Weblog
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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Posting
I promise to post soon. Don't delete my blog Xanga! -
I'm bringing Xanga back - drop a comment if you're with me!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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Jive Turkey
Thanksgiving is, by far, my favorite holiday of the year.
My family doesn't do much for Christmas, and during that time, we are often scattered all over the place.
Thanksgiving is the one time where my entire six-sibling family has the same goal in mind -- food and family fellowship.
They especially like the food part.
My mother is the only person in my life, right now, who appreciates the value of sweet cornbread, not this crackling cornbread that they try to push on you on the Southside.
I have the good fortune of having brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and parents who can cook extremely well. Whenever we all get together for a meal, I am usually treated to heaping portions of mouth-watering desserts, tantalizing sides, and savory meats.
The variety of meats is always a sight to behold. At least a dozen creatures of the land and sea usually meet their fate at our dinner table. Of all the meats I look forward to, however, turkey is at the bottom of the list.
Since the inception of Thanksgiving, turkey has been an obligatory food, much like bitter herbs at Passover. Nobody likes the bitter herbs, but they eat them every year, nonetheless.
The same goes for turkey. I've met plenty of people who say they like cornbread, mashed potatoes, yams, and even cranberry sauce, but I've never met anyone who blathers on about how great turkey is.
First of all, turkey is about the most inconvenient bird to prepare, next to cooking an ostrich whole. Turkeys can weigh up to 25 pounds, take almost an entire day to prepare, and take up your entire oven in the process.
Turkey is so big, that there is no way humanly possible for even a large family to eat a whole turkey in a single sitting.
On day one, the turkey starts off as single entity. When it's warm and out the oven, it's okay, but not as good as ham, chicken, or ribs. By the second day, the turkey has had about 12 hours to sit in the refrigerator. It's colder and a little drier than the first day, but still fit for human consumption.
By the third day, the gravy and juices that once marinated the turkey have congealed to the sides of the pan. At this time, the turkey has most likely fallen pray to younger cousins and siblings who don't know how to properly operate a carving knife.
The hacked-up appearance of the turkey by day four is not visually appealing and by now, the gravy-Jell-O that has to be scooped on top of it to make it palatable isn't too pleasing, either.
By day five, if the turkey legs have not been eaten, the turkey is no longer something that can be sliced, but rather, a mass of crumbly turkey pieces that has to be harvested onto your plate.
By day six, people are no longer eating the turkey, but using it in turkey-based by-products, such as turkey salad, turkey soup, and turkey stuffing.
By the seventh day, the turkey is unrecognizable and you start to question whether you were really eating turkey at all.
If they could find a way to genetically shrink turkeys to the size of chickens -- which I believe are much tastier fowl -- I think I would enjoy turkey more. Turkey, however, is more of a holiday drudgery rather than a delicacy.
Furthermore, in the 250 years that Americans have been eating turkey at Thanksgiving, we really haven't found too many ways to spice it up.
I've seen fried turkey, baked turkey, and those slices of lunch meat that people call turkey, but that's it. I've eaten about 50 different variations on chicken which were all tasty and interesting in their own way.
Maybe it's untraditional, maybe it's even un-American, but until turkey gets a little more exciting, I'm going straight for the ham at Thanksgiving time.
Perhaps the biggest Jive Turkey of them all
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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The other side of the mountain
I've
noticed that a lot of my columns are about travel. I guess part of the
reason is because traveling to exotic places is one of the things that
I miss the most about the life I had before working at a daily
newspaper.
Don't get me wrong, working in Clayton County definitely takes you off the beaten path. During the course of my reporting, I've visited a goat farm, followed around Civil War re-enactors, installed insulation into walls, tailed politicians on a golf cart around Lake Spivey, dodged lunchtime traffic in Riverdale to interview picketers, and visited just about every church in the county.
My weekends aren't always as exciting, though. The crazy stuff I am asked to do in the middle of the week usually leaves me completely drained by the weekend, and sometimes I have a tendency to shut down.
When I lived in Japan for two years as a wage slave, my weekdays were stressful, too. To combat this, on the weekends, I would often pack three pairs of socks, three pairs of clean underwear, two shirts, and just take off wherever my economy-sized Japanese car would take me.
Sometimes, I would go to the ocean. Sometimes, I would look up in the mountains and see a plume of chimney smoke and follow it to the source. Sometimes, I would just get lost and find my way back.
I don't do that too often anymore. Gas is expensive, the mountains aren't so close, and there are a lot of places in Atlanta where you don't want to get lost. However, I got a chance to see some mountains again last weekend in Dahlonega, Ga.
Coming from Virginia Beach, Va., where everything is as flat as a pancake, and the highest peak around is a 100-foot-high mountain of trash (ingeniously named Mt. Trashmore), I always appreciate the mountains whenever I am near them.
Until last weekend, I had no idea that Dahlonega existed, but it really is a gold mine, literally and figuratively.
Only about an hour north of Atlanta on Georgia Highway 400, Dahlonega is actually the site of the first American gold rush, predating the 1849 gold rush in California. This quaint little mountain town sits atop a rich vein of gold, which is still being mined today.
I had no idea what to expect when I got there, but I fell in love with the town as soon as I crossed the bend and saw the Appalachian Mountains. I was starving by the time I got there, so the first thing I went to look for was food.
I stumbled upon the Smith House, an old fashioned inn, sitting on top of what was once a gold mine. In the far wing of the house, a glass barrier stands between you and the bottomless pit in which the miners once explored for gold ore.
On the bottom floor of the inn, the Smith House offered a smorgasbord of Southern-fried delicacies. For about $20, you are seated at a long oak table with complete strangers and offered mountains of fried chicken, ham, and pot roast, alongside mounds of creamed corn, mash potatoes, fried okra, and collard greens.
Passing around baskets of buttered rolls and cornbread, I felt camaraderie with the man across the table adjusting his pants and praying to make it through dessert.
After about two hours of food and conversation, I realized the day was quickly escaping me. As I waddled into the town square, I saw many people, young and old, shopping, eating, and enjoying life in this picturesque mountain village.
In a short distance, I was able to find all the things I crave when I am in Clayton County. An antique book store, a privately-owned coffee shop with an open mic night, a small private theater company, and a independent instrument store with sheet music, blues harmonicas, and just about every string instrument worth buying.
I was really amazed that all of these treasures existed only an hour away. It's easy to stargaze and dream of far off places, but going to Dahlonega reminded me that there are still adventures in my own backyard. -
Bonking gracefully
My
palms were sweaty, my mouth was dry, and my '92 Grand Marquis was
running low on the $3-a-gallon gas that I had pumped into it that
morning.
My mind was adjusting to the ending of daylight-saving time, and my body was coasting on a six-pack of mini-donuts and a bottle of orange juice, the only thing resembling food that I could purchase at the BP gas station on my way to Suwanee.
A few months earlier, I had scored a huge opportunity -- a chance to perform on the upcoming CD of an internationally-known, Atlanta-based jazz artist. Last Sunday morning, I drove up to a Suwanee recording studio for what would be an ill-fated session.
It's not like I didn't prepare. The week before, I had gone to the studio's web site, recorded the address, Google-mapped the coordinates, and left a half an hour earlier than the estimated driving time suggested.
The studio was on Buford Highway, which I now know is named Buford Highway because it goes all the way to Buford, Ga., north of Suwanee. The web site did not specify on which side of the expansive highway the studio was located, and I found myself on Buford Highway northeast rather than northwest, where I was supposed to be.
After getting minimal help from the studio engineer over the phone, I was able to make my way to the correct side of Buford Highway, and into the studio about 15 minutes late.
That was just the beginning of everything that went wrong.
When I entered the studio, I was expecting to see cigarette smoking, shade-wearing jazz musicians banging away at notes, anxiously awaiting my presence to begin the session. Instead, I was alone.
In the empty recording room, a thick sheet of soundproof glass was all that separated me from the artist, and the sound engineer on the other side.
Rather than a jam session, it was a "me" session. Under absolute scrutiny, my part was to be patched into the pre-recorded soundtracks, which I would have to listen to over headphones.
It was something I wasn't made aware of ahead of time.
I had recorded in the past, so while caught off guard, the idea of being patched in didn't bother me. However, when I opened up my violin case, my bow -- my $500, perfectly balanced, handcrafted, Brazilian Pernambuco wood bow that I bought when I decided to take music seriously -- was not in my case.
A large knot gathered in my stomach. I realized that I had left the bow on a piano in a practice room back in Clayton County, while practicing the night before.
I swallowed my screams. My thoughts strayed from my music to the idea of some jerk walking away with something precious to me that I couldn't easily replace.
I had two other bows to choose from in my case; the bow I used in elementary school, which was missing half the hair and chipped from sword fights in music class -- and a cheap, completely unused bow that came with an electric violin I had bought in Japan.
I had no choice, but to use the bow with hair. However, it was new, synthetic hair that wouldn't take to the rosin (hardened tree sap) required to keep the bow from sliding on the surface of the strings.
My violin was essentially strangled. I tried my best to play what I had rehearsed, but the artist wasn't satisfied. After playing the same four bars twenty times in twenty different ways, I was asked to pack up my case and go home.
Defeated, unpaid, and driving on fumes, I returned to Clayton County. I went to Best Buy and played Guitar Hero 3 for about an hour, so I could feel like a star and reflected on my missed opportunity to make it to the big time.
I felt like one of the many artists who have been booed off the stage at the Apollo. However, that same stage has produced Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Michael Jackson, and many of the artists whom people consider great.
Perhaps, it was a learning experience, a sign that I need to practice more, or just a terrible, random chain of events. However, some of the best artists are the ones who can bounce back.
I'll redouble my efforts and be ready when the next big opportunity comes along. In the meantime, I'll content myself with being a rock star on the Xbox 360.
