Tag Archives: Voodoo Doughnut

Apple Juice With a Bacon Swizzle Stick

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I miss apple juice.

Or maybe it’s the idea of apple juice I miss. I just had a cup last week in the hospital. It was the first beverage I drank that actually had flavor following my surgery. After days of being hooked up to an IV and subsisting on nothing more than ice water, it tasted like a nectar from the gods. Sweet and succulent and oh, so delicious. Paired with chicken broth, I felt like I was dining on lobster and champagne that evening.

Arsenic? Lead? Sugar? Yummy! (Courtesy of inhabitots.com).

But then, the very next day, I started hearing news reports about how apple juice is no good for you. How this study showed that dangerous levels of arsenic were found in samples of apple juice. Damn you, Dr. Oz and FOX News. You’re both nothing but a bunch of killjoys! If I want to ingest poison, I should be able to do so without feeling guilty about it. The FDA is saying hey, relax, arsenic is naturally present in water, air, food and soil, and we need to stop getting our panties in a bunch because the levels found in apple juice are well within accepted safety standards. Consumer Reports says those standards are much too high and need to be lowered, and the whole thing has turned into one big pissing match. The loser? Me! Because now I’m going to think twice before drinking apple juice, and that’s just sad. Even without worrying about arsenic (and lead, too – when it rains, it pours), they say apple juice contains too much sugar, is high in calories, etc. They’re vilifying it like the poor ol’, much-maligned Big Mac.

That ain’t right.

You know what else I miss? Bacon. Ever since I landed in the hospital, I’ve had to contend with well-meaning friends who keep telling me to “lay off the bacon” now. For some reason, over the years I have developed a reputation as a person who loves bacon. Well, okay…I do love bacon. Fair enough. But I don’t eat any more of it than the average person! It’s an occasional treat and nothing more. Boy, you write one blog post about the maple bacon bar at Voodoo Doughnut and you’re branded for life. And okay, I suppose in retrospect buying that bottle of bacon vodka a couple of months ago didn’t help. Nor did posting a picture of the chicken fried bacon Tara, the kids and I enjoyed  at Slappy Cakes the day before Thanksgiving…which, coincidentally, happened to be two days before I ended up in the hospital. In my defense – in all of our defenses – we split two pieces four ways. It was merely a decadent taste. But oh, how everybody latched onto that when I was suddenly near death hooked up to an IV in great pain. The truth is, I first started feeling sick after eating leftover turkey that morning, a food that is generally considered to be healthy. There’s no rhyme or reason for what happened to me. Was it related to diet? Perhaps, or it may have been the trigger, or none of the above. Even the doctors don’t know. Now, I am not complaining about my friends’ admonitions or warnings. It just means they care about me and want to see me healthy, and I appreciate that very much. I intend to take care of myself, and have already made adjustments toward a lower-fat, less-sodium diet. I am also stubborn – that would be the Taurus in me – and maintain a philosophy that life is too short to give up everything that makes you happy, and practicing moderation is key. I believe in long-term goals and short-term indulgences, and intend to partake in both.

At least I didn't cook my turkey like this! (Courtesy of madville.com).

In fact, I’m kinda feeling like a nice, tall glass of apple juice right now. With a crispy strip of bacon for stirring.

And then there’s alcohol. I haven’t had a sip in fourteen days, which is some kind of record for me. Am I a teetotaler now? Ha! Fat chance. I am way too addicted to Bloody Marys to ever give them up, and I’ve even started liking beer now. It’s just that I haven’t felt like having a drink since getting sick. Every doctor and nurse in the hospital asked me if I was a drinker, and I said socially, which by my definition was 1-2 drinks a day, five days a week. Nobody ever looked alarmed when I said that, but the news wasn’t exactly met with approving glances, either. One nurse suggested my sweaty brow might have been a reaction to booze withdrawal, but in reality the thermostat was simply too freakin’ high in the room. I was actually offended by her comment – can’t a guy perspire without getting the second degree?! –  and the moment she left I snuck a few shots of whiskey in order to forget the sting of her words.

I kid, I kid.

And I will be the first to admit that a near-daily Happy Hour was more of a ritual or a habit for me than anything else. Tsk, tsk – I know. I considered it almost a birthright; I’m a writer, after all, and we stereotypically have a long and prosperous association with alcohol. I have come to realize, since returning home, that the slight buzz does not make up for all those empty calories. I will still enjoy the occasional drink – but it’ll be when I feel like it, not because it’s 3:55 5:00. Once again, it’s all about moderation.

Love the concern, appreciate the advice, but don’t you worry – I don’t intend on going anywhere (and by that, I mean dying) anytime soon.

A trip to Ely, on the other hand, is right around the corner. In seventeen more days!

And if you think I’m stepping onto an airplane without a drink or two to calm my nerves, you’re out of your mind.

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Bleu Cheese in my Ice Cream & Belly Dancers on my Brain

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Portland is a city known to be a tad “left of center,” if you will. Exactly why I love it: I’m a little left of center. That’s called symbiosis: we have a complementary relationship. I appreciate the quirky, and the Rose City is excellent at dishing it up. Case in point, and one I’ve mentioned before: Voodoo Doughnut. Their maple bacon bar has become infamous. It was probably the oddest food combination I’d eaten around town…until yesterday, when I found myself plowing through a single-scoop cup of Pear and Bleu Cheese ice cream.

Choosing which flavor to divulge in took real effort!

Which, by the way, was not the weirdest flavor on the menu. (That award goes to either the Brown Ale and Bacon or the Three Berry Barbecue). The purveyor of this frozen madness? Salt & Straw Ice Cream, a food-cart-turned-brick-and-mortar ice cream shop that was recently voted as a runner-up in a list of Portland’s best ice cream joints. I’ve always been an adventurous eater, so I had no qualms about ordering such a uniquely flavored ice cream treat. And the verdict? Delicious, of course. Creamy and smooth, riddled with chunks of diced pear and just enough bleu cheese to offer a tangy contrast to the sweetness of the cream and fruit, I was hooked from the first bite. Delicious! And I pretty much never order ice cream in the middle of the day – especially an overcast day in which the temperature is hovering in the mid-sixties – but I couldn’t resist the allure, and the positive press, of Salt & Straw.

I spent a good portion of the afternoon hanging out at the Alberta Street Fair. This funky, artsy neighborhood in northeast Portland has become one of my favorite haunts this year, and I find myself returning often. Every August they close down thirty blocks of the street for a fair that includes arts and crafts vendors, juggling, magicians, music, food carts and booths, and even – be still my heart – belly dancing. How could I pass up that sort of lineup?

Answer: I couldn’t.

The best part of the street fair is probably the people watching. Alberta is home to a colorful parade of hipsters, bohemians, hippies, goths and skaters, all intermingling comfortably with more straight-laced types. There were plenty of families present, as well, small kids in tow who were happy with the offerings of balloons and face painting. A little bit of something for everyone, as it turns out, including a beer garden and three “stages” with a rotating series of entertainers throughout the day. I watched a magician/juggler who would have been right at home on America’s Got Talent - the dude contorted his body through a stringless tennis racket (it helped that he was super skinny, but still, that’s quite the feat); watched a camouflage-bedecked guy give a tarot card reading to an Asian kid; enjoyed a musical set from a three-piece outfit called The Bottlecap Boys who were so good I gave them money; dined on garlic and lemon chicken from The Horn Of Africa; and drunk in the sexy allure of a belly dance troupe called the Gypsy Heart Tribal. Turns out one of the dancers – by far the most sensual – totally wanted me. Think I’m kidding? Check out this look she’s giving me.

The girl on the right totally wants me.

And don’t call it “wishful thinking,” either. I see the desire in her eyes!

There was even an author there – or, to be technical, the wife of an author – who had set up a booth and was selling her husband’s self-published novel. I struck up a conversation with her, telling her that I had just published a book myself and was thinking of buying booth space and trying to sell it at a similar venue in the near future. She said they were there last year and sold “a ton” of books, but this year there’d only been one buyer by the time I stopped by, so it’s a real hit-or-miss proposition. I should have bought a copy of the book – support your fellow writers and good Karma and all that jazz – but I didn’t have much cash on hand. Oh well, food for thought.

All in all, it was an excellent way to spend a Saturday afternoon. A funky, fun festival in the city that I love. I even ended up with a “People’s Republic of Portland” hoodie and a “Put A Bird On It” t-shirt that were a steal at $30 total. Who could ask for more?

The Bottlecap Boys. They were so good, I gave them money.

This garlic and lemon chicken dish from The Horn Of Africa made for a tasty lunch.

Alberta Street is closed to traffic for 30 blocks for the annual Alberta Street Fair.

A camouflaged fortune teller giving a tarot card reading.

One more shot of my honey. What should we name our kids?

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Dude, Where’s My Car?

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There’s a Seinfeld episode called “The Parking Garage” where our intrepid foursome vainly search for Kramer’s car in a parking garage, but can’t remember where he parked it. Kramer is lugging around a heavy air conditioner, Elaine has a bag of goldfish that will die soon, George has to meet his parents by 6:15 to take them out for a celebratory anniversary dinner, and Jerry has to go to the bathroom very badly. Hours pass before they finally locate the car, and both Jerry and George end up arrested for public urination while Elaine’s goldfish die. And then the car won’t start. (Side note: Seinfeld was brilliant. I miss it). In an example of life imitating art, I found myself in a similar situation yesterday.

I had met up with some friends-slash-business-associates at Powell’s Books that morning. Heidi and Ross, from Sacramento Book Review, were in town to meet up with Chris from Portland Book Review and to take a mini-vacation. Though I’ve worked with Heidi and Ross for years, having originally gotten to know Heidi through her online diary/blog, this was the first time we’d met. The power of the internet never ceases to amaze me; through her writing, I felt like I knew Heidi intimately, and we hugged each other and chatted away like old friends the moment we were introduced. I have been blogging, in one form or another, on and off for ten years now, and have met a handful of people in real life. (Literally: there have been five). These folks have become friends, confidantes, business partners, and lovers. (Not all of them fall into every category, of course). I have found that friendships forged online and maintained over the years are every bit as strong as those that develop in a more traditional manner. Growing up an Air Force “brat” and moving around every few years, I never made lasting friends with anybody from my childhood. It’s made me somewhat of a loner in my adult life, so I value and cherish the friendships I have collected in recent years.

We talked for a good long while in Powell’s, browsed for a bit, and left. I’d arrived before anybody else, so I grabbed a paperback off the shelf – something to thumb through while waiting for the others in the in-store coffee shop – and got so engrossed in the book (T.C. Boyle’s Talk, Talk) that I ended up buying it, continuing a longstanding tradition of never leaving Powell’s without making a purchase of some sort.

A couple of cool things about Powell’s Books, which I mention frequently here because it’s my favorite Portland hangout: it used to be a car dealership, and you can still see evidence of that amidst the books.

Powell's Books

The Blue Room in Powell's used to contain used cars.

And, the men’s bathrooms have upscale, literate graffiti lining the grout between the tiles. I call it groutffiti. I first noticed it years ago, and always get a chuckle out of it. Here’s just one example. Others include “Grout at the devil,” “The Grout Gatsby,” “Grout of Africa,” etc.

Powell's Books

Groutffiti at Powell's.

After Powell’s, we headed to the Deschutes Brewery for lunch. I was intrigued enough to try their daily special – a grown-up version of a Sloppy Joe, served open-faced on Texas toast and topped with grated cheese and crispy onion straws. There was a bottle of Secret Aardvark Habanero Sauce to dip my fries into, and since I don’t like “real” beer, I opted for the “root” version. Great meal, great conversation, and Ross picked up the tab. Thanks, buddy. From there we proceeded to Voodoo Doughnut, another Portland institution I’ve mentioned before. When we walked the nine blocks or so to get there, it was like that scene out of National Lampoon’s Vacation where Clark Griswold and family arrive at Wally World after a long cross-country trek, only to find out the park is closed. Voodoo is undergoing an expansion and remodel and, even though their website had indicated it would reopen by May 30, was in fact nowhere even close to being ready for business as the interior was gutted. So we took Ross’s rental car and drove to the east side location, Voodoo Too. Waited in line thirty minutes for doughnuts, but it was totally worth it. I took a box home for my kids and parents, and later enjoyed a Maple Blazer Blunt, a sugar doughnut made to resemble a lit joint. Great message I was sending the kids, eh?

Voodoo Doughnut, Maple Blazer Blunt

In which I attempt to win the coveted Father of the Year award.

But back to the parking garage.

After leaving Voodoo Too, Ross and Heidi dropped me off next to Powell’s, and I walked a block or two to the garage where I had parked my car. I remembered that I was on Level P3, but that was about it. I had exited across the street from a piano store, but I wandered around for quite awhile, unable to find that store. You have to understand, the underground parking garage is enormous, and Portland’s street blocks are small, so there are entrances and exits to the same garage all over the place, in seemingly random spots, doorways leading to the underground labyrinth sandwiched between shops in a three- or four-block radius. I gave up on finding the door from which I had exited, and decided instead to enter the garage from where I had driven in, figuring I could just descend to level three and find my car from there.

Only, level three is massive, as I quickly learned. I wasn’t armed with an air conditioner or about-to-expire fish, but I was carting around a big pink box of doughnuts and the book I had purchased from Powell’s. And I was dressed in layers. And it was really warm. Every time I turned a corner, expecting to find my car, I’d come up empty. I walked around blindly for a good fifteen minutes, wondering how many freakin’ corners there could possibly be in the garage. I’d travel a good distance, stop, look around, decide that somehow I must have missed my car, and then retrace my steps, turning left at this particular juncture rather than right. This place was like the maze in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, and though I wasn’t being pursued by a hatchet-wielding madman, my heart did start to beat rather frantically as I realized that I was never, ever going to find my damn car and a sense of panic set in. Much like George, I had to be somewhere at a certain time in order to pick up my kids. And worse, like Jerry, I wouldn’t have minded happening upon a restroom at that point. Seconds away from unleashing that most primal of instincts – hot, salty tears – I rounded yet another corner and there she was, the ol’ ride. Salvation. I have never been so happy in my life to see a Hyundai, let me tell you. Fortunately, when I turned the key, she roared to life.

“Anybody ever lose their car down here?” I asked the attendant as I was paying. I figured it was probably something that happened all the time. They must have some emergency plan in place to assist those who had forgotten the whereabouts of their vehicles.

“Never,” she said.

Which made me feel pretty stupid.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

Have Yourself A Merry Little Car Bomb

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Portland's official 2010 Christmas tree

I didn’t realize when I decided, on a whim, to take the kids to Portland’s 26th annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony, I’d nearly end up the victim of a terrorist attack. That would have been a real bummer; imagine if I’d been blown to bits during my first-ever tree-lighting experience. Talk about putting a damper on the holidays. Thank God for the FBI, that’s all I’ve got to say.

The Portland terrorist plot is serious stuff. We’re making national news, and not in a good way. The “mastermind” behind this, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, said, “I want whoever is attending that event to leave dead or injured.”

Not to nitpick the finer details, you Somali-born whacko, but if you’re dead, you aren’t leaving, except in a body bag.

I’m pretty surprised humble little Portland, Oregon would be the target for a terrorist attack in the first place. As far as big cities go, it’s pretty safe. I’ve walked the streets at night, alone, before and never given it a second thought. The worst that ever happened? I had to step around some guy on a street corner who was playing the theme from Star Wars on his saxophone for spare change. More “charming” than “alarming” in my opinion. And it’s exactly what I love about the city in the first place.

I suppose if he had pulled off this Portland terrorist plot, I would have ended up a victim, one way or another. Turns out we were sitting just a few hundred yards from where the van was parked, at the corner of Sixth and Yamhill. Had those explosives in there been real, we’d have been in a world of hurt. At the very least, I might have had that holiday eggnog pouring out all the shrapnel holes in my body, cartoon-style, whenever I went to take a sip.

I’d been warned in advance about going, but for a different reason. On Thanksgiving, my parents mentioned the tree-lighting ceremony here in Vancouver, Washington. “I’d rather go to Portland,” I proclaimed.

“Why?” my mom asked. “There are weird people there.”

I tried to explain how I’m a Portlander at heart, but I don’t think they got it. On Friday, when I told my kids the plan, they said, “Why? There are weird people there.”

OK, for the record, there are weird people everywhere. Mayberry Vancouver is no exception. And you know what? I like the weird people in Portland. I’m dead serious. A few months ago I was walking downtown one afternoon and ended up literally in the middle of an argument between two homeless people. I smiled as I listened to them hurl insults back and forth. It was kind of cute, the way they were competing for that particular street corner as their “home turf.” And last year, while waiting in line for a maple bacon bar at the incredible Voodoo Doughnut, I was serenaded by a flash-mob type of rap group while watching a guy in a cape walk by. I’m telling you, you can’t find entertainment that good on TV. These people are simply marching to the beat of their own drummers, and that’s something I both admire and respect. Then again, I’m a writer, so I’m a bit mad myself. Besides, our unofficial slogan is, Keep Portland Weird. I’m all for that! Sure, I could have gone to the Vancouver tree-lighting ceremony instead, but…yawn. It would have paled in comparison. Portland is in my blood. I go downtown all the time. I love the big-city vibe, the flanneled and bearded and pierced masses, the urban hipness and funkiness that defines the Rose City. The fact that I live in Washington is a moot point. Portland is just across the river, and I feel an affinity for the place that is impossible to describe to the outsider. Or even the insider, for that matter. A while ago, I was telling a friend and former coworker about a weekend adventure I’d had in Portland, and his response? “I never go to Portland. There are weird people there.”

Really? You don’t say…

Anyway, I was stoked to head downtown and check out the tree-lighting thingamajig. I’d never done it before, even though I’ve lived here for 16 years now. In the past, I let laziness get the better of me. I didn’t want to deal with the notoriously fickle late-November weather (typically rainy and cold). Or the traffic. Or the parking. Or the crowds. This year, I decided to suck it up and go for it. Being unemployed, I’ve spent way too much time sitting around the house, staring at the walls. If ever there was a year to get out there and check it out, 2010 was it, I figured.

The ceremony was scheduled to start at 5:30, but because “thousands of people” would be in attendance, the website online suggested arriving around 4:00. (The website did not make any distinction about “weird” people and “normal” people. I figured there’d be a good mix). So we set out about 3:40. Normally traffic would be a bitch at that time of day, but it was apparent most people had the day off, because we never even slowed down. I found a parking garage just a few blocks from Pioneer Courthouse Square, and the kids and I arrived there about 4:15. There was already a decent-sized crowd, but we staked out a good spot with a great view, and settled in. It was about 45 degrees and overcast, but luckily, the rain that had been falling earlier in the day had ceased. There was entertainment, courtesy of the Pacific Youth Choir and local band Pink Martini, who were performing Christmas songs. It didn’t take long to get into the spirit of the occasion.

A bunch of people around me were drinking Starbucks, and there was a bit of a nip in the air, so I asked the kids if they’d be kind enough to fetch dear ol’ dad a vanilla latte. I slipped them $10 and told them to “get something good for yourselves, too.” They were then gone thirty minutes, during which time I veered perilously close to panicking, as darkness descended and the crowd multiplied. I questioned the wisdom of letting them wander off downtown on their own, imagining worst-case scenarios galore (although my imagination isn’t quite as wild as it could have been, because none of those scenarios involved explosives-packed vans), but the Starbucks is right there in Pioneer Courthouse Square, so I reasoned they couldn’t get into too much trouble. Finally, they showed up with my hot coffee in hand. Whew. And did it hit the spot.

While we were waiting, volunteers passed out holiday songbooks for the “community sing-along.” The kids unceremoniously declared that they would not be caught dead singing. I guess they’re “too cool” for that kind of thing. I rolled my eyes and, when the ceremony started at 5:30, belted out “fa la la la la’s” with the rest of the assembled masses, while my kids pretended they did not know me. Whatever. It’s called getting into the Christmas spirit, guys! Portland’s mayor, Sam Adams, talked to the crowd for a bit, and then – at 6:10 PM – he flipped the switch, officially lighting the Portland Christmas tree. It was a spectacular sight – a 75′ Douglas fir festooned with cheery holiday lights.

Portland is in my blood!

There was more singing, but the crowd was already dispersing, so we decided to leave, too. After all, we’d been sitting there on the brick steps of the courthouse square for over two hours. We crossed Sixth Avenue, which was roped off and teeming with police officers. There was also a white van parked there, which at the time I barely gave a second glance. I just figured they’d closed the street to allow the massive crowd to cross without waiting for traffic. We took a detour back to the car, because I wanted to get a picture of the iconic Portland sign outside the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall at night. Plus, we were looking for someplace to grab a bite to eat, but there wasn’t anything kid-friendly or, more importantly, cheap nearby, so we wandered back to the car and stopped at Boppin’ Bo’s – a 50s-style malt shop a few minutes from home – for burgers and fries. I figured, after working my ass off cooking up a Thanksgiving feast the day before, that I deserved a break. (The exploding turkey, by the way, turned out delicious – moist and flavorful. I guess brining really does make a difference!).

Ironically, during the car ride home, K1 – who had refused to sing a note during the festival – suddenly lost his shyness and began belting out Christmas tunes. Why he wouldn’t do this while in the midst of a crowd of 10,000 is beyond me. I turned the music up, because seriously, I was caroled out by that point.

All in all, we had a great time downtown, and I’ve already vowed to make the Christmas tree lighting ceremony a new, annual tradition. That’s my “screw you” to Mohamud and his failed Portland terrorist plot. Nobody can take Portland away from me.

Normal “weird” people (ha – there’s an oxymoron) are more than welcome, though.

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