Big Yellow Taxi
“You don’t know what you got, till it’s gone.”
– – Joni Mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi.”
You know, if you miss a news cycle these days, you may as well be sorting through the rubbish heap of ancient times.
I was coming back from a get-together with some former colleagues out in the still-sprouting exurbs of Loudoun County. For me, as a former resident of Fairfax, that is so far out there that you may as well just consider yourself in the Virginia Hunt Country.
Not that it is, now. It is all multi-plex cinemas and cutting edge eateries, all of it new, and all of the same age. There was nothing here before except fields and foxes.
The spending that emanates from the National Capital Region has bumped up the per capita income of every jurisdiction within painful commuting range. I don’t think it has got all the way to Culpeper yet, but it is getting close. In fact, I am probably one of the idiots who participating in the process of transforming the place into another outpost of the terminally hip.
Check the list of the top earning counties in the country. You will see the NCR boasts five of the top six in per capita income, and eleven of the top 25. It is a graphic example that we are enjoying your money a lot here, and we serve as sort of a bundling machine for it to serve back out as largesse to the citizenry.
Don’t bristle- this trend may have accelerated of late, particularly after the housing bubble collapse- but it is certainly a bi-partisan phenomenon that only moves a little faster or a little slower, depending on who is yanking on the levers of power.
It has been good to me, personally, or at least it was, so don’t yell at me for just noticing what is going on.
Here is another thing that grabbed me, but good, on the drive back into the Capital City proper. Not for the usual reasons, of course. “Pajama Boy” has already had more commentary than Phil Robertson, former star of the A&E reality show Duck Dynasty.
I can’t add anything to the two images below, except note that they represent a sort of landmark in our era of profound social change. I have no idea where the Richardson family is going to go, and since I don’t watch the show, but their appeal appears to lie in the idea that these people are weird curios from a lost world.
Mr. Robertson got the boot from his show over some remarks regarding his views of the world. Some of them I found repugnant; I don’t think I need to tell you which ones, not that he doesn’t have the right to say them. No less a Progressive icon than Karl Rove summed it up succinctly: “He has the right to say what he thinks. He does not have a right to a television show to say them on.”
I agree with that. They look sort of like Confederate soldiers still pissed about Appomattox.
Now, from the National Capital Region, here is the new world:
He looks like a nice young man. He is a real person, too. It makes the whole thing really interesting, you know?
It makes me want to step outside and hail a cab- a big Yellow one- and head for the hills. It is not because I miss what has gone- Joni was right about that in the song. But I am pretty sure there were some things that I like a lot better than what is to come.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Elves are Real
(Elf Tiffany holds court at World of Beer. Photo Socotra).
OK- trust me, I am not going to try to understand even the Executive Summary of the recommendations of the Presidential Panel on reviewing what is happening at NSA. Can’t do it, not with all the elves running around. There is something equally strange in a court ruling yesterday that Politico was talking about this morning. Apparently the White House was sending unclassified secret orders to some of the Agencies, and claiming Executive Privilege about it. A Federal judge said it was troubling and told the Administration to come up with the unclassified directives.
I don’t know if that will happen, and I have decided I will worry about it when the time comes. In the meantime, I was talking to Elf Tiffany at World of Beer last night, and things appear just fine.
Rather than worry, I thought I would pass along my Shenandoah Pal Annie’s favorite pumpkin Cheesecake recipe. She has been using it for thirty-five years, and it is not secret at all. Here it is, for your holiday enjoyment:
Pumpkin Cheesecake with Gingersnap Crust
1 ¼ Cups Gingersnap cookie crumbs (about 20 2-inch cookies)
¼ Cup unsalted butter, melted
3 8 oz packages cream cheese, softened
1 Cup sugar
1 Tsp ground cinnamon
1 Tsp ground ginger
1 Tsp ground cloves
1 16 oz can pumpkin pack
4 eggs
Heat oven to 350° – mix cookie crumbs and butter. Press evenly on bottom of 9X3 spring form pan. Bake 10 minutes, cool.
Reduce oven temperature to 300°. Beat cream cheese, 1 cup sugar, cinnamon, ginger and cloves in 4 quart bowl on medium speed until smooth and fluffy. Add pumpkin. Beat in eggs, one at a time on low speed. Pour over crumb mixture.
Bake until center is form, about 1 ¼ hours, cool to room temperature. Cover and refrigerate at least 3 hours but no longer than 48 hours.
Serve with homemade whipped cream.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
The Devil’s Own Deviled Eggs
I was going to write about deviled eggs this morning and do sort of a pre-holiday public service for all those celebrations we are going to have. I sat down at the computer about five hours ago, and have gotten exactly nowhere.
I am not quite sure how things got out of control. Is it that all of my friends are of a certain age (code for disintegrating farts) and have too much time on their hands? I don’t know- the email queue actually goes the wrong way when I get to working on it.
There is an awful lot of things to BE REALLY ALARMED ABOUT (sorry to yell) but the first note of the morning got me off down the Second Amendment rabbit hole, which made me dyspeptic, and the addition of a note from a pal about arctic sea ice (both poles are either above the standard deviation (South) or just below it (North) and yet there are commercials showing Santa sweating his butt off and wondering about cancelling Christmas.
A third pal chimed in about the 4th Amendment issues in the NSA collection case, which is so confusing that I can’t sort out my feelings. I dislike Mr. Snowden and Ms Manning for their treachery, but have come around to the idea that the continuing drip-drip-drip of disclosures has pointed out a fundamental discontinuity of case law and technology.
Yeah, I responded, it is pretty strange out there in Fourth Amendment Country. I mean, there was a time when the “externals” of snail-mail and telephone communications did not include the meat of the message. They do now, and even if we do not have a reasonable expectation of privacy in who we communicate with, we are entitled to an expectation that the Government is not listening to us- or reading our mail- without a legitimate warrant.
I don’t know. I guess the whole concept of privacy in “persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures” is all painfully quaint these days, and another pal jumped all over it and commented that it is because we do not understand our history beyond a couple decades ago.
How did he say it? He said that the people running things have “seen the movie, but not read the book.”
I liked that, but I liked even more the relief I felt when I worked down the queue and found my Shenandoah pal’s recipe for pumpkin cheesecake. She is a gem, my pal is, and I can’t wait to try it out. I will get it to you once we finish these pesky eggs.
Anyhow, in the pre-Ohio Turnpike days of the 1950s Raven would load us up with Big Mama in shotgun of the Rambler station wagon and we would drive south from Grabbingham and then generally east and south to Akron, past the Blue Moon Diner that had such a magical effect on the three of us little ones in the back seat. We only stopped once. The kids liked it a lot, Big Mama not so much, since it was an imposition of time and expense on the limited amount available.
Then south past Akron and the amazing dirigible hangar that was as big as anything made by the hand of man up to that point, and eventually to State Route 21 and into the pleasant brick village of Massillon with the old stately homes and welcoming canopy of trees.
Grandma was quite the cook. Our favorite summer arrival dinner started with the beet-colored deviled eggs, and was followed by a hearty meal with City Chicken as the entree.
(City Chicken on the skewers)
Remember the “Chicken in every pot” line from Depression days? It was not so far away then, and veal and pork was much cheaper than real fowl, and Grandma would cut up the ingredients and skewer them on little sticks and deep fry them in a delicate breading.
I could go off on that, but I need to stay focused. The mystery of the purple deviled eggs is one that has followed me down through the years, and going through Big Mama’s recipe book I found the answer.
I thought perhaps Grandma actually boiled the eggs in water and beet juice, but not so. That is why I dragged you through the perfect Hard Boiled egg the last few days, and will now pick up where that left off:
(Devil’s Own Deviled Eggs (makes 12 halves, which I have been known to devour myself.)
6 eggs
1 can pickled beets
1 cup apple cider vinegar- Heinz is OK.
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon peppercorns (I used the fiery pink ones- sort of like Flamingos)
1 teaspoon Truffled sea salt
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon Duke’s mayonnaise
1/2 teaspoon curry powder
1 tablespoon white vinegar
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Fresh rosemary for garnish (not for the allergic)
Hard boil the eggs within the specification to produce smooth non-Noriega surfaces and remove the shells. Set the eggs aside. Resist the temptation to throw them at the television.
To prepare the brine, pour the can of pickled beets into a large mason jar or bowl. Add cider vinegar, sugar, peppercorns and salt. Stir mixture carefully (that beet juice will stain the crap out of Formica surfaces like the ones in the rental unit where I live!) lower the hard boiled eggs into the brine as neatly as my Motor City pal does, cover and let sit for at least 12 hours, or up to 2 or three days depending on how dark you would like the coloring. That additional time will also increase the sour note in the taste- purely your call.
That makes me think about infusing vodka- I need to make a couple batches for the holidays, but I will have to get to that some other morning. Although an eye-opening might be nice to start the day…
(The wire cutter works on cheese as well as eggs and is an asset to any kitchen)
Anyway, when brining time is finished, cut each egg in half. This is a tricky part, but I have one of those cool single wire cutters and scoop out yolks. Place yolks in a medium-sized bowl, along with the mustard, mayonnaise, curry, vinegar, and olive oil. Mix/mash until smooth. You can always add a little bit of water to the mixture, if it’s too stiff. Salt and pepper to taste- try some of Left Coast Guy’s sea salt with Truffle- I ordered some and am anticipating the best.
Using a pastry bag or a plastic bag with the corner cut off, pipe the yolk mixture back into the pink eggs. Sprinkle with chopped rosemary (unless you are allergic, you know who you are) and season with Truffle Sea Salt and pepper.
Enjoy. Avoid talking about politics, health care or Constitutional issues. Relax. I am sure it all going to be fine.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Amen Corner Christmas
(L-R: Vic, The Lovely Bea (TLB) , Old Jim, Jon-without, and Chanteuse Mary at the feast thrown by TLB. Photo un-Plaic Jamie.)
Sure, there are some daunting problems confronting us this holiday season. Whatever that health thing is, a stagnant economy, sustained underemployment, out of control spending, implacable enemies overseas and all that stuff.
Plus the perceived decline of a once-great power. I was going to talk to Old Jim about that at the splendid holiday feast that Jon-Without and the Lovely Bea threw at their place yesterday afternoon. Instead, we talked a little about the Packers, who were going to rise and vanquish the Cowboys, and marvel at the consistency of the goodness laid out on TLB’s groaning table.
Whatever those pastry things were, fresh out of the oven, with the spices and sun-dried tomatoes, were dynamite. The main course- a brisket with creamy gravy and carrots- was to die for, and culminated in a pumpkin cheesecake that was nothing short of extraordinary.
I brought a bottle of wine in a cute little knitted holiday sock, all green and red and mistle-toey.
“Oh, that is so cute!” said TLB, who was looking predictably cute herself. Placid Jamie, for her part, was anything but. In fact, she was as agitated as I have seen her, but she can tell you about that herself.
“Knitted it this morning,” I said, stroking the sock. Then we dissolved in laughter, looking out at the spectacular view from the 20th floor of Jon-without’s building. Old Jim and Chanteuse Mary arrived in a two-part maneuver due to the intrinsic parking issues on the street below, but eventually the Willow’s Amen Corner Gang was united in a completely different place.
I should have cooked something, and have been experimenting with One of the perennial favorite’s at Willow is the tray of deviled eggs: five half eggs with a nice savory yellow filling. No, I have no idea why they serve two and a half eggs. It is a mystery.
I pride myself on my improvised cooking skills, but the simple deviled egg has been an eternal mystery. Not the filling, mind you, just cranking out a reliable hard-boiled egg.
My standards are high. Grandma used to do hers, boiled in beet juice, so that the eggs were a delicate shade of mauve with the filling bright yellow and cheery. Best I have ever tasted, and that is what I aspire to from those long-ago days in the little town in the Ohio River Valley. She is long gone, and I can’t ask her the secrets, but I will crack the code one of these days.
As a part of that, I have fond that one of my most disappointing culinary mishaps is trying to peel boiled eggs for a delicious and beautiful display of deviled eggs, only to discover that the eggshells are stubbornly sticking to the white gleaming flesh of the eggs. When you try to peel sticking shell remnants away from boiled eggs, you are often left with pockmarked eggs that remind me of the face of former Panamanian Strongman Manuel Noriega.
They are clearly unsuitable for display at a civilized table, though I have had success in taking them to the crazy tail-gates at College Park, but that may be because everyone rapidly transitions to a place where they are in no condition to judge ova-complexion issues.
For me, the Croftburn Farms fresh eggs are the standard for breakfast. But someone whispered me a tip: freshness is not the secret to decent hard-boiled eggs. I
“WTF,” I blurted. “How old do they have to be? How can you tell?”
So here is the deal: if you were going to break it down, choice of egg, method of boiling and the peeling process and the right recipe for the filling are the steps that must be accomplished to create the right egg.
I will attempt to address these critical issues as we approach the holidays. Stay tuned as we advance on the Holiday, and I hope to be able to close on the deal of the perfect egg, and trust me, the beet juice is the trick that will help make you the Emperor of Egg.
That is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I need to look at the Fed Easy Money Policy, which is considerably simpler than those darned deviled eggs.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Power Ball
(Navy takes advantage of a Black Knight miscue. Photo AP)
I left the lottery ticket in the visor on the Panzer, which was tucked safely in the garage after a partially successful foray to watch the clash between Army and Navy up in Philly. It was for the PowerBall jackpot- not a huge one, since some idiot had walked off with $400 million last week. But I figured I could squeak by on $50 million if things got tight.
Plus, the Service Academy’s were going to be playing power football, running it on the treacherous footing since neither team can pass to save its collective life. But this is not college football like the Neanderthals play- these are good kids who have to pass some tough courses and have an obligation that is not the NFL at the distant end.
They are real people.
The weather looked miserable up there, the sleet accumulating on the turf as the first half wound down. I decided to go over to the Army-Navy Country Club as is my usual custom and see how the grand tradition of the hotdog-and-chili-and-chips-and-shredded cheese and minced onion and condiment buffet was doing in the new clubhouse.
I have been looking in on the Game for years, and the scene in the old casual dining room (and funky Men’s Grill across the passageway) was always uplifting. Groups of classmates- Middies and Cadets- would sit by year of graduation, and whole extended Navy and Army families came to enjoy the tradition.
I was looking for it on the first, second and third floors of the new facility, and there was none to be found.
The maître D’ in the new informal dining area was a bit of a stumbling block- he tried to explain to me about the significance of the Game, and I assured him I had an idea about that- I was just looking for the buffet and a chance to have a couple beers and watch the complete show: alumni and game on the big screen Televisions.
He thought I wanted to eat, and handed me a card on which I could select some tailored menu items: buffalo wings, nachos, chicken fingers or some other stuff for a flat rate of $15. I was left cold by the array, and the room was only half full. Some family groups were trying to keep the tradition, with Academy-themed paraphernalia decking the tables, but it was clearly not the same thing as years past, when buses scooped up the die-hards for the road trip from the club to the stadium in Philly.
I thanked the man for his time, handing back the menu card and wandered up the stately corridor to look into the 1924 Lounge (named for the year of the Club’s founding) and there was a fair crowd assembled to voice their preference on the progress of the game on the treacherous footing.
No hotdogs, no buffet. No one I knew seemed present, so screw it, I thought, and decided to go to Willow. I am not normally around on Saturday evenings, but given the snow I had come up in between bands of weather from the farm. I needed gas in Opal, at the Quarrels truck-stop across from Clark Brothers Gun shop.
I decided to get some piping hot coffee and on a whim, bought a PowerBall lottery ticket from the blue-haired woman behind the counter who had been having an exchange with a fellow in green-and-brown mottled cammo hunting garb who could have been an extra from Duck Dynasty.
I slipped the ticket in the visor on the Panzer and tried to remind myself to check it in the morning.
Navy scored first, and then twice more to advance to a 17-0 edge at the half as I navigated the darkening roads with the rain coming down. A difference of a couple degrees would have left us looing like Philly or worse- there was enough rain to have produced five or six inches of the white stuff.
The Ballston neighborhood was quiet when I motored up and found a place at the curb in front of Willow. “Hah,” I thought. “In luck!”
I got out the folding umbrella and balanced wallet and overhead protection at the parking ticket machine and walked up to the bar entrance. It was a little before five, and the usual suspects were still in civilian clothes preparing for the evening. My heart sank.
“Tex, you guys are sold out for a private function, right?”
He nodded in the affirmative and continued preparations.
“Damn,” I said. “Two traditions shot in fifteen minutes.”
“There, there,” he said. “A glass of sauvignon blanc will get you ready to get back in the car. Or, of course you could hang out and crash the party.”
“I would have to leave them enough time to get drunk,” I said, taking a sip of the white. “So I guess I will just enjoy this one and head back to Big Pink.”
“Sounds like a deal,” he said, mopping his brow. “We are going to be at this one until two this morning.”
I shuddered at the thought, and watched the band set up and the advance party of the party work with some custom decorations. Jasper kindly turned on the game on the television that is normally kept hidden behind the wood paneled door above the racks of wine bottles. The end of the blanc matched the end of half-time, and I bade them a prosperous party with heavy drunken tips and disappeared into the night.
I sort of felt bad for Army, later ensconced in the brown chair. “Twelve years in a row,” I marveled. How the hell did that happen?”
When they did the traditional singing of the alma maters at the student ends of the stadium some of the cadets looked really irritated, and the Mids, when it was their turn to complete the ritual, were exuberant.
I turned off the television before the chair overcame my sensibilities and imprisoned me in slumber. I did remember to check the PowerBall numbers before teetering into the bedroom. No one got the whole enchilada, according to their statistics, but there was a million-dollar ticket sold in Virginia.
I could have gone to the panzer right then to check, and then I poured a short Bailey’s Crème to settle my nerves. Hell, I thought I was entitled to be a millionaire, at least until morning.
‘Tis the season, right?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Eggs Ackley
(Overhead Image of Farm Fresh Croftburn Farms Dawn Farm eggs simmering in the skillet with Country Sausage with sage, sautéed Mexican red pepper and onion to start the morning at Refuge Farm. Photo NASA.)
I got what I needed to get at the Farm, and am cautiously watching the weather on doppler radar as bands of snow and wintry mix sweep over Culpeper County.
I would start out the story with an account of the Most Important Meal of the Day, but while important, it pales in significance to the other activities of this Saturday. I would be equally tiresome if I just blurted out “Go Navy, Beat Army!” but my heart really isn’t in it.
Oh, sure, I would love to see Navy continue the streak of humiliation for the Black Knights of the Hudson, but you know what? I can’t do it.
These scholar-athlete-warriors of two proud schools represent the best of America: self-sacrifice, honor and commitment to something larger than yourself.
So, I am just going to have some farm fresh breakfast and raise the morning coffee mug to two great groups of kids:
Go Navy! Go Army!
Eggs Ackley.
Vic
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Time Traveling
I am not sorry that I have found a new hobby. No, it is not feeding ancient analogue pictures into the little scanner. It is time traveling.
I have been listening to the happy stories about all the people that the new health care system is going to help, right in accordance with the talking points, and trying to believe it. I wrote to my elected officials to protest the cap in Cost of Living adjustments to military pensions- the little “tweak” is going to cost the JG, should he hang around to retire from the Navy, around $113,000 bucks.
It is the usual deal these days. Things are inserted into deals struck in private, without debate, and then our elected fools vote to shaft some group of people who did not even know their pockets were being picked.
I would say it is outrageous, but you know as well as I do, it is just the way this dysfunctional government works.
So, I kept feeding pictures into the machine and took a trip through time.
The above image is Raven, standing on the wing of his mighty AD4J Skyraider. I have written about it before, but the image pleases me. I remember an open house his squadron had for the families, and he took us down to Naval Air Station Grosse Isle to see the big attack planes, and his fellow pilots.
Raven was not sent to Korea. All the reserve pilots west of the Mississippi were called up and deployed. East of the ig Muddy, the guys were held in reserve against the prospect of a Soviet Invasion of Wester Europe. It did not seem that weird in those days, if you recall what Stalin did to Hungary.
Anyway, that was about the time Big Mama got serious about telling Raven to grow up and leave the canoe club. He had three children now and it was time for the fun and games to be over. I remember the conversation at the dinner table at the little house on Chester Street in Grabbingham.
I did not know what to think. I have Raven’s log-book around somewhere, which would help me sort it out, time wise, but it is too hard this morning. One of these days, when I happen to be in the present, rather than some other time (they did all have their challenges, didn’t they?) I will get organized.
In the meantime, I will keep feeding the images into the little scanner and see what develops.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Plaintains and Pictures
(Prisoner at the Yokosuka, Japan, police station. He is eating a cracker, which my pal Tom “Big Smoke” Duvall provided to make the interrogation more effective. Everyone else in the room had a glass of tea and the interrogee eventually discovered how really thirsty he was….Photo Big Smoke.)
I am starting to panic. The radio was brightly commenting that it is exactly
two weeks to Christmas Day, and I have done nothing, zip, nada except throw up a few decorations.
The storms- oh, I know, pathetic ones, really- put a dent in the week that won’t be repaired, and the Big Melt of yesterday afternoon left pools of water and crunchy snow to freeze hard overnight as the temperatures plummeted. It did not stop a venture out to Willow, where the topic of discussion with Tracey O’Grady and her husband Brian at the bar was about the shockingly timid nature of Willow aficionados.
Crowds were brisk at Liberty Tavern and Screwtop and Lyon Hall, so Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Get out there people and support Willow!
Anyway, I was on the verge of despair about the impending holiday and the mountain of pictures that have come my way. I have used a service to have them digitized before, when a slide carousel showed up in the pile of wreckage, but the last big load cost more than I am willing to pay.
I invested in a Wolverine-brand photo digitizer to drive me crazy, and in between watching the snow fall and then melt, managed to scan a few hundred assorted images. They are of moderate quality, but will be much easier to forget about once they are scanned and sent off into the ether.
I was on a roll, but when I ran into Tom “Big Smoke” Duvall’s 40-odd black and white images from Fleet Activities Yokosuka, Japan, taken in 1951. In those days he was still an enlisted man, charged with police functions and liaison with the local Japanese authorities.
I scanned them as the dawn rose, and then edited, cropped and enhanced the images. Then I realized I had to capture the notes on the back of the photos, and got lost in that, and then only now notice lunch is crashing down on me.
The annotated photos are on my Facebook page, and the link to the original story is at: http://vicsocotra.com/stories/3-9-08-craker_caper1.htm
At some point I realized breakfast had gone somewhere unidentified, and I opened a note from my old Coon Ass pal Boats who is retired down in Metairie, Louisiana.
He got me going. He said: “Its “winter” here in Metairie, Louisiana, as I write. The West to East wind that brought blizzard conditions to so much of the nation has had a noticeable effect here. For several days now we have been experiencing “bitter cold”, about 22 degrees below season normal. That translates to lows between 34 & 40 F at night and highs of about 52 to 58 F.
Despite the” bitter cold” the two crops that every South Louisiana suburban gardener looks forward to in late November and December came in just fine, oranges and “plantains” (our local bananas).
My 28 year old daughter spent the night at our house last night and this morning I taught her how to make “breakfast plantains.” Basically, you take the just-turning yellow plantains, peel them and split them down the center as you would to make a banana split.
Then you put them in an iron skillet with a light coating of butter, and fry them until some brown flecks appear, then flip them and repeat. Haul out of the skillet and put them on a plate, then dust them with about a spoon full of white confectionery sugar.
Its pretty similar to the dessert “Bananas Foster” but the native plantain is less sweet and a bit more fibrous than the table banana. Some folks call the plantain the “Cooking Banana”. You can also use it green. Among the many things you can do with the green plantain is make a semblance of hash browns.
The green plantain isn’t sweet at all and the white part is about as hard as a raw potato. You peel a bunch and dice them up just as you would a potato.
Then you fry them till light brown in an iron skillet, add a little salt and black pepper. You can pretty much use them like hash browns, some people can barely taste the difference, but that’s not how real Cajuns and other inhabitants of plantain country use the green ones.
Generally, just before they turn light brown we dice up some green pepper, and a very little onion and toss it in.
Some times we might throw in some diced red pepper as well for a little sweeter less spicy taste and some color. This goes great with scrambled eggs. Despite the fact that Thanksgiving-to-New Years is Plantain Season and everybody from the Cajuns to the local Vietnamese use the plantains in almost identical ways around here we refer to the resulting dishes as “Cuban.”
You will find plantains in the suburban residential landscaping, truck gardens, etc. all over the region but you’ll never find a plantain dish in any of our restaurants except the ones that advertise “Cuban Cuisine”.
About the only thing that we do with oranges that everybody else doesn’t do is that down in Palquemines Parish we make an orange wine. You know when you look at a globe focused on the United States the distance from Chicago to New Orleans doesn’t look that great.
But you already know what you look forward to in December up there. Here its banana and orange time.
Oh yeah, and because of the “cold” in the fall we switch our third or forth garden crop from cucumbers, squash, tomatoes, bell peppers etc. to carrots, cabbage, potatoes, and other “hardy winter veggies”.
We loved living in Annapolis nine months of the year, but Christmas signals the Cajun that its banana-and-orange time, and time to get home and change the crops to “winter hardy.”
I think, on the whole, having had a taste of winter, I would prefer to take Boat’s sage counsel, and head for Plaintain country for the duration of the meteorological unpleasantness.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra and Boats
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Warm and Dry
Two to five inches of the white stuff, they say. Not that much, really. Not by any rational standards. I was talking to Tracy O’Grady at the apex of the Amen Corner at her Willow restaurant about how we people of the Great Lakes deal with the eternal nature of the snow. She is from Buffalo, and I spent my time in the Little Village by the Bay. Old Jim snorted about real winter weather up in his hometown of Northampton, Mass, and waved at Jasper to get a reinforcement Bud.
I was taking it slow, and just grateful the drive up from the Farm had been uneventful between the storms. I waited until the temperature hit 40 degrees to ensure that the ice would be off the road and mischance could be minimized.
I tried to get a picture- Jim was particularly energized about the matter and thrust his left arm up in the air to hold the empty bottle aloft- but it was no soap. By the time I got the camera-phone’s icon pressed, Jasper had made the brown long-neck appear in front of him, and the moment was past.
Tracey and I are Lake’s Effect people, and we deal with the snow as it comes, the moisture sucked up off the gun-metal gray of the big inland bodies of fresh water. We got clobbered all the time, even if there was no larger storm front coming through. Cold air was enough all by itself to do the job and pile the stuff up on our streets and highways.
It is different here at the edge of the Piedmont, perched atop the big bluff above the sluggish Potomac. I have been looking out the dining room window since before six this morning, pecking at one thing or another, watching the blacktop turn gray with the coming of dawn, then the asphalt turning to gray slush, and now transforming to white as the snow continues to come down.
The Federal Government is closed, as are most of the schools in the region. Sounds like an exceptional day to stay in and ignore things.
I started with the Mandela eulogies in the driving rain in South Africa, intrigued that my favorite radio personality Vickie Barker was doing the commentary from Jo-berg. Then the usual litany of partisan bickering here in Washington started off and I tuned out.
Funny, I can’t dredge up any passions this morning beyond a vague desire to stay warm and dry. I believe I have a plan to do exactly that.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303