Dear You,
A belated Father's Day gift arrived: six cedar plank steaks from my daughter. I'd never had one, but was still surprised these required no refrigeration. I saw there was a page of directions, but I never read directions, trusting on my intuitive gifts. Anyway, I put one on the grill, smothered in a nice sauce, and tried it.
Good thing I have excellent steak knives! As the package noted, it did taste strongly of cedar -- probably a kind of marinade, I judged -- but I simply wasn't able to finish the thing. And I took my time, including nearly finishing that nice bottle of zinfandel I opened while it was cooking. It's possible I'll try another one next week, probably lengthening the time of soaking in my own marinade and lowering the heat . . .
Anyway, my dentist says what damage I did can be fixed. And I'm hoping that my daughter gives more thought that I'm getting too old to chew tough food, and praying she will send something easier, like tenderloins, for my birthday. (Funny, I always thought they were called "flank steaks," but now that I've actually had one, I can understand why I was wrong.)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Vroom-VROOOOOOOOM
Dear You,
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
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