Pizza and Prose

So, we've done quite a few pizzas in the month or so since the last post about pizza. I intended to save the pictures and write a blog post devoted entirely to pizza. We loved all of them though. So no suspense. I realized that a blog post about pizza would be boring to read. I realized the thought of writing it bored me. So we're going to switch things up. I'm going to show you all the pizza pictures, but I'm going to talk about books.

I know. You're excited. Here we go.

Mango Black Bean Pizza

As you know, I've started to work my way through the Oxford US History Series. The idea for this series was born in the 1950s. A couple prominent historians wanted to produce a multi-volume history of the US explaining the development and change of politics, culture, and social movements. They wanted a series that appealed to the general reader and that had lasting value. A definitive work of US history that generations to come could read beside a fire on a cold winter night.

They got to work with the writing of the thing, but by the 60s they way we study history changed. It became more scientific, relied as much on chemistry and technology as on written texts, and as a result, what we know about history changed. By the 70s, the books written for the series were already out of date, so they went back to the drawing board. The first published book of the series (3rd chronologically) came out in 1982. The next one (number 6 in the series) came out in 1988.

So far, 8 of the 12 books have been published, with one (book 8) on the way next year and three more in planning. I started with book 3, The Glorious Cause by Robert Middlekauff, about the American Revolution. The first book, about America before the Europeans, and the second, about Colonial America, are yet to be published. I plan to read at least through book 6 (Civil War). Book 7 about Reconstruction isn't finished.

Each book covers a roughly 30 year span. Three of the books won Pulitzers, two more were finalists, one won the Bancroft Prize, and one the National Book Critics Circle Award. Each weighs in at around 800 pages long. Large pages. With very small writing.

Indian Spice Pizza

Remember how your high school history book made you feel. Dry writing with lists of names and dates. Reading it made you want to gouge your eyes out with a freshly sharpened number 2 pencil. That's how Middlekauff made me feel. I've read a fair amount of very engaging historical writers: Tom Holland, Joseph Ellis, Alan Taylor, David McCullough. Middlekauff was not one of them.

I'm not saying it wasn't thorough, well-researched, and historically accurate. I'm saying I didn't care. I almost didn't make it through. I kept my eye on the prize, though. Eventually, I'll make it to the McPherson Civil War installment, Battle Cry of Freedom. It's supposed to be the best single volume history of the civil war and the best of this series.

Middlekauff wrapped things up after the Constitutional Convention and I needed a little break from history. I needed something completely different. I needed a slice of chocolate cake after finishing all my steamed Brussels Sprouts. You know what I'm talking about. Few things in the literary world are as chocolate cake as Fantasy. Last year, I read the first three Song of Ice and Fire books and loved them.

Side note: Everyone needs to read Game of Thrones (the first book of Song of Ice and Fire), at least. Forget that it's an HBO miniseries. Forget that it's technically fantasy. Think of it more as a Medieval Political Thriller. If you like interesting characters, decent dialogue, and a good story, then you'll like this book.

Those in the know say, if you liked Game of Thrones and want to take the next step, read the Malazan books. So I did. Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erikson. It committed all the sins of fantasy. Also, on top of flat characters and cartoon dialogue, the plot was ridiculous.

Spinach Feta Calzone

So, you have the Malazan Empire on the march to conquer the known world. The last free city resisting annexation is Darujhistan. The book starts well enough. You don't have to slog through backstory getting to know the characters or the political situation. Erikson drops you in the middle of the action. It's more than a simple story of an Empire trying to conquer a city. There are rival factions within the Imperial ruling class, within the Imperial Army, within the city under seige. There are neighboring peoples and gods and demons and religious crusaders. Everyone has a different agenda and it all comes to a head in this single city. Sounds good, right? Well, it doesn't so much come to a head as it comes to a weak plot resolution.

You see, Adjunct Lorn, on behalf of Empress Lazeen, travels to the hills outside Darujhistan to awaken the Jaghut Tyrant, and ancient monster, who will destroy the city. You're waiting for it the entire novel. She finally makes it there, awakens the monster, who starts rampaging across the plain toward the city. This seven foot immortal guy named Anomander Rake, of the Tiste Andii, unleashes his three pet dragons to battle the Jaghut Tyrant. Meanwhile in the city, as espionage/assassin subplots are unfolding at this huge yearly festival, they can hear the monster battles on the plain. The Jaghut is putting a serious smack down on the dragons and draws ever nearer to the city gates. This is it, you think. Some epic-ness is about to happen in a serious way.

Nope.

Another character, who was secretly the most powerful wizard of all time, appears on the plain. Poof. He kills the Jaghut. Zap. So much for that. Well, Adjunct Lorn apparently has a powerful demon in a bottle or something that also has the power to destroy the city and she unleashes it. Then there's a massive wizard battle and the good guys win and the bad guys lose.

Boo.

Spinach Artichoke Pizza

Some of you may have already read my thoughts on the state of American Fantasy writing. Here it is in a nutshell. Most Fantasy is aristocratic literature. It reflects a British history, worldview, and culture. American Fantasy needs to be more democratic. It needs to be about rugged individualism. It needs to be more man versus nature. Basically, American Fantasy needs to be more like the Western.

Also, big pet peeve. Enough with the stupid names. Stop. Anomander Rake? T'lan Imass? Yes, Tolkien made up his own names. Tolkien was a linguist. He also made up several complete languages for his books. All the languages and place names and people names followed strict grammatical and phonemic rules. He didn't just throw together some letters because they sounded good. Oh, it's a good guy? More N's, M's and D's. Oh, it's a bad guy? More T's, K's, and S's. It should sound exotic? Put an apostrophe somewhere in it.

Stop. (Look at Game of Thrones: Ned Stark, Jaime Lannister, etc. They sound like real names. They don't sound like something from D&D.)

Sweet Potato Kale Pizza

After sidearming Gardens of the Moon across the room, I started my 2nd (their 4th) Oxford book. Empire of Liberty by Gordon Wood (of Good Will Hunting fame). I like two things about Gordon Wood: he's a good writer and he looks like Carl from the movie Up. This book covered the Jeffersonian Republican Era. It starts during the first Washington administration and goes through the end of the War of 1812. Wood uses a lot of quotes from letters and articles and such from people during the period. It gives the book this documentary feel, where the interviewees are describing the events in their own words. With this book, you don't feel you're reading history so much as you're hearing it.

When you think of American exceptionalism (not always a bad word), egalitarianism, democracy (not always a good word), rugged individualism, these ideas about ourselves came from this period. Also started during this period: gouging out eyeballs during fistfights, county fairs, and wearing pants.

One annoying thing Wood does, though, and he does it often: writing long lists in the middle of paragraphs. He does this sometimes twice in the same page. Wood loves lists. Here's an example about the beginning of clubs and "voluntary associations":

There were mechanic societies, humane societies, societies for the prevention of pauperism, orphan asylums, missionary societies, marine societies, tract societies, Bible societies, temperance societies, Sabbatarian groups, peace societies, societies for the suppression of vice and immorality, societies for the relief of poor widows, societies for the promotion of industry, indeed, societies for just about anything and everything that was good and humanitarian.

Potato Leek Rosemary Pizza

Yeah. If it rhymed, it would have sounded like Dr. Seuss: They had societies for the poor, for the drunks and for some whores, they made societies and made some more, they loved societies down to their cores. As annoying as it sounds, in the very next paragraph, he talks about being buried alive. So Wood keeps you on the edge of your seat. Definitely a refreshing installment after Middlekauff. Sitting on my bedside table is the next in the series, What Hath God Wrought by Daniel Walker Howe about the Jacksonian Period, which takes us from the War of 1812 through the Mexican War of the 1840s.

I needed a little break from history though, another slice of chocolate cake. I decided never to read anything else written by Erikson. Also, he's Canadian. So I turned to the epic fantasy series by one of the most prolific writers of all time, America's Horror Laureate, Stephen King. A few popular writers have written more titles than Stephen King, like Agatha Christie, Isaac Asimov, R.L. Stine. (Apparently, listing is infectious.) But I don't think any of them can match him in word count. So, you can love King or hate him (I do both), but you can't ignore him. A thousand years from now when some alien race is studying Ancient American Culture, they'll be reading Stephen King as much as Hemingway. Probably more.

Kale Mushroom Red Onion Pizza

When King started out to write the Dark Tower series, he wanted to do something as big and epic as Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, but with the look and feel of a Spaghetti Western. He cites the opening scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly as his inspiration.

The first book, The Gunslinger, pulls it off. Here's the first line:

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

He plops you into the action and you don't put the book down until it's finished. Everything you expect from Stephen King, the rambling backstories, pointless dialogue, description when you want action, incessant Dylan references, large excerpts you can skim out of boredom without missing much, none of that was in this book. This is the most un-stephen-king of any Stephen King book I've read. The writing is clean and crisp, the dialogue flows. He starts you at a jog and only gives you backstory when you need it. It has this Spaghetti Western, post-apocalyptic feel. Like Road Warrior. Like Book of Eli. Like Outlaw Josey Wales. There's a shootout in a small town, radioactive mutants, deserts, brawls, good versus evil. It does have some aristocratic elements, but it's the closest thing to what I'm talking about when I talk about American Fantasy. If you only read one Stephen King, read this one. The end is satisfying.

I need about a month between Oxford books. You know, to cleanse my palate. I can tear through the books in this series at a rate of one per week, so I'm on the third. The second book, Drawing of Three, lapsed into classic King, losing all of the feel and ambiance of the first book. On the other hand, it introduces the rest of the characters and the overarching plot is supposed to begin with this third one, The Waste Lands, so we'll see. The fourth is supposed to be the best of the series, so I'm going to give him through four before I decide whether I'll finish the series or not.

Moroccan Pizza

That's all. Here's your take away: Read Game of Thrones. Read The Gunslinger. Don't read Middlekauff.

Pizza Links
Mango Black Bean Pizza
Indian Spice Pizza
Spinach Feta Calzone
Spinach Artichoke Pizza
Sweet Potato Kale Pizza
Potato Leek and Rosemary Pizza
Kale Mushroom Red Onion Pizza
Moroccan Pizza

Parting Shot
On one end of my apartment complex, there are deep puppy prints in the parking lot where a dog ran through freshly poured concrete. In the fall, these fill with yellow leaves from the Honey Locusts that line the road and they look like festering sores.

Here's my favorite picture from the Wood book: 19th century Shakers doing an early rendition of Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Societies for founding zoos, baking cakes, and brewing brews, societies to play the barrumbazoo. Societies for petting dogs, shoveling bogs and wrestling hogs. Societies for chopping logs. They had groups for bathing suits, coat and tie, and fluting flutes. They had societies, it's true, for tooting toots and scooping poops. They had societies of every kind, you see, from North to South and Sea to Sea. 

Cemetery Run

Oops, We Did It Again
So last night we did the Kick'n Asphalt in Decatur. They held the run in Graceland Fairlawn Cemetery to benefit Easter Seals. This was our 6th race this year and probably my favorite.

There were a couple things I didn't like. No bibs. They didn't give out bibs to track your time. Which is fine, I guess, I don't really run for time. But when you have a bib, you can thumb tack it to your wall or tape it into your scrapbook or fold it up and stow it under your pillow. It's sort of keepsake. Memorabilia. Proof that you were there and you did it. They did hand out popsicle sticks with place numbers on them. Which sort of reminded me of PE freshman year in high school. Aine got 39th. I got 40th.

Also, weird was the fact that the staging area was at the funeral home attached to cemetery. So, when you went in to go to the restroom, every room was filled with runners in neon colors and blinking lights and glow sticks. It felt bizarre.

On the other hand, there was a great festive spirit. Energies were high. Everyone had wrapped themselves in blinking Christmas lights, glowing necklaces, glow in the dark shirts, crazy sparkling hats, and head lamps. Dad sent us a pair of headlamps for the run. We had some technical difficulties with one, but I wore the other.

I wasn't the only guy wearing a headlamp. I was the only guy under the age of 50 wearing a headlamp. It paid off though, the course had dark corners and potholes.

The run was amazing. We started at dusk, with the sun setting red and orange behind the massive, dark Scotch Pines and White Oaks in the cemetery. Because dense woods sheltered the area, you couldn't hear anything but the wind and a distant train wailing in the night. After darkness set in, the course felt so still and isolated, you could easily have been running through a tunnel underground.

Also, it was cold. Very, very cold.

Across the finish, they gave dude a medal.

In addition to the usual fare of water and Gatorade and bananas and power bars, the Salvation Army set up a trailer handing out cups of chili. It was pretty much canned Hormel chili with beans, but they gave me a handful of saltines, and after a cold run it tasted beautiful. I almost wept.

Even this morning, when I burp, I can taste the chili all over again and I get sort of emotional.

This run also had the best goody bags of any race I've done so far. It included a backscratcher, a koozie, two pens, a pencil, a package of tissues, a glow in the dark shirt, a Christmas ornament, a glow bracelet, a glow necklance, and a coloring book.

So, good race. I will definitely do this one again. If Aine says we can.

Only one downside to this whole experience: I ran my usual Friday afternoon 6-miler, so with no day off between my Friday run and the Saturday race, I sort of feel like a used piñata.

The Before-and-Afters:

In other news, Autumn has arrived. So, 30s-40s at night. 50s during the day. The beasts have chillies pretty much all the time.

And we have to sweater up before walks.

On the other hand, the leaves have started to turn.

And here's a picture of the same trees with gratuitous roses in the foreground.

Those are over on Fox. In the next couple of weeks, I'm going to get some pictures from Mattis Park, the Arboretum, and we're going to take a trip out to Allerton to see how it looks in the Fall.

Parting Shot
This afternoon's Squirrel Watch Report is brought to you by Fatty McTalons and Flops Furgeson.

Morton Pumpkin Classic 2013

Last weekend I ran the Pumpkin Classic 10k. I've been training for it since June. All my hard work has come to fruition. I guess.

We woke up at 4:30, ate breakfast, drank coffee, and hit the road for the hour and a half trip to Morton on the outskirts of the great prairie metropolis of Peoria. We didn't see much in the wee dark hours, but on the trip back, with the sun in the sky, we saw that this part of central Illinois has hundreds and hundreds of windmills. I think there are two large windfarms around the Bloomington area. I had never seen so many in my life.

Morton was a quaint little town. Over 1,800 runners descended on it like carb-loading, hamstring-stretching locusts that morning to participate in the 10k. Around 7:15, we crowded into the street, awaiting the starting gun.

Look:

Extra points if you find me.

Then we were delayed for half an hour when two cars collided in the race path. During this time, I had the opportunity to inspect the attire of my fellow racers. I found multiple heinous violations.

Race Shirts - It's common knowledge, or so I thought, that you don't wear the shirt of the race you're running in. Some say it's bad luck. Some say you haven't earned it yet. Either way, it's in poor taste. You can wear a shirt from a previous race as long as it's equal to or lesser than the race you're currently running. Don't wear a marathon shirt to a 10k. These are rookie mistakes, guys. 5k mistakes. This is a 10k. Time to get serious.

Compression Pants - If you are an adult male, you have no business running in public wearing compression pants. Or performance shorts. Or tights. I don't care what you call them or how cold it is. If your top layer is bulge-producing, it is not appropriate.

Here's a list those who don't want to see that:

• Women
• Other Men
• Children
• Dogs and Cats

iPods - The jingle of my dog's tags, the honking geese flying low formations over Mattis Lake, the wind through the Swamp Oaks, rumbling cars and barking dogs and yelling children, the Indian women gossiping while their husbands play cricket in the park, loud rap music from passing cars, the buzz of dive-bombing wood bees, the chatter of squirrels. The sound of the world around me is my favorite part of running. When you jam little ear buds into your auditory canals and crank up Eye of the Tiger, you're basically encapsulating the inside and taking it to the outside which completely negates the purpose of going to the outside to begin with. But, James, you say, I get bored on long runs. If the outside bores you, you're probably the kind of person who takes portable DVD players and laptops camping. You should buy Sweating to the Oldies or Tae Bo or Insanity. You should not go outside because you are wasting it. You don't need an iPod to run. You don't need a smart phone with an app that tells you how far you've run and automatically posts it to Facebook. It's one of the few moments in your day when you can get away from electronic devices.

Also, if you're very lucky and listen carefully when you're running a race, you might hear someone toot. And that's totally worth it.

Long story short: we finally got started. The temperature stayed in the 40s for most of the run and the track was fairly flat. I came in at 53:09:04. This run was very well organized. They had electronic chips to record your time. They had each mile marked with a sign and a volunteer calling out the current time so you could monitor your pace.

Also, they took video of the finish line. Let me just say, I hustled the last 50 yards or so and then had to slow down rapidly so I didn't end up in a doggy pile just across the finish line. So this is what I look like slowing down. I'm not usually this floppy.

Finish Line (I come onto the screen at 24:08.)

Of course you want to see the before-and-afters:

Here's how Aine takes pictures. She says, stand here where the sun is directly in your eyes. Now look normal. Why are you squinting?

They gave Dude a finishing medal. I haven't taken it off since.

The Pumpkin Festival looked like it would be the biggest festival I've ever been to. It had a street full of carnival style games, a dozen different rides, food tents, arts and crafts. Pretty much everything I've ever wanted from a festival. Unfortunately it didn't start for another few hours and we had to leave. As we left town, we saw cars trying to get into Morton for the parade and festival were backed up for two miles down the highway.

There wasn't much to capture photographically, but they did have some large pumpkins. If you know what I mean.

That night we celebrated the fact that I sweated, wheezed, and grunted for six point two consecutive miles without stopping by eating some Watermelon Shrimp Curry. Sounds gross doesn't it? It also looked a little gross in the pan, but this was totes delish.

We got the recipe from Jessie, but it originally comes from a book (Full of Flavor by Maria Elia). I suggest you try it while watermelons are still available. The original recipe called for squid and crab claws. We used shrimps. You could easily substitute chicken. Jessie modified the recipe a little before she passed it on and then I modified it a little from that. Below is the dish as I cooked it. If you want the complete un-muddled original, you can find it here.

Watermelon and Seafood Curry
Makes 4 servings.

Ingredients

• 1 personal watermelon, rind and seeds removed
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• 1 yellow onion, finely chopped
• 2 inches fresh ginger, finely chopped
• 1 garlic clove, finely chopped
• 1 jalapeno
• 1 tbl dried lemongrass
• 1 tsp turmeric
• 2 tsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp cumin seeds
• 1/4 tsp of cayenne pepper
• 1 lb shrimp
• 1 bunch cilantro, finely chopped
• 1/4 tsp fish sauce
• 1 tbl lime juice

Instructions

1. Liquefy 3/4 of the watermelon in a blender or food processor until smooth. 
2. Cut the remaining watermelon into cubes and set aside.
3. Sautee the onion, ginger, and garlic until lightly browned. 
4. Add the jalapeno, lemongrass, and spices and cook until fragrant.
5. Add everything else, bring to a boil, then simmer for 20-30 minutes.
6. Serve over rice with flatbread.

For reals. Try it.

My dreams of eating pumpkin pie at the finish line of the 10k proved to be bitterly false. Then we left before any of the serious pumpkin dishes were sold. Aine promised to make me some pumpkin pie when we got home. Turns out, standing the in cold for fifty three minutes and nine seconds exacerbated the cold she had been fighting all week. We'll pencil that one into the lessons learned column.

As soon as she felt better (a week later), she made me both pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread. A little late, but very tasty.

And the moment we've all been waiting for finally arrived. The cheese matured.

We ate it on water crackers with summer sausage from Rhode Island. We know a guy.

The final product had a mellow flavor, which would have sharpened had I allowed it age longer, and it was a little less dry than I desired. Next time I'm going to let it air dry for longer than two days. Aside from that, it was good. My first Cheddar. Woot.

Why Robin Thicke Should Be Boiled in his Tank

Dear Son,

This may be confusing to you since you don't exist yet. One day you will. Once you've learned enough English to work at McDonald's or blog about politics, you'll probably understand a little bit of the music you hear. You might stumble across the song Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke. Hopefully, this travesty of a song will have been banned by then, but it looks like these namby pamby liberals with their freedom of speech aren't going anywhere.

This song has tarnished the good name of American Pop Music and, I'm afraid, has taken us to a place as a nation we can't come back from. You'll say, Dad, explicitly treating women like sexual objects in song is nothing new: Big Joe Turner released Rebecca in 1944. First, Son, I would say Jazz doesn't count. Second, I would say even if it does, there are some subtle distinctions and I'm going to outline them here. In this fake letter I'm posting on the internet.

Robin Thicke recently performed this song while being the direct object of twerking on a recent awards show. And while he had no control over Mylie Cyrus' impromptu shenanigans, he was a married man singing a sex song, which is probably wildly misleading to people considering marriage. Also, Mylie Cyrus looks underage, so that makes it even worse. Granted, when a 23 year old John Lennon wrote and sang, "she was just seventeen if you know what I mean," he had already married Cynthia Powell after knocking her up. Here's the difference. A 36 year old man who looks like a skinny Russell Crowe: inappropriate. A 23 year old high school teacher: inappropriate. A 23 year old musician: what father of a 17 year old girl wouldn't be pleased?

What does the father have to do with it? Well, if you're going to treat a woman as a sexual object, it's important to take her previous owner into account and that's where Robin Thicke falls short. You can only do what you feel if her daddy is poor. If her daddy is rich, however, you should probably take her out for a meal first.

And let's face it. It's not so much the implicit glorification of infidelity, which has always been OK: Elvis sang Long Tall Sally in 1956. The difference you should note is that Mylie Cyrus is neither "built sweet" nor does she "have everything Uncle John needs."

Robin Thicke sings "you're an animal, baby," which strips away her agency and her intelligence. It is never OK to imply that a woman isn't a person. When the Beach Boys sing that they "dig a French bikini on Hawaiian island dolls," they're not talking about girls as though they were mindless bodies only valuable for their aesthetic attributes. It's a well known fact the Beach Boys actually collected dolls. Some animals are wild, but you shouldn't confuse this with The Troggs' Wild Thing, which is neither about women nor sex. It's a pastoral poem affirming the grooviness of the natural world. James Brown's Sex Machine isn't implying that woman was created for only one purpose. If you go back and listen carefully to the lyrics, he's clearly talking about erectile dysfunction. And that's OK.

Also, when Tom Jones sings What's New, Pussycat... come to think of it, Son, I don't want you listening to Tom Jones either.

One of the most disturbing aspects of all this is the public nature of this explicit sexuality. Twerking on a stage to a song about flirting in a club. The Drifters were gentlemen enough to make love under the boardwalk, hidden from the eyes of the people walking above. Tommy James hid what he was doing. He waited until he thought they were alone now before tumbling to the ground wrapped in arms.

The worst part of this song is the use of the B-word to describe a woman. I'm not even going to type it in his fake letter on the internet. Son, if you're ever confused about whether the B-word is appropriate as a lyric, follow this chart.

Performers who can use the B-word

• Mick Jagger
• Johnny Cash
• Miles Davis
• Woody Guthrie
• Elton John

Singers who can NOT use the B-word

• Robin Thicke

But mostly, Son, it's about class. Roy Orbison may well ask a pretty woman he only just met to be his tonight solely on the basis of her looks, but Robin Thicke, Son, is no Roy Orbison.

Party Like It's 1799

We spent our Labor Day morning in Arthur, deep in the heart of Illinois Amish Country, at the Arthur Cheese Festival.

Rat Race
We woke in the wee dark hours of the morning to drive south through the corn fields to Arthur. We arrived just before 7 am to check in, get our packets, and pin on our bibs. The packets, instead of coming in thin newspaper plastic, came in nifty, reusable canvas totes.

The goodies included our bibs, our shirts, advertisements for more 5k's (There's a night run through a cemetery in Decatur in October. Woot.), and the free cheese promised by the website. Only, here we found our first sign of trouble. The cheese wasn't local or even Amish. It came from Wisconsin.

We ran. Since Arthur has a sizable Amish population and the Amish only ride horse-drawn buggies and horses tend to poop all over the place, most of the roads in town (commercial and residential) were littered with horse poop. Most of the town had a faint livestock show smell to it. We're used to running the goose crap bespattered sidewalks of Mattis Park, so a neighborhoods crusted in former horse snacks didn't bother us.

We came in at 28:08. Look at us. Sweaty.

This was the best organized and executed of 5k's I've done. Painted arrows on the streets, high tech chips on our bibs (they had the results posted 30 minutes after the end of the race), it was a circuit instead of a turn around, huge inflatable arch over the finish line, water, oranges, and bananas for finishers. Top notch run.

Cheese Festival
We noticed in the main parking area for downtown, they had a buggy parking area.

Aine made friends with a sickly, underfed horse.

The vendor area took up most of downtown. Here's where we delved into the heart of Amish Culture.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed.

I'll grant that this was the final day of a three day festival. We left before noon so we missed out on the cheese eating contest and the curd spitting contest and the buggy rides. What disappointed me was The Merch. When you think Amish, you think home grown food and fresh milk and cheese and handmade pottery and woodworking and rocking chairs and things. So I came with a fat wad of poker winnings to blow on cool Amish stuff. Most of the booths, though, had cheap jewelry, inflatable toys, and Made in China Dollar Store grade crap you could pick up at any flea market. Also a lot of fried fair food.

There was one homemade cheese booth, one goat milk booth, a cool Amish crate/pallet booth (the only woodworking we found, but quality work), and some homemade licorice. The only pottery was imported from Poland (slip cast not wheel thrown). We saw a booth with stuffed pink zebras, another with hillbilly windchimes (a strip of wood with four empty beer cans tied to it), some knitting, and let me tell you, Arthur is still abuzz about the magnetic bracelets. You can find more quality, handmade wares at the Farmer's Market in Urbana.

We did see a local beekeeper selling honey.

A fair amount of quiltage.

Also, a camel. Go figure.

I wanted to get more pictures of the folks in their Mennonite hats and beards, but it somehow seemed a little disrespectful to snap pictures of them like zoo animals. We didn't hear anyone speaking Pennsylvania Dutch, which is actually German, because the word Deutsche confused 19th century Americans. They were all very friendly, though. I saw a couple women in Mennonite dresses, bonnets, bibs, and running shoes which means they ran three point one miles in that attire.

We did splurge and buy a homemade soy candle because it smelled good and we liked the little spongeware dish it came in. Except it was made by some guy from a town just north of Bloomington.

So, Cheese Fest. A little bit of a let down. Arthur was a quaint little town and I wouldn't mind going back to peruse the Amish stores on Main Street sometime when they aren't blocked by vendors from Cincinnati on the festival circuit. We did enjoy the run. And the Wisconsin Colby.

How Sweet It Is

Urbana Sweet Corn Festival 2013
We did it again. It was so hot this year. I think we hit 85 degrees mid-day. Sweat was had by all.

Of course, the Motor Muster was there again.

Aine said, let's get a picture of the one with dead children in the back.

Instead of the old timey bus, this year they had a sweet Woody. Wait, what did I just say?

I scoured the streets for a 50s model Chevy Bel Air. I finally found one. Not the color I would have chosen, but it was the only one there.

Then we had to walk slowly around all the 1910s and 1920s model cars. Because of Downton.

And no Central Illinois festival is complete without overpriced beer in collector mugs.

Sure, it's the same price as a six pack, but can you drink a six pack in the middle of main street in front of your county courthouse? I didn't think so.

The One Community Stage had a lively performance by Bone, Jugs and Harmony (pun intended). They performed with whiskey jugs, kazoos, and all manner of ridiculous instruments. Aine said, I think this is kids' music. I said, no, these guys are for real. They're local and play venues all over town.

You're probably wondering, where are all the spectators? They're crowded in the shade of the building to the left. By this time in the day we hit the low 80s and people were passing out from heat exhaustion. All precautions had to be taken.

Kansas headlined the entertainment this year. Aine said we had to go since they play the theme song to Supernatural. I said, fine, but we leave as soon as they play Wayward Son. Wouldn't you know it. They played it last.

Here's videographic evidence that we were there. With the entire population of Champaign County. Forgive the sloppy camera work. The camera man had been drinking since three that afternoon.

The Blerch Shirts Have Arrived
We ordered Blerch shirts from the The Oatmeal website for the Pumpkin Classic 10K in Morton.

It's based on a six part comic you can read here:
The Oatmeal

You only need to read the first part to understand the shirt, but I would suggest reading all six.

Rocking the d20

So, a few of us decided we wanted to try out Dungeons and Dragons. It was decided that since I'm the only one not in grad school, therefore the only one with free time, I should be the one to learn the hundreds of rules and DM the first game.

In the picture above, you'll see the practice game from the other night where Aine, as a Level 1 Elf Wizard, defeated 4 Goblin Minions with her Magic Missile. That's right.

Coming Soon
Labor Day - Arthur Cheese Festival and the 5k Rat Race.
Hard Cheese - Three weeks to go!

Life's Been Cheddar

The Results Are In
My time for the Run4Raley 5k: 25:57

Which means I ran a 8.4 minute mile. Which isn't very fast. But it was pretty fast for me. Now we're gearing up for the Pumpkin Classic 10k in Morton. Last week, I totalled 17 miles. This week, I'm hitting 21.

Thanks, Fanks
I gave up on Dr. Fankhauser. His instructions were rambling, inconsistent and lacking in vital information. The good doctor uses well water and cultivates his own rennet from calf guts to make cheese, so he doesn't spend much time on explaining the intricacies of using store bought milk for apartment dwellers.

After ruining 4 or 5 gallons of milk in pursuit of hard cheese, I bought a book.

On the right. Cheesemaking by Ricki Carroll. She started the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company, from whom I bought the rennet and the calcium chloride. From what the rave reviews say, she kickstarted the homemade cheese revolution. She writes instructions for those of us who don't milk goats.

(On the left, you'll see Empire of Liberty by Gordon Wood about the period between the ratification of the Constitution through the end of the War of 1812. I finally finished the dry ramblings of Dr. Middlekauff.)

The first thing I read was NEVER USE TAP WATER to dilute your rennet and calcium. Chlorine in tap water cripples the rennet and gives you a weak break. Also, she says, NEVER USE IODIZED SALT. The iodine kills the bacteria that give your cheese flavor.

So we did it for real this time. I got to the curd cutting phase of the cheese process.

I cooked the curds.

And drained them.

Then I salted and spooned the cooked curds into the cheese press Dad made.

I had plenty of assistance.

I pressed the curds overnight.

The next morning I unwrapped the hunk of cheese and let it air dry for 2 days.

At which point I waxed it.

I now have a waxed hunk of cheese in my fridge. In four weeks, On September 18th, I'll cut into it and taste the deliciousness of my very first cheddar.

Easy As Pie
We're still doing a homemade pizza once a week. It's actually one of the easiest and fastest dinners to make if I remember to throw some flour in the breadmaker on time. The last two have been utter successes. The first I found randomly on the internet, the second I copied from a local restaurant.

Potato, Asparagus, and Feta Pizza

Pear, Feta, and Pine Nut Pizza

It's a Citrus, Khaleesi
Pitaya. Dragon Fruit. This fruit, from a night blooming cactus, comes from South America and Asia.

You just cut it in half and scoop out its guts. It had the texture of a pear and a very mellow flavor. Too mellow. It almost didn't taste at all.

Erin Go Bragh
Or at least until the first sip. We made Irish Coffees. Only, we didn't have cream, so I guess they were Black Irish Coffees.

Aine didn't finish hers.

(And, yes, under my wallet and phone, you see the Bernard Bailyn introduction lectures to his Peopling of British North America series. If Wood is the Obi Wan of early American history, Bailyn is the Quigon Jinn.)

Home Invasion
The other morning a small spider, the size of your pinky nail, crawled to the middle of my office ceiling. It was just hanging out. Minding its business.

Then Piglet saw it. She just wanted to rip it into small pieces. Frustrated at the spider's inaccessibility, she started mrowing at it. Alarmed by the commotion, Crankles rushed in to save the day.

Then he saw the spider. And he started whining.

They have a good time hunting roaches and flies together, but this distant spider completely stymied them. She mrowed. He whined. And that noise lasted for the first twenty minutes of my work day.

Parting Shot
Life in Illinois seems precarious at times.

But this does not alarm us.