Rhino skin and other reflections

Ah, yes. It's that magical time of year when, after three months' exposure to the brisk winter air, all good Bermtopians' skin goes as dry as the Gobi Desert. Without the Mongols, thankfully.

That's me to the right. Hi, everyone!

And despite the regular administration of copious amounts of moisturizer, I itch like the dickens. It's getting to be a problem. Case in point:

We met friends for Happy Hour and dinner at a downtown watering hole Thursday night. In between the appetizers and Caesar salad, I started to itch insanely at a spot about 4 inches below my left armpit. It was relentless. I tried discreetly to shrug up and down against the back of the banquette for relief. I looked like I was getting ready to toss my cookies on what remained of the Thai chicken flatbread appetizer.

Scratch, for lack of a better word, that approach.

So I did the only thing I could do: Demurely excuse myself, beat a hasty retreat to the lady's room and lock myself in a stall. There, I furiously shoved my hand and arm up the front of my sweater and went at it to relieve said itch.

The ensuing action was somewhat reminiscent of  "Alien."

I made it back just as the ribs were being served. Life, albeit itchy, is good.

But HERE'S what I'd really like to do when the itches set in: Whenever, I want to park my butt on floor, bring my leg up and get the the scratching deed done just like Ben. It's so much more efficient.

Bet I could do it if I tried.

###

For those of you sitting at the edge of your bed in the asylum seat waiting for my next chipper report regarding conditions on the ground in Bermtopia, you will not be disappointed.

The overall conditions on the ground in Bermtopia can be described in one word: Shitty.

The snow's melted and frozen, melted and frozen, melted and frozen (ok, I think you get picture -- but did I mention? the snow has melted and frozen several times?) AND now has been rained on,

Sidewalk of Death: Abandon hope, all ye who enter  here.

resulting in a lovely, large cocktail of thick, slick glare ice cropping up in the MOST inconvenient locations, specifically, the sidewalks, driveways and parking lots I personally traverse on a daily basis.

This is ice. This is The Enemy. If you have two legs -- and try to navigate this -- you are toast.

Therefore, I've taken to the streets. Literally. They are mercifully bare of snow and bone dry. I let Ben take his leave to navigate the Sidewalks of Death. Four legs do seem to help.

Given the Nine-One-Four's southern-facing orientation, we have a welcome glimpse of grass and other precious vegetation. On our street, though, mostly everyone else is still coated in snow, which is now pitted and bruised gray and brown from numerous punches from snow plows and snow blowers.

Some of it slowly bleeds into street where it evaporates or coalesces into the aforementioned Sidewalks of Death. But sometimes, sometimes, it look likes this:

Art-y but mostly lame

February is just days away. And after February (thankfully short -- major shout-out to whoever thought THAT up), there's March. And after March, we're into April.

April. My, how that rolls off the tongue.

Ugly is as ugly does

The other night I transformed something gnarly and funky -- a celery root (aka, celeriac) -- into something sublimely beautiful and divine -- creamy celery root skordalia. That's what I love most about cooking.

This was no great exercise in culinary genius on my part. I found the recipe in Food & Wine's "Annual Cookbook: An Entire Year of Recipes 2011." (Note to self: You do not need to rip out every singe page out of the magazine each month. Just buy the dang book at the end of year. Knucklehead.)

I love skordalia -- a Greek concoction involving about three boatloads of garlic whipped into potatoes (the way I was introduced to it) and finished off with a little olive oil and lemon juice. Heaven. On the other hand, I've tap-danced around celery root, sometimes grating a little into salads, but cooking it seemed a little off the charts.

For one thing, I'm lazy as all get-out and peeling the little bugger looked like it could be some work.

But I'd been doing some reading about celery root. It's lower in calories and higher in nutrients than potatoes, good source of fiber (god knows, we all could use that, right?) and delicately flavorful (it's not called celery root for nothin', people).

Celery root -- a veritable high-nutrition hand grenade. And I mean that in a good way.

So I set to work on this:

Creamy Celery Root Skordalia
(From Food & Wine magazine)

4 servings

3 large garlic cloves
1/2 c extra virgin olive oil
3/4 lb celery root
Salt
2 T sliced blanched almonds
3 T fresh lemon juice

Preheat over to 350 degrees. In small saucepan, cover the garlic cloves with the olive oil and bring to simmer. Simmer over low heat until the garlic cloves are tender when pierced with a knife, about 12 minutes.

Using a sharp knife,  peel the celery root (Note: It's more like slicing.) and cut into 1-inch cubes. In a saucepan, cover the celery root with water and bring to a boil. Add a large pinch of salt and simmer over moderate heat until tender, about 25 minutes. Drain the celery root and spread it out on a work surface or baking sheet. Let dry for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, spread the blanched almonds in a pie plate and toast in the over for about 7 minutes, stirring halfway through, until golden. (Note: You can also do this in skillet on your stovetop. Keep an eye on them though!)

Let almonds cool completely. (You COULD do this ahead of time, you know.)

Transfer the cooled celery root to a food processor. Add the cooked garlic (reserving the oil), then add the toasted almonds and fresh lemon juice and puree until the mixture is smooth. With the food processor running, gradually pour the the garlic-infused olive oil. Season with salt, stir in 1/4 cup water (or less depending on your preference) to thin and serve right away. (Note: Skordalia can be served warm as a side dish or at room temperature as a dip/spread.)

The verdict: I. will. never. eat. mashed. potatoes. again. in. my. life. Just creamy celery root skordalia.

Well, actually I probably will eat mashed potatoes again. I was just saying that for effect. But the honest to god truth is that this recipe is truly transformational. Excellent with fish or chicken, it's very light yet rich with a wonderful finish of lemony garlic and just the slightest hint of celery. Because I don't have the most ferocious food processor in the world, there were little flecks of almond left in skordalia -- a touch the Wonderfully Patient Spouse particularly enjoyed.

Let a little gnarliness into your life. Make celery root your new best friend.

I don't think you'll regret it.

Dear Person with the Unshoveled Sidewalk

You.

Have.

Annoyed.

Me.

Of course, I am not in the best frame of mind these days. . . . largely because of the 6 to 10 inches of crap currently blanketing our fair city. Each time someone says, "Isn't the snow pretty?" I have to, as my friend sporter says, throw up just a little in my mouth.

The reality is this: Snow is pretty for about 5 seconds. Then it turns into bileous, white, festering piles of frozen precipitation that have been carefully engineered to make My Life a Living Hell. Period.

I rest my case.

Person with the Unshoveled Sidewalk, your woeful lack of attention to all things snow-clearing is not helping matters. You see, I walk a dog every morning. And every morning, I have to navigate your crappy sidewalk -- and clamber over the uncleared berms at your corner -- because you've spent the weekend wedged in your Barco-lounger, tossing back Budweisers and watching whatever people who don't shovel their sidewalks watch on TV.

Sorry.

A 50-something-year-old woman shouldn't have to clamber over anything.

Oh, sorry again. Did I disturb you?

Please, don't bother to get up. And, DO have another handful of Cheetos.

(I so can't believe you're not sharing. I LOVE Cheetos.) 

I'm coming, Ben, I'm coming.
I think

Okay, okay. So maybe you're elderly or infirmed. In that case, I hope a neighbor might lend a helping hand or you know of kid who'd like earn a little of that green stuff.

Maybe you're under doctor's orders not to lift anything heavier than, say,  a Budweiser can and/or handful of Cheetos 1 pound. 

Maybe you suffer from Snow Shovelers' Attention Deficit Disorder like this property owner. 

Snow Shovelers' ADD.
Get help.
Get help today.

I feel your pain.


Because, it IS, really, all about me.


Because, and I know this may come as a surprise. . .

I am NOT Sir Edmund Hillary nor National Velvet. I do not like to go up and over things.

Nor am I Robert Peary or Roald Amundsen. I do not rock out exploring vast, frigid arctic wastelands -- otherwise known as your uncleared sidewalk.

So, lazy-ass dear Person with the Unshoveled Sidewalk, please dust off that snow shovel or rev up the snowblower currently languishing in your garage, and get to work. The Queen and Supreme Goddess has spoken.

This is what I'm talkin' about, baby.
Two blocks.
Check. It. Out.

And you know what that means.

You do?

Whoa. Could you clue me in later? After you've taken care of that sidewalk?

The other (snow) shoe drops

Good-bye, tennis shoes.

Good-bye, spring.

Hello, you butt-load of snow. We now return to regularly scheduled programming: Winter.

We've had ourselves a bit of weather the last couple of days in Bermtopia and are now the proud owners of about 10 inches of snow on the ground. My dream come true.

Not.

For the last week or so, the local weather whizzes had been intoning about a string of "potent" storms heading our way, with the Big Kahuna slated for Wednesday. The Big K was more like Little K, but his Evil Twin Brother arrived Thursday with a vengeance.

It snowed ALL day and well into the evening. Not the lazy, idyllic, drifting snow reminiscent of Currier and Ives, but steady, driving snow intent on accumulating in massive, annoying amounts on the streets I drive and the sidewalks I stroll. Almost every single photo I took looked out of focus, not because my hands were unsteady, but because too much SpoUcking snow was falling (or so I like to think).

Friday morning kicked off with a 5 a.m. wake-up call from my boss. The colleges were closing. Thirty minutes of website notifications -- and a couple cups of coffee -- later, Ben and I hit the unplowed streets. Pure joy.

Not.

You do NOT want to tangle with this.

The 'hood was buried, everything cloaked with a thick frosting of snow. Whirlpools of snow on the street beckoned unsuspecting cars, ready to suck them into a cold, cold abyss. We slogged slowly down the street, slightly disoriented by the sea of rumpled white masking familiar neighborhood landmarks.

Finally, Ben turned, looked at me and silently asked the $64,000 question, the question that haunts the hearts and minds of thousands of Bermtopians following a winter snowfall, the question, which in Ben's case, remained unanswered for the last 24 hours:

"And just where exactly is a guy supposed to do his Business in this stuff?"

Wordless Wednesday

And, NO, I did not lock myself in bathroom Tuesday. . . . thank you for asking.

Cooking by computer

Hello. My name is Mrs. B. And I am addicted to The Food Network.

I say this with no shame. I love to cook. I love to eat out. I love experimenting with new foods and fiddling with the tried-and-true as well.

Therefore, I thought I'd check in with "The Pioneer Woman" Saturday morning just to see what was up at the ranch. I folded some laundry for the illusion of productivity.

I'll tell you what was up at the ranch: Spicy Dr. Pepper pulled pork, au gratin potatoes and cilantro slaw.

She had me at Dr. Pepper. And chipotle chiles.

I like The Pioneer Woman blog. The photography is wonderful, the posts are entertaining and there are basset hounds, (sorry, Ben!) but I don't use too many of her recipes. (Well, except for these fabulous tomato soup and spaghetti recipes.) Most are a little too "ranch-y" for me.

Perhaps because she lives on a ranch? Hmmmmm. I might be onto something there.

But I couldn't resist the siren song of Dr. Pepper and chipotle chiles so I recreated PW's meal yesterday. Via computer.

Here are a couple of things I've learned about cooking by computer:

1. DON'T use The Food Network recipes -- go directly to the chef/cook's website and/or cookbook.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Go directly to chef/cook's website and/or cookbook.

Maybe it's just coincidence -- or a weird run of bad luck -- but I tend to find errors or omissions in a goodly number of FN recipes.

Plus, the FN recipes for pulled pork, cilantro slaw and potatoes served 18! Last time, I checked there were just two of us here at the Nine-One-Four. The PW site shaved the recipes down to a more manageable 6 to 8.

Sorry, Food Network. Just sayin'. I love you bunches otherwise.

2. DO read the reviews. This is where you find out about those pesky errors or omissions. You also get some handy-dandy tips on tweaking recipes. Case in point: A number of reviewers thought pulled pork was too spicy.

Eleven-ounce can of chipotle chiles and adobo sauce? Well, duh-hhh. 

I used a 7-ounce can. And I should've known better.

But more on that later. Let's get on to PW re-creation project, shall we?

What could be simpler? One onion, one 11 7-ounce can of chipotle chiles and adobo sauce, 2 cans of Dr. Pepper (aka, 24 ounces), brown sugar  and a 4 1/2-pound chunk o' pork butt (or pork shoulder, depending where you live), throw in the oven and bake, low and slow, at 300 degrees for 6 hours.

I love the color green!

In go the Dr. Pepper, chipotles and brown sugar.
And why, yes, as a matter of fact, the chipotles DO look like
big, fat blood-sucking leeches.
Do you have a problem with that?

A little Dr. Pepper dividend for the cook!

In its labeling, Dr. Pepper proudly boasts that there are only 150 calories in a 12-ounce serving. That and enough sugar to rot most teeth in the free world. This being the first pop I've had since soccer road trips ended six years ago, I had a serious sugar buzz on for the rest of the afternoon.

A few hours into cooking, it was time to give things a little taste test.

BWAAAAHHHHH! Wa-aa-aay too spicy. And I'm pretty spice-tolerant. One can only imagine the nuclear impact of an 11-ounce can of chipotles. It's a miracle the Drummond ranch is still standing.

I went into the kitchen equivalent of DEFCON ONE, fishing out all the chipotles I possibly could and applying a liberal dose of brown sugar with a salt chaser. 

Better. Still fiery but no longer capable of incinerating the human esophagus.

Onto the taters and cilantro slaw. . . . . 

My lone little purple Peruvian adds a festive touch, don' t you think?

Do not skimp on the g.a.r.l.i.c.
I beg of you.

This. Is. Serious. Comfort. Food.

The cilantro and cayenne take cole slaw to a whole new level. A WHOLE new level. Trust me.

Note: In Saturday's PW episode, Ree wisely left out the jalapenos
mentioned in the original recipe. I would strongly advise the same.

Just looking out for your stomach lining.

And finally it was time to cobble the whole thing together.

The Wonderfully Patient Spouse had two helpings of the slaw (along with everything else). 

And he doesn't like slaw.

Enough said. Thanks, Pioneer Woman. 

And, Food Network? Apart from

the pesky recipe thing, you rock my world.

Clues from the loo

It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

Apparently Ben didn't get the memo.

Our little canine Lord of the Loo shut himself in the bathroom AGAIN on Tuesday.

As this is becoming a more and more uncommon occurrence at the Nine-One-Four, I no longer panic if I'm not immediately greeted by a wiggling, shimmying barking gray dog when I walk through the door from work, I just check the bathrooms.

Sure enough. Yesterday it was the upstairs bathroom. From the foot of the stairs, I could see the door was shut -- not latched -- but most definitely, definitively closed. I could hear a faint scrambled of nails across the vinyl floor followed by a series of politely inquisitive snuffles.

And as usual, when I opened the doo,r Ben tap danced out, doing little deer hops and 180s up and down the hallway, almost laughing because he's so pleased with himself. There is absolutely no fear or remorse in his eyes. It's very clear -- Ben considers himself a genius.

Well, listen up, genius dog. We think we've got you figured out.

This is SO embarrassing.
 I am smarter than them.
Alway was. Always will be.
You might want to stop reading here.

Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday.

The lock-ins almost always happen on Tuesdays -- the one day of the week when the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I both go out the door at 8:30 in the morning and do not return until after 5, leaving Ben to his own devices, ie, laying on our bed, snoozing, periodically checking The Unmentionables, selectively waking up to bark at the mail man and anyone else with the impertinence to walk by or near our house, snoozing, periodically checking The Unmentionables, etc. etc. etc., for a little more than 8 hours.

(Don't worry. He's had at least a 45- to 60-minute walk before we head off to the salt mines in the morning.)

A while back, we realized that as the days were getting shorter last fall, Ben was spending the last hour or so of these long Tuesdays completely in the dark. We took pity on the old boy and set a couple lights -- one in the living room, the other in our bedroom -- on timer so they'd pop on around 4 making the house all warm and cozy. For him and for us.

Well, make that for us.

After much in-house kitchen bench consultations, reinforced by in-park ruminations with The Amazing M's, we're thinking Ben's not so keen on the pop-on lights. Whether they startle, confuse or annoy -- who knows. So the pop-on lights go off this week (it's getting just a shade lighter in the afternoons anyway) . . .  and we believe the Lord of the Loo's bathroom lock-downs should come to an end.

That is, until the next time Ben needs his Panic Room.

Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter.

Good lord.
Does NO ONE in this house understand the concept of
ME TIME?

Eye-catching

I have just finished a holiday tour of my little kingdom. And a couple others along the way.

The royal touring sedan.

There is so much to see and do in Bermtopia. I share just a few of my impressions.

This humble citizen of Bermtopia Nailed the Holidays. Almost all of them.

This is a household with issues.

MY kind of issues. 

As in -- never let a good holiday/vacation catch you on the blind slide: Santa. Claus. (Wreath check!) Summer Sea World (Flamingo check!) Mighty  Mini Sequoia Forest visit  (Lil tree. Squeak!). And the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Huzzah!

I like pre-planning.

House with the Many Holiday Shout-outs, you get a major Bermtopia High Five. And extra credit for leaving the wreath up after Feast of the Epiphany!

Then there is the Sad Little Single Black Shoe.  This has haunted me all week. One lone, recreationally-challenged shoe parked on an enclosed deck.

Does not your partner miss you, Sad Little Single Black Shoe? Or is this some tangled, twisted symbol of a good love gone wrong?

Ambrose took every thing from Tilly. 


EVERYTHING. 


Her heart, her hope, her Walmart VIP Card.


But Ambrose was not done with Tilly. He, cruelly, left ONE thing behind. 


A single black shoe.


Her daily reminder that Ambrose was, in the end, a real heel.

Sorry. I'm not sure what got into me there.

And finally. The Made-up Word Sign.

"SpoCasual"?

Really.

What's next? SpokaLicious? SpokaTastic? SpoUcking Spawesome?

Guards, remove this sign from my presence.

It disturbs me.

### 

But on the other hand, we had a little "Pippa Passes" moment Monday morning here in Bermtopia.

It was foggy when I staggered out the front door to get the morning paper. I mean F.O.G.G.Y. I think I swallowed some. I hope it contains anti-oxidants.

I walked into the kitchen and told Ben, "Looks like a neighborhood walk this morning. We'd be bouncing off pine trees up at the park."

Portrait of a Mopey Dog.

But 40 minutes, and two cups of coffee, later it was razor clear, the sky hinting at a wicked good sunrise. Ben and I were out the door, heading to the park.

With apologies to Robert Browning (oh wait. you're dead! never mind.), who's poetry I love:

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:

God's in His heaven --
All's right with world!

Of course, not ALL's right with the world. And our year in Bermtopia isn't EXACTLY at the spring (my Southern Hemisphere friends, now that's a different story).

And most snails I know are either frozen solid or drowning in butter and garlic on someone's appetizer plate.

But.

I think you get my drift.

Bermtopia-by-the-Sea: Saying good-bye

December 27

It was inevitable.

It was time to leave Bermtopia-by-the-Sea. Check-out -- 11 a.m.

Arch Cape seemed to know. We woke up to wild winds and driving rain as if the beach was asking, "Do you REALLY want to put up with this?" Despite this, Ben lingered over every rock and piece of drift wood on our morning walk. I think the answer was "Yes."

We'll stay longer next year.

We waited till the very last minute to pack up our brave little Christmas tree, Young Bob Flynn's Christmas gift to our band of merry men (and women).

In between gathering up Christmas presents and dirty socks. . . cleaning out the fridge. . . and fussing with the last loads of laundry and dirty dishes, we each took time to perch on the couch and chairs by the picture window thoughtfully watching the rioting sea.

It was a good Christmas.

And then there was nothing to do. Bags were packed, boxes topped off. I slipped on my coat, grabbed my camera and disappeared down Sally's Alley for one last moment with one of the places I love most in the world.

It was wild -- the wind grabbed rain and white caps and tossed them up like some crazy coastal confetti. And then, the Number 2 Son was standing silently behind me. Moments later, the Number 1 arrived.

We stood, buffeted by wind and rain, for a few moments before the N2S looked over my head to his brother and said with a trademark crooked smile:

"So, what do you think, Robert?" and tipped his head toward the surf.

Our outdoor educator, the N1S, raised his eyebrows, looked toward the sea thoughtfully and grinned.

This would be when they looked toward shore, gave me a wave
and did a full body dunk.

Were there any happier holidays than this?

Drier maybe.

But happier, I think not. We are lucky people.

Bermtopia-by-the-Sea: Seaside

December 26

A stay at the beach isn't complete without a pilgrimage to Seaside to visit the aquarium, feed the seals and troll the arcades for a few rousing games of Skeeball.

Seaside is a funny little town. Despite a fancy new logo and some storefront rehab, it has never quite shaken the wonderfully tired tawdry feel of a resort town still living in its 1920s-1930s glory.

Growing up as a beach rat, a trip to Seaside was magical. There was an amusement park in the middle of town, a saltwater natatorium and penny (literally) arcades where you could watch old silent movies on hand-cranked wooden projectors. We would devour corn dogs smothered in mustard, salt water taffy and cotton candy, chased by toe-curling sweet lemonade.

Some things remain frozen in time.

These awnings haven't changed in 50 years! Seriously.

On the other hand, the natatorium was torn down for this.
Ahem.

Sadly, the amusement park is gone, replaced by pizza joints and T-shirt vendors. So is the natatorium, which was an amazing, magnificent shout-out to everything art deco. As was much of the Seaside of my childhood.

But not all things change. . . .

The Seaside Aquarium is tiny yet charming in its own fishy way. I've been going there for 50 years (gulp - can't believe I just typed that) and it's still magical. There are no dolphin shows or leaping orcas. Instead, simple tanks showcase many of the denizens who reside in the surf and tide pools of the Pacific Northwest.

Pipefish

The octopi are still mysterious, the sinister dogfish and rays who used to circle silently and eternally in the center tank have been replaced by wolf eels for an updated aquarium creep factor.

I'm really quite nice once you get to know me.

The harbor seals continue to be incorrigible showmen who will do almost anything for a piece of herring, including dousing you in water from head to toe which the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and Number One Son learned from first hand experience. (Since our last visit, the aquarium apparently acquired the plans for the Berlin Wall and re-fortified the seal tank making it virtually impossible to take pictures but visit this link and you'll get the idea.)

We think there must have been a harbor seal somewhere in Ben's family tree. The resemblance is quite startling -- aside from the fact he hates the water.

From the aquarium, we meandered along The Prom to the Turn-around and headed down Halladay Street, Seaside's main drag, looking for some fun. It didn't take long to find it.

One of the last vestiges of art deco in Seaside

We played Skeeball, had several invigorating games of Shoot Out

and wrapped things up with some Tic-Tac-Toe. Sadly, the Whale Races were closed for the day.

You can't have everything.

Little known fact: The Lewis & Clark expedition almost imploded
after a particularly fierce round on the bumper cars in Seaside.
William took a hard hit from Meriwether
and developed a BAD case of whiplash.
That's the real reason they wintered over at Fort Clatsop.
True story.
And trust me. I'm a history major.