Tag Archives: Oregon

May 20 2013

Chain Reactions: The Best in the Northwest

One of my friends “checked in” to In-N-Out Burger on Facebook the other day, and I commented that I was jealous. Because I love In-N-Out Burger, but there are no In-N-Out Burgers even remotely close to where I live. The nearest is two states and about seven hours south of here, which explains why it’s been over three years since I’ve indulged in a Double Double. Three years! Ack. We also have no White Castles (23 months since I last ate there) or Raising Cane’s (15 months). These omissions seem horribly unfair. Even Dunkin’ Donuts, which was all over the place when I was growing up, does not have any franchises out this way. It’s been many years since I’ve eaten there and, as a result, it has taken on a mythic aura in my mind. If I ever happen upon a Dunkin’ Donuts, I swear I will come to a screeching halt and make a mad dash inside. For a doughnut that is probably inferior to the ones they sell right down the street from my house, but such is life, you know? We crave what we can’t have. Which is why I’m curious as hell about places like Steak ‘n Shake and Chick-Fil-A and Whataburger, none of which I have ever tried.

Sometimes, coveted fast-food chains eventually do end up expanding out west. For years, Krispy Kreme was confined to the South. I’d heard good things, and was curious. Finally, in the late 90s they opened up a place in Seattle. People from Portland would make the six-hour round trip drive all for a box of glazed doughnuts. And then, they opened a couple around here. One of them is 10 minutes from home. And it’s been years since I’ve been there. What was once so novel, I now just take for granted. There are better doughnuts elsewhere, so why bother with Krispy Kreme? The same goes for Sonic. They opened their first local outlet just a few years ago. They’re good, but you can get a good burger anywhere, you know?

And then, there’s the ultimate tease. After going fifteen years without El Pollo Loco, one opened up in Vancouver, WA a few years ago. It was a huge deal; there was a ribbon cutting ceremony, and the mayor showed up. I loved El Pollo Loco when I lived in California, and I took full advantage, stopping by often for a quick lunch or dinner. One year later, they closed unexpectedly as a result of mismanagement. Sigh. Now I miss them again.

But I got to thinking about this. For every Smashburger we lack, for every Taco John’s we don’t have, for every missing Arctic Circle and Long John Silvers and Pioneer Chicken, we do have some really terrific local and regional chains that, while common up here, are hard to come by (or downright impossible to find) outside of the Pacific Northwest. Places that I would miss dearly, even if I lived across the street from a White Castle or Hardee’s. So, I made a list, because lists are fun! These are what I consider the best local or regional chains in the Pacific Northwest. They’re limited to fast-food or casual restaurants and, to qualify, must have at least ten locations, the industry standard per the Independent Restaurants of America website. So, without further ado, here we go!

The Top 5 Local or Regional Fast or Casual Food Chains in the Pacific Northwest

  1. Burgerville. Locals know that Burgerville is more than just a fast-food burger chain. This Vancouver, WA-based company has 39 outlets, all but 5 of them located in the Portland metropolitan area. They’re confined to an 80-mile radius stretching from Albany, OR to Centralia, WA. Burgerville was founded in 1961 and prides itself on fresh, local, sustainable ingredients. Their burgers are made with Tillamook cheddar, for instance, and seasonal specials like strawberry lemonade, blackberry milkshakes, and Walla Walla onion rings all contain natural in-season ingredients from local growers. They use 100% wind power for all their restaurants, convert used cooking oil into biodiesel, and use only range-fed beef free of antibiotics and hormones. Best of all, their food tastes amazing! Some people gripe over the high prices and, while it’s true that their meals do cost more than your typical fast-food chain, you can taste the difference. People in Seattle can’t get Burgerville. People in Eugene can’t get Burgerville. Which makes us in the Portland area the lucky ones!
  2. Ivar’s. Now it’s Seattle’s turn to gloat. Ivar’s, based in the Emerald City, opened their first location in 1938 and now has 25 “fast casual seafood bars” and 3 full-service restaurants, most of them spread around Seattle and Tacoma, with one location as far east as Spokane. Fat lot of good that does us in Portland! So, what makes Ivar’s so special? Amazing, locally-sourced seafood. Their fish ‘n chips are available with Pacific True Cod, Alaskan halibut, or northwest salmon. You can also get scallops, prawns, oysters, chicken, clam strips, and an incredible clam chowder. Grilled platters are available, along with salads and shrimp or crab cocktails. Quality ingredients put Ivar’s a cut above your typical fast-food joint. Long John who?!
  3. Taco Time. Fast-food burritos are fast-food burritos, right? Not when they’re hand-rolled and fried to a crisp! Founded in Eugene, OR in 1959, Taco Time has since expanded to over 350 franchises, but the majority are here in the Pacific Northwest (though if you’re in Kuwait or Curacao, you’re also in luck). Taco Time prides itself on using fresh ingredients, making their shells, chips, and salsas from scratch every morning. They use real aged cheddar and meat that is never frozen. This commitment to top quality ingredients shows in their food! It’s all good, but I hardly ever deviate from my usual: those aforementioned Original Crisp Burritos, unique to Taco Time. They hand-roll a soft flour tortilla, fill it with either refried pinto beans, all-white chicken, or seasoned ground beef (my personal favorite), and fry it until it’s golden and crispy. A healthy choice? Decidedly not, but if you’re eating fast-food Mexican in the first place, you probably don’t care.
  4. Jack In The Box. This one seems like a weird inclusion to me. I’ve always had easy access to Jack In The Box, a San Diego-based chain formed in 1951. There are 2200+ locations, after all. Yet the majority are concentrated out West, especially in California, Oregon, and Washington. Aside from the Carolinas, there are no franchises east of a line from Ohio to Louisiana. I wasn’t even aware that people thought Jack In The Box was special until family from the Northeast came out for a visit one time and made an excited beeline for the place. I like Jack In The Box because of their menu variety (burgers, chicken, grilled sandwiches, teriyaki bowls, mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, judicious use of sourdough bread, nine different breakfast sandwiches served all day long, and tacos that are amazingly simple (they’re topped with a slice of American cheese, for crying out loud) yet delicious, and cheap. 2 for 99 cents? That’s a bargain!).
  5. Elmer’s. There are lots of Denny’s-style restaurants around the country. Casual dining places that specialize in inexpensive but hearty food, usually with a focus on breakfast, often open 24 hours. IHOP, Perkins, and Bob Evans are all great examples. In the Pacific Northwest, we’ve got Shari’s. Which would have made the list…if Elmer’s didn’t also exist. Opened in 1960 as Elmer’s Colonial Pancake House, this chain focuses on quality, local ingredients and friendly service, with 25 locations in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho (plus a lone standout in California). With menu items like dungeness crab omelettes, Snoqualmie Falls oatmeal, Cascade skillets with local Zenner’s sausage and Tillamook cheese, and fluffy German pancakes topped with seasonal local berries, Elmer’s commitment to local foods is impressive. Even their steaks are sourced exclusively from Northwest ranchers. Shari’s is good, but Elmer’s is a notch better.

And, you get a bonus Honorable Mention. Little Big Burger doesn’t officially qualify because it’s only got 6 locations. However, they haven’t been around long: their first restaurant opened across the street from Powell’s Books in 2010. The owner, Micah Camden, a restauranteur and the driving force behind some of Portland’s most-respected fine dining locations, decided to open a fast-food burger joint with quality local ingredients modeled after none other than In-N-Out Burger. That meant keeping the menu simple, with just four menu items: hamburger, cheeseburger, veggie burger, and fries. But the flavors packed into those choices are phenomenal. The burgers are, well, little – but that’s the point. They’re made with Cascade beef on freshly baked brioche buns, and are available with cheddar, American, bleu, and a creamy (and delicious) chevre. The fries are tossed with truffle oil and are probably the tastiest I’ve ever had. Even the ketchup is homemade. Everything is made to order, with nary a heat lamp in sight. And, you can order beer to wash down your food. This tiny not-quite-a-chain has amassed a huge cult following in its first three years, and continues to expand. I have no idea how big they’ll eventually get, but one thing is certain: they are poised to give our beloved Burgerville some stiff competition. Not to mention that other California-based burger place that doesn’t exist up here.

Burgerville. The best in the Northwest.

Burgerville. The best in the Northwest.

Is there a restaurant chain you wish existed in your hometown? Which local chain makes you proud?

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Our almost-sunset.
Dec 17 2012

Should’ve Had The Crab Cakes

Saturday night, I was perusing the menu at Pier 101, a nice seafood restaurant in Lincoln City, Oregon. I was starting to get irritated, because there were too many delicious-sounding dishes to choose from. Don’t get me wrong, options are great; in school, multiple-choice quizzes were always my favorite. But when it comes to ordering in restaurants, there is just no pleasing me. Ever. Because no matter what I end up deciding on, I will always second guess my decision – no matter how satisfyingly delicious the entree turns out to be.

Take the other night, for instance. I was torn between two frontrunners, the peanut snapper and the sauteed scallops. The stuffed prawns were a wild card, and at the last minute the razor clams made a hail-mary pitch for attention. They all sounded wonderful. (Thankfully, we’d had pasta the night before, so at least the crab fettucini was eliminated from the race early. Otherwise, it would have been a real crowded field of contenders). With the waitress hovering on the periphery, my heart started beating faster. Must. Make. A. Choice. Oh, the pressure of it all. Don’t you hate that, when the final seconds are rapidly ticking away, and you know your server is going to appear at any moment, pad in hand, ready to wrest an answer out of you whether you are ready or not? In a desperate, last-ditch gambit, I looked to the accompanying side dishes for inspiration. The scallops promised rice pilaf, but the razor clams came with garlic mashed potatoes. Damn, no help there. And then the waitress appeared, but before I could buy myself a few extra seconds to mentally narrow the choices further, Tara turned to me, smiled sweetly, and pulled the dreaded “you go ahead and order first, dear” play from her book.

Noooo!!!

I hate when that happens. But once your dining companion has issued the you-go-first challenge, you can’t counter with the same proposal, because  that just turns into a silly tug-of-war game played in front of an anxious server who is smiling on the outside but secretly thinking for christ’s sake, you two, quit being so freakin’ indecisive already – I’ve got a million other tables to wait on.

So I reached into my own bag of tricks and asked the waitress what she would recommend. She had glowing reviews for the peanut snapper, so I went ahead and ordered that. I just didn’t have the energy for further contemplation at that point.

The fish was quite tasty. It was marinated in a hazelnut liqueur and included a topping of crushed macadamia nuts and a sweet/spicy peanut sauce. I was pleased with my choice.

Right up until the moment when the waitress put Tara’s plate down in front of her. Because the dungeness crab cakes (which hadn’t even been in the running), with a delectable side of asparagus spears drizzled in hollandaise sauce (be still, my wistful heart!) looked superb. And, of course, they were. I was wishing I had ordered that instead. But I guarantee you, had I gone with the crab cakes, I’d have been kicking myself for not trying the snapper.

It’s a sickness. I am just never completely satisfied with what I order, because there’s always something better. If I were a death row inmate choosing my last meal, I promise you that even if it was something succulent like steak and lobster, as they wheeled me into the execution chamber, strapped down to a gurney, I’d be second-guessing that decision. My last words would probably be, “I should have had pizza instead.”

There is just no pleasing me.

Though I’ve gotta admit, I was pretty pleased with the way this past weekend turned out. Tara and I were in Newport, on the Oregon coast, for an overdue celebration of our new jobs. So overdue, in fact, that my first new job came and went, and I was two weeks into my second new job, before we finally got around to celebrating. We booked an oceanfront suite at the Elizabeth Street Inn, heading out immediately after work on Friday, and arriving there – after a stop for dinner (the clam linguini was amazing, but Tara’s shrimp fettucini was SO DAMN GOOD, too! – here we go again) – about 9:30 PM. The scent of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies filled the lobby, so we helped ourselves, and the moment we stepped into the room, we knew we were going to have an amazing time. I don’t know which made us happier: the king-sized bed, the fireplace, the private balcony, or the constant roar of the ocean. Probably all four. The hotel pool and spa weren’t bad, either.

Saturday we lounged around the room until noon, drinking bloody marys and relaxing. We then ventured into town, through a driving rain, for lunch. I had the fish ‘n chips (which were good, but didn’t compare to Tara’s clam strips). We then walked around the Historic Bayfront District, getting drenched, but ended up killing an hour in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not before deciding that the weather had gotten the better of us and we’d be happier just kicking back in the room with wine and cheese and bruschetta and.

Well. Just “and.”

Saturday night we headed north for the aforementioned dinner, before returning for some relaxation in the pool and hot tub. Sunday morning we helped ourselves to the free hot breakfast buffet before regretfully checking out. We ended up at a sports bar in Lincoln City, where we watched most of the Broncos game before finally bidding the coast farewell and driving home. All in all, it was an incredible weekend, and neither of us wanted it to end. Damn you, reality, for intruding!

But we promised each other we’d be back, and are thinking of making this an annual winter tradition. A weekend getaway in the off season, when prices are low and crowds are sparse, is the perfect romantic interlude for the holidays.

Next year, though, I’m getting the scallops. For sure.

Then again, the razor clams do come with garlic mashed potatoes…

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Tell me YOU wouldn't scream if you glanced down and saw one of these guys crawling on your hand!
Oct 1 2012

Bugs Stink. Yeah, Yeah.

I had quite a scare the other day.

I was driving home when my hand began to itch. I glanced down, and saw a very large and quite hideous looking insect crawling on it. Naturally, I did what any mature adult male would do in this situation.

I screamed like a little girl.

And then I shook my hand not only to dislodge the monster bug, but ended up flinging it across the car, as far away from me as was physically possible. Luckily, nobody was in the passenger seat. And I’m fortunate I didn’t end up in a wreck.

Insects don’t generally bother me unless they’re ants. If they’re ants, they bother me big time. If I see an ant crawling across the floor, I freak out. If I see a trail of ants, I’m ready to either call an exterminator or pack up my shit and move. Honestly, packing up my shit and moving seems the less intrusive solution, because bug bombs are a pain in the ass, and who’s to say the ants won’t just come back a week later? I’d rather have a fresh start in an ant-free elsewhere. There’s a scientific term for a fear of ants: myrmecophobia. It’s a real thing, yo, and generally results from a traumatic episode. Yeah, I had a few of those growing up in Hawaii. You see them crawling all over your 3 year old brother, thinking he’s being devoured alive, and you too would be scarred for life!

However, the buck pretty much stops with ants. Spiders aren’t the cuddliest of critters either, and roaches are dirty and disgusting, but neither really bothers me too much. Wasps and hornets are scary when they’re dive-bombing you, and mosquitoes are annoying, but again, I can live with them. The only reason I screamed, in this case, was because I was startled to see a strange looking bug on me.

I have since learned that these are brown marmorated stink bugs (a/k/a Asian stink bugs), a non-native species that immigrated to Oregon and Washington two years ago. And suddenly, they are everywhere! I’ve seen them at home, at work, in the parking lot of the grocery store, even at the coast when we were camping last weekend. They don’t bite or sting or cause any harm to people (other than scaring the bejesus out of them when they’re driving), but are harmful to crops. On the east coast they devastated 40% of the peach crop one recent year. No bueno!  So, I’d just as soon never see another one again. By the way, if you step on one of these guys, they supposedly smell like cilantro. I haven’t tried that yet, so I couldn’t tell you one way or another whether that’s the case. (I did, however, recently make a killer guacamole using cilantro. But that’s neither here nor there).

Tell me YOU wouldn’t scream if you glanced down and saw one of these guys crawling on your hand!

But enough about insects.

Those of you reading Tara’s blog or following along on Facebook have heard the good news: she got a job! And there’s a great story to go along with that involving Buffalo Wild Wings, which is now our lucky restaurant. Twice now we’ve eaten there following interviews, and both times have been offered jobs afterwards. Hey, I’m just thankful we didn’t stop at Dave’s House of Cauliflower after. I’d hate to think of that as my good-luck dining-out option!

She’s going to be a loan processor (coincidentally enough, for the same bank that gave me my very first mortgage loan years and years ago). Remember how I said that fourteen is our lucky number?  There are 14 letters in the name of her employer, so the trend continues. Anyway, she starts a week from today, and is very excited. The money is good – better than she was earning before – and there is virtually no travel. Plus, she’ll be working 15 minutes from home and will have a simple cross-town commute. Best of all, it’s a field she is very interested in pursuing, so the long-term career potential is fantastic. Hell, she’s doing way better than I am, but I told her I have no qualms having a “sugar mama” so we’re square there.

I am, of course, happy for her – and proud of her, too. All along we’ve been repeating that mantra, “everything happens for a reason,” and though it was touch-and-go for a while there…she had nearly depleted her savings and was feeling a tremendous amount of stress these past couple of months…in the end, it has all worked out beautifully. Quitting her job and moving out here was a huge gamble, but it all worked out in the end. Now, I feel like we can start moving forward, toward a real future that we have talked about and which will, finally, start to become a reality.

It’s all good, stink bugs and all!

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r_joie-de-vivre009
May 28 2012

Joie de Vivre, however you pronounce that.

Joie de vivre.

This is a French phrase that means a cheerful, hearty or carefree enjoyment of life. Don’t ask me to pronounce it – I can’t seem to manipulate my tongue properly to spew forth such elegance (I’m Polish, remember?) – but I can embrace the philosophy. And I do.

Over the past year, I have been to a lot of far-flung places, ranging from Seattle’s Pike Place Market to the Spam Museum in Minnesota, Buddy Holly’s crash site in Iowa, and the Mandalay Bay Resort in Vegas. I’ve visited Mount Rushmore and Mount Bachelor and Mount Hood. I ate a buffalo burger in Deadwood, fried pickles in Ely, geoduck in Seattle. Rocked out to some of my favorite bands live – Built To Spill, The Black Keys, The Shins. And, of course, I published a novel. These grand adventures began a little over a year ago – on my own at first, and then accompanied by the woman I love. It’s been a fulfilling and exhilarating twelve months, and I have taken advantage of this prolonged stretch of freedom in a way I would never have imagined possible. In a way, I feel like this past year I finally started living. Joie de vivre. And I’ve found a kindred spirit who is equally passionate about squeezing every last ounce of juice from life. We only get one go-around (unless the whole reincarnation thing is more than just a big ol’ pile of wishful thinking), and I am all for living life to the fullest in the meantime. 

Naturally, this being the 21st century and all, I’ve shared these updates and check-ins via Facebook. And gotten a lot of comments along the lines of, you two sure get around – I’m WORKING and can’t afford to do half the stuff you do! Don’t get me wrong, I love and respect these friends and family members and appreciate their feedback. But for whatever reason, those comments put me on the defensive. I want to respond, get out there and have fun yourself - you don’t have to spend a fortune to do so! But I get it. I’m still looking for work, and the perception is because I’m jobless I’m destitute. That couldn’t be further from the truth, though. I “paid” myself a year ago with a withdrawal from savings that has enabled me to survive comfortably. Add in a sizable tax refund and weekly unemployment checks and I’ve barely felt the sting. I’m actually very proud of the way I’ve handled my finances during this time. You know, the great irony is, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this stuff if I had been working. Tara and I might never have gotten together (although, being a big believer in Fate, I’m pretty sure it would have happened eventually regardless). Granted, this won’t continue forever, and I’m at the point where I’m more than ready to return to the workforce, even if it’s doing a job I don’t love. I’m shelling out 9 or 10 applications a week. I’m no longer playing the part of Mr. Picky. Something is going to fall into place soon – I can feel it.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue celebrating life.

Plus, while it may seem like we’re jet-setting all over the place, most of our entertainment has been cheap. We get free room and board when we visit Seattle (thanks, Tracy!). Take advantage of coupons and two-for-one deals. Many of the live shows we’re seeing are the cost of a movie ticket. It costs nothing to stroll around farmer’s markets or go hiking in the woods. I didn’t buy the dogs playing poker tapestry I so coveted (damn it all). We shop at Winco (cheap groceries) and thrift stores (cheap everything). Sure, occasionally we splurge. But we are living well within our limited means.

As soon as we’re both working, though – world look out. I see a trip to Paris in the near future.

I kid, I kid.

So naturally, we had a mini getaway the other day. Drove to Bend, Oregon on Friday. Strolled through the quaint downtown district, pretending that it wasn’t cloudy and windy and 47 degrees because we had an engagement at the Les Schwab Ampitheater that evening to see The Shins perform. Checked into our cheap motel with the hard bed. Hit a place called Fox’s for some pool and inexpensive but good bar food. Enjoyed the concert without freezing our butts off. The next day we drove up to Mount Bachelor, where it was snowing. Hiked around Smith Rock State Park, watching all the crazy people with death wishes rock climbing. Drove up to Timberline Lodge, where it was snowing. And came home to a wild thunderstorm and flooded streets. Sunday was mellow. Today we’re having my parents over for a barbecue.

Tuesday we’re seeing a fave local band, The Moondoggies, in Portland. Wednesday we’re having a friend over for dinner. Friday we’re seeing Dark Side Of The Rainbow, a Wizard-Of-Oz-meets-Pink-Floyd show at a local theater. Saturday, we’re heading downtown for the Starlite Parade, Portland’s kickoff to the Rose Festival.

Another full week.

Joie de vivre.

The crowd, warming up for The Shins.

Getting ready to rock out!

You’d never know it was practically JUNE up at Mount Bachelor!

Smith Rock State Park, Oregon.

Crazy bastard.

A cloud-capped Mount Hood.

Go fly a kite. Cheapest therapy ever.
May 7 2012

Kite Therapy

There is nothing more therapeutic than flying a kite.

This surprises me. You wouldn’t think such a simple pursuit would bring much joy. All you’re doing is standing there, holding onto a string. The wind does all the work for you. Sure, you have to tug on it occasionally and make an adjustment or two to ensure that the whole thing doesn’t plummet to earth, but otherwise you’re pretty much just standing still with your neck craned skyward. And yet, there is undeniable joy in the act. A sense of freedom and adventure that is unparalleled.

This past weekend, Tara and I took a trip to the Oregon coast. Saturday was Cinco de Mayo, and Lincoln City was advertising a fish taco cook-off. This sounded like something fun to do and a perfect excuse for a romantic getaway, so we booked a room in a cheapish motel on the edge of a cliff and headed out early in the morning. We stopped to visit briefly with my aunt on the way, and then continued on to Lincoln City, arriving at the Culinary Center (which also doubles as the fourth floor of the local library) a few minutes past noon. Perfect timing. Tacos were $1 each and there were six teams competing, so we bought enough tickets to try all six. There was a good mix of fish – three cod, one tilapia, one salmon, and one blackened mako shark – and beer to wash them all down. Then, with several hours to kill before it was time to check into our room, we drove south along the coast, holding hands and rocking out to music. Just north of Newport we stopped at Beverly Beach. Before our trip Tara decided she wanted to fly a kite on the beach, and I thought this was a wonderful idea, as neither of us had ever done so. She picked up a couple of cheap kites from Target – $2.98 on clearance – and we were good to go!

We walked to the beach and tore open the packaging, quickly assembling our kites. The Oregon coast is always windy, so we weren’t afraid of catching a good breeze. It took a try or two to get them in the air, but before long we had unspooled the full 75′ length of string and our kites were dancing in the sky, weaving and bobbing, buffeted by the gusty winds. And for the next half hour I lost myself in the experience.

I’m not even sure how or why it happened, but I gotta say, it was pure joy. I hadn’t flown a kite in many years, the last time being when my kids were very young, and on those previous rare occasions I was never able to keep it in the air for long. Saturday afternoon, along the coast, this was not a problem. I stood there mesmerized, watching my kite fly with the constant sound of the crashing surf as my backdrop, and I felt the weight of the world simply melt away, all my cares scattered in the wind until they dissolved. I thought of my previous trips to the beach, how I longed for somebody to share my adventures with, and was overcome with elation because this time, finally, I had somebody very special with me. She was a few dozen yards away, flying her own kite, and looked every bit as happy as I did. This warmed my heart.

I love her so much.

And then I was running down the beach, my kite chasing me from seventy-five feet in the air, the sand beneath my toes and the Pacific Ocean lapping at my ankles. Giddy like a child. Free like a bird. I had found happiness at the end of a string.

If you’re ever feeling stressed out in life, go fly a kite. Your worries will melt away. I guarantee this.

The rest of the weekend was bliss. We checked into our room that evening and enjoyed Bloody Marys on our ocean view deck before heading out to dinner. The food was delicious: coconut shrimp for me, a sauteed seafood sampler for Tara, and some of the best clam chowder we had ever tried. We arrived back at the beach just in time to catch a fantastic sunset, and fell asleep that night to the sound of the ocean. Sunday we wanted to take the long way home, so we meandered up the coast, all the way from Lincoln City to Astoria, and had to drive across the bridge because, well, the Astoria-Megler Bridge is awesome and whisks you across the mouth of the Columbia River to Washington. We stopped at the Astoria Column and I convinced Tara to climb the 164 steps to the top for a breathtaking view of…well, everything. You can see for miles and miles in all directions, and the sky was cloudless and blue. Afterwards, we stopped for dinner at a former cannery that had been transformed into a brewhouse and then took the final leg back home. With all the stops we made it took us over nine hours from the time we set out, but it was a fantastic day and a wonderful weekend.

I couldn’t be happier.

Fish tacos in Lincoln City. Happy Cinco de Mayo!

The Oregon Coast at Cape Foulweather.

My lovely girlfriend.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport.

I had a whale of a good time.

One amazing sunset.

View from the top of the Astoria Column.

Go fly a kite. Cheapest therapy ever.

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But we had quite an amazing sunset about half an hour before the rain started on Tuesday.
Apr 4 2012

How I Crashed Spring Break

All my adult life, I’ve had this fascination with Spring Break.

This is probably because when I was the proper age to enjoy Spring Break the way it was meant to be enjoyed – which is to say, drinking until the wee hours of the night while surrounded by busty coeds while on vacation someplace warm – I was instead in a serious relationship with the woman who would become my wife (and later, unbecome my wife). Bizarrely, she did not share my enthusiasm for Spring Break, so I never did find myself on South Padre Island or in Lake Havasu or Palm Springs or Panama City, and the closest I ever got to a wet t-shirt contest involved transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer, not nearly as fun as the type I had in mind. Years later, after we were married with children, I’d find myself glued to MTV for their annual Spring Break weeklong specials come early April, living vicariously through the current crop of college fellas. The settings were exotic, the music was loud, the bikinis were tiny, and the debauchery was off the charts. The wife put up with this because she considered it a harmless midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 28, I suppose.

I have no idea whether MTV still shows those Spring Break specials because, I’m happy to say, I outgrew them. But I still…still…have a “thing” for Spring Break, even if it’s a considerably tamer and watered-down version of the Bacchanalia I once yearned for. And that is why, when my parents hauled the kids out to the Oregon coast on Monday for their annual Spring Break ritual (three nights in a beach house and lots of good food and fun), I decided to crash their party and get in on some of that action myself, for one night, at least. OK, I didn’t technically even “crash” it because they knew I was coming, but it sounds more rebellious when I phrase it that way. I figured I might as well take advantage of this down time and also was itching to get away from the noise and turmoil caused by construction on my townhouse, and a trip to the coast would do wonders for my soul (not to mention my hearing). Tuesday morning I hit the road, and after a two-hour rainy drive down to Lincoln City arrived just in time for the clouds to part and the sun to shine magnificently. I rendezvoused with the family, who weren’t at all surprised to see me (can we just PRETEND I crashed it??) before heading further down the coast to Newport for a stop at the South Beach Fish Market, which once upon a time was called the Lighthouse Deli and voted as having the best fish ‘n chips in Oregon. They were awesome then, and are still awesome now. I was on my own since they had already eaten lunch and were eager to hit the beach, so I took my time coming back, making stops at several scenic lookout points and wandering through Depoe Bay, home of the World’s Smallest Harbor.

Best fish 'n chips in Oregon? Quite possibly!

Or so they claim. It’s not quite as impressive as the World’s Largest Frying Pan up in Long Beach WA, though.

I timed the trip almost perfectly, so that it was nearly Happy Hour when I got back to the beach house. (Spring Break, remember? Gotta make sure there’s alcohol!). We had lasagna, salad and bread for dinner, and then walked down to the beach for a magnificent sunset. The kids and I then built a bonfire – I’d always wanted to do this, and had some firewood in the garage that I brought along precisely for this reason. Soon, the fire was blazing, which helped to take away the chill. We may have sang Kumbaya. We may even have done a bit of tribal dancing as the flames flickered in the darkening sky, but I’m copping to nothin’. We would have stayed longer, but it started raining suddenly and without much warning.

Hmm. It never seemed to rain on those MTV Spring Break specials. 

Audrey demonstrates the fine art of tribal dancing around the fire.

It’s okay. Oregon is no Florida (where my kids went for Spring Break last year – hmm, now why didn’t I think to crash that trip?!), but it’s got charm and beauty a-plenty.

In keeping with the theme, I did stay up very, very late – not falling asleep until close to 3 AM. That’s only because the day bed I was sleeping on had an uncomfortably thin mattress and creaked every time I took a breath, but it still counts as a late night!!! 

This morning the fam and I headed to the Chinook Winds casino for their breakfast buffet. While there Rusty, ever the fountain of knowledge, talked about how weird it was eating breakfast in a place that wasn’t America. Because it’s a Native American casino, you see. They own the land and so this means the land isn’t technically in America. I told the boy I own the land my townhouse is built on and wondered if that means the 1500 square feet I inhabit also isn’t technically a part of America. He talked about things like reparations. I don’t know, it didn’t make a lot of sense and truth be told I was too busy digesting my omelette to give it a whole lot of thought. Afterwards I wanted to check out the casino so I did. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I only had a few dollars in my wallet so I was forced to only part with $5 at video poker. Then I fed $2 into a slot machine on the way out, and hit a jackpot for a little over $16. So this is how the high rollers live, I thought, and cashed out my winning ticket. OK, so it may not be much, but this is the second time in a row I walked out of a casino with more money than I had going in. Little by little, I’m earning back the money I gave to Vegas on our first trip there in January.

No Spring Break would be complete without alcohol!

After breakfast we went back to the beach house. It felt really good to be back in America again. Boy, how I’d missed my country ’tis of thee! By now it was really pouring rain, and getting time for me to head back home, so I packed up my stuff, bid my kids and parents farewell, and made the return journey home. I took the scenic route back, driving up Highway 101 along the Oregon coast before crossing the Coast Range into Portland and then, finally, Vancouver.

All in all, I had a great time! It might not have been the Spring Break trip I envisioned fifteen years ago, but so what? Spring Break is Spring Break. And I’m getting too old for that shit, anyway. I think the magic would be gone the first time some hot coed called me “sir.” Besides, Tara totally does it for me, and I’m not just saying that because she reads my blog.

Tuesday afternoon was a perfect day along the Oregon coast.

Wednesday? Not so much.

But we had quite an amazing sunset about half an hour before the rain started on Tuesday.

Don't know who these people are, but I don't care: I love this shot.
Feb 14 2012

Love Is In The Air. And Chowder, too.

A few days ago I got a hankering for a really good cup of clam chowder, so I did what anybody would do to satisfy that craving: made a 240-mile round trip to go get me some.

What? You wouldn’t?!

One of the things that attracted me to Tara was the fact that she once drove 72 miles for a corn dog. Clearly, this is a woman after my own heart.

And okay, fine, there was more than just the clam chowder at the end of my destination. There was sand and surf and salt air. The ocean. Fun shops to browse through. And the world’s largest frying pan. I’d been longing to take a trip to Long Beach, Washington for some time now – and with a kid-free Saturday looming large, decent weather (meaning overcast and drizzly), and an iPod full of tunes, the open road beckoned this past weekend. I decided to hit the road at 9 AM sharp. I stopped in Astoria a couple of hours later to walk along the Columbia River for a bit, before proceeding across the 3.5-mile long bridge that connects Oregon and Washington. I arrived in Long Beach about 11:30.

The unique and cool thing about this place is, cars are allowed on the beach. If you’ve never done so before, let me tell you – driving across the sand is a blast! I had my window rolled down and the breeze in my hair made me giddy with excitement and the sense of adventure.

And cold, too. Brr. February on the Washington coast? A tad chilly. I quickly rolled the window back up.

But still, it was a great way to spend the day. I took a walk along a section of the world’s longest beach (yes, it really is) before retreating to my car to watch the waves crash to shore. I spent an hour or two reading and relaxing and enjoying the scenery. Back in town, I hit a few stores. And when 4:00 rolled around, I headed to a bar and grill called Castaways Seafood Grille for a couple of cocktails. And that clam chowder I had come so far to have. It was delicious, I’m happy to report. And then I added fish ‘n chips to go along with it. I always crave those when I’m at the coast. Properly full, I headed back to the beach, and fate smiled down upon me by providing just enough of a break in the overcast to surprise me with a sunset. It was unexpected, and magnificent.

I then made the long trek back home in the dark, arriving back at Casa Petruska eleven hours after I set out. It was pretty much the perfect day.

I say “pretty much” because Tara wasn’t with me, and she was the one missing ingredient. But while she wasn’t there physically she was there in spirit, and we texted and talked throughout the day, anyway. Next time I go, we will go.

I’m also a little sad that we aren’t together for Valentine’s Day, which is ironic because I never cared much for this day. I used to refer to it as a phony holiday invented by greeting card companies looking to make a fast buck, assuming there were kickbacks involved between the chocolate and flower industries, as well. God, I’m such a romantic. But I realized that this attitude only existed when I was single, or married to somebody who complained that the flowers I gave her weren’t nice enough or delivered to her work. Is it any wonder I greeted this day with cynicism?! I have since discovered that when you are in a relationship that makes you happy, you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with the person you love. So, the distance between us feels greater than usual today. Add in the fact that today is our official five-month anniversary, and it’s even worse.

But.

Next year we’ll be celebrating together. And, Tara is coming up for another visit on Friday, and staying for eight days and nights. We’re celebrating VD a few days late with a dinner in Portland on Sunday. This helps soften the blow.

It’s going to be a fantastic visit, and brings us ever closer to the day when she moves in with me for good. Every day will feel like Valentine’s then.

Aww. What do you know? I am a romantic bastard, after all.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spans the Columbia River and connects Oregon and Washington.

That there's the world's largest frying pan in the background.

Well worth the 240-mile roundtrip.

Don't know who these people are, but I don't care: I love this shot.

Dec 23 2011

Burning Down The House, Part 3

It’s pushing 11:30, and I’ve had a busy and productive day. I should be curled up in bed – it’s right there, after all, soft and cozy and less than two feet away – but instead I’m writing in the ol’ blog. There is a reason for this, though.

I’m practically choking to death on burned popcorn fumes.

Delicious as popcorn is, the smell is another story. Even when it’s cooked perfectly, that aroma – which hangs around longer than an unwanted houseguest over the holidays – permeates the atmosphere and practically seeps into your pores. Kind of like bacon; delicious on the palate, but boy does it overstay its welcome on the nose. Burned popcorn is twice as nauseating, and the smell lingers four times as long. Admittedly, I’ve had issues with stovetop popcorn in the past, but nowadays I’m an expert at making it. In other words, I am not to blame for this latest fiasco. I was, in fact, upstairs in my bedroom, chatting away with Tara on the phone, when I first noticed that the house smelled like it was on fire. Fortunately this was not the case, but I learned later it nearly was the case; Rusty had decided to make himself popcorn, but had either forgotten about it or had the heat up too high or something or other – the exact details disappeared in a haze of teen-excuse-speak – and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all I know is, at one point he carried a smoking pan of popcorn outside in order to prevent a possible raging inferno. I suppose I ought to thank the boy rather than chastise him for the awful smell that is still here hours later.

The only thing worse than the smell of popcorn is the smell of BURNED popcorn. (Courtesy of thenondairyqueen.com)

You know what, though? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. I should have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but instead I close my eyes and see flames creeping up the stairway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep when every inhaled breath fills your nostrils with the acrid odor of scorched popcorn?

It’s going to be a long night, folks.

By the way, this is the second time Rusty almost burned the place down. Just a few days after moving here in 2006, I smelled something burning one morning before work but couldn’t locate the source. After a fruitless search I dismissed it as paranoia and nearly walked out the door, but it was so strong I decided to make one more sweep of the premises. That’s when I found his bedspread, half off the bed and draped over a nightlight that was missing a cover. The bulb had burned a hole in the bedspread. Had I just gone to work that day without double checking the house, I’m convinced at some point I would have received a very unpleasant phone call from the fire department.

In all fairness, I too once nearly set my townhouse afire. I was frying chicken in a cast iron skillet, the oil got too hot, and – woosh! Hello, grease fire. Thankfully, I was smart enough to disregard my first instinct to throw water on the burning pan, and instead covered it with a lid. A close call, but honestly, at the time I was more upset that I had ruined that last batch of chicken. Because it had turned out really good. 

I sure hope my insurance agent isn’t reading this post, by the way. Otherwise my premiums might just skyrocket.

Like I said, today was pretty busy. I hit Target for some last minute Christmas items, mostly stocking stuffers, though in truth I hadn’t gotten my parents gifts yet, and to make matters worse I had no idea what to get them. I figured I would wander the aisles hoping for inspiration. Fortunately, it struck. They are just so damn hard to shop for! And whenever I ask them what they want, it’s always the same response: “You don’t have to get us anything.” I know they think that’s helpful, but it sort of isn’t – of course I’m going to get them something, unemployment be damned! You know what I love? When you hit upon the perfect gift idea for somebody. A week ago, I thought of an incredibly awesome and appropriate present for Tara’s mom, Tracy. The only problem is, I had to do some scrambling to put it all together, and I didn’t get it mailed out until this very afternoon. Too late to make it there by Christmas, but I’m hoping she appreciates the thoughtfulness and – let’s face it, modesty be damned, the sheer, unbridled genius of this present enough to overlook the fact that it’ll arrive a few days late. And yes, I know, I didn’t have to get Tracy a gift either, but you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity to impress my girlfriend’s mother? Not a chance, people. Next week, I’ll be busy trying to impress Tara’s friends and her dad’s side of the family, only I won’t have any cool gifts to rely on – just my charm and wit.

Lord help me.

So, this is it. Christmas Eve is 35 minutes away now, and I’m as ready for the holiday as I’m going to be. All the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, and we’ve gone through our entire collection of holiday movies save for one or two. Saturday afternoon, we head to my aunt’s house in Oregon for our now-traditional Russian dinner, followed by It’s A Wonderful Life when we get home. Just me and the kids. I’ve already told them there will be no popcorn. Then it’s Sunday. Christmas Day. Up early for presents, breakfast with my parents, drop the kids off at their mom’s house, and a few hours later I’ll be deposited at the airport, ready to embark upon my first airplane ride in more than a decade. In a mere 42 hours, I will be in Las Vegas. In 48 or so, Ely.

Merry Christmas, all!

Oct 18 2011

Where’s That King Arthur Dude?

I think there’s something weird in the air up here. The past couple of days, the news has been full of some very bizarre goings-on that are a wee bit too close to home for comfort.

It all started when some guy in Portland got into an argument with his stepson. The kid invited a few friends over for the night, and they were being loud –  as teenagers often are – so the stepdad kicked them out. The boys came back the next morning and started beating on the stepdad’s truck with sticks and pipes. Realizing that even the always-perky Flo from Progressive couldn’t prevent his insurance premiums from skyrocketing now, the dude hopped in the truck and chased after the boys, hitting two of them “at a slow speed.”

This, in turn, angered the kids. Apparently being sort-of run over is a sign of disrespect in the ‘hood, so they turned around and chased after him, again beating on his truck. Question number one: how’d they catch him? He was in a vehicle, they were on foot, and he doesn’t strike me as being the law-abiding type, what with the whole hitting-kids-with-his-pickup thing. Speed limit, schmeed limit. Question number two: if attacking his truck the first time led him to go all Mad Max on them, did they think doing it again would result in a less-hostile outcome?! I think there was plenty of stupidity all around here.

You scratched my truck. Now you must pay!

Really peeved now, the stepdad ran inside the house and grabbed a machete. That’s right, one of those long, sharp swords that are useful for cutting trails through the rainforest. What, you don’t have one stashed away in the hall closet? Haven’t you ever heard the saying “it’s a jungle out there?” Reminds me of that scene in Pulp Fiction where Bruce Willis is choosing a weapon to deal with his Deliverance-style attackers and settles on the machete. Sort of a case of life imitating art right here in P-Town! The boys, staring down the business end of a very wicked blade, decided to fight back with weapons of their own.

Garden rakes.

Which are perfectly fine for scooping autumn leaves into neat little piles, but as defense against a machete-wielding nutjob? Not so good. Fortunately, the whole ruckus ended with a few minor injuries, and some jail time for the dude with the really big knife.

Not to be outdone, a stepdad in Washington (hey, mom – thanks for staying married to dad all these years, by the way! I’m beginning to feel like I dodged a bullet here) forced his sixteen-year old stepdaughter to dress in armor and fight him with a wooden sword in a medieval-style duel.

You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

The girl did something terrible, committing an offense that no other teenager in the history of time has ever dared to partake in: she disobeyed her parents. That’s right: she went to a party – without their permission.

{Insert gasps of outrage}.

Her mother and stepfather, after gasping outrageously over this blatant transgression, decided to dole out punishment. Nerds to the core Renaissance enthusiasts who often recreate medieval-era battles (hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?), and clearly confused over the fact that the Round Table down the street was actually a pizza restaurant and not home to King Arthur’s court, they made the girl fight them with a sword for two hours, until she collapsed from exhaustion. As opposed to grounding her or revoking her driving privileges or something more mundane (yawn). And just to ensure the fight was fair, they beat her with a tree branch first. Which reminds me of another scene in a different movie: remember how Commudus stabbed Maximus in Gladiator just before their big fight? What ever happened to playing fair?

You ordered a large supreme, m'lord?

Also in my beloved state-that-was-named-after-a-President, a woman attacked her sleeping husband with an electric saw over the weekend. When the cops arrived she claimed an intruder had entered the home through a window and attacked her slumbering sweetie, but in her haste to make this farfetched story sound believable, forgot to remove the child lock – a device that prevented the window from opening more than a few inches.

They would have doubted her story anyway, since her husband was quoted as shouting, “You tried to cut my head off!” while gesturing wildly at the woman he had exchanged I dos with.

I’d reckon that once you awaken to a power saw slicing into your neck and shoulder, you’re beginning to rethink all that “til-death-do-us-part” stuff.

So, what’s the deal? Has the whole world gone crazy…or is it just the Pacific Northwest?

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Oct 11 2011

I’m Not A Portlander*

Last week, my friend Jess Witkins e-mailed me to let me know I had won a book she was giving away as part of a contest on her blog. I was thrilled, because

  1. One can never have too many books, and
  2. It was free.

Not necessarily in that order, but then again, I’ve been outta work awhile, yo.

Jess asked for my address, and I fired off a reply, thinking nothing of it…until I received a rather astonished response.

WHAT?!  Where’s the Portland address?  I just did a double take.

Oh…right. That. I am, after all, forever raving about Portland. How much I love it here, talking about the places I like to go, even posting pictures of “my beloved Rose City.” I can see why she assumed I have a Portland address. Probably most of my readers think that. And I don’t blame y’all if you do. I kind of, sort of, (un?)intentionally imply that Portland is my home. But because this is National Coming Out Day, an occasion in which one should proudly declare the truth about whom, exactly, one really is…it’s time to step forward and admit the truth to the world, for once and for all.

I am not a Portlander.

In my defense, I’m almost a Portlander. I do live in the “Portland Metropolitan Statistical Area.” Which is why I stuck that asterisk up there in my title. One could argue (and I have, more than once) that living in the PDX MSA still makes me a Portlander. My mailing address just happens to be another city. And, if I’m being completely honest, another state.

Yes, people. I live in Vancouver, Washington. Everybody happy now?

Not a bad place to call home!

The reasons for this tiny, barely significant, reasonable-under-the-circumstances little white lie…nay, not even that so much as a minor, itty-bitty sin of omission…are pretty understandable: whenever I tell people where I’m really from, it confuses them and leads to a series of explanations that I’d honestly rather not deal with.

If I say I’m from Vancouver, they respond, “The Great White North, eh? Have you ever seen a moose? How’s that socialized medicine working out for you? Who’s going to win the Stanley Cup this year? Can you pass me a beer?”

When I correct them with a No, not Canada – Washington, I get, “Oops. So, is it true that the Beltway is the murder capital of the world? Ever run into a Congressman in the grocery store? Think the Redskins will put together a good team this year? Can you pass me some crack?”

It’s maddening, so I usually just say Portland.

Even that answer isn’t without its flaws, as I could theoretically be talking about that other city in Maine, but most people do correctly assume I mean Oregon. And that’s another reason why I don’t mind having them believe that: Portland is cool. It’s hip. It’s funky and cutting-edge and liberal and environmentally conscious and – as evidenced by IFC’s television show Portlandia - not afraid of poking fun at itself. All traits that I really like. So yeah, go ahead and think I’m a Portlander. I like the association.

And the truth is, I also like Vancouver. In many regards, living here is the best of both worlds: I’m just a few miles north of the Columbia River, the border between Oregon and Washington, which means I can easily shop in Oregon (no sales tax!) and work in Washington (no income tax!). Downtown Portland, and all the culture it offers, is twenty minutes away; the Oregon coast, 100 miles. Houses are less expensive in Vancouver, the crime rate is lower, and I can pump my own gas. Plus, it really is a beautiful town – very green, lots of trees and lakes and rivers, mountains in the distance. We’ve got a killer farmer’s market and an awesome waterfront. Some people claim Vancouver is a “bedroom community,” but you know what? The bedroom is probably my favorite room in the house. So, there!!

I no longer suffer from an identity crisis. I’m proud to call Vancouver, Washington home.

And, statistically speaking, I’m also still a Portlander. That’s called a win-win!