Tener o no Tener

Thank God it's Friday.  After a busy week at work, a head cold, and a less than stellar credit report (more on that another time.  Maybe.), I needed to end my day and ring in the weekend with an El Rinconcito burrito and a cold beer, and there was really no two ways about it.

El Rinconcito is a terrific taqueria housed in a trailer on Cascade Ave.  I was glad to find that someone has even taken a picture of it and posted it online:

As you can see, there are no bells and whistles on this establishment.  Unless you count the umbrellas.  And the Mexican pop band calendar hanging inside featuring photographs of Latino men in waxed mustaches and painted-on jeans, with their thumbs slung through their belt loops.  But bells and whistles are not necessary when you can get a huge Veggie Supreme burrito filled with fresh, delicious ingredients that actually hold a candle to the mission-style-heaven-in-foil-wrapped-cylinders of my young adulthood.  I'm talking fresh, whole pinto beans, yummy rice, sour cream, shredded Jack, and this amazing kind of pico de gallo involving cilantro, cabbage, and onions all chopped superfine.  And then there are two homemade hot sauces to choose from (and if you're smart, you'll get one of each): the smoky, spicy red sauce; and the green, fresh stuff.  It's good enough that I completely forgot to take a picture of it before polishing it off.

But my allegiance to this place was put to the test tonight.  While Adam and I stood at the cash register placing our order, I asked the pretty young cashier if we could get avocado in the burritos.  She turned around and asked an elder Hispanic woman-- a woman shaped somewhat like a burrito herself-- "Tenemos avocates?"  The woman looked up from the grill, which, being inside of a small trailer, was a tortilla chip's throw from the cash register.  She eyed Adam, and then me, each of us head to toe.  We stood there, the cashier stood there, somebody else's carne asada sizzled on the grill.  Then she looked back down and said abruptly to her grilling meat before resuming to chop it: "NO."

Sigh.  Well, we hope that whichever customer passed the avocado test tonight is enjoying the fruits of their coolness.  And we'll still go back to El Rinconcito.  Sometimes you just gotta eat what the woman gives you.

A Day in the Life

I had what you might call a synchronous moment the other day.  I was peevishly scanning through radio stations; on the hour-long drive to Portland on Sunday, NPR was inexplicably out-- its normal station had been replaced by a dull static and it was bookended by a Christian call-in show on one side, and some Spanish crooner on the other.  Not to sound narrow minded or anything, but I never listen to anything but NPR on the radio, and without wasting my time or yours in trying to explain why that is so, I will just skip that and say that I certainly didn't plan on finding anything of remote interest while pounding the Tune button.

Then I heard the unmistakable harmonies of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, in what had to be a Beatles song, only one that I had never heard before.  I stopped my channel surfing at once.  The song soon ended (before I had the wisdom to pay attention to some of the lyrics, so I could find out later what it was), and the announcer came on with his honey-voice, welcoming me to the Beatles Basement, and declaring the purpose of the show to be in honor of Sir George Martin's 83rd birthday.  It took me a second to remember who George Martin was-- ah yes, the producer of all the Beatles records-- and I almost changed the channel again.  But then I thought, hmm, well, might as well listen to some classic old Beatles songs.  Even if you never need to hear "Hey Jude" again, you can still always manage to hear it one more time.  Better than fire and brimstone, any day.

Then a clip of Martin speaking came on, and he told a story about how John approached him before the making of Let it Be and said, "We're not going to need any of that production crap on this album."  Apparently John wanted each song to be an organic whole, recorded and preserved in its integrity from beginning to end.  And so Martin obligingly went home.  Only problem was, Sir George recounted, sometimes it would take 20, 50, even 75 takes before they'd get a song right, if they got it right at all.  Which of course did not exactly lead to harmony within the recording studio.  By the time they shelved the project (out of frustration maybe?), Paul called George Martin and asked him to come back.  The product of Martin's return was Abbey Road.  Of course, I was transfixed.

So when "Day in the Life" came on, I heard the song with brand new ears.  And hearing a Beatles song, especially a really good one, for the first time, is a pretty shattering experience.  The hairs on my arms stood up on end.  First John's ghostlike and melancholic lines, "I read the news today, oh boy..." and then Paul's perky piano interlude: "Woke up, fell out of bed... ."  What an incredible song!  I will confess, that by the time that intense piano chord is struck at the end, my chin was quivering a bit.

But I think the experience was enhanced by the fact that it was the Sunday morning of what was turning out to be an awesome weekend: I went for a great hike with a new friend, Adam and I went house-hunting, we had some other new friends over for dinner...  It's like I was being escorted right into a new life that was very excited to have me.  New house, new friends, new town.  And then, right when I'm rushing headlong into the future, here are The Beatles all over again.  Those four Liverpoolians did no small work of flooding my mind with the existential blasts of childhood.  If my metaphor isn't too irritating, I'd like to venture that life is a little bit like lasagna.  There's old stuff, that you love so much.  You know, like The Beatles, and listening to their records with your little sister when she was so young and cute, and being in that old house that you can still smell and imagine but will never see again.  But the new stuff piles on, and you forget about the old stuff for the most part, but sometimes at very well-timed moments all that new stuff sort of comes to a head to make you love the old stuff that much more.  Funny thing is, I'll probably look back at these crazy novelties one day and have a little sniff of nostalgia.  And there might even be a Beatles song playing.  But anyway, what I'm trying to say is, and the reason I sort of weirdly mentioned lasagna at all in the first place: it's all about the layers.   

Stir Crazy Days

This is my default outfit for the last week.  I told you I wasn't going to show it, but it's become so part of my every day life that it just didn't seem right to hold out on you any longer.  Though the mannish snow pants were strategically cropped from the picture.  Anyway, I've got another snow day from work tomorrow.  The freeway is closed.  My grandma in Wilsonville had to cancel her holiday travel plans to my mom's house, leaving both of them vastly disappointed.  My own trip (romantic getaway to Vancouver followed by a couple days visiting my sister Claire in Seattle),  scheduled for Wednesday, is starting to look dicey.  This weather is starting to be a bit of a bummer, my friends.  I keep telling myself it's really not that bad, but then when I think of Adam driving on the freeway at five o'clock tomorrow morning and I break into a cold sweat, I realize that I have been slightly kidding myself.

And to top it all off, we've been stuffing our gullets with carbs galore.  It must be that cold-phobic, nesting instinct kicking in full force because my meals have consisted of a multitude of flour- and lipid-based products; today alone we had pancakes, cheese and crackers, spaghetti, and cookies.  So by the time dinner rolled around, it was definitely time for something decent. 

Enter the vegetarian's friend, Seitan.  For those of you who have never heard of it, it's a form of wheat gluten that, like tofu, complements the flavors of whatever you cook it with.  Unlike tofu, it has a slightly tougher, chewier texture and in the words of Adam, "Mmm!  It takes like chicken!"  Sorta looks like it too:
After sauteing it with some onions, shallots, and garlic for a few minutes in olive and sesame oils, I added chopped kale and purple cabbage.  Pretty colors:
I popped a lid on the pan for 5 or 10 minutes so the veggies would steam themselves, and then stirred in a sauce consisting of the seitan's juices (reserved), some cornstarch dissolved in water, soy sauce, fish sauce, chili flakes, and pepper.  Served over rice with a splash of sesame seeds on top, it really turned into a "chicken" stir fry to write home about.  If the local postal service weren't shut down, that is.
P.S. I started a new infusion today.  I had all these lemons that I was going to bring to a meeting for work (as garnishes for sparkling water) but it was cancelled because of the weather.  Luckily I had a bit of vodka left and luckily I didn't know what the hell else to do with the lemons, and so in a few days I'll have a zinger of an alcoholic beverage to enjoy in front of the woodstove.  I added some sugar too, to see if I can make it taste like Limoncello.

Sumptuous Sushi

For some reason I have to be in just the right mood for sushi.  But then, when I'm eating it, I think "I love this stuff.  I need to be eating this on a very regular basis."  Happily, there is an incredible sushi bar in town called Sushi Okalani.  It is the spot that I will be indulging in what I hope to be a much more frequent communication with this fresh and sort of funny dish.  The owner, a balding and bespectacled Rick Moranis-type, stood behind the bar with his sous chefs the entire time Adam and I were there, with his hands wrist-deep in sticky rice and strips of raw fish.  I like it when a proprietor is down in the trenches like that-- it conveys a sense of pride, and the notion that "if you want something done... ."

But I'm glad for selfish reasons too, because I had the pleasure of sampling some of this man's truly heavenly creations.  To start we had a filet of Crispy Grilled Trout.  It arrived unassumingly, with only some scant sliced cabbage beneath it which seemed to serve less as a garnish than as a ventilating method to prevent the fish from getting soggy on the plate.  The filet itself wore a thin, crispy, tempura-type batter and came with a bowl of dipping sauce on the side.  The sauce was awesome: sweet and salty and suggestive (not the harsh, jelly-like teriyaki glaze you'll find at a lesser joint), but it was just the icing on the cake because the fish itself was fresh, tender and flavorful.  Even the skin was yummy and oily but not rubbery in the way that fish skin can too often become.

But here was the real star of the show: 

Called the Locals Only Te Maki, this gorgeous sushi roll contained smoked Steelhead, sauteed lobster mushrooms, and I believe some slivers of cucumber.  It was absolute heaven.  There are few things tastier to my mind than a well-smoked piece of fish.  To pair it with some pretty dang interesting mushrooms, and then to wrap it all in the perennially yummy combo of seaweed and sticky rice... well, let's just say you've got some serious moaning and groaning going on.

Interesting note: I just looked up Steelhead on wikipedia and you might like to know that Steelhead and Rainbow Trout are exactly the same species, but only Steelhead go to the ocean for a few years and then return to fresh water to spawn.  Rainbow Trout live in fresh water their whole lives.  The flesh of Rainbow Trout is white and the flesh of the Steelhead, as you can see, is pink like salmon.  I'm not sure why this is, since they are virtually the same species.  I imagine it's due to varying diets, but my cursory research didn't shed any light on that.

The roll was so good that, after we had cleaned our plate (even munching down all the pickled ginger when the sushi was gone), we called for another order and happily put that away too.  This on top of a Spicy Tuna roll and some Inari!  What's that you say?  Smoked fish has no place in a sushi roll?  You're not supposed to cook the veggies first?  Well, my friends, I guess only locals would understand.
The meal was rounded out by a great bottle of sake, called Hakutsuru Junmai Daiginjo.  Hakutsuru is the name, but Junmai Daiginjo refers to the production method of the sake.  The rice used has a high polish, which means a large percentage of each grain of rice (at least 50%!) is buffered off, leaving only the creamy, flawless inner part.  The brewing methods are much more careful, too, and sake of this quality is often handmade, instead of being entrusted to machines.  The restaurant served it chilled with a highball class, instead of one of those thimble sized-ones we're all used to.  Easier to get a good nose on it that way.  (The only reason I know any of this stuff is that I wrote an article for the Portland Monthly on another kind of sake, to be published in November!  More on that when the article comes out.)

It was an exquisite meal.  Perhaps my reticence toward sushi was just proof that I hadn't found the right purveyor, because it's only been 24 hours and I'm already sensing a craving coming on...

Hoppy Boy

Here's a shot of a festive-looking Adam right at the start of our shift as pourers at the 2008 Annual Hood River HopsFest.  It was also taken right before my camera died, so I don't have any other documentation of the next three hours of rain-soaked beer drinkers wandering among the dozen or so breweries' tables tasting, quaffing, or otherwise chugging the fruits of this year's hops harvest.  It was fun, though it is rather unfortunate that hops have to be harvested late enough in the year that the beer they end up going into won't be ready till October; I had to sit through untold demonstrations of Adam literally pouring water out of his shoes, a sight to momentarily dampen even the most voracious appetite for a good local microbrew.

Dog River

As you may or may not know, I love coffee shops.  They are the neighborhood point of convergence for a certain type of person that I don't think I can describe, but I can tell you that I am certainly one of them.  Coffee shops embody either leisure or work, but if it's work you must do there, then it's leisurely work, punctuated by sips of tea and long looks at the other patrons and out the window.  When I was a senior in college, I walked to the Cafe Abir in the Western Addition neighborhood of San Francisco every day and wrote my senior thesis almost in its entirety at one of their corner wooden tables.  (Out of curiosity by the way, I just re-read the first few paragraphs of that paper-- on Henry James-- and thoroughly embarrassed myself.)

In July, as Adam and I hauled our pets and possessions east of Portland, the land of great (if hip and expensive) coffee shops, I wondered somewhat frantically if there would be a decent spot for me to rest, caffeinate, and people-watch in Hood River.  I jubilantly noticed a good-looking place just a couple blocks from our new house, but after a few visits met with extraordinarily high prices ($2.50 for a day-old muffin), the non-existence of iced tea (in July), and a spotty wireless internet connection, it was clear that my search had to continue.

Enter Dog River Coffee.  Even the name is fantastic.  Our first couple weeks in Hood River I had no job and our house had no internet, so Dog River quickly became an everyday destination.  And the baristas quickly acknowledged it: "What, no beer today?" they'd ask, or "Iced-tea-no-lemon, right?"  There were actually lots of locals here, too, unlike that other place.  As they say, if you're looking for good Chinese food, go where Chinese people eat.

The prices are downright cheap: $1.40 for an iced tea, and I couldn't tell you on the coffee, but my friends and family don't seem to complain.  Their food selection is ok: a few sweet breads like banana, zuchini, and chocolate-- enough to tide you over.  Plus bagels, a muffin every now and then, and some homemade energy bar-looking thing.  But they do have a local beer or two on tap, so should you find yourself still camping at your table around five o'clock, you can make the transition of beverages as easily as you please. 

I thought I'd be contenting myself with maybe one good restaurant and one good coffee shop here in our Pop. 6,000 town, but it turns out, Hood Riverites like to eat and drink well.  I am so pleased.  And there will be more to come on the merchants of food and wine, I assure you. 

    

Megan and the Giant Peach

Not long ago my future in-laws were in town.  Adam and I had still not decided on a wedding venue, so we thought his family might like to come along to scout a site with us.  Driving to the bed and breakfast whose website looked appealing, we got a bit lost.  Not very lost-- we knew it was close-- so we pulled into a diner parking lot to ask.  As soon as we stopped, Adam hopped out and said, "Be right back."  Mike, Adam's dad, and I gasped.  "My son!"  Mike cried. "Asking for directions?!  Has he lost his manhood?  He's been kidnapped and replaced with a stranger!"  I myself was shocked too; in the nearly four years we've known each other, I've never once seen Adam ask for directions.  But, it turns out, we had nothing to fear-- Adam's testosterone levels were normal.  At the front door of the diner, Adam veered left and went behind the building.  "It's probably back here somewhere," he called to us.  His mom, Mary, exhaling the universal sound of exasperation, got out to get directions herself.  Inside of thirty seconds she was back in the car with the information we needed, while Adam was still bushwacking through story-high blackberry bushes out back.  "Oh, phew!" Sighed Mike, "Thank goodness.  I thought we lost him."

Though I was laughing my head off at the time, I was thinking of this incident yesterday, with significantly less laughter.  It's very difficult to laugh when you're riding your bike down a broken glass-riddled highway shoulder with semis roaring past.  "Are you sure this is the right way?"  I called.  I was determined to not lose my cool.  He was sure, he said, but we might as well consult the map.  We pulled over and looked at the really cool book my mom gave us, containing lots of road biking routes in the Columbia Gorge area.  We had gone the wrong way; we were supposed to cross the freeway, not turn onto it.  So instead of turning back to the road we were meant to turn onto in the first place, Adam said, "Let's just turn on to this road here.  I'm sure it'll join up with the path."  I hemmed.  "Just trust me," he said.

Twenty minutes later, I was pushing my seventies-era, VERY heavy road bike up the steepest hill I've seen since leaving San Francisco.  As sweat poured down my face, and my breathing verged on asthma, I repeated the loving-kindness mantra in my mind.  Twenty minutes after THAT, I was still pushing my bike up the hill.  Adam by now was off his bike and pushing too.

But twenty minutes later still we had come to Panorama Point, the true starting point of the loop.  As I caught my breath and guzzled water, this is what I beheld.      

Do you see what appears to be a green furry carpeting lining the valley floor?  Those are the hundreds of fruit orchards that keep us all in good fruit supply all summer long.  One of those orchards down there, in fact, was to supply what would turn out to be one of the best lunches I've ever eaten.

The one nice thing about pushing your bike up an enormous hill is that you get to ride down it.  As we barreled down the hill and continued to pedal easily through the flat countryside, we passed green fields, idyllic orchards, a few white steepled churches, and charming farmhouses, many with For Sale signs that we eyed enviously.  We just could not believe this beautiful place.  We live here, we said out loud more than once.

As we approached one of the many signs proclaiming the presence of "Fresh Fruit" Adam suggested we turn in and get something to eat.  After our earlier navigational debacle I actually had the fleeting impulse to say, "No, let's just stay on the path.  I don't want to backtrack anymore."  But I was tired and hungry and my goal was fun, not disputes.  We turned into the Rasmussen Family Farm parking lot and kicked down our kickstands.

The fruits and veggies they had for sale were plentiful, cheap, and gorgeous.  Luscious bell peppers, plums, squash, shallots, basil, the season's first apples.  But the peaches were clearly the stars that day.  We were drawn to the peach table by scent alone.  I didn't write down all the varieties-- I should have-- but there were probably five different kinds, all downy and round, and colored that indescribable blending hue of reddish orange.  Adam and I pressed a few for ripeness and discovered that all of them were perfect, and ready to be eaten NOW.  We each chose two enormous peaches, the size of small grapefruits.  One dollar each.

Outside we sat on some wagons and bit in.  The peaches exploded all over our faces and we leaned forward to let tributaries of juice spill to the grass.  They were perfect: sweet and fleshy but so juicy we half drank, half chewed them.  We were full after one, but couldn't resist a second go-around.  Fortunately, before I devoured mine, Adam got a couple shots of me with my peaches.  

Later, back on the road, Adam said, "I'm stuck on that peach.  I'm still biting into it, you know?"  Mmm, yes.  A man after my own heart.  I guess I'll follow him anywhere.