September 17, 2019--Garlic

For dinner we planned to make an apple and chicken sausage frittata and, among other things, needed garlic.

"Let's get an organic one," Rona said. "Frittatas are best with fresh tasting ingredients."

"Then Rising Tide it is." Our local organic food shop.

It's the height of the harvest season here and the store is a veritable cornucopia of root vegetables, many varieties of squash, greens of all sorts, and a bushel basket of locally-grown garlic.

"How does this one feel to you?" Rona asked tossing it to me.

"Perfect. Voluptuous bulbs and hard as a rock. Just what one looks for."

"And smell it," Rona said, doing so herself.

"Right out of the ground," I said. "Let's get one. It will be wonderful as part of the frittata."

"Can you believe it?" Rona said. "It's $15 a pound. And this one weighs about a quarter of a pound"--she had placed it in the scale--"and could cost four dollars. A little much, don't you think, for a simple garlic?"

"Maybe it's not so simple," I said. "The good news is that we only need a few cloves."

"I know they charge a fortune for anything organic but about this I don't know. How much less flavorable will your basic supermarket garlic taste?"

"Let's find out."

"So, we went to Hannafords and checked out their garlics. They looked pretty much the same as Rising Tide's. And cost only $5.25 a pound.

"That's more like it," I said. "It appears that they're from California. And though it costs a lot more to get here than the ones locally grown, it's still much cheaper."

"This has piqued my interest," Rona said. "Let's see what they cost in Reilly's." Our local family owned and run market. So we drove to New Harbor. Their garlic was also from California and cost about the same as the supermarket's.

"One more stop," I said. "The other food market back in town that's also family run.

With time on our hands and our interest aroused, we drove back to Damariscotta to check out the garlic at a small family-run market. It was a great surprise to see theirs cost $12.50 a pound. More than two and a half times what our supermarket and local market charge.

"I wonder why," Rona asked. "Maybe they're organic. And let's see where they come from. Perhaps France?"

"No way," I said, this is not a fancy store and their carrying imported or organic garlic is unlikely.

On the box that held the garlic was a shipping label.

"Can you believe it," Rona said, "It is imported. From China."

"iPhones and T-shirts I get, but garlic from the other side of the planet? Literally, we live in a world turned upside down. And I'm sure there's nothing so special about Chinese garlic. I suspect most of it winds up in modest pizzerias all over Brooklyn."

"You have to admit," Rona said, "That they make a lot of good pizza in Brooklyn. But here's one other possibility."

"What's that?"

"They cost $12.50 a pound because Trump's put a tariff on garlic."

"If true, and he's crazy enough to have done that, forget soybeans but do worry about the fate of Italian food."

August 15, 2018--Consumer Price Index

The Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) is responsible for calculating the inflation rate and Consumer Price Index (CPI). This is important because, among other things, these rates are used to determine whether or not to increase retired people's Social Security. Something these years I keep close track of.

The CPI is the measure of the average change over time in the prices paid by urban consumers for a market "basket" of goods and services. In that metaphoric basket, among many other things, one finds the cost of rent, dental services, and chopped meat.

Inflation is the rate at which the general level of prices for goods and services is rising and, consequentially, the rate at which the purchasing power of money is falling.

Recently I haven't seen much of an increase in my monthly checks. Inflation is deemed to be that low. Almost flat. For example, the BLS is projecting that the inflation rate for 2018 will be "only" 1.9%.

Call me skeptical but I sense it is higher than that. Considerably higher. But how can that be? The federal government, especially this administration, doesn't lie to taxpayers, right?

So on my own I did a little simple checking. With emphases on "little" and "simple."

At Hanniford's, the local supermarket I checked to see if there has been an increase in the price of my favorite yogurt--Dannon. (I always get peach.)

It now costs 65 cents a tiny tub whereas last year it was 55 cents. This represents an 18% increase. Not anywhere near the official 1.9% (Also, a tub now contains 5.3 ounces, down from 6.0, a decrease of 12%)

Rona said, "Let's check the price of your favorite homemade pie. It's been $5.99 for at least a year." So we drove to New Harbor and sure enough at Reilly's market it's now $6.99. About a 17% increase.

Wouldn't I be happy to see my Social Security go up by 17 or 18 percent. But I know better. So how does 10% or even 5% sound?

That would be an example of America being great again.

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August 21, 2017--Jack: Missing In Action

"I was wondering if I'd ever hear from you or see you again."

It had been a couple of weeks since Jack called or showed up at the Bristol Diner. I had a feeling why that might be, but I didn't want to let him off the hook. So I phoned to give him the business.

Sounding chipper, Jack said, "I've been busy with visitors. You know, it's the busiest week of the summer and, if you can believe it, I had 18 house guests. People were sleeping everywhere--some in the barn where I set up a kind of dorm for the young ones. They had a ball. Still are. About 10 remain. I've been running around stocking up on food and drinks and snacks." 

I let him rattle on. He never brings up domestic matters. All we ever talk about and spat about is politics. Especially how Trump is doing.

"We're having a cookout later today so I don't have a lot of time. I need to get to Hannifords before they run out of chopped meat, hot dogs, and all sorts of accompaniments. Then, over to Reilly's for corn. They have the best corn in the area and I need about a bushel. If I don't get there soon they'll run out and our friends will be disappointed. We do this every year. The corn and Mrs. Chase's pie are the hit of the weekend. So, I have to get three pies. And of course ice cream. People love Gifford's ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla for the pies. And . . ."

Since it was only 9:30 I knew there was no danger of anything being out of stock. So, I said, "I won't keep you, but we know each other well enough for me to see you're vamping."

"Vamping? That's a new one. Actually, sounds funky. I like funky."

"Meaning you're dodging the issue at hand. I would have thought you'd be all over me. What, with everything that's been going on. You of course know what I'm talking about and why you haven't been to the diner. I know about all the guests you have every year in mid-August. In fact, it's during those times that you always come to the diner. To take a break. To hide out for a couple of hours. So don't try to sound so innocent. It's not working with me. If you didn't want to talk you could have ignored my call--I assume you have caller ID. All this bull about hot dogs and corn is a distraction. But then again, you did answer the phone. So what's the story?"

Jack was uncharacteristically silent.

"You have nothing to say about Steve Bannon being fired? Nothing on your mind about Charlottesville? Nothing about what Trump had to say? His initial comments, his phony written statement on Monday and then on Tuesday at that scary news conference when he spoke about what he really believes? About all this you have nothing to say? You, who for two years haven't been able to stop talking about 'your boy' Trump? If you had any integrity you would have been eager to talk about all this. I'm sure, spouting White House spin. Placing blame on the counter demonstrators. Blaming the whole thing on the Black-Lives-Matter people. Maybe even trying to work Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton into the scenario. How it was all their fault that there was violence and murder."

I was furious about what has been going on and Jack's silence.

"So, you're just going to sit there listening to my ranting, pretending you have to go food shopping? The country is coming apart at the seams thanks to the person you helped elect and have been pimping for for two years and you have nothing to say? The world is in turmoil, North Korea hasn't gone away, nor, thank God, has Mueller and his investigators, and you're talking to me about chopped meat?"

I thought I heard Jack groan.

"I'm about finished with you," I said, almost spitting, "Either you start talking or stop coming to the diner and never call me again. I too have caller ID. I'm being serious. You have 10 seconds and then I'm hanging up." I began to count down--"10, 9, 8, 7 . . ."

"I'm also . . . " He was speaking so softly that I couldn't understand what he was saying.

"Speak up, Jack, you know I don't hear that well. I think you mumbled something." I resumed counting--"7, 6, 5 . . ."

In a hushed voice, he said, "My father, bless his soul, was in the army. In combat. The Second World War. In Europe. He landed in Normandy in the third wave. A lot of his comrades were killed even before they reached the beach. They fought their way across France. Pushing toward Germany. Then the Jerries counterattacked. It was the Battle of the Bulge. My father's division was almost surrounded. Cut off. Decimated. More buddies blown up and wounded. 

"He was only 19 years old. I have grandchildren that old. It was a miracle he made it through. Many of his guys were captured and spent the rest of the war in German POW camps. Somehow, the others managed to break out of the trap and kept pushing east. Toward Germany. Along the way, they came to Buchenwald. The concentration camp. Where he learned later 43,000 mainly Jews were exterminated. They liberated the survivors. Who were like living skeletons. More than half dead."

I could hear Jack breathing deeply.

He resumed, "My father, like many GIs, never talked about any of this. Not until he was dying from cancer. When he was 81. That was the first time I heard what he had experienced. The hardest part for him was not what happened to the boys in his platoon. That was hard enough. But Buchenwald, about that . . ."

Jack couldn't finish the story. I waiting for a least a minute, not saying anything, listening to his breathing.

Finally, he said, "Now maybe you understand." Again, he paused.

"I think I do, but I need to hear you say it."

"You're torturing me."

"Not really. I want you to tell me what's going on with you about this."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Yes and no."

"OK. I really need to go shopping, so here goes--

"I hated, yes hated, what Trump said at that so-called news conference. He never even served though he went to military school and fancies himself a tough guy. And I wonder how many of those KKK and neo-Nazis served. My guess, none of them. Not that that's the meaning of life. Being in the army. But you can't pretend to be a warrior and hide behind deferments. Trump, I think, had four or five. But that's a distraction--about who served and who didn't. 

"The problem is," Jack continued, "that you can't, no one can, particularly a president cannot say anything whatsoever good about the Ku Klux Klan and especially the Nazis. Nothing. How are the people on TV talking about this? As Morally equivalent?"

"Equivalency. Moral equivalency."

"There is no such thing as that when it comes to Nazis. There's nothing equivalent. Nazis are evil. Anyone calling himself a Nazi today is also evil. It's that simple. Maybe those guys in Charlottesville didn't have anything directly to do with concentration camps and killing Jews. But if you're a self-proclaimed Nazi that becomes part of your baggage."

After waiting another half minute, I posed the really biggest question--"Does that include Trump? Is that also part of his baggage?"

I let a minute pass. "Does it? He's your boy. Whatever he is or isn't, he's yours. You bear some responsibility for him. I mean for his being president."

" . . . "

"I didn't hear you. As I told you . . ."

Jack rasped, "It does. It does include him."

"So what are you going to do?"

More silence.

"I don't know. I still like a lot of things about him, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Like I said, I don't know."

Buchenwald Liberation Photo

June 7, 2016--Midcoast: The Green Stuff

"What's this I hear about you and that green stuff?"

We were at the cashiers in Reilly's with a basket full of things for dinner--steak medallions, sweet potatoes, salad, and a pint of Walpole's ice cream to a la mode the strawberry rhubarb pie Rona baked using our friend Ken's rhubarb.

Sensing our confusion, Sarah asked again, "You know that green stuff, the chili sauce I'm hearing they now have at the Bristol Diner?"

"Oh, that," Rona said. "Yes they have it. Green Dragon hot sauce from Trader Joe's in Portland from near where Sharon lives. You know, Deb's daughter. Deb, who now owns the diner. Sharon buys it there and brings it to the diner. Probably also to Deb's other place in Waldoboro."

Intrigued, I said, "You not only know about it but also that we've been liking it after spotting it at the diner a couple of days ago?"

"Well you know it's a small town here. Everybody knows whatever they want to know. The good, the bad, even the ugly. Maybe 'specially the ugly." She winked, "Not that there's that much of that."

"Oh no," Rona said, playfully.

"So it'd be worth my while to get over there to try it?"

"Could be," Rona said, "We like it so much we asked if maybe Sharon could bring us a bottle of our own. Of course we'd pay her. I'm thinking about all the things it could go with. For example, this steak and even the crab cakes we're planning for the end of the week. We'll be back for some corn for that."

"I'm not sure about the crab cakes," I said. "It could overwhelm them. They have a delicate flavor."

"I'm mixing a little with my tartar sauce," Rona insisted, "Just to spice it up a little."

Two days later when we returned to get some corn on the cob to accompany the crab cakes, Sarah was there and appeared eager to talk with us.

"Glad the place is quiet," she said. "I'm all excited."

"About?"

"The green stuff. The hot sauce from Trader Joe's. You know, what we were talking about the other day."

"Rona's been finding all sorts of things to do with it after Sharon brought us our own bottle."

"That doesn't sound bad."

"You know, on the label where they list the ingredients, it says the bottle contains 102 'servings.' I said to Rona, if we use it at our current rate we'll need another bottle by the end of next week. We've been sloshing it on everything in sight."

Rona protested, "An exaggeration, to say the least."

Still bubbling, Sarah said, "After I talked with you folks the other day, I went to the diner for breakfast."

"Sorry we missed you."

"You know my hours here so I got there real early."

"And?

"Well, the green stuff's all the rage. And I can see why. It's as you said. Everyone's talking about it. Sharon was there waitressing. She helps Deb out when she can and she was telling everyone that you liked it so much that you went for Thai food the next night because you said as a result of having Green Dragon with your eggs and hash browns you were so addicted to spicy flavors that you ordered your food at the Thai place at the four-star level."

"That's true," Rona said, "It's one star below the spiciest level."

"Everyone at the diner thought that was really funny. Though you know, now I'm thinking about how to use it. I liked it so much. I thought, would it work with stir-fried chicken, red peppers, sweet onions,  and rice? One of my go-to dishes."

"It would be amazing," Rona said. "You know what I'm thinking?"

"What's that?" I asked, not really wanting to hear.

"With the corn on the cob we're making tonight, how about rubbing some on the kernels and then in their husks roasting the corn on the grill? Sort of Mexican style."

"I don't know. Maybe we could . . ."

"What time are you serving?" Sarah laughed. Less than half in jest.

October 3, 2013--It Was My Party

Here's what we actually did yesterday--

We didn't see Blue Jasmine. We didn't go to Primo. Or for that matter Cafe Solo.

We did go out early to Chrissy's where I had two of the best croissants available outside Paris. I indulged in a double espresso with steamed milk on the side.

Then, surprising myself, I said, "Let's drive to Camden and after that stop in Rockport on the way home." It was 80 degrees out by the time we got there. While walking around, I noticed a small sign for a 'Doctor Margaret Zwerling'.

As there are very few of us, we went to her office and discovered we are related somehow since ancestors of ours came from the same Austrian village. Though she, unlike me, did not have any known horse thieves in her background. But she does have a brother Steve, actually Stephen.

Around the corner from her is Leslie Curtis Designs. We had read that they have nice wicker pieces and since we have been looking for new porch chairs we went in. It didn't hurt that she is a former wife of Tony Curtis and helped raise Jamie Lee. One of my favorites.  And, to boot, there are a couple of chairs we are considering.

At the Rite Aid drugstore, where we went for a bottle of water, Rona insisted on my buying a $2.00 scratch-off lottery ticket. In many ways I have been and continue to be a lucky boy, but that didn't carry over when it came to this. I'll keep the ticket as a souvenir and a reminder to invest my money more wisely.

We spent an hour sitting on a bench gazing out into lovely Rockport harbor. A Maine classic. We almost fell asleep in the sun but pushed on. To perk us up we stopped at a Dunkin Donut overlooking Rockland harbor. A bit more commercial but the pumpkin donut that we shared was a seasonal treat.

Rona kept asking what I wanted to do for dinner. "Maybe eat out," Is said. There are a couple of modest places still open and Rona seemed game for either.

But, as a backup, we went to a local farmer's market where we bought a couple of heirloom tomatoes and newly harvested tiny potatoes. Also, a couple of tree-ripened pears and a large handful of pole beans.

"All we need now are some New Harbor beef medallions from Reilly's," Rona said, "And we'll be ready to cook at home or go out. You're still have those options."

"We do have that wonderful Bordeaux," I reminded Rona, as if she needed reminding. "Maybe just drink that with some Weatherbird's bread and hand-churned Maine butter?"

"We'll see," she said.

"Just as long as we're done with dinner so we can watch Mary Tyler Moore."

"And Bob Newhart," Rona made sure to add.

So that's what we did--I roasted the potatoes with Rosemary straight from Rona's garden, steamed the beans, grilled the steak, sliced the heirlooms, and we managed to drink almost the entire bottle.

I watched MTM but feel asleep halfway through Newhart.

It was a perfect day.