My Country, 'Tis of Thee

Think about it. Just take a minute today, and really think about what this means.

What's your part? How are you going to contribute?


Let's go for a ride.

Hot Stuff is Good for Your Innards.

Shuck the tomatillos. It helps to put them in lukewarm water for a bit to soften up the husks. Put them in a roasting pan with a little water and into a 400 degree oven until they're soft. Then you want to get them into the broiler until the skins blacken. They're done when they smell done.


Roast a couple of cloves of galic in a hot, dry pan. They should be good and Black on most parts.


The clever among you buy hot peppers during the summer when they are cheap and abundant, roast them in batches, and freeze them so that they are on hand when you want to mix up a bowl of something smoky/spicy.


All of it into the food processor, plus some lime juice, salt, and a bit of vinegar to make the flavors pop.


What's that in the quart jar? Oh, nothing.


Actually, it's Cascade brewing's "Mouton Rouge." A wee bit of Flanders-style sour red ale.

Fucking unbelievable is what it is, but there are only a dozen 1/4 barrels out, and at nearly $200 for one of those, this is one for the bucket list.

And yes, that's me in the background.

The Rev posted this the other day, and I was shocked to find that I'd nearly forgotten the words to one of my all-time favorite songs.

A bit of dickering about led me to this:



I've been singing both of these to myself all day, and I have not been called "Faggot" by one single Camaro-driver. Times do change...

Mr. Chris is right. King Oscar "tiny-tots" brisling sardines represent the pinnacle of easily-sourced domestic brands.

I just took a spin out to 122nd ave to spend my last $80 on groceries, and since I know that they carry the fish in the yellow package, I grabbed up a can.

I have typically been interested in tinned sardines of the rarer sort, but have fallen back on King Oscar in many a time of need. It is a soft landing.

If memory serves, these were at one time marked, "Norway", but the can I purchased was packed in Poland, and I have a feeling, that since the company is now owned by Bumble-Bee, they probably source their fish from many different ports, worldwide.

Medium fishy odor, relatively firm, and packed in a low-quality olive oil. Mouthfeel is good, if a bit on the soft side, and flavor is nice and easy, with a sort of bland fishiness.

At $2.49 a can, not the best value out there, but again, an excellent quality standby sardine.

Eaten today, just now, with Tillamook sharp cheddar and pepper jack, Chef Paul's Magic pepper sauce (courtesy of Hamachi), saltines, and a bottle of Deschute's Obsidian Stout.

3 out of 5 tins.

s.a.l.t.s.

Another Fubonn purchase. I've never had good luck with sardines packed in round cans. Most of the ones I have tried have been of Mexican origin, too big and/or mushy and typically in some kind of sauce.

I'm sort of a purist when it comes to these things, but every once in a while I'll be intrigued by a bit of cool or weird labeling and take the plunge.

I brought a tin of these Thai "Smiling Fish" brand sardines out to Les Bois for Mr. Chris to help me test. They are fried and packed in yellow curry. That is about the best thing I can say about them. Certainly the first time I've put Sriracha sauce on tinned fish, but it seemed appropriate here, considering their origin, and the vileness of the product. Mr. Chris and 'Ningo polished off the can and seemed happy about it. I had two crackers worth and threw in the towel.

Cool packaging and an intriguing idea, but poorly executed.
Two Tins out of five.

Peter Davis is currently my favorite poet.




Grafting Failures


I have never been good
at grafting the skin
from my own chest so as
to totally cover the burned legs.
But, within reason, you have
to admit that I've been hygienic.
Sure, you look terrific
and you move with
the sideways wind when
everyone assumes nothing
can move. But, Tina,
you understand stuff that is
deep down. When I was painting
my panorama for the contest,
I was thinking of you.
Even eating stew, Tina, you're
something special. I'm like
the broth is good, but I'm more
like, really, baby, you're so hot!

It seems that everyone is in the same boat lately. Laid off, broke, waiting for spring and the wheels to start turning again.

Idaho is always a trip. Sort of great and sort of a bummer. Coming home out of the eastern Oregon tule fog and seeing the sun bouncing around in the Gorge was a welcome sight indeed. It is truly wonderful to be back in Portland.

Anyway, we killed some fish.






Brother-in-law brought in a pair of Mallards who ended up as a late, but satisfying dinner for the whole family.


And we drove a couple of thousand miles with two two-year-old boys.

They like rivers, trains, big trucks, lonesome mountains, and fried trout.

So far, so good.

More Fish

Gunnar over at 1410 Oakwood has lately inspired me to look pastways for things of interest.

My Great-Grandfather, Clyde Pike, grew up on and around the Uintah Ute Indian reservation east of Salt Lake City.

He was my fishing buddy.

Crowther's Reservoir, 1979


This will be my last post for a bit. Check back in a week or so. I got business.

We Got the Keys

The Snus' Coronet resting quietly in the new shop.

Mopars are GO!

SALTS

I have always loved to eat fish. Mostly the kind of fish that I kill myself. Cutthroat or Brook trout from alpine lakes in Idaho being my favorite.

Curried rainbow trout. Malad City, Idaho, 2006.


I have caught Dorado off the tip of Baja and grilled it on beach fires. I have picked mussels and dug clams and scooped snails out of the Pacific to be put in lime juice and eaten with warm beer and saltines. I have surf-cast for perch, gone out at midnight on a full moon to sweep poor Grunion into a pail, and spent probably 1000 slow hours sitting next to my grandfather in his little aluminum boat, trolling the reservoirs for stocked rainbow, and jigging the reeds for smallmouth bass.

Butter Lip Perch. Rancho Conejo, Baja California. 2005


Of course there is much more. Ceviche de pulpo at Mariscos "La Costa" in Oakland, the langostas eaten in an illegal backyard restaraunt in Trinidad, Cuba, the boquerones and razor clams of Barcelona's tapas bars, the perfect flesh of the halibut my brother-in-law brings back from Alaska, and the empty sushi plates regularly stacked to the sneeze-guard.

I remember all of this fish fondly and well.

-------------------------------------------------------

My grandfather is with me. His cap on the side of his head and his box of farm cheddar and head cheese and a can of Bud in a blue styrofoam coozie. And a tin of sardines. Real Man food to share with me.

It's still a part of how I keep him close. His Starrett machinist square, his lump hammer with the grease-blackened handle, and always those sardines.

---------------------------------------------------------

Here we will be reviewing cans of fish from around the world, both for my own joy and the edification of my readership. Welcome to the Society for the Appreciation of the Lowly Tinned Sardine or SALTS.

Let's start with El Amir Moroccan Sardines in olive oil.


I scored these on a trip to Fubonn
last week where I was in search of the Japanese sardines in the white oval can that thus far I have had to drive to Uwajimaya to get. No luck, but I stumbled upon these babies and they are wonderful. Three medium-sized fish packed very tightly. Dense flesh, mild flavor and a sweet, fresh fish aroma. Eaten with saltines, Tillamook sharp cheddar, Frank's RedHot sauce and a bottle of Taiwan Gold Medal beer.

4 out of 5 tins.

The Lads and I very much like this.



And this.

Happy birthday sons.

You beauties.

You lights of your father's eyes.

ONNA KEIRIN OH

1953 movie poster courtesy of Tomity.

Another Letter to Patches

Don't call my landline. It's a fools bet. If you ask me for a different number, I'll give it to you but I might not answer it the first time. You gotta be gentle with me. I need coaxing sometimes.

I'm listening to music that I begged off of friends or stole and none of it is very good. Again, ask me another time and I'll probably tell you. Right now I'm hot and my neck hurts and I've been drunk for four days. Ask Moishe. I chased him out onto the front lawn and threw a glass at him and he woke up his wife and they left in the middle of the night. I think he's feeling sensitive too.

The clutch is finally gone on my truck after nursing it for a year. I think all the snow did it in. I guess I have to fix it now, and I'm not looking forward to it. Those transmissions are heavy and my broken collarbone aches and keeps me awake and any more stress on it is just going to make it worse, you know?

I guess your baby is probably doing pretty good. Don't teach him to speak if you can avoid it. I have two and they are damn loud all the time. They learned to shake hands with each other and it's a real Dad moment for me when they do it. There's been less biting, but more punching. There are valid reasons to not have children, but it got me to finally quit smoking, and I guess that's something.

We'll be in Idaho next week and I'll buy you a beer. Look out for me.

I Am One of a Kind

i hope that the new year brings peace

Love, bikes, and beer to you, my friends.

Big Blue

Ride, Hamachi?

This was before we got another four inches yesterday.
They're saying four to six more tomorrow.
Hamachi, Wife, and Dogs are supposed to be driving up from Oakland tomorrow.
I know how much they like Redding, but I hope they don't have to spend the Holiday there.

Cock

It is seriously snowy out. We went for a ride around, saw a lot of skiers, a few cars, and then went to a bar.

Seems like the right thing to do, non?

Ninkasi Oatis

Astounding.
I'm hoarding bombers of this since it seems that all of the great local seasonals seem to pass so quickly. This is one for the books, for sure.

What are you drinking right now, loyal readers?

Note to My Wife

Installation utilizing broken toys, found objects, a tent, a table, and discarded foodstuffs.



Detail: Crayola marker on butcher paper.

The Buff Medways

When I get lazy I post music.

And I've been back to listening to Childish.

This one is a terrible song, but I like the clip and it's about his mom riding bikes in austere postwar Britain. I like everything about that.

Sometimes on iced-up, 22 degree days like this I wish that everyone had no choice but to get on a bicycle or walk to the bus stop. Except for old ladies who have already lived through a bunch of hard times. For them I wish that the grocery stores still delivered.

Real strange out the last few days, what with snow on what the weather-jerks like to call the "valley floor", and me and Big Blue out trying to stay upright. There have been 40mph gusts and it's freezing and there is ice under the snow but yesterday I rode for 3 hours for fun and I just kept thinking about Patches and how he used to do it for a living in Minneapolis, and it sort of seemed okay. Today I just rode to get a beer and fuck almighty was it cold to be on the bike.

I'm geared up good with Swiss and German army woolens, some Filson, some Barbour, $6 plastic bmx pedals and my Danner hikers but all of my tips were cold. You can keep your fucking Assos bibs. When the weather turns to true shit you better have some serious wool and leather and waxed cotton on hand. There have been no racer boys out on the streets. Only Subarus and Volvos with telltale racks on top. Pussies.

Yesterday I strapped 30# of groceries to my porteur rack and made it half a block on 28th before I fell onto a curb. This on top of the night before drinking poison and getting towel-snapped all over my legs and staying out until 3:30 so my wife was smelling me to see where I'd been. I did not smell good, but there was no glitter, so it was alright.

I have been serving penance by changing all of the diapers, cooking noodles and trying for two days to get un-hungover but I just keep getting drunk.

I feel like writing a poem about it but I think I'll spare you.

There is still no work.

The money is spent.

I hope next year will be better for us.

Damn Your Fucking Work

Thee Headcoats.

SF to LA, 1902

I have no idea when this was taken, who it is, the location, or the photographer.

Here are Big Blue and The Lads looking purposeful at the graveyard.



This was a very nice day for us. It may snow tomorrow and put a crimp in our cycling, but it will be cool to have some winter weather.


Apparently, I'm a sartorial man, now.

Huh. Glad I stuck with it for so long.

More Saints

From the Archivist.

From DC

The Saints

The Goggles Do Nothing.

Apologies all round for the bummer posts and short absence. Life's got me by the short hairs and is threatening to toss me down the stairs.

Let's review:

Cross season is over.

The Lads speak now.

Bourbon County.

It still hasn't really rained.


I go to bed at 5 am more often than I'd like to. Once a week, but still...

New shop space? Affirmative. More to follow.

If I have to eat any more vegan chili, there's going to be blood.

The Sart says I'm finally back in style.

The Gonz hasn't gotten less weird.

I unearthed this from an old diary.
It is true.



"This is the part that I’ve never written or talked about. It’s too unreal, and too much like a dumb movie, and it doesn’t seem believable. I don’t think I’m ready to do this, but I’m going to try.

Laney passed me on the left.

She was looking straight ahead, squinting into the mist. As she came around the front of me and accelerated, I saw her elbows flap and the weak red spot of her taillight swing violently side-to-side. And that was it. That was all.

She lost control of her motorcycle on the wet train tracks on Seventeenth street and smashed into the back of a parked car. When I got to her she was underneath it. Her bike was upside-down, spilling gasoline onto the street. I pulled her out by her jeans and screamed into her face. Her eyes were half- lidded and looking, unseeing, in different directions, and there was blood on her lips.

This is the dumb movie part. I’m kneeling over my dying girlfriend, yelling for somebody to call for help. We’re bathed in the yellow headlight of a destroyed motorcycle and the rain is starting to fall.

The sirens came quickly, and the paramedics worked in that methodical, frustrating, slow way that they do. They cut her jacket off of her, and her jeans. The rain was falling on her breasts as a woman pushed a tube down Laney’s throat. Her abdomen began to distend as the air from the breathing tube flowed out of her punctured lungs. She never moved. She never made a sound. A young couple walked by on the sidewalk, both of them looking straight ahead.

There was the ride in a police car, the wait in a room with a telephone, the two doctors who came in to talk with me. I called her mother at four a.m. to tell her that her only daughter was dead and then I went home and fell asleep on the floor of our bedroom."


Missing you right now, Lu.