rustypants speaks

conversation with my dad at a vietnamese restaurant this past saturday:

*sign on counter: No Longer Accepting Checks*

Dad: That’ll disappoint Lech Walensa.
Me: The dude who coached Nadia Comaneci? He’s Romanian.

while ordering treats for the dog today online

i almost ordered a bag of beef pizzle

but then i thought:

ow! ouch!! gaaah!!!

no, thanks.

when we lived in the D.C. / Baltimore / Annapolis area we frequently asked others for suggestions on the local fare, hidden restaurants, hole-in-the-wall joints - places that you only get to know because you’ve lived in the area your whole life, right?

over dinner with friends one evening, we’re asked if we’ve ever had ann’s footlongs in glen burnie. we replied that we’d seen the place before but had not stopped to eat. oh my goodness, the litany that followed this was stunning: greatest hot dogs in the world, been there 50 years, we used to go there after school every day, they’re like hot dogs from God, when you go you HAVE to get the “double-dog” because those are the best, oh, remember that time when we went there, blah blah blah, 100% beef dogs that, if you get them done correctly, have chili, onions, mustard on them as well, and if you’re going to do it, you have to do it all the way, etc. etc.

well, it just so happened that i worked not a mile away from the mighty ann’s footlongs! oh, goodie!!

a plan of attack was devised and a week after this exchange i left school at lunchtime to grab an ann’s double-dog footlong.

i walk into the place and could tell it was a genuine greasy-spoon, hole-in-the-wall, been here forever kinda place. old-timers hanging around, folks behind the counter who look like they’ve been there since the eisenhower administration, grease that looks like IT’S been around since ike, too, old-timey seats and a standing-room-only lunch crowd waiting.

and the first red flag? instead of cooking their dogs on the griddle, they tossed them into this humongous pit of bubbling grease. i stood in awe (and disgust) at the sheer amount of grease and the huge number of dogs percolating therein.

i step up and boldly demand a double dog with chili, hold the onions. into the festering grease fly two more dogs.

red flag number two? they pull the dogs out, put them on a huge bun, slather chili on top, put the results in two sheets of aluminum foil, wrap several napkins around it, and put it into a paper bag. this wasn’t the red flag, though - the red flag came less than a minute later when, walking out to the car, the napkins and paper bag have soaked through with grease. and soaked through my clothes. and was about to soak through my seats in the car.

why, oh mercy, why didn’t i stop right then?

i ate the ann’s double-dog. it was a mess. it was a greasy delicious mess. it slid down my throat and began a toxic chemical reaction unparalleled in the anals (sic) of history.
it. was. disgusting. worst hot dog ever. period.

anyone with an iron gut would love it. otherwise, find another hole-in-the-wall place to eat (like the honey bee restaurant on rt. 2).

—————

edit: one of the best hot dogs ever? chicks drive-inn in west haven, CT - mark took us there one of the times we went up with him. there’s something about open-air dogs on the beach with good friends. 

doing camp as a youth minister was almost always a hugely fun thing. a week of craziness, fun, fellowship, music, teaching, games, sloppy olympics, teams, competitions, points, one-upping, late nights, and fun relationships.

and vomit.

lise and i did senior high camp at west river in maryland every summer for 5 or 6 years. as camps go, this place was awesome. our fellow leaders were great. the camp leadership was great. the kids who showed up every summer were great. and we always had competitions. kids were broken into teams and points were given in an archaic manner for all sorts of things: winning games, singing songs, random acts of kindness, answering questions, being creative, bringing blow pops for the camp director, asking nicely, etc. the amount of points given were generally arbitrary making the system of awarding them all the more difficult to comprehend.

but at the end of the week, a trophy was given to the team with the most points, so to say there was fierce competition for them is an understatement.

but vomit - no, the first vomit - that was like, the holy grail of points.

we always said that if someone didn’t puke at camp, we weren’t doing our jobs very well.

the year was 2002. it was the third day of camp and we had yet to have any confirmed reports of hurling. tensions were running high as we put our heads together to come up with some gross sort of game that would surely produce the puke we so desired.

but it all proved unnecessary.

as the camp pastor and photographer, i was a popular guy. kids always want their pics taken, right? this particular morning, one young man, whose name is long forgotten, came up to me and said, “scott - you need to stay close by! i’m going to puke for you and i want you to get it on film!” “how are you planning on doing this?” i asked. “i’m drinking a dozen pints of white milk in about 15 minutes. that’s SURE to make me hurl good!” and who was i to argue? every camp-goer knows the rule about humans being unable to drink a gallon of milk in such a short amount of time without the body going into upheaval.

15 minutes later, this kid is looking green. the milk is having its effect and he’s about ready to blow. literally.

he jumps out of his seat, runs out of the dining hall in the middle of games and announcements, positions himself outside at a ninety degree angle, hands on knees, and checks to make sure i’m ready.

and as he puked his guts out, i snapped what must be the greatest camp picture of all time.

it was picture perfect: the solid stream, the intertwining tendrils, the light splatter and eventual pooling of regurgitated milk - of the hundreds of photos i’ve shot in the many years of senior high camp, i kid you not: this is the transcendent picture. pulitzer-worthy? you decide.

he got TONS of points for this, as well he should’ve. that level of dedication to pukedom and senior high camp is rarely found in today’s youth.

when you’re the youth pastor at a predominantly african-american church, you come to appreciate the after-church lunches and potlucks more than you do in your traditional white churches.

white church potlucks are predictable affairs - lasagna, waldorf salad, baked beans, some kind of spaghetti cassarole, sandwich rollups bought at sam’s club, desserts bought at the local grocery store. it’s always good, but it’s rarely about the food and more about the company.

but when you hear that your local black baptist church is having a meal after morning service? oh, honey, you better be there! home-made fried chicken, hog maws, butter beans, cornbread, homemade macaroni and cheese, some kind of barbeque, home-cooked pies, cookies - oh, well, this is what i remember.

but my personal favorite dish at these meals was collard greens. the mouth waters at the thought.

my pastor, chris, thought he was The Man when it came to greens. and his greens were good, no doubt, but they just… well, they didn’t hit it. he’d make a bushel of greens each time, but i always hoped that one of the ladies would make theirs and bring it, too - there was something… missing from chris’ greens. he and i argued about this mystery ingredient, but having never made greens myself, i couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

about a year after being at New Creation, chris and i went to our semi-regular lunch at Millie’s over in madisonville. now look: if you want to have soul food done right, and you can’t make it to the church lunch? Millie’s is THE place.

so there we are, sitting in millie’s and i’m begging millie’s sister for a double helping of her greens (my FAVORITE greens of all time), when The Discussion about what’s lacking in chris’ greens comes up.

“my greens are better than this!”
“no, they ain’t - this is The Greens, man! you need to ask her how she does this so you can finally make a GOOD mess of greens some sunday morning!”
“psh, i soak those things 24 hours and add all these spices and cook them to a loving perfection…”
“dude, your greens are good but…”
“you need to stop talkin’ trash about my greens!”
“if you knew how to make ‘em right, i’d have less to talk about and more to eat!”

millie’s sister comes back out and i drag her into the argument. chris relents and they begin to share recipes. chris lists his ingredients and his methods for cleaning and soaking and preparing. she nods with approval every step of the way, until…

“how much lard do you put in them?”
“LARD? i don’t put ANY lard in my greens!” he replied.
“oh, honey, i see what the problem is now. i put two pounds of lard in for each bushel of greens.”

chris and i share a “look” - his look is one of astonishment. my look is one of epiphany.

chris never did make a great mess of greens even after hearing this. but i know now that the trick to good collard greens?

rendered hog fat. lots of it. and save some room for the collards!

i’m in cincinnati for a couple days hanging out with family, celebrating birthdays, driving to toledo to get lise, and having a good time in the cooler weather.

saturday was a birthday party over at my aunt diane’s house - my cousin chris and her astute, five-year-old offspring camden came in from south bend. cam and i had some interesting conversations about coinslots, cute girls, and tattoos. while creating artistically stunning designs using rubber stamps, cam and i gave each other some gnarly tats of our own.

i gave cam a snoopy tat, thinking that snoopy’s free-wheeling, fun disposition matched his and would make a definite statement to the world about what he’s all about.  i dropped, popped, and locked that sucker right on his face and we were both quite pleased with the result.

cam chose a flower tattoo for me. i can only imagine that he was thinking that my budding optimism, my flowery opinion of the human condition, my blooming love for all God’s creatures, the spring in my step, the buzz of creativity flying through my mind - i must match that flower and by golly i’m gonna wear it proudly!

the rest of the afternoon was spent showing off our sweet tats, having mini-food fights, teaching each other new tricks and phrases, and taking pictures. when we parted, cam and i agreed to never have laser surgery done to remove our gifts to each other, and would always proudly display them to all we encountered! it was a heartwarming, uplifting show of love and admiration for each other and the bond we had formed.

my hopes and dreams were dashed the following morning. my assumption that we had used permanent ink shows my naivete - my tat was last seen circling the drain in the shower. the memories are fading. my pride, collapsed.

cam - it’s time to come visit pensacola.

a tradition as old as civilization itself, the end of a meal at any chinese restaurant is always pure joy. how can you go wrong with those sometimes flaky, sometimes rock-hard, sometimes bland, sometimes sweet fortune cookies served after you’ve stuffed yourself silly?

who passed on the tradition to me? i’d be hard pressed to remember at my advanced age, but i will say that once it clicked, it’s never been forgotten.

the check comes.
the fortune cookies, individually wrapped, are placed before you.
the fight to get the one meant for you.
the crinkling of the cellophane.
the cracking of the cookie.
your fortune revealed!
BUT
incomplete!

much breath has been wasted arguing about the proper phrasing necessary to reveal one’s true fortune, but i have come to the conclusion that the only totally encompassing and acceptable phrase is “in your shorts” - it fits almost all situations and fortunes equally well.

many years and hundreds of fortunes later, i’ve whittled down to two the ones that truly reveal the power of chinese fortune-telling and the magic phrase needed for complete revelation.

fight with me if you must, but i will go to the grave standing by my fortune-unlocking, future-revealing phrase. you need to try it yourself - order some chinese tonight, crack that sucker open and give it a run. let me know how it ends. add your own phrase if you must, but at least give this one a shot.

and besides: what guy doesn’t want great physical powers and an iron constitution… in his shorts?

Download Great Blue Heron Burgers - It’s What’s for Dinner!

unfortunately, it sucks. bad.

a friend mentioned seeing a sign for A Taste of India (authentic indian cusine!!) at the ramada inn on scenic highway at I-10. a quick phone call confirmed that there was, in fact, a new restaurant there serving indian food!

woo-hoo! dance of joy!!

we spent the week planning our trip there for a saturday lunch. it was going to be pricey - much more than any other indian restaurant we’d ever been to: $9.99 for the lunch buffet. but hey, INDIAN FOOD!!

giddy excitement wouldn’t be exaggerating how we felt as we pulled into the parking lot. lise looked suspicious because there was nothing different about the place except the sign - but when we opened the door, oh my goodness - the smell of curry was in the air. suspicion gave way to our soon-to-be-happy rumbling stomachs.

and when we walked in…

…well, there wasn’t much of anything there. rice. chicken curry. lamb curry. dal makhani. cold naan. and salad. lots and lots of salad. find your own seat. get your own utensils and plates and napkins. it looked like we were supposed to get our own water, too, but the owner(?) came over and abruptly offered to get it for us.  limited sauces (2 peppery chutneys) meant there was little to do to spice up some of the most bland and boring curry we’ve ever had. the dal makhani was heavy and flat. the naan was cold and thin. the owner(?) abruptly comes over most of the way through our meal and loudly (did i mention abruptly) says, “the food is good, yes!” - please note the punctuation.

we were hoping for at least some kheer to work some of the flavorless food down at the end of the meal but it wasn’t meant to be. dessert choices were cored and candied whole apples or pineapple upside-down cake. it was the final nail in a disappointed coffin.

we go to pay, vowing never to return, when the owner(?) announces the cost will be $22.00 - then, as i hand him $25, says, “i keep the change, yes!”

i believe the look on my face must’ve prompted him to give us our change and stop talking.

look, i’m all for giving second chances to places having an off day, but this was flat-out awful. the price, the quality, the variety, the atmosphere, the attitude - there was nothing there that could convince me to try it again (and realize that the closest we can get to indian food anywhere else is 50+ miles away in mobile, alabama).

put that extra couple of dollars in your gas tank and drive to mobile - it’s worth every dime!

as a boy, i was not an adventurous soul when it came to food. i knew what i liked and the menu was short. as i grew older, i got a bit more open-minded to culinary things that i’d not have even looked at in the past.

when we moved to washington d.c. 16 years ago, i quickly found that the huge array of cultures & nations represented in that area meant that you could literally eat any different type of ethic food you wanted - sometimes you just had to go looking for it.

my friend kevin helped open things up for me. he and i met at gallaudet, and he took me for my first indian food at taste of india - i’ve never stopped thanking him for that. we hit lebanese, chinese, japanese, african, italian, and too many others to remember or name. we shared a fondness for unique foods and had a unique friendship to boot.

i was introduced to soul food in d.c. as well and holy cow, do i miss it. cincinnati had one really good spot called millie’s in madisonville, but since millie had a stroke, are they even open any more?

lise and i have scoped out a lot of different ethnic foods over the years. we know all the best indian places in cincy. for greek, there’s only sebastian’s on glenway. mexican goes to el rio grande in n. ky. millie’s for soul food.

but there was one type of food we’d not tried yet. several weeks ago we went to tu-do, a vietnamese restaurant here in pensacola. it’s somewhat like chinese or japanese, but not really.

much lighter. more dependence on light sauces rather than thick syrupy ones. strange but tasty combinations of vegetables, meats, and noodles. they have some wonderful shrimp / vermicelli spring rolls that are wrapped in a semi-transparent rice paper and served with a peanut sauce that is just out of this world. when i eat chinese, i usually feel too full afterwards. after a visit to tu-do, i feel just right.

the meat is present but it’s not the bulk of the meal - more of those veggies and vermicelli / rice than anything. their sauces are also light and on the sweet side. each dish is described in detail (and there are 100+ dishes to choose from) and has its traditional vietnamese name (thankfully for us, they include numbers, so we don’t have to make fools of ourselves).

put away whatever stereotypical complaint you may have heard about vietnamese food and find somewhere near you serving it - you’ll thank me later.

“don’t be silly,” she said. “when we have a little extra money, we’ll buy a new one.”

i knew she was mocking me, even if only lightly. the look on her face combined with the tone of her voice told me what i already knew: women just don’t understand.

when we moved to pensacola, we had three cars worth of stuff packed and that was it. in subsequent trips back to cincinnati, we’d load whichever car we had with whatever we could stuff in it and drive back with a few more of our precious possessions.

and on each of our return trips there was a small, slight, pleading voice calling me from the back yard.

i did what i could to ignore it. i’d hum. i’d crank the tunes louder and louder. i’d try and distract myself from the sound. eventually i began hearing the voice calling me down here in p-cola. sleepless nights spent trying to block out the voice, thrashing to and fro under the covers led to serious bouts of insomnia. a nervous twitch developed just under my right eye. the slightest whiff of a barbecue being lit sent my brain into a paroxysm of uncontrollable mental anguish. like a man whose arm has been amputated, the phantom limb cried out and i could feel the missing appendage tho’ it be seven hundred miles north, oh, sweet heavens, when will this torture end, when???

i knew before i broached the subject that i had to tread carefully. women, you understand, like the outcome but rarely understand the process and manly ego involved in grill cooking.

“so, i’m thinking that this next trip up to cincy… our list this time is really short. i ought to have a good amount of room leftover for my drive back.”

“that’s nice, dear. be nicer to drive without all that stuff in the back seat blocking the window.”

“yeah! but hey, i’m thinking that i’ll take a shot at bringing the grill down with me. if i can get it taken apart and i can clean it up good, lay a cloth down and bring it down in pieces and that way…”

and i could tell by the look on her face that everything after “bringing the grill down” was being translated as “blah blah blah blah…” and this is when she said it.

“don’t be silly,” she said. “when we have a little extra money, we’ll buy a new one.”

now, i knew she was going to say it. i had a script prepared in my mind and had rehearsed it in five different possible scenarios to convince her and show her that i’m not silly and that i was hurting, hurting in a deep, psychological, but almost physical way. but her gaze… oh, lord, her gaze shut me down. i went mute. drool pooled up at the front of my mouth and i barely shut it in time before it slopped over the front of my shirt.

“duh, uh, well… er, see… i mean…”

but by the time i regained my footing, it was too late. i could see by the smug look on her face that she chalked up another one to good old fashioned female reasoning. it took some doing but my fractured ego was taped back together and as i arrived in cincinnati a fortnight hence, the small, pleading voice had become a shrill scream.

the grill demanded satisfaction, it demanded a sacrifice. “take me to p-cola and cook on me or be cooked, sucker!“

as i took WD-40 to this 7 year old rusted, wobbly beast of a grill, i realized too late that i was to be the sacrifice!

jenny, our friend and neighbor, saw me fighting with the fused screws and gave me the same look that lise had given me. it was as though they had spoken via some internal woman-cam and a collaboration on the destruction of the fragile male condition was underway.

this, my friends, was like throwing propane on my fiery soul. i would not be mocked again!!

and two hours later, disheveled, bleeding, cold, filthy, unable to feel my right hand, and a second twitch doing a jig under my left eye, i emerged from the garage with the look of a crazed maniac. holding high the left leg assembly, i turned in triumph to jenny, playing with her children in their yard, and proclaimed in a loud voice, “A MAN IS NOTHING WITHOUT HIS GRILL!!!” and collapsed in a heap on the lawn.

*2 days later*

as i arrive back in pensacola, my wife rolls her eyes slightly at the grill-in-fifty-pieces and gives me that what-is-it-with-these-barbarians look and leaves me to cart the pieces to the patio of the apartment. my psyche lay in shards and i begin to doubt my own sanity until…

…until the first taste of scott’s famous garlic / worcestershire / dozens of unnamed spices / port wine cheese burgers touch her tongue and she utters in a flushed and breathless voice,“mmmm… these are delicious… oh! i’ve missed them!”

“i know,” i think to myself vaingloriously, “i know.”

teaching has many perks, not the least of which is having holidays off. good friday is on the school calendar and my plan was to spend most of it on the beach, reading, biking, etc. then thursday night, lise makes a few calls and finds that her office is going to be closed on friday! woo-woo!! a three day weekend TOGETHER!!

it started off on the right foot - we both slept in and caught up on the beauty rest. lise took the dog out for a good long walk, and we hung out with him until around noon.

then we were off.

we loaded our beach bag up, grabbed the cooler and hit the road. first stop: The Bead and Crystal House. lise has been working hard making earrings and other jewelry in the last few months and this place has a great selection of cool, unique beads to choose from. this does scott no good, of course, so while lise went shopping, scott went to joe patti’s seafood and loaded the cooler up with raw shrimp and some of their delicious spinach dip.

then it was off to captain joey patti’s seafood deli / restaurant. plastic spoons & forks, paper plates, bare bones surroundings, but some of the best and cheapest seafood in the area.

we ordered and devoured a bowl of their fantastic seafood gumbo…

and ate a basket of their catch-of-the-day, some hushpuppies, and baked beans. mmmm-mmm!

a side trip to wal-mart was needed as i had left all my sunscreen in my car. wal-mart is never a fun trip for me, but there was an ulterior motive involved:

hershey’s ice cream parlor is a block away from the one near perdido key. and i knew we needed some ice cream to get the lunch settled correctly.  we’ve not been in months, but we’ve agreed for years that hershey’s makes the best freakin’ ice cream out there. we weren’t disappointed this time when we saw a new flavor: girl scout thin mint chocolate ice cream. oh. my. gosh. it was awesome. little chunks of real thin mint cookies all mixed up in there - it was heavenly.

next, we hit one of pensacola’s three tiny used bookstores. i had forgotten my book to take to the beach and had to have something to read! after much searching, snow falling on cedars was purchased, and we continued our trip to the beach!

it was a gorgeous day out - temps hit the low 70’s and the sun was out the entire day. the beach got chilly as the sun was going down an hour or so after we arrived, but that didn’t take away our enthusiasm for seeing the sunset.

being a relatively cloudless day, the sunset was not quite as spectacular as some, but it was still an awe-inspiring sight.  we sat a bit after the sun disappeared, contemplated what a great day it had been so far, packed up our stuff and headed home to the big dog and some delicious shrimp just waiting to be cooked.

dinner was delicious. several years ago, my dad gave us a medium sized foreman grill - the old ones are a pain to clean as nothing detaches, but folks, when you want shrimp cooked right, the foreman is one good way of doing it.  it was worth the cleaning job.

we ended our evening by catching up on Lost, season two. we’re late-comers to the whole Lost phenomenon and have been renting for the last couple weeks from netflix season one. that was finished on thursday. now we’re on season two and we’re hooked.

it was a good friday, indeed.

this past tuesday was quite cool.

my dad and his wife karen came into town for the afternoon. they and my brother and his wife were in biloxi for a couple days on vacation - lise and i took the afternoon off work and they drove the two hours into p-cola and we had a great, but too brief, time together.

we unloaded the truck of our chest of drawers and two bicycles and an added treat of several cans of skyline chili and several bottles of montgomery inn sauce - all welcome additions in our home. we hung out at the apartment for a bit and caught up (and caught our breath).
then we hit mcguire’s irish pub for a fantastic meal of corned beef sandwiches, reubens, and monster-sized burgers - add a couple bowls of their famous bean soup and two pitchers of homemade root beer and you’ve got a great couple hours of food, fun, and talk.

next to the beach where the wind was blowing hard enough to lean at a 45 degree angle without falling over. sadly, it was too windy and cold for karen and we didn’t get her picture this time around. :-( a quick picture and a visual for them both of where we spend most of our free time (and what brought us to pensacola in the first place) were had and we were off.

a drive to my school and lise’s place of work, then back to the apartment rounded out the afternoon. we had a great time and it sucked to say goodbye but it was great to see them both and catch up.

and i have to remember to bring karen a reuben from mcguire’s when i hit cincy at the end of march!

for several years now, i’ve noticed the strange colored soda.

weird names. weird pictures. bottles. long-neck bottles.

and i’ve known people who swear by the sweet nectar tucked into those weirdly named long-neck bottles of pop.

but it wasn’t until our local grocery store had a sale on 12-packs of the canned stuff (3 for $9.00!) that we actually tried it.

and wow. nice.

green apple. lemon drop. root beer. all made with pure cane sugar, not the fake crap pumped into the usual brands.

and the tastes! interesting! different to be certain!

have we seen the light? are we converted??

yes.

i’m afraid so.

jones soda. the choice of generation rust.

this cartoon reminded me of an incident that happened last year at an indian restaurant in cincinnati.lise and i were there during lunch, minding our own business, relaxing and having some fantastic indian food. we were having a great conversation and a lot of fun when about 20 folks walked in the place at once.

“oh, crap” was my immediate thought. this restaurant isn’t big enough for 20 people and here comes a group that size - suddenly i understood why the already narrow aisles were even more narrow as 4 long tables had been put together up the middle making passage near impossible.

you can picture what happened next: 20 folks cram themselves into the middle of the narrow restaurant, talking loud, blocking us into our table, getting in and out as they all tried to go to the buffet at once, etc.

well, i’m cool, right? i mean, i understand the fun of having a big group and going out to eat together! we do our best to not bother the other patrons and enjoy ourselves.

but then.

then one of them pulls out a camera. in the middle of the day. at the indian restaurant. and they begin taking pictures with a flash. in my direction.

and that was about all i could handle after the tenth picture was taken.

i made the ugliest face i could muster as the eleventh picture was about to be snapped and looked right into the camera - i transformed into THAT GUY.

and as the dude who took the picture went back to make sure it “took” - his face dropped. he shows the camera to a couple of his friends and i realize with dawning concern that one of two things can happen: they’ll “get the picture” and stop it…

or they’ll kick my ass.

thankfully, none of them even looked over in our direction, but the message must’ve been received because the camera was put away and we were able to finish our meal in peace.

at times, usually late at night in the throes of insomnia, i wonder if my picture is on some kind of “that guy who ruined our picture” website.

ever had one of those days where even the smiling face of a smiley cookie sets you off?

yeah. it’s been one of those days.