Back in the 1980s I was married to a musician. Steve led a band of four members, they played Top 10 and oldies, some country, and were one of the more well-known combos in the county.
Sidekick played at the Casino Tavern in Everett for a number of years. It was a fairly large venue situated where two main throughways intersected and got lots of business. The customers were a good cross-section of the small city, you'd see people in business suits seated at tables next to people in biker gear. It was a great place to observe humanity, as an island in the middle of a lifestream. For some it provided a sort of privacy. Like the saying "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
One afternoon I came along with Steve as he met with the band to practice new material. That was fun to watch because they'd choose one or two that they'd been hearing on the radio and work them up in about an hour and a half, flawlessly. I think there's some kind of mind-reading in that process. No sheet music (all played by ear), no copy of a recording, just keep trying it until it sounded true.
I sat at the bar where I had a good view of the stage, and chatted with the bartender, a guy in his 50s named Bill, while the band plugged in and tuned. To the right of me sat a wine and beer vendor, who was taking advantage of the quiet of the afternoon lull to tidy up her orders. We introduced each other, her name was Julie, and she'd been working outside sales for a few months.
We noticed two people walk in the side door. A good-looking man in a business suit, maybe early 30s, and a pretty blonde in a red and white sun dress that showed off a tiny waist and slender legs. She wore red strappy sandals with high heels, and somehow looked sexy but sweet. They sat opposite each other at a cafe table next to the dance floor. Bill walked over to get their order, then returned a minute later with a couple of schooners, leaving them alone.
"They look a little out of place here," remarked Julie.
"Nobody's out of place here," said Bill. "I see all kinds."
We watched the two, obviously making small talk in the semi-darkness. They were undistracted by the starts and stops as the band practiced a Dr. Hook song. Maybe fifteen minutes went by. The man reached over and touched the woman's hand. She let it stay there a moment, then slowly took hers away, brushing some hair away from her face. He raised his hand up to her face and also touched her hair, gently tucking a strand of it behind her ear. Then he let a finger trail down her neck and drew back.
Her eyes widened, and she took a sip of beer.
He took her hand away from the glass, and kissed her fingertips, slowly and one by one. She did not pull away. She laid her hand on his cheek, then traced his ear with her index finger. All the while they held each other's eyes.
Julie looked at Bill with amazement. Bill shrugged his shoulders. Julie put her pen down and closed her order book, then turned her bar stool around for a better view.
Now there was hand holding and caressing over the table top. The two of them were speaking softly to each other, faces moving closer to the center of the table. They could have been the only people in the room.
Steve's drummer counted off the start of the new song. I was always amazed how closely he could mimic voices. He sounded quite a bit like Dr. Hook, close enough anyway. And although there was no flute player, the keyboard strings did a decent job.
The man and the woman rose from the table and stepped over to the dance floor. Hesitating just a moment, the woman allowed the man to put his arm around her back, careful not to draw her too close, as they moved slowly in small circles. She let go a deep sigh, as he squeezed her hand and drew her just a bit closer to him.
And a bit closer still, as her head bent and rested against his shoulder. And she put both of her arms around him. The dancing became just a swaying, as his hands moved to her neck and his fingers into her hair.
We at the bar all looked at each other.
"Did you see where she just had her hands?" said Julie, shocked.
"Look where his are," said Bill, polishing a glass.
The song ended, and the couple remained tightly enmeshed for just a moment. As they drew apart, there was a kiss that started soft and slowly became intense. The man spoke into the woman's ear. She nodded and they returned to the table, where the man put down some dollars and the woman picked up her purse. They left the way they came in.
"Whew!" said Julie, picking up her order book. "I need some air!"
Bill smiled at her and said, "Cigarette?" He offered his pack to her.
"At least!" replied Julie. And she left the bar.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
La Vie en Rose
The first nice, sunny day of Spring lifts everyone's spirits here in the Northwest. After long, dark, wet winter, it's joyous and dramatic. We can finally get out of the house and go for that long walk along the shoreline, maybe La Conner's main street. That little town is very busy today.
There's a little wine shop at the North end of the main street. It holds something wonderful, rose wine from France. I bought a bottle a few days ago in anticipation of a day just like this one.
What is so special about French rose? Most people think it's similar to California "blush" wines, which are sweet and ordinary. Blush or white zinfandel is a good vehicle for getting alcohol into the bloodstream for people who don't really like wine. That's my opinion, since many of us "trained" on it in our youth. It's one step above wine coolers.
French rose, especially from Southeastern France, or Provence, is an entirely different animal. It is crisp, it is bone dry. Minerally, fruity, complex. Lovely color in the glass, in appears in all shades of pink. It is a red wine, really, made from grenache and syrah in most blends. The grapes are crushed and the skins left in the juice only long enough to tint it a bit. By removing the skins quickly, there is little or no tanin (which comes from the skins). You get clean fruit, but it does include the minerality of the soil, so characteristic of these roses. Strawberries, red currants and subtle flowers, spice and stone, lovely.
Sorry, California. You guys can't do this. The closest I've found to the French style is a very few from South Africa, and I have no idea why.
It is of interest that French law does not allow manipulation of chemistry in wine making. It's all natural. It's against the law to irrigate or fertilize a vineyard, so each vintage depends on the weather for it's quality. That's why you hear that 2005 was better than 2007 for some wines. Too much rain makes a diluted juice, just the right amount of draught makes intense, concentrated juice. It seems the harder the vines work, the better the product. It's all climate, weather, terroir (soil) and juice. Nothing more.
Other parts of the world, including the United States toy with irrigation, chemical fertilization, and even additives to the juice to make their product. In my opinion there is nothing wrong with this, but it's kinda over-the-top. In the glass it can be too much, all at once. And the manipulation creates trends, one year California chardonnays are over-oaked, and the next year too sweet, based upon the winemaker's whim and blending with the addition of sugar or ascorbic acid.
And the yeast a winemaker uses is his most closely guarded secret. Many of these cultures have been preserved for a hundred years or more. There is one that Taittinger uses that I swear gives their Champagne a hint of honey. They also use this yeast in their California winery at Sonoma (Domaine Carneros). Many French winemakers use "ambient" yeasts, which are in the air inside the winery or grow on the grapes themselves. These ambient yeasts can create the finest and most unique wines.
The roses from Tavel, an appellation just north of Avignon, are the best. They blend grenache and syrah, but also use cinsault and mourvedre grapes. There is more complexity and intensity in these. This particular rose has been the favorite of kings and popes for hundreds of years. I'll add my name to that list.
So here I am on a sunny afternoon considering a glass of rose. I just have cheese and crackers, but if I had time I'd make steak tartare. That is raw chopped up tenderloin steak with a marinade stirred into it. I like to use olive oil, lemon juice, chopped shallot, Dijon mustard, salt, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce all whisked together. Stir that in with a few capers and chill it about an hour. I skip the egg yolk. Serve with toast points. Heaven.
Nobody can stand to watch me eat it, so with a little French pop music playing on the iPod, in blissful solitude I am complete.
There's a little wine shop at the North end of the main street. It holds something wonderful, rose wine from France. I bought a bottle a few days ago in anticipation of a day just like this one.
What is so special about French rose? Most people think it's similar to California "blush" wines, which are sweet and ordinary. Blush or white zinfandel is a good vehicle for getting alcohol into the bloodstream for people who don't really like wine. That's my opinion, since many of us "trained" on it in our youth. It's one step above wine coolers.
French rose, especially from Southeastern France, or Provence, is an entirely different animal. It is crisp, it is bone dry. Minerally, fruity, complex. Lovely color in the glass, in appears in all shades of pink. It is a red wine, really, made from grenache and syrah in most blends. The grapes are crushed and the skins left in the juice only long enough to tint it a bit. By removing the skins quickly, there is little or no tanin (which comes from the skins). You get clean fruit, but it does include the minerality of the soil, so characteristic of these roses. Strawberries, red currants and subtle flowers, spice and stone, lovely.
Sorry, California. You guys can't do this. The closest I've found to the French style is a very few from South Africa, and I have no idea why.
It is of interest that French law does not allow manipulation of chemistry in wine making. It's all natural. It's against the law to irrigate or fertilize a vineyard, so each vintage depends on the weather for it's quality. That's why you hear that 2005 was better than 2007 for some wines. Too much rain makes a diluted juice, just the right amount of draught makes intense, concentrated juice. It seems the harder the vines work, the better the product. It's all climate, weather, terroir (soil) and juice. Nothing more.
Other parts of the world, including the United States toy with irrigation, chemical fertilization, and even additives to the juice to make their product. In my opinion there is nothing wrong with this, but it's kinda over-the-top. In the glass it can be too much, all at once. And the manipulation creates trends, one year California chardonnays are over-oaked, and the next year too sweet, based upon the winemaker's whim and blending with the addition of sugar or ascorbic acid.
And the yeast a winemaker uses is his most closely guarded secret. Many of these cultures have been preserved for a hundred years or more. There is one that Taittinger uses that I swear gives their Champagne a hint of honey. They also use this yeast in their California winery at Sonoma (Domaine Carneros). Many French winemakers use "ambient" yeasts, which are in the air inside the winery or grow on the grapes themselves. These ambient yeasts can create the finest and most unique wines.
The roses from Tavel, an appellation just north of Avignon, are the best. They blend grenache and syrah, but also use cinsault and mourvedre grapes. There is more complexity and intensity in these. This particular rose has been the favorite of kings and popes for hundreds of years. I'll add my name to that list.
 |
| Tavel comes in distinctly embossed bottles, a sign of superiority and tradition |
Nobody can stand to watch me eat it, so with a little French pop music playing on the iPod, in blissful solitude I am complete.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Eco-friendly treatment for blue jeans offers alternative to controversial 'sandblasting'
Eco-friendly treatment for blue jeans offers alternative to controversial 'sandblasting'
I saw this article in a post on Facebook. It talks about the denim jeans that have become mainstream, all soft and broken-in the day you buy them. Quite unlike the jeans my generation bought when we were kids.
It was about 1970 when dress codes in public schools were relaxed. Up until then, girls wore dresses and skirts while boys wore slacks and button down shirts. No one owned a pair of Levis, unless you lived on a ranch and needed them for work.
Blue jeans were invented in 1850s California, by Levi Strauss. He'd moved to San Francisco from the east coast to open a dry goods store. The Gold Rush created a demand for supplies, and Strauss saw opportunity. One prospector visiting his store told him, "You should have brought pants." He complained that he couldn't buy any that would hold up as he worked the soil.
Strauss first tried making them using tent canvas, but that fabric was so stiff the customers complained of chafing. He did some research, and discovered a fabric from France called "serge de Nimes" that was the twilled cotton cloth we call denim. At first the pants were a overall-type, not becoming the classic "jeans" until about 1920. Over the years, rivets were added at stress points for strength, a pocket stitching evolved to identify the brand, and a red tag added to a back pocket to identify the brand at a distance.
The modern jeans became popular with cowboys and ranch workers in the West in the 1920s. And in the 1950s, counter-culture types such as greasers and bikers started wearing them, and in the 1960s the hippies liked them, too. By 1970, Levis were mainstream, worn mostly by young people of all types.
The Facebook posting by a childhood friend made me think back to my first pair of Levis when that dress code was relaxed at my school. I bought them at Brown Brothers, a local men's store, for $11. All you could get in those days were 501s, which are the classic button fly, shrink-to-fit, so stiff they could almost stand by themselves. I sewed a blue star on the left thigh, a tribute to my favorite poster artist, Peter Max. They broke in to become soft, beloved and very personal.
As John B. wrote in his Facebook post: "I remember washing them and putting them on wet so they would fit right. And having my legs stained blue for awhile. And climbing trees in the almond orchard, scrambling up the sides of the gravel pit behind the junior high school, sliding down the back side of Half Dome. I never felt the need to pay others to provide that broke in feeling, prefering to have the fun myself. I sound like a whining elder, no doubt, as I lament on the efforts and money put into making jeans look old and worn out. Wouldn't it be a hoot if there was a similar passion to make ones face and body look aged and lived in?"
"That is poetry," I replied. "Maybe it's good we can buy our jeans already broken in at our age, so the contrast with the face and body is not so stark. And that mullberry tree I used to climb in the fuse works is long gone. I'm thinking about the smell of the hot dusty earth and dry grass, the feel of the rough bark and the knots in the trunk for toeholds, scraping an elbow getting a grip on the branches. And reaching my favorite seat, breathing in the spicy scent of cool green leaves and the sweet fruit hidden among them..."
I saw this article in a post on Facebook. It talks about the denim jeans that have become mainstream, all soft and broken-in the day you buy them. Quite unlike the jeans my generation bought when we were kids.
It was about 1970 when dress codes in public schools were relaxed. Up until then, girls wore dresses and skirts while boys wore slacks and button down shirts. No one owned a pair of Levis, unless you lived on a ranch and needed them for work.
Strauss first tried making them using tent canvas, but that fabric was so stiff the customers complained of chafing. He did some research, and discovered a fabric from France called "serge de Nimes" that was the twilled cotton cloth we call denim. At first the pants were a overall-type, not becoming the classic "jeans" until about 1920. Over the years, rivets were added at stress points for strength, a pocket stitching evolved to identify the brand, and a red tag added to a back pocket to identify the brand at a distance.
The modern jeans became popular with cowboys and ranch workers in the West in the 1920s. And in the 1950s, counter-culture types such as greasers and bikers started wearing them, and in the 1960s the hippies liked them, too. By 1970, Levis were mainstream, worn mostly by young people of all types.
 |
| Rebel Without a Cause, James Dean |
"That is poetry," I replied. "Maybe it's good we can buy our jeans already broken in at our age, so the contrast with the face and body is not so stark. And that mullberry tree I used to climb in the fuse works is long gone. I'm thinking about the smell of the hot dusty earth and dry grass, the feel of the rough bark and the knots in the trunk for toeholds, scraping an elbow getting a grip on the branches. And reaching my favorite seat, breathing in the spicy scent of cool green leaves and the sweet fruit hidden among them..."
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