a sense of immensity when you realize galactic physicality is observable by little us, with only our eyes and both feet on the ground.
Let the stars spin overhead, sail through ribbons of light circled by systems of planets and guardian suns. Dream safely, be ready for the hard work of the day to come, it is all worth it, all some part of the whole.
Sleep in the deep, lovely darkness of earth's night, you star-spun navigator. Good night.
More fun than a puzzle: opening the seductive peels of papers thick and thin between bubble wraps until, until, there it is! The desired core, the authored work, the book of books; anticipation frothed up further by the positive reviews, and so far the external examination of cover, binding and corners is as the seller offered. A few nips in the dust cover do not bother me, nor stains or an occasional bend, for what I want is the information. However, when these proffered tomes are cracked open...
Fungal spores wing upwards in victory; mildew has invaded, flinging microbial tendrils throughout what are now My Books. Tell you what. I don't give up easily and so dug through online suggestions of how to get rid of the smell forever simply and without extended effort. Wrap the books in a plastic bag with a cup of cat litter. Freeze them. Slip newspaper between pages to absorb odor. Har and har and har.
Plenty of piney cat litter later, the cats are now digging through now-mildewed litter dumped back into their kitty boxes, without complaint. The next trick, three weeks in the deep freeze, resulted in frozen books that proved mycelium continue to live at temperatures colder than ice cream. Diligence is all I got from inserting newspaper between the pages, for which the mildew said thanks, lady, more paper to digest. I went as far as the three-way blast of littering and newspapering the books, and again stuffing them into the freezer.
The one thing left to try is baking soda, again a cup in a plastic bag with the affected literature. After that, I will inquire at the library as to procedure, for it's always good to learn how to do something. The hardest part for me so far was to provide realistic reviews for the sellers; it didn't make sense with the cost of shipping to return the books as they really didn't cost as much as a bag of Chinese take-out. Further, someone who sends out a mildewed book knows darn well the book is damaged, so "contact the seller" chit chat is like telling the mugger you want your wallet back.
The other twenty or so books purchased since summer have been adopted and shelved by category, all in the decent condition advertised. None of them were wrapped as securely as the damaged ones, so now if you send me a book cloaked in neat, obsessively straight, folded paper, my antennae are up. Sneaks and miscreants must have folding skills and access to metal-edged rulers for exacto cutting of cardboard panels.
So they stand alone, like the cheese at the end of the Farmer in the Dell. Worthy books, once clean books, they may be revivable but I will forever keep them apart from the rest of the library. This place is pretty dry, so new growth making forays and settling in the new world isn't expected. I love books and find them a wonderful way of communicating. I don't do as well with online reading as the glare of the screen tires my eyes, and usually paging through paper bookmarks is faster in hand than waiting for a stubborn web page that I've lost track of anyways to load. Nope, like books better, even with the amount of information accessible online.
At night, before bed, I dig through the pile of them under the table stand, reading of mycology (I know Thee well, O Fungus!), conchology, film history, or of people who have contributed to living; currently and forever Twain, Dali, Buster Keaton. It's a small respite from the turmoils of the day. Night is for a separate life, one that recharges through dreams and layers of deepening brain activity. Winter night is lovely, for the stars are brighter in cold air. Physically, it holds fewer particles than warm air, making a clearer path for the light from thousands of years ago to reach us.
Here is another reason: in our part of the world, the summer sky actually has more stars, for we are then looking inwards towards the dusty center of the Milky Way galaxy, which makes things hazier and more congested. In winter, we are turned towards one of the spiraling arms of the galaxy, where there are fewer stars that shine without as much competition, showing off in clarity. Our sun is in one of those arms, where stars are larger and also a bit closer to us. So, see what you learned? Kind of gives a sense of immensity when you realize galactic physicality is observable by little us, with only our eyes and both feet on the ground.
Let the stars spin overhead, sail through ribbons of light circled by systems of planets and guardian suns. Dream safely, be ready for the hard work of the day to come, it is all worth it, all some part of the whole.
Sleep in the deep, lovely darkness of earth's night, you star-spun navigator. Good night.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Amusement Park
This takes me back to the days of wooden roller coasters and tunnels of watery love; the sensation was familiar, bubbling up from childhood memory as sort of scary, sort of fun but you do it anyways with a wish that it turns out alright. What happened was that one of the elevators was working, but completely without light. The fluorescents in the elevator ceiling were kaput mortem, noticeable as soon as the metal door opened.
In a hurry, I got on and wondered just how dark it would get in there, and found that out as the door slid shut, winking out the light from the hallway like a sundown in Hades. Pitch black, the only efforts of luminescence were the red dot on the button for the desired floor, and the also red LED numbers that floated above, hanging in the dark, counting the floors as the box descended. Good lord, what if someone else gets on, and they are creepy? What if the darn thing froze, as it does at least once a week? Aren't I scared of the dark? What on earth was I thinking?
But something felt familiar and strangely comforting, and then I got it...I was back at Crystal Beach in Ontario, Canada; an amusement park from the 30's located at the clearest, cleanest quartz beach on Lake Erie. The elevator, as it whirred towards ground floor in an enclosing darkness took me back to the ride through the crazy house, called Laff in the Dark. You sat in a wheeled car on tracks that sparked, near-crashing into papier mache devils and snakes that sprung out, emitting high pitched screeches. The car took hairpin turns, rattling you into whoever was crammed into the split vinyl-cushioned seat next to you, ran over bumps in the track, smelt like electrical wiring getting ready to combust, and was great, ratty fun.
I was quite happy when the elevator door opened into the lighted foyer, like Dorothy walking out of her dark, sepia-toned farmhouse into the gardens of Oz. Errands took me back and forth plus a trip to the library, and I got to ride the midnight elevator three times today. I brought out the iPhone, which has a nightlight app that causes the phone's screen to blast out enough illumination for me to find my way down the apartment's darkened hallway before reaching the chain for the ceiling fixture. I use it after turning out everything else so I don't step on a lounging cat who thinks hell, I can see in the dark, why can't you? It provided a ghostly glow in the elevator, not worth the battery power, so I shut it off and let myself drop down the 100 feet to ground level.
But what if I were the sort that was terrified of the dark? So close your eyes, silly, and pretend that you are really in the light but only with eyes shut. I tried it, hoping to remember to open them before running into a neighbor. It didn't work, because having eyes closed in the dark Is Really Dark, compared to closing them in light, where you get that orangey-glow and other colors from through your eyelids. Experiment over, me becoming an expert at riding in the total dark was burgeoning even though it truly is a worthless talent, unless in some circumstance someone is with you, and you have to be the sane one because they are freaking out and trying to climb up your ribcage.
That was the biggest adventure of the day; the second was that I found out that you can actually take out a non-circulating book from the library's closed stacks with Special Permission. This event was super great, for I can scan the interesting pages into the computer instead of fighting with obstinate, sullen copying machines and worrying about public domain which I think is allowed on this particular text anyways. A good friend and I went to the Farmer's Market in the snow, finding some lovely Brussels sprouts, remarking on how this area has gotten only 17 inches of snow so far, compared with the usual 52 by this time of season.
The daylight is growing slowly into greater length, it's not dark at four in the afternoon which means we have turned the corner in our own hairpin of winter solstice. The dark is a comfort, full of blankets and stars, circling planetary revolutions, and cats curled into sighing balls of fleece. Sleep, that lovely restorative, comes and shelves the daylight nonsense and lets you fall, fall through layers of dark, into rhythms of breath. Good night.
In a hurry, I got on and wondered just how dark it would get in there, and found that out as the door slid shut, winking out the light from the hallway like a sundown in Hades. Pitch black, the only efforts of luminescence were the red dot on the button for the desired floor, and the also red LED numbers that floated above, hanging in the dark, counting the floors as the box descended. Good lord, what if someone else gets on, and they are creepy? What if the darn thing froze, as it does at least once a week? Aren't I scared of the dark? What on earth was I thinking?
But something felt familiar and strangely comforting, and then I got it...I was back at Crystal Beach in Ontario, Canada; an amusement park from the 30's located at the clearest, cleanest quartz beach on Lake Erie. The elevator, as it whirred towards ground floor in an enclosing darkness took me back to the ride through the crazy house, called Laff in the Dark. You sat in a wheeled car on tracks that sparked, near-crashing into papier mache devils and snakes that sprung out, emitting high pitched screeches. The car took hairpin turns, rattling you into whoever was crammed into the split vinyl-cushioned seat next to you, ran over bumps in the track, smelt like electrical wiring getting ready to combust, and was great, ratty fun.
I was quite happy when the elevator door opened into the lighted foyer, like Dorothy walking out of her dark, sepia-toned farmhouse into the gardens of Oz. Errands took me back and forth plus a trip to the library, and I got to ride the midnight elevator three times today. I brought out the iPhone, which has a nightlight app that causes the phone's screen to blast out enough illumination for me to find my way down the apartment's darkened hallway before reaching the chain for the ceiling fixture. I use it after turning out everything else so I don't step on a lounging cat who thinks hell, I can see in the dark, why can't you? It provided a ghostly glow in the elevator, not worth the battery power, so I shut it off and let myself drop down the 100 feet to ground level.
But what if I were the sort that was terrified of the dark? So close your eyes, silly, and pretend that you are really in the light but only with eyes shut. I tried it, hoping to remember to open them before running into a neighbor. It didn't work, because having eyes closed in the dark Is Really Dark, compared to closing them in light, where you get that orangey-glow and other colors from through your eyelids. Experiment over, me becoming an expert at riding in the total dark was burgeoning even though it truly is a worthless talent, unless in some circumstance someone is with you, and you have to be the sane one because they are freaking out and trying to climb up your ribcage.
That was the biggest adventure of the day; the second was that I found out that you can actually take out a non-circulating book from the library's closed stacks with Special Permission. This event was super great, for I can scan the interesting pages into the computer instead of fighting with obstinate, sullen copying machines and worrying about public domain which I think is allowed on this particular text anyways. A good friend and I went to the Farmer's Market in the snow, finding some lovely Brussels sprouts, remarking on how this area has gotten only 17 inches of snow so far, compared with the usual 52 by this time of season.
The daylight is growing slowly into greater length, it's not dark at four in the afternoon which means we have turned the corner in our own hairpin of winter solstice. The dark is a comfort, full of blankets and stars, circling planetary revolutions, and cats curled into sighing balls of fleece. Sleep, that lovely restorative, comes and shelves the daylight nonsense and lets you fall, fall through layers of dark, into rhythms of breath. Good night.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Wingology
We have a reputation for regional food, reaching back to the beef on kummelweck that was originated, it is said, by a bar owner who saw the kosher salt on top of the German rolls as a way to make customers thirstier. Imagine sandwiches of rare beef stacked high on a roll liberally dusted with salt and caraway, topped with horseradish and sided with a good pickle. You would be able to shovel out the block after a snowstorm, reinforced by this stouthearted assistance.
Our hot dogs are charbroiled; our fish fries go year round, not just during Lent, and usually feature haddock; ex-pats become emotional over the local pizza; lastly, the most recent contribution to our pantheon of comfort food is the chicken wing.
My son and other friends who come into town invariably land at one of the two more prominent wingeries, and on his last visit, the young man and I decided to try the other as compared to the usual choice. For comparison reasons, you see. No sense in getting stale by loyalty, who knows, it pays to explore. We did, we lived through it, and the results are in.
I am not naming names, you can Google your hot-sauced heart out and perhaps make a good guess as to which establishment emerged victorious. We entered a much-decorated with nostalgic doodads eatery, welcomed warmly by the host, and toddled into a very crowded arena jammed with circular tables. Over there were people obviously visiting the city, for they spoke in a broken English not often heard around here, filling four tables. Maybe a tour group. Our adventure was anticipated as reflected in the faces of the notable company, lovingly hanging on to each morsel in a delicate, four-fingered fashion, the neatest way to eat these things. Platters heaped and sauced traveled by, held aloft over heads in one-armed push ups, wafting heat and grease like a trailing bridal veil.
The waitress appeared, and here we go. You kids want anything to drink? She was tired, running through the patter that gets her tips, and forgivingly mechanical. It wasn't the service that we were interested in anyhow, so the shotgun makeup and black tights pulled over a tummy that was as old as Howdy Doody were just part of the scenery. She slapped our waters down and asked if we guys wanted 10 20 30? Prices on the menu were hiked up a buck or more due to the iconic reputation of the place, so $11 for 10 wings was as much as I wanted to spend. 10? She sighed at our amateur status.
They didn't take long to arrive, and this is where the true critique began. My son had ordered extremely hot, he takes them combustible suicidal, but this was no where near his threshold. Mine were fine regarding the mild dowsing requested, but here is the first disappointment. Technically, one isn't supposed to count how many drums and flats come together, for line cooks actually do try to even things out as best as possible, but this plate held eight flats and two drums, a breach of wing etiquette on their part.
Not a big deal, as a drum is enjoyable, but I do prefer the flats and have perfected a method of twisting out the smaller of two bones, leaving a neater package to delicately absorb. However, these wings had been deep fried to the point of a Happy Dog chew toy and shattered into shards when crunched; it was work to get there, my friend. I thought of my new front incisor cap and negotiated select dental maneuvering. These things would have knocked out a pigeon if launched from a slingshot, they were that hard. My former point of view on this place was severely reinforced, all flash and history, and I tried to find the You Kids blast of lipstick that was our waitress. She was somewhere, but not where anyone could see until time for the bill.
Well, par for the course; but now we turn to the other renowned setting of chicken wing nation. There is no welcoming committee, you may have to sign in while waiting for a table which can take up to twenty minutes; the place is a dark bar until you enter the dining area. Tables are set up in parallel with kitchenette chairs. No frills, no doodads, and the floor may be sticky. Waitresses fly, dashing off drinks and menus if you need one, most of them college age without anything slick about them. They haven't time, for they are running with plates and buckets of wings and french fries.
The wings here are heavily sauced if you order the very hot, suicidal, or death variety; a white plastic bucket is handed out for gathering remains. It is the usual wing place for our crowd, and each time, the wings have been done well, succulent inside, crisp outside with a fairly even split between the two components of wing anatomy. Priced a dollar less than the previous establishment, there has never been a disappointment. Again, you are packed close, but this place attracts regulars which also says something about quality and atmosphere.
You can get decent wings just about anywhere in this area, I think there is an unspoken pledge of not messing with a good thing too much. Little happens in the way of newish recipes; when I worked in restaurant it was butter, hot sauce, and toss in the wings. No pinches of celery salt (eesh) garlic powder or marination necessary. Keep it simple, dig in.
Is it the dark northern winters that create a longing for sturdy food, comestible stuff that pushes you through the shadow days? Honest to everything, the city has gotten only 3 inches of snow so far, and it's the first week of January; our lake is still quite warm, so I imagine we will get socked in eventually. We really don't get the snow that media blather suggests, just sometimes. But we love our food, and you would, too.
Sleep well, in a winter sleep deep and drowsy, silent and still. Good night, friends.
My son and other friends who come into town invariably land at one of the two more prominent wingeries, and on his last visit, the young man and I decided to try the other as compared to the usual choice. For comparison reasons, you see. No sense in getting stale by loyalty, who knows, it pays to explore. We did, we lived through it, and the results are in.
I am not naming names, you can Google your hot-sauced heart out and perhaps make a good guess as to which establishment emerged victorious. We entered a much-decorated with nostalgic doodads eatery, welcomed warmly by the host, and toddled into a very crowded arena jammed with circular tables. Over there were people obviously visiting the city, for they spoke in a broken English not often heard around here, filling four tables. Maybe a tour group. Our adventure was anticipated as reflected in the faces of the notable company, lovingly hanging on to each morsel in a delicate, four-fingered fashion, the neatest way to eat these things. Platters heaped and sauced traveled by, held aloft over heads in one-armed push ups, wafting heat and grease like a trailing bridal veil.
The waitress appeared, and here we go. You kids want anything to drink? She was tired, running through the patter that gets her tips, and forgivingly mechanical. It wasn't the service that we were interested in anyhow, so the shotgun makeup and black tights pulled over a tummy that was as old as Howdy Doody were just part of the scenery. She slapped our waters down and asked if we guys wanted 10 20 30? Prices on the menu were hiked up a buck or more due to the iconic reputation of the place, so $11 for 10 wings was as much as I wanted to spend. 10? She sighed at our amateur status.
They didn't take long to arrive, and this is where the true critique began. My son had ordered extremely hot, he takes them combustible suicidal, but this was no where near his threshold. Mine were fine regarding the mild dowsing requested, but here is the first disappointment. Technically, one isn't supposed to count how many drums and flats come together, for line cooks actually do try to even things out as best as possible, but this plate held eight flats and two drums, a breach of wing etiquette on their part.
Not a big deal, as a drum is enjoyable, but I do prefer the flats and have perfected a method of twisting out the smaller of two bones, leaving a neater package to delicately absorb. However, these wings had been deep fried to the point of a Happy Dog chew toy and shattered into shards when crunched; it was work to get there, my friend. I thought of my new front incisor cap and negotiated select dental maneuvering. These things would have knocked out a pigeon if launched from a slingshot, they were that hard. My former point of view on this place was severely reinforced, all flash and history, and I tried to find the You Kids blast of lipstick that was our waitress. She was somewhere, but not where anyone could see until time for the bill.
Well, par for the course; but now we turn to the other renowned setting of chicken wing nation. There is no welcoming committee, you may have to sign in while waiting for a table which can take up to twenty minutes; the place is a dark bar until you enter the dining area. Tables are set up in parallel with kitchenette chairs. No frills, no doodads, and the floor may be sticky. Waitresses fly, dashing off drinks and menus if you need one, most of them college age without anything slick about them. They haven't time, for they are running with plates and buckets of wings and french fries.
The wings here are heavily sauced if you order the very hot, suicidal, or death variety; a white plastic bucket is handed out for gathering remains. It is the usual wing place for our crowd, and each time, the wings have been done well, succulent inside, crisp outside with a fairly even split between the two components of wing anatomy. Priced a dollar less than the previous establishment, there has never been a disappointment. Again, you are packed close, but this place attracts regulars which also says something about quality and atmosphere.
You can get decent wings just about anywhere in this area, I think there is an unspoken pledge of not messing with a good thing too much. Little happens in the way of newish recipes; when I worked in restaurant it was butter, hot sauce, and toss in the wings. No pinches of celery salt (eesh) garlic powder or marination necessary. Keep it simple, dig in.
Is it the dark northern winters that create a longing for sturdy food, comestible stuff that pushes you through the shadow days? Honest to everything, the city has gotten only 3 inches of snow so far, and it's the first week of January; our lake is still quite warm, so I imagine we will get socked in eventually. We really don't get the snow that media blather suggests, just sometimes. But we love our food, and you would, too.
Sleep well, in a winter sleep deep and drowsy, silent and still. Good night, friends.
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