IT’S A SOCIAL DISEASE. IT’S A LOVELY ENGLISH DESERT. IT’S…

Having a can of said dessert on hand, last Sunday I decided to let my anglophile flag fly free.

The day began with a full English breakfast of tea, bacon and sausages, boxty (the English version of hash browns involving shredded spuds with salt, milk and wee bit of brown sugar), a thick slice of fresh tomato fried in the bacon drippings, baked beans, fried eggs and toast left to cool before buttering.  It sounds like an odd combo of items on a plate first thing in the morning until you have a bite of tomato and beans seasoned with a bit of egg yolk. And besides, as Tama pointed out, if you mixed it all together you would have huevos rancheros with toast instead of tortillas… huevos small holding as it were.

Dinner was roast beef with spuds and veg and a couple of cold lagers… a little more garlic than the classic English fare so I reckon it falls into the category of regional foods.

Dessert, the cause of it all, was as yummie as can be expected out of a can.

Nobody seems to agree on why it’s called Spotted Dick… well, Dick anyhow. The Spotted part comes from the currants or sliced plums that are always present in the pudding… (yep, it’s a pudding, from the French boudin meaning a small sausage, that referring to the shape of the bag in which it is traditionally steamed… see, you learn something every day).

Folks seem a little less direct about the Dick part.  The “snoots” are sure it is a mangling of either Spotted Dough or Spotted Dog. These would be the same stuffed shirts who attempted, unsuccessfully, to re-christen it Spotted Richard a few years back.

The more organically minded claim it is called Dick because of the long, sausage shape it acquires from being steamed in a muslin bag.

Without revealing any dark secrets I will say that I like Dick. The reasons are threefold:

1- I have a dirty mind.

2-Because you heat it up with boiling water while it is still sealed in the can, the instructions for opening the hot can suggest you place a towel over it because it may “spurt”.

3- You serve it at the table smothered in a rich, creamy custard sauce.

Try it. You’ll like it.

“OH WHAT A LUCKY MAN HE WAS” –Emerson, Lake & Palmer

Last night as my lovely wife and I were gathered ‘round the studio downstairs we heard a loud clatter from the street outside our home… sounded rather like the Tin Man had gone dumpster diving out back of the old sheet metal works.

Upon closer inspection it turned out to be a somewhat complex fender-bender wherein person or persons unknown (to us…), while driving inattentively up our little cul-du-sac, drifted a wee bit too far off to the right and clipped a parked contractor van, giving it a poke just behind the front, driver’s side wheel well. It banged the hell out of the bodywork and bent the steering bits, leaving the poor thing a little wall-eyed in the front end.

Applying Newton’s third law, the driver then bounced back to the left, graciously sailing past the next car parked in line, a charming, sixty thousand dollar Porsche Boxter soft-top, until over corrected steering rolled it smack dab into the ass end of a VW Passat, car three in the demolition derby line. Then, as John Prine says, “The police arrived at a quarter to five and pronounced all the victims okay.”

Bet Mr. Boxter is having second thoughts about parking on the street in future…

THE HOLIDAY DILEMMA...

Okay, now it is official. I am one of those goddamn Californians I have spent my life railing against.

No, I didn’t join a commune. No I didn’t sign a legalize pot initiative in front of Safeway. And, no I didn’t buy an overpriced beach bungalow and learn to surf.

What I did do, for the very first time in my life, is purchase a “live” Christmas tree. There. I said it. I’ve sent it into the cyber-void and cannot gracefully take it back. 

I have spent the last 61 years supporting the Boy Scouts, or the Baptist Youth Fellowship, or, on several occasions, braving the wilds, with boot and saw, to gather my own feral holiday shrub from the great outdoors.

And, with the exception of the wild and unwashed variety, it has become harder and harder to find a tree that looks like a tree, and not some mutant seedling that was carefully groomed to fit into that giant pencil sharpener gizmo that turns it into the picture perfect little clone of someone’s over-vivid imagination.

Before, you could poke around in the back of the lot (behind the tiny, poorly lit trailer house) where they kept the bastard children and the severed limbs. There you could find a tree that was just asymmetrical enough to be a second class citizen and too thin of branch to qualify for the shaper-shredder. You would drag it out into the light and ask, “how much for this one?” and the overdressed and unshaven lot troll would glean some crumbs from his stubble and point out that it had a bald spot on one side and didn’t come with a stand. You would claim it was just what you wanted, he would offer you a deal on a fifteen foot Norway Spruce that was normally a hundred bucks, you would stand your ground, he would cave and it was yours for ten or twelve bucks. Onto the roof of the car and he was glad to be rid of both you and that ugly goddamn tree.

This year, apparently, the Christmas tree union came down hard at the bargaining table and, as a result, the price of any tree came close to a ten day holiday south of the border. At least here in Insanity Cruz the crap trees started at about thirty-five bucks and shot up like a two stage rocket from there. But there amongst the groomed, sculpted and bundled denizens of Holiday Hell was a wee bairn of a tree in a three gallon bucket.  Not a standard “christmas” tree of pine or spruce, it is a cypress tree. It looks rather like a four foot, wind swept cedar, a long feathery bower with a whimsical tilt to its top and it was only $29.95.

Throw on some lights and the odd decoration and there is no mistaking its purpose. Now if I can just keep the goddamn thing alive for the next 364 days (out on the deck…) I will use it again and get the price averaged down to my unrealistic standards.

And to all a good night.

ENTER THE DRAGON (fruit)

Now, it’s true that I have traveled some and I do have an appetite for foods I have never seen before, but there is still a lot out there that is new to me at every turn.  This would be why I tend to frequent Farmers’ Markets and Mercados and the odd roadside stand.

Tuther day we were in Watsonville on a day trip for good grub (quick side jaunt to the Corralitos Market for a variety pack-o-sausages…) and so we stopped at our favorite produce stand out on the way to the fairgrounds. They had a mountain of Halloween related vegetables with pumpkins of every color and giant squashes & gourds that had a decidedly pumpkin cast to their physiognomy…some with proper names like Turk’s Head Squash and others labeled simply Big Warty Bumpy Things.

We bypassed all this to get to what we wanted… grapefruit-10 for a buck, fresh berries, avocados-4 for a buck, raspberry newtons and fresh veggies.

Shopping bags groaning, we headed for the register where, in a manner most eye-catching, sat a flat of Vietnamese Dragon Fruit. I had never seen one or even heard mention of them and I was intrigued. 

Imagine, if you will, something the general size and shape of a big sweet potato only hot, fluorescent pink with large, random, bright green artichoke leaf looking bits poking out here and there. 

From there the conversation went sorta like this:

“What the hell is that?”

“Dragon fruit…. they’re from Vietnam.”

“Are they good?”

“Some people like ‘em. They’re an acquired taste I guess.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Slice ‘em open and scoop out the insides and eat it.”

“Well I gotta have one.”

So I took it home, laid it on the cutting board and sliced it right down the middle.

Not that I had expected anything in particular when I opened it… but it was not what I expected. The inside looks like French Vanilla Bean Ice Cream… creamy white with hundreds of little black flecks throughout.  Somewhere between a kiwi and a poppy seed muffin only in black & white.

Now, as a rule, the more arcane a fruit or vegetable looks the more likely it will be like a Chinese puzzle box or a bank vault when it comes to removing the small edible bit somewhere in the middle.  Not so the Dragon Fruit. It opens up like a lonely, liquored up librarian at a conference far from home and you don’t have to toss anything out with the husk.  You just scoop it out like you would an over-ripe avocado, dice it up and you are ready to chew. (they do say to make sure that all the pink bits from the inside of the husk are cut away because they taste nasty…)

The acquired taste bit must be the fact that it is not overly sweet like many giant fruits, so we mixed it in a bowl with fresh raspberries, blackberries and bananas. Damn good eatin’.

EIGHTY IN DOG YEARS...

Sad to say, my dog, Pepe, has gone off to play fetch with Jesus. Luckily his passing was quick and relatively pain free. He died in his own bed, in his favorite place - hunkered down in front of a good, warm fire - with the help of a great friend and good drugs.


Those of you who erroneously imagined that it was you who had the best dog in the world may now fight amongst yourselves for the title of Also Ran.

He is now off on an adventure where the birds have no wings, the squirrels all have one bum leg and Auntie Michelle never puts the lid back on the treat jar… 

I like to think of him eating table scraps off God’s own dinner fork.

Thank you to Talia who had the presence of mind to pick him out of the pile of shelter pups in the first place, everyone who dog sat him over the years, Michelle for giving him a country estate in his dotage and especially Lovely who saw him through his moving on. 

He and I are both forever in your debt.

WHERE IT'S REALLY WICKY WACKY WOO...

Got a line on another great place to dine in downtown Santa Cruz ‘tuther day. I had a little bit of the old folding green come in and, while I was pondering how best to fritter it away, I heard an ad on KPIG for All Night Long Happy Hour at a place called Hula’s Island Grill and Tiki Room. Well, if there is anything I know for sure it is that Happy Evening trumps Happy Hour every time. So, in the time honored tradition, I rescued Tama from the jaws of employment and off we went to our very own south sea isle, right off Pacific and with two hour parking for only a buck

Gotta say, it don’t look like much from the outside but that definitely ends at the threshold.  Acres of bamboo and plaited palm fronds cover the interior and the walls are generously appointed with surf ephemera and paintings on black velvet… look, there’s Elvis from his Blue (Hawaii) Period. Nearly every horizontal surface not dedicated to food or alcohol is littered with small statuary of the Tiki God variety (say, isn’t that the one that Greg Brady tried to steal?) I tell you, it made me want a narrow necktie and a cocktail date with Hedy Lamar.

Anyway, we were seated by our charming wait person, a lovely young woman named Leilani (Leilani? Really? Maybe the waitress formerly know as Tiffany…) and we settled in to the drinks menu.  As I said, it was happy hour all night long which meant that things like their signature Island Cocktails and the whole appetizer menu were all only five bucks each. I went with the swaying palms, moonlit beach theme and ordered a Mai Tai, which came in an oversized rocks glass and it’s very own fruit salad.  With the first sip it was obvious that the happy hour fairy had pushed up hard on the bartender’s elbow while he poured in the rum and I silently gave praise for such skill and devotion.

With a panoply of five buck appetizer choices… well, that’s as far as we got with the menu. We ordered Hawaiian Ceviche, served with lime juice, coconut milk, chilies, cilantro & garlic and served with big deep fried wontons instead of corn chips; Crispy Coconut Shrimp Rolls with a pineapple-horseradish dipping sauce (so good we ordered that one again); Vegetarian Vietnam Spring Rolls with apple and lemongrass and served with both a mint/chili sauce and peanut sauce; Spicy Thai fish Cakes with a cilantro, chili, red onion, ginger, fish sauce and Tiki Torch Chicken Wings in a hoisin/sambal sauce… oh, look, sweet Leilani brought me another tub-o-Mai Tai. How nice.

Everything was excellent or better and a lot of new or forgotten flavors… we left so stuffed we didn’t even check to see if the dessert options were priced for happy hour and we piled up enough crockery to assure the dish washer his next semester’s tuition. Hell, I didn’t even care that the Spring Rolls had tofu in them… will wonders never cease.

The food tab came to a measly thirty bucks so, like McArthur in the south seas so many years ago, we vowed that we shall return.

YEE HAW! WE HAVE DONE WENT TO THE COUNTY FAIR!

It is that autumnal time of year which means the Santa Cruz County Fair in Watsonville.  Tama jumped ship an hour early and we beat the rush, forked over five bucks to park and a few more to crash the metal detectors at the main gate and we were in the heart of the beast.

First off lemme say that I am a fair attendee born and bred.  Starting in a blanket and cloth diaper, I didn’t miss one in my home town until I was 26. A few blank years here and there, the odd very small town ones as I wandered the good old US of A on a motorcycle and I am still a fan.

Why this over-abundance of garish lighting energizes me while the same voltage in Vegas leaves me yawning and indifferent is a mystery… maybe if you could readily get corn dogs and deep fried burritos on the streets of Sin City?

But I digress…

A couple of things of note on the Watsonville turf.  For one, there was a very high profile for the long arm of the law… all armed and properly vested etc. but also hanging out with Smokey Bear or driving a 1947 John Deere in the tractor parade.  The other most obvious thing was a startling level of tidy.  Not quite Disney-sterile but an industrious bevy of worker bees staying well on top of litter and bagged trash and all the food vendors had bright and shiny trailers.  Somehow reassuring in the front of your brain but still somehow disquieting back in the dark recesses… where’s the one armed, toothless ride carny covered in prison tats?

A big part of what made this Fair more than just fair is that Watsonville is still very much an agricultural community.  Not used to be agricultural and not agri-business… agricultural.  A massive Youth /4-H/FFA display in the Harvest Building.  This year’s theme was Dancing With The Steers so lots of club displays featuring life size, paper maché (wait, is that one a cow? I dunno, could be an eel in a pearl snap western shirt…) cows waltzing in coveralls or break dancing or cloning John Travolta replete with white three piece and mirror ball.  On a sad note, one animated young bull lost a critical bolt or wire so that the arm that had no doubt been waving to the crowd had now fallen, still active, across his pants giving the impression of an endorsement for self abuse.

Then on to a whole section of children's handmade Veggie Critters, with koi made from bananas and an eggplant sedan with mushroom wheels (picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and a marmalade sky…)  Of course this was day three so some of the cucumber birds were looking a wee bit sickly and the mushroom tires needed a little air.

Throw in the classic, permanently housed, model train layout, the chance to win a giant decorative boulder if you guessed it’s weight, some calf roping, and a woman made up to be anybody’s granny (if anybody’s granny strolled around on stilts using an eight foot high walker…) and you have a nice overview.  Now toss in an opportunity to have your photo taken while being kissed by a lovely, attention hog of a sea lion, pig racing, Mexican wrestling and the aforementioned vintage tractor parade… John Deere, Farmall, Oliver, John Deere… wait, what’s that sleek, art deco, red one? Does it really say Porsche on the side in polished chrome?

Oh, and did I neglect to mention fair food?  Not to worry, it was well covered. All the usual suspects in spades along with a BBQ stand that covered an easy 80 feet of frontage with an impressive row of oil drum grills buried under ribs, turkey legs, chickens and brisket.  I started with the obligatory corn dog and cold beer which cured the jones and allowed me to wander, past the garlic fries and alligator sausage, clocking my options before going in again.

And there, at the end, across from the redwood lumber display, I found my Fair nirvana in the form of a Twister Dog.  Twelve solid inches of pure beef tubesteak encased in a spiral-cut whole potato and tossed ceremoniously into a large vat of gurgling hot oil.  A dribble of condiments and a fist full of napkins was all that was needed to make Mr. B a very happy fella.

Fat, full and tired of walking, we retreated to the grass in front of the outdoor ampitheatre and the folding chairs we had placed there hours earlier, for 90 minutes of al fresco entertainment by Antsy McClain and the Trailerpark Troubadours.

And there you have it.  Good for another 364 days.