Three for the Road

Completely random musings from a week-long road trip to PA with my kids:

• America has a weight problem.
• America also has a tattoo problem.
• The old-fashioned amusement park Knoebel's Grove remains a great, unspoiled gem.
• Terrestial radio continues to be a vast wasteland.
• A tour into an old coal mine was fascinating and demonstrated that no matter how hard we think we have it at work these days, it's a cake walk compared to what these guys had to endure.
• My kids love "Ooh La La" almost as much as I do.
• I don't think I have never seen so much corn; fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. I am sure it was this way growing up, but seeing them again it really struck me as how farming is such a vital part of the local landscape.
• I miss hoagies and cheesesteaks. And birch beer.
• The last hour or so of a 10-hour car trip with a 10 and 6-year old is a good test of patience for all concerned.
• Old Forge pizza is good. But not THAT good.
• Sad to see that some of the old ways have not disappeared. Whispering the word "blacks" when assigning blame to the town's problems does not make it any less unsavory.
• Sibling rivalry is still an infrequent issue. Jack to Ruby after she kicked the back of his seat, which annoyed him to no end: "Ruby, you are responsible for all of the world's problems, even Egypt."
• Despite Jack's claim, Ruby was a great sport, putting up with Jack as he climbed all over about two dozen trains at Steamtown National Park.
• Maybe you can't go home again. Five days in my hometown and I didn't randomly run into anyone I knew. Things have changed and time moves on.
• Ruby got to spend time with horses, one of her greatest loves. They both got to ride a camel at a Wildlife Preserve. They fed ducks to their heart's content.
• And Dad got to do what he loves the the most, too.

And after we got back, the kids came in to help unpack boxes
as I moved into a new cube at work. This was the message Jack
left on my board. I think it needs no commentary.

Get off work and grab something to eat....

Tonight I wandered into Jake's Wayback Burgers, a Delaware-based chain with burgers nearly on a par with 5 Guys and fries on a par with Ore-Ida, except not even as good as those frozen, tasteless specimens.

Anyway, the burger was fine, but what was really remarkable was the help, a group of 3-4 stoner-types who could barely take their eyes off "Wheel of Fortune" long enough to prepare the food. They stared at the 40-inch or so flat screen on the wall as if they were watching the moon landing. I didn't see or hear them trying to guess the puzzle. They all just stood there, leaning on the counter, watching Pat and Vanna as if the secret of the world might be revealed by those spinning letters.

Finally, a commercial came on, and they were able to flip the burgers and dump more frozen potatoes into the deep fryer. The show ended and I got my food.

This is what currently passes for entertainment in my world.

Back in Your Arms Again

Spent the weekend with my kids in Ocean City, MD, having a great time: Hot weather, sand, a water park, hoagies and the sounds of the Good Humor truck.

To Jack and Ruby (and I suspect all other children), the jingle this truck plays is akin to a high-pitched sound that only dogs hear: My kids turn their heads, their eyes get very large, and they stop what they are doing to pay attention, even if they happen to be already eating ice cream at the time.

I had the same reaction when I was a kid when Mr. Softee came down our street. Yes, it was a truck with ice cream that also played an addicting tune, but also because our own MR. SOFTEE ONLY HAD ONE ARM. Or, more accurately, one arm and another that ended just above his elbow. And without fail, he wore a short sleeve shirt every time.

So we could all look at his lack of full appendage, I guess.

I would get to the truck's window, and before I could order anything my eyes would go, without fail, to the stub at the end of his left arm. I practiced my order when I was in line, but I would always hesitate for a moment when I got to him because I stopped to stare at the smooth, rounded skin that protruded about an inch from the end of his shirt sleeve.

What a mystery this was. Did he lose his arm because it got stuck in the soft-serve machine? Did it get mangled in the milkshake mixer? Or possibly more realistically, did he lose it at the hands of some German or Japanese soldier during service in The Big One? Of course, I was too shy to ask and besides, the mystery of it was better anyway.

And although the arm, or lack thereof, was oft-putting, Mr. Softee himself, as I remember him, was as nice as could be. Kind, patient and he always gave more-than-adequate servings. His uniform was neat, clean and pressed to a fault. He even wore the little paper hat, cocked just right on his head.

His was the perfect image of the ready-to-serve Mr. Softee.

Except for that missing arm.

Well I'm a little down under, but I'm feeling OK

Last night I was this guy, and I'm fairly sure it shaved some time off my life. And even though I still feel sort of bloated, somewhat queasy and overall not so good, I would do it again in a cholesterol-laden heartbeat.

Just maybe not too often.

The culprit was a cheesesteak at Giacomo's in Easton, PA, winner of the local Cheesesteak Challenge. And I must say, without trying the rest of the challengers, I can't imagine a better sandwich.

Plentiful, perfectly-cooked chopped steak (but not pulverized into oblivion), oozing cheese, the right amount of onions, and a great roll -- flavorful and sturdy while not buckling with all the goodness jammed into it. I think it compared favorably with the classic haunts of Philadelphia, although I can't be sure as it's been a while...

One of the great things about the Northeast is the plethora of hoagies, fairly decent pizza and, of course, cheesesteaks.

And a cardinal rule for me is that if a restaurant offers a "Philly" cheesesteak, keep on moving. I have no trust for joints that try to add so-called authenticity by throwing in a reality show-like location name.

As I write this, my stomach is still churning, slightly. And I am hoping it doesn't hasten a trip to a cardiologist.

Man, that was a good cheesesteak.

Strictly 100: Number 27 -- cheesesteaks

Old fears and failures....

A few days ago I was an (read: THE ONLY) active participant in a blatant act of age discrimination.

And I feel really bad about it.

I was in the market café section of a large grocery store that might should go unnamed (Wegman's) trying to decide what to have for supper.

The last few times I was there, I eyed the burrito stand. Now I, and the rest of my family (except for Ruby, who is the fan of few things food, unless they are mostly not-so-good for her) are huge Chipotle fans. And the menu and surroundings looked as if this could be a reasonable fascimile.

But it was a lonely counter, save for an elderly, even kindly-looking, gentleman waiting to make a burrito or burrito bowl. And I hemmed and hawed for awhile, and then....

...decided that I just couldn't have this guy make my burrito.

Why? My reason is poor.

I'm used to some young, tattooed, pierced character make what my white-bread world thought process considers a newfangled food. (despite the fact that burritos were probably first made by the Aztecs around 500 years ago. It took a long time for some food to make its way to North-Central PA). In my mind I must have thought: "This isn't who I want doing this. Now if I wanted meatloaf and mashed potatoes…"

So I passed, and got a hoagie made by a person who looked like she should make hoagies.

What does this say about me? What if someone refused to have email me something to write or edit because I'm old enough to have used a typewriter and carbon paper?

I am disgusted with myself.

It will soon be supper time again.

I might need me a burrito.

A little bit of heaven here on earth

On a damp, blustery day in Bethlehem, Pa, I found a slice (literally) of heaven that you could fold and hold in your hand. The picture is blurry; I think I was overwhelmed with what was in front of me and I could not hold the camera still.

The small tomato pie at Martellucci's is certainly not on par with Pepe's, Lombardi's, Sally's Apizza, Taconelli's, Di Fara's or even any number of pizza joints on the East Coast that I have visited.

But today, on a lonely afternoon, with the rain coming down in buckets and the wind whipping so hard outside that the screen door slammed repeatedly, Martellucci's served up a masterpiece. It featured a thin, slightly charred and crispy and yeasty crust, a sweet (but not too sweet) sauce and just the right amount of cheese. Martelluci's pepperoni is hidden as they put it on before the cheese, so you never know when the next bite is going to reveal a smoky and salty surprise.

At that particular, singular moment, it was perfection, like the crack of pizza. Nothing could stop me from eating the whole pie. I tried to savor it slowly, but it was finished in an embarassingly short time.

Pizza really is the world's most perfect food, and ideal comfort food as well. And given the conditions, this pie today was one of the most comforting of all.

Some may wanna die young, man

Like most other families of the era, meat was a centerpiece at nearly meal when I was growing up. In fact, mealtime was so predictable that we often knew what we were having based on what day it was. Monday and Tuesday were pork chops or meatloaf, Wednesday was spaghetti with meat sauce (we never had “pasta”) and Friday was often fish, which was a nod (and a delicious one at that due to a great local take out place) to our Catholic neighbors and community. Saturday lunch was pancakes and sausage patties.

My grandparents had meat at every meal that I can remember; my dad’s parents, who farmed, would at times kill a chicken for our Sunday dinner. My family were also hunters, so we had game regularly as well: deer, squirrel, rabbits and pheasant.
There was meat, and lots of it. And I loved it. Sort of like The Killer.

That said, we don’t have much meat at our house these days (and certainly no wild game…). And given the disease that runs in my family, probably at least partly related to meat consumption, I would say that’s most likely a good thing.

But if I could eat barbecue every day, I mean real, slow-cooked pit barbecue, I would be tempted to do so.

Or at least until I think about the fact that I want to see my kids grow up.

Purists argue, vinegar or tomato-based, pork, brisket or sausage. I don’t care. It’s all good; well, not all of it, that depends on who is cooking it.

But of particular note is The Ridgewood, an unassuming, hard-to find, joint hidden in the woods of East Tennessee. This place is hard to find, even with a map. The pulled pork is indescribably tender, redolent with wood smoke and accompanied with a dark red sauce that dances on your tongue. And while the pork is out of this world, the beans, fries and slaw are also excellent and worthy of sharing the same plate with the barbecue. Of special note are the beans: cooked in fatback, they are tantalizing and as smoky as the pork.

I can feel my arteries hardening as I write this.

But If I had the choice of one meal, anywhere in the world, The Ridgewood would be on my short list. It is almost perfect.

Others of note:

Louie Mueller’s (Taylor, TX)
Kreuz’s (Lockhart, TX)
Wilber’s (Goldsboro, NC)
Fresh Air (Jackson, GA)
Lexington #1 (Lexington, NC)
Parkers (Wilson, NC)
Skylight Inn (Ayden, NC)
Allen and Son (Chapel Hill, NC)
Southside Market and BBQ (Elgin, TX)
Maurice’s Piggy Park (Columbia, SC)
Dreamland (Birmingham, AL)

…to name but a few.

Bottom line, if you going to eat meat, make every bite count.

Strictly 100 - Number 10: Barbecue

Summer's (almost) here and the time is right

At one time in my life, not much was better than successfully convincing my parents that we needed to get in the car and head to the Ranch Wagon. This unassuming food stand was little more than a trailer tucked in off a busy highway and featured carhops that descended on your car after you pulled into the parking lot.

Once you ordered (two footlongs, please), the driver’s side window was rolled down part way and we waited for a tray holding the food that hung on the window. When we were finished eating, dad (or occasionally, mom) started the car and the carhop came back to collect the tray.

Now this was a rite of passage for many reasons, but nothing stands out more than the hot dogs – twelve inches on the nose, in a skinny little bun and covered with a relish unlike any I have tasted to this day. This relish tasted so good, and for some reason, smelled even better. Fortunately, our Dodge often smelled of this relish for several days after we visited. The hot dogs, skin on, popped with each bite, sending juice onto your chin.

Oh, the Ranch Wagon had other goodies too. Pizza was served, Old Forge style, on Friday and Saturdays, and was particularly comforting. In fact, I remember being devastated one Friday night after my first viewing of “Pride of the Yankees” and finding out that Lou Gehrig died at the end. Well, I was broken up to be sure, but not such a mess that a Ranch Wagon cheese pie could not fix what ailed me.

And yes, the Ranch Wagon stands to this day. When I went home last year for my high-school reunion, I went straight from the airport for two Long Dogs. Yes, there are still carhops. Yes, the place is still kind of a dump. And yes, the hot dogs are still phenomenal, just as good as I remembered when I was eight-years-old. And my rental car still smelled like relish when I turned it back in.

I sure could go for two right now, with everything. If only it wasn’t 500 miles away.

I guess these guys are not singing about those footlongs.

But they could be.

Hot Dog – Buck Owens
Hot Dog – Shakin’ Stevens

You say green pepper, I say mango

You know what each of these is called, right?

Growing up, many members of my family in Pennsylvania referred to green peppers as mangoes. Although I found it to be somewhat odd, I never really thought about it too much. But when I mentioned this to my wife a while ago, she basically said that a mango is a mango, and a green pepper is a green pepper. And she is right, but I got to thinking about how interesting these regional colloquialisms are.

So I did a little research. According to the Food Reference Web site, "the usage of 'mango' for green peppers seems to have originated with coal miners in eastern Pennsylvania (1870s +) - and spread with the mining industries, and then with the miners families as they migrated to new areas and found new jobs.....

"...but why the word 'mango' for green peppers? Many of these coal miners were of Eastern European origin, and it has been suggested that the word may have a Slovak origin. The English 'dialect' of the Appalachian region with its unique pronunciation, grammar, and word usage is due in large part to the immigration of miners, engineers and others from so many countries coming together in one area and being relatively isolated in the small mining towns.”

So, there actually was a reason for that use of the word mango in my house. Oh, and by the way, to my knowledge we never had any "real" mangoes in my family. So we avoided that confusion of perhaps calling real mangoes something unique like say....okra.

And I also started to think about more of these colloquialisms from my youth. Here are a few:

· You had to "red up" the house before company came over.
· Rubber bands were always called “gumbands.”
· The capital is “”Warshington, D.C.” not Washington. Likewise, go “warsh your face.”
· Yes, we really did say, "I’m going down to the 'crick.'”
· The Tigers play in “Dee-troit.”
· Anyone from Italy is an "eye-talian.”
· We never went there, but if we did, we would have gone to the “shore,” not the beach.
· A great snack was “jellybread.”
· Sloppy Joes were always called “hamburg barbecue.”
· Cinnamon rolls were “sticky buns.”

I still use some of these -- although now I am “worldly” enough to know the difference between a green pepper and a mango.
As future generations also become more worldly (and homogenized), will we lose these and other verbal identifiers of our homes and places of birth?
And, if we do, is that a good or bad thing?