Category Archives: Dining

Conversations With Myself

Oh Marmaduke, you’re such a card . . . what are you doing no- f**k me, is this thing on? Oh hey there . . . so, what is today’s topic? Oh yeah, California versus Idaho. I like California, I really do. But I also like paying a dollar less per gallon of gas, half per kilowatt of electricity, and not having to dodge piles of shi… feces while walking in public places.

So, California, or more precisely, Humboldt County, California: Majestic redwoods, foggy mornings and sunny afternoons, beautiful windswept beaches, and the mighty banana slug. I do not think I could give up the ocean again. Humboldt is beautiful, but suffers from a poor economic base and the high cost of California living. Everything from land to gas to milk to taxes is more expensive here, even though so many here are poor. Maybe if we weren’t paying $4.47 per gallon of gas, we would have more money for more important things, like cookies.

Idaho, or Coeur d’Alene anyway, is flat and cold and filled with people who believe the current President is a Kenyan Marxist Socialist Nazi Communist Manchurian Candidate (i.e. “the sheriff is near”). It is also quite affordable. And unlike Humboldt, Kootenai County has no shortage of doctors and great libraries. It may not have as many breweries as Humboldt, but it does have Trader Joe’s, Lowes, Home Depot and Spokane, WA nearby. I would sell my wife for a Trader Joe’s in my area (hey, TJ’s people, are you listening?) . . .

If I switch to driving a UEV and move the family into one of these, California might just match Idaho on the affordability front. Idaho will never match California on the oceanfront and banana slug front, however.

Luke’s Joint

Anyone out there like bacon? How about chocolate? Cheesecake? If you answered YES!!! to all three, you need to try the bacon-walnut cheesecake at Luke’s Joint in Arcata. I’ve seen Luke’s on the Plaza for a while now, but haven’t gone in, thinking it was just another barbeque place. While yes, they do serve awesome barbeque, they are anything but “just another” barbeque place. The food is delicious, and I am going back to my take-home slice of cheesecake. Goodbye.

p.s. — don’t forget to take me with you if you go!

Lights Out

Sitting in darkness on a morning like this, it is the little things that I miss most. Lights. Heat. Refrigeration. Yes, I am truly back in Humboldt. I know because we are ten hours into a power outage and I am being reminded of the one thing North Idaho did better: Keep the lights on. Continue reading

Through the Eyes of Jennifer

I have been to Lake Tahoe. I have been to Reno. I have never been to Las Vegas. Other than after reading an article in Sunset Magazine, I have not had the urge to visit Vegas. Perhaps it is because I lack the gambler’s spirit, unaffected by the call of the slot machines and craps tables. Or perhaps it is because I find the thought of DisneyLand for Degenerates slightly offputting. Continue reading

Let’s Not Be Friends

Men really are pigs, aren’t they? I spent last evening in the company of the dear Mrs. O (aka “The Wife”) and the enchanting Mrs. M (aka “Not The Wife”), enjoying a pint of IPA, several pints of water and fascinating/painful/arousing/embarrassing conversation. Jennie, less reasonably, but still responsibly, enjoyed two pints of Jacob Marley, and Rachel had a few more than that of Chili Pepper Ale.

Because we had a concert (Boy-Child, bass clarinet, other side of town) to attend earlier, we were a few minutes late meeting Mrs. M, which was all the opportunity a frumpy 1970’s-pornstached lothario needed to make his moves on Mrs. M. Mrs. M is very outgoing, friendly, and not shy at all (pretty much covered that in the outgoing, didn’t I? Well, we need to make this point clear: Mrs. M is not shy).

When we arrived, Mrs. M was sitting at the bar, smiling slightly, being hovered over by said pornstache. He was trying, from what I could tell, to sit in her lap. He was NOT pleased when I found us a table in another room and dragged her off.

Half an hour into our beer and conversation, Mrs. M noticed him standing at the other end of the room, pressing at his phone and carefully not quite looking our way. Every few minutes, he edged closer. Somehow he managed to grab Mrs. M’s arse as she went to get another beer, and mistook Jennie’s smile as she passed him as a signal to move in even closer. By the time I got up to use the restroom, he was hiding behind a pillar next to us, staring more intently at his phone.

As we walked Mr. M out the door and to her car, he followed partway, hoping, I suppose, that we would leave her alone long enough so he could offer her his famed moustache ride. Really, could you have been any more creepy?

Food Rebel

It goes to show that I am rigid and lacking in imagination. Where she sees the sensuous dining experience of finger food, I see a fully-dressed house salad and someone who needs to pick up her damned fork. Dining at 6 Rivers is always an entertaining, albeit frequently overly-loud and understaffed, experience, and Saturday night did not disappoint. The joy of people-watching was abundant, as I scanned the crowd for sportsball fans, semi-rowdy drunks, misfits and young lovers in lust. Of the latter, it was the mid-thirties woman on what I hoped was not a first date, who had not yet learned that salad is not typically finger food. Who am I to judge? Maybe she likes the cool, creamy feeling of dressing sliding down her fingers.

At fourteen, my daughter is finally accepting that some foods should be eaten with a fork if you do not want to draw scorn or disgust from your peers. I imagine that, should I manage to convince her that salad ingredients are truly food, she will have figured out the whole fork and salad thing before long.

I turned back to look at the rest of the crowd for new entertainment. The mesmerizing set of eyeglasses on one furry fellow captivated me. Why had I not thought of extending the lifespan of older glasses by replacing the temples with pencils and rubber bands?

By the time I returned to Salad Fingers, the main course had arrived. Fortunately, the boyfriend/date/companion/victim knew what he was doing, as he ordered a pizza as the main course, saving his date from the awkwardness of trying to shovel handfuls of spaghetti into her mouth. And I am just glad she ordered salad, not soup, as the first course.