Major Sundry

OK.  I confess.  I have no idea who Major Sundry is.  Or why.  I sincerely doubt they're even a real person.  Whoever they are.  The title actually means I have absolutely nothing specific to write about but I've got a few sundry tidbits.  Maybe.  Hopefully it'll be entertaining.  I do apologize to my loyal fan base of six, or seven, for not having posted sooner.  I have no excuse.  Well, I kinda do.

I have been so darn busy these last couple months I haven't had the time to clear my mind in order to be creative.  So there's that.  I have also not done anything exciting or noteworthy to write about, that's also been part of the deal.  Double whammy mammy.

I once told my mother, speaking of mammys, that I could write a short story about a cube of fucking butter.  She told me to stop swearing.  I suppose I could have left out that utterly charming and pungently descriptive adjective, but what the hell.  She usually swore like a sailor, although apparently not on that particular day.  So much for a conversation about butter.

Anyway, I am going to do my best to entertain you with some mundane meanderings of just what the heck was so dang important that I couldn't find the time to blog or make up stories about fucking butter.

Let me start by saying when the dry summer heat hits around these parts my usually rapid fire activity level jumps into over drive.  I happen to love plants.  It's what I do.  Indoor.  Outdoor.  Ornamental.  Edible.   They're in the ground, they're potted.  They're all over the place.  It's a fledgling homestead for crying out loud!

The potted plants right around the house , patio and decks are especially vulnerable when it gets into the 90's and beyond.  If they're not hit daily they fry.  Then there's the orchard, vegetable gardens, nursery, greenhouse etc.  A lot of what needs to be watered is on automatic drip, which is good, because there's only one of me.  I still spend a minimum of two hours a day, every day, watering in the summer.

We used to have a couple hanging plants in front, where the afternoon summer sun sizzles.  I had to water them twice a day or they'd be toast.  Literally.  They'd usually have to get replaced at least once during the summer cause, like, I'm old and sometimes I'd forget.  And they'd fry.

Those two plant hangers now contain beautiful, flourishing begonias.  They're on the east side of the house where they get light, filtered morning sun and then shade in the hot afternoon.  They get watered every other day and if I miss a day they don't get fried.  Plus now we have a totally unobstructed sunset view in front.

June of this year was a wild month, even by our standards.  I think we had something big going every single weekend, culminating with my lovely wife's humongous family reunion at the end of the month.  This is the large family I married into.  I've been around them for over forty years and I almost remember some of their names.  It's that big.

Once again the reunion was held at Lodi Lake Park in Lodi, CA, which is located in the bowels of the Central Valley about forty miles south of Sacramento.  It's usually in the low 100's in Lodi in the summer, which is just plain wrong.

Why?  Why?  Why?  Why would this insanely large family reunion be held in Lodi in the summer in sweltering 100 degree heat?

Well, as the old adage goes, he who organizes the play gets most of the say.  I might have actually just made that up.  It's probably not an old adage at all.  You can use it if you want.

Anyway, two of the five "elders" of the tribe live in Lodi and one of them is the primary reunion mover.  And he apparently has quite an affinity for his home town park.  I was enlisted to assist this year, although I have no idea why.

It could have something to do with the reunion I co-organized with one of my lovely wife's cousins a few years back.  The elders were concerned none of the younger tribe were getting involved with reunion organization, so we did.  We put it together at a low key old style non chain motor inn over by the Russian River in Guerneville, CA.  There was a large, green grassy area, a BBQ pit with tables and a swimming pool.  Lots of activities for little kids to do.  Plus it was only 84 degrees.

It was also an over-niter for most of the attendees.  I don't know about your soirees, but after dark is when the real fun begins.  Everyone drops acid and...oh, wait a minute.  Wrong soiree.  After dark with this super large family is when most everyone drinks wine, laughs real loud and annoys all the other guests who were unfortunate enough to get a room near our party.

That reunion was a pretty big hit.  Most of the large Washington State contingent made it down.  So did a few other out-of -staters.  Interestingly enough, only one out-of-stater came to Lodi this year.  Nobody from Washington came.

I jumped right in the beginning of this year and began looking for venues.  Not a novice at this game, I was keeping the Washington State contingent in mind.  I was also cognizant of airport travel time as well as travel time from Lodi and the Bay Area, both locations rife with people whose names I still do not know.  I was also cognizant of trying to keep it cooler, so Arizona was definitely out.  So was Lodi.

I found a several places in and around the Mount Shasta Area, not too far off Interstate 5.  Two were ideal for family reunions and both were quite affordable.  It was about a three to four hour car ride for most of the California tribe as well as airport travelers.  And about a three to four hour shorter drive for the Washington faction.  Win, win, win.

But when I presented this to the Lodi elder, I was told it would need approval from all the other elders.  In the meantime, just in case, he was going to reserve the picnic table spot at Lodi Lake Park, the same spot the reunion has been held probably seventeen of the last twenty times.  I knew then we were looking at eighteen.

Lodi Lake Park sounds like it might be inviting, at least the lake part.  But it's not, really.  No swimming is allowed.  At least not where we congregate.  And it's more like a big pond than a lake, a little shallow fallow from the Mokelumne River.  Kayakers like it, so do ducks.  But every one else just watches the kayakers and ducks and wonders what in the hell they are doing there.  Not the kayakers or ducks.  Hopefully they know what they're doing.  The people on the shore, sweating profusely.  They're the ones dreaming of chlorine filled swimming pools and Pina Coladas, wondering what brought them out to this super heated wasteland in the first place.

Oh yeah, family.  

The Lodi elder never talked to anybody.  The two Bay Area elders thought Shasta was fine.  I'm pretty sure the Washington elder would have approved as well.  I don't know what the hell the deal is with that park besides being close, it's certainly not accommodating.   I'm pretty darn sure he might be the only one in the family that's enamored with that place. 

The sweltering day of the reunion I was actually approached by one of his daughters, who also lives in Lodi,  about the prospect of holding it at another location.  I was also approached by one of the elder's sisters, stating we have to hold it elsewhere.  She lives in Lodi too.  Neither of them wanted to be there.  Both spoke to me on the condition of anonymity, so don't repeat this.

There's nothing to do at the existing park but sit, eat, chat, sweat and watch kayakers take their craft from the parking lot to river annex.  Dream of chlorine and coladas.

That's okay for adults, we've all been properly trained in the fine art of polite social grace under fire.  Plus there was alcohol involved for some.  Alcohol can turn anything into a party, even a sweltering day. 

But the younger generation, our kids, they all have kids, and a lot of 'em.  They're not old enough to drink and they need something to do.  And it was 103 degrees.  Beads of sweat were breaking out with simple discourse.

"Hi, how ya doin?" I inquired to a face I had seen sixty times but whose name escaped me.  "Nice day."

"Are you kidding?" came the reply. "Nice day to BBQ our souls maybe."

I may not have remembered his name but he sure was funny.

I think part of the deal with the Lodi elder was cost.  With my proposal folks would have been looking at a night or two at a very reasonably priced, comfortable motel with all sorts of activities for adults and children.  I think it would have worked out to about $120/night for a room.  One of the places had cabins where entire families could fit, thus decreasing the average cost.  Large communal kitchen.  It would have been a hoot!

Instead we got to pay $5.00 to sweat in public.  Granted, it was a lot cheaper.  But.  Then.  That's why real estate in El Centro is cheaper than it is in Santa Barbara, ya know?

I'd much rather drive another hour or two more for a cooler location.  Apparently so would folks who live in Lodi.

We held my side of the family reunion at the house here this year in late July.  My family is a heck of a lot easier.  I have a brother, three first cousins, their kids and families.  Bam.  Done.  I even know just about all their names.

OK, another confession.  I do have a second cousin and a boatload of relatives in Norway.  But I couldn't  pronounce their names even if I could remember them.  So they don't count.  They never show up anyway. 

As always, prior to any event here there's some improvement that needs to take place.  So I had to turn this:

into this:

But before any of the above had a place to sit we had to make a place for the stuff to sit on.  Nothing a couple tons of sand and a couple tons of rock couldn't cure.

The project itself was in the back of the house.  The closest the guy could drop all the stuff off was the front of the house, about fifty yards away.  It was either that or have him mow over the picket fence and rose arbor.  I chose the less damaging route, at least to the property.

I actually did try to enlist a younger human specimen to help with some of the physical labor of this project as well as weed whack this year.  A couple times.   As a matter of fact, several weeks before this project commenced I was trying to hire my second guy.

The first guy I hired to weed whack showed up on time on the appointed day and whacked for four hours.  I paid him.  He showed up the next day and worked for about two hours and then left.  I never spoke to him.  I figured he'd be back, since, like, he was no where near done and I owed him for two hours.  I never saw or heard from him again.

Then a neighbor referred me to his guy Friday who promptly came over for a meet and greet.  We went over everything, including the fact I'd like his help getting several tons of sand and rock to the back of the house.  He said he was busy the next couple weeks but then could get to me.  I said fine, I had a four to five week time table.  He said he'd call me later that afternoon to firm things up.  Never heard from him again either.  Well, I take that back.

Even though he didn't call when he said he would, I texted him two weeks down the line to see if he was still in the game.  No reply.  Nada.  Nothing.  So I carried on.  Then about six weeks later I got this long, apologetic text from him asking forgiveness for being a shit head.  Not an apologetic phone call, but an apologetic text. 

What was I supposed to do with that?  I was already done with what I needed him for.  I also think certain social and professional interaction requires voice communication.  Sometimes in person.  I forgave him and threw his number away.

You know, I get it.  He was busy.  Couldn't get to me.  Couldn't even call me or text me to tell me he was so busy.  All of a sudden he wasn't so busy.  Then it was time to try and salvage the folks he blew off.  At least me.  Oh well.  Homey don't play that game.

I mean, I think communication is part of the work ethic and kind of important.  And ya really should show up or call on time at least once before you start slacking off, just to show a mild modicum of responsibility. 

I'm purdy sure that's in Business 101, "Show up on time for your first day of work".

Yep.  Nailed it. 

After I didn't get a response from my initial text, I sought out another recommended weed whacker and potential ton mover.  I thought I had things relatively dialed in with him until he stopped responding to my texts.  Then finally, a couple days later he texted he had fractured his ankle.  What the hell?  I was weed whack snake bit.

I ended up doing all the eye high weed whacking myself.  About thirty hours of it.  Bad back and all.

Actually, the pinched nerve between my L4 and L5 did not misbehave too badly.  I had a facet joint block done about this time which helped immensely with the pain.  I almost felt like that cry baby guy on the Good Feet Store commercial.  It had been months of pretty much constant pain for me.  But if I did shed a tear of back painless joy I did it in the quiet of my living room, not on national TV.  

So how did several tons of sand and rock travel fifty yards to the back yard?

On my back.  And my darling daughter's.  She came up to help with the project.  One wheelbarrow and one or two rocks at a time.  Back and forth, up and down.

Not only did my darling daughter help with heavy stuff, but she took on the role of jigsaw puzzle master, seeking out the perfect rock for the perfect fit.  I actually had to tone her down a little bit.

I explained, "I am certain there is an exact fit for that particular space somewhere on this planet.  However, we only have what we have and we're not traveling to Tanzania to find the perfect fit.  Don't get too crazy."

Once she had a few puzzle pieces placed, I would bring in some sand and level the stone.  While I was doing that, she'd move to the other side and jig saw.  Working back and forth in tandem, we rolled that entire patio out in two days, about 350 square feet.

Another arty project my lovely wife got me involved with was re-purposing a couple antique caned chairs we've had for about 35 years.  We originally had four of them, but then we also had two young children.  Antique caned chairs don't mix well with young children.

There have been a few expensive re-caning jobs, and two of the chairs have essentially disintegrated.  The other two chairs, after losing their respective seats again, have henceforth been hanging around in the garage taking up space.  For about fifteen years now.  And of course they morphed from being potential fanciful, ornamental objects of art into pieces of crap that made me swear a lot.  Primarily because I was prone to bumping my head on them fairly routinely.  And when I hit my head, which I really, really hate to do, I almost always yell "Fuck".

There's that word again.  Seems to follow me around like a pair of boxer shorts.

Fortunately, my lovely wife came to me recently with their new purpose so I don't have to yell "Fuck" quite as often.  I happily took them down from their head bumping hooks and carefully removed all the old, torn up cane.  I patched up some holes and I painted them white.  Then I cut 1/2 inch plywood to fit to make a love seat bench. 

Of course once I, the underbelly guy, was through with my part my lovely wife went to work.  A little padding and material and wah lah.  Four screws went through existing holes in the seat of the chair up into the bottom of the plywood.   That holds it all together.  There was no need to attach anywhere else.

I've also been working on my second book, editing, editing and then re-editing.  Who said being a writer was glamorous and fun?  In case you haven't read my first book, you can find that here:  Late Night Letters to the Moon.

Now it comes to true confession time, cause I've got nothing better to do:  I've had a wart for the last couple years.  No, it's not that big thing I breath through between my eyes, nor is it a big hairy thing on that big thing.  It has actually been an annoying bit of frustration located on my right index finger.

I've tried everything.  Compound W.   Duct tape.  Salt and vinegar.  Preparation H.  I tried the Tenth Avenue Freeze Out route, multiple times.  My doctor has even tried his brand of freeze out, multiple times.

It's been a CONSTANT battle.  For a couple years.  A real pain in the patoot.  And every time I thought I had blasted the surrounding skin down enough that little bastard kept rising from the ashes.  Time and time again.  Then I found what is called a wart stick.  It looks like a chap stick, only it contains that salicycic acid stuff that essentially dissolves your skin.  So you don't want to be mistaking the two.  Cause otherwise, you know, you could end up with no lips.

The last time I was in to see my Doc I had him hit it again with his freeze out. Then while it was reeling from the arctic chill, I hit it with the stick.  And covered it with tape per instructions.  Every day I'd add more of the stick stuff and cover it again.

The skin around the wart became avalanche white and chunks were flaking away.  That little sucker still held strong, like a snorting little volcano.  I kept at it until I was almost at bone.  There was nothing left in the space except dead white skin.  Not a bump of any kind.  I thought I had finally won the battle.  But now, as I write this, that sucker seems to be rearing his ugly little head once again.  Hydrochloric acid anyone? 

The chickens are all doing fine.  So is that damn rooster.  The six new additions are fully integrated into the flock and have started laying.  We're getting a nice assortment of egg colors these days.

We also just got our first green egg! 

Where does a green egg come from?  Well, besides Dr. Seuss's brain, a green egg comes from an Ameraucaca hen.  This first little green egg has also solved our ongoing second rooster riddle.

For the last couple years we've had a phantom rooster enjoin with Goldie and his early morning chorus.  A little weak, a little stunted, but there nonetheless.  But the little guy has never shown himself nor given any indication as to who he might be.  No noticeable outward signs have been apparent, at least to me.

And then we got the green egg, and then I got the aha!  We got an Ameraucana "hen" a couple years ago, at least I thought we did.  But we never got a green egg.  I think maybe I thought the feed store was wrong about the breed or something, because if she really was an Ameraucana we should have been getting green eggs.  Long ago.   I never thought "Flash" might be a he.

"Flash" was named by our Grandson, and he was real good buddies with a beautiful Speckled Sussex we unfortunately lost to heat.  He's a very friendly bird, not like the current alpha rooster.  He's also always been quite adventurous, but other than that, nothing to show that he was a he.  Comb, waddle, saddle feathers, aggressiveness.  Nothing unusual.  He just blended right on in with the girls.

Our first year garden has been a big hit.  We're getting tons of tomatoes, corn, potatoes, leeks, radishes, cukes, pumpkin, honeydew melon, crenshaw melon, watermelon and cantaloupe.  There's also a nice assortment of morning glory winding along the front fence.

I don't know if you read my earlier post regarding my corn crop this year, but I'm going to regale you once again because I have learned a couple of important things.  OK, at least one.

1-Don't pre-start your corn and then transplant the seedlings to the garden.  It will experience severely stunted growth, if any, and if you're lucky you may get a couple of those small ears you find in jars in the oriental food section of the grocery store.  Then, after they grow another 1 to 2 inches, they die.

But if you plant your corn seed directly in tilled soil it will flourish and award you with tall green plants and fresh, sweet corn.  Trust me.  I did all this quite by innocent accident this year, so I be knowing.  Also, if any of you would like organic, heirloom, non GMO and non-hybrid "Sugar Buns" (yellow) corn seed that is acclimated to Nevada County, let me know.  $5/100 plus kernels.

There have been a few other time consuming yet boring as hell projects that I won't regale you with.  But excitingly, I am in the process of planning an autumn road trip getaway for my lovely wife and I.  At last!  Besides some leisure time away with the one I love I will also have more food for my travel fodder folder.  That will all hopefully and eventually become Book Three and beyond, cause, like, I wanna be a travel writer when I grow up.
 

A Trip to My Kitchen

Since it may be a while before I travel anywhere else worthy of writing about, I figured this was a good time to visit an area of expertise I have threatened to visit before.  Yeah, besides being a Lumberjack, Jack of all trades and a fan of Jack Lemmon, sometimes I put on women's clothing and hang around in bars.  Kind of like Jack did in "Some Like it Hot".   Or maybe I just put on an apron and cook in the kitchen, although I have actually been in drag in a bar once.

Really.

I have visited one area of this expertise a couple years ago with Let's Get Sauced, which can be found there.  Just click on the link.  It's not really a story about debauchery, it's about about making sauce.

I've been cooking for over fifty years, give or take a year or two.  Granted, gourmet didn't come for a while.  But everybody has to start somewhere, you know, peanut butter and jelly land.  Actually, my penchant for combining unusual complimentary flavors began back when I put together a peanut butter and carrot sandwich.  I mean, peanut butter and celery went together.  And carrots and celery went together.  It seemed natural to a five year old that peanut butter and carrots should go together.

It wasn't my finest culinary achievement, but it was edible.

And then came ground beef.  Seven ways to Sunday.  My brother and I pretty much lived on Hamburger Helper the entire four years I was in high school.  We knew our way around that staple for sure.  And if we didn't cook it we probably weren't going to be eating anything, at least during the week.  DOM was a divorced mother of two, she had a job and worked late.  So we cooked the beef.

Some sophistication came to my cooking when I took a Boy's Chef class my senior year in high school.  I  learned about properly measuring ingredients and why peanut butter, tuna and pickles shouldn't be served in the same sandwich.

I actually took Boy's Chef twice my senior year.  It wasn't that I didn't pass the first time, I did.  It was more along the line that I only had two or three college entrance requirements left to do my senior year, the rest of my classes were all electives.  Since I didn't want to take Sewing the second semester I took Boys Chef again. 

Each semester I ended up having a different very good friend at the three person cooking station in class.  Naturally we all got A's, I mean, how hard is it to kanoodle a carrot?   We also pushed the envelope and had a rousing good time.  One morning, and we're talking first period 8:30 in the morning, a future CEO and internationally known expert in his field and I drank a bottle of Annie Green Springs wine in class.  Amidst all the cooking chaos.

 Annie Green Springs?  In class?  At 8:30 in the morning?  What were we thinking?  A bottle of Pinot Grigio would have gone much better with the meal we were preparing that day. 

Another howling hoot that compadre and I manifested upon the unsuspecting high school establishment happened during "cheese" day in class.  That morning we were introduced to a number of elegant, sophisticated and quite pungent cheeses.  One of which was Limburger.

You ever smell Limburger cheese?  It smells like a combination of a four hundred pound man's hairy stomach roll sweat, the toe jam that's been incubating inside his sweaty socks and a dead warthog whose guts have been exposed to the baking sun for hours.  Mmmmm, Limburger cheese.  It was foul, but it was also gold.

So my bud and I took a few little chunks of this precious stuff to our next class, which was Mythology.   Prior to class starting we wandered around, chatting with friends, putting a little dollop of Limburger about the size of a chewed up stick of gum under desk tops here and there throughout the room.  It wasn't bad during our class, but by early afternoon ALL the desks were outside and all the doors and windows of the room were open.  We were never suspected. 

The other semester allowed another life long chum and I to collaborate on some really silly literary ventures for my next class, Creative Writing.  After graduation we continued to collaborate on renowned invitations to renowned parties wherever I happened to be living at the time.

The upshot of all this is the literary sense of humor you see scrawled across these pages was actually born in a high school cooking class.  In case you were wondering and maybe seeking some correlation.  I know I don't understand.

I still have my Mother's all round basic Betty Crocker Cookbook I used back in my early cooking days.
It looks a lot like this,

only mine is really beat up.  Scuff marks, tape and food stains are everywhere.  This cookbook, by the way, circa 1969, contains the absolute best Meat Loaf recipe I have ever tasted, and I have tried more than a few.  I'll even order it in a restaurant from time to time, just to see what the chef is doing.  Naturally I have added a few touches of my own to Betty's version, which brings me to a point.

When you're cooking a "savory" dish, a little bit of this and a little bit of that is just fine.  Encouraged as a matter of fact, unless you get a little heavy handed with the pepper on my corn flakes.

When you're baking, you need to be precise with the batter ingredients.  After that you can play away.

For instance, when I make a coffee cake, I measure all the ingredients that will make up the cake batter of the recipe.  Then I'll usually toss some sort of fruit in the batter, like chopped apple or blueberries.  Then I top it x3.  I alwayas triple the topping of a coffee cake.  I usually triple the filling of cinnamon rolls too.  And once either of those sumptuous delights are out of the oven they get drizzled with icing.  Lots of icing.

Let's be clear.  When I want a sugar rush, I want to dance like Snoopy on a sunny day.  But I don't wanna have to eat the whole shebang to get there.  Think of the calories!  One or two slices or rolls should do, but let's be clear on something else.  If there's room in my stomach I'm gonna have three, even if I'm already tripping a light fantastic.

Cakes are another sweet treat I enjoy baking.  I have lovely, nine inch round commercial grade cake tins that bake batter wonderfully.  To make sure the cake releases properly, I always grease the pans with butter.  Sure, you can use Pam, but maybe she doesn't want to be bothered.  Besides, butter will impart a little more flavor.  I also put in parchment paper, grease again and finally dust the greased up pan and paper with flour or cocoa, depending if the cake is chocolate or not.  Scratch cakes, which is what I tend to make, tend to be a little denser than cake mixes, hence the extra care.

The last thing you want to have happen after lovingly creating a masterpiece is to not have the cake release properly.  Cause now you've got pieces of cake that you can only put in a pudding, and maybe that's not what you had in mind for the company coming that evening.  Plus, now you gotta make the pudding and you just used your last three eggs in the cake.  Which means a run to the store.  Which is a forty minute round trip cause you live in the country.  Ah, screw it.  There's some Ho Ho's in the pantry, those will have to do.

Why take the risk?  It only takes a couple minutes, and then you completely avoid a potential cake-tastrophe happening early in the game.  Cake-tastrophies, by the way, can occur at almost any time in the process.  Mine tend to occur getting the cake from here to there.

It's easy when it only has to move two feet into the fridge after creation.  I chill my cakes by the way.  It gives the frosting and fillings a creamy thick "ice cream" sort of aura and texture.  Plus, if the cake has to travel further than six feet to the table it travels better chilled.  More solid. 

I learned about traveling cake-tastrophes many moons ago, I think I was twenty at the time.  And a friend was getting married.  Kind of a hippy sort of thing.

I don't remember if I volunteered or was volunteered, but I was making the cake.  And I took it seriously.   I did my research, and since this was in the days before the internet I probably went to a library.  And a book store.  I also went to our local bakery for some tips.

When go time came I rented three round cake pans, big ones.  Wedding cake size and everything.  I baked the three descending layers, each a different complimentary flavor.  With complimentary fillings and icing.  Some of them rather unusual for a cake.  I think I had some flavor input from the bride and groom.  Probably after smoking a joint or two.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.  How about some peanut butter cream filling for the carrot cake layer?" I seem to recall coming from somewhere.  Or maybe that was something entirely different.  I wish I could recall exactly what I did because the cake got rave reviews.  Alas.  That, my friends, was a long, long time ago.

The big trick was getting the dang thing to the venue, which was about thirty miles from its point of creation.  Which was a bachelor pad without a fully equipped kitchen.  How the hell did I do this, anyway?  I'm beginning to think I'm making it all up. 

Anyway, another one of the invited guests and a roomie hopped in the back seat of my orange VW bug named "Edith".  There's a story there too, but I don't remember that either.  I don't even know anybody named Edith, then or now.  As far as you know.  But then this was the 1970's.  Anything could be possible.  Between the natural aging process and the fairly consistent ingestion of mind bending ethereal substances throughout that decade it's amazing I have a mind left at all, let alone a few casual memories. 

Once the human cake holder was in place in the back seat, another roomie and I carried out the three layer, foot and a half tall twenty pound beauty.  I had put it together on a foil wrapped chunk of plywood, which was good.  It definitely needed sturdy.

It was a long, precarious 35 MPH drive with lots of twists and turns.  There was some slippage and sliding.  A hand got involved.  So did a lap, a shirt and the seat of the car.  But nothing touched the floor.  So we had that going for us.

Once we got to the venue, we went to work.  With surgical precision I maneuvered the layers on center and sashayed the frosting back into sunshine and rainbows.  Rob went in search of some I Beams or Moonbeams or some other stout support, and probably some stout ale or Jim Beam because we both needed a drink by that time.

I forget what else went south, but Rob returned with home made cookies, store bought daisies and a six pack of malt liquor.  We placed the cookies around the bottom of each of the three layers for foundation support.  Then we interlaced the daisies around the cookies to hide any and all deformities.  All the while drinking malt liquor.  The cake ended up looking great.  Perfectly hippie great.  I actually got a compliment from the bride's mother.  She had called months earlier expressing concern I would be arriving with an ice cream sheet cake from Baskin Robbins.

I think part of the travel problem with those types of cakes is their thickness.  Plus a lot of frosting between layers doesn't help solidify the situation.  Unless it's chilled.  Then the frosting acts almost like concrete.

If pressed, I would admit to being a frosting and filling kind of guy.  I mean, who doesn't love frosting?  I like just the right amount of cake going along with just the right amount of frosting.  Your basic two layer cake usually ends up with too much cake for the amount of frosting per bite.  Per me.

To fix this problem I now slice each cake layer in half, diagonally, so I get four layers out of two.  They're usually about a half inch thick instead of an inch and I get a lot more surface to play with.  Many times I'll put some fruit between layer one and three, a cream filling in the middle and frosting all round the sides.  I can get at least three complimentary flavors going, with a variation of a fourth.

Like a go to for me is a really dense chocolate cake, four egg and a cup of butter dense.  I'll put some cherry or strawberry filling between layer one and three with an almond cream filling in the middle.  Topped with some form of chocolate frosting.  Many times I'll sprinkle each layer with a little Amaretto. 

This all came about because of a dessert bar at an all inclusive resort in San Jose del Cabo we visited about a decade ago.  It's what their pastry chef was doing with all their cakes.  Four layers with all sorts of games in between.  It was a major cake epiphany for me.  Good sugar rush too.  Nothing like having to eat cake for research's sake.

I do pies too.  I use butter in the crust instead of shortening.  Do you have any idea how bad shortening is for you?  I also add 1-2 T of sugar in a sweet pie crust.  Yeah, sugar is bad too, but at least it can get you high.  All shortening does is coagulate in your veins.

Then, depending on what the filling is, I will also add some spice to the crust mixture.  For instance, a little cinnamon, clove and/or nutmeg in an apple or cherry pie crust.  A little lemon zest and sugar in the flaky light crust of a blueberry pie.

I cut my pastry dough in a food processor.  I'll spin the dry ingredients to combine then add cut up ice cold butter.  Spin that until it's rightly mixed and transfer to a bowl.  I'll then add 1/2-1 T apple cider vinegar along with 2-3 T ice cold water.  Mix it up and form a ball.  The vinegar adds a nice, faint taste and also helps with texture.

Speaking of apple cider vinegar, who doesn't love buttermilk pancakes on a Saturday morning?  After five harried mornings of pop tarts and cold pizza you finally have a little time to slow down and enjoy a relaxing breakfast. 

Buttermilk pancakes.  Been thinking of them all week.  Hot off the griddle.  Drizzled with butter. Smothered with syrup.   Mmmmmmmh, buttermi.....

Uh oh.  Did you forget to put buttermilk on the shopping list?  Hell, it's not going to be a relaxing morning if you have to go to the store at 8:00 AM to get buttermilk.  Especially if you live in the country and the store is ten miles away.  Might as well just go to Denny's.

But if you have milk in the fridge and apple cider vinegar in the pantry, you've got buttermilk.  Simply add 1 tablespoon of apple cider vinegar to 1 cup of milk.  Stir and let it sit a couple minutes.  Buttermilk.  If you don't have apple cider vinegar in your pantry, get some.  You now have two uses for it.  Plus now you don't have to remember to buy a quart of buttermilk when you go to the store.  You can make it on demand.

One of my original go to fancy pants dinner recipes was Scampi.  I got the basic recipe from a long established restaurant at San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf.  It's the best.  Ever.  My lovely wife and I can no longer order it in a restaurant.  It's a flavor waster of gastronomical time.

Most Scampi you see out there is simply prawns sauteed in a garlic butter.  With maybe a shallot or two tossed in.  It's hard to go wrong with just garlic and prawns, but there can be more.

I dredge the prawns in flour before tossing into the crackling garlic butter.  A minute or two a side, and then I'll add about a cup of sweetish white wine, like a Riesling.  You can use any white wine, like the Chardonnay you're having with dinner, but the flavor is better with a sweeter variety.

Then I'll toss in some chopped scallions or shallots, squeeze in a teaspoon or two of lemon juice and stir for a couple minutes while the sauce thickens.  If done properly, you should end up with a nice, medium white wine & garlic flavored sauce to go along with your gorgeous prawns.  Goes great with wild rice or rice pilaf.  Asparagus or Brussel sprouts.  Total cooking time on the prawns, including sauce, should not exceed 6-7 minutes.  Too much longer and the prawns will have the texture of my two year old grandson's play toys.

If you're a guy and just starting out at the cooking console and want to impress a woman, you can't lose with a rendition of "Girlfriend Chicken."  I need to acknowledge the hilarious PJ O'Rourke for that term, although my recipe is different than his.  "Girlfriend Chicken" first appeared in print in PJ's now out of print tome for single guys, "The Bachelor's Home Companion." A Kindle version is currently available.  It's a must read for any college student or just out of high school beer guzzling service station attendant.

Basically you get a couple boneless chicken breasts.  You can buy breasts still on the bone if you want, but then you're going to have to take the bone off.  Have you ever done this?  It's a hassle.  Plus, if you're not using a really sharp trimming or boning knife chances are you'll be taking the tip off a finger as well.  Then you're gonna have to go to the ER so they can stem the hemorrhaging and try to sew the damn thing back on.  There goes seven hours of your life.

Just start with boneless.  It's safer and much less time consuming.

If you want to be macho and BBQ the breasts, then marinate them for half a day in a mixture of olive oil, minced garlic, lemon juice and a little of that Riesling left over from Scampi night.  BBQ away.

Or, if you want to show a more epicurean side, dredge the breasts in flour and fry in the olive oil.  Add the garlic, maybe shallots, lemon juice and Riesling.  Similar to the Scampi recipe, only it'll taste like chicken.

Right about the time I was seriously getting into cheesecakes and cream pies, a decade or so ago, I discovered I was lactose intolerant.  So I stopped making those and ventured elsewhere to seek my sugar mania.  But I recently made a discovery about five years ago that changed all that.  Lactards, pay attention!

First of all, cream pies and cheesecakes are a gas because of what you get to do with the crust.  Graham crackers, chocolate grahams, Nilla Vanilla's, ginger snaps, nuts, coconut, the list is almost endless.

Cheesecakes are still out for me though.  Yeah, there's a cream cheese substitute out there, but it's expensive as hell and the flavor is not up to my par.  But, there is a substitute for whipped cream I have discovered that allows me to make lovely and wondrous creations of creamy and custardy delight without sacrificing flavor or texture.  Two words.  Silk tofu.  Replace any called for whip cream with the same amount of soft, or silk tofu.  Simple as that.  Oh, and use lactose free milk for any other called for milk.

You may be skeptical, but I make a lactose free Bavarian Cream Pie and Tiramisu that I'll put up against anyone's.  And the original recipes are loaded with whipped cream.  So lactards, rejoice!  You can now enjoy a Boston Cream Pie without putting your intestines through a buzz saw. 

Just in case you're wondering, I BBQ and smoke stuff too.  Beef, turkey, pork, chicken, cigars.  You name it, I'll smoke it.  Although there are some items I think it would be a complete waste of time to smoke. 
Like jello.  I refuse to smoke jello.  On the grill or in a pipe.

Immunocal News

Glutathione, the body's master anti-oxidant, was featured in 2012 on an episode of Dr. Oz.  You can catch that here: Dr. OZ and Glutathione.   

Immunocal is scientifically proven to raise Glutathione levels in the body.

Homestead News

Boy Howdy, it's almost summer.  What have I been up to?  Well, a lot.  This year I cleared about a quarter acre of my neighbor's property so that our house now has a hundred foot clearance over yonder.  It's been a concern since we moved here.  That was huge, and a huge job.  Slash and burn, slash and burn.  It's the hardest work an old man can do around here.

Then, since it's the first year we are deer free, I've gone garden crazy.  I got started back in February with some corn seeds.  Since I wasn't sure how they'd sprout, I ended up with about 120 plants.  Did the same with tomatoes.  Anybody need or want an heirloom Beefsteak tomato plant?

Then there has been deployment of the corn in the ground, construction of several grow boxes, weed whacking and general all round maintenance.  This will be the second time in six years we've brought in help with the weed whacking.  Only he worked for a day and a half last week and then disappeared.  Looks like I'll get to play some more with that.  And since we had close to normal rainfall this year the weeds are no longer thigh high, they're just about eye high.

Sigh.

I've also been working on the Winchester Mystery Steps on the back cliff.  You know, steps that go up a cliff to seemingly no where and then abruptly stop.  They looked something like this.

  
It's been a process.   Drilling holes in the treated 4x4's, then pounding two foot long pieces of rebar through to hold the wood and bricks in place.

 

That's a lot of digging right there.  Just in case you wondering.  I've completed both top side laterals now, three and four steps respectively.  The ground was still a little moist underneath, I had to get it done.  Another week or two that earth will be like concrete.

Fortunately, I have an area I could put all the dirt, about 25 wheel barrow loads.  That will even out the over flow parking area.

On a less physically exhausting and bodily breaking note, we did pick up six new chicks in March.  We've added from two to four every year since we started the flock in 2012, and prior to this new batch we have the same amount of hens as what we started with.  Yeah, there's attrition.  And varmints.

The new girls have already been integrated into the main flock, although they all still want to sleep together in the companion cage, which is next to the main cage, which is fine with me.  They should be online and laying this fall, and in anticipation of this new influx of layers I have added three more nesting boxes in the hen house.

The front and back decks have both been washed and oil finished for another year, I just need to get everything back up on them.  Potatoes, tomatoes, corn, pumpkins, melons, leeks, radishes, onions, spinach, lettuce and zinnias are in the ground.  So are the raspberry plants I've been harboring for a couple years.  More stuff will be going in soon.

Next up, besides 20-30 more hours of weed whacking, will be planting drought tolerant yellow and white blooming perennials on the hillside above the back lawn and on either side of the new stairway to infinity.  Then I've got to refinish an old oak antique table for the back yard.  Might do a blog post on that one.  It's another creative re-purpose whisperer type dealio.  My lovely wife's eye.  All this by Dad's Day.

Then, nah, forget it.  Rest assured there's a ridiculous amount of upcoming to do's.  We live in the country, it's what we do.  There are a few minor upcoming excursions on tap though and I shall hopefully be able to strip some veneer from them and squeeze some funny out.  I'll keep you posted.

Happy summer of 2016 y'all.  

When the Going Gets Tough

When the going gets tough, the tough always go to Mexico.  At least that's what we tough ones do.  We were going to go to Pajaro Dunes, an enclave of condos between Santa Cruz and Monterey on the sunny, central California coast.  My lovely wife's folks used to own one of the condos there when our kids were little.  We vacationed there every year for quite a few years.  The location is stellar and the price of zero was certainly right back then.

But as I perused the available condos for the specific time allotted, I discovered Pajaro Dunes was not an inexpensive proposition anymore.  Tough prices.  So on a whim and chocolate croissant I decided to do a quick Hotwire and Priceline search just to see what was up.  And Puerto Vallarta, Mexico came up.  At an all-inclusive Riu resort.  For less than a condo at Pajaro Dunes for the same amount of time.  Yeah.  We could fly all the way to Puerto Vallarta and spend a week at the all-inclusive Riu Jalisco resort for less money than a week at a condo on the coast.  AUFKM?

We landed another stellar deal to Mexico about a decade ago under similar circumstances.  We had some time but had no idea where to go.  Vacillate here, procrastinate there.  And then suddenly we were within a week of our specific time and no where to go.  And that's when, apparently, some bargain basement deals can be found, at least to Mexico.  Boom.

I had to monkey with the flights a little bit from the original package, which brought the prices up a little bit too.  I've found your bargain basement flight price on almost every travel package is always a little bit funky.  Like they always want to fly you to Topeka or Des Moines, even if your final destination is Anchorage.  And you're leaving from Seattle.  But even with the flight massage AND the fact American charged us a total of $100 for our luggage to and fro we were still under Pajaro prices.  And Pajaro prices did not include food and drink for a week.

How could the tough not go to Mexico?

I NEED to mention that American Airlines was also playing a pretty sneaky game.  I went online to get seat assignments and the only ones they showed that were still available had extra leg room but also cost an additional $25 to $65.  I thought that was absurd.  We already had tickets.  If those were the only seats left I kinda figured that they'd have to seat us in them.  You know, whatever was remaining.  Cause, like, we already had tickets.  So on another whim and buttermilk biscuit I decided to not do a dang thing.  Hold 'em.

We waited until we checked in and amazingly we ended up in an exit row with extra leg room at no extra charge.  Go figure.  The poker paid off.  AND, the flight was not even sold out.  Sneaky bastards.

One of the big drawbacks for me about flying is that I hate everything about it.  First of all, I don't understand how a multi ton steel vessel goes up in the air.  Yeah, I know, it has something to do with that time-space continuum thing and some physics.  Velocity too, and maybe some grape jello.  Or something like that.  But I'm a writer, not a scientist, so I don't understand.  I don't even like grape jello.

Then there's the thing about being herded into a confined space with a bunch of self-absorbed, inconsiderate buffoons.  You know, the ones who bring everything on board with them, including their kitchen sink, so they don't have to spend an extra $25.00 or wait ten minutes for their luggage.  Instead, they spend ten minutes on board trying to shove all their crap in the over head bin.  Which then makes the remaining 76 people trying to board wait, standing patiently frustrated in line behind them, like so many sardines in a tin freaking can.

We usually like to wear more than one shirt and one pair of pants when we vacation, so our bags won't, under any circumstances, fit in the over head bin.  We always check our bags.  I bring a back pack on board that has everything I need in flight.  Fits under the seat in front.  Or on my lap.  My lovely wife brings an extra satchel.  Fits under the seat.  Or on her lap.  No over head bin needed here, which is good, because Morty and his family just took up all the bin space around us for three rows.  

The flights were uneventful, which is good.  Usually if they're eventful next of kin has to be notified.  Or the press.  Police.  All the above.  There's paperwork, suspicion and innuendos.  Who needs that?   Especially if we're going on vacation and totally want to avoid suspicion.  Or getting blown up for that matter.

We picked up a cab at the Puerto Vallarta airport per instructions at Ihatetaxis.com.  If you've never visited this site, you should.  They have scoped out just about every commercial airport on the planet.  Possibly even Mars.  They offer advice about picking up taxi's at every location, including approximate costs to get from here to there. That way you are armed and hopefully won't be paying forty bucks for a ten dollar ride, which has happened to this gringo in a couple different countries.

They also offer a shuttle service at every airport.  I have utilized that service in France and have used their knowledge and expertise for airports in the US and Mexico several times.  They have been spot on every time.  I highly recommend perusing this site to anyone making travel plans by air.

We love Mexico; the ambiance, the air, the food, the culture.  We figure we've down there at least fifty times over the course of our lives.  Sometimes just over the border, sometimes deep.  We were down in Puerto Vallarta in 1975 for the honeymoon of our first marriage together.

First marriage together?  Yeah, there's a story there.  You can find that here: Late Night Letters to the Moon

I think there were about a half dozen resorts on the beach back then.  There's about a hundred now.  The Riviera Nayarit, a several mile long strip of sand north of Puerto Vallarta wasn't even on a map back then.  That's where the Riu, as well as many other resorts, are located.  It's real built up and busy now, in a relaxed, south of the border bougainvillea kinda way.  

We love the Riu chain of resorts too.  We first experienced the Riu Palace in Cabo with some friends in 2013, it was fabulous.  We love the unlimited epicurean delights.  We love the unlimited tropical drinks.  We love the impeccably manicured grounds.  And we especially love the fact that all we have to do is enjoy it and relax.

The all-inclusive resort type experience might not be for everybody.  But if you're looking for a hassle free relaxing good time in a tropical locale you might want to check out a Riu, especially if you like to drink.  That part is now lost on me, although they do make a half dozen non alcoholic tropical rum drinks.  Without the rum of course.  I landed on one that was sort of like a fruity mint julep.  Quite tasty and refreshing.

Speaking of non-alcoholic tasty fresh fruity mint juleps, every time I've stayed at an all-inclusive resort I become pretty well known to most of the bartenders.  Almost a celebrity.  Why?  Certainly not because I'm extraordinarily tall and wear bright, colorful wigs everywhere.  No.  It's more along the line that I'm probably the only adult there at that time not drinking alcohol. 

"Ah, Mr. Coca Cola."

"Ah, Mr. Fruity Mint Julep."

"Ah, Mr. Virgin Mary."

My lovely wife usually tries to make it through their entire tropical drink menu.  But usually after three or four days of fruity sweet concoctions she has to opt for a basic gin Martini.  Very dirty.

We checked in, got our all important key to the highway plastic wrist band and checked out our room.  It was quite roomy.  With a king bed and handsome linen.  There was a mini fridge with lots of bottled water, soda and cerveza.  There were also four basic bottles of booze on tap.  Rum, tequila, vodka, rum.  All included.  A beautiful, quiet jungle view.  Away from the chaos.  An in-room safe to secure the cash and credit cards. 

We unpacked our bags, put on shorts and sandals and went on a basic resort reconnaissance mission.  The first part of that mission was to explore the tropical drink menu at one of the half dozen bars scattered throughout the resort.  Obviously we hit the first one we came to, which was located right off the very large open air lobby.  With drinks in hand we decided to wander out towards the ocean, which was a couple football fields away from the seven hundred room, seven story, U shaped Mediterranean looking facility.

The first football field contained a lovely almost as long fountain and water feature with a wide sidewalk on either side.  Outside the concrete walk was impeccably manicured Bermuda grass, with lovely, lush and lightly swaying palm trees scattered throughout.  This was the courtyard the high paying customers got to view.  The discount folks like us got an almost as impressive outside jungle view.  I'll look at a jungle in peace and quiet any day on a steal and a deal.  Actually, I'd probably pay more.

The second football field is where the activity began.  It started with the outdoor theater that probably seats a couple hundred.  Every night of the week the entertainment staff at the resort puts on a fairly decent one hour show.  They also bring in outside and quite talented almost professional entertainers.  Each night has a different flavor too.  For instance, we caught a Michael Jackson tribute night and an opera themed show another night.  There's also a Broadway themed show and so on.  There's a lot of music, singing and dancing.  The three shows we saw were quite entertaining.

There were two bars at the theater and an Italian themed restaurant across the wide walk.  Next to the Italian restaurant was a disco lounge.  There was a bar in there as well as dancing until all hours of the night.

Then came the two massive amoeba shaped pools ringed by palm thatched umbrellas and hundreds of chaise lounges.  One pool was adult orientated with a swim up bar, the other kid orientated with a water slide island in the middle.  The gym and spa were next to the kid pool, and then there was another restaurant overlooking the beach and ocean nearby.

There was also a recreation shack on the beach.  There you could get a kayak or go wind surfing, all included with the wrist band.  There were other activities as well, so if you are a go getter when kicking back there's plenty of stuff to do besides drink.  We're more of the book reading types while roasting our flesh poolside when we kick back.  You know, we kick back.  Relax.  Intermixed with a little adventure now and then.  That's kind of our travel style in a tropical locale. 

The beach hosted a multitude of real palm trees for shade and there were many chaise lounges there as well.  We sat down together on one with tropical drinks in hand and listened to the rhythmic sound of the surf.  A light ocean breeze tickled our fancy.  Ah yes, tropical resort life!  It was all coming back to me.  It sounded a lot like this: Back to the Island.

After we got our feet wet in the much warmer than Northern California Pacific Ocean, we wandered back through the lovely grounds to the huge facility.  The main buffet restaurant was located there on ground level, as were two other "themed" restaurants, Mexican and Asian.  With the Italian restaurant and the Ocean buffet there were easily over a hundred entree choices available for dinner every night.  On site.  There was also a sports bar that served snacks 24 hours a day.  Just in case you needed a cocktail and food fix at four AM.

We pretty much ate at the main buffet every night.  The selection there was so vast it was nearly impossible to double up on anything, unless you wanted to.  A half dozen meats, a half dozen sea food items, vegetable offerings, starch offerings, it was endless.  There were probably fifty hot food items available on any given night.   This wasn't Hometown Buffet either.  This was highly consumable cuisine.

Did I mention the salad bar was always outrageous?  I lived there.  You could build your own with an assortment of vegies and there were a half dozen assorted ready made offerings as well.  One night there were four different kinds of ceviche.  How could you have room for steak?  Or port glazed carrots?

And the dessert bar?  I lived there too.  Over a dozen choices every night.  Which, I might add, was about the number I tried every night.  How could I not?  I was in a sugar sweet heavenly retreat.  And I didn't have to make one, although I always go home with a few ideas to play with.

Yeah, some folks weld.  I bake. 

That first night though we were coerced into the Mexican buffet by a very nice young gentleman.  What the hell.  We love that cuisine too.  That buffet was also vast and entirely fabulous.  Just about everything you'd see on a menu at a Mexican restaurant here in the states was readily available.  And really good too.  I mean, those native Mexicans sure know how to make real great tasting Mexican food.  Know what I mean?

Over tacos, tostadas, tamales, buckets of guacamole and more, we decided the next day would be a total unwind day.  Poolside.  I mean, we were in the wild and hectic world of buffoonery all day.  We needed to get an initial dose of relaxation.  Mosey on down to Resort Town poolside and check out the scene.

The next morning I discovered one needs to get to Resort Town poolside early and stake a claim or one may be sitting on one's hands on the beach all day.   I think I meandered down to the adult pool around 9 AM after a resounding breakfast of a few slices of melon and papaya.  Yeah, it may be all inclusive and all you can eat, but that was all I could eat.  What can I say?  Not a big breakfast kind of guy.

I got the pool towels and then went on a hunt for a couple available chaise lounges.  You'd think it would be easy since there were a couple hundred around each pool, but it wasn't.  I think I found the last two that weren't reserved.

The hotel expressly forbids reserving lounges, but it's practiced routinely, at least the week we were there.  Folks were bouncing down there at 7:00 AM and putting their towels or other items on the chaises to reserve them.   Our two were in the back row, which was just fine with me.  No need to be front and center in Resort Town.

The pool area was kind of quiet in the morning hours.  It was nice.  Rather than loud music and louder still boisterous, drunken conversation, we were serenaded by these black birds that looked similar to crows in shape and size.  Except their voices were quite melodic.  Instead of a brazen "Caw-Caw" they sang a lovely "Coo-Coo".  They sounded a lot more like Bocelli, while a crow sounds sort of like Bocephus.  If I were to make a totally random and irrelevant observation regarding bird sounds and human entertainers.

See what leisure time brings to me?

People-watching at airports, blues concerts and bingo parlors is some of the best, but people watching at Resort Town poolside is even better.  Probably because most of the people are almost naked, I guess.  There's no where to hide.

And there were all sorts of almost naked people.  Big ones, little ones, round ones, thin ones.  Tall, short, old, and new.  Every size, shape and hair color imaginable too.    

There were lots of almost naked nationalities too.  Lots of foreign languages were being spoken everywhere. Spanish was the most prevalent, but then there was also French, German, and Canadian.

Eh?  An utterance which Canadians seem to unabashedly and humorously acknowledge, unless they were actively engaged in utilizing.  

One of the best sightings for me on the first day was the reasonably fit middle-aged lady in a one piece swimsuit.  She was walking along towards the pool rolling a little portable O2 canister behind.  A nasal cannula was affixed under her nostrils.  One of her hands held the handle to the rolling O2.  The other hand held a pack of smokes and a lighter.

That's like seriously overweight folks who wear sweatpants to a buffet.  Has impulse and desire totally overtaken sanity and appropriate attire?

As the morning progressed, so did resort town's population.  Most all the reserved lounges contained glistening bodies by eleven, as did the pool.  Music was blaring from a couple loud speakers.  From "Butterfly Kisses", which we were blessed with twice one day, to "Takin it Easy",  to Katy Perry to "Spirit in the Sky".  With some disco and cartwheels in between.

Somebody needs to talk with their DJ.  But hey, it's Resort Town, alcohol included.  It didn't matter.  With enough alcohol anything could blast out of the loudspeaker and be relevant in some sort of way to somebody.  It didn't matter what was playing as long as it had some sort of beat. 

Oiled up human bodies were everywhere.  Sun screen manufacturers would be joyful.  And the colors?  On one side there were flesh colors ranging from tan to brown to coco bronze.  Then there were the ones that ranged from white to pink to a blazing bright, ooh I am so glad that's not me red.  And all ranges in between.

Everyone has their own resort town style too.  From speedos to board shorts to ankle length cargo shorts for men, bikini's to exotic one piece suits to tents for women.  And lots and lots of tattoos these days.  On both men and women.  They were everywhere.  It was the perfect opportunity and venue to showcase body artwork, especially if the artwork was located on a part of the body not usually exposed in a business boardroom.  Or the grocery store.  It was OK to strut most all your stuff at resort town. 

There was a lot of self-consciousness, which happens I guess when you're parading around in public in your swimsuit.  Pretty much baring it all, with some suits leaving very little to the imagination.  But then I think there was just as much I don't really give a shit as there was concern about physical appearance.  Plus, for most folks it was possible to consume enough alcohol every day to allow them not to really give a shit about their appearance.  Or anything else for that matter.

Speaking of attire, you could always tell the newcomers to the resort, the folks that just rolled in off the plane.  They arrive at all hours of the day.  And they go exploring, just like we did.  They're the ones that are  fully dressed with their shoes and socks on.  Looking quite out of place as they walked through a wasteland of glistening, semi-nude, half lit baking bodies.  Yep, new kids.  Somebody give 'em a drink.

At least when we went on our first recon mission we had the good sense and moral decency to put on shorts and sandals, and grab a drink.  But then, we've been to resort town before and know what's required.

Sigh.  It was tough, real tough.  But that's why we were there.  Read.  Bake.  People watch.  Swim.  Drink.  Eat.  Read.  Bake.  People watch.  Swim.  Drink.  You get the picture.  That kind of arduous routine always allows me to unwind, much quicker than a kayaking excursion would.  But as we baked and relaxed, we also decided we'd take a trip into town the next day.  Exploration and adventure!  We'd be rested and ready.

You may be wondering what I read when I'm relaxing.  I like non-fictional suspense, so I read "The Crash of 2016".  It's compelling.  And y'all wonder why this 60 year old is building a homestead?

In the meantime, just when I thought all the fabulous people watching might get boring the recreation crew started an in-pool exercise la bamba class.  This was where mostly semi-inebriated middle aged women did some sort of in-pool calisthenics for a half hour so they could get their heart rate up and really catch a buzz.  It was mildly entertaining for a while, but after a fashion they began to make a lot of annoying grunts and whistles.  So we went to lunch.

Wifi was available for free in the cavernous, open air lobby.  There would be a number of folks in there at any given hour cyber communicating.  Or looking at porn.  There were also a half dozen computers available for use in the sports bar.  The internet was available, but we were in Mexico.  I left my tablet in the safe the entire week and didn't visit cyberville at all.

The silver and lavender decor of the lobby was a throwback to the cocaine fueled disco era of the 80's when bright lavish colors fused with anything metallic.   At night, the three foot tall ordinarily white cylindrical bases of the lobby's pillars were lit in lavender, which reflected everywhere on the metallic trim and surfaces.  The only thing missing was Donna Summer and a big white pile of go go fuel on the massive glass table in the middle of the room. 

That next day we took a cab ride into town.  Even though we could have rented a car for ten bucks for the entire week, the mandatory Mexican auto insurance would have cost us at least thirty bucks a day.  We did the math.  We were only going to travel one or two days, cabs would be fine.  Plus I wouldn't have to drive.

So watch those travel site lead ins.  All the leading car rental agencies were offering deals from $9 to $20 per WEEK in Mexico.  But when you get to the rental car counter at your destination they suddenly hit you with some exorbitant insurance rates.  Yeah, yeah, your state side auto insurance and credit card will cover you.  Maybe in the states, but not so in Mexico.  Beware!

The last time we were in Puerto Vallarta was in 1975, back when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor maintained a residence on the upper crust hillside overlooking the town and bay.  As a matter of fact, we literally almost ran into Liz one day when we were touring the town in a rental car. 

It was a sleepy city back then, it has certainly sprawled since.  But the old, touristy part of town is still very much intact.  The area is littered with many curio shops as well as Pharmacias.  As a matter of fact, there were little pharmacies on every block.  And around the corner and across the street from each other.  They were everywhere.  Just like Starbucks.  Here.  

It's no wonder.  Many expensive prescription meds here can be bought over the counter there for a fraction of the cost.  With so many shops I'm going to assume business is good.

We also visited the very quaint and beautiful Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic church.  It sits right at the border of the old town tourist district on a small city lot.  It is one of the city's most endearing landmarks and a must see if in Puerto Vallarta.  There was a lot of activity there when we stopped by.  A guided tour, a few parishioners and a charity organization were all vying for a bit of its beauty and attention.  The charity gauchos were actually vying for our attention, which they got.  And received.

When we returned to the hotel I decided I needed a dip in the ocean.  Get a little salt on my body.  Which I did.  I was able to body surf on one MASSIVE three foot wave, but the two footers after that just didn't quite seem to be worth the effort.

It was quite windy on the beach when I went in, so I decided to mosey into resort town to see if there were any available lounges.  I mean, it was late afternoon.

The adult pool, however, was still smokin.  The bar was ABLAZE.  4:00 PM was, apparently, the adult pool's finest hour.  It glistened, as did a couple hundred semi-clad inebriated individuals in full, ribald glory. Unabashed and unafraid.  It was loud, obnoxious, and boisterously insane.  No thanks, not now.

I checked the scene at the almost as large kids pool.  It was much quieter and I found a chaiser.  Once set, I took a dip in the pool to replace all that natural salt with unnatural chlorine.  I found the kids pool was noticeably warmer than the adult pool.  I don't know if that can be attributed to the fact the Riu warms it up for the smaller tykes or the smaller tykes just warm it up for themselves.  If you know what I mean.  I didn't go back in that pool again.

The next day was another resort town day.  Adventure, relax.  Adventure, relax.  We were gonna simply hang out and enjoy all the ambiance the Riu had to offer.  And it was splendid.  Speaking of splendid-, we did not eat indoors the entire time we were there.  We dined al fresco ad infinitum.  

The next day we decided to take a taxi up to Sayulita, a "magical" little town north of Puerto Vallarta.  Our cabbie on the ride into town two days before suggested it, and the concierge at our hotel called Sayulita "magical".  

It takes a twenty-five mile cab ride through the jungle to get there.  Or you could take a mule.  But that would take a lot longer.  Even as it stands there is no way to get there quick.  The two lane main highway north is very curvy and invariably gets slowed on either side by a semi or bus.  I saw a line of thirty cars behind a semi going the other way.  It can be a real slow motion horror parade to some.

We were about eighth behind a truck on the way to Sayulita and there was a black Cad Expedition a couple cars behind us.  They started the exhaustive process of passing one to two cars at a time, eventually landing freedom about a quarter mile in front of us.  Just as we hit the turn off to Sayulita and right where the highway split into four lanes.  It's a timing thing.

We found Sayluta quite charming.  You can easily spend a half day to the rest of your life in this sleepy little surf and beach village.  No big resorts though.  There were a number of small, boutique hotels in the town, and there were tons of little, teeny cobblestone street, four table cafes.  They were everywhere.  So were curio shops.  And pharmacias.  Once again.  Anywhere tourists might flock, there were going to be some drugs available.

We strolled through the village in mid morning; it was vibrant and beginning to bustle.  I got a feeling though that come evening those cobble stone streets get real lively and tequila'd up.  If we were 20 to 40 years younger I could see us easily spending a week or two under Sayulita's magical spell.

Upon return to the Riu we stopped in for a little late lunch buffet.  It was here I had a realization and made an observation regarding the Riu's cuisine.

The Riu Palace in Cabo had better food.  Don't get me wrong, the food at the Riu Jalisco was fine.  It was great as a matter of fact.  But the Palace was better.  Better flavor.  Better texture.  Better selection.  If that could even be possible.  And they also serve top shelf, name brand alcohol, which the Jalisco did not.

But the Palace version of the Riu is also more expensive.   So, if you are an epicurean couple who enjoys fine dining, spend the extra bucks and stay at a Riu Palace.  They have a number of that version in many different locations.  You will not be disappointed.  But if you're traveling with a handful of kids or a bachelor/ bachelorette party, any Riu will be more than just fine.

The last day of our vacation I arose ahead of my lovely wife and scampered down to reserve a couple chaises.  It was going to be another total kick back, resort town kind of day.  With that project done, I went to the sports bar to get a couple coffees and an OJ.  Those coffees would help us get down to the restaurant for more coffee and the OJ would allow us to mix up our Immunocal, which we can take with us anywhere.  Besides raising glutathione levels in the body, it tastes great!  Just like an Orange Julius when mixed right.

Once quite casually dressed, we wandered down to the breakfast buffet.  Pancakes, waffles, muffins and rolls.  Omelets, sunny side, over easy, four or five different quiches, sausage, bacon, jamon.  A dozen different cereals.  A yogurt bar.  Literally, any breakfast item you can think of.  If it's not yet made, someone will make it for you.  If it's not yet invented, they probably do that too.

I had a few slices of melon and papaya from the fruit bar again.  Can't bribe this old dog with tempting tricks.

Besides those ultra health conscious tidbits I had for breakfast every morning, I also decided early on that I would do just a little bit of exercise while I was at the resort.  The hell with the gym though.  I chose to walk the 28 steps up and down the stairs from the disco lobby to the restaurant and ground level six times a day rather than take the elevator. Plus it was a mile and a half to the beach.  That's all the exercise I need when on vacation.  The Riu is about leisure, so I don't want to disappoint.

The Riu Jalisco on spring break week was like Disneyland without the rides.  From babies to incredibly self-conscious teens, kids were everywhere. Twelve and under were free, but with unlimited food I would think there could be some savings.  At least with teen boys.  That first day there was a couple from Australia with four teenage boys next to us poolside.  I would think the money they'd save by not having to feed those boys for a week at home paid for at least one of their tickets.

We were fine with all the kids, we're grand parents.  Plus everyone seemed to be on their best behavior, I don't think we ran into any outrageous misbehavior the entire week.  Even by drunk adults.

There were a lot of Canadians at the resort too.  Probably more of them than any other nationality.  We chatted with a couple from Winnipeg, Canada that last morning.  Canadians love Puerto Vallarta.  They have direct flights from there to there all the time.  We live in California and had to two hop down.  They lived four times as far and flew direct.  Go figure.

They were also quite amused by our presidential electoral process.  It goes on FOREVER.  Theirs only lasts three months.   They also expressed concern about a couple of the candidates.  We concurred with their concern.  Who knows, we could end up neighbors of theirs if things don't go our way.

There were a number of mid-westerners from the US too.  They wondered why the heck we Californians needed to get away from all our sun.  We said because the going got tough.

My lovely wife, a cat whisperer, had the pleasure of being able to visit with a small feral cat colony of four or five cats and kitties.  They were always around the outdoor dining patio in the evening, looking for scraps.  That last day poolside we were also treated to a half dozen iguana sightings.  They would amble out of the bushes and mosey along the impeccably manicured lawns, looking for bugs.  Or cats.  I mean, some of them were close to three feet long. 

We could not have asked for better weather.  March in Mexico is heavenly.  The temps ranged from about 68 degrees at night to 82 at the afternoon zenith.  It gets quite a bit warmer as summer progresses though.  Probably get some good rates then.  Just live in one of the pools.

The flights home were also uneventful.  Except for the tequila confiscation.  Which was a total catch-22.

After we were through security we picked up a couple gift bottles at the Puerto Vallarta airport.  They were wrapped up and sealed.  I put them in my back pack which ended up under the seat in front of me.

When we got to Dallas we breezed through customs, but when we were through they kicked us out to a main area of the airport.  So we had to go through security again.  With big bottles of liquid.  We had no idea. We could have shipped them for more than their worth, but passed.  So some TSA agent in Dallas is gonna be catching a nice buzz on us one of these days if they haven't already.

Three hours later we were on our last plane homeward bound.  We got home and were in bed by eleven.  But, you know, if we lived in Canada, which is a lot further away, we'd have been in bed sooner.  You know, direct flight, no layover.

PS If I were ever to move to Canada, I would move to Saskatchewan.  I would then open a Schezwan restaurant.  I would call it "Saskatchewan Schezwan".

Ye Olde Homestead Update


It's spring.  I'm busier then hell right now.  I need two of me.  And a goat.  Anybody got a goat they want to rent out for a week or two?

Plus my bro-in-law, Richard Harris, is running for County Supervisor.  I'm helping him out behind the scenes.  I'll have a spare ten seconds this November.  Maybe.

I want to close out this post with an absolutely wonderful version of a very old classic, "Dancing in the Moonlight" by Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds.