This year I thought it would be fun to become a musicologist. Other New Years resolutions seemed boring to me - losing weight, getting more exercise - I've done all those before. (Well, certainly I've tried to do those things before.) Becoming a musicologist would be much more challenging and interesting. And I like the word "musicologist", the way it rolls off the tongue, the way it sounds important, a term given to a person who is scholarly, worldly, well-respected, and obviously, musical. People at parties would ask me, "And what do you?" And I would answer proudly, "I'm a musicologist."
Musicologists, I discovered, are people who have degrees in music, that is, people who go to college and study music, and all there is to know about music. These people, these musicologists, have PhDs in music. These sorts of degrees require at least nine to ten years of college study. That would be a problem for me. I don't have the money to go to college, never mind get a degree, especially a PhD. Musicologists, I also found out, are usually amazingly talented musicians and composers, who know a lot about music before they even venture into a four year music degree. Becoming a musicologist is about the most far-fetched scheme I could ever come up with. I may as well have decided to become a brain surgeon.
So I thought perhaps I would become a self-taught musicologist. I would study courses on my own, and become a musicologist for pure enjoyment. Because what would be more fun than memorizing all of Paganini's twenty-four caprices, right? That's got to be a heck of a good time. I know it's going to be tough going it alone, but I know a little about music - I certainly have an appreciation for music. I can read, study, listen to music, practice my violin, my keyboard, compose a couple of oratorios. Who needs a college degree?
So I purchase myself a book about the fifty greatest composers which includes descriptions of their most important works, all 1,000 of them. And I make a determined effort to spend large portions of my day immersed in musical study, and critical listening. I turn my office into a music room, delve into my textbook, put on some classical CDs, and rosin my bow. And after just a few days of this, I'm having second thoughts about becoming a musicologist.
First off, I discovered that even after six months of violin lessons I can't play one piece through to the end without making a mistake. I'm also lazy, and never practice my scales. I can play a few pieces on my keyboard, but am unable to understand what all the little buttons mean and I sound like a lounge musican playing to drunks at the Ramada Inn. I can strum several chords on a tenor ukulele and guitar, but that's it. I can sing a little, but my range is about five notes. I love to listen to classical music and even attend chamber music concerts, but I have to sit on my hands to keep myself from applauding between movements, a faux pas among musical sophisticates.
Yesterday afternoon I tried to listen to Mendelssohn's Fingal's Cave, while reading about the composer's life, laying in bed. I fell asleep in five minutes, and dreamed I was drowning in a great ocean. When I woke up, the CD had ended, and I was suffocating in tangled blankets, ashamed of myself. Dedicated musicology students don't spend their afternoons in bed. I was a failure.
I couldn't tell a clavier from a harpsichord, nor a cadenza from a chorus. I'm afraid to play music in public, lest I make a mistake. And as far as turning musicology into a career, I recently read that the only thing that a musicologist can really do for a living is to teach others to become musicologists. And so, I think I will continue to enjoy music as I have been all along, listening to CDs, going to concerts, and strumming a few chords on the ukulele. Leave the musicology degrees to the musicologists.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Monday, December 10, 2012
Winter Backpacking Trip, part two
Remember in the movie, The Poseiden Adventure, when Gene Hackman and what's left of his cronies emerge from the bottom of the big ship, (which is actually the top, now) after Shelley Winters suffers a major heat attack swimming fearlessly through deep waters to save the other passengers? And Maureen McGovern sings "There's Got to Be a Morning After" and tears fall embarrassingly on your cheeks because you can't believe you're crying after watching such a campy movie as The Poseiden Adventure?
Well, that was how it is as my friends and I emerge from our rain-soaked, frozen tents the first morning of our winter backpacking trip to St. Mark's Wildlife Refuge. A few rays of sun shine down through the clouds, and the four of us run toward the light, basking in the warmth, shivering with gladness. But with gladness and joy comes cocky and boastful behaviour, as we slap each other on the backs, swaggering with pride on how brave and strong we were the night before. Yes, it was only 36 degrees, it rained all night, we were lucky not to have hypothermia, but are BACKPACKERS, after all, and backpackers are prepared for all sorts of bad weather and unfortunate circumstances.
And what happens next is we throw back some coffee and eat a few tangerines, and then we are ready to pack up and head off to our next destination. That is, until we realize that everything we have is soaking wet. And wet things are heavy. Our clothing, our sleeping bags, tents, and tarps are soaked, and now we have to stuff 200 pounds of these items into our packs and carry them 12 or 15 miles. Our hiking boots and socks are slushy and slimy. And JR is not there with his gun to put us out of our misery.
Thank goodness for the plethora of wildlife in the wildlife refuge. We see alligators and woodstorks, and other birds that I can't name. Our hike takes us along the forgotten coast, a remote and beautiful wilderness that includes coastal marshes, islands, tidal creeks, and the estuaries of seven north Florida rivers. Rainwater runs out of the bottom of our packs as we walk.
The first thing I do when we get to our next campsite is to throw myself on the ground and curl up into a fetal position. I'm so tired and still so wet from dragging 50 pounds of soggy bedding around all day, that I can barely walk another step. My youthful companions have a little more energy than I, and rig up a couple of clothes lines to hang all our wet things. By the time we get our tents up and lay everything out to dry, our rustic wilderness campsite looks like Jedd Clampett's back yard before he moved his family to Bevery Hills.
In order not to make the story about this trip even longer than the four days it took us to hike it, I will cut some details short. After a good night's sleep, we hike to the famous and historic St. Mark's Lighthouse, that was built in 1832, admire it for a bit, until Cindy's husband calls her on his cell phone. He and Paula's husband, Brent, are hanging out in a bar in Jacksonville, about to watch a football game, and want to know if their wives would like to cut their trip short and join them. The beer is cold, the peanuts are salty, and Cindy and Paula bid us a swift sayonara. Roger and I never figured this out, but somehow the two women, in haste to get away from any further trail shenanigans, manage to switch the cars themselves so that mine is at the end point, at the Wakulla River, and in a few hours they are enjoying a cold one in the warmth of a neighborhood saloon.
Roger and I feel determined to continue our trip, but find ourselves hiking on a highway, which is sometimes necessary when you travel on the Florida Trail, because much of the trail is not developed yet. As cars and trucks whizz by, we come along all sorts of interesting litter, that includes a hammer, a tape measure, and a bag of pot, none of which Roger lets me take into my pack. When we get to the Wakulla River, we decide to get my car and drive to a private campground instead of sleeping at a wilderness site. The temperature is dropping again, and by 4 a.m. it is in the mid-20s. Roger starts a campfire, and we stand there, shivering, until 6 a.m.. We haven't slept at all that night, anyway, and decided to pack it up, if anything, to drive around for a couple of hours in my warm PT Cruiser.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, my car takes us to JR's Aucilla Store, the only place that is open at pre-dawn hours. It is almost as if JR is expecting us. He makes us coffee, and tea, and sausage sandwiches, and encourages us to sit in front of his potbelly stove, where we are forced to pet his dog, Stupid. There is a twinkle in his eye, as if to mock us, albeit in a gentle way. After all, his business depends on silly people like us, adventurers, who go out into all kinds of weather to enjoy the wilderness, then come back to JR's Aucilla Store, our tails between our legs in shame, hungry for only what JR can give us - warmth, food, and friendship.
I ask JR for his phone number, so that if we decide to come back to hike the eastern section of the trail, we can call him for advice about the weather, and make driving arrangements in advance. "Hopefully we'll be back next year," I say brightly.
"Oh, you'll be back," says JR. "They always come back."
Thursday, December 6, 2012
A Winter Backpacking Trip, part one
Each winter I plan some backpacking trips with my friends. In Florida, the best time to hike and camp is November through March, although braver individuals who don't mind heat and mosquitoes will not adhere to this rule. The winter of 2011 was a particularly memorable trip, as my companions and I headed to the forgotten coast of Florida, to hike in St. Mark's Wildlife Refuge, along the National Florida Scenic Trail.
Technically, there is no camping allowed in the refuge, unless you are through-hiking the trail, but somehow I managed to convince a park ranger that he should let us go through. This is what is called "Trail Magic", when unexpected little surprises come your way on the trail. There are other unexpected surprises that are not trail magic, however, they are simply really bad things that you hadn't planned on. And this was one of those trips.
We decided to do a little car-switcheroo, where my friend Roger and I would park our car at JR's Aucilla Store, on US 98 in Aucilla, and my friends Cindy and Paula would park theirs at the end point, the Wakulla River. Our plan was that we would convince JR (who we had never met before) to give us a ride to the trail head on the FT, then hike four days or so west to the Wakulla River, get Cindy's car, and drive back to JR's place, where Roger and I would pick up our car, and we would all drive happily home from our wilderness adventure.
When we arrived at JR's Aucilla Store, we found JR to be a likable man, and we easily convinced him to give us a ride as we had planned. We had to hang around quite a long time in the store, however, as JR made a few calls in an attempt to get someone to watch the shop for him, and figure out what to do with his mangy dog named Stupid, who wouldn't fit in the van with us, and who doesn't like to be left behind. While the four of us waited for JR to make arrangements, we shopped a bit, purchasing items like venison jerky, sausage sandwiches, and fountain drinks, while admiring the enormous taxidermic wild hog heads gracing JR's walls. There was a cozy, pot belly stove in the store, where hunters could warm their hands and drink coffee, and talk about hog hunting while their hound dogs bellowed outside in the back of their pick up trucks.
I forgot to mention that it was pretty cold that day, and we began the process of bundling up for the hike, packing and repacking our backpacks, talking amongst ourselves about various types of cold weather gear - gloves, neck gaiters, and the like. Once we were confident that we all had the proper clothing and we were just about ready to go, one of those surprising things happened, that is not what you would call trail magic. It started to rain.
When I say rain, I don't mean a gentle dampening, I mean a cold, gusty, winter squall of rain that pelted the windows of JR's Aucilla Store like bullets, as my friends and I pressed our noses against the glass, with Stupid, wondering which one of us we could blame for not checking the weather report before we went on the trip. A quick glance at each other, without speaking, and we all started unpacking and repacking our packs to don our rain gear and look for our waterproof pack covers. And all the while JR is waiting patiently for us, hoping that we'll get our act together, as his van is running outside. Whilst we fumble for our gear, JR says, "You gotta gun with you?" We looked at him oddly, and I reply, "No. We don't carry guns. Why would we need a gun?" JR says, "Because when you get out there, you know you're gonna wanna kill yourself."
The rain is coming down even harder at this point - the van's tires are sitting a in a puddle that comes halfway up the wheels. A flood is forming on the other side of the road, across from JR's Aucilla Store, threatening to wash across the street, and we scramble to put our backpacks into his vehicle.
We pile into the van, and JR drives us about 3 miles up the road, where he ditches us at a grassy clearing, chuckling the whole time. It doesn't occur to us at this point that we could have changed our minds and cancelled the trip, so we begin our hike, 7 miles, to the Pinhook Campsite. It is late afternoon.
After 10 minutes, we are soaked to the skin. I realize that expensive rain gear is no damned good, no matter what they say about it at the outfitter stores. I also realize that I have never put up my tent in a driving rainstorm before. And that I don't even know if my tent will hold up to a driving rainstorm because we usually plan our hiking trips around pleasant weather conditions. We hike and we hike, as if we really think that the faster we walk, maybe we will get away from the rain. We stop once to take a break and are chilled to the bone, so we keep hiking as if our life depended on it.
After 3 long hours we arrive at our primitive campsite and it is pouring like God is putting an end to the world in the forgotten coast of Florida. We set up our tents as best we can, and I make a mental note to be better prepared, maybe invest in a rain tarp before my next backpacking trip. I am happy to have brought a chamois cloth with me, though, as there is a gallon of water or so inside my tent. I soak up the water with the chamois, and wring it out the door, soak some more, then wring some more. Every time I open the door of the tent, more rain comes inside. Cindy and Paula are having better luck with their tipi tent, but Cindy remarks anyway, "We should have brought the gun." Roger, as usual, is not complaining, but methodically setting up his own tent and wringing water out as I am doing. There is a short break in the rain, a welcoming 10 minutes, where Roger fires up our camp stoves, and prepares tea and ramen noodles, which we slurp down just in time for it to start raining again.
There is nothing more that we can do except to retire into our wet tents. I have placed my foam pad and sleeping bag on the floor of my tent; like an island it sits with rain water all around it. Luckily I have dry fleece sleeping garments to put on, and a few hand warmers that I bought at the checkout counter at Walgreens, an impulse buy that was the smartest thing I have ever done in my life. I stuff the hand warmers inside my fleece and socks, and climb into my sleeping bag. The temperature is dropping and it's raining like crazy again. It was going to be a long night.
(to be continued)
Technically, there is no camping allowed in the refuge, unless you are through-hiking the trail, but somehow I managed to convince a park ranger that he should let us go through. This is what is called "Trail Magic", when unexpected little surprises come your way on the trail. There are other unexpected surprises that are not trail magic, however, they are simply really bad things that you hadn't planned on. And this was one of those trips.
We decided to do a little car-switcheroo, where my friend Roger and I would park our car at JR's Aucilla Store, on US 98 in Aucilla, and my friends Cindy and Paula would park theirs at the end point, the Wakulla River. Our plan was that we would convince JR (who we had never met before) to give us a ride to the trail head on the FT, then hike four days or so west to the Wakulla River, get Cindy's car, and drive back to JR's place, where Roger and I would pick up our car, and we would all drive happily home from our wilderness adventure.
When we arrived at JR's Aucilla Store, we found JR to be a likable man, and we easily convinced him to give us a ride as we had planned. We had to hang around quite a long time in the store, however, as JR made a few calls in an attempt to get someone to watch the shop for him, and figure out what to do with his mangy dog named Stupid, who wouldn't fit in the van with us, and who doesn't like to be left behind. While the four of us waited for JR to make arrangements, we shopped a bit, purchasing items like venison jerky, sausage sandwiches, and fountain drinks, while admiring the enormous taxidermic wild hog heads gracing JR's walls. There was a cozy, pot belly stove in the store, where hunters could warm their hands and drink coffee, and talk about hog hunting while their hound dogs bellowed outside in the back of their pick up trucks.
I forgot to mention that it was pretty cold that day, and we began the process of bundling up for the hike, packing and repacking our backpacks, talking amongst ourselves about various types of cold weather gear - gloves, neck gaiters, and the like. Once we were confident that we all had the proper clothing and we were just about ready to go, one of those surprising things happened, that is not what you would call trail magic. It started to rain.
When I say rain, I don't mean a gentle dampening, I mean a cold, gusty, winter squall of rain that pelted the windows of JR's Aucilla Store like bullets, as my friends and I pressed our noses against the glass, with Stupid, wondering which one of us we could blame for not checking the weather report before we went on the trip. A quick glance at each other, without speaking, and we all started unpacking and repacking our packs to don our rain gear and look for our waterproof pack covers. And all the while JR is waiting patiently for us, hoping that we'll get our act together, as his van is running outside. Whilst we fumble for our gear, JR says, "You gotta gun with you?" We looked at him oddly, and I reply, "No. We don't carry guns. Why would we need a gun?" JR says, "Because when you get out there, you know you're gonna wanna kill yourself."
The rain is coming down even harder at this point - the van's tires are sitting a in a puddle that comes halfway up the wheels. A flood is forming on the other side of the road, across from JR's Aucilla Store, threatening to wash across the street, and we scramble to put our backpacks into his vehicle.
We pile into the van, and JR drives us about 3 miles up the road, where he ditches us at a grassy clearing, chuckling the whole time. It doesn't occur to us at this point that we could have changed our minds and cancelled the trip, so we begin our hike, 7 miles, to the Pinhook Campsite. It is late afternoon.
After 10 minutes, we are soaked to the skin. I realize that expensive rain gear is no damned good, no matter what they say about it at the outfitter stores. I also realize that I have never put up my tent in a driving rainstorm before. And that I don't even know if my tent will hold up to a driving rainstorm because we usually plan our hiking trips around pleasant weather conditions. We hike and we hike, as if we really think that the faster we walk, maybe we will get away from the rain. We stop once to take a break and are chilled to the bone, so we keep hiking as if our life depended on it.
After 3 long hours we arrive at our primitive campsite and it is pouring like God is putting an end to the world in the forgotten coast of Florida. We set up our tents as best we can, and I make a mental note to be better prepared, maybe invest in a rain tarp before my next backpacking trip. I am happy to have brought a chamois cloth with me, though, as there is a gallon of water or so inside my tent. I soak up the water with the chamois, and wring it out the door, soak some more, then wring some more. Every time I open the door of the tent, more rain comes inside. Cindy and Paula are having better luck with their tipi tent, but Cindy remarks anyway, "We should have brought the gun." Roger, as usual, is not complaining, but methodically setting up his own tent and wringing water out as I am doing. There is a short break in the rain, a welcoming 10 minutes, where Roger fires up our camp stoves, and prepares tea and ramen noodles, which we slurp down just in time for it to start raining again.
Attempting to make tea and soup before it starts raining again.
There is nothing more that we can do except to retire into our wet tents. I have placed my foam pad and sleeping bag on the floor of my tent; like an island it sits with rain water all around it. Luckily I have dry fleece sleeping garments to put on, and a few hand warmers that I bought at the checkout counter at Walgreens, an impulse buy that was the smartest thing I have ever done in my life. I stuff the hand warmers inside my fleece and socks, and climb into my sleeping bag. The temperature is dropping and it's raining like crazy again. It was going to be a long night.
(to be continued)
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Trainspotting
A few years ago, I thought it would be nice to take up trainspotting as a hobby. My inner hobo loves trains, and having traveled extensively on trains in many places, I thought I might want to become a train expert. The only things I needed for my new hobby were a pad of paper, a pen, a camera, and a railroad depot to sit at and watch trains go by.
Folkston, GA is famous for their Folkston Funnel, a double track which serves as the main artery for railroad traffic into and out of Florida. Nearly 50 trains a day run through the Folkston Funnel, sometimes even more. I invited a friend of mine to go to Folkston with me one weekend, to spot trains and record their activity. I didn't really know anything about the hobby of trainspotting, except that when a train goes by, you take note of what kind of train it is, and then research where it's going, and where it's coming from, and what it's carrying. Then you take a photo of the train, if you desire. Then you record all your information in your little pad of paper, sort of like how a bird watcher records the birds he sees. Then after you get good at identifying trains and rail activity, you join some sort of club where you can brag about how much you know about trains to other trainspotters. Then when you die, your children will find your little pad of trainspotting notes and throw it into the trash, along with all your other useless stuff.
At the Folkston Funnel there is a viewing platform, which features lights, ceiling fans, and a scanner to listen in to radio traffic in between trains going by. Adjacent to the platform are picnic tables, a restroom, and even a grill, because one is sure to get hungry watching trains all day long. There is also a train museum and a few shops nearby, plus lots of noisy bells ringing and lights flashing all day, because attempting to drive a car through the Folkston Funnel is a dangerous thing.
I managed to find a parking place close to the viewing platform, then grabbed my pad of paper, pen, and camera, and got down to some serious trainspotting. My companion and I chose a seat on the blistering hot platform, and listened as the train engineers radioed information back and forth to each other. After a few minutes a train came by and I wrote down notes about it in my pad of paper. I tried to take some photos with my digital camera but they came out blurry. All of this took about five minutes. I bounced happily on my seat, though, all fired up about my new hobby, until my friend said to me, "What exactly are we doing here, Karen?"
I looked at him, dumbfounded, and explained for about the tenth time what trainspotting was all about, and he sighed heavily. "This is boring. I'm hungry. Let's go." If I had known the Folkston Funnel had a grill and a restroom, I would have brought some steaks with me, maybe a bottle of wine, or a baguette to keep my companion busy while I trainspotted. But I was unprepared for his lack of interest, so pouting, I left the platform and we found a barbecue joint down the road.
Trainspotting is not as easy as it looks. Nobody I know wants to do it, and if you go trainspotting by yourself, it's not much fun to get all excited and point delightfully at trains with no one there to share your enthusiasm. And I found out that trainspotting isn't even the proper name for watching random trains, as I was doing. Authentic trainspotters are looking for certain types of trains, what they call "rolling stock," whatever that means. I wasn't a trainspotter, I was a rail fan... a common rail fan.
These days I walk with my beau Bruce up to the railroad tracks behind our house. We bring our ukuleles and sing freight train songs until trains come by, then we wave at the engineers, who blow their train whistles madly, in an attempt to get us to move back from the tracks. When the trains go by, there is an acrid smell and scary sound, as metal grinds against metal, and then a great whoosh of hot wind as the train passes at top speed.
After the train is gone, I sigh heavily, and say, "Well, that was fun. I'm hungry. Let's go." And we head back to the house.
Folkston, GA is famous for their Folkston Funnel, a double track which serves as the main artery for railroad traffic into and out of Florida. Nearly 50 trains a day run through the Folkston Funnel, sometimes even more. I invited a friend of mine to go to Folkston with me one weekend, to spot trains and record their activity. I didn't really know anything about the hobby of trainspotting, except that when a train goes by, you take note of what kind of train it is, and then research where it's going, and where it's coming from, and what it's carrying. Then you take a photo of the train, if you desire. Then you record all your information in your little pad of paper, sort of like how a bird watcher records the birds he sees. Then after you get good at identifying trains and rail activity, you join some sort of club where you can brag about how much you know about trains to other trainspotters. Then when you die, your children will find your little pad of trainspotting notes and throw it into the trash, along with all your other useless stuff.
At the Folkston Funnel there is a viewing platform, which features lights, ceiling fans, and a scanner to listen in to radio traffic in between trains going by. Adjacent to the platform are picnic tables, a restroom, and even a grill, because one is sure to get hungry watching trains all day long. There is also a train museum and a few shops nearby, plus lots of noisy bells ringing and lights flashing all day, because attempting to drive a car through the Folkston Funnel is a dangerous thing.
I managed to find a parking place close to the viewing platform, then grabbed my pad of paper, pen, and camera, and got down to some serious trainspotting. My companion and I chose a seat on the blistering hot platform, and listened as the train engineers radioed information back and forth to each other. After a few minutes a train came by and I wrote down notes about it in my pad of paper. I tried to take some photos with my digital camera but they came out blurry. All of this took about five minutes. I bounced happily on my seat, though, all fired up about my new hobby, until my friend said to me, "What exactly are we doing here, Karen?"
I looked at him, dumbfounded, and explained for about the tenth time what trainspotting was all about, and he sighed heavily. "This is boring. I'm hungry. Let's go." If I had known the Folkston Funnel had a grill and a restroom, I would have brought some steaks with me, maybe a bottle of wine, or a baguette to keep my companion busy while I trainspotted. But I was unprepared for his lack of interest, so pouting, I left the platform and we found a barbecue joint down the road.
Trainspotting is not as easy as it looks. Nobody I know wants to do it, and if you go trainspotting by yourself, it's not much fun to get all excited and point delightfully at trains with no one there to share your enthusiasm. And I found out that trainspotting isn't even the proper name for watching random trains, as I was doing. Authentic trainspotters are looking for certain types of trains, what they call "rolling stock," whatever that means. I wasn't a trainspotter, I was a rail fan... a common rail fan.
These days I walk with my beau Bruce up to the railroad tracks behind our house. We bring our ukuleles and sing freight train songs until trains come by, then we wave at the engineers, who blow their train whistles madly, in an attempt to get us to move back from the tracks. When the trains go by, there is an acrid smell and scary sound, as metal grinds against metal, and then a great whoosh of hot wind as the train passes at top speed.
After the train is gone, I sigh heavily, and say, "Well, that was fun. I'm hungry. Let's go." And we head back to the house.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Porridge Weather
December is porridge weather, and I say porridge, not oatmeal, because plain oats don't do much for me. Oats are healthy, certainly, good for your heart, but I always think about them as just breakfast food, and for me, I'm still hungry after a bowl of plain oatmeal. Last year I came up with a recipe for a special whole grain porridge that could incorporate any combination of your favorite grains, cooked in water and soy milk in the crockpot. This method of cooking eliminates the need for constant stirring.
Whole grain porridge can be served any time of the day. I have it for breakfast with butter and honey, but I also like it for lunch or dinner with salt, pepper, and fresh herbs, eaten like you would rice pilaf, maybe served with a side salad or steamed vegetables.
If all this sounds way too healthy for you, well, we're not getting any younger, you know. Now and then I find myself eating way too much meat, sweets, and fountain drinks, and I wonder why I have no energy. So this past week, after I finally digested all those Thanksgiving pies and turkey thighs with crispy skin, I thought it would be best to eat a healthier diet.
I'm also thinking about doing some serious backpacking in January and February of next year, and losing a few pounds will take a lot of pressure off my joints. And if you think you need to be on a diet for weeks to get results, I assure you that you will feel better after just two days of fruits, vegetables, and this porridge. I figured out there are about 10-grams of protein per serving, so it's quite filling and satisfying. Diet or no diet, try this porridge, because it's delicious. And eat a couple of apples, too, just for good measure.
December Porridge
Ingredients:
1/3 cup farro
1/3 cup steel cut oats
1/3 cup quinoa
(or any combination of grains to total 1-cup)
1-1/2 cups water
1-1/2 cups soy milk
Preparation:
Combine all in a crock pot. Cook on high for about 2 hours or low for about 4 hours. Makes six good size servings. You can make the porridge in advance and reheat successfully in the microwave or over a double boiler on the stove.
Friday, November 30, 2012
There's No Place Like Route 301
To get to South Carolina from North Florida, one must drive through Georgia. My route of choice is 301, mostly because it's a friendly back road, not an interstate highway. Route 301 is only a mile from my home - once I get on that road, I can pretty much sit back and drive blindfolded for several hours without thinking about anything, until I reach South Carolina.
The part of Georgia that 301 runs through is never a destination for me. It's only a means to get me where I want to go in another state. There are not too many of my friends who think much of Route 301, because it is straight, narrow, and seemingly boring as hell. But I like Route 301, and I'm going to tell you why.
The road runs through all these little Georgia towns, with weird names that I don't even know how to pronounce. Like Nahunta. And Ludowici. And in between the towns there are cotton fields, pecan groves, and prisons. There are little restaurants and run-down thrift shops, and all of these seem to be frozen in time. There is the town of Claxton, famous for its fruitcake. If you turn left after the railroad tracks, the fruitcake plant is about a block down on your right. You can get free samples of fruitcake and sometimes a mini tour of the plant, if you speak nicely to the proprietor on duty.
Speaking of Claxton, before you actually get into the town, there is a restaurant on the right called Mrs. Rogers. This place is a Southern buffet that features fried chicken, ribs, and the like. You can smell the collard greens in the parking lot. I can attest to the fact that they make their okra and tomatoes from scratch. If you go in there after church, you will see pious Baptists gorging on Mrs. Rogers' specialties, since they're not allowed to drink beer after church like we Episcopalians do.
In the town of Glennville, there is a little Mexican restaurant called Mi Plaza. They make delicious chili rellenos. You can get an enormous lunch for only $5.29. And keep those diet Cokes coming, because I don't think you can drink alcohol in Glennville, either. The servers are amazingly friendly, and when you tell them you are from Florida, they look at you as if you had said you were from France. Apparently, they don't get many out-of-towners at Mi Plaza.
In Statesboro, there is a bakery called Sugar Magnolia, and it's located on Savannah Ave. I'm not sure how I found the place but perhaps I needed a restroom and ended up there. They make yummy bakery items, and also pizza with their own homemade dough. I would say that Sugar Magnolia is probably the most sophisticated of all the places I have come to know on my trips along Route 301.
You can buy pecans all along Route 301. Some at farm stands, some from people sitting in their cars on the side of the road, with cardboard signs on their bumpers advertising their wares. You will come across several prisons and detention centers, surrounded by razor wire, which sparkles in the sun and reflects off your windshield in a cosmic sort of way. Right next to the prisons you will see cotton fields that go on for miles, and especially in November, right before the cotton is harvested, it's really quite a beautiful sight.
When I finally get to South Carolina, I am feeling a little sad to get off Route 301. Now I have to read my map, drive on interstates, through big cities and on beltways, and find my way to my destination without the help of a GPS, since I don't own one. There are family members to visit, trails to hike, rivers to paddle, and mountains to climb, all north of Georgia's Route 301. And after all is said and done, I look forward to coming back the same way I drove up. Because I live in one of those little towns off Route 301, in North Florida, and gee, it feels great to be home.
The part of Georgia that 301 runs through is never a destination for me. It's only a means to get me where I want to go in another state. There are not too many of my friends who think much of Route 301, because it is straight, narrow, and seemingly boring as hell. But I like Route 301, and I'm going to tell you why.
The road runs through all these little Georgia towns, with weird names that I don't even know how to pronounce. Like Nahunta. And Ludowici. And in between the towns there are cotton fields, pecan groves, and prisons. There are little restaurants and run-down thrift shops, and all of these seem to be frozen in time. There is the town of Claxton, famous for its fruitcake. If you turn left after the railroad tracks, the fruitcake plant is about a block down on your right. You can get free samples of fruitcake and sometimes a mini tour of the plant, if you speak nicely to the proprietor on duty.
Speaking of Claxton, before you actually get into the town, there is a restaurant on the right called Mrs. Rogers. This place is a Southern buffet that features fried chicken, ribs, and the like. You can smell the collard greens in the parking lot. I can attest to the fact that they make their okra and tomatoes from scratch. If you go in there after church, you will see pious Baptists gorging on Mrs. Rogers' specialties, since they're not allowed to drink beer after church like we Episcopalians do.
In the town of Glennville, there is a little Mexican restaurant called Mi Plaza. They make delicious chili rellenos. You can get an enormous lunch for only $5.29. And keep those diet Cokes coming, because I don't think you can drink alcohol in Glennville, either. The servers are amazingly friendly, and when you tell them you are from Florida, they look at you as if you had said you were from France. Apparently, they don't get many out-of-towners at Mi Plaza.
In Statesboro, there is a bakery called Sugar Magnolia, and it's located on Savannah Ave. I'm not sure how I found the place but perhaps I needed a restroom and ended up there. They make yummy bakery items, and also pizza with their own homemade dough. I would say that Sugar Magnolia is probably the most sophisticated of all the places I have come to know on my trips along Route 301.
You can buy pecans all along Route 301. Some at farm stands, some from people sitting in their cars on the side of the road, with cardboard signs on their bumpers advertising their wares. You will come across several prisons and detention centers, surrounded by razor wire, which sparkles in the sun and reflects off your windshield in a cosmic sort of way. Right next to the prisons you will see cotton fields that go on for miles, and especially in November, right before the cotton is harvested, it's really quite a beautiful sight.
When I finally get to South Carolina, I am feeling a little sad to get off Route 301. Now I have to read my map, drive on interstates, through big cities and on beltways, and find my way to my destination without the help of a GPS, since I don't own one. There are family members to visit, trails to hike, rivers to paddle, and mountains to climb, all north of Georgia's Route 301. And after all is said and done, I look forward to coming back the same way I drove up. Because I live in one of those little towns off Route 301, in North Florida, and gee, it feels great to be home.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Armando
Bruce and I live out in the country, on Canaan Way, in Callahan, Florida, to be exact. Country life is a good thing for us. It's quiet here in Callahan, with the exception of some crowing roosters, and the trains that run behind our house several times a day. The two-acre lot is dotted with trees that Bruce planted himself. We have a small garden, and expansive yard, which Bruce mows every week or so. These days, however, the lawn mower is silent, since an armadillo named Armando has moved onto the property. For Armando, the yard and somewhat manicured grass have become his grand buffet, and in the wee hours of the night, Armando is on a feeding frenzy.
Armadillos eat grubs, worms and ants, but also enjoy fruit and lettuce, if provided. Armando has become accustomed to tearing up large sections of the yard each night, before delving into the compost pile for leftover apple cores, which I suppose, to Armando, are his dessert. When Armando first came onto the property, Bruce tried to lure him into a trap with bait, but Armando would have none of that. Born with terrible eyesight, armadillos dig and eat using their sense of smell. And with our rich soil that is loaded with fat worms, our Armando is not easily enticed by much of anything else.
Bruce is of Irish and Welsh descent, and his people pride themselves on green grass and meticulously trimmed lawns. When Bruce walks outside each morning to see the extensive damage that Armando has done to his lawn the previous evening, he is grateful that his ancestors are not alive to witness such a sacrilege. It is difficult to walk across the yard, lest you twist your ankle in one of the hundreds of holes that Armando has dug. There is less and less need to mow the grass, since it has dwindled away. And if you were to come visit our home, you would think that we were working on some sort of construction project out back. Perhaps preparing the ground for a one-acre patio or something. That's how bad it's getting.
But Bruce and I are live-and-let-live people. We want Armando to go away, but we don't want to harm him. We have realized that Armando is very elusive and impossible to trap. Bruce has only seen him a couple of times, because Armando is never around when we're in the yard at night. Even when we sneak out under the moonlight to see if we can spot him, Armando manages to slip away.
Bruce says that Armando is big. So big that you could ride him. He is the master of trickery, and he just might be the king of armadillos everywhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)