Key Lime Pie

The Summer is so hot and dry.
Key Lime Pie! Key Lime Pie!
And you know why?
'Cause the Summer is so hot and dry.

House Rules governing the Suneson Household explicitly state that if we experience 10 straight days of triple digit temperatures (Fahrenheit); key lime pie must be served for dessert.

The average for Dallas is 18 days per year with 100 degree readings or above.  So far the year 2013 has managed 19 days at 100 or above.  And this last skein of hot days, ending on Monday, August 12th made ten-in-a-row.

Key Lime Pie! Key Lime Pie!
And now you know the reason why!

French Door Fantasies

So, it is the first week of August.  Historically the hottest week on the calendar for north Texas.  The "real" grass on my lawn is now dead from water restrictions and withering heat.  The substitute grass, such as Bermuda grass is also shocked and stunned by the heat and has not the ambition to do much growing.  The crabgrass, the Dallis grass and assorted weeds are unfazed.  I am fazed, and so come Saturday, I opt not to do any lawn mowing in the triple-digits.  Inside the air conditioned house, I slip off into a mid-day nap in my reclining chair.  So pleasant...

I find myself in a dream where a French maid, in a short black dress with a white lacy tool apron filled with a hammer, a power drill, lag bolts and nails comes to me with a glass of Beaujolais and as she bends down to serve me, she whispers softly in my ear, Je t'adore, Je t'adore.  I raise one eyebrow and give a small smirk in return.  So pleasant...

But I then awaken, and I realize the soft French phrase, Je t'adore [I love you] that I was hearing was not French, but is in reality an English phrase spoken by my wife, "The shed door, the shed door."  Oh, yes.  As I come to my senses, I recall promising her, that if I were to complete one significant project this summer, it was to repair the shed door.

The shed in question here was constructed by me and my Dad back in August of '92, and it was hot back then too.  My parents vowed never to return to Texas in August after that.  The shed was cobbled together with some 2x4's, wafer board and some roofing material picked up from the excess at home construction sites around the neighborhood.  The shed stores lawn mowers, weed whackers, bikes, hoses and gardening supplies.  It has also settled into the ground at the door end of late, making the operation of the shed door a function of finesse, friction and force.  A combination of which I employed every time I went to remove lawn equipment.  Upon my son's return from college earlier this summer, I delegated the lawn chores to him via text message while he slept in and I went to my office.  An obedient son, he eventually rose to greet the noon day sun, and went to open the shed door.  He applied force to counteract the friction as the sagging door scuffed into the dirt.  He did not apply any finesse.  In futility he forced the door off its hinges and finished mowing the lawn, leaving the shed door free and propped awkwardly against the doorway opening.  When I discovered the fractured condition of the shed door, he replied, "Oh yeah - I was going to tell you about that."  My wife interjected, "Yeah, you know that door was about to come off anyway - you should have fixed it."  I had to agree, it took too much finesse, and now it was time to rehang the door and not hang the messenger.

I pull out my tool apron (leather, not lacy white) with a hammer, power drill some nails and dragged the unhinged door to a shady spot on the deck and dismantled the hardware hinges, and the ratty waferboard beneath the exterior paneling.  It is a 45 minute job, that I decide I will complete over the next 2 to 4 days.  One must pace yourself in this sticky heat.  I sawed off the bottom 4" of the 2x4 frame, replace the bracing and tacked on the exterior paneling.

As fate would have it, Grant returns for 3 days back from college summer school, so I wait to enlist his help in the final stage of replacing the shed door back on it hinges and its latch.  Now, with his help, it swings real pretty once again.

The next evening I retire to my air conditioned quarters.  I slip off into a dream.  My French maid in black dress and tool apron softly approaches and whispers in my ear, "Dormez vous? Dormez vous?"
Which I translate as a question about my recently completed carpentry project, "Door may move? Door may move?"
In my dream, I raise one eyebrow as I look her in the eye and smirk, "Oui.  The shed door may now move."  So pleasant...

Sing For My Supper

If I had to sing for my supper, I'd likely starve to death.
It is a well known fact that I could not even carry a tune in a 4 quart sauce pan.

On another particularly hot Dallas day, I declared I am not going to cook dinner tonight, we will go out.  We decided on Napoli's, where the proprietor proudly proclaims he is fluent in English, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and Profanity.  He claims to have grown up in Texas, but speaks with an obvious Brooklyn tongue.  Go figure.

We were nearing the end of our dinner, when this proprietor begged for the attention of everyone in the room, he wanted us all to tune up and get ready to sing a hearty Happy Birthday to one of his patrons, Mario.  And he announced there would be a piece of cheese cake for anyone who could belt out the "Happy Birthday Song" in Italiano.  Well, I don't know Italian and as mentioned I certainly can not sing.  So what is going to stop me from getting a piece of free cheese cake?  In my mind, nothing.  Nothing at all.  Here goes nothing:

Festum litim tibi, Festum litim tibi, Festim Litim mi pisano, Festum litim tibi!

My embarassed wife immediately corrects me as she hisses under the napkin she has thrown over her head to hide her face, "That's Latin - not Italian!!  I can't take you anywhere!" [As if I don't know the difference between the two].  The proprietor looks somewhat bemuddled at me as I croak out the words and then sadly shakes his head, "Nice try my friend, but it wasn't close".  At least he did not critique my untrained voice and add, "Beside you are a terrible singer".  He then led the room in an English version and lit the candle on birthday boy Mario's dessert.

He then came to our table with a smile, and I admitted, I don't know Italian, but I though I would sing in Latin like the Romans did, as it could be argued that the Romans were Italians, and so the language that they sang in could therefore be considered Italian.  He proclaimed, "I am a man of my word.  I'm gonna tell ya what I'm gonna do for you.  I'm gonna give ya a half a piece of my cheese cake - do you want it to go or for here?"  I asked for it "to go" and he waved his hand at the onlooking kitchen staff, and it was done. A man of his word.

Now, you may ask; Do you know Latin?  The answer is basically no.  Or as they say in Latin America, "No".  But as a graduate student in geology, I did organize and preside as Bishop Usher for the Earth's 5,987th Birthday Party in the grad student lounge.  Bishop Usher (an Irish Bishop from the 16th Century - or maybe the 15th?) is famous for his calculations (mis)using the Book of Genesis and the genealogy and years recorded there in, to arrive at the date of the Earth's creation.  The Bishop declared the earth was created on October 23, 4004 BC at 10:00 AM.  I have to admire the good Bishop's ardent scholarly work, especially for 600 years ago.  But also have to point out the sad first misstep in treating the truth in Genesis as what we would now call scientific natural history.  Anyway, I, as Bishop Usher with cardboard mitre hat and Jacob staff in hand, had someone more erudite than myself, translate the Happy Birthday lyrics into Latin for all of us to sing at 10 AM.

Festum Litim Tibi Mater Terra is what I remember to this day. 

As Arthur, King of the Britons tells us in Monty Python's Holy Grail, "You have know these sorts of things when you're a king you know".  Likewise for Bishops and those bold diners that want to take a stab at a free cheese cake when the opportunity arises. 

Ciao!

Millionaire Dreams

July 8th, an auspicious day for me, dawned dark, sultry and especially early.  The local NBC News had mentioned the week before that auditions would be held for the morning TV games show; Who Wants to be a Millionaire? the following week.

As retired Captain of the 1980 Fresno State National Championship College Bowl team, I figured my trivial days were past.  But when I mentioned the WWTBAM audition news to Sue, she said, "Don't you want to be a millionaire?"  I thought, why yes -- Yes, I do.  A bit of digging online indicated the particulars of the multi-city audition and casting tour for the 2014 contestants.  The low down was simple, auditions were to be held from 7-10 AM at a hotel north of Dallas (about 15 minutes from my house), show up and take the test.

There was also a stipulation that the casting crew could cut off the crowds at any point.  I thought it best to show up early and not risk being at the end of the line and cut off from great wealth.  Therefore, I set the alarm for 4:40 AM, I had already laid out a clean, starched white shirt and a colorful neck tie.  In my tiny bit of research on the auditioning protocol, I read a blog by a Houston woman who was a contestant a few years ago; she advised: 
A) Reality TV is NOT real, what the producers want is something entertaining and dramatic that makes good TV. 
B) So, when they ask "what would you do with your million dollars?", don't be real and say I'd pay off debt and mortgage - they need a story to sell. 
C) You're always auditioning (even while in line), dress nice and act enthusiastic - but not too weird.
D) And beware that they will be looking for a demographic that fits their audience and the cultural desire for minorities - so if your a white man, the deck is stacked against you.
Whether she actually knew that much, I can't say, but at least she'd been there and came back with $64,000 (before taxes).

I arrived early enough (5:20 AM) to get a parking place in the hotel lot.  As I got out of my car, a man stepped out his car next to me, "You here for the Millionaire audition?" he asked.  I said why yes I am.  We walked into the hotel lobby and the desk clerk asked if she could help us, and I said we were looking for the Millionaire audition.  She flew into an almost rage, "They don't start 'til 7!  Go get back in your car AND WAIT THERE!"  We walked back outside and slipped into the shadows at the front of the hotel where there was a small area designated for smokers.  Neither of us lit up, but we chatted and come to find out he worked for SW Airlines as a scheduler, and recently flew to NY to audition at the Millionaire studio.  He did not pass then, but he said the rules allow for 5 tries per year, so he was back for #2.  I pumped him for what to expect.  It is a two-part process, step 1 is a timed 10 minute multiple choice exam with 30 questions on a fill-in-the-bubble scantron card.  It is graded, and those with a high enough score are then called back to interview with the producers, and the contestants are picked from that pool.

At 10 minutes before 6 AM, I suggested we leave the shadows and go around the building to see what is going on in the back.  As we turn the corner, we find a line stretching across half the packing lot.  I observe, so much for following the rules.  We fall in line and begin speculating with all those around us.  Others share stories of stupid contestants, or memorable interactions with the MC.  I for one have not seen the show in well over 10 years since it stopped being broadcast in the evenings.  So I try and figure out what the new format is and when it airs.  Turns out it is broadcast locally at 11:30 AM.  I never watch TV at 11:30 in the morning, doesn't everyone work at that time?  Or at least have something better to do than watch TV?  Daytime TV - it is not my world, but maybe I can fake it, if I have to?  The mousy 60ish woman in front of me is a school teacher from Garland.  She says she'd do real good with TV and celebrity questions, but sports, science, geography and history are going to be trouble for her.  She projects fatalism and negativity during our conversation. I think, a teacher that has little knowledge of history, geography or science - yikes!  The fellow on the other side of me in line works in the library at the Univ. of North Texas.  His wife was a contestant two years before, he seems decent and milquetoast - fits my librarian stereotype and I suspect not a candidate for "good TV".

We are standing behind the parked cars of the hotel guests as the sun comes up and the line continues to grow and wrap around the building.  We trade estimates of the crowd size.  I say 300 by now, others guess 400, but the end of the line is out of sight, so we do not know.  The producers come out to jazz up the jostling crowd and answer questions that are shouted at them.  Then the doors to the large conference room open and we all shuffle forward.  I am #89, library man is #90.  We take our seats at small conference table that seats six.  The room is filled with 200 nervous people.  A numbered Manila envelope with the 30 test questions is inside.  The scantron answer cards are handed out along with a souvenir WWTBAM #2 pencil.  A few T-shirts are tossed around, I out-hustle library man and get a T-shirt as well.  It looks like my luck day!

Once we write our names and assigned number on the answer card.  The clock begins counting down.  I read the first question - I know that, easy.  I bubble in B as the correct answer of the 4 options given.  Second question, I read quickly, I know that too.  It quickly becomes fun.  I know the ingredients for baklava, I know the origin of the English word 'Buckaroo' is derived from the Spanish word for cowboy [vaquero], I select 'Topsy' as the only character name that appears in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and not in "Peter Rabbit" [Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail were the other choices].  I guess (correctly as it turns out) that the French phrase for 'window shopping' translates literally as "window licking".  I guess on most of the pop-culture and rap music questions, but I do get the answer right for Jay-Z's involvement with the NBA and Opra Winfrey's website, Pinterest.  "One minute left", is announced from the time keeper.  Pencils down, pass your answer card to the center aisle.  Mousy teacher asks, "So, how'd you think you did?"  I honestly answer, I think I got most of them.  We'll see soon enough.

While the grading is taking place in another room, people start asking questions of the producers; "What's a passing score?"  Answer: We have a cut-off, but we're not going to tell you what it is.  Then people started asking about how the $1,000,000 was paid out, what are the tax implications?, where do I stay when I come to NY City?  I think, "Dudes, y'all are getting way ahead of yourselves - you don't even know if you passed, much less if you'll be selected."  But, I then figure most everyone in this room is pretty sure that this is easy money, just like I am now thinking.  They return with the scored cards and begin to read out the numbers of those who have passed (remember I am #89).  Then comes, 191 (A triumphant shout), 188, 185, 166...  the jubilant shouts begin to diminish, 140, 137, 122 [OK, they are reading off from high to low].  Then, 105, 65, 57, 51, 44, 24... [looks like this was tough competition if I didn't make it], then I hear, 79, 89 (yes, that's me), 90 (library man next to me).  Then we hear, "If your number has been called, we need to see you back at 12 noon for the interview phase.  Thanks everyone."  I am done by 7:45 AM, I'll go fill out my questionnaire and be back for my interview.  

My guestimate is that there were around 40-50 people in the "call-back" room.  In conversation with some of those around me, the consensus was that between 10%-15% of those taking the timed test made call back due to their scores.  Those waiting to interview with the show's producers were strongly dominated by those with European ancestry, about 75-80% men, mostly 40 plus-or-minus 5 years.  During the process it was mentioned that they selected 10 people when they had try outs in Houston last year - implying that that was a high number [10 out of maybe 600 people < 2%].

My name is called and I am escorted to another room with a set of four tables where the producers are seated to do the interviewing.  I meet with a striking, thin 28-ish young woman with long bright blond hair and looks like she walked out of a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader poster.  She takes a photo of me as I hold up my hand lettered name under my chin.
First question: What do you do? 
I tell her "I am a wildcatter!" 
Her previously high-energy countenance goes blank. [so much for strong first impressions. I think to myself; Lady, you ain't from around here are ya] 
What is that? she asks. 
I explain I drill for oil, black gold, I'm a geologist, I make maps and pick places to drill for oil deep underground in rocks that are millions of years old.
"Oh", she say, "I don't think we've ever had one of those before." [maybe I recovered a few points for uniqueness]
A few more questions along the lines of why would you be a good contestant on 'Millionaire' and what do you think about next season's new MC, 'Cedric the Entertainer'? [I answer something, but even though I've heard of C.T.E., in reality I have no strong opinions one way or the other].

She then explains that there will be a random drawing to select from the pool of contestants and that I will be notified by email in the next 2-3 weeks.
"Well, thanks for trying out. I hope to see you in New York!"

I am immediately skeptical of the "random drawing" to select the on-air contestants.  The photo was to screen out ugly people and as a way of identifying those with high melanin in their complexion [Am I wrong?].  Why go through an interview process if it is all random from here on out?  [I think we all know the real answer to that question].  Never-the-less, I leave thinking, "Hey, I took a shot, I made it to the second round, it could happen. I could win $1,000,000."
While the 7-figure sum hangs out there, we talk over the dinner table the next few nights, what would we do with the money (besides buy a pair of custom cowboy boots)?  What if I only won $100,000, what would we do then?  Fantasy and veiled future reality aside, these are fun conversations to have - and it could happen.   

One afternoon I see in my email In-Box: "Your Dallas Audition".
I click it open and read, "...You have not been selected.  Do not respond to this email".  It is not a crushing blow.  Yeah, I would have had fun at WWTBAM; and I have to admit I've never seen an easier way to make good, quick money.  I then do a little introspection and analysis; did I come on too strong in the interview?  Am I too old, too white for their target demographics?  Or, maybe, they'd just say, "Mark, we saw your photo and we think you have a great face for radio."

I got a "Millionaire edition" #2 pencil and a T-shirt.  I also had the pleasure of dreaming about a sudden change of fortune for the better.  Life is not a series of multiple choice questions, it is complex and often mysterious and without answers.

Yet, the way I still see it; I dream of a future, and therefore I am already rich. 

Baked Plastic Leftovers - Yum!

I know my way around the kitchen.
I can cook up some decent vittles - and I often do.

Most of my meals are a one-off.  I cook enough for two, clean up the pots and pans. No leftovers.  But, sometimes it works to make a bigger batch, if that batch lends itself to easy reheat and serve.  Not too taxing on the creative culinary cerebrum.  It has been a long time since I made 'Suneson's Southwestern Lasagne', but the time seemed right to pull out this old favorite and make a batch, which would lend itself to reheat and serve for several meals.

A lazy hot Sunday afternoon, the kind that melts one's ambition under the Texas heat and humidity.  I'd rather nap in the a/c and watch my ambition drip onto the bedroom floor than get up and do something about dinner in the kitchen.  So, when the half-felt question comes up, "What you want to do for dinner?", the easy answer is: I'll just reheat the SW Lasagne in the oven.  I'll call you when it is ready. 

I pull the foil covered leftover lasagne dish out of the fridge and place it in the oven. Of course, I like everyone else in the world, recognize the United Nations' International Standards for leftover foodstuffs.  Not that any of us need any reminders, but herewith;
  1.  Leftovers placed in plastic containers are to be covered with plastic lids, or if no lids fit, one is to cover the plastic container with plastic wrap.
  2.  Leftovers placed in glass or aluminum containers can be covered with aluminium foil.

These universal standards for leftover, refrigerated foodstuffs are simple, clear and well understood.

As I check Southwestern Lasagne reheating in the oven, I notice that there must be some bacon grease that has spilled onto the bottom of the oven, and it has caught fire.  I casually throw a fist full of flour onto the flaming grease, and the grease fire just envelops the flour and burns it as well, unfazed.  More flour, more of the same.  The fire continues.  Dang stubborn I think to myself.  Against better judgment, I fill a cup with water to try dowsing the flames with dihydrous oxide (H2O).  It is then that I notice I have molten globs hanging from the wire rack, like icicles beneath the aluminum foil.  Then it registers with me on this hot and lazy Sunday afternoon - that smell, yes, that is burning plastic!  

I shovel out the foil-covered lasagne and the molten plastic base to cool outside, while I extinguish the small flames in the oven.  I spend the next week whittling Tupperware plastic off the wire oven racks and heating elements.

Maybe this is nature's way of telling me not to eat leftovers?

Suneson's Southwestern Lasagne

1 lb Ground Beef
1 lb Ground Pork Sausage
3 (8 oz) Cans Tomato Sauce
1 Onion, Chopped
2 Cloves Garlic, Minced
1 tsp Salt
1 1/2 tsp Fennel Seed
1/4 Cup Fresh Cilantro, Chopped
1 tsp Sugar
1 TBSP Basil
16 oz Sour Cream
12 oz Shredded Mozzarella Cheese
1 1/2 tsp Oregano
1/4 Cup Parmesan Cheese, Grated
1 Fresh Tomato, Coarsely Chopped
1 Fresh Green Bell Pepper, Chopped
9-12 Corn Tortillas

Lightly brown sausage and beef in a large skillet; drain.
Add tomato sauce, heat until simmering.
Add onion, garlic, salt, fennel, cilantro and basil; stir occasionally.
Let sauce thicken, 30-40 minutes.

Line bottom of ungreased 13 x 9-inch casserole dish with corn tortillas cut into strips.
Spoon on 1/3 of the meat sauce,
cover with 1/3 of sour cream and
sprinkle 1/3 of mozzarella on top of sour cream.
Repeat layering process once again.

In separate bowl, mix Parmesan cheese and oregano, set aside.

For third and final layer, add tortillas, sauce and sour cream as before, then top with chopped tomato and bell pepper.
Cover with last third of mozzarella and dust with Parmesan and oregano mixture.

Cook uncovered at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.
Serves 8.

Reheating instructions: DO NOT disguise leftovers in plastic container with aluminum foil.  Heat only glass and aluminum containers in the oven.
Melted plastic does not enhance the taste of Southwestern Lasagne! Nor, does it clean up as easy as you might think

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

For Grant, this summer was a quick turn-around.

We drove back from Oregon, arriving in Garland on a Saturday, by Sunday afternoon, he was driving back to Missouri for Summer School.  Grant had registered for a particular journalism course that was essentially and internship at The Missourian, the Columbia daily newspaper.  He was to work as a reporter starting at the end of June, getting experience with press deadlines, editors and the world of print.  He was one of about a dozen students on staff for the last 6 weeks of the summer, and the only one who requested a sports beat.

Once in town, be remade his wardrobe to bring it up to professional standards and showed up at 9 in the morning to go over the budget with the senior staff, discuss the upcoming features and to get his assignments.  For his efforts he will receive real world experience, college credit hours but no pay.

He has written on Missouri track and field club hosting a regional meet, ultimate frisbee, a moonlight basketball program and a small piece on the reintroduction of elk back into Missouri, which was picked up by the Associated Press Wire Service (AP).  He was also assigned to cover a story about a woman falling out of a second story window (now how does that happen? alcohol).  Grant grasps that it is a privilege to write stories, an attitude which has not gone unnoticed by at least some of his editors.

Between press deadlines, he has been busy of late finding a new place for him and his 2 roommates to live for the Fall.  They selected a place about 5 blocks from campus, an unfurnished 3 BR.  So he has been researching the price and value of a bed and renter's insurance (required by his lease).  There was a 5-day gap between when his last lease expired and when his new lease allowed for move-in.  So, he and his roommate did a bit of couch surfing in the interim.

He is expecting to be back in Dallas briefly before the new Fall Term gets started.  Once back in Columbia, he is planning on co-hosting a Sunday night, 2 hour radio show with one of his roommates on KCOU, Mizzou's campus radio station. 

That's a wrap.

Tales of Time and Travel v10.0: The Down Hill Run to Home

The sunlight came through Lisa'a apartment window early this late June Saturday morning.  One more long day of driving and we'd be back to where we started from; 5,831 miles round-trip.  Grant and I had vowed to not shower that morning, nor eat breakfast - but rather just get back into those now so familiar front seats of The Q, and drive.  We'd catch lunch when we decided we felt like it.  But the focus was on the last leg of the open road, Denver to Dallas.

We loaded up quickly, and eased through the sleepy neighborhoods streets of Denver.  The Mile High air was light, the sun beaming from the east was bright.  I crossed over to I-25 and set coordinates for south-by-southeast, and off we rolled.

This was just a day to make miles, no sight-seeing or interruptions were planned.  Turning east out of Raton, New Mexico, I was grateful to see all the construction from years past on Highway 87 had been completed, and the once slow, two-lane road (which was heavily patrolled) was now a divided highway with 4 lanes.  I accelerated along this broad, green grassland plain, noting a few grazing antelope and the basalt lava flows oozing across the landscape, including the impressive cinder cone, Capulin. 



Capulin Cinder Cone
New Mexico landscape along Highway 87



These rocks being the far east vestige of the Rio Grande rift that was the beginning of a tectonic effort by massive forces to split the North American Continent down the middle.  The rift eventually failed, and the State of New Mexico was left landlocked and without any seaports.  Again, I say it is a pleasure as a geologist to have the rocks talk to you of their origins and ambitions as one drives along past them.

Grant was snoozing with his iPhone playlist pumping into his ears while I listend to the outcropping rocks and the soft humming of my tires across new pavement, telling me all is fine and progress is being made while each volcanic peak once on the horizon, comes closer into view and then slips into my rearview mirror.  Usually, coming the other way, east to west, I arrive in Clayton, NM in the late afternoon.  It is then that I like to stop at the DQ (Dairy Queen) on the north side of the roadway to get a treat, and to view the local history told by framed photos on the wall of the dining room.  One series of photos shows the infamous train robber, Black Jack, being led up onto the gallows after his capture outside of Clayton in the earliest years of the 20th Century.  As one sips on the DQ Tropical Blizzard Ice Cream treat, you can see that all the local and law officials are dressed up in their Sunday best for the execution, standing with Black Jack in the "before picture".  And again, posing with the corpse in the "after picture".  Between spoonfuls of Tropical Blizzard, if you look close, you can see that the hangman had misestimated the amount of rope needed, and made it too long, and as a consequence Black Jack's head had popped off his shoulders as he dropped through the floor of the gallows. It was too early to stop for lunch, but the DQ reminds me everytime I drive through Clayton; strive to make an honest living and quit while you're a head.

We slipped back into Texas at the very NE corner of the Panhandle, where the grain elevators marked the location of Texline and not much else.  I angled down to Dalhart and then south to I-40 and I slowed at junction of the interstate to look for reasonably priced gasoline.  Grant awoke, and asked, "Are we still in New Mexico?"  I replied, "Nope, we made it back to Texas."

Grant's thought, "Well, in that case, we need to stop at a Whataburger for lunch."  I ridiculed the name on the orange & white striped A-frame rooves that advertised Whataburger, when I first moved to Texas.  But, I have come to appreciate this Texas National Institution.  But, Grant is a natural born Texan and of course has always appreciated Whataburger.  That's just the way it is.

The Circle is Complete.
We're back in Texas & We get our fix on a Whataburger
Under the Orange & White Striped Roof.
We bring along all the bugs we collected on our grill
over the last 2 weeks and 5,831 Miles.

We unloaded all the gear from the home driveway that evening.  Quickly started the washing machine and Grant got ready to drive 900 miles the next day back to the University of Missouri.

Tales of Time and Travel v9.1: Morocco via Denver

Quick!  What'd you have for lunch yesterday?
OK. How about for dinner last Tuesday?

Deep thought #88: Food is one thing all people have in common.  Wow!

But, realistically now, is it not hard to name everything we have recently consumed?  I only mention all of this in contrast to what I rank as my most memorable meal I've ever had; it was late summer of 1986, we were newly weds living in Denver and we decided one night to dine at Mataam Fez - a Moroccan restaurant.  My bride and I walked in to the darkened interior off of Colfax Avenue and reclined upon voluptuous ottomans at a low table and feasted on a five-course meal while I exchanged wits with a jovial Moroccan waiter who was talented enough to pour hot tea into a cup balanced on the tip of his pointed slippers and then punt the tea cup into the air and catch it at its apex and then serve it without a drop being spilt.  He then indicated I was about to get my come-uppence and proceeded to pour hot tea from a great height into a cup he had placed upon my head.  No harm, No foul (and a big tip).  Even without the advertised belly dancers, we had a most memorable time dining at Mataam Fez - the most entertaining meal ever.

The years have passed, I've had steak tartar in Warsaw, Poland; I've eaten fish and chips beside the Tower of London; I've had crawfish etoufee in Louisiana, but I hold that evening in 1986 at Mataam Fez as the best.  With the last stop of our epic journey scheduled for Denver I wrestled with the question: Could great times be duplicated?  Or, should one just let fine memories rest undisturbed in the crenelations of the mind?  I must try, and therefore I asked my niece Lisa, who was to host us at her apartment that night, to make reservations for the Mataam Fez.

I initially suggested dinner at 7, but with our late start out of Arches National Park (chronicled earlier); I texted Lisa and re-suggested that our reservations be moved back to 8 - and it was going to be close.  Darting east along I-70, the traffic volume picked up considerably past Grand Junction as we ascended the pass at the top of the Rocky Mountains, and on the other side were the Atlas Mountains that would bring us to Morocco and a fine meal.  We found Lisa's place and I and Grant in turn, dashed under the showerhead to rinse the sweat, dust and salt from our bodies before dinner as if we had arrived at an oasis after a long camel caravan.  Since our SUV was crammed full of gear, the best option was for Lisa to take the three of us the few blocks over to Colfax for dinner at the Mataam Fez - I was hoping it would not disappoint after my stories of delight shared with Grant and Lisa.

We were seated at a low table in a heavily carpeted room, with rugs hanging from the walls, and we each chose a large pillow on which to recline for our five course meal.  We were to choose an entree from the menu, and the other courses would be supplied.  We draped a clean white linen cloth over our left shoulder and as we extended our hands to the center of the table as instructed, our host poured warm water over our fingers and palms above a communal bowl.  Once our hands were cleansed, we began with no utensils and fed ourselves in the traditional hand-to-mouth style, beginning with Harira soup.  Next was a salad of shredded carrots, raisins and a sampler of humas, olives and assorted vegetables.  Then it was a chicken-filled pastry, thin and flaky B'stella before our entree was served.  I ordered the lamb with artichoke, and my two companions also had a lamb dish.  The end of the meal, we were again refreshed with a washing of rose-scented water before the dessert of fruit slices and mint tea.  This time, the tea was poured from a pot into a glass balanced on our waiter's crooked elbow, and once the glass was filled with hot tea, he whisked the glass off his elbow and flipped it upside down and then back around rightside up without spilling.  Impressive - but not as impressive as the feats performed by my waiter back in 1986.

Lisa asked after the meal. if it Mataam Fez had met my lofty expectations the second time through some 27 years later?  I confessed that the first time was much more memorable, as most of our "first times" in life turn out to be.  But, a five course meal that was shared among family and friends was indeed a most pleasant night to behold.  I have no regrets.

Salaam, my friends!