I DO (like London)

Topping off the vacation with a picnic of Neal's Yard Cheddar,

fresh bread and very garlicy cornichon on a bench in Green Park on a sunny December day

There are coffee shops everywhere! (There is also a lot of tea and ale, but never mind). The parks have huge WELL tended plantings of flowers in Mid-December. The museums are also everywhere, spectacular AND FREE (the churches are NOT but just ignore that). The Royal presence is quite subtle. The BBC is live. People here are nice (there are a few loud drunks at night but they're walking [or attempting to] NOT driving). There are all kinds of people, all sorts, different colors, and ALL with English accents.

They all seem to really enjoy Christmas.

I Like London.

- - - David (reporting from the United Kingdom)

A Londony Christmas at last

The preparations continue. We are leaving tomorrow for Jolly Ol' London, the weeks of getting ready are about to crescendo. The suitcase is on the bed and there's actually something in it! Do you think B will notice that I've packed his Cashmere jacket?

Besides tour books, essential toiletries and that jacket, I'm packing light. I will just head straight to Harrod's for anything else I need. I am happy to live in the jeans in which I'm flying and to live on English shortbread.

I wouldn't mind a bit of Dickens. A little Oliver, a touch of Scrooge. We Americans grow up (and grow old) living in London a bit each Christmas. It may be through someone else's imagination and the accents may be staged but somehow Christmas wouldn't the same without a teeny Tiny Tim and coal on the fire.

Seeing London for ourselves (at last) should put us right in the mood for a bit of flaming pudding in Adrian.

---David

How I lived since my Summer Vacation

On SOME plane going SOMEwhere

I think I may be neglecting the blog.

Do you miss me? Probably not. You must think that I am so busy. Truth is I stay at home, tag along with Brian on trips (which tends not to be as often as I'd like), take a LONG time to do anything "normal" and practice my A.D.D. whenever possible.

Want to do a load of laundry? First I end up doing 100 other extraneous and often unnoticeable chores and somehow the clock has gone from 7 AM to 7PM, I'm exhausted and the laundry is still dirty. FML as the kids would write.

Let's see, since the trip to get the 100 year old mounted Caribou head (still not on the wall) we've
visited friends in Seattle and Chicago,
done the Equality March in DC (visiting friends there too)
had a Birthday (as have many of you)
celebrated Halloween and honored Dios de los Muertos
been on facebook so many times I think I may have an issue

I attempted to go through all the photos and update the iWeb blog but the "Genius" at the Apple store that had the iMac for 2 days (the 1st time) and charged Brian $65 (the 1st time) not only disabled the blog access (along with all sorts of other things including all my flagged email) and screwed up my iTunes, STILL didn't fix my iCal and now I can't Sync my phone. GRRRR as GinGin would "say"
So I was too frustrated and infuriated to be creative. This entry is the result.

Let's just say there are a LOT of great photos and memories of the past few months and let me know if you want more details.

- - - David

Ruffing It with the Grrls

Our room, however temporary, with a view

Tent: Origin Middle English: from Old French tente, based on Latin tent- ‘stretched,’ from the verb tendere. Which looks like tender, as in “showing gentleness and concern or sympathy” HAH I say HAH . . . HAH.

It all began gently enough. Ann had invited us for the weekend to camp in her woods in the Adirondacks. Brian had bought the tent, almost a year ago, in hopes of camping out on the way to our wedding. (It had yet to leave the backyard.) We drove out and in clear PERFECT woodsy weather had pitched the tent on the leafy pine needle ground of the Arcadian, historic, pastoral countryside.

We had dinner, talked and laughed with our gentle hostess and climbed into the spacious accommodations with our two fur coated roommates. The moonlight shone through the diaphanous ceiling, the loons called from the lake, everyone was snug. Then the rain began.

It was gentle enough, some would say sympathetic even. We remembered not to touch the walls lest it encourage a leak, though bug chasing dog noses didn’t heed that rule. The bugs and the noses would “entertain” us for 2 nights.

I kept slipping off the air mattress too. This would be fun for you normal folk. For a dizzy headed do nothing like me, reclining itself is a bit of a challenge. Laying on the ground in the too dim night light of the Coleman lantern was enough. Laying on the ground in a tent in the woods in the rain AND swoon-slipping off the damn thing was a bit much for stroke-boy. But I simply smiled a clenched toothed smirk and threw the f**king thing out of the tent and went to powder my nose in the trees . . . in the rain. This is when the low animalistic growls greeted me mid-powder. Intellectually I knew this was, probably, merely Ann’s aging, cautious Pug snugly calling from her nearby tent. Nonetheless, I reacted like it was a voracious hostile Yogi looking for my picnic basket. Mid-powder I dove into the tent. B diplomatically swallowed any amusement.

We spent the next day in bright sunshine. Touring the grounds, visiting town, brunching at one of the jaw dropping clubhouses, and enjoying a club-wide picnic dinner top off by a pancake dessert. I never knew the rich could be so entertaining. I never knew you could put melted butter, maple syrup AND brown sugar on a pancake.

That night, like clockwork, the rain began the moment we bedded down in the tent. This time we were entertained by bug chasing, nose pokes AND supernatural uninhibited rolling thunder. (We thought the loons had been loud.) And I refrained, despite my engaging needs, from taking a powder.

Monday dawned pastorally and B packed up the tent, loaded the Caribou onto the roof while I busied myself snapping pics on my iPhone (someone has to attend to the art) . . . and off we went.

Happy, grateful, still full of pancakes, and ecstatic that we have a tent in the storm.

- - - David

A Little About the Camp at Little Moose Lake

Looking-out for the Little Moose

So, we drive all the way to the mid-Upstate NY with two dogs mainly to pick up a 100 year old Caribou head but that’s not the whole story. What is a nice girl from Graaaand Rapids doing in the Adirondacks, and inviting people such as us to visit? Let me give you a brief history.

Ann and I moved to NYC in 1979 after graduating from the U of M (I did live in LA for half a year then I graduated, I changed my mind about locations, she graduated and we went). We lived on the upper East Side in a nice “garden” apartment, actually I lived there twice. After I met Michael there and moved out, about ’84, Ann met and married Milo Williams in ’89. He was a descendant of one of the founders of Sherwin-Williams, which was started by Henry Sherwin and Edward Williams in 1866. The Adirondeck League Club was founded as a hunting and fishing camp and became a get-away for many. I don’t know when the venerable Williams clan built their “camp” at the ALC but I think it was right around then.

I was at Ann and Milo’s wedding in 1989 at the “boathouse” of the “Summer Lodge” at the ALC. I was shot in the heart by the rustic beauty of the “camp”, the lodge and the 50,000+ acres of American history. If you’ve ever been enchanted by the beauty of an Adirondack chair or the magic of the Adirondack “style”, imagine being surrounded by the real thing. Back when it was founded the privileged families (at first the men only) took trains up to Saratoga (where the tracks stopped) and then barged, boated, horsed and hiked to these elaborate compounds (at first just the lodges) in their victorian versions of L.L.Bean.

The architecture is mainly brown with green highlights, wooden and timbered. The furniture is twiggy, rustic, Stickley, Mission, with a smattering of refined period but not purist. The people are upper crusty and very nice and extremely friendly. What’s a Polish boy from Motown, HIS husband and their Non-hunting-hunting dogs doing at a place like this? They’re guests, just visiting, and extremely lucky.

Back to the story. Milo and his siblings inherit the camp, and the dues. Life and League revelry continue, Ann and Milo have a child, buy their own smaller house at the Club. Milo suddenly dies. Morgan, Ann’s son, inherits property, Ann gets the membership, and the dues. Years later, Ann and Morgan are fixtures at the League. This year, Ann & Son decide to sell property, finance Morgan’s college, store a lot of the furniture, boats and accumulated hunting trophies, leave the Caribou to us, and keep the Club membership, all for now.

What will the future bring to our friends, to the property and it’s artifacts, indeed to the bucolic environment? Can we ever know the future?

I do know that we were very fortunate to be able to visit that long weekend in August, to have such friends, to meet such people, to be able to experience those places.

The Caribou? An amazing souvenir

- - - David

Coming soon: Camping it up

Getting There

It all started with this photo on facebook.

So, why would anyone load a tent and two big dogs into the car and drive eleven hours each way to spend two nights in the Adirondack woods? One with BEARS? Let me tell you our story.

Late last month Ann, a friend from college, (YES, I went), posted a photo of this caribou head on facebook saying she had put it on craigslist on a whim, saying ”I don't think it will sell. I will probably have to give it away.”

Nobody would want it? Was she nuts?

Let me explain. I’m the type of guy who loves animals, feels guilty about eating meat and loving it, even hates to kill a fly (I’ll comically karmically capture and release) and has always had this fanatic fascination with taxidermy. I know, it’s sick. I’ve always wanted to collect heads (be warned). So when the opportunity arose, I fired off an email offering WHATEVER she wanted: it’s a good thing I don’t have a first born.

The head was at her camp. See, Ann was married to this guy who came from the kind of family who had long ago (late 1800’s?) built this “camp” in the woods of the Adirondacks. All rough twigs and logs, rustic, hunt and gamey, vernacular and compound-y and very, very cool. She had her wedding there in the boathouse of ONE of the lodges in the late 80’s. I attended. I fell in love with the buildings, and all 50,000+ park-like acres of it. But more on the camp later. We decided to go again. The Caribou was the door prize.

We left last Friday afternoon, heading due south to the turnpike. I drove but don’t let the picture of me an Lucy fool you. Brian soon tired of my speed limit “speed” and got behind the wheel at the 1st opportunity in Ohio and we continued to head east. Making good time despite a stand still near Cleveland.

I love the north east coast of our country. It’s all mossy and historical. (Laugh all you want Europeans, smirk-on Westerners, I love it.) The further East, the older it seems to get. We were headed into Buffalo that night, and hopefully Frank & Teressa’s Anchor Bar, and the 1930’s and the 60’s

Teressa is credited with the invention of Buffalo Wings one late Friday night in 1964, for her bar tending son Dominic’s ravenous friends.

We checked into the Motel 6 and made it to the Anchor before it closed, we ordered the wings, we thanked Teressa.

The place was a great big. friendly. noisy. aging, paneled NE bar. I loved it, loved the wings, loved the company, loved that our waitress told me I could keep the menu. Face it, we’re Road Food-y kind of guys. Hope that’s alright.

- - - David

My summer "vacation"

Don’t let that pretty friend
or that dentally clasped daisy fool you,
that guy’s on pain pills

Less than a week after our return from hot humid heavenly NOLA I was being wheeled in for a little surgical tune-up. The umbilical hernia that was protruding from my abdomen for so long it had earned the nickname “my little alien” had been recently joined with one a little above it and another a little “below” it. This unknown doctor had been recommended by my new not much better known GP who had been “pin the tail on the donkey” chosen from a three page list provided by my beloved but retiring OLD GP.

Because I had had two previous laparoscopic hernia surgeries I was both optimistic and no longer a candidate for yet more. This procedure would have to be the old fashioned, hands on (in), scalpel cutting kind. Still I was optimistically expecting a few days of recovery. WRONG

This one seemed to get worse, not better, with the passing of time. This time I REFILLED the prescription pain killer TWICE and the doctor eventually threw in some antibiotics too (for the infection that set in). I’m not complaining, I survived. It’s just that a month+ of my summer has been spent on shuffling, house-bound, couch sitting solitude. AGAIN. A month of “Hey Gods, I just did this a few months ago!” feeling tired, mopey, grumpy and sorry for myself.

There’s an upside though. All this concentrating on the leaking incisions, taped gauze and a different sort of pill collection has taken my mind off the stroke. I was able to trick myself with this diversionary tactic from the tedious relearning and therapeutic remastering of simple BORING tasks. Walking slowly down the hall I was thinking about the belly NOT the wobbling.

Looking back, this was quite enjoyable. Surely there’s a suitable parable for this. Like “Don’t count your chickens in one silver basket” or something. This muddled brain can’t think of one so please provide a suitable one of your own. Perhaps you could email it to me?

I was ALSO grateful for the immediate visitation/diversion of my new friends Wendy and her family (Greg and [the most adorable] Sophia) in the days immediately after the “procedure”. They stopped by on their way from Taos NM to Costa Rica. (I didn’t even know we were on that route). They were joyous/joyful/a joy. I am SO grateful they came (AND to B for making us a pile of my favorite Overnight Waffles).

Following on their heals was our Seattle pal Calyn. Who graciously made her way to our door for an overnight after visiting family in Okemos before she made a journey to her Ol’ Kentucky home.

Seeing the C after all these years was a godsend, a blessing and even MORE sheer joy for this patient and his caretaker. The brief hours spent touring Hidden Lake Garden, visiting Ann Arbor, shopping for scooters, having (a recession improved?) fine dinner at Evan’s Street or just couch potato-ing and schmoozing was the best medicine I could request. The memory of her smile AND the thrill of her laughter AND the glowing warmth of her presence may have dimmed but now I clearly recalled the love she radiates so freely.

Look for the silver lining kids, that golden cup of nectar from the gods, it’s there somewhere. You may need it when you’re on the sofa, staring at your toes, realizing how easily the world goes on without you.

- - - David

New Orleans, The Eating Ends. For Us. For Now.

The Magic Kingdom?

You could call it that.


I do.

Four days of touring and near gluttony, what are two guys to do . . . eat a little more.

After the perfect lunch we would try an over the top dinner. Thursday night took us back to the Garden District, an area of fertile silt, big trees and big ol’ houses just a streetcar ride west of the Quarter along St Charles. Commander’s Palace Restaurant has been on this quiet little street since 1880.

When I was 20-something I took my visiting parentals to NYC’s Tavern on the Green. Not for the food, not for the bevy of hovering waitrons, not for the dress code, for the experience. This reminded me of Tavern. Brian even noticed the similarities and he wasn’t even there, the first time. This place was like that but better.

We were seated in the back corner of what seemed like the 5th of 4 dining rooms. I say this out of wonder not anger. From the outside the place looks normal, inside it goes on and on in the way that 125 year old destination restaurants tend to do. I hardly remember what we had but like I said we were there for fun. I do remember an appetizer of a trio of soups, one of which was turtle, the waitress’ smiling professionalism and the Peach Shortcake that CAME with my meal. I do remember the suddenly appearing waitrons who would materialize, one per plate, deliver the food, smile-nod and disappear. I love that. Oh, and the food was good, too.

Friday, July 3rd, was our last day in New Orleans. We planned a Jazz breakfast at Bourbon Street the Court of The Two Sisters and lunch at the famous Acme Oyster House near the hotel and then to the airport by three. We were up early. We got to The Court. Judiciously, it doesn’t open until 9. This is a bit late for us early risers. So we kept walking. Back towards Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral and then further east to the older, lower, quieter part of the Quarter. We were hungry, we knew Stanley’s. So, t looks like a nice ice cream parlor but . . . First, we just ordered coffee, then, deciding we were hungry we ordered breakfast, expecting mere food, we were pleasantly surprised. My Egg’s Stanley, a modification of Benedict topped with fried Oysters, was delicious. Brian got corned beef hash, (in New Orleans?!?), but ,in his defense, it was VERY nice.

We eventually made it back to the hotel, checked out, checked our bags, and headed, around the corner, to “Friday Lunch”. This, we learned, is a N.O. tradition, an event. Get in line early with the rest of the city, wait awhile, a long while, and then spend a few hours over a lot of food, preferably great, with a few friends, preferably good.

By 11:30 there was a line down the block at ACME. Like the Roadrunner, we stopped in our tracks. They were packed, our bags were packed, we were more than sated, we had done the tourist thing, the food thing, the thing thing. We headed back to the hotel, a cab to the airport and a brief rest at the Sky Club. The New Orleans food world had won, we had given up, like the coyote,raised the white flag. In our case, the napkins.

It may have won but it owes us a meal.

AND I plan on collecting.

- - - David

A little more Eating in New Orleans: Part Three

The ceilings are as high as our expectations had become in this town.

For dinner on Wednesday in New Orleans We walked a few blocks and into a place I will admit the snob in me never thought I would. An Emeril Lagasse restaurant. BAM! It's not his food, no, he's just a little too, too for me, a little too energetic, a little too infomercial. But this place came so highly recommended, I mean not only everyone BUT Jeff likes it, how could I not? I am glad we did.

Appetizers were broiled oysters and a sausage brushetta. Dinners were Rib Eye for him and a Pork Tenderloin, the freshest green beans and the most amazing dish of Mac n' Cheese I EVER had.

Dessert was a lucious Strawberry Shortcake I meant to share.

I think there might have been a chilled bottle of French Rosé in there somewhere.

And so ended our third night in New Orleans. BAM!

The morning dawned and a new day beckoned. But it did so gently with hot coffee and A few fried orbs of sugared dough around the corner from our hotel at a little off shoot of a more famous place in the Court of the Two Sisters. Cafe Beignet. We did eat outside in a shaded court. So it was a yellow Police Station, it was nice and their were kittens.

We took a ride out to the Garden Distict for a little touring and to check out our dinner restaurant (anal, yes, but I did say this trip had a bit of a food theme). As we made out way into the Garden District we came accross B's 1st New Orleans Cemetary, BONUS! Well, he put up with it nicely, I was the excited one. First a streetcar, touring houses, viewing a cemetery and checking plans . . . heaven.


Then a ride back into the French Quarter and a cab to a piece of heaven we would both agree to. "Willie Mae's Scotch House", in the 9th Quarter, for the WORLD'S BEST FRIED CHICKEN. The afternoon was bright and hot, the line was long, carefully clinging to the shadows but friendly, we opened the door to give them a name and we’re met with the aroma of the gods.

This made the seemingly LONG wait both endurable and invigorating. We were let in at last and presented with a family plate of chicken I swear was the best thing these lips EVER met. (And I’ve been around). The coating was ethereal and slightly spicy and the meat was perfect, just perfect. Even the Red and Butter Beans were angelic.

I WILL be back.

- - - David

Eating in New Orleans: Part Two

There are a lot of places to eat in New Orleans, and even more delicious things to taste.

We did our very best to go to as many places and try as many things as we could.

These are our stories.

Tuesday night (June 30th, 2009) we thought we would try a real “old-line” restaurant. Yes the waiters were in tuxes, yes we had to wear jackets, yes pretty much everything was sauced. But everything WAS good and I constantly felt that a chorus of “Mame” could break out any second. The Place was Galatoire’s and, yes, it’s on Bourbon Street It’s almost the only authentic place left there amid the 20 something bars, the Larry Flynt this and Hustler that. This is the kind of hetero “moral values” with which I can agree.

Galatoire’s has been there since 1905. It’s bright and tiny tiled and the tables are covered in white and the dinnerware is bright white, loud and plentiful. We started with Oysters Rockefeller and Oysters en Brochette. The fist is well known but we’d never had them and decided it was time. The latter was wrapped in bacon, breaded and delicious. Entrees were Trout Amandine for B (butter-toasted almond slivers on trout fillets dusted with flour, sauteed in butter, moistened with a bit of lemon and garnished with parsley) and Crabmeat Sardou for me (hunks of sweet crab atop artichoke hearts with spinach under a blanket of hollandaise sauce) This was accompanied by Potatoes Soufflé. AND for dessert we had, well, we were cut off, or our sweet waiter thought we had eaten as much as we could, or he thought we didn’t want any but we would have tried . . . so Brian sipped black coffee but we would have “tried” the Banana Bread Pudding.

Wednesday morning found us AGAIN at Mother’s this time for the famous “breakfast at Mother’s” I had read about. B got some kind of omelet (I asked him to get grits) and I ordered their ham on a biscuit. Lordy. The ham was thick cut, moist and well, hammy. The biscuit was definitely fresh made; chewy, soft, melting, real delicious. I had to stop myself from coming back here for lunch.

Luckily, for Brian, we didn’t. Lunch took us walking across town to Jackson Square and beyond into the French Market. There lies a famous Italian Market/Grocery/Deli known as Central Grocery and the very, very famed some would say legendary Muffaletta. Something B now describes as “the best sandwich I’ve ever had”. It begins with the bread: Fresh, pure. aromatic, round, squat, Italian, sesame seeded amazement. Then that’s layered with deli: ham, cheese, salami, Then THAT’S topped with a concoction called “olive salad”. Wrapped it paper, eaten at a formica counter with a crowd of fellow "muffas”, priceless. The place is crowded, noisy, famous, wonderful. Ya gotta!

I almost forgot. There was another stop between Mother's and Central. I mentioned we went walking? On the way down Chartres St. to revisit the convent and to prove to me that the corn hotel really existed and to see the Zulu exhibit (I hope to get to all this) we passed Stanley's a little place right on Jackson Square and by the Cathedral and in one of the apartment buildings put up by the Baroness Pontalba in the 1850's and B was a little peckish so he ordered a little ice cream and fruit, etc., just the thing for 2nd Breakfast on a hot sultry morn.

Yet more stories (and FOOD) to come . . . there is SO much, try as we did, there was still much untasted.

- - - David