tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47084957684932688602024-02-20T20:26:52.167-05:00What Fresh Hell Is This?Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-65586676623238529102018-07-27T12:18:00.001-04:002018-07-27T12:18:19.473-04:00Mr. Kim blogs: Another Sign of the Coming Zombie Apocalypse<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I learned that a piece of my childhood died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not just my childhood, but yours too, and our
grandparents’, and also their grandparents’ childhoods if they were lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, I read that the New England
Confectionery Company has closed its doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since 1847, this small factory in Revere, Massachusetts has produced
such goodies as Clark Bars, Mary Janes, and those Sweetheart conversation
hearts you got for Valentines Day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
yes, they made Necco Wafers, from the very beginning, two decades before the Civil
War. NECCO was in financial distress and was recently sold to another candy company, which subsequentlly announced that it was immediately shutting down the old NECCO product lines. Not with a bang, but a whimper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You remember Neccos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those rolls of chalky brittle disks in eight dusty colors?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lemon, lime, clove, cinnamon, licorice,
chocolate, wintergreen, orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You probably thought they'd been gone for years. An </span>article I read several months ago discussed the company's troubles, and speaking about the candy itself the article wagged that 50% of the country thought Neccos were the worst candy ever made, even fouler than circus peanuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other 50% of the country thought they were even worse than that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>But regardless of when you last slipped one
onto your tongue (Catholic kids used to pretend they were communion wafers,
admit it) you have to agree that the company’s fall into oblivion is a minor
tragedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another piece of Americana that
no one will remember in a few years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And all that completely ignores the fact that there are a
lot of folks like me out there who really LIKE these bite sized treats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They pack a lot of flavor, you can share
them with your bride, you can eat them in bed without a mess, and if you leave them on your
desk at work NO ONE is going to steal them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How excited I was as a kid to buy a roll for a nickel up at the corner, and try to make that roll
stretch for more than a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Who am I
kidding, I couldn’t stretch them for more than an hour back then.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The special consideration of which end was
the best one to open, usually driven by how close to the end I could spy a
purple one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The care taken to have a hand at the ready beneath, just in case
the end ones were broken, which happens at least half the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are delicate little buggers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The examination of the “dust” on the candy
(the corn starch that keeps them from sticking together, and makes some people believe they are "old" no matter how fresh they are) and the NECCO imprint on each wafer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eating the first one, trying to hold it in my
mouth forever before surrendering five seconds later and crunching down on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reaching for the next one, almost inevitably
a white one for some reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, a Necco didn’t have gooey sea salt caramel or handcrafted chocolate, it didn’t have sour pucker powder, it
didn’t pretend to be some nasty nasal excretion designed to gross out parents and
guarantee sales to 10 year old boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was just a simple candy, with honest flavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Neccos were just plain enjoyable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
They were summers reading Tolkien and chilly high school football evenings in the bleachers and </span>a self-provided reward after delivering the last newspaper of the day. Unless you were among the unenlightened 50% who hated them or the 50% who despised them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know the facts of business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> W</span>hen the news of the financial troubles hit, I
stopped at the mega-drug store and bought a few rolls. As I put them on the counter and answered the pimply clerk's puzzled expression as to why I wanted all six rolls, he just shrugged and said “No one eats these.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Marketing genius, that one.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
no company, no matter its august history can survive without some indication that
profits are on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, this
little bit of life’s passing makes me melancholy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps one day, when Antiques Road Show is in its 80<sup>th</sup>
season in the mid 2070’s, some young child from Martian Colony 4 will produce a
dusty roll found in his grandfather’s airtight storage bin next to the old baseball cards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the appraiser will have to explain the mystery of why
the candy was ever made and chuckle that the taste and condition of the candy is largely unchanged
from when it was made a century earlier, but that due to the condition of the
wrapper it is only worth $10000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I am
here at that point, I’ll buy it from that kid – Neccos are certainly worth a
lot more than that.</div>
Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-25085727164433424022018-06-23T23:39:00.001-04:002018-06-23T23:45:08.938-04:00Mr. Kim blogs: musing<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwA1zyABP1r8bEm0VldmkdiTagztj4KVj4xm35yConyE4AuUKFfDDwRYDgWsJ79jR-cLmFc3l3nNH4BssEuReuOL-yFeDInX_iXb4sE1KjBWmBdJQnLPZ5W8swsXA167QCN85iWDqg6Vk/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwA1zyABP1r8bEm0VldmkdiTagztj4KVj4xm35yConyE4AuUKFfDDwRYDgWsJ79jR-cLmFc3l3nNH4BssEuReuOL-yFeDInX_iXb4sE1KjBWmBdJQnLPZ5W8swsXA167QCN85iWDqg6Vk/s320/blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the dining room, I hear the strains of All You Need Is
Love by the Beatles, streaming out of Alexa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And just barely audible from here, I hear Kim’s sub-alto singing along.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s struggling so badly with the horrible abuse she
receives from her mom’s dementia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
splits her time between visiting her mom daily at the rehab center and packing her apartment
up for her mom's release from medical care and her subsequent move into our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kim is (unnecessarily) fearing how I will react to her mom’s permanent presence, and she is deeply questioning her own ability to deal with a mentally ill
mom in the same house. Earlier today she went from talking gently in an effort to calm her mom in an early call to crying after a later call to hollering to defend
herself, trying to hold her own in the umpteenth phone conversation with
her mom. Kim feels panicked, her mom feels betrayed. The offense each finds in the other is both dreadful and reasonable from each other's perspective.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later on, Kim was a little more settled making brownies for
church tomorrow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was like my lady
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But listening to her singing in the next room, forgetting
she wasn’t alone in the house, she sounded…. No, not happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But care free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just for a moment she had forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank God, she had one moment without the
pressures of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For that moment, I knew Kim had a bit of relief. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All you need is love.<br />
<br />
Thank God for moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-12497376629763873312017-08-28T22:53:00.000-04:002017-08-28T22:53:07.083-04:00Mr. Kim blogs: something prettySomeone very special has a birthday Wednesday. I do not often get a chance to tell her how much impact she has had on us. And I had no idea what to send or say to appropriately honor her. So after some thought I decided just to post something beautiful, to celebrate the joy she brings. So here is last year's autumn's beauty, grace, subtlety, charm, and wonder.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday, milady. You are loved.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHw9KOuQZPiLVpTa1MqkEZrrjoG3bEqj_5dJL5iqq4a02a6Lb3h-N3rkr61nDvwwK_R8Gj527r7MlF5X32N47qJKbZzLbxVk2SCSBQDXZAz7YmNgHF0GIBEHS6SdPE2Px0yBwNNFFcVJM/s1600/20161018_172025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHw9KOuQZPiLVpTa1MqkEZrrjoG3bEqj_5dJL5iqq4a02a6Lb3h-N3rkr61nDvwwK_R8Gj527r7MlF5X32N47qJKbZzLbxVk2SCSBQDXZAz7YmNgHF0GIBEHS6SdPE2Px0yBwNNFFcVJM/s320/20161018_172025.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-57298076165272591792016-07-08T10:14:00.000-04:002016-07-08T10:14:18.193-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 6th Day – 6/16/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The motif of the day turned out to be “British people in
Memphis”. It was truly odd. Our first encounter of the day was at
breakfast. Our other meals in Memphis
had been at extremely modest places – little cafes and absolute dives. We’d run out of pre-researched places for
breakfast and just Googled “best breakfast in Memphis”. A number of articles recommended
Paulette’s. It is a lovely little place
in the riverside planned community of Harbor Town (which is where I’d live if I
lived in Memphis and had lots of money).
The restaurant is attached to the lovely looking River Inn (where I’d
stay next time, if I had a lot of money). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It is definitely swanky:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And the food was great!
A nice touch – bread basket on the table before you even order:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I had French toast, which was prefect:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I am extremely picky about French toast. I don’t like it really custardy inside – it
just feels like uncooked eggs to me. I
like it crisp on the outside and cakey on the inside. And that’s exactly what this was like. But I only ate one piece. Because that sausage was phenomenal. I am often bowled over by the quality of link
sausage that some restaurants manage to get.
It is usually fatter than the links that I find at grocery stores and so
much tastier. Wish I could find out
where it comes from.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mr. Kim started with Irish oatmeal topped with fruit and
nuts:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And ended with Eggs Benedict w/ country ham:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">…with just the right amount of oozy yolk goodness!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At the table next to us were two ladies. We exchanged the usual nods and somehow got
to talking. I detected English accents
and asked where they were from. Turns
out that they are sisters – one lives in Philadelphia and the other in
London. Ms. London was visiting her
sister and they were touring Tennessee.
I have this reverse prejudice when meeting Europeans in the US. I always wonder why they are here when they
have all of Europe at their door step? I
know. Anyway, they were absolutely
loving Memphis and asked if we’d been to Graceland. We had to confess that we hadn’t actually
toured it, but only hung over the gates to take pictures like trashy
paparazzi. They raved about it. (???)
In our subsequent conversation, it turned out that Ms. London had
friends who live in Beer in England.
This is the little village that my Aunt Mary lives in. Less than 2000 people live there, and here I
found another soul with a connection, 1000 miles from my home and 5000 from her
own. How random is THAT? Anyway, they were delightful ladies and I was
so glad to have met a couple of British ladies in Memphis, Tennessee, of all
places. Little was I to know…(moire non,
as my friend Rachel says).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Inside Harbor Town is a wonderful little grocery named Miss
Cordelia’s. How lucky these folks are to
have such a place within walking distance.
Harbor Town is really fantastic – good restaurants, a well-stocked
grocery and the Mississippi River at their front door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">After breakfast we walked across to the river for a postprandial stroll. </span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A nice man agreed to take our picture:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv5VeiYQ7oZTYmlu-A-1QeqLv5JDoMR4QoO3aUQxplG85fFDAvqQr88czzY9NJJqzShmccIXeBMcvsWXmWDsOZ81nKhUocgDNVzVIsWvuqmUgVVT6Cjb4R6aCxv5GG3_JDAmZk1dsWL0/s1600/DSCN2272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv5VeiYQ7oZTYmlu-A-1QeqLv5JDoMR4QoO3aUQxplG85fFDAvqQr88czzY9NJJqzShmccIXeBMcvsWXmWDsOZ81nKhUocgDNVzVIsWvuqmUgVVT6Cjb4R6aCxv5GG3_JDAmZk1dsWL0/s320/DSCN2272.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">(Once again, I forgot to remove my glasses!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Since this was our last day (half day, really) in Memphis,
we spent the rest of it driving around and visiting one more special place. This is the Memphis Pyramid:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It is incredibly huge – 321 feet tall and the sides at 591
feet long at the base. It was built as
an arena, but is now used as a Bass Pro Shop (yep) and houses retail, a hotel,
restaurants, a bowling alley, an archery range and has outdoor observation decks. Crazy.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Our last real stop in Memphis was someplace very special:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sun Studios – where Elvis recorded his very first song. (See – we didn’t entirely ignore The
King.) And where people like Johnny
Cash, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis, among others have recorded
over the years. It is a remarkable place
and lots of fun and we took LOTS of pictures.
Sun is where our second bizarre British-related experience happened. When you walk into the studios, there is no
lobby or front desk. You walk right into
what looks like a gift shop/soda shop:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">…because that is what it is.
There are dozens of people milling around – waiting for their tour to
start, shopping, having a soda and sitting at the few tables. Including us – Mr. Kim had bought our tickets
and we had a while to wait. And all
around me, to the exclusion of any other are English accents. Every single person that I could hear talking
was speaking with an English accent. I
was feeling deeply perplexed. We sat down
at an empty table and a couple of folks asked if they could join us. They, too, had The Accent. So, of course, I asked where they were from
and if they were with rest of the group.
Turned out that they were a father and daughter, also from England. She lives in Liverpool and he in either
Norwich (town) or Norfolk (county). They
were NOT with the group (which turned out to be another bunch of Brits on a bus
tour of the US), but did ask us if we’d been to Graceland and raved about
it. They were really lovely folks and
told us a bit about their past as musicians.
He’d been in a rock band years ago that toured in the States and she had
actually performed at the Blue Bird Café, a famous Memphis venue. They were very interested in our trip to
England in 2011, but sadly did NOT know my Aunt Mary in Beer (lol). These were the last Brits that we ran into in
Memphis. It was wonderful and peculiar,
all at once!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Back to the studio tour!
It was a great tour – lots of wonderful stories and fantastic music. Our guide Jason was an enthusiastic and
personable young man who really communicated his passion for the place and its
history. We got to see the broadcast studio of the WHBQ radio station (it had been disassembled and moved here to Sun)
where disc jockey Dewey Phillips played Elvis’ first real record “That’s All
Right” and basically ‘broke the internet’.
He got such a huge call in response that he played it repeatedly for 2
hours:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Lots of wonderful memorabilia:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We also got to see the actual studio where all the magic
happened:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLB0_2pU2sOAyPa3YGoWj-Nqy4laPYJdAlXDJxmHzzU4-7RaADJ95cKGXKymOuVGuo2FdNJxQTLl_iYig8muR9-o6CRuMOj5tExSQYm2rFVMM2aOTpZkqEUqlyLtyfhFp-UE5j9Oj6k4Y/s1600/DSCN2304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLB0_2pU2sOAyPa3YGoWj-Nqy4laPYJdAlXDJxmHzzU4-7RaADJ95cKGXKymOuVGuo2FdNJxQTLl_iYig8muR9-o6CRuMOj5tExSQYm2rFVMM2aOTpZkqEUqlyLtyfhFp-UE5j9Oj6k4Y/s320/DSCN2304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">…and, as we were astonished to discover, is STILL
happening. Sun Studios isn’t just a
museum, it is an active recording studio.
When the tourists clear out, the artists arrive and jam sessions
start. There are podcasts available
online (just Google ‘Sun Studio podcasts”) to hear some of these. I hadn’t heard of many of these folks, but
then there are the big guys who come here to record for sentiments’ sake,
apparently. They include U2, John
Mellencamp and Chris Isaak. We got some
good pictures (some I digitized in black and white for effect):</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is a picture of the so-called ‘Million Dollar Quartet”:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This impromptu jam session took place in December of 1956
and included Elvis, Jerry Lee, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash. Can you imagine? Gives me shivers! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They give you the opportunity to ‘sing’ into the
(reportedly) actual microphone used by Elvis and others. Mr. Kim couldn’t resist:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Another cool sign down the street from the studio:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’m thinking of printing out all the cool signs and doing a
collage. Our next stop was The Cake
Gallery that The Child had found for us.
Gorgeous and delicious cakes:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This was the best we tasted!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">On our way out of town we drove through Aunt Mildred’s old
neighborhood and the cool Cooper-Young area.
Couldn’t resist this sign:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Pizza Pies”. Is
there anywhere other than the South where they still refer to it as ‘pie’? Also this great train trestle decoration:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We had lunch at The Pancake Shop. You will laugh at our reaction to lunch. We certainly did. After days of eating rich, fatty, heavy foods,
we just wanted simple and plain. And
cold. No hot food for us that day. We both started with the same delectable
salads:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Iceberg, shredded cheese, tomatoes, bleu cheese dressing and
saltines on the side. It was
fabulous. We were moaning and
groaning. So perfect. Mr. Kim had a wonderful ham club:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That’s REAL ham. Not
deli – cut off the bone ham. Tennessee
ham. I had the simplest thing on the
menu – tuna salad on rye:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">With ooky battered onion rings. I should have asked. I don’t like battered rings, only crumb or
flour coated rings (which are getting harder and harder to find). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We have no more pictures from this day. And no more stories, either. We spent the rest of the day in the car
traveling through Tennessee on our way to a quick visit to see my grandmother
in Reidsville NC. But, as always, we had
a great time. I’m a big car-trip
girl. I know lots of people have
horrible memories of family car trips and comedians make a living off their
memories of them, but I’ve always loved them.
I can remember our drives to NC to visit my grandparents or frequent
trips to Ocean City MD or Chincoteague VA for vacations. This was, of course, long before cell phones
or sometimes even good strong radio signals.
We’d sing and talk and laugh and discuss things. Ted taught me “I’ve Got a Loverly Bunch of
Coconuts” and “Knees Up, Mother Brown” on those trips. I tortured him with grape-flavored Big Buddy
bubble gum (he detested the odor). We
all tortured Momma with disgusting talk about gross stuff. And these days, even with cell phones and
Satellite radio, I still love road trips.
They are concentrated time just for us.
As a family, we have our best talks, we laugh hysterically at stuff that
only WE find funny and, with Jessica and me at least, something bizarre always
seems to happen. For instance, while we
don’t spend a lot of time in high-crime areas, she and I have seen MULTIPLE
arrests. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So our haul from Memphis to Bristol was long, but fun!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-69111517118307162932016-07-07T10:40:00.001-04:002016-07-07T18:39:29.670-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 5th Day – 6/15/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YhK5hR7AURFqHFQPE20f0V1Uxy-TOpN1RtIcmB5HCYd0_Ex1UefySXrD6tFoRp8flodbcEI8h6t_mw2eesrOsZp9gswXEbZHWq0-brCJWXTJ0o6j7upRZUAwI-YNI135UlH78n2FMFk/s1600/dr+king.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YhK5hR7AURFqHFQPE20f0V1Uxy-TOpN1RtIcmB5HCYd0_Ex1UefySXrD6tFoRp8flodbcEI8h6t_mw2eesrOsZp9gswXEbZHWq0-brCJWXTJ0o6j7upRZUAwI-YNI135UlH78n2FMFk/s320/dr+king.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This was a bit of a somber day, but one I wouldn’t have
missed for anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We started off by trying to go to Roxie Grocery, a breakfast
spot that was recommended to us by The Child. But it
was padlocked and clearly not opening any time soon. So we ended up going back to The Cupboard for
a delicious breakfast. It’s funny – I
almost never eat breakfast at home. I am
usually just not in the mood. But on
vacation, I always want breakfast – a big one with eggs, pig-something, grits
and biscuits! Even at the beach, where
it’s hot and you’d think all I’d want is maybe fruit and toast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The majority of our day was spent at the National Civil
Rights Museum at the Lorraine Motel. The
Lorraine Motel is the place where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated
in 1968, just 2 months before Bobby Kennedy.
I remember that terrible year and those events even though I was only
9. We lived in Alexandria, VA, just
outside of Washington, DC. The day after
Dr. King was killed the riots started in Washington. I remember my mother calling from work that
afternoon and saying that she might be late because of the ‘trouble’. She didn’t have a car and the bus system was
disrupted. I think she ended up getting
a ride home from someone, but she was still late. I was so frightened and confused. My mom, unlike the rest of her family, was a
Democrat and pretty liberal and that was how she was raising me. I knew about the problems that our country
faced with regards to race (at least as much as a child could) and I knew about
Dr. King. I was too young to remember
the March on Washington, but knew about and was stirred by his “I have a dream”
speech. I knew about non-violence and
couldn’t understand why people were being violent when they were sad about Dr.
King. I was much too young to understand
frustration and what years of being mistreated and oppressed can do to a person. As an adult, I can conceive it, but, being
white, I can’t really KNOW it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years later, in high school, I did a year-long term paper on
Three Pacifist Leaders in History: Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi and Martin
Luther King, Jr. I really researched, for
the first time, the history of race in America and the miracle of Dr. King and
the Civil Rights movement. It opened my
eyes and broke my heart, both that people could be so cruel to their fellow man
and that Dr. King and the non-violence movement could exist in the midst of so
much hate. I learned of recent lynchings
(and for the first time, realized the meaning of the song “Strange Fruit”), of
the Ku Klux Klan (which I had thought was pretty much moribund) and of what
could be accomplished when people got together and said “this must stop”. I was astounded by the courage of the people
in the movement. And by the courage of
Dr. King, who knew he was a target and even spoke about not being here for the
journey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I should say that there are two periods of history that
disturb me to the point that I avoid reading about them or watching movies or
TV programs about them. Those are the
Holocaust and the years leading up to the Civil Rights movement. Even thinking about these times causes
extreme anxiety and so, childishly, I tend to evade them. I haven’t seen the Holocaust museum in
Washington yet, even though it has been open since 1993 and I’ve been up there
numerous times. I haven’t even been to
the one in Richmond VA – WHERE I LIVE.
So, as you can imagine, going to the Civil Rights museum, the actual
spot where one of my heroes was killed was not high on my vacation wish
list. But I knew that I needed to go,
that it was an important place – both historically and to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before we even got to the museum, we sighted this Historical
Marker nearby. It set the somber tone:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XowKdT-tDx2t7ls6V1mzvA8Y631b8JD7CYzD72U4Lv0hkv-aYp354CyLF5FzOHV8O1lwCEL1DJBBbRsaAgKjyjRkKNQBiDw5BjAb8eBYuKTfjRDU0X8X496uYM9-5LGJo1qj85T8Ge0/s1600/DSCN5914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XowKdT-tDx2t7ls6V1mzvA8Y631b8JD7CYzD72U4Lv0hkv-aYp354CyLF5FzOHV8O1lwCEL1DJBBbRsaAgKjyjRkKNQBiDw5BjAb8eBYuKTfjRDU0X8X496uYM9-5LGJo1qj85T8Ge0/s320/DSCN5914.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If the day before I’d wandered through Stax with a smile on
my face, this day I walked through the museum clutching a tissue with tears
running down my face. Mr. Kim and I hardly
spoke to one another – we each went at our own pace and came together
occasionally. And we took hardly any
pictures. <i> Neither did anyone else. I snapped one in the first gallery, but the
tone and mood of the place quickly penetrated.
Taking pictures here would be as appropriate as taking them at a
funeral. </i>This is the sign at the
motel and a picture of the motel balcony with a permanent wreath:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97al5QFDEt_d8X8CLUUSv9H7Hn47h3FqciCnbRyJQvZ_d08pP-NKqrAguttpZzTJJIi8j3bFiUxZ7sAKdSw8hBfMc1uzb9EWzRyy0tnc4353jQErTD_5_kAK8V4a-aLjQYR6SzPBNAZs/s1600/DSCN5915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97al5QFDEt_d8X8CLUUSv9H7Hn47h3FqciCnbRyJQvZ_d08pP-NKqrAguttpZzTJJIi8j3bFiUxZ7sAKdSw8hBfMc1uzb9EWzRyy0tnc4353jQErTD_5_kAK8V4a-aLjQYR6SzPBNAZs/s320/DSCN5915.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOhEJ4VEaKxmjs6Jxnrou-LA6uLlNTR2pokfldCusLiiCtIcWIpNnF-fEQPM-UvsmMm9r3S9ZmlrqgkRvl2EoMeTTiP7d95qNTT13g7Yym0mt1R4UCF7ucEMMPER0bT9KvwUnoorBXVE/s1600/DSCN5916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOhEJ4VEaKxmjs6Jxnrou-LA6uLlNTR2pokfldCusLiiCtIcWIpNnF-fEQPM-UvsmMm9r3S9ZmlrqgkRvl2EoMeTTiP7d95qNTT13g7Yym0mt1R4UCF7ucEMMPER0bT9KvwUnoorBXVE/s320/DSCN5916.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can’t see that balcony without seeing the image of
everyone one it pointing to where the shot had come from and Dr. King crumpled
on the cement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The museum is truly a wonder and a national treasure. The museum encompasses the motel, including a
glassed in walk-through of his actual room set up how it must have looked that
evening. Attached to that is the real
‘museum’ part with incredible exhibits spanning the history of
African-Americans and the civil rights struggle in this country. Starting in Africa and going up through the
present day, including human trafficking and child labor and female rights
suppression across the world. To say
that it is complete and awe inspiring is not enough. Nothing that I could say would explain the
impact of it. Every single person in the
US should tour it and experience it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The other part of the complex includes the rooming house
where the fatal shot came from. This
building is filled with exhibits detailing the search for the shooter and
subsequent investigations. Seeing that
room, set up to look exactly like it looked the day that James Earl Ray aimed
at Dr. King is heartrending. The evil
that people are willing to do from fear and prejudice is horrifying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">It takes about four
hours to really walk through it and look at everything. Think of that – there was so much to see and
read and experience within the confines of a small motel’s shell. It was exceptionally well planned out,
neither preachy nor incendiary, though this could easily have been either. The museum ends as many do – with a path
through the gift shop. As with the
photos, I couldn’t see profaning the place by walking out with an MLK I have a
dream t-shirt or a wall plaque of a burned out bus. We did buy an illustrated book on the museum
itself for later viewing. Most everyone
was somber and reflective after the walk-through.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then we went to dinner.
It is a little ridiculous how quickly the mundane follows the profound,
huh? But that’s the way life works. Dr. King’s motel room had newspapers strewn
around, half-filled coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays. A life to get back to when he stepped back
into his room. Except he didn’t – and
life changed for so many. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dinner was at Payne’s BBQ:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcAfvlUkz3GJ1fmi7Osn4d5pjYxTJQmweISzzIVXmfYrA9RazFO3DoeLksrx6zfkTcQ3Ok6xz0H4TU5ucxA66kHXpMT9_x1l5W8bJp41YBnN5iXURa4HPxtWFQcK3nqo4de5j72mdH3s/s1600/DSCN2241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcAfvlUkz3GJ1fmi7Osn4d5pjYxTJQmweISzzIVXmfYrA9RazFO3DoeLksrx6zfkTcQ3Ok6xz0H4TU5ucxA66kHXpMT9_x1l5W8bJp41YBnN5iXURa4HPxtWFQcK3nqo4de5j72mdH3s/s320/DSCN2241.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This place was highly recommended by the folks at
Chowhound.com. Just a neighborhood joint
like so many of the places that we went to.
These places are the kind that the South abounds in. Little places that seem to be hardly worth a
glance, a bit shabby and in sketchy neighborhoods. But if you take a chance, you are likely to
find something truly special. We
certainly did at Cozy Corner and we did again this day at Payne’s. “Where’s my BBQ?”:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I had to try the tamale:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I grew up eating canned Hormel tamales. Everyone in my mom’s family ate them. I didn’t know anyone else that liked them, or
even knew what they were. My mother’s family
only. This made no sense to me – we were
of Italian extraction and they all were brought up in the South – the
Mississippi Delta region, NOT Texas or Arizona.
When I grew up and started learning about food and food culture, I
finally put it together. Tamales are a
HUGE thing in the Delta. There are lots
of theories as to why, but it seems that tamales have been part of the Delta
food culture since at least the 1920’s.
The Delta includes towns like Clarksdale, Rosedale and Shelby - towns
that I grew up hearing about. THEN I got
it. Turns out that those canned ones are
a little mild. This tamale was a LOT
meatier and a good bit spicier than the canned ones. It was delicious, but I couldn’t finish
it! We also went for a chopped sandwich
and ribs:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The sauce was fantastic. <i> Almost as good as Cozy Corner’s.</i> And the mustard slaw is one of our favorites,
too. We discovered mustard slaw at a
little cement block box of a place somewhere in NC and fell in love. It is the perfect BBQ slaw. The ribs were gorgeous – meaty, fatty and
porky! That is a half portion! We were still eating it when we got home
(NEVER travel without a cooler!). We
found these cookies at Payne’s and also at a little corner store we stopped at
for drinks:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVGsrqTXoWwGvXLw9K_qdG7WvjnFBmxAPFBtX_K5RXISMqyziUKR6EZvSwVuuM4bbJJF1IIiKEr6Ep0n6jzIDHy20V-4mhL2C8dbR4vMVAZy-WcQ0HbaexiOwcIHQOWprd-YTccMQ2Duo/s1600/DSCN2244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVGsrqTXoWwGvXLw9K_qdG7WvjnFBmxAPFBtX_K5RXISMqyziUKR6EZvSwVuuM4bbJJF1IIiKEr6Ep0n6jzIDHy20V-4mhL2C8dbR4vMVAZy-WcQ0HbaexiOwcIHQOWprd-YTccMQ2Duo/s320/DSCN2244.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I wish I’d bought a case.
I figured if they were made by somebody’s momma, they’d be good. Check out that ingredient list: flour, sugar,
butter, vanilla and baking soda. They
were the perfect, simple cookie – deep butter and vanilla flavor and
crisp! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">We made one more stop,
this time in downtown at the Cake Gallery.
Kim was doing her pre-shopping to plan on what we would come back for as
we were leaving town. This boutique
appears to serve sandwiches and light lunches (we were not there at the right
time for this) and delightful layer cakes in interesting flavors. Kim made mental notes on what to buy later,
and picked up some cookies for our long drive back to the hotel in Arkansas
(about 5 miles away.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Back to the hotel to organize and pack up. We are sorry to leave Memphis – we truly fell
in love with the city and hope we get to come back sometime!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-51150841652470267222016-06-30T16:36:00.000-04:002016-06-30T16:36:02.135-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 4th Day – 6/14/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_HAYoDBduXpwLPTla57Lqjw6Gf-ELfgTb-MfIb2z_d0PSpIDJX2FvPfmNxi7w_wJMkp-jaDREmk7mH-zDsH2H7K6x-wjjynmVf3wru9uHbHkgVtGmbtJwV2sGwEp9F-l5vz3jF_2s5A/s1600/DSCN2209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_HAYoDBduXpwLPTla57Lqjw6Gf-ELfgTb-MfIb2z_d0PSpIDJX2FvPfmNxi7w_wJMkp-jaDREmk7mH-zDsH2H7K6x-wjjynmVf3wru9uHbHkgVtGmbtJwV2sGwEp9F-l5vz3jF_2s5A/s320/DSCN2209.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Breakfast at the Arcade Restaurant:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The oldest café in Memphis – established in 1919:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gorgeous breakfasts:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4wno8Z7Reb_If_NdA3zAXqO_9jH1Pj7GZrRyueywmPd_wbPiTd8RQZRGgvwjX06IaSdVQkwIS9gN9AArAIjmZPi_kZnwrvwYALxApTcLxUhoi0eZO7m-YboFQyTf5ACG_wntFjunfqI/s1600/DSCN2146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4wno8Z7Reb_If_NdA3zAXqO_9jH1Pj7GZrRyueywmPd_wbPiTd8RQZRGgvwjX06IaSdVQkwIS9gN9AArAIjmZPi_kZnwrvwYALxApTcLxUhoi0eZO7m-YboFQyTf5ACG_wntFjunfqI/s320/DSCN2146.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Those are their famous pumpkin pancakes. Despite being in the South, the hash browns
were delicious! And yet more grits:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhia8A1AIklppBYGUWU5mirpoHzBJ1HGdJrqdnEyV4nWSk0NsWzmyjRUGfSsqEnhQYEdNzjikra9yoaEUOv6yUinnnBvOGiYbvknognBv7rnUcSH-trN99hcJt6lDTiAKXsBIHIK1esd2c/s1600/DSCN2147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhia8A1AIklppBYGUWU5mirpoHzBJ1HGdJrqdnEyV4nWSk0NsWzmyjRUGfSsqEnhQYEdNzjikra9yoaEUOv6yUinnnBvOGiYbvknognBv7rnUcSH-trN99hcJt6lDTiAKXsBIHIK1esd2c/s320/DSCN2147.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Just across the street is Central Station:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uWmJ1f9UkSCOY_LiNdAMIlTTVmjhbFxtPtSguAQoGv4sp_Hr5TAZsXWoX3ISBblQLldKk9AN6AbKU2FjLyW490i8IT31I6zBGcVC7WZ-LhmhyT0t1abtREEeaxCl7b0nbXCtPBFW8t4/s1600/DSCN2136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uWmJ1f9UkSCOY_LiNdAMIlTTVmjhbFxtPtSguAQoGv4sp_Hr5TAZsXWoX3ISBblQLldKk9AN6AbKU2FjLyW490i8IT31I6zBGcVC7WZ-LhmhyT0t1abtREEeaxCl7b0nbXCtPBFW8t4/s320/DSCN2136.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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It was built in 1914 and for years WAS the central train
station for Memphis. It now houses
meeting rooms, a ballroom, condos and it still serves as an Amtrak station. <i>This
whole area seemed on the verge of a come back of sorts. Like so many other areas of Memphis I
guess. To be more accurate, many areas
seem to be in transition, but it is unclear which are going in which direction. Next door to Arcade is a combination
Cheesecake restaurant and wine bar. But
across the street was a boarded up building.
Every neighborhood had several (or many) boarded up houses, frequently
right next to a well-kept house with well-manicured lawn and a well-attended
birdhouse. And no one seemed to find it
strange that this is the case.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p> </div>
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Our next destination was the house that Bomo (my maternal
grandmother) lived in when Momma was born.
She was staying with her parents while Granddaddy was working in
Dallas. I know that house existed
recently, because I found a picture on Google Maps:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4gExs-VMWeJyE9WeNQmfwcH9vGbb55F6BZKxGARf-FiOzu6VmeDes2m5UvZ_1QHnSl9IF7LU8NWUEZ7ZOEEk7n2xnFKedMndmj46lQK-ACzmgna8h6nsuXAMdKYFZdBCLTTxOgHdYQY/s1600/momma+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4gExs-VMWeJyE9WeNQmfwcH9vGbb55F6BZKxGARf-FiOzu6VmeDes2m5UvZ_1QHnSl9IF7LU8NWUEZ7ZOEEk7n2xnFKedMndmj46lQK-ACzmgna8h6nsuXAMdKYFZdBCLTTxOgHdYQY/s1600/momma+house.jpg" /></a></div>
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It is pretty sorry looking – all boarded up, but I thought
it would nice to get a picture anyway.
Sadly there is nothing but an empty lot where it once stood. When I saw this, I was doubly glad that Aunt
Mildred’s old neighborhood is so nice – that’s the house that Momma remembers,
after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our next visit was the historic Elmwood Cemetery:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTb4jYpFDAkxAgZcBxeOUL9BA2xeMpMElQ9jeVWOK4a26sEzkZ1eDqMbbj65ivxnc411kFUiGO2ElXpVjL3VqMFxqg0gk0yGICSJHXmgHTHCKc7nAFlOKKjF5IENB5c7yAYk75StpEfM/s1600/DSCN2207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTb4jYpFDAkxAgZcBxeOUL9BA2xeMpMElQ9jeVWOK4a26sEzkZ1eDqMbbj65ivxnc411kFUiGO2ElXpVjL3VqMFxqg0gk0yGICSJHXmgHTHCKc7nAFlOKKjF5IENB5c7yAYk75StpEfM/s320/DSCN2207.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We love old cemeteries and can wander in them for
hours. We find them fascinating and
poignant. Elmwood Cemetery was founded
in 1852. Buried here are senators,
victims of the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1878, a lot of Confederate soldiers, a
mess of Masons, Shelby Foote and others.
From the website: “<span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Elmwood Cemetery has become
the final resting place to over 75,000 inhabitants including mayors, governors,
madams, blues singers, suffragists, martyrs, generals, civil rights leaders,
holy men and women, outlaws and millionaires.”
</span>The two buildings on the grounds are really lovely. This is the Phillips Cottage – the visitor
center and office and was built in 1866:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVgGgXhGQdisyCdtzbVC9BahdWRfO8Ay7CzzgU0Y6fUmY6FxPUHGaIMk6mpR0vkmbAp_wDQ8D_iHu6MrJD2eD2zXyb2dA1JjO6xuZHi9Iq_8EOjbQjOgz1DYUg_D7lyrpgVaDaXumwZA/s1600/DSCN2156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVgGgXhGQdisyCdtzbVC9BahdWRfO8Ay7CzzgU0Y6fUmY6FxPUHGaIMk6mpR0vkmbAp_wDQ8D_iHu6MrJD2eD2zXyb2dA1JjO6xuZHi9Iq_8EOjbQjOgz1DYUg_D7lyrpgVaDaXumwZA/s320/DSCN2156.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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More was added on periodically, but additions were done very
well and it is hard to see where the old leaves off and the newer begins. It is surrounded by lovely gardens:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFfoVF9fge2eY5DFNO2niOJHBQCshk-jkZUOjxomnqgMVnLIQCMwXPe7vP-NNVpT-G-0PSSoEvJYtb4cLxfPQNE-fcJcee9Fzo8ZhcAaPaALqGsFFI8MpoMFgSNOQKGBl4IFJ9LhPOzs/s1600/DSCN2160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFfoVF9fge2eY5DFNO2niOJHBQCshk-jkZUOjxomnqgMVnLIQCMwXPe7vP-NNVpT-G-0PSSoEvJYtb4cLxfPQNE-fcJcee9Fzo8ZhcAaPaALqGsFFI8MpoMFgSNOQKGBl4IFJ9LhPOzs/s320/DSCN2160.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdStVFk8bUh-tVlWJHtV9xXUiy32uOIxOjcZkDJS46sZdoMYpk8KTqd159uJ8xcKACN8AoyzvXnSfI5REXBKV8LKBujRuqcax-f27mONn4pN7mE8uxYsHpms-V5jCaBwTrL70mRx4ON1Y/s1600/DSCN2163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdStVFk8bUh-tVlWJHtV9xXUiy32uOIxOjcZkDJS46sZdoMYpk8KTqd159uJ8xcKACN8AoyzvXnSfI5REXBKV8LKBujRuqcax-f27mONn4pN7mE8uxYsHpms-V5jCaBwTrL70mRx4ON1Y/s320/DSCN2163.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TJM7gmSBDc8AEovsq7KZwSAPaVD2PlvUxzayu6WVS9N4iRTCDD5W5RypNbzQQ-F3er1NQfgfkKfj5rfvgDqtvg_hyfnotaT5JKT6kcpJSOQZPwYTuWoeWyrX2Yc8nZJ-kk-AHUdmeNE/s1600/DSCN2165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TJM7gmSBDc8AEovsq7KZwSAPaVD2PlvUxzayu6WVS9N4iRTCDD5W5RypNbzQQ-F3er1NQfgfkKfj5rfvgDqtvg_hyfnotaT5JKT6kcpJSOQZPwYTuWoeWyrX2Yc8nZJ-kk-AHUdmeNE/s320/DSCN2165.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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The other structure is the Lord’s Chapel:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD73d0ivxaRijLHZoB22En0XdEUGHtyBeycXUsvPpLC5dgnaVA_o004PumxFDyU8UMG9U2XSZefskysk8k1nLiaEG_mHsX0OxBDBkl4lSkVvok4sgtIyx8QsidcuZA5qtEvQRpLywnAss/s1600/DSCN2164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD73d0ivxaRijLHZoB22En0XdEUGHtyBeycXUsvPpLC5dgnaVA_o004PumxFDyU8UMG9U2XSZefskysk8k1nLiaEG_mHsX0OxBDBkl4lSkVvok4sgtIyx8QsidcuZA5qtEvQRpLywnAss/s320/DSCN2164.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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It was built in 2005 and used for funerals, of course, but
also for weddings and birthday parties (!!!).<o:p></o:p></div>
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These markers were very odd, to us. We’d never seen anything like them and
neither has anyone else we’ve shown the pictures to:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOK1QAVIfTGNtFBLanvyG1aHHHSC8rznHfTVNzSAsTsnf4P8Y_70xGva1fDJaJ5qhBZoCw2es0TstU30OXJXLRuJA3UFO6HlCnZEd01aeFRSSSn15MnvnNqMKGGyhr_TAj8_7QBFPUwtk/s1600/DSCN2166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOK1QAVIfTGNtFBLanvyG1aHHHSC8rznHfTVNzSAsTsnf4P8Y_70xGva1fDJaJ5qhBZoCw2es0TstU30OXJXLRuJA3UFO6HlCnZEd01aeFRSSSn15MnvnNqMKGGyhr_TAj8_7QBFPUwtk/s320/DSCN2166.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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They look, for all the world, like big, stone bathtubs with
names and dates on the end tablets. Most
are very old and filled with plain dirt, like these. Some have scraggly plants or weeds. <i>Here is
another (one of many) grouping of them – this time six little babies:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwBoX-iytEpZ6FD4ZGXDMwOY9tAF0LSpm5dbwrZ_oKXUzXSaeB6e-xEgfAjymdZpJQ22pdYLQNFLKKJj5s4DO9EYHOJP4Fc_kyIwXuyGHEs904VE3piLWXEIpyvAtRdVSW28JoBaU8CM/s1600/DSCN5878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwBoX-iytEpZ6FD4ZGXDMwOY9tAF0LSpm5dbwrZ_oKXUzXSaeB6e-xEgfAjymdZpJQ22pdYLQNFLKKJj5s4DO9EYHOJP4Fc_kyIwXuyGHEs904VE3piLWXEIpyvAtRdVSW28JoBaU8CM/s320/DSCN5878.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
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We decided that they were originally meant for something – a
rose bush, lilac, etc. – to be planted in them.
But, sadly, no one seems to be caring for these anymore. That seems to be the way with graves. Unless the person buried is someone very
famous, keeping the graves seems to stop after a few generations. And, starting with my generation, people don’t
seem to care for graves much anyway. I
know that I don’t. I haven’t been back
to my mother’s family’s graves much at all.
I know that Momma sometimes takes flowers when she’s up in Northern
VA. I like the Jewish tradition of
placing stones/pebbles on graves. They
certainly last longer than flowers and are beautiful and meaningful. I sometimes take a cheap cigar and put it on
Granddaddy’s grave. Silly, but it means
something to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>There are whole
sections devoted to recent and long forgotten fraternal organizations. There is a whole field of Shriners, as well
as Odd fellows, Woodmen of the World, and a group of Irish immigrants who came
here and died shortly after arrival – these last graves being paid for by the
Hibernian Society I think I remember.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jULvzZpuB63M__Lxcs_fOP_gn475hpnmJNCLyBm1OvipdocUMivYs3C9aqVwwTfs-E0AoEMAz5HIapxbQUb4ENXPmPrYeh5Dg5IwIzzwrscawE6nBRrQTulC5KC2CCYSfd4Qlg0Bufk/s1600/DSCN5881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jULvzZpuB63M__Lxcs_fOP_gn475hpnmJNCLyBm1OvipdocUMivYs3C9aqVwwTfs-E0AoEMAz5HIapxbQUb4ENXPmPrYeh5Dg5IwIzzwrscawE6nBRrQTulC5KC2CCYSfd4Qlg0Bufk/s320/DSCN5881.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Then there was this
simple marker:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIxKAo1UPxuanA06tRXrrDHP5oxeKtnZWrOytHDW_jzG-F9zIZAZ1oiTs03L6dc45Zxn5BmJJ9O9TpHXggqObLzMhsW9bZSRbistluiV1cJnLrErlJbdooaPl39RW0prhesU9NgVQPSg/s1600/DSCN5879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIxKAo1UPxuanA06tRXrrDHP5oxeKtnZWrOytHDW_jzG-F9zIZAZ1oiTs03L6dc45Zxn5BmJJ9O9TpHXggqObLzMhsW9bZSRbistluiV1cJnLrErlJbdooaPl39RW0prhesU9NgVQPSg/s320/DSCN5879.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Someone who lived and
loved and was loved enough to have a simple marker after 52 years, but no real
name given. I have researched it, but
there is no famous Big Mama I can find in Memphis lore that fits these
dates. Touching and sad and blessed, all
at the same time.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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There is some lovely statuary at Elmwood:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I loved this lion:<o:p></o:p></div>
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He made me think of The Mourning Lion of Lucerne:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was a poignant one:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This young man, 5 days shy of his 20<sup>th</sup> birthday,
had a remarkable gravesite. Not because
it was large and costly (which it was – it covered an area large enough for at
least 8 gravesites and contained multiple memorials including a huge, artistic
bronze statue of an angel lifting ‘Max’ to heaven), but because of the quotations
that were on stone slabs on one side of the marker. These quotations were from Max himself and
included: “Sometimes the cube won’t fit into the circle-shaped hole. Sometimes life throws a rock at you and you
have to roll with it. It’s ok to go
through with difficult things. Do so
with courage, curiosity and wonder.
Isn’t life wonderful? No one said
it would be easy, but who wants it to be?
The great part is that while the journey is at times difficult,
literally anything is possible. The sun
and the moon will do your bidding. Cast
the mountain into the sea.” Also, “I
want to find some place that I can serve.”
And, “Freedom is a state of mind, inherent and inalienable. Freedom is a choice to love rather than to
fear. Freedom is a power to know
oneself, to understand that the body is enslaved, to recognize that the mind,
soul and spirit are and always will be completely free.” I just found this young man’s maturity and
thinking amazing and inspiring. . <i>I think
many people wax philosophical as they approach death, and I assumed that Max
had some terrible disease that made him think about these things. But his death was sudden and unexpected. So much philosophy and clarity of thought in
a teenager. What an adult leader he may
have been!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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More interesting things:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>This one above looks
too much like a hobbit hole to be taken seriously.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And there were
curiosities out of history as well. This
photo is of the final resting place of Sarah Jane Hughes, aged 35. It also may or may not be the final resting
place of her husband John, who was born in 1830 and according to the marker is
still walking this earth:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChO8El2DPm-z9sqE3CZn7uXN23WFCF6b6EMBHfFSnvn3HCeNb-tPsAqIErzLxAiwGd6XLSCOOw65TOwkWHmEeeVP9A_3zIaj7IdJgdaDdnzTUvdPQsAfibKiilfK1CuvXhMe91jp_Mjs/s1600/DSCN2170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChO8El2DPm-z9sqE3CZn7uXN23WFCF6b6EMBHfFSnvn3HCeNb-tPsAqIErzLxAiwGd6XLSCOOw65TOwkWHmEeeVP9A_3zIaj7IdJgdaDdnzTUvdPQsAfibKiilfK1CuvXhMe91jp_Mjs/s320/DSCN2170.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>And there was this Celtic
Cross, with the twelve apostles supporting the Madonna and child, surrounded by
the Catholic symbols of the four gospel writers: Mark, the winged lion, Luke,
the winged bull, Matthew, the winged man, and John, the eagle. At the top and bottom are adoring angels,
probably cherubim in light of their placement.
Celtic crosses were used as teaching tools when the church was bringing
the faith to the largely illiterate Celts.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gdp4CqK2AwlXApyQJx5OhK61sr-Wdkg2f1FJbCJLlo57BHdRpKAXfIm9oyWOtaKgYsSo7ZiPzXvH4VO8c2xXakGjutaQyIksxsUuu3nAovs8Z9il89luaET7EQUUlfpzmuZMj8d8WMQ/s1600/DSCN2182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gdp4CqK2AwlXApyQJx5OhK61sr-Wdkg2f1FJbCJLlo57BHdRpKAXfIm9oyWOtaKgYsSo7ZiPzXvH4VO8c2xXakGjutaQyIksxsUuu3nAovs8Z9il89luaET7EQUUlfpzmuZMj8d8WMQ/s320/DSCN2182.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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<i>There was this
soon-to-be forgotten William, who has literally returned to the earth:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX7eUpE3TMaIAu19SDvteegIUyWdIRSVLmMvIOdmdGEhjGocf-qysTlqIDXndfyzh6ifefDzWYszxanlW_ZH7aB3l64qt8zoea7hI6mu0xZNxcUMkXF_OFIOO_9fasr0cI0qdmedYLqw/s1600/DSCN2206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX7eUpE3TMaIAu19SDvteegIUyWdIRSVLmMvIOdmdGEhjGocf-qysTlqIDXndfyzh6ifefDzWYszxanlW_ZH7aB3l64qt8zoea7hI6mu0xZNxcUMkXF_OFIOO_9fasr0cI0qdmedYLqw/s320/DSCN2206.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i>There was also a large
contingent of confederate gravesites here.
These were the lucky ones (at least to the extent they got graves;
apparently they weren’t so lucky on the battlefield itself.) Here at Elmwood, there are over 1,000
Confederates interred. At nearby Memphis
National Cemetery there are thousands of Union dead carefully honored, including
those who died on the </i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sultana_(steamboat)" target="_blank"><i>USS Sultana</i></a><i>, while thousands of Confederate soldiers
and sailors share an unmarked ditch somewhere nearby. Here at Elmwood the Confederate plots and a
large memorial obelisk were paid for by General Nathan Bedford Forrest himself.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCskTR6O6cM8Ej8lA-e00RIImiOpXU9uHEf0a-0mbqbeai-RIZjkVUyrw2LktTxF3K5YMP7ue0ZXaHnXf24D7wuRCsURS4xNC609ih2487-UiGa861jgb4boTTpr4-kJC2WKQpfRRzjg/s1600/DSCN5885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCskTR6O6cM8Ej8lA-e00RIImiOpXU9uHEf0a-0mbqbeai-RIZjkVUyrw2LktTxF3K5YMP7ue0ZXaHnXf24D7wuRCsURS4xNC609ih2487-UiGa861jgb4boTTpr4-kJC2WKQpfRRzjg/s320/DSCN5885.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLzejMcACtgQP0lQLv9pikEqCozjkkNVtcAQ05WSljiLPKfLgTUIt9axTcYsXHfwTsFYhMuXEOCG5Xn-YPFDv-neroNv4U2wBn7vDCPlY-ZYAdlf0ADAjxi2e7AyrWo09QYJY0L8b5xE/s1600/DSCN5886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLzejMcACtgQP0lQLv9pikEqCozjkkNVtcAQ05WSljiLPKfLgTUIt9axTcYsXHfwTsFYhMuXEOCG5Xn-YPFDv-neroNv4U2wBn7vDCPlY-ZYAdlf0ADAjxi2e7AyrWo09QYJY0L8b5xE/s320/DSCN5886.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>An intriguing
character, Forrest was a wealthy man who nevertheless joined the war
effort. He was an able officer that bedeviled
the Union troops in the Mississippi valley.
Accused of war crimes during the war, he was exonerated by a Union Army
investigation. A KKK member, he recanted
his membership and renounced racism in his later years. His own grave is not here at Elmwood,
although it once was. It was relocated
to what became a city park downtown n 1904 with a life-sized statue of him on
his cavalry charger. In 2015, the city
council voted to dig him up and send him wherever, and sell the statue “ to
anyone who would want it.” That court
fight continues.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Very near Elmwood is Stax Museum of American Soul Music:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvpG6vAZ6rcWVYGz6x6koUZzsGa4D-GoGTZ16eAvdZF9-BKqSXzGClnnE9ARGt3DJXZuMM3UGhXIRMlH_rasoOYxVBTm5XJlowM3AlgoNOXDeeh4xQyEmZQ25OGYwiArO0AwJf8g5JSU/s1600/DSCN2210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvpG6vAZ6rcWVYGz6x6koUZzsGa4D-GoGTZ16eAvdZF9-BKqSXzGClnnE9ARGt3DJXZuMM3UGhXIRMlH_rasoOYxVBTm5XJlowM3AlgoNOXDeeh4xQyEmZQ25OGYwiArO0AwJf8g5JSU/s320/DSCN2210.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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The museum is built on and exact replica of the original
Stax Recording Studio. I contains an
exhaustive collection of artifacts relating to not only the artist that
recorded at Stax (<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">including
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isaac_Hayes" target="_blank">Isaac Hayes</a><span style="background: white;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Otis_Redding" target="_blank">Otis Redding</a></span></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_%26_Dave" target="_blank">Sam and Dave</a></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Staple_Singers" target="_blank">The Staple Singers</a></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnnie_Taylor" target="_blank">Johnnie Taylor</a></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_King" target="_blank">Albert King</a></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Booker_T._%26_the_M.G.%27s" target="_blank">Booker T. and the MGs</a></span></span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rufus_Thomas" target="_blank">Rufus Thomas</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carla_Thomas" target="_blank">Carla Thomas</a>)</span></span>, but other soul artists. <i>And it
also has a house band that plays a full set of live music in a large studio
several times a day. What other museum
does that?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Also on-sight is the Stax Music Academy where mostly at-risk
youth are mentored with music education and performances. There is a charter school there, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Stax Records was started by a man named Jim Stewart in 1957. When he decided that the studio needed better
equipment, his sister, Estelle Axton, mortgaged her house to buy a good
recorder. Since the music recorded was
primarily soul, with some gospel, jazz, funk and blues, the artists, as you’d expect,
were mostly African-American. But Jim
Stewart and Estelle Axton were white. Stax
Records was amazingly integrated for the time and the city. Not only did they have integrated acts, but
their staff was also integrated. And
from what the artists said in the fantastic film you see at the beginning of
the tour, it all worked very well. The
label continued through lots of success and some changes and some setbacks
through 1975 when insolvency and other things caused it to close. It’s a fascinating story which you can read
here, if you’re interested:<o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="http://staxmuseum.com/1957-1968/" target="_blank">Stax Museum of American Soul</a>.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The studio was vacant and derelict and was demolished
1989. The new buildings were begun in
2001 and the museum opened in 2003. This
place was remarkable. I wandered through
with a smile on my face for the entire time.
The music and the memories were amazing.
I am so grateful that the folks who decided that all of this had value
and needed to be saved and memorialized.
Some pictures - Ike and Tina memorabilia:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Al Green (who still preaches today at Full Gospel Tabernacle
Church near Graceland):<o:p></o:p></div>
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Otis Redding:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Isaac Hayes:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I know it looks like
the museum is nothing but shadowboxes, but there was so much more! Instruments and video clips, concert footage and
a working dance floor (with Don Cornelius calling out the tunes) and so much
more. There was even Isaac Hayes’ gold-plated
Shaft-mobile:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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This was amazing:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is an actual Mississippi Delta AME chapel, built in
1906 that has been reassembled here to help show the gospel roots of soul
music. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hallways of Stax Records album covers and singles:<o:p></o:p></div>
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What an absolutely wonderful place. I’m so glad that we went! <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lunch/dinner that day was my favorite meal we ate in
Memphis. With all the good food we had,
that is saying a LOT. This is their
former location:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxce8R77_TiZtgZsaIeM2IAS5uwW3AAmk89DntQKvtx0OvC6Bjw0Y5zpmG8Nt_BgH2_7ZXYehE_UjWLn9A7HZkGrfYCMA9QGgtBdAzrM3qj2WLH87ctyLz4SslF68AFYIC3MvXrZXEm8/s1600/DSCN2217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxce8R77_TiZtgZsaIeM2IAS5uwW3AAmk89DntQKvtx0OvC6Bjw0Y5zpmG8Nt_BgH2_7ZXYehE_UjWLn9A7HZkGrfYCMA9QGgtBdAzrM3qj2WLH87ctyLz4SslF68AFYIC3MvXrZXEm8/s320/DSCN2217.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Right across the street from their ‘new’ location in a
building that didn’t look much better. <i>I was hesitant as we pulled up. Another derelict area. We parked in the back of the building and as
we walked to the front, we saw that the building had exposed interior doors on
the back that led to nowhere, and a questionable chimney coming out of a pit
smoker. Dead furniture piled up. Not a tourist place. The restaurant itself had a concrete floor,
block walls, and a small ordering window that it shared with a pre-packaged
diet plan salesperson.</i> But the food!
Here’s Mr. Kim’s BBQ sandwich:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippvIYxO8HB8kf9CcWvi7DAVss5MpMbxz-wKPgio-6Q226z62Nu64-TaI4YqEYV64qPbauKwJvEk7Q8Jqu4S1zTR8FE0zYrBl6CH00FWqUWA-r6AQDAJ_NUDJWu9gZmIo-qcvYPjx1wP8/s1600/DSCN2222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippvIYxO8HB8kf9CcWvi7DAVss5MpMbxz-wKPgio-6Q226z62Nu64-TaI4YqEYV64qPbauKwJvEk7Q8Jqu4S1zTR8FE0zYrBl6CH00FWqUWA-r6AQDAJ_NUDJWu9gZmIo-qcvYPjx1wP8/s320/DSCN2222.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Notice that it is sliced – not my favorite usually. I always find sliced BBQ tough. Not this stuff! It was amazingly tender and juicy and not a
bit mushy. <i>I make my own barbecue, and I am pretty good at it. This ‘cue was different from mine but easily
as good or better. And it is topped with
the best barbecue sauce I have ever tasted!
ANYwhere, EVER. </i>We also tried
the ribs:</div>
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which come with some of the best beans and slaw I’ve ever
tasted. The ribs were also perfect –
tender, but still needing a little pull to bite off a chunk. None of that ‘fall off the bone’ nonsense
here. I’m a rib snob. If it falls off the bone, it’s
overcooked. My blog, my rules. I don’t know the source of the white bread
served with BBQ thing. I’ve never seen
it in VA or NC. But I know it’s how they
do it in Kansas City and TX. And apparently
TN, too. Their sauce is superb. Which leads me to my meal:<o:p></o:p></div>
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That would be a grilled slab of boloney. Dipped in sauce, grilled until crisp on the
edges, slathered in more sauce and served on a soft, enormous bun with
slaw. Dear, Lord, that was good. It took me three nights to finish it. It was seriously the best thing I ate on that
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<i>As we sat there, others who were also first timers walked in….. two
ladies who were not sure what to eat or if they were even in a restaurant
(understandable); a couple with a beautiful grey dog; several takeout orders from
people hurrying home after work. We left
happy and very full. And being full, the
logical thing to do, of course, was to
pop in to the gourmet popcorn store next door to the restaurant. It actually shares a kitchen with the
barbecue joint, with only a thin door with a bathroom-type privacy lock to make
them “independent.” We tasted a few
samples, and settled on caramel corn for Kim and a neon red variety that set my
mouth on fire for me. As we left and
began walking back to our car, a gentleman came running after us from the
restaurant – he had been trying to find us.
Kim had left her camera on the table.
Had we not stopped for popcorn, we would surely not have noticed until
the next morning. We thanked him
profusely, and as he walked back to toward the front of the building he stopped
and turned and shouted across the 30 yards or so: “Just remember when you get
home that Memphis isn’t that bad!” I was
struck not only by his kindness, but also by the fact that yet another local
found it necessary to apologize for the city.
It must be in the local DNA.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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If memory serves, we went right back to the room and
crashed!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-45733565786228535592016-06-26T10:54:00.000-04:002016-06-26T10:54:56.451-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 3rd Day – 6/13/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwiZ8g6H3cdt4IUj-Q3d66oyNYg1-_X8Y8F8Qp_I2ay-7urebqaU_tKqJVfno_7Umml66wIfGAGmglGirQxI1ED0IiCybNFfUqsmlgX0pV5yJ85HAH2_n3-4oB58upHOuR-FXw3AvBvw/s1600/beale+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwiZ8g6H3cdt4IUj-Q3d66oyNYg1-_X8Y8F8Qp_I2ay-7urebqaU_tKqJVfno_7Umml66wIfGAGmglGirQxI1ED0IiCybNFfUqsmlgX0pV5yJ85HAH2_n3-4oB58upHOuR-FXw3AvBvw/s320/beale+street.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>This was a very full
day. Started out with a minor
disappointment. A large part of the
reason I insisted on driving to Memphis instead of flying was this crazy Wizard
of Oz themepark. It is now closed to the
public, but for a decade or more it was a fully operational park with rides and
attractions, all built around Dorothy and her journey through Oz. It was located in the middle of nowhere –
Beech Mountain, NC. The park is so
remote that the website to this day warns the traveler to ignore GPS directions
(as some of the roads in the world’s maps of the area no longer exist,
apparently) and instead to rely only on the posted directions on the
website. And once one gets there, one
has to visit a vendor who is not associated with the park but instead operates
a ski resort in the winter to get lift tickets to get up to the park. Yep, the public can only get there in a lift
chair. Beech MOUNTAIN indeed. As I said,
the park is and has been closed….. except for four Fridays in June and a
weekend or two in October, when they open the park for walk throughs only so
the public can see what used to was there.
In June, the tours are led by a fully gingham clad Dorothy who
apparently weaves the tour between the realities of the park’s former life and
her own true account of life in Oz. This
seemed like a perfect way to spend a vacation day with my resident Oz fanatic.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDnxru9nNzbruNsCpxrBeVsJEDctcBqjvGUBT0rTi-HSRYg43zNJANMbyVPLpQok2b7pZ8u0ReljfCVlIqM94MsdbIUNaSFzavUsmFpBUYGckdrap3t5YFaSNn1nkAR9lu7o0zqRbfPk/s1600/oz+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDnxru9nNzbruNsCpxrBeVsJEDctcBqjvGUBT0rTi-HSRYg43zNJANMbyVPLpQok2b7pZ8u0ReljfCVlIqM94MsdbIUNaSFzavUsmFpBUYGckdrap3t5YFaSNn1nkAR9lu7o0zqRbfPk/s320/oz+logo.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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<i>Anyway, tickets for
each Friday’s tours are advertised to go on sale at precisely 9 AM EDT on the Monday of that week. So I got up early (for a vacation day) and
sat at the computer, refreshing the screen every few seconds until at last the
tickets were on sale. I swear I
completed the sign up as fast as my fingers could type, and still, no matter
the effort, all tour groups were sold out in less than 90 seconds. Irritated?
Moi? You betcha. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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After this beginning to our day, we got dressed and headed
for the free breakfast at our hotel. We
didn’t make that mistake again. Remember
the good gravy at the crappy Quality Inn in Dickson? This stuff was born in a bag somewhere. Ick. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We started the day by
going to the state’s Arkansas Welcome Center just across the interstate. We got lots of brochures and a few postcards,
and more than an earful from the cheery hostess who apparently had orders to
stress the fun and meals to be had at that casino we mentioned yesterday.</i> <i>We
thanked her and began the day in earnest just driving around downtown and the
riverfront area to get our bearings a bit.</i>
View of the river and bridge just getting to the riverfront:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqt7Tgz6xSWdbKzD_64IK4DwW2WjsdjqMdEswCwZx_xjFG40cMJltcWMw1kJMgDSSkubTT8D_3iX9jMgYmy1lVxOUxMXf0D6_8kbAPkhpgJa3UzVKGChaUCeaG-w5bQ3dqc2y7fvWFTsM/s1600/DSCN2019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqt7Tgz6xSWdbKzD_64IK4DwW2WjsdjqMdEswCwZx_xjFG40cMJltcWMw1kJMgDSSkubTT8D_3iX9jMgYmy1lVxOUxMXf0D6_8kbAPkhpgJa3UzVKGChaUCeaG-w5bQ3dqc2y7fvWFTsM/s320/DSCN2019.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is part of what is called ‘Mud Island’. I guess because it’s in the middle of a
famously muddy river:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1C6rmobnVqh3WLDlA4ORTougftY7vvxHomsGNO_VdvNempUANRH3icJ2JfyF1wZa11eliRASILZwe0oq-s44Xsvd0-KMhks_LPvJ3qDYpdkaYTUg_oZj4-gUF_E5ckV-WcZ83Li9C1qc/s1600/DSCN2022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1C6rmobnVqh3WLDlA4ORTougftY7vvxHomsGNO_VdvNempUANRH3icJ2JfyF1wZa11eliRASILZwe0oq-s44Xsvd0-KMhks_LPvJ3qDYpdkaYTUg_oZj4-gUF_E5ckV-WcZ83Li9C1qc/s320/DSCN2022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We didn’t get a chance to get over there and I’m really
sorry, because it sounds interesting.
There is a scale model (including water) of the lower Mississippi River,
pedal boat rentals with great views of the skyline and what looks like a
wonderful museum (we are museum geeks).
But, I have to say that it doesn’t look very attractive from a
distance. When I first saw it from the
bridge, I said it looked like WWII bunkers!
<o:p></o:p></div>
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We dropped in on the Visitor Center:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYodgo7O73iP-3H40Jx6xVfcIoCfu6iYJ1OPr-C8uBgQ3ViMMHPfUX3yBTgbGLJJn5HOfB1mtf3CCjoGGM86vIz-3hEmGeZuiRAK_rbHkzTtzFUeJBoDfjDHSOewBPtuygyT6QC8VtOsU/s1600/DSCN2025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYodgo7O73iP-3H40Jx6xVfcIoCfu6iYJ1OPr-C8uBgQ3ViMMHPfUX3yBTgbGLJJn5HOfB1mtf3CCjoGGM86vIz-3hEmGeZuiRAK_rbHkzTtzFUeJBoDfjDHSOewBPtuygyT6QC8VtOsU/s320/DSCN2025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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...said ‘Hey’ to Elvis, BB King and for whatever reason a giant
Welcome Egg:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWQ2anK_gE8ktascj1PY_R3GW0ACBNkYIZkU7v5RI5LVQjhKPguZ6p2AMA2Apiak3V9WHTygICtKfb9rniww-qEdnoPWvsfUUzoLN27uJTMnkg9SZNld_kCA2yfUp8i608063ZxTqOo0/s1600/DSCN5842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWQ2anK_gE8ktascj1PY_R3GW0ACBNkYIZkU7v5RI5LVQjhKPguZ6p2AMA2Apiak3V9WHTygICtKfb9rniww-qEdnoPWvsfUUzoLN27uJTMnkg9SZNld_kCA2yfUp8i608063ZxTqOo0/s320/DSCN5842.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">…then
went off to a neighborhood we’d discovered the day before. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Peabody Avenue and the environs had some of
the most beautiful houses:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHROp_RcqlxF80iAR0nvJrgdEp8x1eRwlzFZTN4I_NcEkhOFZ_qyvjc5_EQNWsf8QlITWeuTy_U983Hp_z-scAbqHY3mkhGZIC4fSy1yKa6S4e5yRGU5I_wvQTsq3C52_SMKVqdz-aEsc/s1600/DSCN2032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHROp_RcqlxF80iAR0nvJrgdEp8x1eRwlzFZTN4I_NcEkhOFZ_qyvjc5_EQNWsf8QlITWeuTy_U983Hp_z-scAbqHY3mkhGZIC4fSy1yKa6S4e5yRGU5I_wvQTsq3C52_SMKVqdz-aEsc/s320/DSCN2032.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This was my favorite:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheARPjJTBAjXsq_ScabhFHPUX0kYhj2QTKp1By0EJ0QEH_HOMuT6sidxNbxvbmn2AAHbRZ6w0Fp3dWxExQvf_Ev4__CZ6IIav8kf8L6YaxousIGxVpimowH_uuoyQpwwLkVXbvexLQyiA/s1600/DSCN2039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheARPjJTBAjXsq_ScabhFHPUX0kYhj2QTKp1By0EJ0QEH_HOMuT6sidxNbxvbmn2AAHbRZ6w0Fp3dWxExQvf_Ev4__CZ6IIav8kf8L6YaxousIGxVpimowH_uuoyQpwwLkVXbvexLQyiA/s320/DSCN2039.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I took lots of pictures of this one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>She made me walk
around this neighborhood. A LOT. I enjoyed the view, but that delta humidity
was tough. By the time we returned to
the car I felt I had been in a sauna. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Lunch was this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlVF5Vog6KAKuHYaL6jAthA91esnGdceB2TmdKkod_-Dl0TvElyNFENd4U5ZKyGpb0Xdlqx-Oq2RjDhopGUIAf5J6ZH-r_3QS5UcK4cVMVceqkb45J_NNw4_o-7Wry0sYUx3DsJrOZhg/s1600/DSCN2048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlVF5Vog6KAKuHYaL6jAthA91esnGdceB2TmdKkod_-Dl0TvElyNFENd4U5ZKyGpb0Xdlqx-Oq2RjDhopGUIAf5J6ZH-r_3QS5UcK4cVMVceqkb45J_NNw4_o-7Wry0sYUx3DsJrOZhg/s320/DSCN2048.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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We had to do this.
Leonard’s is THE Memphis BBQ place for my mother and grandmother and
I’ve heard about it my entire life. My
dear friend, Rachel, also wanted me to go.
Now, we probably didn’t get their best BBQ because we chose the buffet,
rather than ordering a sandwich or ribs.
I liked it better than Mr. Kim did – he was not at all partial to the
sauce. But what we both thought was
amazing were the BBQ chicken and the side dishes. <i>The dry
rub they used on the pork and chicken was extraordinary. </i>Here is a sampling:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XjvlNoKC0V24mxj3cZrVXyDcrEqPlhoRy_hykzBLX02MQDyfT_7PhLPvjUEkiMqrPZcJHcyHv1361TtXsXEOBdMm3muD7xIL9T7gb4pfspNM1n9jP7tQQmM_wxxCiqyHmTGhPW1jvjM/s1600/DSCN2062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XjvlNoKC0V24mxj3cZrVXyDcrEqPlhoRy_hykzBLX02MQDyfT_7PhLPvjUEkiMqrPZcJHcyHv1361TtXsXEOBdMm3muD7xIL9T7gb4pfspNM1n9jP7tQQmM_wxxCiqyHmTGhPW1jvjM/s320/DSCN2062.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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These were all my plates.
I didn’t finish it all, but I tasted everything. The butterbeans and the soup beans were
incredible, as were the collards and baked beans. If I lived in Memphis, I’d be here every week
for the vegetables ALONE! Waiting to
order:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3SEr_aDDWso86oUhc0M6RX8oMZ3U5N80lvjTYZjEUuY-lqsXysyTOiOwAWUdORXcRZPnklEMTQev35dcJrEyT7rGg1GZMiLtKgj3MBiOLDM6cb9ctyy1Lz1vLx_4j0UXbaCv0pbQRVI/s1600/DSCN5855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3SEr_aDDWso86oUhc0M6RX8oMZ3U5N80lvjTYZjEUuY-lqsXysyTOiOwAWUdORXcRZPnklEMTQev35dcJrEyT7rGg1GZMiLtKgj3MBiOLDM6cb9ctyy1Lz1vLx_4j0UXbaCv0pbQRVI/s320/DSCN5855.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next stop was Muddy’s Bake Shop. We weren’t hungry yet, but knew it was only a
matter of time:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBy5egpxYkORc_J87bAnHzDzE7nYmMviTHvwqCFqF7O3U4fIoBi1C2J2owppWxIJfVsrN4SdiYebZ6sdj7WP_-zsxyHPPEPk79rMDnoDKZcLxXWoPzL-WtCDuCY5iO6JHOr5T4HP-sSw/s1600/DSCN2071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBy5egpxYkORc_J87bAnHzDzE7nYmMviTHvwqCFqF7O3U4fIoBi1C2J2owppWxIJfVsrN4SdiYebZ6sdj7WP_-zsxyHPPEPk79rMDnoDKZcLxXWoPzL-WtCDuCY5iO6JHOr5T4HP-sSw/s320/DSCN2071.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Mr. Kim was too full to even contemplate cupcakes, but I
picked out an assortment. I limited
myself to four cupcakes and four cookies.
<snicker><o:p></o:p></snicker></div>
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Around the corner from Muddy’s was Lucchesi’s Ravioli &
Pasta Company, a really amazing little Italian Deli/Café. They had an amazing assortment of pastas,
cheeses, salads, sandwiches and Italian ingredients. They even had this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK6x6p_xGje4QIeLYdlo840EfmT72-ienz8PAiNyZKcUBzqhOzp3fOQmn0dtZ-z4nMtSpEX_REy1oQMkELD3QmTqKe19Dt2lASnvXfRQXi2LoziyaQw4OeB7f_KWiI_eM2OSLw-TgwFM/s1600/DSCN2079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK6x6p_xGje4QIeLYdlo840EfmT72-ienz8PAiNyZKcUBzqhOzp3fOQmn0dtZ-z4nMtSpEX_REy1oQMkELD3QmTqKe19Dt2lASnvXfRQXi2LoziyaQw4OeB7f_KWiI_eM2OSLw-TgwFM/s320/DSCN2079.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Benton’s is OUR bacon.
We order it out of Madisonville TN by the boxful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then it was back to the hotel for a quick rest and swim:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRet5pokSuKaVJvnVGqEEwvMQgPkLr_ollV_pWoQikMFpQ34lSWrZmRLvvLcmO8dVi-5jGP6n8CJH9NTVjF5q9hzsG1g7mA3Z6FDnY2Z3pTOEo76yIGP6mA9nu1MMLhn7CBGDlwW38Klo/s1600/DSCN2081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRet5pokSuKaVJvnVGqEEwvMQgPkLr_ollV_pWoQikMFpQ34lSWrZmRLvvLcmO8dVi-5jGP6n8CJH9NTVjF5q9hzsG1g7mA3Z6FDnY2Z3pTOEo76yIGP6mA9nu1MMLhn7CBGDlwW38Klo/s320/DSCN2081.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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…before heading out to Beale Street:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW37zCbm2Ij4V-iqG-uI7bILRJVUH5WRts-n5s2-vQepXPSDXoJdG6LayX2lotHw8XK750TX2I3k1XVdM0OEph8xHFEGzsz4Ctp_NKdo3n05dm4TpaxTTaARy0t9QuDxkacxf5cqbiTLk/s1600/DSCN5862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW37zCbm2Ij4V-iqG-uI7bILRJVUH5WRts-n5s2-vQepXPSDXoJdG6LayX2lotHw8XK750TX2I3k1XVdM0OEph8xHFEGzsz4Ctp_NKdo3n05dm4TpaxTTaARy0t9QuDxkacxf5cqbiTLk/s320/DSCN5862.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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That’s me in the white pants and checked blouse. This was so much fun. Just looking at all the cool signs and
hearing music pouring out of all of the joints:<o:p></o:p></div>
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We also saw WC Handy’s home and musicians tucked down a
little courtyard:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08E77iE6Nk8hR-_ER-Iz1ZkheHYDNz8MmOeR6xgty4kryhyphenhyphenkbcH1Z5ZI8sdLJ7u57VOqgIaxejy6DWD9y6snHqr8RZZcbvQ2_Ao1VZjJl3BJrbY6ITnM7tR6elM_RkpFurg0NEVY5jrY/s1600/DSCN2105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08E77iE6Nk8hR-_ER-Iz1ZkheHYDNz8MmOeR6xgty4kryhyphenhyphenkbcH1Z5ZI8sdLJ7u57VOqgIaxejy6DWD9y6snHqr8RZZcbvQ2_Ao1VZjJl3BJrbY6ITnM7tR6elM_RkpFurg0NEVY5jrY/s320/DSCN2105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is the Daisy Theatre:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRssggX28-_2oSrMYS7uvwFWTAbqCqt8T5eN-PP06catjyLtbkN-S8JzU_s0A4D-vNZgmB10zqZZRjTioKnL08Y8SsHybe195WH_kUn1uV5v1yaKppcAgorgw-aUxg2JUIhMWCUWMf54/s1600/DSCN2106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRssggX28-_2oSrMYS7uvwFWTAbqCqt8T5eN-PP06catjyLtbkN-S8JzU_s0A4D-vNZgmB10zqZZRjTioKnL08Y8SsHybe195WH_kUn1uV5v1yaKppcAgorgw-aUxg2JUIhMWCUWMf54/s320/DSCN2106.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
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It opened in 1936 and is still in operation. That red arch is gorgeous:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDIfrj-7uYFh-2GUoTe2UFpmCEhgfeEAo9fDekt8q5QXw8vbdiG-qWNq2i_JH0BNHO9szLVlUtVFqJgXHfQfz8aR3EbQOwO8ja-G1NM3PvF161v2bkzPM6fZxYDJPvs7eeAEiZ0VcU30/s1600/DSCN2099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDIfrj-7uYFh-2GUoTe2UFpmCEhgfeEAo9fDekt8q5QXw8vbdiG-qWNq2i_JH0BNHO9szLVlUtVFqJgXHfQfz8aR3EbQOwO8ja-G1NM3PvF161v2bkzPM6fZxYDJPvs7eeAEiZ0VcU30/s320/DSCN2099.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We had dinner at Dyer’s:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9uXEqmdrYSouaDT3hQeDJ3UGDnRV9lnZzNrnSkWM5qKZnUBaVyje8MRE3AicY1PsVHYpcXJ8Vk2k6tGIeDMPpoRLK5iH6WRwUmWUlwAyTByCEmpUOEzIF2-n_ib4qmCToL6kzYPNVG8/s1600/DSCN2108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9uXEqmdrYSouaDT3hQeDJ3UGDnRV9lnZzNrnSkWM5qKZnUBaVyje8MRE3AicY1PsVHYpcXJ8Vk2k6tGIeDMPpoRLK5iH6WRwUmWUlwAyTByCEmpUOEzIF2-n_ib4qmCToL6kzYPNVG8/s320/DSCN2108.JPG" width="242" /></a></div>
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Famous for frying their burgers in 100 year old grease. The grease is filtered daily (and added to),
but never changed out. The burgers are
actually submerged in the grease. They
don’t turn out to be greasy, really – but they are juicy and incredibly good:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vBcCOZyAkiW8V9z4Drz27oQdCnpsMUegDpfof6lEYVF5roI8PyKLVlPJFbEIw-aSzhkN8JN0Uf24hzRjUSXgScsAWBdCz1JxNUxf_ltTgkaWEEoKStGjzFfoRfwS7GCtMUjkdyqbEdU/s1600/DSCN2098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vBcCOZyAkiW8V9z4Drz27oQdCnpsMUegDpfof6lEYVF5roI8PyKLVlPJFbEIw-aSzhkN8JN0Uf24hzRjUSXgScsAWBdCz1JxNUxf_ltTgkaWEEoKStGjzFfoRfwS7GCtMUjkdyqbEdU/s320/DSCN2098.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>We each ordered double
doubles – double meat and double cheese, with fries. I cannot say that it was uniquely the best
burger ever, but it was darned tasty!
The interior was 50’s neon and vinyl booths, with photos spanning the
years then and now. We tried to get good
pics but the neon messed with the camera’s focus a bit.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Walking Beale’s two or
three blocks, it had a bit of a Bourbon Street vibe to it. There were “yard drinks” and open carry
drinks and a store front selling those alcohol Slurpie things that are so
ubiquitous in New Orleans. More than
once I was glad we were there on a Monday with sparser crowds than would have
been there on weekend nights. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I had spent some time
before we came to Beale online trying to find info on which clubs had the best
music. I had found some music calendars
naming groups I didn’t know or course, but also news articles about automatic
weapons fire and a teenage death just a week before, just a block away from
Beale. As a result, the police were in
obvious presence, and the news articles told of new admissions charges to get
on Beale on the weekend to keep undesirables away. I thought back to the shopkeeper near
Graceland and her near apology about Memphis and Beale.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Signs around Beale
informed us of another side of the area that I hadn’t known. The streets we were walking were the site of
African American stagings during civil rights marches. Dr. King walked here, and Ralph Abernathy and
Jesse Jackson and Andrew Young and thousands of names never recorded. After Dr. King was assassinated a few blocks
away, the whole neighborhood was torched.
It took years to bring it back to the tourist area it has become. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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We wandered over to the Peabody Hotel – home of the famous
ducks. It is gorgeous! We planned to go back during the day sometime
to have afternoon tea and take pictures.
We never made it back, so the only picture I got was one of these weird
dogs:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t find any information online about them. They are quite unsettling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We stopped here for a drink and a little music:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We would have kept
wandering but the rain was coming fast and hard and the streets were clearing
into the clubs. We were lucky to get a
nice table in Club 152. The house band
was playing, a three man group called Mercury Blvd. And while the blues they played was a bit
more southern rock than BB King, it was a true thrill to know that we were
sitting on Beale Street listening to music and just absorbing the local feel. All too soon they stopped for the night
around 10 PM. Way too early for me – I
could have sat there for hours more!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Nighty-night, Beale:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-26096077545945023182016-06-24T15:28:00.000-04:002016-06-24T15:28:36.445-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 2nd Day – 6/12/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN5wCWbAproqBNrUh6a7iEZ_HpBlw7HLLYx07sxNsDGJla6_XLIGZ8cR0-VWI5HBza2DpYte7H5PV01CXCLJHtsvwmZHt1tlgmx_hoqwAHRKGWuLE1gVoqM8WrhyphenhyphenYTUfggLCSnLNwZe-A/s1600/elvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN5wCWbAproqBNrUh6a7iEZ_HpBlw7HLLYx07sxNsDGJla6_XLIGZ8cR0-VWI5HBza2DpYte7H5PV01CXCLJHtsvwmZHt1tlgmx_hoqwAHRKGWuLE1gVoqM8WrhyphenhyphenYTUfggLCSnLNwZe-A/s320/elvis.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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Internet picture</div>
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Well, the motel was pretty crappy, but the free breakfast
was ok – the sausage gravy tasted like an actual person made it! We are glad to be back on the road:<o:p></o:p></div>
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One thing that not getting a room in Nashville did for us
was to put us an hour closer to Memphis, so the drive was a breeze. <i>As we
drove down the interstate, we couldn’t help but notice that every single
interstate exit had signs advertising a state park. More accurately, most exits proclaimed TWO
state parks. Per exit. That seemed inordinate, as I knew the states
to be roughly the same size. (Hey,
numbers is my thing – TN is 3% larger than VA in square miles.) Virginia has 36 state parks, all of a pretty
good size. As it turns out, Tennessee
has 58. And apparently nearly all of
them are just off of I-40.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Geography is not my strong point. I’m pretty good about my own state and places
I’ve spent a lot of time in, but totally ignorant of most of the world. So the geography of Tennessee could have been
Outer Mongolia to me. I know it is west
of NC and that Bristol TN is on the VA border because of the whole Bristol
TN/Bristol VA thing, but that’s really it.
Before it was drawn to my attention, I had no idea that Memphis was as
far west and south as you can go in the state and that Arkansas is smack up
against it. When I was checking the
printout of the hotel reservation, I was aghast to realize that Mr. Kim had
reserved a room in West Memphis ARKANSAS!
I assumed he’d just typed in ‘Memphis’ and thought West Memphis meant
TN. Well, of course, I looked on a map
and West Memphis AK is just across the Mississippi River from Memphis. Our hotel was about 5 minutes from downtown
Memphis. In my defense, Mr. Kim hadn’t
actually noticed that it was in Arkansas and freaked out a little when I told
him. Driving into our hotel (a Ramada),
we were a little unsettled by the neighborhood behind it. Lots of boarded up houses and derelict buildings. <i>To say
nothing of the seedy casino just across the interstate from the front
door. </i>But the hotel was very nice –
swimming pool and a big, clean room. The
first thing that we did was find my Aunt Mildred’s house:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It turns out that her neighborhood is in an up-and-coming,
newly trendy area called Cooper-Young.
The houses are adorable and there are lots of cool little shops and
restaurants in the area. Some of the
houses:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Down at the end of Aunt Mildred’s street was the
Fairgrounds. This was a fantastic place
at one time. Here’s a link to a
wonderful website with all the details:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://historic-memphis.com/memphis-historic/fairgrounds/fairgrounds.html" target="_blank">Fairgrounds Website</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember the amusement park best. And my Granddaddy had a wonderful story about
my mom when she was a little girl. It
seems that he took her down there a lot when she would come to Memphis from
Washington DC to visit him. He taught Momma how to swim in the public pool there one summer. One time,
she wanted to ride one particular horse on the carousel. He told her “no” because it was too tall for
a little girl. He put her on a smaller
one and got off to watch. Now,
stubbornness is a strong trait in that family.
Granddaddy had it, Momma has it and it is rampant in The Child. As soon as the carousel got going, Momma
climbed down from her little horse and got on the one that she’d originally
wanted to ride. Granddaddy, scared out
of his mind, jumped on the twirling ride, grabbed her off her stallion and
jumped off. Then she got a
spanking. Probably one little swat (my
Granddaddy talked tough, but was a softie).
She was highly insulted and wouldn’t talk to him all day. But later that night, when they’d gone to
bed, she slipped her little hand into his giant one and said, “I do love you,
Daddy”. When my Granddaddy told this
story, he always had to take his handkerchief out and wipe his face (told you
he was a softie). The fairgrounds are
gone, but the area is still open land and home to the Liberty Bowl:<o:p></o:p></div>
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We ended up NOT eating 3 meals a day. I’d picked out about 13 restaurants and a half
dozen bakery/doughnut/snack-type places for our five day trip, but our aging
stomachs couldn’t take it all. <i>Especially not with all the cookies and
goodies we kept buying and squirreling away in the hotel room. </i>So today, we opted for late lunch/early
dinner at The Cupboard:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just beyond it was some enormous George Rodrigue Blue Dog
murals:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll be posting a food-centric post at eGullet.org soon and
so I won’t be putting all the food on here, but here’s a taste:</div>
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That would be chicken and cornbread dressing, mashed
potatoes, field peas and in the separate bowl – the best fried green tomatoes
I’ve ever had. Mr. Kim chose catfish:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Again, the best we’ve ever had. <i>Agreed
– I have never tasted catfish this good.
Corn meal coat, not a speck of flour, and light and fresh fish. If I was a regular it’s about all I’d ever
need to order</i>. This was a regular
family restaurant, but there was one thing I’d never seen before in a place of
that type – produce for sale in the lobby:<o:p></o:p></div>
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If we hadn’t been breaking our trip in NC, I’d have gotten
some on our last day! Leaving the
restaurant, we passed a couple of interesting looking buildings. The first was this all white place that
looked like it was empty:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d love to know what it was used for originally. The next surprised my grandmother when we
showed it to her. She said there wasn’t
anything like it in Memphis when she lived there:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I bet not! This
temple was on a side road near The Cupboard.
Next door was an old apartment house with chickens in the yard. The old couple that was sitting in the yard
waved and called hello and said “take a look!”
The grounds and statuary were amazing:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here, I have a confession to make. I know that we committed heresy, but we went
to Memphis and didn’t tour Graceland. I
know, I know. But we had so little time
and there was so much we wanted to see (and EAT). Graceland can take a long time, depending on
the crowds and I just didn’t see spending two hours looking at a tacky mansion
with a bunch of crazy people. <i>Besides, Elvis wasn’t even home.</i> I know that lots of people will be shocked,
but we are the same people who went to Paris and didn’t see the Louvre or
Versailles, so we can take the heat. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We did, however, go TO Graceland. It’s odd – the road the Graceland is actually
is really rundown. And I’m not talking
about all the Elvis-oriented shops and sites.
It’s just a lot of empty lots, junky stores and businesses and closed
places. <i>Insert a mental image of a commercial area where even the pawn shops,
title loan shysters, and check cashing stores have given up and boarded the
windows.</i> But the neighborhood just
behind Graceland is really nice, well-kept homes. Anyway we got to see his plane:<o:p></o:p></div>
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MUCH bigger than we expected. The gates:<o:p></o:p></div>
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All along the front of the property is a beautiful
fieldstone wall (Mr. Kim in front of said wall):<o:p></o:p></div>
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the entirety of which is COVERED in crazy-fan graffiti. Even from France:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was the best picture we could get of the house. It is
actually a lovely looking house (at least on the outside) and the setting is
beautiful:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We walked from the
gates back to our car by way of a gift shop.
Needless to say it had all things Elvis.
But it also had a surprising array of Wizard of Oz items, which thrilled
Mrs. Kim to no end. The shop owner
chatted me up as we paid for the post cards (after we spent 30 minutes looking
at everything she had) and all was cordial and calm until we walked away from
the counter. She asked casually “Where
are you staying?” And Kim replied that
we were in West Memphis Arkansas. Well,
the next few minutes can only be described as a tourism intervention. The lady bolted from around the counter and
stepped between us and the door, her face expressing genuine alarm and
concern. She needed to know how we had
come to be staying in such a place, and Kim told her with a laugh about me
using a travel site and not noticing the state, etc. The lady suggested with a little force that I
should consider calling the travel site and asking for a refund and moving
ourselves across the Mississippi into Memphis.
We were cordial but what do you say to that? Anyway, she began telling us all the great
things to do in Memphis, like Stax and Sun records and of course Beale
Street. When she got to this last bit,
her voice got quiet, and she told us that Beale Street wasn’t really as
dangerous as its reputation suggested, that it is probably one of the safest
places in the whole city to be. Her tone
was apologetic, like she had to justify the city’s existence or culture to
us. It seemed mildly strange (I hadn’t
heard anything about crime on Beale to this point) but we thanked her and left.
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We were ready for a snack and, thanks to our dear neighbor,
Courtney, we knew where to go:<o:p></o:p></div>
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She texted me to let me know that Alton Brown said that their
glazed doughnuts were one of the best he’s ever had. So we had to try a couple:<o:p></o:p></div>
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What do you mean, that’s not a couple? I meant a couple of the plain glazed!! <i>Fat
boys do NOT order just two doughnuts. </i>The
other four are filled with various things.
Here’s the glazed:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was good. Really good. But you know what? Country Style doughnuts – within walking
distance of my house is every bit as good – maybe better (certainly
bigger). Nice to know, huh?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-48436313485186046262016-06-23T10:32:00.000-04:002016-06-23T10:32:35.054-04:00Memphis TN Vacation– 1st Day – 6/11/2016 (Mr. Kim’s comments in italics)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13FG97TzW0_96-26FF2xebZ51Ca8CO-fJw05xcExxrDlwET7zo2pdSXg4h8TXsHBoqPxr3VJYKhB9tMM9nMFaIMnQILVSGfMwMW7RSLj8GCPahrvGnBAAdzPuaNsw5_uf5DWCbt2hlyc/s1600/memphis+postcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13FG97TzW0_96-26FF2xebZ51Ca8CO-fJw05xcExxrDlwET7zo2pdSXg4h8TXsHBoqPxr3VJYKhB9tMM9nMFaIMnQILVSGfMwMW7RSLj8GCPahrvGnBAAdzPuaNsw5_uf5DWCbt2hlyc/s320/memphis+postcard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Other than our anniversary trips, we don’t do a lot of
vacations, except to visit family. So I
was thrilled when Mr. Kim suggested a trip to Memphis. BBQ and
Blues – two of our favorite things. I
have a very slight connection and memory of the city. Momma was born there and my Granddaddy’s
parents, Ma and Pa Easterwood and his sister, Mildred Vann lived there. Granddaddy and Grandma Jean took me there a
couple of times when I was a little girl, but my memories are limited to their
house and the Fairgrounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We left at the crack of dawn on Saturday, the 11th. We stopped for breakfast at Mrs. Rowe’s
Restaurant just outside of Staunton, VA.:</div>
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<i>While we looked over
the menu, we became aware of an overloud traveler sitting right behind us. Among his many topical digressions with his
wife, he asked the teenager waitress how far it was to New Market, a well-known
civil war battlefield in Virginia about 45 minutes directly up the highway from
where we sat. The waitress awkwardly
tried to tell him she didn’t know, and he responded that he had a GPS in the
car, but it was just easier if she could find out for him. I know that sounds mean spirited and
patronizing, but the more I listened the more I realized that this guy was just
being stream-of-consciousness straightforward.
That was when the harmonicas came out.
He decided to bless the waitress with a demonstration of his prowess
playing two harmonicas at one time. I
watched the owner across the room assess him and decide that he was a harmless
nuisance. The waitress skittered away,
and the gentleman stood to leave. As he
pivoted toward our table, he decided that we too needed a serenade and away he
played again, those two harmonicas just flashing in his hands. No discernible tune could be identified, but
he was obviously pleased with his own effort and awaited our praise. He called himself Frank, and told us about
his patient wife (who had already run from the building and sat in the car) and
her passion for dog rescue. After he
departed and our waitress again found it safe enough to emerge from the back,
she brought our bill. I begged her not
to make me play an instrument to be able to settle the bill. Too late, I realized that my “dad humor” was
not what she needed after the last patron.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Lots of good, country food.
And the beginning of our grits odyssey!
We tasted grits at almost every single breakfast on the trip. I even bought a bag in Tennessee that was
from Oxford MS. The country ham was just
swimming in deep, rich red eye gravy:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwYj_krcjQB5GiLq_PlVDFddDGQqNZ3JHhHBssrCucj-xkjEQQWeWyK_M_eviTibSVSUqabjh_KHiv10F3UE-8Z7MGWjM2cgi0NAf8jzHqgVUc6iXuou0f2KEJ7zSXik5bqKD9FZZhio/s1600/DSCN1920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwYj_krcjQB5GiLq_PlVDFddDGQqNZ3JHhHBssrCucj-xkjEQQWeWyK_M_eviTibSVSUqabjh_KHiv10F3UE-8Z7MGWjM2cgi0NAf8jzHqgVUc6iXuou0f2KEJ7zSXik5bqKD9FZZhio/s320/DSCN1920.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And the apple butter was nice and sweet to go with the wonderful
bread! We bought a jar to bring
home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am enamored of side roads and Mr. Kim loves to indulge me,
so we took Rt. 11 from there instead of the quicker and infinitely duller
I-81! This took us through many small
towns and almost towns… Natural Bridge, Christiansburg, Radford…. and our old
hometown of Salem VA where we lived in during the early 90’s. This was our church:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_SVsHCQPhlSJAylDNeghzernLkuDhVg67s1Qv35RBc0o3tnnL4DA9CtZ6iUggva4jApU_V-7_gYYTRFYlLY5ym6c5YAkab0DK25iOeusKaUPr54ibHmzaFIpX-128p1_F3eg5KQ3aFA/s1600/DSCN1924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_SVsHCQPhlSJAylDNeghzernLkuDhVg67s1Qv35RBc0o3tnnL4DA9CtZ6iUggva4jApU_V-7_gYYTRFYlLY5ym6c5YAkab0DK25iOeusKaUPr54ibHmzaFIpX-128p1_F3eg5KQ3aFA/s320/DSCN1924.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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St. Paul’s Episcopal on Main St. This was a wonderful church – great priest
and very welcoming. I worked at the Food
Pantry and The Child sang in the choir.
After church, we’d drop her off at choir practice and go down the street
to a rib restaurant we liked, sit at the bar and watch football while we waited
for her to be finished so we could have lunch. One of us would walk down to church to pick
her up. I’ll never forget my angelic
looking little girl, straight from church, swinging up onto a bar stool and
asking politely for “some bar munchies, please.” </div>
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We wandered around Main Street and the farmer’s market (new
since our time) and then drove to see our old home. On the way we passed one of our family’s
favorite streets:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IrfwZ-uSeog0rGpYiJXc6uI21ZbQl65KURv2XRVtNNLZNSQD8MEYVKeP1Yv9wqFMtZAbezFMA6fMcS79IIgihrk5xMyVBwn9pEg5241p9pK6iSXrKlWVoGGr5zEW2S8fwzf1iu62ws0/s1600/DSCN1928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IrfwZ-uSeog0rGpYiJXc6uI21ZbQl65KURv2XRVtNNLZNSQD8MEYVKeP1Yv9wqFMtZAbezFMA6fMcS79IIgihrk5xMyVBwn9pEg5241p9pK6iSXrKlWVoGGr5zEW2S8fwzf1iu62ws0/s320/DSCN1928.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Which, because we are all emotionally 12 years old, we
always called “Butt Crack Road”. <i>Yes, I was the one who insisted on the
picture.</i> Our old house looks the
same as always:</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3cdv2v6QufmtAZMjSVmN911PWuptk4TE43P-nnRXbPwDpvp9b3bTmHSy9V7Rg1rMtCep5IPYTmGRukyeimISNHw10iHbG4O_-eP_tFt4UpTxnvlpqIUnURROD5Bu3KE08AUHZDt9xf4/s1600/DSCN1930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3cdv2v6QufmtAZMjSVmN911PWuptk4TE43P-nnRXbPwDpvp9b3bTmHSy9V7Rg1rMtCep5IPYTmGRukyeimISNHw10iHbG4O_-eP_tFt4UpTxnvlpqIUnURROD5Bu3KE08AUHZDt9xf4/s320/DSCN1930.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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How sad I would be if it were to be substantially changed
when we saw it. The house was the
original farm house and owned most of the surrounding property that is all brick
ranchers now. It is all stone with TONS
of windows and heart pine floors. The
living room has a huge stone fireplace.
It was about 70 years old when we bought it (almost 100 now!) and I fell
in love with it the minute I saw it perched on that hill in the foothills of
the mountains that start north of Salem.
I’ve always said that most people don’t ever get to own their dream
homes and that almost no one gets that dream home as their very first owned
home. But I <b>was</b> that lucky. </div>
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We continued down Rt. 11 to Wytheville, a cute little town
with a nice looking Main St.:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirijev2ZrOKWCBYSEufzNzbVUbcrtsVKxrNjLv2S8a91Wmhu1iTrBFu2lwYJltsRPTL4EvLPCRFc1ZpuG2Mxc6o7mYbdYW9smp4dPbiCcQXmSJq0cyLWjYH8G1fi1pq279I8AgI9kfwxQ/s1600/DSCN1933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirijev2ZrOKWCBYSEufzNzbVUbcrtsVKxrNjLv2S8a91Wmhu1iTrBFu2lwYJltsRPTL4EvLPCRFc1ZpuG2Mxc6o7mYbdYW9smp4dPbiCcQXmSJq0cyLWjYH8G1fi1pq279I8AgI9kfwxQ/s320/DSCN1933.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnT-QCmpppLYFjazvq1B0MTSauxM5PxBLvUdd44LTTM14SG7OpN_ni-QKcmcS6794ALxqbZ1YsN1P_o627cQRlLlaCgMq8bGznWDDWJGjb1goz6rrimhO3efpPgunV_SXV922ng3YzQY/s1600/DSCN1934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnT-QCmpppLYFjazvq1B0MTSauxM5PxBLvUdd44LTTM14SG7OpN_ni-QKcmcS6794ALxqbZ1YsN1P_o627cQRlLlaCgMq8bGznWDDWJGjb1goz6rrimhO3efpPgunV_SXV922ng3YzQY/s320/DSCN1934.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
Lots of character, but not a lot going on, sadly. I love driving through these little towns,
but grieve at the empty storefronts, the closed theatres and shuttered
cafes. One place that was NOT shuttered
was Skeeter’s:<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXJ-Rn9QovXc8fzIlG3hK9-K1yvkuf8UZA__jKelog0zoWovziuZxlv_cVsilW78WcGx1Mo2EaO2dJTgy90aJR7JJj-6ETFc2I5ryswpeesa3_6QI9ZBq27jizRYF_jGEYQhInTg-YY8/s1600/DSCN1940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXJ-Rn9QovXc8fzIlG3hK9-K1yvkuf8UZA__jKelog0zoWovziuZxlv_cVsilW78WcGx1Mo2EaO2dJTgy90aJR7JJj-6ETFc2I5ryswpeesa3_6QI9ZBq27jizRYF_jGEYQhInTg-YY8/s320/DSCN1940.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Skeeter’s is a typical little Southern café, famous for
their ‘Skeeter Dogs’, which were delicious.
I swear some day I’m going to break the code of café chili dog
chili. I’ve made a hundred different
recipes, I’m sure, and I’m still not close.
But they were great dogs. And the
place is charming with friendly people and all kinds of vintage
tchotchkes. Mr. Kim in Skeeters:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Akv8bJwuUMCZi6bG8BieRvsGR32L76oaGWvDlm0o8NZ3JCjfx34geDTUQO6r0Ryw-l9fbcWO95ukA6N4XEUTgXoW5en3BchBkKwNauB1RROGiv8YYzEtM56l9nDu-KfM33k5PYWOMBs/s1600/DSCN1935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Akv8bJwuUMCZi6bG8BieRvsGR32L76oaGWvDlm0o8NZ3JCjfx34geDTUQO6r0Ryw-l9fbcWO95ukA6N4XEUTgXoW5en3BchBkKwNauB1RROGiv8YYzEtM56l9nDu-KfM33k5PYWOMBs/s320/DSCN1935.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>The place is no
frills, and hasn’t changed much in the 90 years it’s been open as a
restaurant. Everything is prepared up
front. I asked if they had French fries,
and the response from the waitress was “Not yet.” After 90 years, not yet.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEaksgyk9mIaA2-95sHnsggjnCo1hWfXup_IgvxvMSfdbAh_yAJ0Kca8sG_eX8BLjTmg6R3tEAr9TBmzYi7PjhUj6kf6aFzB-vqYucQ-7AUlrWk088i-htCis_gPmfY_A3mFzV5xj8vQ/s1600/DSCN1937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEaksgyk9mIaA2-95sHnsggjnCo1hWfXup_IgvxvMSfdbAh_yAJ0Kca8sG_eX8BLjTmg6R3tEAr9TBmzYi7PjhUj6kf6aFzB-vqYucQ-7AUlrWk088i-htCis_gPmfY_A3mFzV5xj8vQ/s320/DSCN1937.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Upstairs from Skeeter’s is where Edith Wilson (Mrs. Woodrow
– one of my favorite First Ladies – right after Eleanor) was born and
raised. One interesting thing is that
she was a descendant of Pocahontas and John Rolfe. According to Younger family lore, so am I. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Some travelers on the highway:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSflO7zb37k2lxHMwYbX0jInaHzKoHuKsRWhlXaqTbgbnFaXaOnSjiaejIxsgZrCveR2JD5CEc108J7pcl7RGHt0mIUXFysPrRxBmdkhc-8Y93QDEufysmTjK6Eh5fgU7lQIAeyc5IbT4/s1600/DSCN1944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSflO7zb37k2lxHMwYbX0jInaHzKoHuKsRWhlXaqTbgbnFaXaOnSjiaejIxsgZrCveR2JD5CEc108J7pcl7RGHt0mIUXFysPrRxBmdkhc-8Y93QDEufysmTjK6Eh5fgU7lQIAeyc5IbT4/s320/DSCN1944.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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They were very interested in us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Some cool signs near Abingdon VA:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k6YJ-3Ti-LYB8py4g3H72tAB8xGhQPyUal3nf4LvI34BaXEpgY8AoqG3QYDSnKS_T8VknNi8Fgbw-rA2nAg0MUtdM3HkU96B5iSZ3q22alHg3Q77NmpEOchtFgDgxhGiRqzX6c79ZYA/s1600/DSCN1947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k6YJ-3Ti-LYB8py4g3H72tAB8xGhQPyUal3nf4LvI34BaXEpgY8AoqG3QYDSnKS_T8VknNi8Fgbw-rA2nAg0MUtdM3HkU96B5iSZ3q22alHg3Q77NmpEOchtFgDgxhGiRqzX6c79ZYA/s320/DSCN1947.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlD-tfkHMOPGGNvBmFt4lug_DodV4Es2HmLzVTHqwywf5i_nEQvACH9-6vMc-YpkcvlDGMeI7A5-L_JRbCP30RR2LM36ivVlV__QMC3ME6ScfLEmHAMV2YC5ZYvbxl9-F7T_0qK3i8iTA/s1600/DSCN1950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlD-tfkHMOPGGNvBmFt4lug_DodV4Es2HmLzVTHqwywf5i_nEQvACH9-6vMc-YpkcvlDGMeI7A5-L_JRbCP30RR2LM36ivVlV__QMC3ME6ScfLEmHAMV2YC5ZYvbxl9-F7T_0qK3i8iTA/s320/DSCN1950.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWbq76hkOzAHeD1vsqmG_EJIYPEy64a0YYW2AofEXgKZsqLVR84X_DXDkqtBNFxfruhXgKWamg2aHa1NEGiInjnkFuHYLED-XbzCPmbYR2kTRqf_VP6NEgOCaxRK-TWZaQJ6EUOPQty0/s1600/DSCN1952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWbq76hkOzAHeD1vsqmG_EJIYPEy64a0YYW2AofEXgKZsqLVR84X_DXDkqtBNFxfruhXgKWamg2aHa1NEGiInjnkFuHYLED-XbzCPmbYR2kTRqf_VP6NEgOCaxRK-TWZaQJ6EUOPQty0/s320/DSCN1952.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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All seemingly defunct.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We passed by the
Barter Theater in Abingdon. It has been
around since the Great Depression, when they accepted produce as the price of
admission. For forty cents or equivalent
value, the local folks could see a show.
It’s still in operation, and for $20 or so (sorry, veggies no longer
accepted) one can see live stage shows.
Greater Tuna is now playing</i>. I
actually attended a performance there in 1977.
Momma and Gerry were taking me to college – Clinch Valley College in
Wise VA – now called University of VA, Wise Campus. We had a last blast of culture – stayed in
the beautiful Martha Washington Inn and saw a show at the Barter. It was a wonderful send-off to my first year
of college, majoring in Theatre!<i> We continued on through Bristol, a city of
some size that straddles the Virginia / Tennessee border. We really wanted to find the painted line on
Main Street and stand in both states as Kim had done in earlier times. But Route 11 betrayed us and we found that we
had somehow crossed over to Tennessee without notice or fanfare. So we decided to go ahead and climb up on the
interstate for the rest of the trip. But
first we snapped this pic of Kim in front of an unusual looking fast food restaurant:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhieRwYmxcSdW8Ca-vPAwi2KANbSdxMPQh5BTq2154MZrGvp-zAjCRrsmTsVY5Ocwi8o-kpu_OLFG1eVfMDiT9n2rh7JdJJQl_FL3YVYJO9MMlJBgFTxDtkDMFmjwXITBdTRhAiRjeKSgU/s1600/DSCN1953.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhieRwYmxcSdW8Ca-vPAwi2KANbSdxMPQh5BTq2154MZrGvp-zAjCRrsmTsVY5Ocwi8o-kpu_OLFG1eVfMDiT9n2rh7JdJJQl_FL3YVYJO9MMlJBgFTxDtkDMFmjwXITBdTRhAiRjeKSgU/s320/DSCN1953.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>No, we didn’t eat
there.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The plan was to stop for the night in Nashville TN, which
would leave us with just about 3 hours to travel to Memphis the next day. But when we tried to find a hotel, there was
no room at the inn. Finally, some nice
lady took pity on Mr. Kim and told him that he wasn’t going to find a hotel
room in Nashville. What we didn’t realize
was that that weekend was the CMA (Country Music Assoc.) Music Festival and
Nashville was PACKED for miles around.
She suggested that we start looking in Dickson TN – almost an hour
beyond where we were. We finally arrived - worn out, at a crappy Quality Inn just off the
highway that smelled like years old smoke.
But they had a room and a refrigerator to put stuff in and all we really
needed was a bed! We had sweet dreams, at
least!</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-10586302061690302752016-05-30T22:59:00.000-04:002017-08-28T23:03:21.927-04:00(Mr. Kim blogs) Confessions of a Neurotic Backyard Cook<div class="MsoNormal">
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Okay, here is a seriously random blog entry from Memorial Day
weekend. No serious discussion or
insights into the soul or political fight picking this time. Just something to memorialize an experiment I
undertook this week while on vacation.
So this is an “old school” entry – about cooking.</div>
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I make some seriously good smoked pork barbecue. It’s my one cooking claim to fame, and I am
proud of what has become a reliable touch after years of tweaking things. Over the years in
addition to pork butts, I have also managed a number of hams, lamb roasts, turkey
breasts, sausages, chickens, and a few briskets.
(The Mount Everest in front of me this year is to finely try to plank-smoke
fish.) Although I have long since customized my own
rubs, sauces, and woods for various cooking projects, virtually all of my
initial forays into various smoked meats were guided by the instructions of
Chris Allingham, master of The Virtual Weber Bullet <a href="http://virtualweberbullet.com/" target="_blank">website</a> . Chris is a recipe god for the smoker. His tried and true approaches inspire me when
I want to cook, keep me calm when I am uncertain whether I am on track, and keep
me hungry to try to do more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In my barbecue dreams, I see myself in my retirement days,
now eight years away….. making Q on the
weekends, selling it in a food truck during the week. Or better yet, wholesaling it to a food
trucker and let HIM sell it during the week while I play golf and chase Kim
around the house. I know such ideas are not likely to come to fruition, but
they are fun to think about. But even if
I never make my Q for more than family and neighbors and the folks at church (I
cooked 150 pounds of pork for a fund raiser last year) I know I am doing
something well. That knowledge is
something I treasure. </div>
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Recently, I have become really interested in other uses for
the smoker and other ways to prepare the same meats to achieve different results. I mean, pork butt
doesn’t get much better than smoked to BBQ perfection. But take the lowly brisket, pride of Texas
BBQ, which has been a source of some consternation for me. I have made good brisket BBQ, but have found
that unlike pork butt it freezes rather poorly after the initial serving. So with it being onloy Kim at me at home, I haven’t made much brisket over the
years. Over last winter I began to study
up on various ways to make homemade pastrami.
There are injection methods, and brining methods, and salt curing
methods, and quick methods, and why not just got to the local deli and buy the stuff
methods. (I’ll stop there, lest I begin
to sound like a scene from Forrest Gump.)
Why did pastrami capture my attention?
Who knows? It was another use for brisket. It was there. And I
have never talked to anyone who has actually made their own before. So of course I had to. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After spending time looking at the various roads that arrive
at pastrami, in the end I came home to Chris Allingham’s recipe for dry curing
the stuff. After all these years, I have
come to trust his techniques on other things, so “go with what you know” seemed
to be prudent. So here goes
nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I made one critical mistake before taking even the first
step – I told people at work what I was doing over my stay-at-home-vacation.
So of course, with a dozen of them being fans of my BBQ and ALL of them
being worshipers of Kim’s cooking, I had ready demands for tastings once the
pastrami was ready. Nothing like pressure the first time out! Alas, it was a self-inflicted wound. But this meant, in my mind, that I had to
start with two briskets instead of one, in order to have enough to share, and
also to hedge my bets in case one turned out and the other crashed and
burned. As Chris points out in his recipe narrative, a lot of cheaper pastrami is made from bottom round, but the best
pastrami is made from the flat portion of a brisket. So step one – I bought two brisket flats, one
weighing 7.9 pounds and the other weighting 5.5 pounds.
I tried to buy them with good fat caps as instructed. One had a great cap, the other not as
much. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The first instruction is to trim the fat down to 1/8 of an
inch. As you can see, I went ape-s***
and took off way to much fat. One of the
briskets (the one with the best cap) gave me a fit trying to trim it, and after
an hour I found that I had gone too far.
The other did not start with much fat, and was cleaned up in fifteen
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So Anxiety #1 – too
much fat removed. But as I told Kim, I am approaching this the way many parents approach their second
child – with a degree of perspective that replaces the sheer panic of the
firstborn’s arrival. My crisis of
birthing my “firstborn” -- smoking my first pork butt -- is well documented
much earlier in one of these blog entries. So
an over-trim of my latest project was not going to excite me overly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I applied a rub consisting of Tender Quick, garlic, pepper,
coriander, and light brown sugar (didn’t have the dark in the pantry that the recipe calls for). I made it in the proportions called for, but
found that I had used ¾ or more of it on the first brisket and so I had to make
more for the second one. So insert
Anxiety #2 – too much rub, perhaps.
I wasn’t as comfortable with this, because Tender Quick is a curing salt
and I didn’t know what the impact of too much of it might me. But it couldn’t really be helped. After the rub, I put the briskets to sleep in
the fridge, each in its own 2.5 gallon Hefty bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chris’s recipe calls for the bagged briskets to be turned
over and squished around twice day for three or four days. The fluids drawn out of the meat by the
curing rub supposedly become a slurry that marinades the meat. The first morning after bagging (15 hours or
so into the cure) I went to turn them over and discovered a mess. The Hefty bags – BOTH of them – had not
closed properly. They are the zipper
type, and upon checking them they had opened behind the closed zipper, and no amount of zipping back and forth resulted in
them closing. What DID result was all
that raw meat fluid drooled all over the shelf of the fridge. So quick clean up and sterile wipe, double bag the briskets, lots of
muttering under my breath at Hefty, and keep going. (I did send a complaint to Hefty. They deigned to ignore it.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chris’s recipe says by day two I should see a goodly amount
of fluid/slurry. Beyond that first night
of drool, each turn of the brisket yielded more and more concern – not a drop
of additional fluid was to be seen (until the last morning, and even then it was
de minimis.) So Anxiety #3 – had I
done something wrong? <o:p></o:p></div>
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At last smoking day arrived.
The meat had been in the rub for 3 ½ days. So after a thorough rinsing, they were each
put into a cooler full of water for two rounds of soaking, Kim had been a dear and bought me two new
styro coolers since the meat would be in there all naked. These coolers were the new earth-friendly
stuff. How was I to know that this meant
they were water-permeable? I had to
laugh as the water started visibly weeping through the coolers in a million little spots and started rolling across the kitchen floor! So quickly each cooler into its own side of the
double sink, and then a mop up and then several judicious refills of the soak
water to keep the meat submerged for an hour.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally everything was ready! After an application of a cooking rub (no
Tender Quick or brown sugar this time) the briskets went onto the smoker. Two chimneys of coals and three large chunks
of pecan wood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCcaiItTIADGG6kM3icF7dbNIQK0fpFLi-TaGz79Oe44_aQGq9vfhTStncM8GVxRuhXoMTk-UX-LhcNVRtL6AwKY3qBEoATD9kkRKdLhAi6NK8snxZD3p_ZyF4ABwzfNr2gAd8601ONk/s1600/DSCN1848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCcaiItTIADGG6kM3icF7dbNIQK0fpFLi-TaGz79Oe44_aQGq9vfhTStncM8GVxRuhXoMTk-UX-LhcNVRtL6AwKY3qBEoATD9kkRKdLhAi6NK8snxZD3p_ZyF4ABwzfNr2gAd8601ONk/s320/DSCN1848.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now, Chris’s site not only gives you recipes, it also provides a helpful cooking log of of his experience as he smoked the meat he's explaining about. This is very helpful when I am hours into a smoke and wondering if something is supposed to be taking as long as it is. His log for the pastrami said that during his smoking the meat reached the desired 165 degree internal temp in about 3 ¾ hours. This provided a good sort of guide for my planning. Mine was getting close at about that time – 150
degrees. So I figured it wouldn’t be
long. I started checking every thirty
minutes or so. Four hours. Five hours.
Still the meat was holding at 155 degrees. What the heck was going on? The thermometer on my smoker was reading a
constant and perfect 245 degrees, and it had never misled me. So was my meat in some sort of a stall? (This happens with pork butts in a smoker as the collagen
breaks down, at about 165 or so, only to start climbing again after an hour or two. But
Chris’s recipe didn’t mention it happening with briskets at this low a temp.) At
the six hour mark, the meat temp had dropped to 145, but the smoker temp still
said 245. Something was definitely wrong. So I grabbed Kim’s instant read thermo-gun
and began shooting the various surfaces.
Sure enough the internal temp of the upper smoker was about 150, not the 245 it continued to promise. So the kettle thermometer that had stood by
me for six years had apparently gone gaga in its old age. I fired up another chimney of coals and added
them to the smoker. The meat was done in
another 30 minutes or so. But the extra
time on the heat – how dry had I rendered these poor briskets? (Anxiety #4 giving way to Depression #1.)</div>
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As I pulled the meat, I realized one step that Chris had
mentioned that I hadn’t followed – I had left a portion of the “point” muscle
of the brisket attached to the flat, so it was much fatter on one end. I
mentioned it to Kim, who said oh well, even if that portion is under-cooked it
won’t affect the rest. Gotta hand it to
her for her pragmatism. So with a sigh,
the finished meat was wrapped in foil and placed back in the now-dry hippie
coolers for two hours’ rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, this stuff was supposed to be done by early
afternoon. It was NOT supposed to drag
on til four family members arrived to eat dinner with us. A dinner that had nothing to do with
pastrami. But after all this effort, I
was not going to wait to see what the results were. So we stood there and carved it in front of
all of them, while they awaited a more traditional meal. Here is a pic of the finished product:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The verdict: I think it looks great! This recipe yields firm and tasty pastrami. All of the mistakes sort of smoothed
themselves out. It is moist and spicy
from the rub, but not overly so. The
flavor is strong but not over-cured, the smoke is gentle. Now, of the four family members who watched
us slice it up, one loved it, another liked it, another tasted it and
couldn’t get rid of it fast enough, and another acknowledged that although she
likes pastrami, she didn’t even want to taste this stuff. If you factor in Kim and me for liking the
result, and the vote of confidence from my wonderful neighbor, I am will to rate this as a
qualified success. Is it better tasting
than commercially prepared pastrami? I’d
say it has a comparable flavor, with a bit more peppery-ness. Kim says it tastes much better than anything from a deli. But Kim loves me. Cost-wise, it’s probably only a little
cheaper than buying the comparable weight from the deli. But it is homemade. By me.
And it doesn’t suck. YAY!<o:p></o:p></div>
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So yes, a very boring blog entry. But at least it is not an unpleasant topic
like politics or the upcoming Washington Redskins season. Now, let's see how the hordes at work like it tomorrow!<o:p></o:p></div>
Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-51829836493339557832016-05-01T17:12:00.000-04:002016-05-01T17:12:10.233-04:00(Mr. Kim blogs) Blessings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had planned out a blog entry to write today, all about the
wonderful day Jess and Kim and I had at the French Food Festival
yesterday. Took a lot of pics and
everything. But that post will need to
wait. Today I am dwelling on a different
topic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We all take things for granted. It is our nature to focus on things that have
changed, not things that are the same over and over again. That probably is hardwired into us since the
days when our ancestors watched the distant horizon for storms, and the ground
for signs of possible food, and the nearby brush for the slightest movement of
a predator. But in following this
instinct, we can fail to appreciate the tremendous things that are in our everyday
lives. Things that supposedly will always
be there. And sometimes it turns out
they just aren’t any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We arrived at church this morning and after hugs in the
hallway with folks we haven’t seen in days, we took our usual seats – right side,
row 10, next to the aisle. Creatures of
habit, we. And we have been at St. Martin’s
long enough that usually no one is in “our” seats. We sang and said the traditional prayers from
the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, listened to the bible readings and the
sermon. Today’s sermon was being
vigilant and observant of the needs of those around us. Then we had shared The Peace and sat to
listen to morning announcements. It was
then that we learned that there had been a small fire at the church. Most everyone looked shocked and concerned as
Father Lee explained that apparently someone had been smoking a homemade marijuana
water pipe in the breezeway that separates our sanctuary from the
administration building/fellowship hall, and had apparently dropped a burning
something-or-other along with the water pipe just outside of the sanctuary
door. Father Lee assured everyone that
steps were being taken – additional foot patrols by the police, motion cameras –
and that the damage would be taken care of after our vestry has decided on a
course of action. Apparently, this was
the second time in a week that drug paraphernalia had been found at our church
doors. A church in the woods, with many
tuckaway areas away from the road and the parking lot, must be very convenient
for folks who need time and space away from prying eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving the church after services, looking just a few feet
from the door, the damage was obvious to see – a 6x6 column supporting the
breezeway was missing the bottom 9 inches or so with char up the column and a 4
foot square area of mulch in cinders around it.
Kim and I had walked by it on the way in to church and had never noticed
it. I guess we really needed that sermon
on being more observant!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Looking at the damage, I realized how hot the fire must have
been to actually burn away a 6x6 treated wooden column. And I looked at the wooden breezeway it
supported, and thought about the sanctuary with its wooden ceiling, just 8 feet
from the column. And I realized just how
close this whole place was to being gone.
What would it have taken for the fire to spread to the breezeway roof
and then to the church, another 30 minutes?
15? 5? If
the fire department had not been alerted when they were, this could have been a
terrible fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
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All day my mind has returned to that image of the dangling
post. And I realize just how blessed we
are. We did not lose our church
building. Yes, I realize that even if
the fire had consumed it our church is not made up of a building but of its people
and the church would have stayed strong.
But that does not diminish the turmoil that would have occurred. St. Martin’s has become the focal point of
our Christian life. It is not essential
to our faith but it is central to our expression of that faith. And we were given a subtle reminder that not
all things we take for granted will be there forever, that we need to appreciate
the gifts we have before us. And that lesson
requires no sermon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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May God continue to bless our church. And may He protect and bless the persons
whose choices resulted in this small fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-20065800657110687432015-10-14T14:59:00.000-04:002015-10-14T14:59:18.234-04:00March 2015 Anniversary Trip to Fredericksburg<div>
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(Mr. Kim’s contributions are italicized)<o:p></o:p></div>
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We usually go to the Outer Banks for our anniversary each
March. But this year we decided to try
something new. We ended up in
Fredericksburg on a weekend drive back in February and had dinner at one of our
favorite restaurants, The Bavarian Chef.
The drive home was so easy that it occurred to us that a weekend trip
less than an hour from home might be a really nice way to spend our anniversary
– no exhausting drive home! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Friday, March 20<sup>th</sup>:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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We checked into our
lovely room at the Courtyard on Caroline Street:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perfect location – right in the Historic District and within
walking distance of almost everything we wanted to see. First things first. Carl’s Frozen Custard:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyitme6I41OyBxzkPT5SRxwB6UXpAn85Gi8YRQ-OeRotDFjQphd271lshmFbPHZY50u3zCbuRtnckQK9W_KOd7SqJteWkL7b7jc9NSR9GD5mAKDf6kbGvewFD6jq8PfiHTNIQUdA3ReA/s1600/DSCN5509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyitme6I41OyBxzkPT5SRxwB6UXpAn85Gi8YRQ-OeRotDFjQphd271lshmFbPHZY50u3zCbuRtnckQK9W_KOd7SqJteWkL7b7jc9NSR9GD5mAKDf6kbGvewFD6jq8PfiHTNIQUdA3ReA/s320/DSCN5509.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was still midday, so there was no one in line but this
lone gentleman who told us that he HAD to stop.
We understood completely:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0UEjQN-nsHBqBX5aLWFLtibVLmA1rp5G71XEB_8VhrDtJKE0CaUNPBQ3hWK04OzJ66uUtwDmkV_7qsZESx69_wc9hhZxS17Qb3nVSevyYGgUK2MyXK070vH4vumoIFAcUBpy2hAL9Lk/s1600/DSCN5511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0UEjQN-nsHBqBX5aLWFLtibVLmA1rp5G71XEB_8VhrDtJKE0CaUNPBQ3hWK04OzJ66uUtwDmkV_7qsZESx69_wc9hhZxS17Qb3nVSevyYGgUK2MyXK070vH4vumoIFAcUBpy2hAL9Lk/s320/DSCN5511.JPG" width="174" /></a></div>
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Frozen custard is my favorite form of frozen dessert. I grew up going to the Frozen Dairy Bar on
Route 50 in Falls Church VA:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgS24F1uUR-Dg-wA_WTHztMF-apqQaZAfCzQT7BTfVdxBcI8LyAqtb96NIjtKA3xpicI-UkxyVR7yCAUDtGmOwVN2PgeRPDwvkr6G5IzUfhEczh8MzO1Mc2D4oOJJJGWtRcc4iQR_UWk/s1600/frozen+dairy+bar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgS24F1uUR-Dg-wA_WTHztMF-apqQaZAfCzQT7BTfVdxBcI8LyAqtb96NIjtKA3xpicI-UkxyVR7yCAUDtGmOwVN2PgeRPDwvkr6G5IzUfhEczh8MzO1Mc2D4oOJJJGWtRcc4iQR_UWk/s320/frozen+dairy+bar.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This place opened in 1950, so I knew it my entire life. Carl’s tastes like my childhood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We wandered around town and ended up at The Bavarian Chef
for dinner. The Madison location has
been one of our favorite places since we lived in Charlottesville when Mr. Kim
was in grad school. Everything is
delicious, the people are incredibly welcoming and the atmosphere is cozy. You always worry when a restaurant opens
additional locations – will it dilute the quality? This is NOT the case in the Fredericksburg
restaurant at all. It is everything we
want it to be. And my favorite dish
there (one of my top 10 favorite meals in the world) is exactly the same:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is what they call “Snails in Beer Batter Provencal”. In other words, escargot fritters!!! Drenched in garlic butter!!!! Escargot has been one of my favorites since I
was a little kid, believe it or not, but this version is the best I’ve ever
had. We had a lovely evening – being treated
royally, as always. You can see how
happy we are:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Luckily we were close to the hotel, because we were so full
that there was a real danger of falling asleep on our feet!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Saturday, March 21<sup>st</sup>:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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We had passed this place going to Carl’s the day before and
thought it looked like our kind of place for breakfast:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVofDv88k92u4yOdAvVcF8ulm03c50PsKrOzP28hpHTft_2IMAcfliGWZewNnCpZXXQamkvGaHUBXgPvckZHxfHZcJvN24pkNyxo8__oCXXOouJwLRIzDI7ub-ndMLUu_xhg-HOclXko/s1600/DSCN5537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVofDv88k92u4yOdAvVcF8ulm03c50PsKrOzP28hpHTft_2IMAcfliGWZewNnCpZXXQamkvGaHUBXgPvckZHxfHZcJvN24pkNyxo8__oCXXOouJwLRIzDI7ub-ndMLUu_xhg-HOclXko/s320/DSCN5537.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Instincts proved not at all faulty! Very cool and friendly place, owned by Greeks
and with a great breakfast menu. </div>
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Mr. Kim had a Greek omelet:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I had this crazy plate of eggs, potatoes, sausage, and creamed
chipped beef on toast:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIy6ey4IYIrvNZ46SbNIDHTNqyV-2WfRwxHhR7jsVH1ks-ZvfnG4IZgmCpLNRfFMDQuJQmFj2r1p6KFWcxCjxM5xeFHlO8moCFCy5D2FbuPQ2vz-lJP_T0Rpqph3dOcgI_z4KCxJhbsYw/s1600/DSCN5534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIy6ey4IYIrvNZ46SbNIDHTNqyV-2WfRwxHhR7jsVH1ks-ZvfnG4IZgmCpLNRfFMDQuJQmFj2r1p6KFWcxCjxM5xeFHlO8moCFCy5D2FbuPQ2vz-lJP_T0Rpqph3dOcgI_z4KCxJhbsYw/s320/DSCN5534.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I can’t even find it on the menu, so I obviously ordered a
SIDE ORDER of the creamed chipped beef.
I don’t thing I even finished half of this. Everything was fantastic. Mr. Kim’s omelet was so good that the next
morning (yes, we ate there TWICE), he talked the man sitting next to him at the
counter into ordering it, too!<o:p></o:p></div>
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We took one of our aimless drives – following interesting
signs and country roads - and ended up in a cute little town on the Potomac
called Fairview Beach (pop. 391). Really
not much more than some houses, a marina, a general store and this restaurant:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bMdJph429Oylq2q6pqjmsHHNpV6vrTG_kVtzORbr_4MVLuvEt0veaLkHCjfTscvgoV1q_LkQtyAT_6mdvIS4zPepQQ7wOptPQeckydXetDes6ldjozmORLNHM5gEaUBa-77VcFpSrQo/s1600/DSCN5541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bMdJph429Oylq2q6pqjmsHHNpV6vrTG_kVtzORbr_4MVLuvEt0veaLkHCjfTscvgoV1q_LkQtyAT_6mdvIS4zPepQQ7wOptPQeckydXetDes6ldjozmORLNHM5gEaUBa-77VcFpSrQo/s320/DSCN5541.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We had a drink (which the bartender comped as a way of
saying welcome), wandered the dock and gazed at the water. Lovely.
<i>We also drove around collecting ‘For Sale’ signs and dreaming of a
retirement beside the river. We came
back to earth when we found that even the shacks were well over $2K! </i> Back in Fredericksburg we puttered around
antique stores:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And had lunch at Goolrick’s Pharmacy, an old fashioned place
with a lunch counter:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiALDVfI6hnFTJ4moa3TdYCIfAkUWbxefG9yYLFhBUNfEJFMKQ-VA680PWKv-jHECZ76E-2HhugLy342Iw5f7wWu5Jpdn69NGtmKkFUXpycgLUJp332ViqkvnZED_nHCG5tMBSs4lf8EE4/s1600/goolricks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiALDVfI6hnFTJ4moa3TdYCIfAkUWbxefG9yYLFhBUNfEJFMKQ-VA680PWKv-jHECZ76E-2HhugLy342Iw5f7wWu5Jpdn69NGtmKkFUXpycgLUJp332ViqkvnZED_nHCG5tMBSs4lf8EE4/s320/goolricks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We have our good friend, Julie, to thank for recommending
both Goolrick’s and the Gari Melcher house & Studio to us (more later about
that). Mr. Kim had a chocolate malt and
I had an ice cream soda. BLTs and a tuna
salad completed our lunch. Their menu is
truly old fashioned, with sandwiches like chicken salad, egg salad, liverwurst,
etc. And the soda fountain choices are
perfect. Like being a kid in the 1960’s
and eating out with your mom after a doctor’s appointment at Drug Fair! And because we are 12, this old sign gave us
a giggle:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCUlRd4iZJKNXufqbwgXl5iLYTZhk1K-pi-luMryu9ZTDRB9VLKTtKzFgtVRTjcaMju6zWLq3yiwRZF470kCcYau8-A364jxPAV_lMK7Ok_UHiQ31AZzw3zrloia4g38SuWqfHE8m6EM/s1600/DSCN5559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCUlRd4iZJKNXufqbwgXl5iLYTZhk1K-pi-luMryu9ZTDRB9VLKTtKzFgtVRTjcaMju6zWLq3yiwRZF470kCcYau8-A364jxPAV_lMK7Ok_UHiQ31AZzw3zrloia4g38SuWqfHE8m6EM/s320/DSCN5559.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We puttered some more and went back to our room. We had great plans for dinner, but ended up
falling asleep, being the old farts we are.
I woke up after 9pm starving. I
knew it was too late to go to any of the places that we’d been thinking of and
had the idea that, being a college town, Fredericksburg MUST have a good sub
place. Then a little idea trickled into
my head. We were only about an hour away
from Arlington. I actually KNEW a place
that had subs and was open until 3am.
Plenty of time to get there. I
woke Mr. Kim up, detailed my plan and he was ready to go in about 3
minutes. Approximately an hour later we
arrived:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sure I’ve posted about Mario’s before. It opened in 1957 – which means that I ate
Mario’s before I was born. It was one of
Momma’s pregnancy cravings. They have
the best subs I’ve ever tasted in my life.
We’ve even taken Philly folks there who have become addicted. The thing to get is a ham, steak and cheese:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love this sub, as you can see:<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of my 'last meal' items.
As I said, I was eating this stuff before I was born, which is the only
explanation for the fact that I love their pizza, too:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t think anyone who hasn’t grown up with Mario’s pizza
would love it. I am a total pizza snob
and won’t eat the evil three (Domino’s, Pizza Hut or Papa John’s) and yet, I
love Mario’s. It is a perplexity. We made our way back to Fredericksburg,
replete and sleepy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Sunday, March 22<sup>nd</sup>:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Our last day. After
breakfast back at the 2400 Diner, we went a little farther afield for the day. We wandered around the Fredericksburg City
Cemetery and Confederate Cemetery:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is a lovely setting.
Old enough (established in 1844) to be peaceful instead of creepy. </div>
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Even some beads ala New Orleans:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>T<span style="background: white;">here was a plaque in the Confederate
cemetery dedicated to the memory of several named soldiers whose remains had
been buried elsewhere in town but had been dug up and booted out to make room
for Union veterans several years later. But instead of relocating the
Confederate remains here, they were simply discarded. People carrying the
symbols of that war in their hearts are nothing new to this current century.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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March Madness always is a part of our anniversary
weekend. Luckily, we both love college
basketball and UVA was playing, so we stopped at a bar and had a snack and
watched:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Note the score. This was the last time Mr. Kim was happy during the game. We lost to Michigan State 60-54. Mr. Kim is not happy:<o:p></o:p></div>
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We cheered ourselves up with our last Fredericksburg
excursion of the weekend. As I said
before, Julie had suggested that we go to the Gari Melcher House & Art
Studio. I confess, I’d never heard of
Gari Melcher or the home. Neither had
Mr. Kim. Thank you to Julie for
correcting that. We were charmed by the
home and overwhelmed by the talent of the artist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The house:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-uY2qyLjDz5pNdllpn6vC5qfBRG2pImW1nhyphenhyphenvzx4ty3UWmw8KnJ_eVGVm99VmkScta4MSHFLe59IWOQJzcZKclc6tlOQZaVKWMk4KPzT_O5GiVirabbNQq0maqCgIl9HnxA5l1cx8WM/s1600/DSCN5614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-uY2qyLjDz5pNdllpn6vC5qfBRG2pImW1nhyphenhyphenvzx4ty3UWmw8KnJ_eVGVm99VmkScta4MSHFLe59IWOQJzcZKclc6tlOQZaVKWMk4KPzT_O5GiVirabbNQq0maqCgIl9HnxA5l1cx8WM/s320/DSCN5614.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The studio and gallery:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some of his work:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUN6F2Glq0JJeLlgP35O9YEU4JonpVLQHfOoNFS-e6eYUy8hrRbtSACsb1MPUXfrDhhqkZGpEc4OC5Z6GLXpv5wz9mmJZ_eWY8Yn8WPk9mG48dJtpsn6C311EzQSfJPDQJdcVXICIjsE/s1600/melchers+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUN6F2Glq0JJeLlgP35O9YEU4JonpVLQHfOoNFS-e6eYUy8hrRbtSACsb1MPUXfrDhhqkZGpEc4OC5Z6GLXpv5wz9mmJZ_eWY8Yn8WPk9mG48dJtpsn6C311EzQSfJPDQJdcVXICIjsE/s320/melchers+I.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKH4DHd90wc-mK2f0Oxvilxthn9bjRtGp8EKcr5yq2nzPpxhRFzCNPRx_Nk_DbGOLi5cyiIk6SmHksYng0jw3Re1sF3F2oyUPyrHFLayUtNmeeEmsTLnn1V1iONZRXIQDGoS-nlZFzGI/s1600/melchers+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKH4DHd90wc-mK2f0Oxvilxthn9bjRtGp8EKcr5yq2nzPpxhRFzCNPRx_Nk_DbGOLi5cyiIk6SmHksYng0jw3Re1sF3F2oyUPyrHFLayUtNmeeEmsTLnn1V1iONZRXIQDGoS-nlZFzGI/s320/melchers+II.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
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(Internet Photos)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tour of the house is guided, but you can wander the
garden and the studio/gallery freely. We
will most definitely go back. We were
the last tour of the day, so we didn’t get to spend much time in the shop. I want to choose a print – this art is
something that I need in my home! The
website give lots of good information about Melchers and his home and art: <a href="http://garimelchers.umw.edu/" target="_blank">http://garimelchers.umw.edu/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Cheered up considerably, as you can see,:<o:p></o:p></div>
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we made our way back to Richmond with yet another wonderful
trip and another wonderful year of being together under our belts (and perhaps
a couple more pounds). I am uniquely
blessed to have the husband that I have.
We share and enjoy one another so much.
I know how lucky I am. Most
days. Sometimes I take it for granted,
but I try not to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-50894085203851641292015-04-14T18:06:00.001-04:002015-04-14T18:07:09.064-04:00My First Official Post-Lenten Bitch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjJ7zg93sMiP4XqUOssbpeBhyVHqbkZFz2sWUvIJHjaqMehOV8dtoCO7N5Fcdqw2GSPgUoJGy6HFdlTbNPddmmw4-s_y7morgEoUtH2zMXS9Ti6hyphenhyphenpSEERyFhM-nSXkxIhoGp_bMiRdA/s1600/carpenter+center+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjJ7zg93sMiP4XqUOssbpeBhyVHqbkZFz2sWUvIJHjaqMehOV8dtoCO7N5Fcdqw2GSPgUoJGy6HFdlTbNPddmmw4-s_y7morgEoUtH2zMXS9Ti6hyphenhyphenpSEERyFhM-nSXkxIhoGp_bMiRdA/s1600/carpenter+center+5.jpg" height="320" width="277" /></a></div>
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I’ve been saving this blog post since our jaunt to the
Carpenter Center in Richmond to hear the symphony do a Mozart concert back in
March. I couldn’t write it before
because it was during Lent and I’d given up bitching and moaning for the duration. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And this time, the bitching and moaning is not about the
music. The program was wonderful and I
didn’t nod off once (I am a known philistine).
No, the B & M’ing is about the horror that is the Carpenter Center
itself. And not in a fun, kitchy horror
like The Theatre Formally Known As The
Mosque. The Carpenter Center is a
truly terrible mishmash monument to bad taste.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do not allow that beautiful outside shot above to fool
you. The outer halls are a
conglomeration of Roman, Greek, Moorish, Spanish with peculiar chairs and
railing and columns. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The auditorium itself looks like something that was got up
for some lugubrious Italian opera (all fat sopranos and sweaty tenors). And as if some committee said, “Well, we’ve
already spent the money, let’s just leave it”:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4FXALlRd20K314ef0HpDSsIbYEOki9OLJdHjaUPf9KwHdRM7Es1nhWxOBCcEs5bZfeaw2_5OQrsny-69aK2i7NluyXflHiR3xrM775BbTcNT27Lmyz5NYuG33k6-zYark_-ZdJiQUHI/s1600/carpenter+center+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4FXALlRd20K314ef0HpDSsIbYEOki9OLJdHjaUPf9KwHdRM7Es1nhWxOBCcEs5bZfeaw2_5OQrsny-69aK2i7NluyXflHiR3xrM775BbTcNT27Lmyz5NYuG33k6-zYark_-ZdJiQUHI/s1600/carpenter+center+3.jpg" height="122" width="320" /></a></div>
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The ceiling is supposed to look like the sky, I think. But to me it looks so much like the
undulating sea floor that I actually got a little mal de mer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And what the hell are these:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksWAtZA7NDNe_UvDdUKNbAxrBQNSOYt0jtqjbAfdJQcaEbE2H_laMx15_qP0Z8PdDrKGDQs6yeqWDEsei7lwFJPwn9EaSNW_SMV86_CoSP374pZBgk1XY7xXl9Fe0SzjziebS3XF1ZE4/s1600/carpenter+center+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksWAtZA7NDNe_UvDdUKNbAxrBQNSOYt0jtqjbAfdJQcaEbE2H_laMx15_qP0Z8PdDrKGDQs6yeqWDEsei7lwFJPwn9EaSNW_SMV86_CoSP374pZBgk1XY7xXl9Fe0SzjziebS3XF1ZE4/s1600/carpenter+center+4.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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Clouds? A poor
imitation of Calder? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know who made all of the decisions about the
redecoration of this space but it is typical of our fair city, I’m afraid. Richmond officials seem to spend most of
their time with their heads up their posteriors. I just found out the one of their current
plans is to eliminate over 700 on street parking spaces on our major thoroughfare
to make way for a bus lane. They do
these things and then wonder why no one in the suburbs ever comes
downtown. <o:p></o:p></div>
Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-86822722797615912482015-02-20T14:07:00.000-05:002015-02-20T14:07:08.244-05:00SNOW!!!!<div class="MsoNormal">
I put up this little flag a week or so ago:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIYaI5Jm1WPNLL8Y122PlvT5d0u_64rh2dyKlLPMDDroG6Ms7sL9GW3tCZAddWtKaV3EkmAXBClKpIka2Sk2T_mqsC6ty4X_LzXOOqCdT3rBtlA3cnv2yS-tbG-IQA-vzuAWpxvHVZZ0/s1600/DSCN5434-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIYaI5Jm1WPNLL8Y122PlvT5d0u_64rh2dyKlLPMDDroG6Ms7sL9GW3tCZAddWtKaV3EkmAXBClKpIka2Sk2T_mqsC6ty4X_LzXOOqCdT3rBtlA3cnv2yS-tbG-IQA-vzuAWpxvHVZZ0/s1600/DSCN5434-001.JPG" /></a></div>
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And look what I got:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4ASRMsuIMmulAIACHkyKOUK3lbw1ElnQTnIVYiGFRGYDUuM4mdJonU1lkvosxnwHU99SSW2k2achmWd5JrjH-8AFeXQjVuLYN-2MgT_DFoW0IcIH8jbokNYRfowBhsgB9Iun0NM0vhk/s1600/DSCN5429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4ASRMsuIMmulAIACHkyKOUK3lbw1ElnQTnIVYiGFRGYDUuM4mdJonU1lkvosxnwHU99SSW2k2achmWd5JrjH-8AFeXQjVuLYN-2MgT_DFoW0IcIH8jbokNYRfowBhsgB9Iun0NM0vhk/s1600/DSCN5429.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">The
three of us are like little kids with snow.
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">We love blizzards and snow days and one of our most treasured family
traditions centers around this song:</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CH2KGboA35c" target="_blank">Click for video</a></span></div>
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At the first flake, we sing it. If we aren’t together, we call or text this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“snow”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The response is:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“snow”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That goes back and forth a few times and then because we
only know the words to the “snow” part, we all join in with “da da da da da da
da da da…..SNOW”. We are completely weird. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You know it just occurred to me. I also have a UVA flag out on the side of the
house and they haven’t lost a game since I put it out. I wonder if they make a “Lottery” flag? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-39487425637677099242015-01-30T10:40:00.000-05:002015-01-30T10:40:20.159-05:00Girly Girl?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcg972NdobPD3jfgJ2UpUU4Pc770ciDnIzcsZYPHGJCt9sM6iB-OLSSVpg7cVcX4kRkijMBGJaLGCQ4QvmRH919JLPQGnQ1xMU7LWTGgMQQGX5QcB-a1P1DAiwMpmnRofsaZsw8SbN_9U/s1600/girly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcg972NdobPD3jfgJ2UpUU4Pc770ciDnIzcsZYPHGJCt9sM6iB-OLSSVpg7cVcX4kRkijMBGJaLGCQ4QvmRH919JLPQGnQ1xMU7LWTGgMQQGX5QcB-a1P1DAiwMpmnRofsaZsw8SbN_9U/s1600/girly.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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In many ways I am a Girly Girl. I love flowers and ribbons. I am irreversibly drawn to the color pink and
would paint every room in my house a soft, pinky hue if Mr. Kim would stand for
it. Shabby Chic was invented with me in
mind. My favorite magazine in the world
is ‘Victoria’ and I have YEARS of back issues just in case we ever win the
lottery. If that happens, I will hand
them to an interior decorator and say, “this is what I want”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My heart thrills to the idea of a perfect tea party and
vintage Valentines. And I am like a
monkey when I see jewelry. I go for the
sparkliest! My hands just naturally
gravitate to gems like aquamarine, peridot, amethyst – anything faceted and
pastel. And should we win the
aforementioned lottery, my first purchase will be the twee-est cottage in all
of England. I already have it picked
out:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1VVKk9q1Yj6gAOpuV_SADgGomWasdkE1eQtFTjXrBtDW-jfEq5dVdMDOoml8zj3zzF1kjJYUHZ_cekUwOfORm7LqWO6f6D7TcXzCnXICUmSHfyELk6ayXx0ga0vCoGFXel4dGVHB-Pk/s1600/23-1k2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1VVKk9q1Yj6gAOpuV_SADgGomWasdkE1eQtFTjXrBtDW-jfEq5dVdMDOoml8zj3zzF1kjJYUHZ_cekUwOfORm7LqWO6f6D7TcXzCnXICUmSHfyELk6ayXx0ga0vCoGFXel4dGVHB-Pk/s1600/23-1k2.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’ve always had basically the same taste. My wedding china (chosen almost 33 years ago)
is Haviland Limoges in the girliest pattern I could find:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtLbQfxIGUqEfBsg04GrOqtv_YrmlcSnYUsOYJyz9gg9rbvXWMExTfi4WTz8oxcGRl9d0DJQE980zxj3oWvl-eSFbgYY4iqz7i1BvoAU9udj-d6GFtxv3E-2pFMOQTIGWAyHiPQlJBPA/s1600/china.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtLbQfxIGUqEfBsg04GrOqtv_YrmlcSnYUsOYJyz9gg9rbvXWMExTfi4WTz8oxcGRl9d0DJQE980zxj3oWvl-eSFbgYY4iqz7i1BvoAU9udj-d6GFtxv3E-2pFMOQTIGWAyHiPQlJBPA/s1600/china.JPG" height="302" width="320" /></a></div>
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Scalloped gold edges, pink flower sprigs and the rims are
the palest green imaginable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bless Mr. Kim – what he puts up with! Other men might impose certain
restrictions. They might object to a
pink bedroom and family room. He did, a
bit, but capitulated when he saw just how pale it really was. They might insist on an overstuffed cushy
leather couch (BTW – is this a rule now when you are setting up house? Do you HAVE to purchase a leather sofa? You can hardly find a fabric sofa in the
stores anymore). Other than shoes there
is not a piece of leather in our entire house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So why, with all of this unbridled girly-ness, does it come
to a screeching stop when it comes to clothes?
Why does my ‘wardrobe’ consist of khakis, black pants, plain long
sleeved shirts and t-shirts? Why do I
wear sensible walking shoes instead of dainty heels and flats? Why do I feel like a fool in a hat and like
Clodhopper McDoofus in a dress? I don’t
dress ‘butch’, just very plain. I’ve
always said that my design theme is ‘collage’ and that I never met a lily I
couldn’t gild, but that ends in decorating and influences my dress not at
all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It just goes to show that people are odd and I am one of the
oddest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-91815469181477719572015-01-14T13:08:00.000-05:002015-01-14T13:08:43.861-05:00Best Christmas Decoration Find This Season!!!<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite holiday decorations are a combination of
whimsical, vintage and on the edge of creepy.
A little kitsch doesn’t hurt either.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples include these guys from Halloween (CLICK ANY PICTURE TO ENLARGE):<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_id2Dqkw8RCcvj3LR-IgkaFbNEfs7mPgSqYAWM5w8tjuR5GJcV-bvFEn-Ua8z1BSdXioCB_zByj-owq-9JXBgV4M5inCVSoxIaY3MegRmerNOmZFk-IkMmt1ViZZe-bA3ThheIyu9gU8/s1600/decorations.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_id2Dqkw8RCcvj3LR-IgkaFbNEfs7mPgSqYAWM5w8tjuR5GJcV-bvFEn-Ua8z1BSdXioCB_zByj-owq-9JXBgV4M5inCVSoxIaY3MegRmerNOmZFk-IkMmt1ViZZe-bA3ThheIyu9gU8/s1600/decorations.JPG" /></a></div>
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And this adorable little girl:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPbOHfsTnWLcSVw9146TlaiS8-3lWTX7Xz1eS8Mde0F9U-m8dPmuWyemohNO7nLYnLpmk2d9ZftuIl1DTzECnsyKYiMqhPrS9PVnQvAJXh4bAsrFZtIfByyQdqz4WlCAK00TLNRZRjd8/s1600/decorations+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPbOHfsTnWLcSVw9146TlaiS8-3lWTX7Xz1eS8Mde0F9U-m8dPmuWyemohNO7nLYnLpmk2d9ZftuIl1DTzECnsyKYiMqhPrS9PVnQvAJXh4bAsrFZtIfByyQdqz4WlCAK00TLNRZRjd8/s1600/decorations+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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Some favorite Christmas ones:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlabaLRF8_as_y1eRAIOcZEc6OF162ewknG5lX3nZiUYCrIgmHJkRgs8f7IAzhCby7J94N6VXzmbpPhKIfeC_xOBpzVxsxDWY6XOxHQYt9n9qwPc_iZhtzZkMc178WLtNdKR_G2BJ90dk/s1600/DSCN5300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlabaLRF8_as_y1eRAIOcZEc6OF162ewknG5lX3nZiUYCrIgmHJkRgs8f7IAzhCby7J94N6VXzmbpPhKIfeC_xOBpzVxsxDWY6XOxHQYt9n9qwPc_iZhtzZkMc178WLtNdKR_G2BJ90dk/s1600/DSCN5300.JPG" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvcRU0Bh3MlLfC0y7rRU8wLKfdJYy8KpQcVAHbKFUnE_2m550ek82arJThFGLGTCI1NDM03ia9SGSQUJDHjB3cuzJFerIx7q42cHfB391az00vEhJjpf3Aie0AZ2AVMy22R582-Dnew0/s1600/DSCN5301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvcRU0Bh3MlLfC0y7rRU8wLKfdJYy8KpQcVAHbKFUnE_2m550ek82arJThFGLGTCI1NDM03ia9SGSQUJDHjB3cuzJFerIx7q42cHfB391az00vEhJjpf3Aie0AZ2AVMy22R582-Dnew0/s1600/DSCN5301.JPG" height="281" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyQwRrp5PeCe9pJKNTpo2O6D2c9dTjkTDmE6vwuo1NnYRF-99XDnpZNCCJmA9wnyfUALejbXGAOQTSnFoZbq4WUtye9WYvikBlECuySUfrjJe17ANG-ES0ztxzW60mFIvr_NqF2mWQwE/s1600/DSCN5303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyQwRrp5PeCe9pJKNTpo2O6D2c9dTjkTDmE6vwuo1NnYRF-99XDnpZNCCJmA9wnyfUALejbXGAOQTSnFoZbq4WUtye9WYvikBlECuySUfrjJe17ANG-ES0ztxzW60mFIvr_NqF2mWQwE/s1600/DSCN5303.JPG" height="320" width="162" /></a></div>
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I love vintage (or reproduction vintage) postcards and ephemera. These festoon either side of our fireplace:<o:p></o:p></div>
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But this year, I think I’ve found the best. A few days ago we wandered into a new Asian
grocery store in our neighborhood.
Mostly what you’d expect and we were happy to have one so near. But…one section was odds and ends – dishes,
cookwear, utensils, etc. On a top shelf
were a few things left over from Christmas including this fellow:<o:p></o:p></div>
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So how could I resist?
All the plastic, the fold-down reindeer, the directions on the box that
implore you to “Please take the body of the elderly. Do not take the first, to prevent injury!” So, for $3.99 we brought him home. And only when we got him home did we realize
the true magic of this Santa. Under the
sleigh, there was a battery slot! He
does something! I didn’t know what – I hoped
that the accordion moved and maybe some music.
But he went beyond my expectations.
This is what he does (click to play video):<o:p></o:p></div>
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Listen to the children sing!
And observe the locomotion! And the ghastly
light up face! BLUE! He’s more than I could have hoped for. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You now have proof that I’m completely nuts. And I won’t blame anyone for steering clear
of me in the future (at least around the holidays). But I can’t deny that he delights me in some weird
and wonderful way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy New Year to you all and I hope that you have your
decorations put away before us!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-73620472839263796612015-01-09T19:47:00.000-05:002015-01-09T19:47:54.491-05:00Wanderlust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We love traveling. If
that means a long planned and saved for trip to Europe, a once a year anniversary
jaunt to the Outer Banks or just an impromptu visit to a part of Richmond we’ve
never spent any time in, it’s all appealing to us. While you never get away from phones anymore,
we love that feeling of freedom and unconnectedness that comes from being
GONE. No laundry, no raking, nothing to
look at that says, “You need to deal with this”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I love spending time with Mr. Kim. I know I talk his ears off. And I’m sure sometimes after an hour or so
alone with me he WISHES they were off. I
am the original Jabberjaws. I can
prattle on about anything. But we DO
enjoy our escapes. We had a lovely
surprise one on Tuesday. Mr. Kim has
been off work for a few days and had really not done anything fun. We just lazed around the house getting a few
things done (NOT taking down any Christmas decorations – they are all still
up). He had oral surgery today and goes
back to work on Tuesday next week, so I wanted him to have some time out of the
house. We discussed a few different
things and he finally decided on some antiquing (yes, I married a man who
enjoys wandering around antique shops – mass envy from all my girlfriends, I
know) in Lakeside. We had a lovely time
poking around the shops, not buying, but searching for some cordial glasses
(our good friends, the Burrs, introduced us to Stone’s Original Ginger wine. It makes a lovely aperitif. We had to borrow appropriate glasses and were
looking for some of our own. Every
pattern we liked had 3, 4 or 5, but not 6.
We want six. So we had a good
time looking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the stores closed, at 5pm, we were ready to eat. We’ve been wanting to try a place near there
that I’ve heard good things about – hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, bologna
burgers, nightly dinner specials like spaghetti, meatloaf and BBQ. Just our kind of place. Unfortunately they were closed for their Christmas
holiday. So we just hit Route 301 North,
going nowhere in particular. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was still light, so the drive was lovely. I am always for taking the state route over
the interstate and the country road over the state route. More jibber-jabber from me (poor Mr. Kim) and
a little desultory conversation about where we might eat. Ashland was mentioned, as was Pope’s Creek
for crabs. But we felt like going
farther than Ashland and it was just too damn cold for crabs. So we settled on Fredericksburg. Specifically The Bavarian Chef in Fredericksburg. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A little backstory: When Mr. Kim was in grad school at UVA,
we discovered The Bavarian Chef on Route 29 in Madison. It was a little steep for grad students, but
was the perfect place for parents to take us to when visiting (insert sly
smile). We all fell madly in love with
this place. Very friendly family running
it, incredibly good German food (can’t say whether it is authentic or not, but
delicious) and HUGE portions. A really
cool thing that they did was to put only the protein portion of your meal on a
plate and then bring a bunch of bowls full of side dishes – very family
style. It’s the kind of place that
induces food comas, but in a good way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we ended up back in Richmond, we went back a few times
and loved it still. Mr. Kim’s parents
have gone back over the years – even staying in a hotel so they wouldn’t have
to drive back in a coma (about a one hour drive!). We were very excited to hear that they had
opened a location in Fredericksburg – just an hour north of us and a delightful
place to visit. With one thing and
another, we hadn’t made it there, but Momma and I did meet some family from
Northern Virginia there for a mini-reunion lunch this fall. It is a lovely setting. They’ve put it in the old railroad station:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the inside is very nice – comfortable and appropriate to
the setting:<br />
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Momma and I were happy to find that the food was just as
good as we remembered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So that’s where we decided to head on Tuesday. It was early, so we got a table by the
fireplace with no trouble and this location has just as nice folks as the
original. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt
so welcome at a restaurant. Our waiter,
Lance, was perfect. Friendly and knowledgeable, but not overly chatty. This is the kind of place that still brings a
real bread basket to the table before you even order:<o:p></o:p></div>
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From 12 o’clock: rye bread, lovely herb butter, tender yeast
roll, tiny pumpernickel roll and caraway bread sticks. Every single piece was perfect. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We started with what is probably my favorite dish on the
planet:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Snails in beer batter Provencal. These are basically snail fritters – crisp and
tender all at once, drenched in garlic butter.
I am a snail freak and will order them if they are on a menu. I’ve probably missed a hundred wonderful
dishes because I can’t pass them up, but I’ve never had anything this
good. They were the only thing on the
table that got finished, I think. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mr. Kim’s main dish was Jager Schnitzel:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Prime veal medallions covered with a blend of mushrooms,
bacon and fresh cream. It doesn’t look
terribly appetizing, but it was delicious.
I loved my bite, after I shooed all those pesky fungal things away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had sauerbraten with a sweet and sour raisin sauce:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know that it looks like a plate of baked beans, but those
are plumped up raisins and FOUR enormous slices of meat. Wonderful and still delicious heated up the
next day (very important for me). Here
are the sides that I mentioned (a table of two gets FOUR choices):<o:p></o:p></div>
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Creamed corn, potato dumplings, green beans with tomatoes
and red cabbage. I have no idea how they
manage to have such incredible corn in January.
The beans are either fresh or house canned and the red cabbage is the
only one I’ve ever tasted that was better than mine. When we got back, I put the leftovers in two
of those meal-sized plastic divided dishes:<o:p></o:p></div>
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See what I mean? It’s
Friday and I still haven’t finished them!<o:p></o:p></div>
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After dinner, we drove around the neighborhood that
surrounds the train station. It’s a
beautiful old town area, with gorgeous old houses and cool shops and antique
stores. Many of the homes and businesses
were still decorated for Christmas, so it was especially lovely. In fact, it was so lovely that we decided on
the spot to forgo our usual Outer Banks anniversary trip and go to
Fredericksburg instead with our celebratory dinner at The Bavarian Chef and a
good wander around for a couple of days.
Plenty of history for Mr. Kim and lots of architectural eye-candy for
both of us! </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It truly was a stolen day and we had a wonderful time. And we are always up for a return visit, so
anyone who wants to go there sometime, just ask and you’ll have enthusiastic
dinner partners! <o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-48695334978053707682014-07-07T22:24:00.000-04:002014-07-07T22:37:36.417-04:00Spirits of Summers Past - Mr. Kim blogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I drove through my old neighborhood a few months back – the
one with Mr. Locke’s barbershop. While
it is on the eastern suburb of the city and my home is in the far northwest end
of the county, one circuitous path to avoid a bad interstate highway mess leads
me right past it. I decided to make the
quick diversion and see how things looked on Montclair Road. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Aside from the fact that the old red paint had at some point
been replaced by a pale yellow, the house itself was as unremarkable as ever,
one of hundreds of variants on a cookie cutter theme: living room, small eat
in, three tiny bedrooms, one bath. I
didn’t pause for long there this time; though on a previous occasion maybe 15
years ago I did stop. The house was at
that time for sale and obviously empty, and I figured it would be explainable
to the neighbors or police if I was caught walking around the yard for a look
see. It would have been a far different
story, I’m sure, had they witnessed me try knob on the kitchen door and,
finding it unlocked, proceed to enter and walk through my childhood home one
last time. No, I am quite certain I
would likely have ended up with a court date had I been observed that day. As with many things recalled from childhood,
it turned out that the bedroom I had shared with my brother was tiny. A floor once big enough for towers of colored
wooden blocks, and staged battles of green army man wars, and fiercely loud Rockem
Sockem robot battles with my brother had resolved itself to the size of a walk
in closet. I took a moment to stare
through the bedroom windows. There were
ghosts in the back yard – the kids who had played there when I was confined to
bed for one stomach flu or another, me all the while crying that it wasn’t fair
to have to stay in now that I felt better, and mom insisting that anyone too
sick to go to school was too sick to play freeze tag. There were kids on the phantom swings and
jungle gym my parents bought from Zayre’s Department Store. Others were playing in the used-to-be sheet
metal sandbox that was as likely to give your legs blisters from the gathered
summer heat as it was to serve as a hatching ground for the various seeds that
dropped or blew in. Through the other
window I could now plainly see the street, a feat that was a bit of a stretch
from my childhood bunk bed, though I spent many twilight evenings not sleeping
but instead staring for a glimpse of a car coming down the road. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After glancing into my parents’ old room, I turned into the
hallway and glanced upward at the unremarkable plywood ceiling entrance to the
attic. Up there, in 1967, Santa Claus dropped my football in the dark and couldn’t find it. He had to leave a note for my dad to go look
for it in daylight the next day. But
that particular bit of thunderdancing in the attic was nearly Santa’s undoing,
for it woke my younger sister.
Fortunately my mom heard it too, and she rushed into my sister’s room
and closed the door and whispered to her that Santa must be on the roof and they
had to lie very still and squeeze their eyes shut so they wouldn’t scare him
away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sister’s bedroom was as narrow as mine, but a little
longer. It opened on the other side into
the kitchen, so in someone’s mind this perhaps was meant to be a dining
room. But that wouldn’t account for the
double closet on the interior wall.
Maybe someone just wasn’t sure what to do with the space.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Between the bedrooms was the only bathroom in the
house. If these weren’t the same
fixtures, someone had replaced the originals with equally old stuff. The ultra small window above the tub seemed
just as useless as before. But the tub
did bring back a lost memory of one Easter.
The Easter Bunny not only hid colored hard boiled eggs around our
house. He also hid the Easter baskets
for a few years. The three of us would
set off together looking for the baskets, which shouldn’t have been hard to
locate considering how few places there were to stash three baskets in a house that size. This particular year, we found them in the
tub. And perched in front of my basket
(obviously mine since mine had the purple stripe woven in among the yellow and
pink willow bands in the handle) was a book that started my first pitch into
reading a series. The book was “The
Mystery of the Green Ghost” and was book four in a series called “Alfred Hitchcock
and The Three Investigators.” A serial
knock off of the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew, these books found Jupiter Jones,
Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews as teenagers who went about solving mysteries
that confounded the police, usually confounding international jewel thieves or
derailing bank robbery conspiracies in the process. This book captured my young imagination, and
I was hooked into reading every book in the original series that our local
library could provide. (After the
original series author passed away in 1969, other authors expanded the series
from a dozen books to over 40, but by then I had begun to move past these old
friends to other tales.) Alfred
Hitchcock appeared as a character in each of the books, presenting an
introduction and conversing with the three boys in the final chapter to go over
plot points deemed too subtle for a preteen’s mind to have caught. And at age 8 or 9, I reasoned that since I
knew Alfred Hitchcock to be a real person, these three boys must be real as
well. I don’t really know how many books
it took me to figure the truth of that out.
Later editions were more obvious in listing an author on the front
cover, but this is what my original version looked like:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The kitchen was impossible.
I have vague memories of eating in shifts sometimes, kids first, mom and
dad after. But my mind may be making
that up. I do know that dad was gone 50%
of the time, as he worked 24 hours on and 24 hours off as a fireman, sometimes
filling the other day with part time work at Hamner’s TV
store. So there were many nights the
little formica table we had was big enough for the three of us and mom to all
fit. But that kitchen has no counter
space and less cabinet room. This was
the room that I learned from constant exposure to hate fish sticks and bologna,
and the absolute fact that only kids who ate their bread crust would ever learn
to whistle. This is where the forbidden
sugar bowl was kept out of reach until I was big enough to scale the baby gate
on my bedroom doorway and, if I was stealthy enough, climb up on the counter
while mom and dad were still sleeping to stick a damp finger into the
bowl. I could still see the outline of
built up paint around what used to be the edges of the old black wall
phone. We started out with a “party
line.” I can’t imagine anyone putting up
with that lack of privacy, but somehow it was accepted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The living room had also shrunk with time. I recalled that Mrs. Jenkins up the street
had used one end of her copycat house’s living room as a dining area and I
stood there trying to figure out how the geometry of that had ever worked. I do not recall if mom and dad ever had a
table in that spot, but I do know for sure that the record player was located
there, at least for a time. Before the
huge Packard Bell stereo console entered our lives, there was mom’s record
player. It played 33’s, 45’s, and 78’s (a
few of which mom still had, including one that had been made when she was a teenager
that featured her singing a cappella and a friend of hers getting in on the
action by shouting “sing it Hilda!” during breath pauses.) My earliest musical memories were of that
turntable – the Camelot soundtrack with Julie Andrews and Robert Goulet and
Richard Burton and Roddy Mcdowell; theme from A Summer Place, West Side Story,
and all of mom’s precious 45’s from the early days of rock and roll. She’d sometimes put on a few for us – Earth
Angel, Lollipop, and others lost to time.
By the time the Packard Bell arrived other musical memories were blended
in: Mantovani’s Manhattan album, The
Nutcracker Suite, Disney and Captain Kangaroo albums, the Mary Poppins and
Sound of Music soundtracks. This monster
of a music center was also an AM radio, and our home was full of music both in
this house and the next.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This house has many other whispers in it. Mostly happy, some painful, some barely
recalled. Here is where I learned to
play the piano that my mom worked until 1 or 2 in the morning as a phone
operator to pay for. It’s where I sat
and watched The Secret Storm and Days of Our Lives and Batman and Captain Nice
and It’s About Time and Mr. Terrific and
Fireball XL5 and Dark Shadows and The Second Hundred Years and The Wild Wild
West and Family Affair and The Flintstones and Jonny Quest and The Double Life
of Henry Phyfe and The Three Stooges and Sailor Bob and Dandy Doodle. Here is where my dad presented me with a
beautiful big boy bicycle that he and his coworkers had rescued from the trash
and fixed up and painted red, complete with my name hand lettered on the
neck. Here is where dad came home with a
go cart that he wanted to play with, and with old Fords and Mercuries that were
still good enough to drive for a while.
Here is where icicles draped real Christmas trees with large colored
lights, and where five o’clock bloomers graced the driveway border. And yes, here is where I learned that parents
are human and children vulnerable. The
mélange is all part of my make up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But that walk through was several years ago. So in a memory of that memory fog I sat in
front of the old house recently, recalling the earlier visit and the childhood
it evoked. By this visit, the tree in
the back yard had disappeared. I used to
climb high enough to see over the single story roof. From that perch, I could see the steeple of
the Baptist church at the end of Harvie Road.
At 5 PM the church bells played hymns from the steeple, and if the air
was calm you could hear them from our house.
But that tree is gone, and given my lack of common sense it’s probably a
good thing. At my current weight those
branches wouldn’t support me for long.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The chain link is still there, which means the dent is
undoubtedly still to be found on that back stretch. It was created when Randy and I tried to see
who could walk the steel rod at the top of the fence the furthest before
falling. How the impact from my head
managed to dent steel as I fell and how that crunch didn’t scramble my brains
is still a puzzle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The yard is now as it was then, full of clover that barefoot
kids would avoid lest the bees reward young feet for carelessness. When the inevitable happened, mom would
slather on a paste of baking soda and water and insist for the hundredth time
that shoes needed to be worn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Beyond the house is the neighborhood. At one time there were over fifty children we
could name within a two block radius.
Now the streets are more or less devoid of outside activity, except for
the residents standing in driveways or on porches staring suspiciously at this
slow driving old man in a suit so obviously not belonging there. Out in front of our house and just to the
right, Thalen Street intersects with Montclair Road. On a few precious occasions, mom and Mrs.
Baum had a group of us out there cheering as the two of them ran full speed up
and down Thalen, getting kites airborne for one kid after another. Montclair stops at the end of our block at
Howard Street, the cross street offering a choice of left through the
neighborhood and up near the four lane about five blocks away or right one
block to Ratcliffe Elementary School with its playground and the ball diamond
that we used to ride our bikes to in order to watch the local men’s church
league teams and spend our pennies on pixie sticks at the snack bar. Though we didn’t attend that school (we went
to the school that was tied to our church) it was in that 1950’s era structure
that we took part in summer art classes and where we received the magical sugar
cube laced with polio vaccine way back when.
Just across Reynolds Road from the school is the corner house where I
saw my very first color television. I do
not recall why my parents and I were there, but I can still remember the
oversaturated image of the blue sky with the woman performing a jackknife off
of the high dive. We got one of those
TVs shortly thereafter, but the wonder of that first sight has stayed with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sitting at the end of Montclair, I could see beyond
Georgeanne’s house on Howard Street to what had been in my youth a large
farm. Or a small one, since everything
else seems to have changed sizes. I
recall warnings that the farmer (whose name eludes me) had set his dogs on boys
caught crossing through his corn field, or perhaps had shot at them with rock
salt, or more improbably had reputedly marched some friend of a friend back to
his shed at gunpoint and waited for the police to arrive to arrest the
trespasser. We never ever saw the
farmer, though we always heard his dogs as we skirted around his cornfield on
the way to The Woods. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dad always told us to stay out of that man’s field, and stop
playing in the woods. Fortunately, he
wasn’t usually around when mom told us to go find someone to play with. And running off to play in the woods was
always a special treat. Randy and his
brother Stuart, the two youngest Snyder boys, and I would make a bee line
through the field and trace through the half visible paths in our own Hundred
Acre Wood. There were streams to dam up
as we dumped handful after handful of mud into the center of the flow, the
trickle of water getting smaller and smaller as the mud got higher and higher,
until the pent up water overcame the structure and magnificently tore it away
and gushed downstream. There were tree
forts to plan but never build, since cut 2x4’s and planks of plywood were
surprisingly difficult for 7 year olds to find lying about in the middle of the
woods. And there were blackberries to
pick, always mindful of the snakes that just had to be there at our feet but
that we thankfully never encountered.
Sometimes I’d tell mom I was going for the berries and she’d give me a
pan to transport them home in. Despite
my efforts, there was never enough for a pie, though sometimes I managed to get
enough home for a few tarts. But most of
the time we just spent exploring. There
were open areas that were apparently dried up wetlands, with cracking but still
moist mud just starting to curl up away from the underlayer. There were needle sharp thickets to be
negotiated on the way from one nowhere to another. And dozens of small streams to jump across
and recross…. Or maybe just one that we confronted over and over again. We’d scare each other with tales of hobos and
Indians that were seen at the other end of the woods by someone’s brother’s cousin
who barely escaped being kidnapped or scalped or whatever else. We’d outcuss each other and see who could
surprise who with a pine cone or gumball hurled at head or back or calf. On one occasion we even went hunting for bear
with Danny’s BB gun, but we had to settle for shooting in the general direction
of bird sounds when the bear proved too afraid to show his face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The farm is gone now, and so are the woods. A sprawl of too-quickly built homes and cul
de sacs, planted in waves from the 70’s through the 00’s, now sit atop the
ghosts of tree forts and dammed streams and blackberry bushes. They were fun while they lasted. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for
today’s boys, though. Outdoor activities
are much more restricted and organized.
Woodland imaginariums are replaced with postage stamp green spaces, if
they are replaced at all. Kids can’t
roam anymore. It’s just not safe. Not that it ever really was.<o:p></o:p></div>
Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-37738746918800796642014-06-25T00:13:00.001-04:002014-06-25T00:13:39.846-04:00Day 10 England/Paris Trip – Monday, 5/23/2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<o:p> </o:p>The New Forest and Winchester; places never found and a
surprise ruin.</div>
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(<i>Mr. Kim’s
contributions are italicized.</i>)<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so continues the seemingly never ending saga of our spring
2011 trip to England and Paris – picked up again in summer 2014!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The plan for the day was to go to see the Old Harry Rocks near
Swanage, drive through the New Forest and arrive at Winchester where we were to
spend one night. And, mostly, that’s
what we did. With a few detours and
surprises. We are neither of us huge
fans of recreated history – me even less than Mr. Kim. Reenactments and ladies in hoop skirts and,
for goodness sakes renaissance festivals make my teeth itch (if you haven’t
noticed by now, I am a tad intolerant). <i>Only of the things you don’t like. </i>What we do love is lovingly preserved
history (like all the churches we haunted on this trip) and ruins. We adore ruins. But we hadn’t seen any. So when Mr. Kim happened to notice Corfe
Castle ruins on a map at our Dorchester hotel, we decided to let Jeeves lead us
there. It was on our route. And I’m so glad that we did. Not only were there cool ruins for us to
clamber about, but the ruins are set into the second most charming village
(Painswick in the Cotswolds being the first) we visited. As a matter of fact, I found my house:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am sure that I lived there at some point in a past
life. As soon as I spied it, I thought,
“Oh, THERE it is.” Much like the first
time I laid eyes on Mr. Kim – “THERE you are, I’ve been waiting for you.” I have even Googled it and found that it sold
for almost a half a million pounds in November of 2011 – just 6 months after we
were there. Am I creepy to be stalking a
HOUSE? Anyway, lucky folks – I hope they
are happy and cherishing their beautiful cottage.</div>
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The village was utterly lovely and full of beautiful houses
and shops and a couple of incredibly old pubs.
<i>Apparently the owners of the two
pubs had some sort of professional disagreement, as one of the two had a large
sign on the door declaring that it was the OLDEST pub in Corfe. </i>We could have wandered for the entire
day. But we had a ruin to get to:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ruins of Corfe Castle loom above the village of the same
name. Looking either protective or
threatening, I’d guess depending on the political or actual weather. Corfe Castle was built by William the
Conqueror in the 11<sup>th</sup> century.
During the English Civil war (1642-1651) it belonged to a royalist,
whose wife, Lady Mary Bankes defended the castle from the Roundheads. The first defense was successful, but the
second was not. According to the Oracle
of Oracles (Wikipedia): “His wife, Lady<u> </u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Bankes" title="Mary Bankes"><span style="color: windowtext;">Mary Bankes</span></a><u>,</u>
led the defense of the castle when it was twice besieged by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roundhead" title="Roundhead"><span style="color: windowtext;">Parliamentarian
forces</span></a>. The first siege, in 1643, was unsuccessful, but by 1645
Corfe was one of the last remaining <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cavalier" title="Cavalier"><span style="color: windowtext;">royalist</span></a> strongholds
in southern England and fell to a siege ending in an assault. In March that
year Corfe Castle was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slighting" title="Slighting"><span style="color: windowtext;">demolished</span></a> on Parliament's orders. Owned by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Trust_for_Places_of_Historic_Interest_or_Natural_Beauty" title="National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty"><span style="color: windowtext;">National
Trust</span></a>, the castle is open to the public and in 2010 received around
190,000 visitors. It is protected as a Grade I <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Listed_building" title="Listed building"><span style="color: windowtext;">listed
building</span></a> and a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scheduled_monument" title="Scheduled monument"><span style="color: windowtext;">Scheduled Ancient Monument</span></a>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Fell to a siege
indeed…. According to the docents, the
second siege defense was also formidable.
But the Lady Bankes’ castellan, apparently not interested in smelling
his neighbors for another year, betrayed his Mistress. He offered to go parlay with the London Army
on her behalf. Taking 50 of her best
defenders with him and leaving them outside as he met with the opposing commander,
he made a pact with the enemy to lead 50 soldiers in his own soon-to-be-quietly-slaughtered
compatriots’ garments back into the castle in exchange for amnesty, lands, and
titles. This bastard betrayed his Lady
and the Crown for personal gain.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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It was an exceeding blustery day, though bright with
sunshine. We had to wait below to get
the OK to go up to the castle – they were testing the wind speed. And even with the go-ahead, there were times
when I, at least, felt a little unsteady.
Climbing crumbling stone stairs in a gale is a bit intimidating. But it was magnificent. The view from up there was breathtaking and
we climbed and poked about for more than an hour marveling at the remaining
construction and the beauty of the setting.
Some favorite pictures:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i>I know I tend to romanticize,
but there was a definite mood or spirit or stillness in this place. The pictures do not do it justice. So many structures of the same period are
still standing elsewhere. This castle
was murdered by Cromwell’s troops, left to be forgotten. But I think it still has something to say.</i></div>
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After a delightful (and hair-raising) ramble, it was time
for a snack:<o:p></o:p></div>
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A natter with the locals:</div>
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And a drive down to Swanage to see the Old Harry Rocks:</div>
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Except we didn’t. We
found Swanage. And according to our map,
we just had to follow the coast north/northeast and there it would be. White cliffs, three chalk formations – bigger
than houses. But, alas, not for us. <i>Either
the map was wrong, or we were dense, or the whole place just Brigadooned on
us. But for whatever reason, it was not
to be found. </i> I was sorry to miss it
because I knew that Mr. Kim would be entranced, but I was determined that for
this vacation there would be no regrets, no pining. So we tossed it off and set out for the New
Forest and whatever delights (including lunch) that would hold for us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you look at a map of the area, you will see a little bit
of water that needs to be gotten across where the English Channel meets Poole
Harbor. This is where you take a ferry
boat. When we got to the terminal, the
boat was already docked and loading cars.
We got on near the end. With all
the cars ahead of us, all we could see was either side of the boat. With some clanks and groans, the ferry got
under way. We took a few pictures:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And discussed getting out to stretch our legs, see the
sights and maybe find a bar to have a pint.
Please keep in mind that we had never been here before, that we couldn’t
see in front of us and that distances on maps are notoriously difficult to
discern. As we were debating our next
activity, we arrived at our destination and docked. The crossing was FOUR MINUTES long. I Googled it.
I am so glad that we didn’t amble out of our car and wander around like
we were on a cruise. Goobers.</div>
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Bournemouth is not a particularly huge city. Certainly bigger than we’d been in so far and
other than London a much larger, busier and more congested than any place in
England that Mr. Kim had had to drive in.
We didn’t get lost, exactly. But
we did see the same square block of Bournemouth a goodly number of times. It wasn’t that we couldn’t see where we were
supposed to go. It was that we couldn’t
maneuver to GET where we were supposed to go.
So Mr. Kim kept making tight left turns after left turn, hoping to catch
a break to get across a six lane. Jeeves
got a bit sharp with us. His tone when
he kept having to repeat, “recalculating” was rather abrupt. As Mr. Kim put it, “traffic, fecking
traffic”. We managed to escape the
clutches of Bournemouth and were off to the New Forest. The Forest is both a national park and an
area dotted with lovely villages and towns.
It was set aside as a royal hunting ground in 1079 by William I. There are all sorts of beasties roaming around
– deer, ponies, cattle, pigs, donkeys.
Some are wild and others owned, but apparently free to graze anywhere
they like. The Forest in its wildest
parts is hauntingly beautiful:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And when those wild ponies decide to amble across a road,
you just sit and marvel:</div>
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We had lunch at the Old Farmhouse in Burley:</div>
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(Punch Buggy!)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burley was a bit new agey/witchy for my tastes (there goes
that intolerant thing again) – it even has a dragon’s lair. Itchy teeth territory again. But it was utterly charming. And lunch was delicious. The building that the restaurant is in was
built in the 16<sup>th</sup> century with classic thick walls and low beamed
ceilings. I had the most delicious ham –
Tatchberry Farm (local) and another rendition of perfect eggs. Not once in England did I get an egg that was
cooked less than perfect. Amazing:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRxrSc9_wQtdVTjpbc8y9STj-Zo4eWw4bsVbJ51Efdgg86kTTsTSQGTqTUneCToi4ohlLLxNVBRrN4UQhc9PR2F7PBoDkGxD-ssVD87ZCwdRjxfIzzKpEDm7KC32kSE5TQejj-x6HJu4/s1600/23-106k1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRxrSc9_wQtdVTjpbc8y9STj-Zo4eWw4bsVbJ51Efdgg86kTTsTSQGTqTUneCToi4ohlLLxNVBRrN4UQhc9PR2F7PBoDkGxD-ssVD87ZCwdRjxfIzzKpEDm7KC32kSE5TQejj-x6HJu4/s1600/23-106k1.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Mr. Kim had English lasagna:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQ8WVOMtLvtkbQ_b9FEPuhhM9azqVqxtSs6ZnK_mGoEyg2tZ0q0PtJ7i_o0MKvkSKufIlqW9XC6M6KyJucxa2DNDsr-A2xivFKZ8uem9Xy-MiYV2-uk7AEW2BNVPyyZ6gybDQCXFafxc/s1600/23-106k3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQ8WVOMtLvtkbQ_b9FEPuhhM9azqVqxtSs6ZnK_mGoEyg2tZ0q0PtJ7i_o0MKvkSKufIlqW9XC6M6KyJucxa2DNDsr-A2xivFKZ8uem9Xy-MiYV2-uk7AEW2BNVPyyZ6gybDQCXFafxc/s1600/23-106k3.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I finally understand Ted’s spaghetti. He never really cared much for Momma’s
spaghetti or lasagna. He’d say it was different
than he was used to. Once, I remember,
he made what he called English spaghetti.
To me, at 13, it seemed a very dull dish. Not very tomato-y, no garlic, no
oregano. Very bland. But the grown up me liked this version very
much. Meaty and with a much finer mince
of beef, it was very savory and satisfying. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I had seen lasagna on
the menu of every pub and casual place we’d eaten. At first I thought it was quaint, sort of an
alternative grudgingly added to pub grub.
You know, like the obligatory beef or chicken dish at your average
American seafood restaurant. By this
point in the trip, I had been worn down by curiosity and know I just HAD to try
it once before we left. I liked it a
lot. It was really more like a pastichio
in texture than a lasagna, and was a refreshing addition to the other culinary
experiences on the trip.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it was on to Lyndhurst – the capital of the New
Forest. We wander around the interesting
New Forest Museum and Gallery and down the High street. I found one of the things on my England wish
list – Lily of the Valley talc. Talc is
really hard to find in the US, but still available at any drug store in the
UK. It may be old fashioned, but I use
it every day and don’t wish to smell like Johnson’s baby powder. In the same store we found these:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-H9knZQq-_0_habHsnBBEQWhz7oNbrALMqMnjmqOvMJEPNFPwPN62FTV4R0zuPZTqD33mBGJFn6MA2uOdgIvaUtMEB1pkeQiRisl0_abUjF1yvXzxalk6-ukfDVcpOtZS-Oj8xC03Uw/s1600/23-117k.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-H9knZQq-_0_habHsnBBEQWhz7oNbrALMqMnjmqOvMJEPNFPwPN62FTV4R0zuPZTqD33mBGJFn6MA2uOdgIvaUtMEB1pkeQiRisl0_abUjF1yvXzxalk6-ukfDVcpOtZS-Oj8xC03Uw/s1600/23-117k.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5dp1wluMD39sYhiSWtswyOxfYH6wB4UO8Ok-6dMGjJ1XVVUqci4xuoAPe4y4RZH7I3DC1eUa0MxOvtjph2UjSQRjUbacpmlSldwpshmyFJQtfTe50rdQVMqGZ9usiTSnCVqJ7MOM7Nw/s1600/23-119k3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5dp1wluMD39sYhiSWtswyOxfYH6wB4UO8Ok-6dMGjJ1XVVUqci4xuoAPe4y4RZH7I3DC1eUa0MxOvtjph2UjSQRjUbacpmlSldwpshmyFJQtfTe50rdQVMqGZ9usiTSnCVqJ7MOM7Nw/s1600/23-119k3.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Where in the US would you still find Coty’s
L’Aimant and big, butch tissues? There
was also a Maserati dealership. Such an
odd thing to come across in a small town in the middle of a national
forest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As we stood there
trying to decide which Maserati was the one we wanted to have shipped back home
for us, we glanced back up the street we had just descended. To our surprise, the view was familiar. We quickly realized that we HAD seen that
view before. A year earlier, when we
started planning the trip, I changed the background on our computer at the
house. I searched out pics for “new
forest” and it yielded a nice photo that I co-opted. We were now, apparently standing in the exact
same location as the photographer that had snapped that pic:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu908VGjb7ynPtUcWe8MCtinw6HkDmIOJIJxQ-bqA3bKFPa6meNzpTboHO8Wq7urLSoQBCGiqlYbKdjbfr9c_QPnaPrLUZT8O63tWkd9x4QkQi1o_Z4vOyMjxMnChEuVLkX6NEV1ws1oI/s1600/23-122m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu908VGjb7ynPtUcWe8MCtinw6HkDmIOJIJxQ-bqA3bKFPa6meNzpTboHO8Wq7urLSoQBCGiqlYbKdjbfr9c_QPnaPrLUZT8O63tWkd9x4QkQi1o_Z4vOyMjxMnChEuVLkX6NEV1ws1oI/s1600/23-122m.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Forest was yet another place that we could have spent
days in if we’d had more time. I
honestly don’t see how English people ever manage to get to Spain and Greece,
not to mention Australia and the US with this kind of place on their
doorstep. As I said to someone, had we
been to England in our 20’s – before we had so many obligations (family,
financial), we would have moved heaven and earth to relocate. I would still be an expat in a minute if I
could afford it. <i>Um, small Corfe house, half a million pounds. Ain’t gonna happen, unfortunately.</i> I don’t see why we still have a single
wealthy person in the US (sorta kidding, there).</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Off to Winchester.
Our accommodations thus far had been very, very nice. From Craig’s lovely flat, to our dream house
Cotswold cottage to the two very old coach house/inns we stayed at in Salisbury
and Dorchester we had no cause for complaint.
All we knew from our travel agent was the name and address for the place
in Winchester. It was called Lainston
House. I had looked it up only and knew
that it was a beautiful manor house. We
had already had a full day when we arrived.
Climbing around Corfe Castle ruins in a gale, that long ferry ride
(smile), the drive and wander through the New Forest. So when we drove up this half mile long
drive:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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Through these gates:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVCkm714whLzFHOEZq-vt5TiN8r7axVmiZWHokH_79ALmL-1Qycev54QJPZ3Hkp8LDGfa4C_uVKGQq-QK8rHXLcUVLI7Ua_tYzGB_aijfIebdczmfYKTFtyLkzvic3fSeQUNjhH6pYm0/s1600/23-160k.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVCkm714whLzFHOEZq-vt5TiN8r7axVmiZWHokH_79ALmL-1Qycev54QJPZ3Hkp8LDGfa4C_uVKGQq-QK8rHXLcUVLI7Ua_tYzGB_aijfIebdczmfYKTFtyLkzvic3fSeQUNjhH6pYm0/s1600/23-160k.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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And saw THIS:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw8gDYhZAU9P01TEe0SDGEhbK867-t0U7NHguaYWikgSlAccd5T3Vt-kDokrjVHVRyzAZay21HttZ90p-yeTKmmBMOGjcOysrO4pDdWGsudxiSARzpB9yY3HvuxIZcUuyuwTiJki2KHo/s1600/23-165k.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw8gDYhZAU9P01TEe0SDGEhbK867-t0U7NHguaYWikgSlAccd5T3Vt-kDokrjVHVRyzAZay21HttZ90p-yeTKmmBMOGjcOysrO4pDdWGsudxiSARzpB9yY3HvuxIZcUuyuwTiJki2KHo/s1600/23-165k.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /> Well, we felt abashed
and country mousey, indeed. We contemplated turning around and finding a
posh store for new clothes to wear to check in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
This is Lainston House. We decided that
our travel agent must have something on the owners because this absolutely
gorgeous place didn’t cost us any more than any other place we stayed. It was
truly luxurious – with a helipad, a spa, endless grounds, gardens, a chapel
ruin and a resident falconer!!! As I sank my tired self into the 6 foot tub
that night, I told Mr. Kim that I wasn’t leaving EVER. The staff couldn’t have been friendlier or
less stuffy. We felt very welcome. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lainston House was built in 1683 by Christopher Wren. It was commissioned by Charles II and was
lived in by him and his mistress Louise de Keroualle until he died in
1685. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kim, wasn’t this room the servants’ quarters?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our room, Hydrangea, was gorgeous. It was way up in the attics, with slanted
ceilings – possibly former servants quarters.
Though no servant ever had such a richly appointed room:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPdGGHHed3xfi0PkMNeyT2VCOpWjEWvuEAdxtParFaQkO5pMuWZScKaXiOVZSqDzpoHjwRR60lbWwidMbp2XhoSElrqCz8jNM3Z2S_jqzm5cfzwMBjqU8QsM0eUIBPqnq6hLJSB7x8JE/s1600/23-126m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPdGGHHed3xfi0PkMNeyT2VCOpWjEWvuEAdxtParFaQkO5pMuWZScKaXiOVZSqDzpoHjwRR60lbWwidMbp2XhoSElrqCz8jNM3Z2S_jqzm5cfzwMBjqU8QsM0eUIBPqnq6hLJSB7x8JE/s1600/23-126m.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbuDj30xtYrL9IWAIy7GhCuaz9u2TPOXweJ30SponWvb0yl0xlYPyVwV7uDG_jOHzbqI3rBuAqP2whGpRInwiUMs09T7Ksv9DzEexDHrFY6RiBp_QaFzfqbRB-vTRBZ23I_cYSOK_Tc4/s1600/23-129m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbuDj30xtYrL9IWAIy7GhCuaz9u2TPOXweJ30SponWvb0yl0xlYPyVwV7uDG_jOHzbqI3rBuAqP2whGpRInwiUMs09T7Ksv9DzEexDHrFY6RiBp_QaFzfqbRB-vTRBZ23I_cYSOK_Tc4/s1600/23-129m.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Like the room in
Salisbury, this room had a cutaway to show some of the original daubing and
beams from earlier days. The Plexiglas
covering it was spotless, and I couldn’t help but contemplate the number of
subtle changes over the years and the folks who had seen them. And now this room, for this moment, was OURS!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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One of our views:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even the bathroom was posh.
A walk in shower big enough to please any House Hunters
participant, marble sink, commode and
bidet. And that tub I was talking about:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was so long that I couldn’t brace myself against
the end and was in danger of drowning when it was full. Sybaritic heaven. But I couldn’t make good my promise to
permanently reside in that tub because we were starving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone at eGullet had recommended the Chesil
Rectory in Winchester for dinner, so off we went. Because we wanted to have the freedom to be
spontaneous, we made very few restaurant reservations in England – really just
two in London. We figured that if we
couldn’t eat at our first choice, there was always going to be a pub and we
were fine with that. Here we found yet
another example of the kindness of people.
We wander into this elegant restaurant, which specializes in fine modern
English cuisine. We are dressed
decently, but not elegantly. Our butts
are dragging a bit. And we have no
reservations. We have a policy of
politeness. We ask if something is
possible – no expectations of special treatment. We don’t have a reservation, but do they
maybe have room for 2 for dinner. They
are expecting a large party very soon and really don’t. But they fit us in at a tiny 2-top
upstairs. As we sit, the tables around
begin to fill up with people who all know each other. And the staff continues to give us excellent
service. Bringing us beautiful,
scrumptious food – one of the best meals we have had in our lives. No hurry, no rush. We feel free to stay as long as we like. We don’t, though I could have sat all night
sipping wine and gazing at the restaurant.
The building was built in the Middle Ages, between 1425 and 1450 and is
the oldest commercial property in Winchester.
The building has been owned by, among others, Henry VIII and Mary
Tudor. The front, which except for the
windows, is original:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Our drive back to Lainston House included sightings of
rabbits, owls and some unidentifiable birds with red faces. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our travels that day – even counting the getting lost not
finding the Old Harry Rocks and NOT getting lost in Bournemouth totaled just
about 100 miles. It felt like much
more. We had a full day planned for the
next day – more Lainston House exploration, Winchester Cathedral and back to
London (sigh). So we snuggled up and
snoozed away the night in our unfamiliar, but very comfortable and luxurious
surroundings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You’re going to stop
here??? But I was going to talk about
the smells when we awoke, and the gardens and….
Okay, if you’ll promise we are going to finish this tale some day, I’ll
keep my powder dry ’til Day 11.</i></div>
<br />
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-71869434386486679532014-06-01T18:35:00.000-04:002014-06-01T20:00:32.025-04:00Mr. Kim Blogs: John the Barber<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today is May
31. It is a special day for John the Barber.
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">John has
been cutting my hair for fifteen years.
He is the sole proprietor of a nearby barbershop, and is as
anachronistic as the setting itself.
The shop is something out of….. not just another time, but a combination
of times. The old yellowed linoleum
floors reflect the fluorescent lighting only in a confused way now, the shiny
finish long gone and pocked with cracks.
There is space for three chairs, but only one now remains. Filling the empty space is a large HO scale
model train deck that John has been working on for years. Four trains, a dozen buildings, mountains,
water, bridges, all in vivid detail.
John spends his time refining the layout in the long gaps that stretch
between customers some days. If you ask
nicely and there’s no one waiting, he’ll set everything to moving for you and
tell you more than you want to know about why he chose this car or that
crossing, and how he just can’t seem to get the track angle quite right to be
able to cleanly back up that engine without it derailing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Where the
barbershops of my youth would have had stuffed deer heads or plastic bass or NASCAR paraphernalia on the walls
(usually accompanied by an oversized wall calendar featuring either a sketch of
the barber’s church or, more commonly, a vivid photo of a somewhat clothed
buxom beauty queen) John’s shop instead had a large scale model train that he occasionally
fired up to circle the shop noisily, just above head level, high enough to slip
past the old television mounted in the corner.
For years there has been a hand written price sheet for offered
services, visible only once you are sitting in the chair, right there over the
old cash register that always displayed $00.
As prices changed, the sign at first was modified with stickers to
increase the posted cost rather than rewrite it. Eventually, John just started using magic
marker to cross out the old prices and write the new ones above it. $11 became $13 became $15 over the years I
have been going to John, always chasing the higher rent and electrical. Although propriety says one doesn’t need to
tip a hair cutter for services if it’s the owner of the establishment, I always
did. From all indications, John needed
it more than I did. He’d take the
twenty, look at me for an extra half second and bob his head, and then pull out
the small wad in his pocket and add this bill to what was probably his week’s
take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember
when I was a very young child, and my mom would take my brother and me up to
see Mr. Locke, the barber in the then-neighborhood. Haircuts with Mr. Locke were 25 cents for
kids, 50 cents on Saturdays. I always
sat in The Chair, while brother had to sit on “the Bench”, a contraption that
fit across the arms of the barber chair to raise him to Mr. Locke’s level. Brother always whined about it, that he
thought he was big enough to sit in The Chair.
I don’t recall if he ever graduated in that particular shop. Back then I would get a haircut once every
two weeks or so. Always short short
short. Boys in the neighborhood would
ask for fancy cut styles with names like The Flat Top, The Pineapple, and The
Duck. None of that nonsense for my dad’s
sons, though. Mr. Locke would always
begin with the question, “Do you want a Mohawk today?” and end the session with
“Okay, do you think that’s good enough for your girlfriend?” At age 5 or 6, this was always funny. The ritual always ended with him handing me a
piece of Bazooka bubble gum. The rare
times when he handed me two were special days indeed. As I got “older” (maybe 7, no more than 8)
mom would sometimes put the quarter in my hand and let me walk up to the shop,
perhaps eight blocks away through the neighborhood. When we moved away from there to a bigger
house nearer my grandparents, Mr. Locke was lost with all the friends I had
made and all the childhood explores and adventures of those days. I was ten, after all, and things were moving
forward from dirt clod battles and damming up streams to things like basketball
and little league.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can recall
most every barbershop that has cut my hair since those days – places with names
like Tony’s, Charlie’s, Bubba’s…….. I
lay in bed last night trying to recall the places that I frequented that were
hair salons or what have you and couldn’t recall a single one in all the years
in Alexandria, Arlington, Charlottesville, Batesville, or Salem. Surely I got haircuts over that dozen year
stretch. But who did the cutting and
where they did it have faded from memory.
Such places are soulless.
Barbershops, THEY are landmarks and social hubs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">John’s shop
has soul. It’s a reflection of a man who
spends far too much time trying to make a living in a dying industry. He practically lives at the shop. Many times I have walked in to find him
practicing his bagpipes or standing before a music stand beating on a tom tom,
practicing for an upcoming parade or concert that was to include his Scottish
Highlander band. There was once a sketch
of John in his kilt and pipes in a cheap frame on the counter behind the chair,
though that disappeared years ago. Men
drop in to John’s shop just to sit and chat.
I was likely to be part of a conversation about a guy whom several men
knew to be part of “the mafia” or what happened at the poker game in back of
the hardware store last weekend, or which local character had been arrested for
drunken behavior, or whose cancer had come back. In this way, John’s barbershop is the real
thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">John is my
elder, as would be expected. There are
no young barbers in the traditional sense.
He appears to be in his late 60’s although he has variously claimed to
be eight years and twelve years older than my 54. John has never been particularly consistent
in his presentation of himself. Barbers
have to have the gift of gab, and perhaps the tale sometimes overcomes the
reality. I allow John the dignity and
privilege of spinning his tales as he wants to that particular day. So I am not sure if John really was a Green
Beret in Viet Nam, or perhaps a cook or a barber even back then. His reactions to current events suggest
political leaning that range from Libertarian to Liberal, depending on the day
and the mood. But his disgust for
politicians was universal. He railed
against the Democratic city council and the tea party congressmen with equal
venom. He’d always pause from cutting my
hair and step in front of me so I could see the seriousness of his position in
his furrowed brow, which was just fine with me when he had the straight razor
in his grip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The only
time I truly saw John angry was for a reason beyond any rational
explanation. His shop is adjoined to a
local tavern, and one afternoon a thirty-something fellow wandered in and gushed
over the train set up. John was pleasant
enough, it didn’t appear that he had seen this one before. What was clear in seconds was that this
fellow had only recently departed the tavern, though his arrival there was
apparently hours earlier. The fellow
stood there and rambled on and on about a train he saw once and his friends in
the western part of the state and how much John’s train set up was worth, and
John’s responses got shorter and shorter.
Finally, the fellow stepped into a conversational hole no one would know
was there – he made some vague reference to the Hatfields and the McCoys,
comparing some trivial local confrontation to that interfamily gang war. No sooner had the words left the fellow’s
mouth than John erupted. “You’d better
shut the &#$* up! You don’t know who
the @#$& you’re talkin’ to! My great
grandfather was a McCoy! You don’t know
what you’re talkin’ about, now get out of here.
NOW!” The entryway was vacated,
and I sat there in the chair wondering what had happened, and whether I was
going to lose an ear to the straight razor that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Clientele
followed John’s personal life through all its ups and downs. As the economy turned south several years
ago he lost his house. I imagine it was
mortgaged and remortgaged as he tried to keep afloat on a barber’s income. He talked with despair about his grown
daughter’s choices and his absolute need to help her financially, and with
pride about his son and his high tech job.
Both may have been true, in whole or in part. I heard about his church life, and his
health. I saw pictures lovingly and
pridefully displayed of new grandkids, and the wonder gleam in his eye, along
with a bit of moisture, when you asked about them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But today,
May 31, is a special day for John the Barber.
My most recent visit was in early May, when I went in for my first
summer cut, the one that as a child was the right cut for my dad’s sons: “John, slap a #1 in the trimmer, start above
the eyebrows and keep going back ‘til you hit elastic.” He always chuckled at that. On that day, after settling into the chair I
noticed the circling train track was gone, the kids’ photos, the
television. I turned and look at John
and said, “Please tell me you’re remodeling.”
He just shook his head and pointed to the price sheet, which had been
replaced by a hand written note: “On May
31, this barber shop will be closing for good.”
I groaned and turned back to him.
He forced a smile and said that he was taking his trade to an uptown
barber shop on the street level of a senior living apartment building. He told me he had been assured he could have
a chair there for the rest of his life.
His grin widened. I didn’t see
any real glee behind it. He asked me if
I’d come see him there. I harrumphed and
allowed as I HAD to, that it had taken years to finally get him to the point he
could cut my hair halfway decent and I had no intention of breaking in someone
new. He chuckled at that. As I got up from the chair, he handed me his
new business card, with the uptown shop’s address and his hours: Tuesday through Saturday, 9 to 5.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was awake
early this morning, as in 3:30 AM early, and thought about the upcoming day for
John. Was he relieved to finally be free
of the struggles of running a business?
Was he defeated by its demise?
Was he happy at all to just be a barber and not an owner? Will he ever be able to enjoy
retirement? So as this day ends and I
know he has locked the doors, I think about John and his life. Whatever that life has been, he deserves to
enjoy the path ahead. Godspeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-23520201852942146132014-04-08T15:52:00.000-04:002014-04-08T15:54:51.624-04:00ANYONE THERE???<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">They say if you wait to have a baby until your life is
completely settled and everything is perfect, you will die childless. While I would never urge someone to make a
life-changing decision before they are really ready for it, there is some
wisdom in that homily. I have been
waiting to blog until the time is JUST RIGHT.
Until my life is more settled, until there are no major projects or
holidays looming, until there are no demands on my time, until I am more
organized. And you know, that’s just not
going to happen in my life. </span></div>
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I have this romantic picture of myself as a ‘writer’ (a
title I am hardly entitled to, but I prefer it to ‘blogger’). I am sitting in a cozy, well-appointed and
spotlessly clean study. Tea and cookies
are by my side. I’m writing long hand
with a fountain pen in a beautiful journal (I told you it was romantic). When I take a break to sip my tea, I look out
the window to see a perfect cottage garden.
Oh, and my cat and dog snooze peacefully by the fire. I have no idea who cleaned the house, brought
the tea and cookies or created the garden.
No one would describe my home as spotless. I would love a garden, but have no interest
in working at it. And I ‘write’ on a
laptop at our dining room table. I do
have a window, but the view is of a pine tree, a scraggly azalea bush, some
dead tree and moss where grass should be.
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So my life is never going to be without the things that keep
me busy (nor would I want it to) and my cozy little study doesn’t exist. Do I just give up and let this blog be one of
the millions that peter out? Do I make
grand promises to sit down for an hour every day? No to both.
I love this blog too much to just let it go. If no one in the world but me read it, I
would still love it and go back to it to let the memories flow over me. But I’ve made promises before and not kept
them. So – no promises, but here is
maybe a new beginning. To me, the heart and soul of this blog is our trip in
2011 to England and Paris. Getting back
to that WILL take some organization and preparation. The memories are almost as fresh as the day
we got back, but I need to look at notes and photos for the details. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I’ll try. I’ll
get out my notes and pamphlets and pull up the pictures and, who knows, we may
find ourselves in Winchester!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-25038083168633904642013-07-15T13:16:00.001-04:002013-07-15T15:39:50.469-04:00Won’t you be my neighbor?<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Won’t you be my neighbor?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Neighborliness, kindness and senseless loss have been
rolling around my thoughts this weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Gospel reading at church yesterday was the parable of the Good
Samaritan from the Gospel of Luke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat
thinking of how ironic and painful it was to hear this story, this lesson, this
instruction while thoughts of Trayvon Martin and the outcome of the Zimmerman
trial were in everyone’s minds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hurt
so much for Trayvon’s family and am so ashamed that in our wonderful country
people still have to worry about the safety of their children based just on
their color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, try as we might to
brotherly love it away, racism is still alive and evilly well in our beautiful
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting in church, I wondered
if the outcome would have been different if George Zimmerman had treated
Trayvon as a neighbor, instead of a threat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If he had just said, “hello, nice night” would Trayvon be sitting today
with his family not even remembering a chance meeting with an older man on his
way back from an errand?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can never
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do know that the choices
that Zimmerman made instead left a hurt behind in one family and in our society
that will be a long time healing, if ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Choices made when frightened or hurt can ripple out for a
long time and in unexpected places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kindness should be extended outwards AND inwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anger can be a destructive emotion, both when
directed at others and also at ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our family lost a young man early Saturday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lost in a senseless car accident fueled,
according to the police, by alcohol and excessive speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of his passengers was also killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another family is in mourning this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our young man was lately struggling with
certain setbacks and losses and was behaving in ways that distanced himself
from those that wanted to love and help him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If only he had been able to accept that love, that neighborliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only he had been able to treat himself
with kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had made great strides
in separating himself from an early life that wasn’t fulfilling and healthy for
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had succeeded in finding a place
for himself in the real world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
young (25) and healthy and intelligent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But it seems that he couldn’t recognize his accomplishments and
advancements he’d made in such a short time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think that he could only acknowledge what he saw as his own
failures. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two people making bad choices - anger, suspicion, fear, despair - over the good choices of neighborliness, kindness and love. And the undulations of those choices will flow out to hurt us all, in one way or another, whether we knew them or not.</span></div>
Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-64342355661961428312013-02-23T15:08:00.000-05:002013-02-23T15:08:27.100-05:00Just a Taste - PARIS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQdOE5QaC6feUaPfiOLYvpztYhNGLtmtuMPsrTCk2WMKPa5E_cpfGuQuILu4Lo-1HChwdM87jjH8y8oQysa1gdNnnV4eKqFXnACA2gHnGs2ojZhYyYe0riYYi36ymFf_kpXIDCPZm6hs/s1600/paris+cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQdOE5QaC6feUaPfiOLYvpztYhNGLtmtuMPsrTCk2WMKPa5E_cpfGuQuILu4Lo-1HChwdM87jjH8y8oQysa1gdNnnV4eKqFXnACA2gHnGs2ojZhYyYe0riYYi36ymFf_kpXIDCPZm6hs/s320/paris+cupid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am finally getting back to our Spring 2011 England/Paris trip! In order to get back into my writing 'groove', I've posted a report at eGullet.org about the food portion of the Paris trip. You can see it here: <a href="http://forums.egullet.org/topic/144559-a-seriously-belated-paris-trip-report/" target="_blank">Paris Food Report</a>. Here at my blog, I'll go back and finish the England part before I go on to Paris.<br />
<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-9196751375708804952013-02-14T16:09:00.000-05:002013-02-15T12:00:39.744-05:00Mr. Kim blogs: Remembering Karl Linn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>“Lance Corporal Karl Richard Linn, USMC, age 20, died Wednesday, January 26, 2005 as a result of hostile action in Iraq. He is survived by his parents, Richard J. Linn and Malisa Linn; a brother, Tan Linn; and his grandmothers, Anita Linn and Lee Woothi. The family will receive friends 2 to 6:30 p.m. Tuesday at the Huguenot Chapel, Woody Funeral Home, 1020 Huguenot Road, followed by services at 6:30 and 7:30 p.m. An additional service will be held at the funeral home at 11 a.m. on Wednesday, followed by burial with full Military Honors at 2 p.m. in Culpeper National Cemetery. After this service, please join the family for a luncheon and reception at the Holiday Inn in Culpeper. In lieu of flowers, please make contributions to Fisher House or the American Red Cross for Tsunami Relief.“</i><br />
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Simple words. Too few to capture a precious lifetime. I found myself unexpectedly at the point of tears again today, out of nowhere, at my desk, safely in my windowless Virginia office. Karl was killed in 2005 when an RPG was fired at his armored personnel carrier in Iraq. Three other young marines died with him in that ambush. There happened to be an embedded reporter in that convoy, and I have seen the footage of that coal black night, with the fire trails and tracers from the hills as grenades and heavy arms fire rained down on the convoy. I will not forget the images. It must have been terrifying to be in that truck, not able to see or fight or escape the enemy that was so desperately trying to kill them. And then the terror of the impact. I hope his pain was brief.<br />
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I think of Karl that night, but I also think of him in context. Karl and The Child had dated fairly intensely before his enlistment. To say they were "intended" would be a serious overstatement, but to say that they were just friends at the end would not adequately describe their relationship either. I think there was genuine connection, a real fondness for each other, the latent potential of something more if the future circumstances had been right. Clearly he had feelings for her. This is the way I remember it, anyway.<br />
<br />
They attended college together. Karl was a whiz with engineering concepts – structurally and visually oriented. Line drawings, sketches, and crude schematics I saw in his notebooks were really impressive. He was respectful and thoughtful and deliberative. I remember at the funeral home hearing his squad leader recount that Corporal Linn could disassemble a weapon or piece of equipment faster than anyone in the unit and put it back together before anyone else had completed the break-down. Just a sharp kid, and gentle. Also a practicing Buddhist. How he decided that his path lay with the Marine Corps, I’ll never understand. But he did, and served proudly.<br />
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I learned about his death on the local radio. On January 27, 2005, the AM talk radio's News At The Top Of The Hour began with the report that a Lynchburg (VA) based Marine Reserve unit, the 4th Engineering Battalion, had come under fire in Iraq the evening before and that four Marines had been killed, including a local man from Midlothian. When they said the name, my heart jumped. I knew I had to tell Her before she heard it elsewhere. Our girl was coming over that night for a celebration – Karl’s death had occurred during the overnight on her 21st birthday. Kim and I discussed it -- we couldn't risk waiting until after the party to tell her, knowing that someone else who had heard the news might inquire if it was "the same Karl." So we had to tell her. But her 21st birthday, for God's sake. <br />
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How the hell do you tell your baby girl that her first serious boyfriend, only recently a former one, now at the least her very good friend and confidante, her Maybe, is lost? That mere months after shipping out he died a horrible death away from family and all those who loved him? I went to the local florist to pick up the roses I’d ordered for her birthday the day before and just about blubbered over the counter as I contemplated the task of telling her. The three or four employees joined me in tears once I explained. I took the flowers home and left them with Kim, and walked to the car to go fetch Her. I wanted to be someone else.<br />
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She met me in the lobby of her dorm. I sat her down, and asked her Karl’s last name. I wanted to be very sure that I had the right person before stepping into the news. She must have read my face. “HE’S NOT DEAD!?!?” After inhaling and taking half a beat oafishly trying to skip ahead in my rehearsed monologue to the part where I was supposed to console her, she bolted from the common room in hysterics. (Nice job, Dad. God, what a useless putz.) I waited in that chair for the hours that must have actually been 10 or 15 minutes it took her to return. I told her I could call everyone off for the evening, that they would understand. She said, No, everyone had made plans to come celebrate her birthday and that she could handle it. She was fighting with herself for control, and I could see her steeling herself for the "birthday celebration." It’s easy to be proud of your child when she does something outstanding, but it’s even more special when she does something Necessary. This was one of those moments.<br />
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The funeral was held in Richmond, the burial at the veterans' cemetery in Culpeper nearly an hour away. The funeral procession snaked along two lane byways along the way, through wooded miles and towns mostly too small to have their own zip codes. All along the route, in every single village we passed through, the street was lined end to end with strangers who had come out in support. Some with flags, some with hands over their hearts. Policeman standing at attention, saluting the entire parade of cars. It was more moving than the military tributes and the tears of his high school friends and even the graveside service.<br />
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Except for Taps. Taps is such a simple, soul deep tune. But it doesn’t plum its true depth until you have heard it played for a boy you knew. Because of a shortage of buglers in the military and the sheer number of veterans' funerals for servicemen long retired and servicemen newly killed in action, most Taps deliveries are actually a recording, with a ceremonial bugler judiciously far enough away from the grieving family that no one can tell he is not really playing. This soldier was on a hill above the cemetery his instrument sparkling in the sunshine. Playing or pantomiming, it didn't really matter: the effect was still soul chilling. They put Karl in a grave next to his grandfather, another hero from another war. His austere military style gravestone bears the simple military regulation identification, dates, regiment, and KIA, and above it a Buddhist symbol where most stones have Christian crosses or Stars of David. Even in this place of uniformity, Karl is not the usual.<br />
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Karl has been gone for the better part of a decade. The Child has had other relationships, has developed into a grown woman with grown up interests. But she thinks of him often. She still receives monthly mailings from a support group for families of lost soldiers. I don’t think she looks at them any more, not because she doesn't care but more because it still serves as a reminder of the pain and the loss. Every January around her birthday we talk about taking the drive to Culpeper. Several times we have actually done so, to stand over Karl's grave and reflect. It is a cold place, not the bustling near-tourist attraction of Arlington National Cemetery nor the family feeling of a church yard. It is just a place to focus and think. And feel loss. There is no comfort to be had there.<br />
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I miss Karl. Not that I really knew him well myself, he wasn’t part of my life for as long as he was part of The Child’s. But I do miss him nonetheless. I miss the interesting man he was becoming. I miss the opportunity to have watched him mature and discover himself. I miss the chance to have talked philosophy and politics and tales of his childhood. He could have been a good man, maybe even great. A soldier, an engineer, an artist, a dad. He had a spark that told me he was special, some elusive something that few teenagers or twenty-somethings I ever met have possessed. But his one important life choice, to defend our country from all enemies, foreign and domestic, swept away all other paths. I still recall the pain my daughter felt, and can only imagine the anguish his mother and father dealt with. The horror of that time lives in them still.<br />
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Today for no particular reason, Karl is on my heart again. <br />
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<br />Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4708495768493268860.post-6529551236940104802012-03-26T18:37:00.014-04:002012-03-26T20:26:09.467-04:00A Wedding Anniversary Celebration!<strong>Warning</strong>: LONG post! A week's worth in one go. You've been advised!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisaI8yqOZbOFZyEf1CcbY_BFSNb-9r7ctSoUpCsV6rFC-hSYqhpttxGZj7kf-CZixCxAchuVzODiy55zUBQu3dUzICGiRkUgft8EbR2upEmtxV70RIfTCO9rpIHWK7bsVq1TqeAyhgKs/s1600/vintage+bride+and+groom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisaI8yqOZbOFZyEf1CcbY_BFSNb-9r7ctSoUpCsV6rFC-hSYqhpttxGZj7kf-CZixCxAchuVzODiy55zUBQu3dUzICGiRkUgft8EbR2upEmtxV70RIfTCO9rpIHWK7bsVq1TqeAyhgKs/s320/vintage+bride+and+groom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339139852096962" /></a><br /><br />Mr. Kim's comments in <em>italics</em>.<br /><br />March 20th was our 30th wedding anniversary. At first, Mr. Kim was all for some Big Important Celebration. He was sending me emails about Bermuda and Costa Rica and cruises. I was pushing for something a little less flamboyant. With the year that we’ve had (both good and bad), I just wanted to relax. I didn’t want to have to research restaurants, site seeing, etc. I didn’t want there to be anything that was a ‘must see’. I told him I wanted something nice, but a bit dull. He was not really convinced. This was before my ‘retirement’. After that, he became much more amenable. <em>I really should have expected this -- she took the same position about our honeymoon 30 years ago... no touristy area, no place that she HAD to get out and explore. So we ended up back then at a ski resort in spring. That was wonderful for its privacy and intimacy, even if it was a bit less sensational than some locales. </em> So here, for our 30th, we did what we’ve done so many happy times before. We went to the Outer Banks in NC. Except, since we didn’t have to worry about how much leave I had, we stayed for a whole WEEK! We stayed at the Sea Ranch Hotel. The majority of the hotel is being renovated, so we had very few neighbors. And there were some issues with the hotel – AC not working very well and the window wouldn’t stay up. But there was an indoor pool and the hotel is right on the ocean. We also got a voucher for a hot breakfast every morning at the Jolly Roger – right up the street within walking distance. Years ago, we had an extremely ordinary Italian dinner at this place – we didn’t know the area at all and wanted to watch basketball. But the breakfasts are fine – eggs & bacon (and really good fried potatoes and grits), sausage gravy and biscuits, waffles, pancakes, etc. Funny decorations – equal parts Pirates and Christmas with a few movie posters for good measure. <br /><br />We got there Sunday night and had dinner at Captain George’s Seafood Buffet. It was fine. We ate much too much. Dessert was the best thing on the line. Evidence:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAD36U1KDVJjukJd2yQCn5Bclu1Q5PA3H7LND1LVWefdCq5zRdiIwzFJHSKqznjMPgHCMZg698A6xHMMJCflxqC2Sz1xw659x0NjObKnEH1CoCXyNG97DQudm_dU-Toc8jFGMQyeUbf1E/s1600/P1100453.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAD36U1KDVJjukJd2yQCn5Bclu1Q5PA3H7LND1LVWefdCq5zRdiIwzFJHSKqznjMPgHCMZg698A6xHMMJCflxqC2Sz1xw659x0NjObKnEH1CoCXyNG97DQudm_dU-Toc8jFGMQyeUbf1E/s320/P1100453.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339146015370658" /></a><br />My dessert plate. And it’s a dinner plate, not a bread plate. From 12 o’clock: coconut cake, chocolate-chocolate, carrot cake, German chocolate, white cake with strawberry mousse filling and strawberry glaze topping. And they were not even ALL of the cakes available – just the ones that especially appealed to me. I didn’t eat all of it, but had at least a taste of each. They were surprisingly good. I couldn’t pick a favorite.<br /><br />That night we had a lovely pre-bedtime walk on the beach. We were blessed with fabulous weather for almost the entire week – probably the best weather we’ve had since we started spending time here each March. <br /><br />Monday we headed to the nearby town of Manteo. <em>This town is on tiny Roanoke Island, the site of the first English settlement. Go to Wikipedia and look up Virginia Dare et al. This is the place it all happened.</em> In Manteo we wandered the Christmas Shop. It was sold a few years ago by the family that had owned it forever. The last time we went in, their stock was VERY low and it has improved, but is still not the magical place that it was. <em>It still has room after room of Christmas ornaments, halloween items, books, antiques, jewelry, artwork, candles, and beach crap. It's hours of fun to explore, even if it used to be so much more than it is now. </em> We tried to find a place on the waterfront to have a drink and write postcards, but nothing was open. This is always one of the drawbacks to coming when we do – so many places are not open yet for the season. This is both a con and a pro – it means we don’t get to sample many of the places that are here, but it also means that we have most places to ourselves. Mr. Kim helped one nice lady hang a curtain rod and got me a 20% discount! <br /><br />We had a late lunch/early dinner at Sam and Omies. Just a local joint, but we like it a lot. I had their really thick and CRABBY She Crab soup and Mr. Kim had a salad. We both had cheeseburgers – good and juicy and crusty on the edges. <em>I indulged and planted a bunch of the onion rings I ordered on the burger. A tacky but delicious pleasure. </em> Then back to the hotel for a walk on the foggy beach and an evening swim. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwiVEZxj8Lif2nH-CNZDYMaGWOlHdOXv-9ydqUWFBMoD-NMzmDFPg2e0fg6MYj2JTEzQIPbubdUDYI9N5C9AEpFFQfd5zBfZv5ku_yt4CdXEvL7fguSLPKDYNiQTzV2Tdq-K5Ro4XEtg/s1600/P1100458.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwiVEZxj8Lif2nH-CNZDYMaGWOlHdOXv-9ydqUWFBMoD-NMzmDFPg2e0fg6MYj2JTEzQIPbubdUDYI9N5C9AEpFFQfd5zBfZv5ku_yt4CdXEvL7fguSLPKDYNiQTzV2Tdq-K5Ro4XEtg/s320/P1100458.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339151850713394" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtQZKxLIWVWP5N_5BYuhQp7M89YhkZhw3OlDrQX6TJ9ixDOI9fVphEUuuoGb5UBYfGBgD_Zq9skwVY0TgnD8vGGhFJnBrnwnQDpxbbmbxQSJiV032tKFAW7TrYC8r-eNIYtSA0_uZ7Tg/s1600/P1100460.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtQZKxLIWVWP5N_5BYuhQp7M89YhkZhw3OlDrQX6TJ9ixDOI9fVphEUuuoGb5UBYfGBgD_Zq9skwVY0TgnD8vGGhFJnBrnwnQDpxbbmbxQSJiV032tKFAW7TrYC8r-eNIYtSA0_uZ7Tg/s320/P1100460.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339176754182194" /></a><br /><br />Mr. Kim is apparently still confused by the recent time change. This is what I found when I came out from changing into my bathing suit:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZdKCt0PFa5mj6QD-ZiE0f3Nhy6na1oYzswMt7UAPELHiXpgF33G6HBLI27y17CXTgFD5eu0LSfGkUIsFv5V2C3m62vKFiDVjt5HR3M6n18CeRKH3o_0prB0TuAQ5JCF1KFzqzSJobkw/s1600/P1100466.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZdKCt0PFa5mj6QD-ZiE0f3Nhy6na1oYzswMt7UAPELHiXpgF33G6HBLI27y17CXTgFD5eu0LSfGkUIsFv5V2C3m62vKFiDVjt5HR3M6n18CeRKH3o_0prB0TuAQ5JCF1KFzqzSJobkw/s320/P1100466.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339181991090546" /></a><br />Um, Mr. Kim, look here:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJrwqqUaoG2n3l3M8te49Y9R_5LAIutAJb1WdOiNph3sZchoQOs61KY39Y-flkwCDSqe-5F-Ujw6fwtvQhsKqetwQ7nFDvCP4kJNCsEWot_gUoxUfyK9e7ZkT_WZYc1gM_Peq_3C4JZ2E/s1600/P1100464.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJrwqqUaoG2n3l3M8te49Y9R_5LAIutAJb1WdOiNph3sZchoQOs61KY39Y-flkwCDSqe-5F-Ujw6fwtvQhsKqetwQ7nFDvCP4kJNCsEWot_gUoxUfyK9e7ZkT_WZYc1gM_Peq_3C4JZ2E/s320/P1100464.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339445980925826" /></a><br />He remonstrated a bit, but ultimately we DID go swimming. <em>I assumed that I was entitled to a nap on vacation. Silly me.</em><br /><br />The pool is indoors, but you have to walk outside to get to it – very chilly when you are wet. The structure and the pool are nominally heated. It took me a while to get acclimated, and Mr. Kim never really did. <br /><br />Tuesday, after our pirate/Santa breakfast, we drove north as far as we could. If we’d had a FSUV (the 'F' stands for something rude), we could have done some beach driving, but as we are anti-SUV folks, we decided to stop and do a nature walk – hoping to see the wild ponies. It was a gorgeous walk – a boardwalk that goes out to the Sound and another walk through the trees, but this was as close as we came to spotting the wild horses:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eKgO49AqI2N1p8cs7nvP-K-ziY0FjY0ld7C1yuFteB48bX46iLRw-4-vyPb98QWVkV0Pszjuac1ZHVAXoHUDjcCpxg9jRuKIwjFlL3OiZysBzqD_fUmBanE1Pn2ZS_JBKJoIWmCOEI0/s1600/P1100497.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eKgO49AqI2N1p8cs7nvP-K-ziY0FjY0ld7C1yuFteB48bX46iLRw-4-vyPb98QWVkV0Pszjuac1ZHVAXoHUDjcCpxg9jRuKIwjFlL3OiZysBzqD_fUmBanE1Pn2ZS_JBKJoIWmCOEI0/s320/P1100497.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339449407701458" /></a><br />Sigh.<br /><br />The wildlife we did see:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXgIdJ0yoI_QVMxHUE6fnW9SG7iaOZpWc28js5alN_hPtiTAYRmzgHYPdssgR25ntR5p8qH67_Zg7fVVJ3gQrNzswyEzN6elusp-DKLDi7B2az9rXn1lylK_Ma1AGrcjI1cNwiu7MofY/s1600/P1100484.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXgIdJ0yoI_QVMxHUE6fnW9SG7iaOZpWc28js5alN_hPtiTAYRmzgHYPdssgR25ntR5p8qH67_Zg7fVVJ3gQrNzswyEzN6elusp-DKLDi7B2az9rXn1lylK_Ma1AGrcjI1cNwiu7MofY/s320/P1100484.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339455176329570" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6IVhRd8lcKQ0jZIQ6v9XIQLzcf-u_z5JiRKgeL7ohLx0v9zprWf_4lrLdNWnmHHDxBEPm5Oiliay3ImmIOSus369-i4xFWXempoD1DvkMiHejJyjJAgfkg9nq43sOEX5Op_k7rG7K3o/s1600/P1100476.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6IVhRd8lcKQ0jZIQ6v9XIQLzcf-u_z5JiRKgeL7ohLx0v9zprWf_4lrLdNWnmHHDxBEPm5Oiliay3ImmIOSus369-i4xFWXempoD1DvkMiHejJyjJAgfkg9nq43sOEX5Op_k7rG7K3o/s320/P1100476.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339464439308370" /></a><br /><br />The beautiful Sound:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpJ4yc6mmgIWKS8XwoXbkYKy0F5EBEaitH-dJ6zmjK45KTNlU7tbKSiQtw8Bc6l-tPhSHQlgFf966pQGAxCaUdcj8p7q8qRtAdv6VA_3plf7mKgF1WnLodeSlrFPD9JqyJ-CfQGNJCvI/s1600/P1100474.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpJ4yc6mmgIWKS8XwoXbkYKy0F5EBEaitH-dJ6zmjK45KTNlU7tbKSiQtw8Bc6l-tPhSHQlgFf966pQGAxCaUdcj8p7q8qRtAdv6VA_3plf7mKgF1WnLodeSlrFPD9JqyJ-CfQGNJCvI/s320/P1100474.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339475580296258" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYtuoDovhQpM6tnBHX2xPh1m14pF00FBvbj32L6VRR8t1Xj4GIMv_TuOic8FwVo5doP7KAuCX6Hkz1IIQ-JvRIslxllcmotwOpC6YWPzbzeGuJ3FmqCyqMlVS2te62c4t0q8hlI5k3eY/s1600/P1100479.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYtuoDovhQpM6tnBHX2xPh1m14pF00FBvbj32L6VRR8t1Xj4GIMv_TuOic8FwVo5doP7KAuCX6Hkz1IIQ-JvRIslxllcmotwOpC6YWPzbzeGuJ3FmqCyqMlVS2te62c4t0q8hlI5k3eY/s320/P1100479.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339717557795506" /></a><br /><br />Tuesday night was our annual visit to Ocean Boulevard for our anniversary dinner. We figure that we’ve been going here almost every year since 1997, with a couple of extra trips in between. Every time that we go, we worry that something will have changed and that it just won’t be as good as the last time. And it is always as good as our last visit. Some things are even better. Like the service. When we first started going, the food was fabulous, but the staff was a bit snooty. Not so the current staff. I said to Mr. Kim that they always treat us like someone who they see spend $100 every week. You really can’t do any better than that! We got seats at the kitchen window – we love to do this:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXFrOW4jh1haALuReabbkcAl5tqXQnC4GbJnpR-m-_8hOWlK1Rl4RjF_gM27zNKUqDluBSGXZnI3QTb0giCS7zfkawbYxIIuhzIseJg-bi4x2-5WhUsyLkspeCeaGWMs69QAXomVqYQw/s1600/P1100510.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXFrOW4jh1haALuReabbkcAl5tqXQnC4GbJnpR-m-_8hOWlK1Rl4RjF_gM27zNKUqDluBSGXZnI3QTb0giCS7zfkawbYxIIuhzIseJg-bi4x2-5WhUsyLkspeCeaGWMs69QAXomVqYQw/s320/P1100510.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339717895619378" /></a><br />At OB, they really chat with you and answer questions and it’s a lot of fun. The chef asked us if we were here for a special occasion. After we told him we were celebrating our anniversary, every single staff member wished us a happy anniversary during the night. We started out with cocktails – Maker’s Mark w/ bitters for Mr. Kim and a South Beach martini for me: Stoli Ohranj, Absolut Citron, Cointreau, and lime. Yummy martini. <br /><br />Our starters were Lamb Pie and Bistro salad. Mr. Kim had decided on the Lamb Pie and then our server told us that the chef was sending it over to say happy anniversary. Nice gesture and the knock-out dish of the evening:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotqDQlWafI5QbMawGFHbn4SE56FJveI8GRULX9PgrkvpNHrRKeRSgdVGptf-O4jeF2Z4Rhj7Q4zXmlMpA-o2tBht1c3RTvLRkQ8cHlwUSZPj6yldPn3AhW7J97NpOpsIVpm0kIeCBc8U/s1600/P1100514.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotqDQlWafI5QbMawGFHbn4SE56FJveI8GRULX9PgrkvpNHrRKeRSgdVGptf-O4jeF2Z4Rhj7Q4zXmlMpA-o2tBht1c3RTvLRkQ8cHlwUSZPj6yldPn3AhW7J97NpOpsIVpm0kIeCBc8U/s320/P1100514.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339727554221490" /></a><br />Phyllo-encased ground lamb with vegetables on top of braised cannellini beans and wilted local Toscano greens all topped with minted goat cheese. A view of the open phyllo packet filled with the delicious and fragrant lamb:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTi1hgyQUTzdQCK3sn3ZpVEdFnLHhRnSoHAa_FxoXEyT-FByKJ0iu_nc_VuOTEMLFOKjOS_Iq8Xpf86jkhIxlEkH1Hv1XQTAMIjLfglFd1VhbKjU80KmGF3vQYzjiGB3wnP2-hsIOg_mk/s1600/P1100515.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTi1hgyQUTzdQCK3sn3ZpVEdFnLHhRnSoHAa_FxoXEyT-FByKJ0iu_nc_VuOTEMLFOKjOS_Iq8Xpf86jkhIxlEkH1Hv1XQTAMIjLfglFd1VhbKjU80KmGF3vQYzjiGB3wnP2-hsIOg_mk/s320/P1100515.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339746883728354" /></a><br />This was truly unusual and delicious. I am SO stealing the minted goat cheese and serving it with Mr. Kim’s smoked lamb at Easter. I always seem to get some grand idea when we eat here. Last time it was black pepper infused honey – I use that one a LOT. The braising liquid was amazing – I kept sopping it up with bread until Mr. Kim threatened me with his fork. We really liked the greens – very hearty with a nice bitterness, but no kale-like skunky-ness. <br /><br />My Bistro salad:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8LGeVLTsxcQMSzb_Ma3DQYThUrlgs0CjZ0YKzRzQcafPgCGKU4tKfw_hzEE2q1pFEB8DNF3ZPpP8wdCp1QNJ8h5ZgvqHy6FQ6ZGOj3BxE8JTDAjzCW-x1tQiqYq2cZG1DujsxEMpv6A/s1600/P1100516.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8LGeVLTsxcQMSzb_Ma3DQYThUrlgs0CjZ0YKzRzQcafPgCGKU4tKfw_hzEE2q1pFEB8DNF3ZPpP8wdCp1QNJ8h5ZgvqHy6FQ6ZGOj3BxE8JTDAjzCW-x1tQiqYq2cZG1DujsxEMpv6A/s320/P1100516.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724339753448435202" /></a><br />Mixed greens, endive, frisee, poached pears, Brie, candied pecans and vanilla vinaigrette. Just lovely – the poached pears went perfectly with the Brie and the slightly bitter frisee. And the vanilla vinaigrette was so delicate and perfect. My only quibble (other than that the candied pecans staged a no-show) is that I’m not sure that Brie is the best cheese to serve on a cold plate. Brie is at its best at room temperature, not chilling on an already chilled plate. In fact, it tasted wonderful at the end of the course when everything had warmed up. I’ve had salads (perhaps even at OB in the last 15 years!) where they actually warmed up the Brie to almost melting and then slid it onto the top of the salad. That would have been perfect here.<br /><br />For my main, I chose one of the small plates:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhfrciQGDzmFP0AMxCrz4U6OevA3uEjjMR13anATJ4eTHAIWgAUDnCzOtNaPCKfKnuUXbHEgiajRuSBeTz8yIAFB10gjgasDfbis8RAvd4guqBawFbeIwJxwHM4A_chD-8IP2G1ClZwQ/s1600/P1100509.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhfrciQGDzmFP0AMxCrz4U6OevA3uEjjMR13anATJ4eTHAIWgAUDnCzOtNaPCKfKnuUXbHEgiajRuSBeTz8yIAFB10gjgasDfbis8RAvd4guqBawFbeIwJxwHM4A_chD-8IP2G1ClZwQ/s320/P1100509.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340063658544770" /></a><br />I thought it looked like a Guy Fieri caricature. Either that or Beaker:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEsq6qVQ6Q5l9OcmyBD2oyZu8Q2vlCUclcnOk2RQwlt1kLpPJ7We3HFdVDV8_KY9p2QL5URQ3trr1RKJnECnYRfjltGbKd83__Tva9-R15IEdHlY4Phih8leA5cHYC6L2072vDbDvZDI/s1600/Beaker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEsq6qVQ6Q5l9OcmyBD2oyZu8Q2vlCUclcnOk2RQwlt1kLpPJ7We3HFdVDV8_KY9p2QL5URQ3trr1RKJnECnYRfjltGbKd83__Tva9-R15IEdHlY4Phih8leA5cHYC6L2072vDbDvZDI/s320/Beaker.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340075869017266" /></a><br />It was a play on surf and turf – Fried Oysters & Seared Angus Beef with frisee, Jack Daniels Horseradish sauce and Pomme Frites. Really a fantastic combination – and those gorgeous, sweet, tender and perfectly cooked oysters! <br /><br />Mr. Kim’s main was Grilled Scottish Salmon w/ rosemary braised cannellini beans, grilled NC sausage, NC shrimp, Brussels sprouts, grilled sweet onions, winter greens and roast garlic:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXaMkVj7oR2yCqOYy73Qct_DY0UvHaV4I_doy_6m3XCFbv8wDUHUqGx2U3KvXqaDLGK9i_kIb8C-sRtq8IXv7sLrYyLuZJ5V5WZBDuB7mHEbKVQ7Oy_S0PonUM45Rw2Aot3ejOKZ0UDI/s1600/P1100518.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXaMkVj7oR2yCqOYy73Qct_DY0UvHaV4I_doy_6m3XCFbv8wDUHUqGx2U3KvXqaDLGK9i_kIb8C-sRtq8IXv7sLrYyLuZJ5V5WZBDuB7mHEbKVQ7Oy_S0PonUM45Rw2Aot3ejOKZ0UDI/s320/P1100518.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340078833304434" /></a><br />This was a really wonderful dish – delicately flavored, with a gorgeous broth. <br /><br />For dessert, Mr. Kim chose the blueberry cheesecake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBcTEscukqHPShtNwDPeI1iMxnkP_Nb_q7-qnS72doO1Sonhl9XQCM-rhVQzuIm8KUkGdY9sXrsD-7lsJ32gjBlANr15Vq9A4J7gDQM7saWcMX8aLqpkqZG1vBU2AFsxavlV7VKWKt6M/s1600/P1100524.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBcTEscukqHPShtNwDPeI1iMxnkP_Nb_q7-qnS72doO1Sonhl9XQCM-rhVQzuIm8KUkGdY9sXrsD-7lsJ32gjBlANr15Vq9A4J7gDQM7saWcMX8aLqpkqZG1vBU2AFsxavlV7VKWKt6M/s320/P1100524.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340085503366082" /></a><br />It was very good, but the dessert winner was an old favorite:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0p3gGniqEyxpNC1U5VDcVWASq5GZxhBHaWrwx53qBQHSOuO8QE3nDpumyg2fQwlgN09DLHHWbiCPQp1wxh4MLTcWqdveiFxNhDJqnjpGtwMQ5rPVOVr4svFByubWmcFMS7Z0B0MDMqw/s1600/P1100525.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0p3gGniqEyxpNC1U5VDcVWASq5GZxhBHaWrwx53qBQHSOuO8QE3nDpumyg2fQwlgN09DLHHWbiCPQp1wxh4MLTcWqdveiFxNhDJqnjpGtwMQ5rPVOVr4svFByubWmcFMS7Z0B0MDMqw/s320/P1100525.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340093943547906" /></a><br />Macadamia tart with house made caramel ice cream. This dessert has been around since at least 2004, since that’s the year that I made it from the Ocean Blvd. cookbook and put it on my Recipe Circus page. It is so gooey and chewy and delicious. One of my very favorite desserts, ever. <br /><br />Back to the hotel to moan and groan about how full we were and how we always over eat – another anniversary tradition!<br /><br />Wednesday was another day of gorgeous weather. We wandered around and dropped in on a couple of thrift stores and a used bookstore. I found some very fun books:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Zy7pVej6N2APpemE4egweuv0l0F9AC1ZMjXOKlxDNAhgKuRP2E7T7AzVeo6hnCiKTjWJuuTgMw_OUFsklXJslMaolM0hajJv8qIr3Mi_dDikjwiCfpWlOVI3XZAr1ZWaUn76LBQcMjg/s1600/P1100707.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Zy7pVej6N2APpemE4egweuv0l0F9AC1ZMjXOKlxDNAhgKuRP2E7T7AzVeo6hnCiKTjWJuuTgMw_OUFsklXJslMaolM0hajJv8qIr3Mi_dDikjwiCfpWlOVI3XZAr1ZWaUn76LBQcMjg/s320/P1100707.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340576866841330" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU72fj214pupbDOTGbfgERDiRMiEPLrXjAZGiDq1lrHlidgW7RH2S3Pne0oIeHvbJDrQH76p1spORT3YFs1Ra57twIWyFA3vLqihmnatvSCv7ubydkupyPc7OXLU31OxNlUplkA3UQQLs/s1600/P1100709.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU72fj214pupbDOTGbfgERDiRMiEPLrXjAZGiDq1lrHlidgW7RH2S3Pne0oIeHvbJDrQH76p1spORT3YFs1Ra57twIWyFA3vLqihmnatvSCv7ubydkupyPc7OXLU31OxNlUplkA3UQQLs/s320/P1100709.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340583673156946" /></a><br /><br />And a few to fill in a couple of collections:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38ilhEkKenpbIIZMrYqhG2bOEhhsJteJRnt8cBIKyCxVtOi4r_gxTB3jdkIcz-Whr-7f7LWf72xxGb-4QsUJqH5aRaX1w3YJ7scrJ9RoG2OZCvC-pXafLE7XsBOhuMbJIrjLpyf-fhzw/s1600/P1100708.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38ilhEkKenpbIIZMrYqhG2bOEhhsJteJRnt8cBIKyCxVtOi4r_gxTB3jdkIcz-Whr-7f7LWf72xxGb-4QsUJqH5aRaX1w3YJ7scrJ9RoG2OZCvC-pXafLE7XsBOhuMbJIrjLpyf-fhzw/s320/P1100708.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340592838850738" /></a><br /><em>The Cooking of Spain and Portugal</em> from the Time-Life series and the <em>1990 & 1991 Southern Living Annuals</em>. I got everything at great prices – especially that $2 Time-Life book! <br /><br />The BH&G books are hilarious – they offer a wonderful slice of life of what folks in the late 60’s – early 70’s aspired to. Bizarre creations and concoctions. Weird combinations – hot dogs and cream of mushroom soup, avocado and cranberry sauce with French dressing. An odd obsession with black olives – they seem to be in almost every recipe. Did anyone ever REALLY cook like this? My mom sure didn’t – and neither did anyone I ever knew. I have a lot of cookbooks in this vein and they are pristine – not a folded down page or smear of sauce in any of them. I am a huge fan of Jim Lileks’ Gallery of Regrettable Food at www.lileks.com and I’ve been known to dive into that website, only to resurface hours later – bleary eyed and weak from laughter. I love it when I find something that I have featured on there.<br /><br />The lovely day called for more beach time. It was so warm that we both got a little burned (I am the whitest woman in the world, so I burn in about 5 minutes). We even dabbled in the water a bit:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENNbhwraapJPvGFV9vgJzaXP36V5AVkWm6hceD0fEdwf4TpCg-r5jokJuVN73w6uKLP6oaKa_hQ_k_dtjWk3nqPC8_65L5_bx4lowcNeKrdFymc7SctHYuNjKzJzu7xFR3N_T4xQBtSU/s1600/P1100533.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENNbhwraapJPvGFV9vgJzaXP36V5AVkWm6hceD0fEdwf4TpCg-r5jokJuVN73w6uKLP6oaKa_hQ_k_dtjWk3nqPC8_65L5_bx4lowcNeKrdFymc7SctHYuNjKzJzu7xFR3N_T4xQBtSU/s320/P1100533.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340600573046690" /></a><br />But hot sun does not necessarily equal warm seas:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-V85kAo8r9XzZArYnAYyYHScpNsxnlEmc2lo4E9TnJ1qvJzKcAJt1H7s73FyDu8BDArGwsC8zyXLM7cUha_yKyx3WYwlsDbJ-B6NRM35Hdt9Ty0zt7Ls3syjsHtui8q92ap08j7a46MU/s1600/P1100535.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-V85kAo8r9XzZArYnAYyYHScpNsxnlEmc2lo4E9TnJ1qvJzKcAJt1H7s73FyDu8BDArGwsC8zyXLM7cUha_yKyx3WYwlsDbJ-B6NRM35Hdt9Ty0zt7Ls3syjsHtui8q92ap08j7a46MU/s320/P1100535.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340606115929474" /></a><br /><br />We opted for an early dinner at another old favorite:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyOZmNO3y5TVKwTUbEch6Gedb1MLzlXFNyCOX92ghKgf1exGzYnWZNl0yEOFn7BBdCfdRtdL7x1-7jDxh0xJPI5lXSQOfpDALgSsw9Qrb4jIq1V_bYiOyJllp4QPO_BCJ9B2bGYsZRqEA/s1600/P1100543.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyOZmNO3y5TVKwTUbEch6Gedb1MLzlXFNyCOX92ghKgf1exGzYnWZNl0yEOFn7BBdCfdRtdL7x1-7jDxh0xJPI5lXSQOfpDALgSsw9Qrb4jIq1V_bYiOyJllp4QPO_BCJ9B2bGYsZRqEA/s320/P1100543.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340845293260194" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3DW2dZe_hVjo02QoNy62E6iUr_bLbTi4gnzVA4IRdlEfOZr2o6giF0cPnpSf1GJKsvjOZjT-_-UBmd9X7g3s3YCcM6j_9fCHc-3lS_xEMRjYMWvSTX9TzPclC-JfhIZ2nrEBXDlSUzw/s1600/P1100541.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3DW2dZe_hVjo02QoNy62E6iUr_bLbTi4gnzVA4IRdlEfOZr2o6giF0cPnpSf1GJKsvjOZjT-_-UBmd9X7g3s3YCcM6j_9fCHc-3lS_xEMRjYMWvSTX9TzPclC-JfhIZ2nrEBXDlSUzw/s320/P1100541.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340859911581762" /></a><br />We love this place and go every time we are at the Outer Banks. And I’ve had the same meal every single time we go – Hatteras style clam chowder:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrwB7PPi7pESlGpRN_WkVV12o3Yua_f83CEb-zb6nDEtlDIDFdSEwZspCDcxJjer1YbqJcPGVz4_SKNmVsi4cXY4U4SpbE9zLNfhtS1oqVNwCX4ig3l7YtmL8pV2tb1GaeW55LXpkzeE/s1600/P1100540.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrwB7PPi7pESlGpRN_WkVV12o3Yua_f83CEb-zb6nDEtlDIDFdSEwZspCDcxJjer1YbqJcPGVz4_SKNmVsi4cXY4U4SpbE9zLNfhtS1oqVNwCX4ig3l7YtmL8pV2tb1GaeW55LXpkzeE/s320/P1100540.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340871193104962" /></a><br />Briny and clean-tasting, this chowder is packed with tender clams and vegetables. Not a drop of cream, but still amazingly delicious. I also always get a steamer tray of those same beautiful clams and NC shrimp:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3mfLCRyplqCNa5LLjmpvWmvMJJIv6NPh_aVMouq4DNwzm3cQtdlE-wi7zb6EVxotTvm7qkLBbW4ftKtTXnTToGvXOLzTTIys2kmKQcEJJEza0ePoRI1_Y_pz1hZoB28sy1nXRCIKdwI/s1600/P1100542.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3mfLCRyplqCNa5LLjmpvWmvMJJIv6NPh_aVMouq4DNwzm3cQtdlE-wi7zb6EVxotTvm7qkLBbW4ftKtTXnTToGvXOLzTTIys2kmKQcEJJEza0ePoRI1_Y_pz1hZoB28sy1nXRCIKdwI/s320/P1100542.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340876791689746" /></a><br />Mr. Kim had the same tray minus the clams. Clams are the last bastion of his bivalve phobia. When we met, he ate NONE of them – now he joyfully slurps down mussels, scallops and even oysters. So I hold out hope. <em>Do not hold your breath. If oysters taste like the ocean, clams taste like the sea floor under an oil derrick.</em><br /><br />Thursday was a very lazy day. Every vacation needs at least one of these to actually qualify as a vacation. I couldn’t even be bothered to walk up the street for a pirate breakfast! We did some Easter shopping and general wandering. We had gotten The Child a tacky shell souvenir for her Blasphemous Bathroom (she needs to blog about this – go to her blog – Suck Out All the Marrow – and nag her about this) and it needed some embellishments to make it truly tawdry, so we stopped at a shell store for freeze-dried fish and starfish. <br /><br />We had lunch at a new (only a year old) restaurant, the Firefly. We had a great meal. Mr. Kim had a wonderful grilled meatloaf – classic mixture of beef, pork and veal, brushed with a sweet tomato sauce and finished on a grill (I’ve seen this method a lot lately on TV and am interested – it added a nice crunch). It came with fantastic collards. <em>This was the second best meal of the trip for me (behind OB.) Truly memorable for its flavor and nice prices too. I'd be a regular here. </em> I had a prime rib sandwich and onion rings. I ordered the beef rare and, wonder of wonders, that is EXACTLY how it came. Pink and tender and juicy, with a side of jus that seemed to be truly pan juices – not just a can of bouillon! I asked for some horseradish and the waitress (who was also the sister of the chef/owner) asked if I’d prefer horseradish sauce. I did and it took a couple of minutes, because they made it fresh for me. We were really impressed with this place and hope that they survive! <br /><br />We spent the afternoon lazing around the room reading and on the beach. It was so warm that we actually wore our bathing suits. I feel the same way about sitting on a beach as Ratty does about “messing about in boats” – truly, “there is nothing…half so much worth doing”. The sounds of the surf and the sea birds, the salty-briny odors, the warmth of the sun and the feel of the breeze all combine to make the perfect day, no matter where you are in the world. <br /><br />For dinner, I made sandwiches and we had a picnic at a table in front of our hotel and watched the sun set over the beach houses across the street. <br /><br />Friday was a much busier day – it was our last full day, so we crammed a LOT of stuff in. We’d gone to the beautiful Elizabethan Gardens a few years ago, but not at all lately. With having such an early spring this year, we thought it was worth another visit. I’m so glad that we went, because it was exceptionally beautiful this time. The gardens are large and the paths meander, but it is an easy wander. Lots of shady areas to escape the sun and one section goes right down to the water and has lovely views. Some pictures:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfi78e_DsCzu7yd-_ZxkKU7r8HRV6fdvkMqy2hyphenhyphenZHaLKhewEb71NbLtS6K0QV9Yg5u5k7knZoivTPGurpLhhCkw96ARpm-2wTOejw-2iS4hA7JwJYiDuTd-A8PiLRBNJ7A2-cluRSNXuk/s1600/P1100550.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfi78e_DsCzu7yd-_ZxkKU7r8HRV6fdvkMqy2hyphenhyphenZHaLKhewEb71NbLtS6K0QV9Yg5u5k7knZoivTPGurpLhhCkw96ARpm-2wTOejw-2iS4hA7JwJYiDuTd-A8PiLRBNJ7A2-cluRSNXuk/s320/P1100550.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724340877806737842" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybqb8SQgFS13Z_2U-YYbbuirr7b86xMyu1Ulw_M6pn9Ehzc-nCLvcmYDLrkD2kRe-gyGIlo4MO_diL8NcQqtXNYrxQf6ZmIRtL1uMJloEVO_N1dNbNEprHQ9x6k4jtV3cDFX3-HwSsaE/s1600/P1100560.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybqb8SQgFS13Z_2U-YYbbuirr7b86xMyu1Ulw_M6pn9Ehzc-nCLvcmYDLrkD2kRe-gyGIlo4MO_diL8NcQqtXNYrxQf6ZmIRtL1uMJloEVO_N1dNbNEprHQ9x6k4jtV3cDFX3-HwSsaE/s320/P1100560.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341119109367666" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-WDAM3AuOMUQtVk3d6ukK7lRiXlapTxaiiHOElXXz00ODqlty107JOYym9LsPtqmUpjIt1r96oDAlxi2lcl9Xi8c8UwNRJ_7SZko03GtaLGuh1MRmXFnyO8N5cA4TxSwgGZpuvW5Fj4/s1600/P1100577.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-WDAM3AuOMUQtVk3d6ukK7lRiXlapTxaiiHOElXXz00ODqlty107JOYym9LsPtqmUpjIt1r96oDAlxi2lcl9Xi8c8UwNRJ_7SZko03GtaLGuh1MRmXFnyO8N5cA4TxSwgGZpuvW5Fj4/s320/P1100577.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341127679838290" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Pds2zWHCnjFLcpxEX2CE4iSBvMF4FiWtxKcRR4WdzLPjaS72tLSmGLYQhEXDlk3BsYtXSJt0jBNFZ3TGeFcCMoh1FE7Z_kKripThe_zglL3kBJHTBeMKXR9HBloX-JOWJrd_gp1BUts/s1600/P1100580.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Pds2zWHCnjFLcpxEX2CE4iSBvMF4FiWtxKcRR4WdzLPjaS72tLSmGLYQhEXDlk3BsYtXSJt0jBNFZ3TGeFcCMoh1FE7Z_kKripThe_zglL3kBJHTBeMKXR9HBloX-JOWJrd_gp1BUts/s320/P1100580.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341138942728322" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFT6nfB0LlSUCSKRWNSdQjrCxTbcZ3v9w3ZiyY1lzkY7AV6xLgGT36O9r0ekeul707SJLIEQICqnfA3rUj29WeDsV3Vmxb_OJVSm4KH9OxrDnPp5QDP2KkTo3YiKY7_SPvqWumgdJE6j0/s1600/P1100583.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFT6nfB0LlSUCSKRWNSdQjrCxTbcZ3v9w3ZiyY1lzkY7AV6xLgGT36O9r0ekeul707SJLIEQICqnfA3rUj29WeDsV3Vmxb_OJVSm4KH9OxrDnPp5QDP2KkTo3YiKY7_SPvqWumgdJE6j0/s320/P1100583.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341142669305682" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJJt2xbOghtiX-9R7ET_OpwIN1UEbFsS5crDKEQmogXz4XOqBBM5dr8Fgab2c28YGLvxlPx58MguN3bBV44szu_HDEBIa-aAVXlAFkr-_HIx8BvWLEqf1_BVuajkbk-d81nJXBRat5TE/s1600/P1100588.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdSF-putAahY_C5idd3rnT82C1uGr4NJHPWI9qcQrcP688xUJ9LzwAWAjEYbR9F_ZfBsWejtaxfmNIGwOs5InsYBlifRs12jdcl5PKrditHiBvTzbNehKbnK25Df8BmavJ-Lbo0ja-fc/s320/P1100616.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341412471857506" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPgJqWJAiiPYwiVh4B4oLIYefCm5kMaDuqJVUJdqnJPa2eb5Ce8BVlnswxZ8cHUAHX_KvN9Uj-5Ahlc79Q7qpzVtYeoi7yQry2kC8SyOR3x1R1X3KDo38ykydKuLP1hRaWzbWOX_nTf4/s1600/P1100626.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPgJqWJAiiPYwiVh4B4oLIYefCm5kMaDuqJVUJdqnJPa2eb5Ce8BVlnswxZ8cHUAHX_KvN9Uj-5Ahlc79Q7qpzVtYeoi7yQry2kC8SyOR3x1R1X3KDo38ykydKuLP1hRaWzbWOX_nTf4/s320/P1100626.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341417465681394" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJp01qa9Be56COuIVG2X4-2BJ1hEnTzmzlctDMvaMtpFNUIOxs6vTu-3ExQVg40Ty397eME9pfIHPsuEr3CaFdYQg466J104f4LDfzob4oDbHJz-kjYi2eRxtSrEe_qDHiN2GfStrT_Xo/s1600/P1100644.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJp01qa9Be56COuIVG2X4-2BJ1hEnTzmzlctDMvaMtpFNUIOxs6vTu-3ExQVg40Ty397eME9pfIHPsuEr3CaFdYQg466J104f4LDfzob4oDbHJz-kjYi2eRxtSrEe_qDHiN2GfStrT_Xo/s320/P1100644.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341420730643570" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAG_cP8O0mxvRteitZHg3JSHukAGZSjXQv97bSnwQ6ZAT6P2-x5MEXZy5Zk75nr_RpsAL4r-jPqZqinNQnGfMdgeeKxTqAdVfYp5E3FKojBeHSu_pEuYvQlydt_6czknBJPqj0i6iqyo/s1600/P1100666.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAG_cP8O0mxvRteitZHg3JSHukAGZSjXQv97bSnwQ6ZAT6P2-x5MEXZy5Zk75nr_RpsAL4r-jPqZqinNQnGfMdgeeKxTqAdVfYp5E3FKojBeHSu_pEuYvQlydt_6czknBJPqj0i6iqyo/s320/P1100666.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724341429984924034" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQRVlGLmx5NwIyn7q29AtiYJRDjTsLEQAsVIfOMtRG269OT9AfvLOAHyH_sBnpHTaTfvcFslR_qT-g-xRYx9wP2UISp81WoGkH6bikKfihqhtuRl3i_x8fM37YO5NY6I5_Ib-IPjyxrQ/s1600/P1100673.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQRVlGLmx5NwIyn7q29AtiYJRDjTsLEQAsVIfOMtRG269OT9AfvLOAHyH_sBnpHTaTfvcFslR_qT-g-xRYx9wP2UISp81WoGkH6bikKfihqhtuRl3i_x8fM37YO5NY6I5_Ib-IPjyxrQ/s320/P1100673.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342033137038498" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAD5ThN2rt6MrH9oQY51eD85fpG9iUBg7bCuE-Ck5r4HVcKAB3ihm3IqsEltfB1IW2kdKJGiSI8PRpSMqReoBmTEuRM-k1embclnpo3dzZ7EBnI_4Th8UQuL-By7x-QvnMgt9FlNRsbuI/s1600/P1100686.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAD5ThN2rt6MrH9oQY51eD85fpG9iUBg7bCuE-Ck5r4HVcKAB3ihm3IqsEltfB1IW2kdKJGiSI8PRpSMqReoBmTEuRM-k1embclnpo3dzZ7EBnI_4Th8UQuL-By7x-QvnMgt9FlNRsbuI/s320/P1100686.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342043803576114" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ecgLen866ceNOZf13N7lptG0FzdtIn63FCmc8ftOn842CgePb4Hfq1kgMCGWmrQ8qkbp13PnpWDvd6x0WUCjcYwssx9lHeK35K2V7NbyJaTJO5L07WsqFfbaYSCB3EtB-XegqThQK1A/s1600/P1100694.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ecgLen866ceNOZf13N7lptG0FzdtIn63FCmc8ftOn842CgePb4Hfq1kgMCGWmrQ8qkbp13PnpWDvd6x0WUCjcYwssx9lHeK35K2V7NbyJaTJO5L07WsqFfbaYSCB3EtB-XegqThQK1A/s320/P1100694.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342048865683122" /></a><br /><br />Of all the beautiful flowers, my favorites are the camellias: <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZA2_q5iTuPlFH7q127mjqYwkmnjmd7ir6de4C7iRPURU_YrBrCXWX5W-hI9IKTPWgiyJTkRpaVt-Q_Vc_4dAVIaNIIEzZCD8rqT5K5lfGFiXyZXJKHshu8RJeBMX-A7H3P5Zjy_w06w/s1600/P1100557.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZA2_q5iTuPlFH7q127mjqYwkmnjmd7ir6de4C7iRPURU_YrBrCXWX5W-hI9IKTPWgiyJTkRpaVt-Q_Vc_4dAVIaNIIEzZCD8rqT5K5lfGFiXyZXJKHshu8RJeBMX-A7H3P5Zjy_w06w/s320/P1100557.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342058067010882" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-8ATMgZpRg7LHnUJcywz7SeD80zILSwh74uv8ZIfW8-xEB6ThcMSAU93KVYNuGsQE9JRe4nJqyC0nS5GPvItmcrSFNdMAy9ojJWroNhutWV1YAt5cdxVim60xr7EqiRoN64Ez9k_RmM/s1600/P1100558.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-8ATMgZpRg7LHnUJcywz7SeD80zILSwh74uv8ZIfW8-xEB6ThcMSAU93KVYNuGsQE9JRe4nJqyC0nS5GPvItmcrSFNdMAy9ojJWroNhutWV1YAt5cdxVim60xr7EqiRoN64Ez9k_RmM/s320/P1100558.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342071166703330" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshdvMr1bWJ3ohF2UyyHDsEaqDNqXgdc2RJZHu0m_GWLYI6vxBs5XQzm0n9VfWOlyL_kLb906nuh_VRRCUMDxHq4ROCFpScKbS8yQmv5GQ7Q_rYTp6_oNvwbSfybLrMUSkOe0I-j6s5JU/s1600/P1100570.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshdvMr1bWJ3ohF2UyyHDsEaqDNqXgdc2RJZHu0m_GWLYI6vxBs5XQzm0n9VfWOlyL_kLb906nuh_VRRCUMDxHq4ROCFpScKbS8yQmv5GQ7Q_rYTp6_oNvwbSfybLrMUSkOe0I-j6s5JU/s320/P1100570.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342333584384914" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaPLnwRkkhyY6i0hRrjbMXUdbj3mmm9nA_AwWIbBhSXqOb0LpEUI9nAGSEDRYwpS5PiAtRZs4NPSRTjzFUuBIkeBRIH2O3YtRrMIMLXxkDBs-YfKKGbrTNBDTUYUSOD_Ita3rFfUeINs/s1600/P1100574.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaPLnwRkkhyY6i0hRrjbMXUdbj3mmm9nA_AwWIbBhSXqOb0LpEUI9nAGSEDRYwpS5PiAtRZs4NPSRTjzFUuBIkeBRIH2O3YtRrMIMLXxkDBs-YfKKGbrTNBDTUYUSOD_Ita3rFfUeINs/s320/P1100574.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342380782171122" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kpK7LXunuamZbVUWY-PPu-tfcxVhKsXHlYnWhKIf3Sty1r1ues3N7aKpvtqpuKQq2HrMM7HVt796-1V2RJ4A4d5_xj5BVfxaSEkwnZ6OHvyhsejKYMwJ-4Yrl9jG320ut7FQnFUiJrI/s1600/P1100646.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kpK7LXunuamZbVUWY-PPu-tfcxVhKsXHlYnWhKIf3Sty1r1ues3N7aKpvtqpuKQq2HrMM7HVt796-1V2RJ4A4d5_xj5BVfxaSEkwnZ6OHvyhsejKYMwJ-4Yrl9jG320ut7FQnFUiJrI/s320/P1100646.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342391293129426" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupV2ZBiSquroihdFWGhNETj7OijDLMwLa_TeW6ZbheCPoy4EkmSEiejmTYmwwOSA5jrdYQXiBO61KLLC5pjP2L_ActjVwAt6NTO9omwLGfYxfGtERRziB1n_dUrJwzmPjXFniB7w-wyI/s1600/P1100692.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupV2ZBiSquroihdFWGhNETj7OijDLMwLa_TeW6ZbheCPoy4EkmSEiejmTYmwwOSA5jrdYQXiBO61KLLC5pjP2L_ActjVwAt6NTO9omwLGfYxfGtERRziB1n_dUrJwzmPjXFniB7w-wyI/s320/P1100692.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342397778978130" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudK3Zx3ZPcRK6k6xKjjAerL0HH1venriUFEIBGNgch9GrniyGiZLlfZodw-PE62BEGjp_bNoj8VijBYcafew5Oo_ugX32UT2GOVnbCf_S3r_uvfOp1DK0maVaoE_972F_5HYz25wG2IE/s1600/P1100689.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudK3Zx3ZPcRK6k6xKjjAerL0HH1venriUFEIBGNgch9GrniyGiZLlfZodw-PE62BEGjp_bNoj8VijBYcafew5Oo_ugX32UT2GOVnbCf_S3r_uvfOp1DK0maVaoE_972F_5HYz25wG2IE/s320/P1100689.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342419554704386" /></a><br />This all made for a lovely, relaxing stroll. After the garden we found a wonderful antique store – the rabbit warren kind that you could poke about in for hours. We only saw half of it, because my blood sugar took a dive and we had to find something to fix it. I decided that frozen custard from the Kill Devil Hills frozen custard stand would cure me. It was good, creamy incredibly smooth custard. Not sublime like the old Dairy Bar in Falls Church, but good. I got a vanilla. The only choices were vanilla, black raspberry and S’mores. I am extremely conservative when it comes to frozen custard – vanilla and chocolate are really the only possible choices. Fruit flavors belong in frozen yogurt, not custard. Ice cream? Sure, pile on all the additions you like. But frozen custard is sacrosanct – as plain as possible, please.<br /><br />Dinner that night was at High Cotton, a BBQ place that we discovered on our last trip. Mr. Kim had pulled pork, ribs and smoked chicken with collards and Brunswick stew on the side:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8-alQdsXp0xzOgo9lHbdXEzA_6xN2Tgav5pmfekH0SW06gaStRPhDTiAfwiQC705nBrdUJ1ubcwV2x5hRp0W4l58fUsu_SN7Bm-wdLQkl4CXgFygZ6G0VznZCA2vASNZDwelKCuq_Og/s1600/P1100706.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8-alQdsXp0xzOgo9lHbdXEzA_6xN2Tgav5pmfekH0SW06gaStRPhDTiAfwiQC705nBrdUJ1ubcwV2x5hRp0W4l58fUsu_SN7Bm-wdLQkl4CXgFygZ6G0VznZCA2vASNZDwelKCuq_Og/s320/P1100706.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342640165591202" /></a><br /><br />I had ribs and fried chicken with slaw and chicken & dumplings on the side:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_zjJJMckAkDHLd6DuBN_Yznk3iMLkiBa7zB0ebM38valVfShNlJDqZMtt6Uvr3585oBekLYyVnZ_anOW8p6lh4U0d195U_1AaPgaVZXOiMdHSksJ05pdwsiKXcPFiG04Y7fQx2kr7Dk/s1600/P1100703.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_zjJJMckAkDHLd6DuBN_Yznk3iMLkiBa7zB0ebM38valVfShNlJDqZMtt6Uvr3585oBekLYyVnZ_anOW8p6lh4U0d195U_1AaPgaVZXOiMdHSksJ05pdwsiKXcPFiG04Y7fQx2kr7Dk/s320/P1100703.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724342647627560098" /></a><br />The pulled pork is good – nowhere near as good as Mr. Kim’s, but good. Both of the chickens are fantastic – the smoked was extremely tender and full of smoky flavor and the fried is perfect – crisp and juicy with a well-seasoned crust. I could have just pulled the skin off and had a feast – I suspect that lard was involved in the frying process. The ribs were outstanding. None of that fall off the bone, soggy meat nonsense here. The meat was tender and smoky and not overly sauced, but there was a bit of a bite to it – you had to work a little to get a bite. Perfect. Nice smoke ring, too. The sides were all very good – I’m a fan of thicker stew, but that’s just a quibble. Chicken and dumplings were excellent. It sounds odd, with all of this delicious food, but the thing that kept me nibbling until way past full was that slaw. It was just stellar. Honestly the best slaw I’ve ever eaten. If I lived there, I’d never make my own again. It was chopped rather than sliced or shredded and it consisted of just cabbage – no other vegetables. It was creamy without being gloppy – maybe mayonnaise and cream? A little sweet, but not overly so. It made a great side, but would have been perfect on a BBQ sandwich, too. We tried the lemon chess pie for dessert. It was fine, but mine is better (LOVE it when that happens). We waddled back to the hotel and relaxed for a while before taking an evening stroll on the beach. We walked about a mile down the beach to the Avalon fishing pier and back, letting the waves just tickle our toes and star gazing. Perfect last evening.<br /><br />Saturday was our last day, so the morning was full of packing, sorting and organizing. We always take all of our leftovers to the beach to feed to the birds on our last morning, but had only one taker – and he wasn’t even a sea bird, just some random blackbird. But we left him a feast anyway – bread, cookies, leftover pie! He seemed grateful.<br /><br />We took the slow road home – stopped at a couple of antique/flea market places and at the Husband Torture Store aka: The Cotton Gin. This store in a seemingly never ending series of rooms, nooks, upanddownstairs crannies – all crammed with housewares, clothing, decorated sweaters, jewelry, decorative boxes and gewgaws. Girl heaven – Boy nightmare. We did find a couple of Mother’s day gifts, so as I pointed out to Mr. Kim, it was not a wasted trip. He remained unconvinced. <em> (Do I really need to comment here?)</em><br /><br />We stopped for dinner at Mr. Jim’s Sub Shop in Chesapeake, an almost 40 year old place that is miles above most sub places. We shared the lumpia (try to find THAT at your normal sub shop) with sweet and sour sauce. I loved it, Mr. Kim was meh. I had a club-type sub and Mr. Kim had some meatnormous combination and we shared a ‘regular’ order of hand cut fries. We didn’t come close to finishing those. Everything was delicious and out sized. Folks in Chesapeake are LUCKY to have Mr. Jim’s. Richmond doesn’t have anything to touch it. <br /><br />We got home later than we should have, thanks to the apparently insane and/or sadistic folks at VDOT. One of the bridge/tunnels was closed, so there was a detour. OK, it happens – no biggie. But we saw signs advising us of this for MILES after we got on the highway to Richmond. When we finally got within spitting distance of the tunnel, we were directed to the detour – back EXACTLY the way that we had just come and PAST the exit that we had originally used to get on that highway. Sigh. We grumbled a bit, but since the extra time just added to time we could laugh and chat and complain, we weren’t really too terribly peeved. That is kind of our travel philosophy – SNAFU’s happen, as long as no one is maimed, it’s ok. Plus, everyone likes to make fun of government workers, even other government workers (maybe even MORE than regular people).<br /><br />What a wonderful week and a perfect way to celebrate our anniversary. Mr. Kim indulges me always. I am a lucky, lucky girl. Lucky that he indulges me, lucky that he enjoys so many of the same things that I do. But I’m also lucky that he WANTS to spend time with me and that even if he doesn’t enjoy something, he loves seeing me enjoy it. I have a lovely, loyal, upright and generous man. It doesn’t get any better than that.<br /><br /><em>Same time next year, dearie? It's a date! xxxxoooo</em>Kim S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06609086775319252934noreply@blogger.com14