Deb’s roommates are at Skunk Hill for a visit, so I cooked tonight.

Barb Sandy Dinner Menu

It turned out really good (if I say so myself) and the staging of the meal (which can be an issue) went smoothly.

All I need now is a little French man-servant outfit to wear to make it the total experience.

Yesterday I was going over to see my good friends Bruce and Janice. I was cruising down Carroll Road, driving 5 mph under the speed limit (as usual, if you’re ever cussing the dawdling !$%# in front of you, it’s probably me), singing along with my favorite Robert Earl Keen song, and minding my own business as I approached the intersection of Carroll and Bethel, right by Carroll High School.

I had the green light and was just coming up to the intersection when someone blasted through the red light at at least 50 mph on Bethel. I locked up the brakes (to the engineer at Ford who designed the ABS brakes, kudos) and they missed me by inches. (Well, probably feet, but it seemed like inches at the time.)

I was shook. If I’d left home a 1/4 second earlier, if I’d driven a fraction of a mile per faster they’d of T-boned me dead on. Wouldn’t have been a pretty scene.

So friends, life is sweet, and may be oh so short. So stop reading this nonsense and go hug your beloved, or call your family, or send a friend an email, and tell them how much you love them.

Debbie and I have started writing a weekly column on buscovoice.com. If you’re one of the many who just can’t get enough of the witty, insightful, and often brilliant writing on zumbrun.net, check out our Two Farmers and a Fork at Local Columnists

We started harvesting wheat on Monday.  It was typical wheat weather, temps in the 90’s.  Fortunately the air conditioner in the combine was working good.

We got to try out the new grain cart.

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I only dumped a little bit of wheat on the ground learning how to use it.

We ran about 4 hours, then a bleeder valve on the fuel filter of the combine broke off, squirting diesel fuel everywhere. How does a bleeder valve break anyway? So this morning the day starts with a parts run into McAllister in Fort Wayne. They have a miserable supply of parts so most likely this will get ordered from Indianapolis and we’ll have it tomorrow.

A later note: I was wrong to bash McAllister. They did have the part, I put it on, everything worked fine, and we’re ready to roll again.

For vacation reading this year I took along the books listed below. I’ve annotated the list with my thoughts on each.

• In Fed We Trust by David Wessel. Recommended by son Josh so I could “understand what he writes about all day.”

  I have to admit I got this one mostly so I wouldn’t have to admit to son Josh I thought it sounded about as interesting as watching C-SPAN. But it was a surprisingly good read. Not a bated breath page turner by any means, but if you’d like to know what the current financial crisis is all about, it’s worth checking out.

• The World Without Us by Alan Weisman. Imagine the world without people.

  Didn’t get to this one.

• A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. Hornsby’s a good writer, always worth a read.

  It’d been a while since I’d read a Hornsby book and I’d forgotten what a stunningly good writer he is. A Long Way Down is narrated by four different characters, so it took me a while to remember who each character is when the narration switched. But once I got over that I was taken again with Hornsby’s writing ability. Time and again I would read a passage and think how he’s captured perfectly a thought or emotion. That was usually followed by blinding jealousy wishing I could write tone-perfect like that.

• The Great Gatsby. You know who wrote it. Son Josh is always quoting it at me, and it’s one of the many holes my reading of American Literature.

  I hate to be ignorant and uncultured, but I just don’t think Gatsby is all that good. Josh explained some of the themes to me. “Daisy represents every unobtainable desire you have.” Yeah, yeah, but Daisy is such an unattractive character to me, as are Nick, Tom, Gatsby, and practically everyone else in the book. I can’t get past my personal distaste of the characters.

• The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland. You can’t go wrong with Coupland.

  And you won’t go wrong with this one. Wow, what a good book. Like reading Nick Hornsby I just look up and think, “man, I wish I could write like that.”

• The Dead Hand by David Hoffman. Pulitzer Prize winning story about the Cold War. The success of this book is due in part to Josh Zumbrun, see page 486.

  If you’re like me you thought Ronald Reagan was a grinning dolt, but were never interested in politics enough to really read up on the Reagan years to find out. After reading Hoffman’s incredibly detailed book on the end of the Cold War, I’m convinced my opinion was right. Reagan was a complete and utter fool. Hoffman seems oddly to be pro-Reagan, which makes me think either Hoffman or I are missing something.
  

  Hoffman’s book is well-written. It’s not exactly a Tom Clancy page-turner, but it does hold your interest. Actually a lot of the topics are ones Clancy and others have fictionalized in novels. Like a Clancy novel, The Dead Hand is pretty long and dense, but it’s worth picking it up and plowing through at least part of it to have the horror of the Cold War made apparent, and to marvel that we managed not to destroy ourselves.
  

  I worked for years on some of the weapon systems described in Hoffman’s book. I’ve been out of that business for a few years now and I’m not going back. I ain’t gonna study war no more.

• A Stained White Radiance by James Lee Burke. An early Robicheaux novel that I haven’t read.

  Didn’t get to this one.

• The Blue Horse by Rick Bass. I have no idea what this is. It was on the new fiction shelf and had a cool cover. That’s much the same method I use to pick wine.

  The Blue Horse was lyrical and poetic and beautiful and evocative in places. In other places it was just obscure. And in other places it was as flat and wrong as me trying to sing (and that’s about as flat and wrong as you can get). Overall, I don’t want to work that hard when I read. What does the blue horse represent? Something I’m sure, but I don’t want to think hard enough to puzzle it out. What’s with the weird family that lets them hunt on their land? They’re an almost cartoonish depiction of a Mennonite community. His descriptions of them struck me as clumsy and tone deaf for whatever point he was trying to get across.
  

  I think a lot of it was about middle-aged men facing their mortality and the failures in their lives. If you know me, you’re thinking, “that’s a book about you Chuck!” And you’re right. I prefer to read Dave Barry, who covers the same topics, but makes you laugh out loud about it.

• The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson. What’s not to like about the memoirs of a befuddled, beer-swilling, travel writer? Seriously, Bryson is constantly amusing (and this book is often poignant as well), almost as amusing as:
• I’ll Mature When I’m Dead by Dave Barry. And there’s no one funnier than Dave Barry, so the list ends here.

This book didn’t disappoint. If you’re 50-ish and feeling it, read this one. It’ll make you laugh about your condition, unlike the Blue Horse.

We’re on vacation in Topsail Beach, North Carolina. It’s 800 miles from home, so we took 2 days to drive here and had several interesting dining experiences along the way.

Around suppertime the first day we were looking for a place to eat and around Marietta, Ohio there were signs on the Interstate for Applebees and Bob Evans so we pulled off on Highway 7. As we wheeled into the parking lot that surrounded the Applebees Debbie spotted a storefront Mexican place. She said, “wanna try the Mexican place?” I said, “sure.”

What a find! Las Trancas. When we stepped in I figured we were in for something good. The open storefront had been artfully divided up in several dining spaces, the wait staff were all in uniforms, the decor was nice, and most tellingly, the place was packed at 5:20 in the evening.

Debbie ordered up carne asada and I got carnitas. Yum, yum, yum! Debbie’s beef was fresh and perfectly cooked with a beautiful sear. My carnitas were moist and rich with delicious charred bits. So, so good! If you ever find yourself in Marietta, Ohio, check it out.

We stayed that night in Beckley, West Virginia. We started off early the next morning and had breakfast in the Omelet Shoppe next to the hotel. I was delighted to see grits on the menu and ordered them. When I did our waitress said, “ummph.” Debbie said, “what, you don’t like grits?” The waitress said, “well, not here. I like them if my momma cooks them.” Now there’s a sterling recommendation. But to this Yankee they tasted just fine.

Finally rolling downhill towards Topsail Beach on I-40 we stopped at a Smithfield Chicken and BBQ (or SCNB as some of the signs say.) It’s a regional chain of fast food BBQ and chicken. The pulled pork was just splendid. They serve it with cole slaw and vinegary sauce. It’s definitely fast food bbq, but it’s real tasty all the same. And the service they provide is a model for what all restaurants should be.

Now we’re at Topsail, enjoying fresh shrimp every day.

Wow… Wow… Did I say wow?

Sustainable farming, slow food, local eating, etc are often, and often justifiably, accused of being elitist, impractical, expensive, utopian.   I agree with  lot of that criticism.  The idea that we’re going farm vacant urban lots or create vertical gardens and feed the world is just dumb.

Utopian dreams aside, there’s a lot I agree with in the whole ecotarian movement.   You should eat locally when it makes sense.  Sustainable agriculture makes sense (Well, duh.  Who’d be in favor of unsustainable agriculture?).  Cooking at home from scratch is sensible.    You don’t have to go off the deep end and vow to only eat locally for a year, insist all chickens be allowed to run free, or never let anything containing white sugar pass your lips.  There’s a sensible middle ground.

Harvest House exemplifies that middle ground for a restaurant.  You step into Harvest House and it’s nice. The decor is pleasant, and it’s spotlessly clean. Nice. You look at the menu and it has what you’d expect in small town breakfast and lunch place. Soups and salads, sandwiches and a white board with specials.  Nice.

Then you get your food and take a bite and you realize it’s a lot more than just nice, it’s something special.

I had a breaded tenderloin with ‘Harvest House chips.’ Pretty standard fare for Northeast Indiana. We love our breaded tenderloins. Breaded, salt-laced, deep fried delights with only the barest hint of pork under all that breading and grease.

The Harvest House menu advertised their tenderloin as hand breaded. And it was. It was a piece of real pork, tender and moist, not pounded paper thin, but a tasty quarter inch slice. The breading was panko-like and fried to a perfect light golden brown.  It’s OK to eat meat.  It’s even OK to eat breaded, deep fried meat.  It doesn’t have to be an overly processed, overly breaded, overly salted, overly fried gastronomic nightmare.

The Harvest House chips were like homemade potato chips. A bit thicker than commercial chips, and unlike commercial chips they actually tasted like potatoes.  Like the tenderloin, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a fried potato with salt on it.  It doesn’t have to be the smallest wafer of potato possible that hold together when fried in whatever is the cheapest oil available (i.e., commercial potato chips.)

There’s a little information available about Harvest House on the web. It talks about their commitment to and use of recycling, sustainable farming, and local produce. Their restaurant is living proof that these concepts aren’t unaffordable uptopian dreams, but something that could be, and is, happening today right in our backyards.

If you find yourself anywhere near Albion, Indiana at breakfast or lunch time (seven days a week), you should stop at Harvest House.  I’d provide more explicit directions, but honestly, if you can’t find something in Albion you need more help than I give you (hint, it’s by the stoplight).

We’re off to North Carolina to the beach next week so in preparation I went to the Allen County Public Library to stock up on books for the beach.

The list:

• In Fed We Trust by David Wessel.  Recommended by son Josh so I could “understand what he writes about all day.”
• The World Without Us by Alan Weisman.  Imagine the world without people.
• A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby.   Hornsby’s a good writer, always worth a read.
• The Great Gatsby.  You know who wrote it.  Son Josh is always quoting it at me, and it’s one of the many holes my reading of American Literature.
• The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland.  You can’t go wrong with Coupland.
• The Dead Hand by David Hoffman.  Pulitzer Prize winning story about the Cold War.  The success of this book is due in part to Josh Zumbrun, see page 486.
• A Stained White Radiance by James Lee Burke.  An early Robicheaux novel that I haven’t read.
• The Blue Horse by Rick Bass.  I have no idea what this is.  It was on the new fiction shelf and had a cool cover.  That’s much the same method I use to pick wine.

That’s it.  I know, I know.  No way that’s going to last me a week.  I’ll pull a few books off the shelves here at home that I’m perpetually trying to finish.  Most notably:

• Le Ton Beau de Marot and I am a Strange Loop both by Douglas Hofstadter.  I’ve been bogged down about halfway through both of these for years.  This is the year I’ll finish them!

I also picked up a few CD’s to supplement our collection for the drive.

• Les Miserables, the original Broadway cast.  If the soundtrack is as long as the play, that’ll be all we need.  It’s only a 14 hour drive.
• Mamma Mia! Original cast.    Need some cheery fluff after suffering through Les Miz.
• Best of Johnny Lee Hooker.    Debbie likes the blues.  I needed a sop to throw to her, because she’s really gonna hate:
• Walking Distance, Robert Earl Keen.  Real country music, like James Hiatt and Lyle Lovett.  Speaking of which…
• Pontiac, Lyle Lovett.

That’s a start.  I’m still concerned it’s not enough.  I may need a big fat brainless blockbuster novel to round it out.

—-

A later revision.

Debbie gave me two books for Father’s Day to round out my collection for the trip.  The consummate librarian, she picked better books for me than I did for myself:

• The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson.  What’s not to like about the memoirs of a befuddled, beer-swilling, travel writer?  Seriously, Bryson is constantly amusing, almost as amusing as:
• I’ll Mature When I’m Dead by Dave Barry.  And there’s no one funnier than Dave Barry, so the list ends here.

We had dinner at Cerulean tonight.  It’s been a long hard spring that shows no sign of ending as we head towards July.  We planted a bunch of trees today in standing water, mud, and relentless humidity.  It seemed like a good day to let someone cook and clean and serve us.

We picked Cerulean mostly because it’s such a nice space. The decor is au courant, the servers quiet and professional, the food exceptional.

Tonight it was all that and more.

We ordered wines by the glass and small plates so we could sample lots of different things.  The small plates were:

• Maple Leaf Duck Breast with blueberry-green peppercorn chutney.  OMG.  If you’ve ever cooked duck at home you know what a terrible mess it makes and how hard it is to get it right.  This was cooked to absolute simple perfection.  And we didn’t have to clean the stove.
• Crispy Potatoes with pancetta, manchego,  and roasted garlic-dill sauce.  Think oven roasted potatoes as they would serve in heaven and you won’t be far off.
• Grilled Asparagus with pancetta, manchego cheese, and garlic oil.  You may be thinking, “that sounds like the potatoes.”  But the grilled asparagus is a crispy, caramelized, buttery vegetable delight.
• Sauteed Shrimp with artichoke tapenade, cherry tomato and basil cream.  Artichoke tapenade?   Yep, just what it sounds like.  Artichoke leaves with chopped olives.  Sounds odd, but it was so tasty.
• Ceviche Sea Scallops with arugula, chive oil, parmigiano reggiano and  smoked sea salt.  “Do you know what ceviche is?” asked our server Chris.  Yes I do, and after eating this you wonder why you’d ever cook a scallop with heat.
• and the topper of them all, House Cured Pork Belly with mascarpone polenta and fried egg.

Ok.  If pork belly isn’t ridiculously rich and decadent, let’s top it with cheesy grits and an egg!  You’d think it would be too much, but it wasn’t.  A slice of pork belly, swiped through the polenta and egg, was deeply and fundamentally delicious.

Cerulean was, as always, busy.  There was a couple in the booth across from us, and the lady had been through, or was still going through, chemotherapy.

It was a moment that makes you think.  Despite a late and frustrating spring, despite weather that saps you everyday, despite a failing body, despite unemployment and oil spewing into the Gulf and pick your crisis of the day, you’re here today and life is sweet and short and when you get a chance to eat pork belly with cheesy grits and egg you’d be a fool to pass that up.

We tried to plant today, but it was too wet.  Not so wet that we’re throwing mud everywhere,  but…, well, I don’t want to get bogged down in a discussion of the finer details of no-till seeding, that’s not the point here.

Too wet to plant, can’t dance,  so we spent the day doing odds and ends.  Mowing side ditches, cleaning up machinery.  Mid-afternoon a lady showed up and bought two bales of straw, so with 4 bucks in our pockets we did what any good Americans would do.  We headed to town to spend it.

Town in this case is Merriam, Indiana.  The intersection of highways 9 & 33.  A gas station, a bar, and a, er, well, umm, that’s it.  We hit the gas station for a couple of fountain pops.

As Lana, I, and the wonder dogs Spenser and Owen pulled in we noticed it was getting stormy looking in the west.  The last thing we need now is more rain.  We also noticed there was a guy standing at the highway intersection with a cardboard sign and a jar, looking for cash.

When Lana got back with fountain pops I said, “we need all the karma we can get.”  I grabbed all the ones I had in my wallet (and I had a big stack of Washington’s, bucko) and we circled around and gave them to the guy.

We went home, closed the barn up, and looked to the sky for tomorrow.  And the skies were clear and bright.

I don’t really believe it’s personal.  I don’t think God, Allah, my karma, whatever, contributed to this.  I’m just saying the skies were now clear, the ground is looking dry, and tomorrow we’ll  be rolling.

Because I handed 8 bucks to a stranger on the corner?  No, that’s just absurd.

Isn’t it?