So, a few days ago my lovely acrylic and stainless steel peppermill fell from the shelf above the sink and dropped all of 18 inches into the sink. I didn’t think much of it, put it back in its place and went about my business. Imagine my horror when I next tried to use it only to discover that the grinding mechanism had broken free from the body and it was beyond repair.
Anyway… I did some research and according to Cook’s Illustrated (From America’s Test Kitchen) and Alton Brown (who has never led me astray in the past) Unicorn’s Magnum Plus
is the absolute zenith of peppermill functionality.
I was somewhat non-plussed by its appearance (a big black plastic cylinder… I was hoping for something in stainless steel or copper), but it has a lifetime guarantee, and according to the experts it excels at what it does.
So, I went ahead and got it and let me tell you, this thing rocks! The coarse/fineness is infinitely (and easily) adjustable, it holds scads of peppercorns, and it cranks out an insane amount of pepper per twist.
One of my other concerns was that due to its design, you can’t do the old “remove the top and attach the cordless drill” trick (à la Alton Brown), but as it turns out, it grinds so much more efficiently than any mill I’ve used before I can’t imagine this ever being necessary (quite unlike my recently departed peppermill, which ground so slowly that I frequently resorted to this technique).
So, if you are in the market for a peppermill, or you’re just tired of cranking endlessly to deliver the appropriate dose of pepper; the Magnum Plus gets ‘Crazy Greg’s Seal of Approval’.
It’s been crazy hot here in Ohio (relatively speaking). Last weekend was the first time since August of 2003(!) that the temperature has hit 90°(F). This past week it was hot and humid every day, which of course didn’t didn’t keep me off the bike. Wednesday night (Thursday morning, whatever… it’s all a matter of perspective) around 3am I decided to put the light on the Pista and hit the road. It was about 70°, just a bit of wind, clear, a perfect night for a ride.
Whenever I get out and ride at night like this I always wonder “why don’t I do this more often?” It is so peaceful and so easy to get into a very meditative space, especially riding the fixed-gear, with that special sense of connectedness and the oh-so quiet drivetrain.
Within the first few minutes my mind is completely cleared. There is nothing but me, the bike, the road, and the night. Narrow country roads lined with glittering fields of fireflies, groups of deer looking back curiously at me as I whiz past, other mysterious glowing eyes peering back at me from the darkness. The only sounds aside from the sounds of the night are the wind in my ears, the hum of my tires on the pavement, and the whir of the chain, with my breath and heartbeat laying down the rhythm. My only thought; (aside from awe and wonder) a simple mantra I picked up years ago from an article by photographer Dewitt Jones (I forget to whom he credited it); “Take it all in… Give it all back” in time with my breathing (”It” isn’t just the air, it’s everything).
At one point, I’m so overcome by the beauty of the night that I have to stop and soak it in for a while. Stopped on a dark country road, above me a blanket of twinkling stars, all around me fields full of fireflies… all is right in my world.
When I can’t stand the majesty any longer I ride back into town, slowing to say hello to the big fat raccoon lingering (for no apparent reason) in the middle of the street next to the park by my house. It’s now after 4AM, I bring the bike in, shower, and put the headlight’s battery on the charger. With my batteries now fully recharged, I climb into bed and drop into a contented blissful sleep.
I have a couple of euphemisms for diarrhea that I’ve (to the best of my recollection) coined over the years which I’ll share with you now. Feel free to use these should you desire, but I would appreciate it if you give me credit (for the phrase, not for your intestinal problems).
The first is a general purpose phrase but it’s especially appropriate in the company of either fans of country music or those who actively dislike country music. “The Travis Tritts”, as in “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten at Taco Bell, I was in the bathroom with the Travis Tritts all night.”
The second is useful around a more cerebral audience, and perfect if they are always yammering on about the Russian Revolution and/or if they are, in fact, Marxists. “The Leon Trotskys”, as in “I think there was something wrong with the Beluga at the cocktail party last night, it gave me a terrible case of the Leon Trotskys.”
Just doing my part to weave a little color into the lexicon.
So, on the Discovery Channel Sunday night they have this show “Greatest American”. One thing that I found unsettling was some of the people they chose to comment and lend their insight. For example: JC Chasez, Howie Mandel, Lance Bass, Clay Aiken, Randy Jackson, Sharon Osbourne… why on Earth would I care what any of these people think about anything?
The other truly troubling thing is that the top 25, from which the “Greatest American” will be selected, (unfortunately by the same idiotic American public that thinks Brett Favre, Dr. Phil, Tom Cruise and Michael Jackson are among the top 100 Greatest Americans) included Elvis, Oprah, GW Bush and Bill Clinton.
Muhammad Ali, Lance Armstrong, Neil Armstrong, Walt Disney, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Henry Ford, Benjamin Franklin, Bill Gates, Billy Graham, Bob Hope, Thomas Jefferson, John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln, Rosa Parks, Ronald Reagan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, George Washington, The Wright Brothers… and those four? What the Hell is wrong with people?
You can vote for your pick at aol.com/greatestamerican, but do me a favor, if you think Elvis, Oprah, George W. Bush, or Bill (a BJ doesn’t count as “sex”) Clinton is the “Greatest American” ever, keep your ill-informed, culturally illiterate opinion to yourself and don’t ever come back here again.
Criminy, if one of them wins, I may have to move to France or something… ok, maybe not France, maybe Italy. I would say Canada, but if I’m renouncing my citizenship (over a stupid TV show), I might as well go somewhere the climate suits my clothes (not to mention my constitution).
I originally wrote this on April the 6th, but waited to post it, not wanting to blog in anger anything I might later regret. Well, I’ve mulled it over and decided to get it off of my chest. Oh, another thing, if you’re offended by profanity you might want to stop reading here.
I’m riding along (on, what else, my beloved chrome Bianchi Pista), approaching a straight-thru “T” (to the right) intersection where the light is red and there are two cars already stopped. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a car well behind, and signal my intention to move to the left of the lane. We’re moving about 10 mph and there’s not nearly enough room for her to pass before we reach the already stopped cars. The next thing I know, I feel something brush my left hip. It’s… a CAR!
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”, I shouted reflexively, setting a bad tone for further dialogue as I veer back to the right.
“You need to get your ass off the road.” she replies angrily, slowing to a near-stop.
“Fuck you, bitch.” I wittily retorted over my shoulder, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) failing to come up with either of the two words more analogous to “fighting words” with women. Lest you get the wrong impression, I’m really not some raving maniac; I generally try to refrain from using the “F” word (or cursing at people in general), but something about being bumped by a car evidently has a negative impact on my ability to censor myself.
At this point I’ve retaken my rightful place in front of her, albeit at the edge of the road now, the light is turning green, and I’m watching for her to pass, as I roll slowly through the intersection, hopeful of getting her tag number.
Instead, she turned right… the very thing that my move to the left would have facilitated.
I know better than to escalate these situations, but Jesus! She shoved me, with her car! I was hoping that the police would be called, there were several other people/witnesses around, so I felt reasonably sure she wouldn’t run me over or shoot me (though you never can tell). I’m not saying I would have filed charges, but it would have been nice to have a police officer explain to her all the various ways she was in the wrong.
I bet if my ass was made of something that might scratch her paint she wouldn’t be so cavalier about trying to push it off the road! I do rather wish I had unclipped my left foot and put a big metal Speedplay cleat print/dent/scratch in the side of her car. I could easily have justified this as a defensive maneuver (I was just trying to keep from getting run over!)
I hate stupid people. The (not so) amazing thing is this; the incident was quickly forgotten for the remainder of my ride and I had a lovely ride, plus the extra shot of adrenaline got me up and over the hill just beyond that intersection at record speed. It wasn’t until I got home and replayed how this woman had endangered my well-being (and basically assaulted me with her car) merely in an attempt to get to a red light 2 seconds sooner that my blood got to boiling again.
I really do hate stupid people!
When I first saw the headline for this story, I thought; “Geez, they caught some poor schmoe with a little bit of reefer and now he’s going to lose his job and maybe go to jail.” Of course, I pictured him in my mind as “Otto” from the Simpsons, but anyway…
It turns out that this dude sold a kilo of cocaine to undercover cops. Let me repeat that; a kilo… 1000 grams… 2.2 pounds of cocaine!
Holy crap, how much are they paying school bus drivers these days that they can afford kilos of cocaine? And how is it that a city the size of Dayton has that kind of supply? I mean seriously, this isn’t L.A. or Atlanta we’re talking about, it’s Dayton Ohio, a city of ~165,000 people. That’s a gram of coke for every 165 people in the whole city. I find it hard to imagine that 1 out of every 165 Daytonians (Daytonites?) has the desire (not to mention the disposable income) for a gram of cocaine.
Autoblog - RIP: Toyota Celica
What is the world coming to? First Chevrolet announced that they were ceasing production of the Camaro… unthinkable! Then the entire Oldsmobile line went away… unimaginable! Now we find out that the Celica is no more… impossible! Has the whole world gone mad?
Shortly after returning back to Ohio after Dad’s funeral I had an email exchange with my best friend, Sheldon (The Mighty Polecat), back in Tennessee. I mentioned that he’d have to get me to tell him the story of the “1958 Impala Chevrolet”. Some time passed and he prodded me to tell him the story, so of course I did. After reading it, he was adamant that I should archive it with all my other writings, so… here is that email, minus salutations, complementary closings and such (months after the fact).
When my parents met, Dad drove a “1958 Impala Chevrolet”, I don’t know why, but that’s the way he’s always said it. This was a pretty cool ride for a young dude in 1965-66. He also inexplicably said “Big Red Sodee Pop” the only context in which I ever heard him use the word “sodee”… it was a secret carp catching recipe… dough balls formed from Wonder Bread and “Big Red Sodee Pop” are apparently irresistable to Carp.
Anyway, back to the car…
As this was the first year for the Impala, they are quite sought-after (and thus, expensive) now.
Dad and Roger (his then best friend; later my step-father) both had ‘58 Impalas. Dad had a 283, Roger had the 348. Dad says his would run right with Roger’s until they hit top end. Dad’s was light blue, Roger’s was (I think) white.
The Impala had 6 round, bullet shaped tail-lights, 2 red ones on each side flanking the clear back up light. Dad and Roger both had 6 red tail-lights, having purloined the spares from some unfortunate Bel Air drivers (after all, nobody cool drove a Bel Air). A funny aside… for years Dad denied the whole 6 red tail-lights thing, it wasn’t until his later years that he owned up to it (with a twinkle in his eye).
Anyway, for years Dad had dreamed of owning one again, but alas, none of us could afford one (we were all looking, too!)
When I went to visit in February, Mom sent along a 1958 Chevrolet Impala model kit. We got all the correct colors, and Dad and I (mostly me, he mainly gave input on color and options and the like; and supervised) spent DAYS working on that thing, getting everything just so, doing all the really fine detail work.
He loved that model, he would sit in his recliner holding it, looking it over with a far-away look in his eyes just about every day. The model even came with 6 red tail-lights! We were so afraid we’d have to liberate some off of some unsuspecting Bel Air model.
Anyway, the last time Dad ‘played’ with it, one of the wheels had fallen off, easy enough to fix.
At the funeral home they had (one of) Dad’s rod and reels, his tackle box, Walter (Walter’s a mounted bass), and the model. Much to my surprise it survived being carted about and riding home in the trunk of a limo none the worse for wear.
Then later, either that day or the next, Leslie was moving the aforementioned fishing rod which was leaning against the mantle. The car was also sitting on the mantle. The car came crashing down onto the brick hearth, and I thought Les was going to cry. I was a bit sick over it myself, but I managed to affect Dad’s cool and assured her it would be fine, that I’d fixed it before (several times) and I could do it again.
The amazing/ironic thing is that it wasn’t a wild kid, an errant ball, or any of the things I expected to do it. It was a fishing pole!
I brought the car home, it’s fixable; I just can’t handle it emotionally right now.
I also brought back a couple of fishing reels (one’s a FINE Abu Garcia I gave him about 18 years ago) and I have rods coming (wouldn’t fit/couldn’t be trusted in baggage). I’ll just have to keep the rods away from that 1958 Impala Chevrolet!
Damnit Polecat! You made me cry!
So, there it is. As a post-script, the car is now repaired, my brother-in-law sent the rods, and I’ve made darned sure to keep them away from Dad’s car!
Have you ever noticed that whenever someone prefaces what they are about to say with (something along the lines of) “Now, I don’t want to sound like a racist, but…” that you can (almost always) delete whatever gleaming nugget of wisdom follows and substitute “I am”.