New Mexico: Jornada del Muerto

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"I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds."
- Baghavad Gita




I grew up during the 1980s. The Cold War. During a time when mutual nuclear holocaust seemed vibrantly realistic. Where followers of Nostradamus predicted the End of the World by nuclear annihilation in 1987 after a war in the Middle East. During those times, the Soviet Union was our natural enemy. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be...

Within a matter of weeks, the Berlin Wall fell and the Cold War ended without any of us being fried to a radioactive crisp. Who knew?

Today, a generation has come of age without ever knowing the fear and horror of The Cold War. Russia is just another country. There is no East or West Germany, just "Germany." If anything, the name "Tito" has more to do with Tito Ortiz of Ultimate Fighting than Josip Broz Tito who created Yugoslavia. In times like these, perhaps it seems odd and a bit strange to travel all the way to New Mexico just to reminisce about what was once our national obsession (or fear).


The long walk to Ground Zero.

I didn't come to New Mexico to eat green chile everything, or check out the Balloon Fiesta. I came for one reason and one reason only: to visit the Trinity Atomic Bomb Site in White Sands Missile Range. I came to get radiated.

In case you are unaware, Trinity is the location where our government and scientists from Los Alamos came together to test the first atomic bomb in history. It was here that they strapped an implosion assembly method bomb to a one hundred foot tower and set the world on fire. In a burst of sunlight, the United States rocketed the world into the Nuclear Age and jump started the Cold War.

Trinity is located, literally, in the middle of nowhere. Out in the midsts of the Jornada del Muerto, or "Journey of the Dead Man", the valley is aptly named because there's nothing out here. From Albuquerque, you take a hour drive south on I-25 to a town called San Antonio (which sells good fudge at the gas station and tasty burgers at the Owl Bar). Then it's a 12 mile drive to the White Sands Missile Range Access Road. Drive about four miles to the range's northernmost gate and then it's a seventeen mile drive to the actual Trinity Site. It really is in the middle of nowhere.


The lava rock obelisk marks the exact spot where the atomic age began.

Pass through the gate and it's a two-lane road through the desert. For a military installation, it looks pretty sparse and the gate seems rather unfortified compared to other military bases I've visited. A chat with a range employee later would reveal that the main gate and the actual post of the installation is actually south of here. About 100 miles south of here. There's a mountain range between us and the main gate. Whoa. This place really is huge.

When we reach the site, it's quiet, but the parking lot is pretty full. The sun is high in the sky and bearing down on us. There's no cloud cover and I wonder just how people of old made it through this terrain. On a horse, wagon or on foot, it would be merciless and unforgiving.


Not to mention it's also radioactive.

Out here, in the middle of the desert, the Trinity Site is enclosed by chain link fence. Despite the government's efforts to clean up the site, it's still radioactive, though they say that exposure here is equivalent to flying on an airplane cross-country, one can never be sure. I am aware to note any metallic taste in my mouth indicating radiation poisoning.

The site itself is quiet and serene. I expected it to be eerie, but it's not. Just quiet and serene. With a cot and some shade, I could take a nap out here. A black lava rock obelisk marks the spot where the bomb was detonated. Along the perimeter fence they've hung pertinent images of the explosion. There's a concrete and steel bunker that supposedly is covering a patch of ground that was preserved as-is from the day of the explosion, meaning that it's full of Trinitite and highly radioactive. The bunker is closed today meaning that everyone wishes it was open and emitting its' deadly gamma rays.

Not too far from the obelisk sits a flat bed tractor trailer with an empty shell of the same bomb. It's pretty big but looks innocuous as far as bombs go. The implosion method required multiple explosive charges to detonate at precisely the same time and precisely equal to each other in order to compress the Uranium-235. The charges would compress the Uranium to critical mass, creating a nuclear explosion. If it was off, the explosion would simply eject the Uranium.


Radioactive Trinitite being held under plexiglass.

Truth is, the United States didn't want to drop a dud onto Hiroshima. That would result in America looking foolish, losing face and probably reinvigorate the Japanese fighting machine. A test detonation was needed and Trinity was the place.

On the morning of July 16, 1945, the first atomic bomb was detonated at 5:29am. Scientists had calculated several potential catastrophes due to atomic detonation, the most serious of which was the potential ignition of the atmosphere and resultant incineration of our planet. They continued anyway.

The detonation illuminated the surrounding mountains "brighter than daytime" with a mushroom cloud 7.5 miles high and people 200 miles away said they could hear the explosion. The intensity of the heat melted the sand, creating Trinitite, a radioactive glass that is only found at the Trinity Site.


Inside the McDonald Ranch House is where they developed the bomb.

A couple of miles away from Trinity is the McDonald Ranch House, the site where scientists assembled the Uranium parts for the bomb. A shuttle bus takes you there and while the house has been restored, it's just empty rooms with a couple of sign placards detailing what went on in the "clean room." It was here that my Canon G9 digital camera started to go haywire and fail. Later, others would say it was a faulty logic board, but perhaps it was the radioactivity.

Back on the two lane roadway, it's too easy to hit 80 mph or more. The land is flat. The mountains are in the distance. There's very little to telegraph your velocity. I could easily hit 100 mph and think I was just inching along at 30mph. Some lolly-gaggers are rolling along at 55mph and we whiz by them. Since they're the only thing on the road, they come up at an alarming rate of speed.

Leaving Trinity and White Sands, we hook a right turn on the highway for what turns out to be a very long drive across the Jornada, through plains, over mountains and lava fields to the town of Carrizozo, also in the middle of nowhere.


Trinity Site
White Sands Missle Range
New Mexico
Open the first Saturday of April and October
http://www.wsmr.army.mil/wsmr.asp?pg=y&page=576

New Mexico: Balloon Fiesta!

Balloons on the Dawn Patrol


Date: Saturday, October 4, 2008
Time: 5:45am
Location: I-25 Northbound

It's five forty-five in the morning and we're stuck in a major traffic jam.

When the girl at Duran Central Pharmacy said she got up at 4:30am to go to Balloon Fiesta, I figured it was because she lived a ways away. Sitting in traffic on an otherwise desolate strip of highway waiting to get on the exit with 100,000 other people forced me to realize that this Balloon Fiesta thing wasn't some small, isolated event dreamt up by a funky little town but a major event.

Not one to enjoy sitting in unwarranted traffic, I maneuvered our Xterra around the traffic to the second exit and took the open lane to get a little bit ahead of the masses welling up behind us. From there, it would take us over 45 minutes to traverse the 1 mile of roadway to get to the Fiesta. I couldn't believe it. It was insane.


Takeoff!

The view from our upper level parking lot was impressive. In the twilight, a number of balloons were taking off for the Fiesta's "Dawn Patrol." With the sun barely peeking over the horizon to our back, the rising balloons illuminated from within by their propane burners. It's a mesmerizing sight in the high desert.

There's a chill in the air as the sun starts to rise but this place is packed. It's Day One at the Balloon Fiesta and the crowds are incredible. This festival is huge. I had always thought Artscape in Baltimore was a big festival but this one easily dwarfs Artscape. Hundreds of acres large, the take off field for the balloons is jam-packed with spectators. And the line of food vendors running the length of the Fiesta grounds are cranking it out trying to battle never-ending long lines of hungry attendees.


Darth in the morning sun.

As we wander the field, we start to pick up the rhythm of the Fiesta. The balloons line up in sequential order on the field and take off in order when the "referees" come by to give the balloons their take off orders. Slowly, one by one, the balloons take off amidst wild applause from those immediately surrounding their take off spot.

Evidently, Albuquerque didn't become balloon central by happenstance. From what I've been told, the position of the city, surrounded by mountains developed a wind pattern that could allow the successful and skilled balloon pilot to fly his balloon in essentially a circle and land at the same spot where he took off. No need for chase vehicles. No need for long drives. Just take off, fly and land. Easy peasy - and it's what made Albuquerque into Balloon Capitol of the World.


A parrot inflates.

We've all seen different kinds of balloons, but chances are you've never seen some of the balloons featured at Fiesta. Sure, there's the standard-looking balloons, but there are also one-man balloons, sport balloons, gas balloons, race balloons and all sorts of shapes. From balloon-looking balloons to pyramid shaped balloons to a Wells Fargo Wagon, twin bees, clown fish, Ronald McDonald, a parrot, and more. Even Darth Vader's helmet is a balloon, not to mention a floating cathedral. The array of balloons is amazing and impressive.

But what's an outdoor festival without food? Nada. And since we got up so early, we're hungry. While Maria goes off to find something, I jump in a line promising Hatch Green Chile Breakfast Burritos. Sounds good to me. They've also got Frito Pie - that ubiquitous and slightly obnoxious New Mexican delicacy that takes Frito-Lay Fritos corn chips and piles them with Texas chili, cheddar cheese, lettuce and tomato.


That's a clown fish, but it's not Nemo.

There's a coffee vendor that looks like it has potential (at least greater potential than the Folger's they're serving at my stand), but I'm not willing to stand in another long line. The line is moving slowly and the wait after order is considerable. Some people are getting grouchy but at least they're making our food to order instead of hot holding in some hot box. I can appreciate freshly made product and can wait for it.

Finally, my number comes up and I've got the burrito in one hand and the Frito Pie in the other. I start with the pie. Years ago, when Bryan and Maria (a different Maria) told me about Frito Pie, I imagined someone going into 7-11, ripping open a bag of Fritos lengthwise and pumping both that crappy hot dog chili and nacho cheese on top. Because of this, I was expecting a sloppy, running and industrially salty kind of concoction. One that would be ideal for late night binge eating and lots of acidic Coca-Cola.


Maria looking for something to eat on the Midway.

Instead, this Frito Pie is almost refined. It's a big mount of stuff in a paper container. I'm a bit put off by the lettuce and tomato, thinking that it's just impeding my enjoyment of the good (bad) stuff. The chili is nice, it tastes real and has actual beans instead of the salty gruel that passes for chili at 7-11. It's very different than what I pictured. The cheese is shredded and their are greens. To eat, just mix and mash it all together then eat. It's good. The flavors start to come together.

Frito Pie reminds me of my favorite breakfast dish: chilaquiles. In fact they share similar traits. Corn chips smothered in a sauce, what more could one ask for? Fried egg maybe? It's a good dish and I try to pace myself. I'm thinking that I'll let Maria try some but I've lost track of her. She's somewhere around here and I've left my cell phone in the car, so much for calling.


Frito Pie.

In the end, I find her but not before I've finished the Frito Pie. I choose to omit the detail that I had a Frito Pie, just in case. Next up is the breakfast burrito, it's ubiquitous in this part of the world and while I've never lived here, it's also a popular order with movie on-set caterers and I've spent many a cold morning eating some tasty breakfast burritos before running off to set up the first shot of the day.

The breakfast burrito here, well, sucks. The tortilla is dry, the scrambled eggs are dry. It lacks flavor and/or distinction. I wish I had coffee to help wash it down. There's some sausage in there but it doesn't help. I dig through it to find the lone piece of Hatch Green Chile and it's bland. Lame. I don't even bother to finish the rest. I just dump in in the bin.

We hang out a little while longer and listen to a children's choral group from Kenya sing a few numbers. I try to check out the apparel tent to see if there are any cool embroidered jackets to buy but the place is just too packed - and I hate crowds. I pass and keep my sixty bucks. Pretty soon we're back on the road heading for our next adventure: Trinity.


The Floating Cathedral.


Balloons take off in order along a line.


Mowhawk.


Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta
4401 Alameda NE
Albuquerque, NM 87113
505-821-1000
www.balloonfiesta.com

New Mexico: Jennifer James 101

Maria sporting her new jacket.

On any trip I like to do at least one nice dinner. One at a "fancy" restaurant. And while Albuquerque has a few "fancy" restaurants, the one name that kept coming up in reviews was Jennifer James. It seemed that when it came to haute cuisine, it was "Jennifer this" and "Jennifer that" and "Jennifer left this place" and "Jennifer went up to Seattle." On and on and on the local media went about Jennifer James and how she had returned to town to open her eponymous restaurant: Jennifer James 101.

Oddly enough, the restaurant is away from the city center on a suburban-like boulevard in a suburban-like strip mall. The facade blends in so well with the surrounding suburban scenery that it's easy to miss. After circling around, we found ourselves in a relatively smallish space (probably around 1500 square feet) painted in orange and accented in black. Halloween colors? Well, it didn't look Halloween.


Centerpiece and table pickles.

As you walk in there are several tables in the center of the room, a banquette (in black) runs along the left wall and the kitchen is smack dab in the middle of it all - directly in front of you as you walk in. Jennifer James herself is manning the hotline in light blue and after having read so much about her, I couldn't help but to feel slightly starstruck by it all.

We were offered a choice of seating and Maria left it up to me to decide. I chose the two top with the banquette facing the kitchen so I could catch all the action. Of course, Maria took that seat, leaving me sitting with my back to the kitchen and catching glimpses in reverse through the sliver of mirrors hung on the wall. Once again, the male suffers in silence...


Duck Confit, wilted chard, sweet onions & honey.

The menu is small with only five offerings for both the "primary courses" and the "secondary courses." I'm not one who really enjoys thinking too much about what to order, maybe it's because I've come to enjoy tasting menus where the chef decides for you or maybe I'm just lazy. Either way, even ten choices are too much for me - especially since I'm still in gastro-recovery.

Maria decides that she's only going to have one course, the Seared Tasmanian Salmon. I ask our server to ask the kitchen if they would please choose two courses for me. I have no restrictions and I'm willing to eat anything. I'd just like to try whatever the kitchen thinks is best.


The Hawaiian Fish with sauteed peppers and rice.

It's a Friday night and the place is humming. The dining room is nearly full and everyone looks to be having a good time. The vibe in the restaurant is fun and lively. A couple of bikers have left their custom choppers (with ground effects lighting) outside the door and lit up, giving a festive atmosphere to the exterior. There's cool bikes outside, a good vibe inside and you think that Brad and Angelina are going to walk through the door at any moment just because.

After a little while, the Duck Confit arrives. It's juicy and tender but the skin isn't crisp. I don't know if this is an error or intention by the kitchen and I don't bother asking. I'm here to enjoy and experience, not to compare whether or not this follows what I think is French tradition. Personally speaking, when it's good, I can't get enough of duck confit and I certainly couldn't get enough of this one. Tasty and delicious, paired with the wilted chard and onions and it's a nice combination - though I don't really taste any of the honey.


Seared Tasmanian Salmon, caramelized onions & fennel with horseradish-cheddar mashed potatoes.

Not long after, Maria's salmon arrives and it tastes good. I only had a bite so I can't really say but she enjoyed it enough.

That's when my secondary course arrived. A nicely seared white fish. I believe our server said it was a "Hawaiian Hobi" but I can't be sure. Actually, whatever name she said, it wasn't familiar at all to me. It began with an "h" but there's not many Hawaiian fishes that start with "h", other than the famous Humuhumunukunukuapua;a.


Affagado - espresso granita with vanilla ice cream and chantilly.

The fish was meaty. Thick and meaty. Almost like steak. It was delicious. And filling. Topping it were a medley of sauteed peppers, both sweet and spicy. They were a perfect compliment. There were sweet peppers and then there was the unexpected burst of flame from the hot peppers. The bite started off with the rich meatiness of the fish, complimented by the sweet peppers and then a punch in the face from the hot peppers, tempered by the steamed white rice and soy reduction. Five flavors on the plate singing in harmony. Just lovely.

From there, we moved to dessert. The Affagado (yes, I know it's spelled incorrectly, that's the way they wrote it) was really quite exciting as a coffee dessert. Sweet espresso granita mated with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream? Wow, a great interpretation of an Italian classic.


Biscotti with Dessert Wine.

I went for the Cookie and Dessert Wine combination that paired three types of biscotti with a sweet dessert wine. I can't remember the specifics of either the biscotti or the wine but I hoarded them greedily. I had never thought that biscotti and wine would go together so well.

That was it. Dinner was over. It was good stuff. But more importantly, I had made it. After nearly 24 hours of suffering, I had beaten the odds and completed my meal. It was delicious and I look forward to going back.


Jennifer James 101
4615-a Menaul Boulevard NE
Albuquerque, NM 87110
505-884-3860
www.jenniferjames101.com

New Mexico: Duran Central Pharmacy

The Green Chile Enchilada at Duran Central Pharmacy.

In these modern times, who would have known to go to the local pharmacy for a bite to eat? This isn't the fifties. Long gone are the days of the drugstore soda jerkIn these modern times, who would have known to go to the local pharmacy for a bite to eat? This isn't the fifties. Long gone are the days of the drugstore soda jerk. But perhaps time has forgotten this little town known as Albuquerque - and a good thing too.

Nestled along Central Avenue, near the tourist mecca of "Old Town" Albuquerque is the quiet, lazy and not quite so easy to find Duran Central Pharmacy. It's not much as far as pharmacies go. There's the expected drug counter and pharmacist waiting to fill your prescription for vicodin or viagra but compared to the slick Walgreen's and Rite Aids of the world, it's kinda sparse.

But we're not here just to pick up some Viagra (or Pepto Bismol). We're here to see just what all the fuss is about. To the left as you walk in, slightly hidden by display racks is a countertop and eating area that supposedly serves some of the finest New Mexican cuisine in all of New Mexico.

The trouble is that it's 6:28pm and they close at 6:30pm. Luckily, we catch a break and the friendly girl behind the counter decides to accommodate us. We're grateful.

Duran's menu is small but extensive. While they don't serve Chile Rellenos, they serve just about everything else from enchiladas to sopapillas to burritos and eggs. We're not sure what to order and go with the Enchilada Plate of three cheese enchiladas, covered in green chiles, served with beans and onions. To be honest, our visit to Duran is really just a snack before our dinner at Jennifer James 101 scheduled for 8:30pm.

After a few minutes, our enchiladas arrive and they're looking quite sexy. The enchiladas are literally drenched in green chile sauce and cheddar cheese. I both excited and torn to try it.


Maria at the plaza after a round of shopping.

It's the moment of truth. In my battle against giardaisis I haven't eaten anything substantial all day and have been guzzling Pepto Bismol like it's going out of style. All my suffering and effort have been in preparation for this moment. Can I handle the zesty fire of the green chiles without it sending me frantically sprinting for the men's room? With great angst, I take a bite.

The flavor of the green chiles with the cheese and tortilla is truly sublime. These green chiles don't have the furious zing that the Green Chile Stew at Frontier had. These are mellower with a light zing that compliments the flavor rather than overpowers. It's a flavor that builds a hunger. A hunger for more. It's absolutely delicious and I just want to devour it greedily.

Along with the enchiladas is a side of pinto beans that have to be some of the best beans I've ever eaten yet. They're soft while still firm with just the right bite. The flavor is rich and nutty while being creamy. I can't get enough of them. I want more.

In the end, we must stop because we still have a full dinner to eat in a couple of hours. In the meantime, we'll wander around Old Town searching for a new jacket for Maria and sharing deep and inner secrets under the moonlight in the plaza.

Next time, I'll be sure to try Duran's Torpedo and Mexican Combination Plate.

New Mexico: Sandia Peak

The tram arrives to whisk us to the summit.

Maria wanted to check out Sandia Peak so we were off. It's Balloon Fiesta week here in Albuquerque and they're expecting long lines. From the point we joined the line, the wait was thirty minutes, but there are signs farther down the line that foretold of waits up to two hours.

Luckily, it wasn't too long before our flight was being called and we were being herded onto the tram car that would take us to Sandia Peak, some ten thousand feet and fifteen minutes away. The Sandia Peak Tramway is actually the world's longest passenger aerial tramway, making 10,500 trips per year. In spite of my grumbling and not-as-angry-as-before stomach, the time in line passes quickly and soon we're being reaching for the horizon in our 55 passenger tram car.

I'm actually phobic of heights but if I'm ensconced in some sort of vehicle, dizzying heights rarely bother me. From inside the tram, I can lean my head against the window, look down and all is well. Do that over a cliff and I'm ready to freak out. At one point, the ground is nearly one thousand feet below. Certain death awaits should the cables above give way and Spiderman doesn't appear.

Whether it's on an airplane, a vehicle or tramcar, I have a decidedly morbid streak. I can't help but ponder and make comments about our certain doom. For me, it's humorous. A funny way of perhaps dealing with the uncertainties in life and adventure. Maria's a bit skittish about the tram and the height and doesn't find my commentary at all amusing.


Certain death awaits if we fall and Spiderman doesn't show up.

The odd thing is that part of me is secretly hoping for doom and destruction. I enjoy the thrill of living through some sort of disaster or near-miss event. Whether it's nearly getting side swiped by a car going fifty miles an hour or surviving a 7.2 earthquake, there's a certain thrill about living through such events. Of course, the key to that thrill is actually living through it and surviving relatively unscathed. Actually being killed or injured because of it kinda tempers the thrill...

At the summit, it's beautiful. The other peaks look fantastic but the thin air at ten thousand feet makes it difficult to keep up any sort of pace. On the back side of the mountain is a ski resort with the requisite ski lifts. On some days, you can just ride the ski lift up and down the back of the mountain. Today, the lift is closed and the weather is brilliantly sunny. It's hazy so Albuquerque looks a bit murky in the distance, but right here, right now, the weather is gorgeous.

My stomach's TSA Threat Condition is still Orange (that's a little travel slash TSA humor there) and Maria wants to wander through the woods. She likes to hike. I like the idea of hiking. I enjoy entertaining visions of myself scaling grand mountains and looking out across the void, satisfied in my accomplishment. But after nearly being killed (okay so that's a bit dramatic) by hypoxia while pushing for the summit of Mauna Kea (13,796 ft.), and ascending Mount Bradbury (485 ft.) in an ice storm, I've enjoyed relatively benign hikes through the alleyways of Towson.


Maria walks by the fence that cannot contain my wanderlust.

Hiking through Towson can be fun and enjoyable - especially since you can easily stop for a hot dog or chat on a park bench, but at ten thousand feet, the air is thin and I'm dreading every step we take down the trails surrounding the summit. Each step means a strenuous, hypoxia-laden step back up, but more importantly, it's one more step further away from the rest room at the High Finance Restaurant.

But I'm a man and I know it's my role to present a strong and stoic face - no matter my true disposition at the moment. It is our (males) lot in life to suffer silently and I've accepted that fact. It's why we're the uncommunicative side of the male/female equation. We can't cry, we can't show emotion, we can't seem weak. We just do and forge ahead - even when facing certain doom and destruction. Women don't chase us or give us flowers. It's no wonder we have shorter life expectancies than females.


Peering out to the horizon, I am ready for my destiny.

It's pretty here at the summit and like any dim-witted boy, if there's a fence, I must see what's on the other side. Even if that fence is keeping people away from dying a horrific death by falling off the side of a treacherous cliff. It's a fence. I'm a man. No fence shall impede my God given right to go where I want and do as I please. Truth is, I'm really too scared to get too close to the edge and look too far over. It's easily 800 feet to the rocks that will certainly break you in half should you fall. My acrophobia starts to kick into high gear and before I become a shriveling ball of crying human flesh I make my way back to the safe side of the fence.

Happily, my tummy is slowly recovering. The whole time we've been in Sandia, I've managed to hold on pretty well. With any luck, I'll be able to indulge myself this evening. Luckily, our trip down the mountain is relatively uneventful, except for the two ten year old boys who yell out at regular intervals: "We're gonna DIE!!!!"

I smile privately, secretly wishing I could join their chorus.

New Mexico: The Grove

Maria and San Pellegrino.

It was absolute, utter misery.

That was my night last night. Sheer agony. Okay, maybe not "agony" but definitely miserable. Probably one of the most miserable nights in my life. I didn't really fall asleep until 4am and then was rocked awake by another frantic sprint to the bathroom. Could've used a matchbook. Hell, a blow torch would have been ideal.

It's morning and things have settled down a bit but I'm worked. The only positive aspect of the night is that I read just about every printed word in this week's Alibi (Albuquerque's Alternative Weekly Newspaper) and have intimate knowledge of every event going on in town. Did you know that Journey and Cheap Trick are playing tomorrow at 7:30pm? Now, you do.

After spending half of her night giggling at my misfortune and suffering, Maria is hungry and ready for breakfast. I can't eat a damn thing. I'm not even hungry. What was I thinking eating that Green Chile Stew last night? Moron.

But she's hungry and she wants coffee.

Finding coffee in a new town is always an adventure filled with trepidation. Luckily, Ray was in town earlier this year shooting a movie - maybe it was porn, maybe not (okay, porn is what I'm planning to do next year), and recommended a place called The Grove. Since he and his wife own the half eponymous Gesine in Vermont, it's a safe bet to check out.

The nice thing about Albuquerque is that everything is pretty darn close to each other. It's one of the blessings of a small town, which makes getting places easy peasy. The Grove is both a cafe and market. Actually, it's more gourmet than market with only a selection of pricey gourmet offerings but there's a big La Marzocco GB5 espresso machine behind the counter that instantly buoys my spirits, not to mention the really tasty menu offerings from the kitchen.


The only thing I'm allowed to eat: plain English muffin.

Problem is, I can't eat anything. A phone call to Doctor Mom revealed what I already feared in my heart of hearts: no solid foods, no caffeine, no dairy, only liquids and crackers. Ugh, what a nightmare.

It's a shame because while I really wanted to check out their coffee, I couldn't. It looked pretty good. They were doing latte art. They steamed milk individually per order. They've got a nice espresso machine. Lots of good things going on.

That's when I noticed the barista pulling a shot for a cappuccino that was done at 22 seconds, she kept it flowing. For the uninitiated, one can tell when an espresso shot is "done" by the color of the espresso stream as it falls from the spouts of the portafilter. It should come out dark and brown. When it turns blonde, you know that all the great flavor of the coffee has been extracted out of the bean and you should stop, lest you prefer excessive bitterness in your coffee.

Unfortunately, I don't think these people were trained with that little tidbit of information because this barista let that shot run and run, and run. All the way to 27 seconds. It's not as if she was distracted, she was intently watching the shot the whole time - probably waiting for some prescribed amount of time to pass before stopping the brew. A shame. And at least I had a reason why I couldn't drink coffee.


Maria's crepes with fresh fruit, yogurt and creme fraiche.

Compiling my misery was what I ordered for meal: house made English muffin, no butter and a bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling mineral water. The muffin was pretty good. Sliced. Would have been nicer fork split to have all the nooks and crannies to hold your melted butter. Of course, I couldn't have butter so I suffered. Compound that with the mineral-y carbonated water from Italy and I wanted to stick that butter knife in my throat and just end my suffering.

Fact of the matter is that I hate, absolutely detest, carbonated water. Unless it's got a 5 to 1 ratio of Coca Cola syrup in it, I'd prefer to have plain water. Then no butter??? Just a plain English muffin??? Can you feel my pain?

Maria, on the other hand, went ahead with a vanilla steamer and an order of Grove Pancakes - French style crepes with fresh fruit, creme fraiche, toasted nuts, local honey with yogurt. It looked absolutely delicious.


The Grove Cafe & Market
600 Central Avenue SE
Albuquerque, NM 87102
505-248-9800
www.thegrovecafemarket.com

New Mexico: The Last Frontier

Few things in life are as rewarding as a pretty girl waiting for you by the gate as you get off the plane after a long flight, and in today's world of TSA and protecting us from our freedoms, having anyone waiting for you at the gate is a relic from a bygone era. Happily, Maria's flight arrived before mine and there she was: waiting by the gate as I got off the flight. How nice.

Of course, such a rare occurrence such as this does not go unnoticed by my fellow passengers and I spy envious and longing glances from those around me. Ah, such is this charmed life that I lead...

Which is tempered by the fact that I barely endured the short, 45 minute flight from Denver to Albuquerque - having spent about twenty minutes of the flight in the lavatory trying to flush the McDonald's out of my system.

There are few horrors in the world worse than traveling to a place, such as Albuquerque (land of delicious food), and being burdened with a stomach illness (perhaps Giardiasis). How will I be able to sample the wonders of New Mexico if I can barely last twenty minutes in an airplane?

The beautiful thing about Maria is that she's open to eating. She likes to eat. She likes to sample a variety of dishes and textures. In this respect, we're highly compatible. Plus, her distaste for benign chain restaurants, and her insistence that we never eat at one, warms my heart immensely.

Problem is: I'm struggling. My stomach is fighting an all-out assault on its' system - and losing. A veritable war is going on in my tummy and I'm trying to remain stoic about my condition. It's part shame and part male bravado that propels me forward pretending that all is well on the Western Front. Maybe we can just go to the hotel and crash, I mean, it is nearly midnight in Albuquerque.

"Are you hungry?"

Oh, there it is. The three words I've been dreading. The three words that's code for: "you know, I'm starting to feel hungry so let's go eat." This is a bad time for me to go on an adventure binge but the ramifications of having a hungry and, therefore, grouchy woman on your hands is a difficult proposition. The choice becomes clear: don't go to eat and suffer the grouchiness of a hungry woman, or go grab something to eat and battle to keep the war raging in the tummy at bay. Either way, I suffer and there's no way out of that. But there is one path that leads to a lesser amount of suffering...

Prior to my departure from Baltimore, I did a bit of research into the places we need to check out while in Albuquerque and for late night eating, only one place stood out: Frontier Restaurant. Located on Central across from the University of New Mexico, Frontier is the quintessential New Mexican restaurant. Open now until 1am, the servings are large, the seating area is huge, the food is delicious and there's no one around to bus and clear the tables.

We arrive around midnight and it looks as though an army swept through here. Dozens of tables display the remains of the once hungry masses. Dirty plates, cups and napkins are all over the place. It reminds me of what an archaeological dig might find a millennia from now after our civilization has been wiped out. Odd and strange remnants of the eating habits of the beings that once were.


Maria's BLT Sandwich.

Ordering and getting your food is strictly assembly line. Green lights above the registers flash when the cashier is available, and grouchy locals are at the ready to poke and prod you mercilessly if you zone out and fail to notice the blinking green light. The menu itself is huge and varied. Think "New Mexican Denny's" and you kind of get the gist of what Frontier is all about. There's American comfort food like pancakes, burgers and french fries. There's also Mexican comfort foods like tacos and enchiladas. Top it all off with green chiles and a side of green chile stew and it's decidedly New Mexican.

Maria goes for the BLT and an order of fries. The BLT is nicely done with well-toasted bread and melted American cheese. The fries are typical frozen foodservice fries. Like a true addict of flavor and texture, she wants to know if I feel hungry for onion rings (I do not) and suggests that I can have some of her fries if she can have some of my onion rings. Even though I'm not hungry, I allow myself to be manipulated into ordering onion rings. Such is the power of women.

Unlike the fries, the onion rings are a jewel. Crispy, crusty on the outside and tender on the inside. I love them. I want more of them. I want to douse them in ketchup and pepper them with salt. Bring me more Dr. Pepper, please.


Green Chile Stew with french fries and onion rings.

From my readings, the "must have" dish at Frontier is the Green Chile Stew. It's chiles, ground pork and spices in a rich broth. As I peruse the menu, my stomach quivers in fear of throwing chiles into the mix, but I delude myself into thinking that I'm feeling better and convince myself that I can handle it (even though I know I can't) and go for a small cup of the Green Chile Stew.

Quite simply, it's beautiful. The flavors are a brash mix with the fire of green chiles that slowly (but decidedly) creep up on you then hit you with all their might and fury. My taste buds are dancing, my tongue is ablaze and my stomach just got ambushed.

The Green Chile Stew was everything I had heard about it and then some. I decided to ignore the battle in my stomach and was rewarded handsomely. However, I would have to pay dearly for the next 24 hours...




Frontier Restaurant
2400 Central Avenue SE
Albuquerque, NM 87106
505-266-0550
www.frontierrestaurant.com

The Misery of McDonald's

Misery.

That's the only way to describe it.

Utter misery.

Yesterday I left Baltimore on another odyssey. This time to Albuquerque, New Mexico to visit the Trinity Atomic Bomb Site. However, my connection on United was through Denver and while in Denver, I took a wrong turn.

I was hungry. It was 7:30pm or so and I wanted to grab a small bite to eat. The United terminal in Denver is considerably large and there's a variety of eateries to choose from - none of which are entirely compelling. My usual quickie meal in Denver is tacos at Que Bueno! but they're quality has been declining and the offerings didn't look too appetizing.

In the center of the concourse is a French bistro serving all sorts of odd fare. There's a couple of French dishes like onion soup or coq au vin but I didn't want a sit down meal that would cost over twenty bucks. I wanted something quick, cheap, fast and small. Just something to carry me over until I got to Albuquerque. I chose McDonald's.

Having not eaten at McDonald's in months, I thought a cheeseburger Happy Meal would suffice. Small fries, a cheeseburger and a Dr. Pepper. Simple. Quick. Small.

How dumb could I possibly be?

Not fifteen minutes after eating, my stomach was grumbling. I had to use the facilities. Ten minutes later, I emerge and head to my flight.

My usual boarding retinue is to wait until the last moment possible to board. It's a strategic move that keeps my time in the aluminum tube to a minimum while allowing me to choose an open seat (or combination of seats) at the last moment. If I time it correctly, I can be the last person to board - meaning that those three empty seats in row 8 really are empty, and all mine.

As I stood pensively outside the aircraft door, the flight attendant asked me if I was alright. I told her I was fine. She thought I was scared of flying. I wasn't scared - just unsure of the growling in my stomach. But I went ahead anyway.

By flight level 150 (15,000 feet), I had to make my way to the lavatory. It didn't matter that the "fasten seat belt" signs were illuminated. It didn't matter that the plane was still at a climbing attitude. I had to go and I had to go now. Making my way to the back, the same flight attendant commented about the sign. I couldn't wait, I told her, this had to happen now.

Luckily, it's a short flight from Denver to Albuquerque, about 50 minutes. I spent at least 30 of those minutes in the back.

I won't elaborate further except to say that it was a long and excruciatingly miserable night in Albuquerque.

Prettyboy Market

Tailgating in Freeland with some chicken and fries.

I love fried chicken. I can't help it. Sometimes I crave it.

Baltimore's City Paper named Prettyboy Market as the best fried chicken in Baltimore. It's in the middle of the boondocks close to the Pennsylvania state line but I had to try it. And when I say boondocks, I mean boondocks. It's not close to anything. Except corn. But way out there on Middletown Road is the Prettyboy Market.

Maybe I'm just a bit too uban/suburban but when they named Prettyboy Market as Best Fried Chicken, I thought it would be one of those newly chic kind of markets with the nice interiors and fancy gourmet products - maybe even a few tables for seating and a varied selection of fine wines. Prettyboy Market is nothing like that.

It's literally a country market. An old, rundown authentically antique market with the requisite double gas pumps outside that are past their prime. In the county, we're used to Exxon replacing their gas pumps every couple of years with the latest in credit card and multimedia entertainment built in. Not this place. These pumps are old and getting rusty. They look like they've been working hard.

Inside, it's more of the same. The refrigeration units have been here for quite some time. Whole Foods and Wegman's slick this place ain't. But that's the charming part of it. It's real. It's a market for real people. A market for the country. Not a market from yuppie urban slickers who've moved out to the country and want the posh life and deign to beat the "country" out of country because it might lower their property values. No, this place is country, and along with that comes some rather friendly and welcoming country folk who happily asked if I was from around these parts.

Well, yes, if you consider the semi-suburban enclave ten miles south of here as "around these parts," but really: no. I mean, I can sport a Carhartt jacket and John Deere cap like the best of them, but I'm also wearing designer jeans and New Balance shoes, which kinda gives me away as a working the farmers market kind of guy instead of working the farm.

But I'm here for the chicken and a batch just came out of the fryer. Good for me. You order chicken here by the pound, not by the piece. Same goes for the western style fries. Give me a breast and a thigh and they suggested eight fries for good measure. Add a bottle of Dr. Pepper and my meal is $7.41. Not bad for the best chicken in Baltimore.

Unlike my misguided expectations, there's no indoor seating here. In fact, there's no seating at all anywhere on the property. Out to the truck I go to have a little tailgate party while watching the country world go by.

I start off with the breast. It's piping hot. In fact, I opened the plastic bags they were packed in, placed them down on the tailgate and went into the cab to get my camera, came back and situated myself and it was still piping hot. They weren't fibbing about this chicken just coming out of the fryer.

Judging by the looks of it, they use a simple coating of flour and then pressure fry the chicken. It's a bit on the dark side which means that the white meat breast is a bit dry and a bit on the tough side. I'm guessing their cooking the white and dark meat together and the longer cooking time for the dark dries out the white. It's not too dry but definitely on the dry side. Plus the dark crust makes me wonder if perhaps their cook time might be too long.

The flavor is nice but the one thing that lingers in my mind is the mild flavor. It needs salt. More salt. It needs salt to let the flavor pop. As I eat, I'm jonesing for salt. I wish I had some. I search the cab of the truck for hidden packs of salt but nothing. I want to go inside and ask for salt but I don't want to offend, and my urban thinking has me worried that someone might come along and steal my chicken or my camera while I walk inside. It's dumb, I know, but I can't help it.

Now, it's time for the thigh and it's also on the dry side. Not as dry as the breast but perhaps cooked a bit longer than I prefer. The slightly odd cuts on the thigh tell me that they cut their own chicken, which is a good thing. It's nice to see that some craft has actually gone into the food instead of merely using boxed cuts from Purdue.

The thigh's flavor is good but also in need of salt. I'm sitting there wishing they would season their chicken a bit more. I think it would truly make this chicken dance if they did. The City Paper said that no matter how many times they went here, the chicken was always as good as the last time. I'm going to presume today's chicken is the same as the ones that won the City Paper's accolades and I have to wonder if the CP reviewers like salt, cause I think the chicken is good but it could be stellar if it were seasoned a bit more heavily.

The fries are nicely done but compared to the darkness of the chicken, their cook time is a lot shorter. Maybe slightly longer would add a little crisp and, again, a little more salt would go a long way.

Overall, I really liked their chicken, but would I rush out here to the boondocks again just for this chicken? Maybe, maybe not - depending on my mood. But some of my friends live a mile away and we come out here on a fairly regular basis, which means there's always a reason to be out this way, therefore, a reason to just "happen by" the Prettyboy Market for their fried chicken. And next time, I'll bring some salt, just in case. Because I think it could be truly amazing with salt.


Prettyboy Market
20200 Middletown Road
Freeland, MD 21053
410-329-6420
Best Fried Chicken 2008

Tuesday Morning

Scrambled Eggs on Toast

It's breakfast time at the ranch and I'm the mood for some eggs.

Lately, I've been really getting into making scrambled eggs. For many years, I just whipped them up in a bowl and then fried them in a pan. The results were usually lackluster scrambled egg pancakes. You know, boring, lame and in need of copious amounts of ketchup to make them palatable.

Happily, things have changed.

Take three eggs (farm fresh, please) and crack them into a heavy pan (non-stick works nicely). Turn on your stove to a solid medium high, but don't put the pan on straightaway. First, cut off a knob of butter. How much? Whatever floats your boat. Really need a measurement? Cut off two tablespoons.

Next, chop some fresh chives. Not too much. Just enough. Maybe about one inch of a small bunch will do. Bust out your always present container of creme fraiche - homemade I'm sure. Don't have creme fraiche? Run to the store and buy some, or sour cream will do in a pinch if you're already famished. Be sure to have on hand a spatula (high temp spatulas are a nice tool to have around the kitchen), a tablespoon and the fabulous duo of salt and pepper.

Drop the dollop of butter into your pan and place it on the heat. Start by stirring the eggs and butter with the spatula. Keep stirring. Break the yolk. Keep stirring. As the pan heats, the eggs will start to cook and cook in little slivers - this is ideal. Keep stirring. Think you're stirring a lot? Maybe stirring too much? Keep stirring. As the eggs cook, take the pan off the heat for a few moments. You don't want the eggs to cook too fast, but keep stirring.

Now, back onto the heat (keep stirring) and keep sitting. Arm getting tired? You're doing it right. The eggs will continue to cook. Before the cooking starts to take off and get away from you, take the pan off the heat. Do this on the heat, off the heat as many times as necessary, but always keep stirring - see why I said to get all your stuff together before you started?

You will reach a point where the eggs are cooked through but still remain moist because of the butter. This is moment of truth. In several swift motions, add the chives, keep stirring, pull the pan off the heat, keep stirring, add salt and pepper, keep stirring and then add one tablespoon of creme fraiche. Stir everything together and you should have cooked and moist scrambled eggs. Viola! You're done.

Now, scoop those eggs onto a nice slice of crusty toast and maybe some breakfast meat with a glass of orange juice and you've got a morning feast.

For todays' breakfast, it was eggs from Springfield Farm, butter and creme fraiche from Vermont and struan bread from Attwater's Bakery.

Monday Morning

A fried egg topping.

I'm not always a typical breakfast eater. I like to eat whatever comes to mind. It's why I used to love Jack In The Box while living in Hawaii. You weren't forced to only eat breakfast sandwiches, like at McDonald's. Jack In The Box in the 90s offered a limited menu of hamburgers (including their Ultimate Cheeseburger) and french fries all day long. So while the rest of world chowed on breakfast sandwiches and hash browns, I feasted with a cheeseburger and fries. Lovely.

Today, it's time to get rolling and I've got a sandwich on the mind. Specifically a BLTEgg sandwich. And I've got all the ingredients handy!

Start off with three strips of Applewood Smoked Bacon from Springfield Farm, heated slowly in the cast iron skillet until it cooks and crisps. Gotta take it slow to get the right consistency. Tossed a couple of slices of Country White bread from Attwater's Bakery into the toaster for that crunchy texture juxtaposition that I love. A couple of thin slices of havarti cheese to go on top of one slice. Once the toast is done, I hold it in the oven at 200F and let the cheese melt over the crispy toast.

Meanwhile, there's some romaine lettuce hiding in the back of the fridge and I spy a jar of Hellman's Mayonnaise, oh and gotta remember to grab my jar of newly made Tomato Confit (I'm now out of fresh tomatoes). Layer it all together: bottom slice with mayo, tomato confit, lettuce, strips of bacon - and then the final ingredient: fried egg.

Grab an egg from Springfield Farm, crack it into a nonstick pan and heat slowly. This time I want the egg to cook and look evenly white. High heat will carmelize and crust the whites and I don't want that today. Cover with a pan (or cover) to cook the egg evenly on top (no runny raw stuff), season with salt and pepper and slide on top of the bacon.

Top with the other slice of bread (with the melted havarti cheese) and eat.

I had mine with a side of Chili and Garlic potato chips I imported from Canada and a bottle of Sarsi Cola from the Philippines. Tasty.

Hope your morning was as good as mine.


The Sandwich, some chips, a Sarsi and a book.

Growing Up "Goth"

And I dress this way just to keep them at bay
'Cause Halloween is Everyday.
- Ministry



Alicia and The City Paper, April 1987

Once upon a time, there was no such thing as "goth." It just was and nothing more. The late 1970s and early 1980s brought The New Romatic and New Wave periods where people like Steven Strange and David Sylvian made their marks. It was a time of glam and makeup - and we missed it. Completely.


Kirk's photo for the Bored In The Suburbs From Hell Event poster. He's a nurse now.

What may be known today as the definition of goth was then just part of the scene. Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus, The Cure, Joy Division, New Order, Dead Can Dance, The Sisters of Mercy and others were just "alternative" - back when "alternative" really meant alternative. Today, Gwen Stefani's poseur-Japanese pop can be categorized "alternative." Hell, back then, even U2 was considered alternative.


Lis is a high-powered D.C. attorney. Mike is a chef.

Truth be told, I'll let stalwarts and Wikipedia argue and debate just what is and is not "goth." All I know is that our crowd lived it. And we didn't have places like Hot Topix to buy clothes or Nordstrom to by Docs. Back then, you had to make your own clothes and travel to 99X in New York City to buy Doc Martens from the English lady who flew to London twice a year to stock up on the latest footwear trends.

And once you had your Docs, you'd better be prepared to fight for them because, somehow, the skinheads formed the idea that only they should have the God-given right to wear Docs. They wanted to beat you up and take them from you.


Jo is now an artist in Los Angeles.

But those were good times. Simple times. No cell phones. No ATM cards. No credit cards. Just your friends and Friday's at Cignel, the Baltimore club that on Friday night would host the avant-garde scene and its' requisite music. From 11pm to 4am, you could dance your heart out, make out on the risers, drink spiked punch, or find someone to get high with or take home in the morning before the sun rose. It was the best of times.


Dina, David and Jenny

Typically, we'd plan on meeting around 9pm at Louie's The Bookstore Cafe on Charles Street. Louie's was ground zero for all the happened in those days. It was the logical and easiest place to meet while eating light fare, drinking hot tea, reading arts magazines and looking cool. The then Annapolis-based WHFS 99.1FM was in its' heyday, Ronald Reagan was president, the Cold War was still threatening Nuclear Winter and no one knew if we would make it through another year without getting annihilated by the Soviets. It couldn't have been a better time for the death, doom, damnation and angst of youth.


Two French Girls - Chad and I were so in love with them.

Today, all that has changed. They've finally given our thing a name: goth - and found a way to market it. You can go to your local suburban mall and outfit yourself as a "goth." Quaint. I'm no longer in touch with "the scene" and I wonder if it still exists, and if so, in what form? Do they still have a club to go to on weekends? Is there a "scene" like Mount Vernon for them to hang out? Is today's "goth" a vibrant, evolving thing? Or has it been reduced to a level of uniform that doesn't allow it to evolve naturally?

The "goth" scene of our day morphed from the Punk, New Wave and New Romantic scenes before us. I wonder if the morphing continues. Whatever the case may be, those were the formative years of life and we learned more than most of our peers how to get along with people of different strata and styles. It helped us to develop into (what I hope are) rounded and open-minded individuals.

Meanwhile, I'll always harbor a quiet penchant for those stylish goth girls of yesterday and today. So please, keep the great hair and great style coming, because even though I don't look like I would ever fit in with today's scene, I still appreciate the lifestyle.


Yes, I went to Senior Prom - with Alicia.

Sunday Morning

The Coulette Brunch

It's Sunday and I feel like relaxing a bit today. Not doing too much. Taking it easy.

Not too long ago I was decrying the coulette steak. Now, I'm an absolute fan. For last week's fundraiser for the Maryland Food Bank, Roseda Beef donated the meat for the dinner. We had some leftovers that became my bounty. The coulette is a small, French cut - about four ounces. It's the hind end of the sirloin, but unlike the description the bartender gave me, it's wonderfully flavorful. She actually said that it was leaner than sirloin (and it probably is) but she didn't sell it. It's small but full of flavor, not to mention deliciously tender. I've been making all week for breakfast - usually with eggs and rice.

Today, I decided for a little twist. Some risotto cakes, some sauteed chanterelles some sauteed asparagus and the butter seared coulette. How can you go wrong?

I've got a bag full of green heirloom tomatoes that I picked up from Reid's Orchards last weekend and they're getting long in the tooth. They're absolutely delicious but we ended up not using them for Tuesday's fundraiser and now they're just sitting there looking pretty but wasting away. The vacuum sealer is still down and I'm at a loss.

That's when I decided to give them a little confit action. Peeled the tomatoes by scoring, dip in boiling water for 20 seconds and cool in an ice water bath. The skins should peel off easily. Core and seed the tomatoes - reserving the loosey and juicy stuff for juice. Line an oven pan (or casserole) with fresh basil (I raped my lone basil plant, poor thing) and line the pan with seeded and cored tomatoes with the core side down. The tomatoes should be one layer but be crowded in the pan.

Sprinkle the tomatoes with sea salt and then coat liberally with olive oil and bake in the oven (convection off) for 50 minutes at 350F. Tomatoes are done when they've browned but are still slightly firm. Eat the tomatoes and reserve the oil for seasoning - it is now infused with the flavor of tomato.

I've poured my tomato confit in a jar and placed in the fridge for eating soon to commence.



Tomatoesin the oven confit-ing.

Too Many Cocks Spoil The Breath

In the studio converting "Take One" by Front 242.

Leave it to the angst and anger of the late 1980s to come up with that title for à;GRUMH's 1987 twelve-inch single release of "M.D.A." It's hard, it's succinct and it's downright offensive. Bastards.

The residual rains from Hurricane Kyle continue to keep the estate soaked to the bone. In fact, I'm watching a veritable river flowing past the back door and a new lake forming on the neighbor's property across the way. Good thing we're not in lowlands or I'd be bailing instead of merely cruising at home.

Instead of heading out into the weather to seek my fortunes in the bosom of women across this great city, I've decided to stay in and concentrate on my music. For the past couple of years, I've been on a very slow campaign to convert my sizable collection of vinyl into the digital world of mp3s, iTunes and iPods. While a number of releases have been released or re-released as CDs, why pay more when I already spent the money years ago? All it takes is a little time and a little patience - not that I have vast reserves of either.

The problem with converting vinyl to digital is that it's a Labor Of Love. Like the way we used to make cassette tapes for friends and girlfriends, digital conversion is a real pain in the butt. It's in real time. There's no 12x conversion like there is when converting a CD. There's no simple, drag and drop functionality, like when you're creating an iTunes playlist and burning it to CD for some mid-riffed hottie.

No, this digitizing thing is serious business and it requires concentration. Are the levels set correctly? Is the record clean? How is the stylus? What are the conversion settings?

In order to capture the warmth and luxury sound of analog, I'm using vintage equipment for that authentic club sound. Technics 1200MK2 turntables outfitted with Stanton 680EL "Disco Duty" cartridges relay the sound to a Numark PPD mixer that feeds an analog signal into a Power Computing PowerTowerPro Mac Clone upgraded to a G3 366MHz processor. Digital conversion is being handled by an application called Coaster: sample rate: 44100, sample size 16.

Considering the newest piece of equipment is the 1997 era PowerTowerPro, state of the art this setup isn't, but it does a good job.

Now, the audio purists out there will want to decry the use of such antiquated equipment and such low sample settings (Coaster is actually maxed out), but let's face it - I'm not listening to any of my music critically. I don't have a sound room with an audiophile setup. My main listening is done by the computer where I'm running Tannoy BPM-6.5 Near Field Reference Studio Monitors powered by an Alesis RA-100 amplifier through an Alesis PowerMix16 FireWire mixer. Other than that, it's on the road in a noisy truck or on an airplane through an iPod Classic 160GB - none of which can ever be considered "critical" listening environments. So, my audio needs are quite simple.

The interesting (and odd) thing about all of this digitizing is that I'm actually listening to the songs in their entirety. Odd because I used to be a club and radio deejay and you never really started at the beginning or made it to the end of a song when you were mixing them together. I'm hearing segments of songs that I maybe never heard before - even though I had played the song hundreds of times over.

Anyway, enough with the chatter. Here's a list of what I converted today:

Front 242 - Take One
Book of Love - I Touch Roses (Dark Rose Remix)
Book of Love - Boy (Peter Rauhofer Club Mix)
à;GRUMH - M.D.A.
Ministry - Halloween Remix
Ministry - Nature of Outtakes
Nitro Deluxe - Let's Get Brutal
Robotiko Rejekto - Rejekto!
Nitzer Ebb - So Strong So Bright
Nitzer Ebb - Warsaw Ghetto
Philadelphia Five - Baby Do You Wanna Bump
B-52s - Girl From Ipanema Goes To Greenland
Renegade Sound Wave - Cocaine Sex
The Cure - Why Can't I Be You?
Laibach - Life
The Weathermen - Deep Down South
Commodity Fetish - Iron Hop
Skinny Puppy - Dig It
Icicle Works - Whisper To A Scream
C.C.C.P. - American-Soviets
Nitzer Ebb - Murderous
Front 242 - Master Hit
The Weathermen - Poison!
Alien Sex Fiend - The Impossible Mission
Cabaret Voltaire - I Want You
Secession - Fire Island
Skinny Puppy - Assimilate
Ministry - Stigmata
Book of Love - Modigliani (I Dream of Jeannie Remix)
Book of Love - Modigliani Requiem Mass
The Cult - She Sells Sanctuary (Howling Mix)
Bronski Beat - Hit That Perfect Beat
Sisters of Mercy - Temple of Love
Time Zone - World Destruction
Sisters of Mercy - This Corrosion
Book of Love - I Touch Roses (Daniel Miller Remix)
Book of Love - Boy (Extended Mix)
Gary Numan - Cars (Extended E Reg Model)

Is It Raining With You?

Here comes the rain again,
Raining in my head like a tragedy,
Tearing me apart like a new emotion.
-Eurythmics


It's going to be Peach Jam.

After a morning touring what may be our next food adventure, the skies opened and it started to pour. What better time to stay at home and get cozy in the kitchen?

As is my usual predicament, I seem to always have fresh food in the house on the verge of going bad. I have all the good intentions in the world to process the products right away but my plans always go awry - maybe it's a problem that I'm never home and only come home late at night to crash out.

There's a pile of peaches from Reid's Orchards sitting in the corner by the vac pot brewer that need my attention. The gaskets on my vacuum sealer broke last week so I'm without a sealer until the parts arrive. Lame. So much for freezing, time to make more jam.

Jam is starting to get pretty easy. I'm without that magic box of pectin that Maria used so it's back to the old fashioned way of adding sugar, heating, stirring and reducing for a couple of hours. Filled a two quart container - not bad for a rainy Saturday.


Filipino Southern Chicken Mashup

Now, time for some lunch. I've been thinking about pairing a Filipino-style preparation for fried chicken with a Southern method that I know. It's been on my mind for several months now and I might as well give it a go.

First, marinade the chicken (free range from Springfield Farm) in a mixture of lemon juice and patis (fish sauce). Of course, I'm presuming you've learned to cut up a whole chicken yourself, saving you the additional expense of purchasing pre-cut chicken.

Once the chicken has been coated with the liquid, spread on a baking sheet and place in the fridge for half and hour to chill and dry out the skin. The drier the skin, the crisper it will be in the fryer. After a half hour (or so), dredge the chicken in flour and shallow fry in a cast iron skillet until the skin turns golden brown in 375F canola oil. I've got a convection oven, so I've also set up a baking sheet with rack to finish the chicken.

In first are the thighs and legs since they'll take the longest to cook (about 25 minutes), then the white meat and I'm working them in batches. Once the skins have turned golden, they go into the oven until done. I do the wings last because in ten minutes, they're done.

The chicken is crisp, juicy and moist. The lingering flavor of the fish sauce and lemon is there, but it's just a whisper. To my tastes, the flavor mixed with the crispy floured skin is kinda weird. Odd. Different. I'm not sure if I like it. It's a true mishmash of Filipino and Southern styles and I just don't know. Maybe I need to eat more to be sure.

There's still more to test. I wonder if a longer marinade will make for better flavor. Those that tried it, liked it. I just don't know if I really liked the combination. Yet.

Trepidation

America is sinking.

Late August is traditionally a slow down for business as everyone and their mother heads off to the beach or some other vacation spot in a last-minute desperate attempt to savor and save their summer. It's normal. As we approached the middle of August, I scaled back the orders from our vendors with the intent of returning to normal volumes after the first weekend in September.

It's nearly the end of the month and our ordering levels have not returned to pre-August numbers.

Is the falling American economy starting to impact? I'm hesitant to say 'yes' but can't help but to feel it in my bones. And with the downturn in the economy, is this the wrong time to start new ventures? Isn't this the time to pull back and shore up defenses? Or is this the time to push forward and expand?

That's the issue I've been wrestling with this week.

Since mid-summer, I've been considering a space downtown for a second coffee shop. It's in an old, stone building and up a flight of stairs from one of the busiest streets (in terms of both vehicular and pedestrian traffic) in the Mount Vernon district of Baltimore. At 900 square feet, it's got some character and I think could turn into a very cool coffee and food experience and be a place where we really can get down to experimentation and exploring coffee and cuisine.

Granted, foot traffic isn't like Washington D.C.'s Eastern Market or San Francisco's Mission or Portland's Belmont, but it's gotta be one of Baltimore's busiest neighborhoods in terms of foot traffic - and I've been observing it at all times of the day and night. There's an equal footprint of floor space underneath the shop space for storage or development and the building also has nice apartments that I can rent to use as lab space slash crash space.

A number of my friends who are familiar with the space think it's a great space for a coffee shop. The problem is that some of my closest friends who are business owners, bar owners and restauranteurs are either lukewarm about the space or totally against it. I'm worried that perhaps I've spent all this time thinking about the space that I've lost perspective on its' suitability. Plus, the falling American economy is starting to worry.

All of which is coming to a head because the land lord called me earlier this week stating that he did his research into me and wants my group to be the tenant in the space. $1600 a month for 900 square feet. Plus the cost of building out the space, equipping it, stocking inventory and training new baristas and cooks. It's a daunting task for a space that some of my close friends are telling me that it isn't worth it.

When it rains, it pours.

Then there's the other offer - another restauranteur I know has offered me to take over part of one of his restaurants on weekends and offer Filipino food. A friend of mine is a great cook and is interested to break off from what he's doing now and give it a go. In reality, the financial downside of this venture is quite low. The restaurant is already fully equipped, they just need more business. There's a growing number of Filipinos in the area that need a place to eat and it could be a good way for us to hone our restaurant chops with almost no investment.

It won't be fine dining but it might be a way for us to play and experiment with traditional Filipino classics - something I've been thinking about for quite some time now because I've convinced myself that there's a way to marry sous vide and Kare Kare.

All week long, I've been pondering the possibilities and trying to figure out what to do. I'm not worried about the coffee end of the coffee shop. We make beautiful coffee and I'm excited at the prospect of training new baristas and introducing our flavor of coffee to a new neighborhood. But is it the "right" space for the project? Have I been seduced by the idea of opening a new space? Seduced by the idea of building a lab? Seduced by the lure of a new Pad For Seduction? I can't say that I haven't been seduced and that I'm looking at the whole thing with perspective, and that scares me. No one wants to sink tens of thousands of dollars into a place just to have it make ends meet.

Much to think about this weekend. I have to make a decision by the end of the month.