Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, I pick up the phone.

“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.

“Yes,” I reply honestly.

“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.

I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.

“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”

“Bingo,” he says.

“Bingo?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”

“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.

“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.

“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”

Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.

“Thin blood,” he answers.

I decide to play along.

“So, why are you just now thawing out?” I ask him.

“Global warming, I guess,” he says.

“Global warming?” I respond inquisitively. “There are many who don't believe in that.”

“Well, I guess I'm Al Gore's dream come true,” he retorts quickly.

“You seem to know quite a bit about current events for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on my own quick retort.

“I read,” he says.

“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.

“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”

“So?” I ask him.

“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”

“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.

“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.

“And, what’s that?”

“Sonny,” he answers.

“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”

“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.

“Could you explain?” I ask him.

“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”

“What kind of things?” I ask him.

“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”

“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”

“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.

“We even have a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”

“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.

“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.

“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, in turn, I put something pretty in your stocking.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I'm not Druid.”

With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether I should even mention this or not.

My Very Special, Annual, End of the Year Report

 Well, here we are at the end of another year. Is it just me, or does it seem as if it were a mere 360-some days ago that we were welcoming in 2009? And, now, before you know it, comes the time we have to way so long, to 2009, that is.

I think 2009 could be known as the year just about everyone famous died. It could also be known as the year that global warming froze the rest of us nearly to death. It might be known as the year that Nebraska Senator, Ted Nelson, determined that the life of an unborn child is worth about 45 billion. (okay, that one is a little obscure, but worth noting) It definitely could be known as the first year in American history that we had a president whose last name ended in a non-silent vowel. Talk about your diversity, eh.

When you think about it, this whole New Year's thing is just a very well accepted excuse to drink more than you should, kiss people you shouldn't, and make promises that you obviously will not keep any more faithfully than the promises you made a year ago.

There's nothing especially special about January 1^st. It happens to be the beginning of a new month and the month begins a new year, but it's just a somewhat arbitrarily chosen date. The Jews began their new year in the spring. The Chinese celebrate the new year, well, gee, I can't remember when, but they do it in bed. No wait I'm mixing their New Year's up with their cookies.

And, if I were well versed on such things, I could probably go on and on about when other cultures celebrate New Year's. But, I'm not, well versed that is. So, I'll just shut up about this.

But think about all the hubbub that centers around New Year's. Think of the tons and tons of trash and garbage that's left behind when Times Square revelers stagger home in the wee hours of 2010. Think about how stupid it is to stand outside in freezing temperatures to watch some neon lit “apple” slowly slide down a pole.

Think about how you sit around the TV trying to figure out what in the world Dick Clark has just said. I bet that even after he's dead, Ryan Seacrest will be standing alongside Clark's casket in Times Square, counting down the seconds 'til the ball drops.

It's all pretty ridiculous, don't you think? You wake up January 1^st, many doing so with massive hangovers, and you look at the calendar and you say, “Yeah, it's January 1^st. And you go back to bed. Nothing really is any different. True, you won't really break any of your resolutions until you sober up, but, to be sure, you will break them.

After that, nothing much is any different. It could be 2009, or 2008, or 1978, except you look so much older than you did then. It's just a number. It's just another day. As the immortal Peggy Lee once asked, musically, “Is that all there is? Is that all there is?” Yeah, Peggy, that is pretty much all there is.

You know every year I write a column about this. And no one pays attention. No one says, “Steve, you know, you're right. I'm not going to make a big deal about New Year's.” It's all very frustrating. But, I know how to put an end to my frustration. I'm making a resolution that next year I won't write a column about the absuridity of New Year's. I sure hope I can stick with this.

The Best Story You'll Ever Read About Ukrop's

The story I'm about to tell you is true. The names have not been changed. I'm only writing it because I want to keep you up to date on Ukrop's Grocery Stores. You know how much I love 'em.

The rumor is, and this is strictly hush hush, that Ukrop's is about to sell out to an Ahold. In fact, it's a Royal Ahold. Ahold USA is the American arm of Netherland's based Royal Ahold, the largest grocery chain in the Netherlands.

I'm not surprised that Ukrops would sell to an Ahold. They've done some interesting things through the years. Now, I know this will tick many Richmonders off. Ukrop's is more of a shrine than a grocery store to many FFVs (fat, flatulent Virginians). They don't sell alcohol because of their Christian principles. Now, I've raised the question before, and I'll raise it again...now. In that picture of the Last Supper, I saw Jesus and his Apostles drinking wine, but which ones in the group are enjoying a good after-dinner smoke? I can't find 'em. I don't even see an honest-to-goodness ashtray in the picture.

Also Ukrop's has had a strict CLOSED ON SUNDAY policy. Again, it's their Christian values. However, word is that now that the local foodstore chain has hit on harder times, they're thinking about opening on Sunday. You see, according to the Bible, you're only supposed to observe the Sabbath when you're operating in the black. Bible principles are based on the bottom line, not on the rightness or wrongness of the action, itself. And, as an aside to you purists, truth is, Christians were never told to observe a Sabbath, and if they did, it would have been Saturday, in line with the Jews, to whom a Sabbath law was given. Why a Sunday sabbath, unless you just love them good ol' southern sun-worshipping Romans, who did know how to throw a good party, especially in December.

So, when you see such contradictory principles at work, I'd say the next logical step is to sell out to an Ahold. Now how will these Ahold folks be different? Well, when the Aholds bought Giant Food in the D.C area, they kept the Giant name. They updated the stores, but kept the name. Most Ukrop's are in pretty good shape. Although it is true that the restrooms in their Cary Street and Staples Mill Road locations only have one toilet, and no Ahold would sit for that.

So, the name we love, no make that the name we venerate, remains. The stores, if anything, get better, and, for sure, we can shop on Sunday and maybe even, if no one is looking, buy a bottle of wine or a can of beer. So, you decide, who is better, the Ukrops or the Aholds?

Sizzling Hot and Delicious

You probably thought, from the title of this post, that I was going to step forward and admit that I, too, have been involved with Tiger Wood.  Nope. Sorry to disappoint, but my lips are sealed on that matter.

What I do want to tell you about, as I wrap up my Door County blogs, is the good ol' fashioned Door County, Wisconsin Fish Boil. Now, for you boil novices, that term may sound like some nasty growth on your body, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Here's the scoop, which comes from reliable sources:  The fish boil began years ago as a quick, economical way to feet hungry lumberjacks. Before long, it had become so popular that church groups and other organizations were sponsoring them. And, as the fish boil became more and more of a tradition in this fantastic Wisconsin community, many of the restaurants began featuring the fish boils.

In the summer months, there are several local dining spots that hold the boils. However,   there are only a couple spots that I know of that continue them year round. Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of being on hand for one such said boil at the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek. 

The night was cold. Actually, it was downright frigid. The windchill was probably near zero. That's probably why most of the restaurants discontinue the boils during the winter. But the cold weather didn't seem to bother master boiler, Tom Christianson, who, when we first arrived, was outside preparing the boil in his shirt sleeves. As the night air grew colder, he did put on a light jacket.  As for me, well I was bundled up with every piece of clothing I had taken on the trip tied around some part or another of my body. Yes, my briefs around the ears were a little disconcerting to some. But that problem was taken care of when Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator, TV personality, and all-around good guy for the county's Visitor's Bureau, loaned me his Packers ear warmers, or whatever you call that piece of material I had wrapped around my head.

Back to the boil. Christianson has prepared the fire in the outdoor pit, just outside the restaurant. Whitefish steaks are in one pot on the fire, with potatoes below.  The boiler then adds his "pinch" of salt, which, I am told is about a pound of salt for every two gallons of water. The salt is not for taste. Rather, it raises the gravity of the water, or some other such Mr. Wizard nonsense. I'm just repeating what I've heard here. Anyway the salt causes the oils that are coming out of the fish, to rise to the top of the pot.  

After the fish are boiled and all the oils are out and floating on the top, the fun begins. Christianson has what looked, in the dark, to be a big ladle.  He scoops up some kerosene and tosses it, no, not into the pot, but onto the fire. The result is leaping flames that raise the fire temperature to over 400 degrees. This causes the oils in the pot to boil over onto the ground. With an end result, delicious, oil-free fish (but more about the fish in a moment)

The flames leap out towards the crowd. I'm thinking this must be some sort of Wisconsin bikini wax, because I smell my eyebrows burning. But, with the temperature and wind the way they were, I loved this split second of blast furnace heat.

Once the fish and potatoes are done, they're served buffet style in the restaurant. I have to tell you, as a fan of fresh fish, this was some of the best down home eating I've ever done. Along with the fish and the tasty tartar sauce, come the boiled potatoes, a creamy, slightly sweet coleslaw, and, for dessert, the best cherry pie a la mode you'd ever want to sink your teeth into.

The fish boils might not be true gourmet quality, but it sure was one fantastic meal.

Well, I guess I've told you 'bout all I know of Door County for now. But, hey, I'm going back next spring. If you want to come along let me know.

More About Door - Part 3

You've probably been waiting with bated, cheese breath to learn more about Door County. And I'm anxious to tell all. I truly am not one to gush. It can be disgusting, but I digress. However, if one were to choose to gush, Door County, Wisconsin would be worth gushing for.

I live near the Chesapeake Bay, which is beautiful, but, perhaps it's the fierceness of the weather (22 below chill factor while I was there), combined with the bay and the lake that makes Door County so appealing. Of course, it's not that way in the summer. Door County has any number of beaches and summer-style vacation amenities. It truly is a boater's paradise.

Because I've always been aesthetically-challenged when it comes to weight, I have never been big on bathing suits...big in bathing suits, maybe, but I was the type who would go to the beach and jump in the ocean before any other bathers arrived. And, so as to not show my physique, I'd just stay in the ocean until sundown.  It produced a lovely prune-like affect, and saved lots of embarrassment. 

Hence, I'm a fan of weather conditions that necessitate overcoats.  I've found that overcoats can hide quite a few pounds. Now, if they could just make an overcoat for one's chins. Anyway, I digress again. The point is I love winter and Door County has plenty. Green Bay is just starting to ice up. I'm told that within the next few weeks, it will virtually, completely iced over. 

Because the area gets 100 inches or snow annually, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, and snowmobiling are popular activities. While there, my group actually had an opportunity to ride in a two-horse open sleigh. Try doing that without singing. We couldn't.

And, as for the local folk, these are some of the friendliest people I've ever met. Sometimes on travel writers press trips there will be business people who are forced to be friendly to us (and if you've ever been with a bunch of travel writers, you know that can be a challenge), but in Door County everyone went out of their way to show us hospitality.

And, no one could have been friendlier and more accommodating than Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator for the county's visitor's bureau. Even though he's a Packer fan, Jon is an okay guy in my book. And, when I mentioned in a previous blog that he walks with a bounce, I wasn't referring to any cute little gait.  Jon explained to us the beauty of cherry bounce. Ever heard of it? Well I hadn't.  Actually, I've learned since the trip that even Martha Washington enjoyed a little cherry bounce. It's a cordial, but, in Door County, it's their equivalent to our corn liquor.

Let's just say Jon described it so vividly that we could almost taste it. Heck, we could even spit the pits from the cherries in the drink, just from listening to his description. Jon definitely has a way of making a description come to life. And that's all I'm going to say on that subject.

I guess I've rambled on plenty for today. But, if you're looking for a vacation spot that is almost 100% free of your traditional chain restaurants and homogenous mall retailers, if you want a spot that provides plenty of amenities, but in a get-away-from-it-all atmosphere, then I'd would whole-heartedly recommend Door County, Wisconsin. 

There's one more thing I haven't told you about and that's the ol' fashioned fish boil. Who'd have thunk fish and kerosene go so well together. I'll save this story for my final Door County report. But if you want more info, go to http://www.doorcounty.com/.

 

Door County, Wisconsin - Part 2

When I was first invited to join a group of travel writers to visit Door County, Wisconsin, my first response was, "What's Door County."  I'd hardly heard of Wisconsin, much less Door County, but I was assured by a representative of the PR firm sponsoring the trip that I would love it.

Yeah, right. Have you ever known me to love anything?  Besides my sparkling repartee, that is? Well, I'm on my way home after spending three days here in Door County, and I'm quite upset about this whole thing. The problem is that I don't have one thing to complain about or to ridicule. How am I supposed to do my job under such intolerable conditions.

Everything about the trip, except for the two hour delay at Richmond International, and, oh yeah, the $40 roundtrip luggage charges that Delta has, but beyond that, this was a perfect trip. I really shouldn't complain about the luggage charge. After all, those 12 peanuts they gave me cost something, not to mention the space age packaging they come in.

But, back to my trip...Door County is beautiful. Green Bay (the bay, not the city) is to the west and Lake Michigan is to the east. Door County juts up between the two bodies of water. It's a 70 mile or so peninsula that ends, to the north, at a treacherous water passage that was dubbed Death's Doorway. That's how the county came to be named. Think about it. These must be some hardy folks who celebrate the fact that their county is a great place to die. 

Truth is, these people, many of whom are either Scandinavians, Icelandic, or Cheeseheads, are tough, rugged, and yet exceptionally friendly individuals. They'd give any southerner I know a run for his or her money when it comes to hospitality. They also have some of the best restaurants I've ever visited. 

And, as for the scenery, absolutely gorgeous. I don't use that word very often. It just isn't a manly word and, as you know, I'm a manly man in a manful sort of way. Of course, I'm not as manly as Jon, from the county's Visitors Bureau, but I'll tell you more about him later. He's a guy who walks with a bounce, but I'll explain more about that as well.

I can't go into more detail  right now because I'm sitting in the airport in Green Bay (the city, not the bay), waiting to catch a plane. I have a little bag of Wisconsin cheese in my carry on.  I'm going to take my seat, fasten my belt, and eat my way into oblivion.  But stick around, there's a lot more about Door County I have to tell you.

My Wisconsin Trip - Part 1

I'm on my way to Door County, Wisconsin. And, at the moment I'm waiting in the Detroit airport for a flight to Green Bay. Go Vikings!

Here's something you may not believe. I wouldn't have had I not seen it with my own eyes...the airport here in Motor City is one of the nicest I've ever seen. There are people movers everywhere, so if you're exceptionally lazy, or a hypochondriac, or both, as in my case, you can travel throughout this huge place without actually having to put one foot in front of the other. And, if that's not enough, about 15 feet above the walkway, there's a tram to carry you wherever you want to go. Except it doesn't go to downtown Detroit. I don't think that was such a stupid question to ask, but, sheesh, some people have such an attitude.

My flight from Richmond to Detroit was uneventful, pretty much. It was delayed by about 90 minutes or so, but that's not so bad. Just gives me more chance to sit in a cramped seat with a little seatbelt around me and make small talk with strangers, while I try to keep my mind off of those horror stories of folks who have sat on the runway for hours. I tend to be claustrophobic, so I try not to have any panic attacks on the plane. Sometimes I just have to count from 1 to 1000 loudly in order to keep my mind off the fact that I may suffocate any moment. People seem mesmerized by my counting trick.

As we were fighting some turbulence upon landing I got to looking around the plane and thinking about how many precious lives would be snuffed out if something should happen. There was a beautiful little girl, about 4, sitting on her father's lap. I thought about her, and how she had her life in front of her.

I don't know if you know this or not, but I suffer from a mental disorder known as Acute Sympathy Syndrome. It's been voted the worst disease to abbreviate. I got to worrying about a guy named Michael. No, Michael wasn't on the plane, but his boss was. And the boss was typing a document that I couldn't help but read closely as I sat behind him. Seems Michael is making more than he's worth. He's an accountant, somewhere in Virginia, and he was making $65,000, then all of a sudden the guy's making $95,000. I thought about how proud his wife must be. Little does she know that Michael will probably be getting the boot within a day or two. I worried about Michael and his wife, and his two precious children who look up to him each evening when he comes home and who say, “Hi Daddy. We missed you. Will you carry us on your back.” Pretty soon Michael can spend the entire day carrying the little tykes around on his back.

Then there's this guy next to me, across the aisle. He's the type that as soon as the plane lands, he gets on his cell phone and talks so loudly, you'd think he must think the cell phone is kind of a glorified tin can with a string that you have to yell into. I wasn't feeling sorry for this guy, let's call him Tim, at all, until he said something that bothered me.

“Have you found anything in Florida,” he screamed to someone on the other end of the line. “Something's turned up on my end.”

Ouch, I'm thinking. Is it a tumor? A boil? “It's pretty big,” he says.

Double ouch! Now I can't stop worrying about him.

Then to further complicate things for an Acute Sympathy Sindrome sufferer, as I was walking through this really neat tunnel in the airport (the walls turn colors and cool, mood music plays), I saw three guys with the word DEPUTY emblazoned on the backs of their jackets. I got to thinking how cool it would be if they were transporting a criminal. Then I saw him. The criminal.

But, then I got to feeling sorry for him. Everyone in the whole place was staring at him. How terrible. He was just a young guy. Why do people have to be so cruel? As I was staring at him, he turned and looked at me. “I care,” I mouthed to him, the way Acute Sympathy Syndrome sufferers are wont to do. He flipped me the bird.

So, at least that helped me with my condition. Well, I guess that's enough for now, but I did want to keep you informed. I know you're following my every step with baited breath, and many of you are living your lives vicariously through mine. I'm not sure what that means, but I've always wanted to use the word, “vicariously.” So, there, I've used it. Talk to you later.

All the News That Fits this Little Box

I've been seriously trying to decide what to do about my online column, sometimes pronounced “blog.” While I definitely have an opinion on just about everything, those opinions include one that tells me that most of you don't really care what I think. That's only fair, since I really don't care what you think.

Okay, that was just me being cool. Truth is, I do care. So I've decided that instead of just presenting my opinion of life's daily events, I'd just simply report the news and let you make your own decisions. So, here goes, my first in what I hope will be literally years of news reports without any personal opinions thrown in.

First story, and this is one I like to call a potential widow-maker, did you hear that an iceberg is headed right for Australia? True! I mean we're talking about an entire, virtually civilized continent, facing something that could destroy all life as we know it. Ted Turner is probably already predicting eventual canibalism there.

Anyway, these Aussies have themselves a potential disaster. I don't know what an iceberg would do if it rammed into a country, but I can only think that it wouldn't be pretty, except to persons, who, like myself, love to chew ice. My question is, where's Al Gore when you need him. I think those Australians should be pretty much hoping for global warming right now. I may be wrong about that, though, because I just read that one climatologist has claimed that global warming could cause more icebergs.

I can't figure out how that works, but, hey, I'm no climatologist. One thing I do know, though, is that I sure would hate to be global warming. It gets blamed for just about everything. In a way, I guess I can relate to that, so, while this is not an opinion, I can say that I do feel sorry for it.

In another story, that may somehow be blamed on global warming, an ambulance crew in England dropped this fat guy they were carrying and killed him. I don't think that's an accident, to be totally honest. I think if there's one group of people who are discriminated against these days it's fat people. And, having watched Biggest Loser for the past few years, I have come to the conclusion that fat people are people, too, and should have the same rights as regular people. Sure they're fat, but some of them, when they take off a ton or two, are downright pretty. Maybe this guy was really good looking and could have contributed something to society, but we'll never know because those ambulance guys in England couldn't care less about him and the rest of obese society.

And, finally in today's news, my heart goes out to Mario Flores. Flores, 37, of Long Island, was stuck in a cesspool for 4 hours. He was rescued, but really, by that point, what's the use. It does remind me of the story of the guy who fell into the cesspool and began crying, “Fire! Fire! Help me!.” I'm sure you've heard it, so I won't bore you with the punchline.

Anyway, how did I do? Pretty opinion-free, wouldn't you say? Well, if you like it, stick around. I may make this my new career. I mean, Paul Harvey's dead, so somebody has to do it.