Eating on Two Wheels

The Beautiful Simplicity of Carbs (Carburetors and Freshly Made Pasta)

2012-01-23T21:30:00.013-07:00

Funny, I have not one post about disassembling the carburetor of the Kawasaki into all its tiny pieces. The first time was quite the learning experience, but I’d gotten pretty quick about it in my later Kawi ownership years. Should the day come when I need to do so on the Yamaha, it’ll be twice as efficient, no doubt, as it has half the cylinders (and bodywork). That being said, I'm not looking forward to the day I stare down the Ducati, with its computerized fuel injection and desmodromic valves. Perhaps sometime soon I’ll simply take off the gas tank, peek at the sophisticated machinery hiding beneath, and then put it back together again, quickly, before anything bad happens. I love the Monster, but I’m secretly thrilled to own Eeyore, the slow but sturdy Yamaha, a bike I’m not afraid to work on.

Fresh pasta is another example of beautiful simplicity, this time in carbohydrate form, even more so when making the pasta of southern Italy. With a few exceptions, the pasta of northern Italy, all about seductive silkiness, is formed from delicate sheets of finely milled white flour rich with eggs. The pasta of the south is what I make when there are no eggs in the house. Semolina and water alone, manipulated with kneading and deft finger work (no fancy Italian machinery needed) come together into highly effective sauce trapping shapes full of lively springy chewiness.

While videos of motorcyclists riding barely hold my interest (shrug, it's just not the same, yanno?), I can lose myself for hours watching Italian nonne magically spin out pasta shapes or Jacque Pepin debone a chicken (I adore this man). I’ve included the pertinent youtube links in the captions.


Trofiette - the name doesn't mean "twisted little string beans," but that's certainly what they look like. Eat these with Pesto Genovese, and you shall be transported to Liguria. (This pasta is the exception: Liguria is a bit too far north to be in the land of semolina.)

Orecchiette ("Little Ears"), from the heel of Italy's boot, are nside out cavatelli of sorts. The rough surface is no accident, it serves to hold the sauce. Serve with olive oil, broccoli or rapini, garlic, chile, and just enough mashed anchovy to give it all a mysterious savory quality. Or grated butternut squash, walnuts and ricotta salata.

Busiati, or fusilli al ferro, hail from the deep south (Sicily) and were traditionally rolled around thin knitting needles. (I use a bamboo skewer; knitting is definitely not in my skill set.) Delicious with with rich meat or fish sauces or the tomato almond pesto of Trapani.

Recipe (of my usual vague sort):

Per smallish Italian sized serving:
generous 1/2 c. semolina
3 tbsp water (or more, or less)
Combine then knead for 5-10 minutes until you get a soft, smooth but not at all sticky dough. Form the shapes according to the youtube links. Or however else you feel like it. Have fun! It's play-doh destined for your dinner plate.
Cook them in boiling water salty enough to make you reminisce about the ocean.
Although you can dry this pasta, it's better eaten the day it's made. It's thick enough that if cooked from dry, by the time the inside is done, the outside is overdone.
For the record, factory dried pasta is neither better or worse (although it's certainly easier.) It's a different beast entirely.

Reuniting with Old Friends: Texas Hill Country on the Kawasaki

2012-01-17T22:11:00.011-07:00

Here I am, astride my Kawasaki for the very first time.

It sure looked a lot more shiny then. And not an inch of packing tape (my secret repair weapon) anywhere to be seen.

I was in Texas, picking it up after what seemed like an eternity. I bought it in off of Craig’s List in November of 2005, but didn’t have the time off to pick it up until Jan of 2006. During that lengthy interim, it was held in safekeeping by the very person who piqued my interest in motorcycles in the first place.

True, I’m not wearing much in the way of safety gear, but this moment was strictly a photographic opportunity. My first lesson on my new-to-me motorcycle was not riding it, but learning to pick it up. I do have a photo of the baptismal (for me and the bike) voyage around that neighborhood, and even some video footage, but the borrowed suit I was wearing is just the outfit I’d need if I was auditioning for the kick line dance number of “Star Wars: The Broadway Revival.” You can't exactly blame me for not sharing it with you.

And, lo!, here I am, almost six years later to the day!

Sporting not just my old bike, but my old jacket, kevlar jeans (first time I've ever ridden more than 2 miles not wearing full leathers - kinda gave me the heebie-jeebies) and a really old helmet, not worn since before I even knew how to ride. But there's only so much you can pack in a carry on. Not quite so shiny now, but my Kawi is a faithful machine, and I love it for that.

I hadn’t ridden (under my own power) in Texas since that very first day, although I have enjoyed Texas Hill Country more times than I can count from passenger seat. My old Kawasaki recently moved back to its homeland, so now, when I visit, I have wheels! Last week, I got to enjoy hill country on my own for a few hours. I still haven’t dined at the Grey Moss Inn, or seen the spring time blooming of blue bonnets, but I got what I was after that day. The legendary “Twisted Sisters”, aka “The 300’s,” aka TX 337, 335 and 336. Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure they deserve the adjective legendary, (the turns are wonderful to be sure, but perhaps a little too few and far between to be classified as top tier riding, although I don’t hesitate to recommend them if you’re in the area), but then again, I’m awfully spoiled with good motorcycle roads at my disposal.

Hill Country is loaded with deer. I mean, just look at them here at my gas stop. Seriously, it's not unusual to see 10 or 20 just walking to the mailbox, so be careful out there, fellow riders.

And what fun to be on the old Kawasaki again! It was feeling good with a sorely needed new chain and sprocket set (installed by its new caretaker – even better!), and I found myself enjoying all its modern conveniences. A center stand! A sensible diet of regular octane fuel! An old fashioned analog dash! (In my opinion, they give so much more info at a glance than the silly digital read-outs of 21st century vehicles. I’ve found the rev-limiter on the Ducati more than once, but I still couldn’t tell you where indeed the red-line actually lies.) Functioning turn signals and horn! (No, I haven’t solved the Ducati fuse blowing problem, not that I’ve tried all that hard.) A clutch lever that fits my little hand! (I can barely reach the friction zone on the Duc, despite its adjustable levers, and even now, it’s rather disconcerting in certain situations.) An ergonomic-to-me gear shifter! (The one on the Duc is raised, since I tend to scrape it when cornering aggressively, which really isn’t ideal at all. Which means I can give myself a Charley horse shifting the Duc from first to second. I actually DID that yesterday. Ow!) There is one thing on the Ducati that fits me better than the Kawi, though. The throttle.

300 mile day trip to ride the "300's Loop." Wish I had had time to repeat the loop and explore other areas. Next visit!

Happy New Year! (Triple Chocolate Cake)

2012-01-01T17:36:00.007-07:00

I spent New Year’s weekend with good friends in Scottsdale, AZ. Of course, I was hoping to ride the motorcycle. I’m always looking for an excuse to ride Oak Creek Canyon or the Apache Trail, two of my favorite day trips from the Phoenix area.

But instead, I drove this…

Yep. My new-to-me wheels after this debacle.

…so I could bring this…

…to make this!

Triple Chocolate Cake*: chocolate genoise soaked in a Frangelico syrup, frosted with chocolate ganache, and decorated with free form chocolate praline sheets that shatter as soon as you cut the cake (or sooner, if you move the cake, even as carefully as you would move plutonium), leaving your creation resembling the Roman Coliseum.

Also on our community project menu: Midwestern Relish Tray, Dungeness Crab with assorted dipping sauces, Cream of Mushroom Soup, Roast Beast with Potatoes, Spaghetti Squash and Basil Gratin, Freshly Baked Bread, Green Salad with Toasted Hazelnuts and Gorgonzola, and freely flowing champagne.

*From Rose Levy Beranbaum's The Cake Bible. A tricky cake (a few misleading points in the recipe, in my opinion), with tricky decorations (knowing what I know now, I would handle the chocolate praline sheets a little differently), and undoubtedly the most delicious chocolate creation of all time, as far as I can tell. If you get a yen to give it a try, leave a comment, check back, and I'll give you the details. Well worth the indignity of taking the car.

Lunch Ride: Desert Rain Cafe, Kitt Peak, and an Aquisition

2011-12-28T17:52:00.009-07:00

Yeah, yeah, you've heard it all before... Kitt Peak, blah blah blah. It's my local ride of choice this time of year, it's true, so it's hardly blog worthy. But it's been a year since I've been about 20 miles west of there, to the Desert Rain Cafe (which I told you all about here), and I almost always ride up there by myself, so... why not go out to lunch with a Suzuki riding friend?

Prickly Pear Chicken Wrap

Tepary Bean Quesadilla

170 miles round trip, by my estimate. This ride rarely disappoints. I should say there was one other reason to meet up with my friend today. She handed over the title to this bike. It's official. Welcome to the herd, Eeyore. HeeeeeeHaaaawww!

Merry Christmas! (Tiramisu Tart*)

2011-12-25T22:23:00.007-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve made an “impractical” dessert. I’ve had no shortage of delicious sweets, mind you, but when your work hours double and your income, the number at the dinner table and your oven size all decrease by half, well, it’s only natural to simplify. These days I’m more likely to turn to this cabinet, or my CSA haul (remember the beet cake?) for ingredients rather than stand on a loading dock in a sketchy part of town, looking to score exotic items before the local upper crust restaurateurs nab them. (Yes, I’ve actually done that.) Although this little tiramisu tart doesn’t quite compare with the towering showcase confections of my younger years, I’m happy to present it to you.

What you can’t see from the picture are the layers within: a sweet cookie crust, the barest brushing of dark chocolate, the creamy noggy mascapone Marsala filling, a wafer thin disc of chocolate sponge cake soaked with an espresso syrup, then more filling, all hiding under the cocoa dusting and chocolate curls. I can safely say I could have easily ridden three hundred miles and had lunch at a diner in the time it took me to make this tart for dessert last night. But I had great fun doing it, and I’m already gleefully plotting and shopping for ingredients for a New Years Eve dinner finale. Many thanks to my dear friends who provided the rest of Christmas Eve dinner, along with their gracious and loving company last night. I could not be more blessed.

Tonight’s dinner left me plenty of time for a ride on the the sleigh. Magret (seared duck breasts with coarse sea salt - "the other prime rib" if you ask me, with the bonus of a sinfully rich crispy skin), crusty bread, cranberry sauce and a salad. So quick, so few dishes to wash, so elegant – I can’t think of anything else I’d want to eat more. And what did Santa bring? Do I dare divulge? Sing along! “Itsy bitsy, teeny tiny, red Ducati, string bikini!” I’m not sure which I’m surprised to own more – the motorcycle or the swimwear! Perhaps I should reconsider that second slice of tart…

Joy to the world for 2012! May you all find happiness in the here and now!

* I used the recipe for the "Tiramisu Black Bottom Tart" from The Pie and Pastry Bible, by Rose Levy Beranbaum. You could use bits and pieces from other cookbooks or recipes, instead, to create your own spin on the idea, if you wanted. That opens up a lot of doors, doesn't it...

Let Us Give Thanks...

2011-11-24T19:54:00.001-07:00

...for red motorcycles, blue skies, mountain roads and...

...pork shoulder braised in milk!

Give thanks for all those loved ones and experiences that make your heart soar.
Alleluia and Amen.

Canyon Carving without a Motorcycle? (Eaton Canyon, Haven Gastropub, Stone Brewing Company)

2011-11-12T15:05:00.002-07:00

Wow, my quads are really sore…

…FROM RAPPELLING DOWN FIVE (or was it six?) SLIPPERY RUSHING WATERFALLS!

Yes, that’s me, demonstrating truly exquisite novice form: awkward, tense, and really slow. But I’m still standing and I had fun doing it, so I consider my day in Lower Eaton Canyon a smashing success.

Here my host and his GoPro helmet camera provide a glimpse into what it feels like to rappel down (and through) a waterfall.

I found myself in Orange County ~~earlier this month~~ in early September, graciously hosted by the Ducati Instigator aka my Most Excellent Tour Guide. The trip was mostly a work thing (i.e. failed job search) along with a quick trip to Motorport* to have some adjustments made to my motorcycle jacket, but I was able to reserve one day for an adventure. Naturally, I imagined that day would involve a motorcycle. Naturally, I was wrong.

The motorcycle gear I had packed would not serve for this escapade. With borrowed clown shoes (at least two sizes too big), borrowed wetsuit (also way too big), borrowed bicycle helmet, gloves, backpack, and harness, and borrowed waterproof camera that malfunctioned in the first hour, I was about as well suited as I was on my first motorcycle tour.

Fear is such a funny, irrational thing. Although I had a few successful practice rappels off my host’s porch the night before, I had no idea how I would react when staring down a 60 foot waterfall. And once you’re in, there’s no going back. I have no idea why, but my heart pounds a lot harder when I’m riding on gravel or loading my motorcycle on its trailer. Go figure.

Oh glorious Nature! It’s a good thing I was up to the task, because it’s the only way one can experience the daisy chain of magical intimate pools of crystal water, the water slides, and the waterfalls that make up this beautiful (and dangerous**) canyon. How wonderful it would be to go back with a quality camera, tripod, and some more time on my hands.

Notable Food Finds in the area:

I met my host in Old Towne Orange for lunch and touristy wanderings.

Pork Sandwich and Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse at the Haven Gastropub.

Just up the street, a windowful of restored vintage stoves at Antique Station.

As we went our separate ways, my host found the helmet latch on his Goldwing had broken. Broken locked, that is. The options? I ride it home for him (I happened to have my gear in my car), he wears my helmet, or we both go home in my boring Toyota. Someone else's 800 lb motorcycle I'd never ridden before in SoCal rush hour? I really did laugh aloud. I think his head still hurts from cramming it into my leeetle helmet.

The next day, after our ride to Motoport (I guess I did get on a motorcycle that weekend!), we dined at the nearby Stone Brewing World Bistro.

Mac n' Beer Cheese, with Smoked Porter Sausage tossed in for some real excess. Yeah, it was fantastical. I can't remember which beer I opted for, but it sure looks like another hefe-weisse. Love a good hefe in the summer.

Chocolate pate surfeit Medjool Date dessert. Beautifully presented, every component delicious - candied kumquats, currant coulis, cocoa nibs - yum! - but I'm not sure the cocoa pate is the best match for the dates. At home, I stuff 'em with mascarpone cheese, and I see no reason to change that now.

And, notable for another reason, the pasta dinner I prepared for my host. In what could easily be one of my top three kitchen failures of all time, I ended up throwing out my pasta dough and acquiring “fresh pappardelle” from the corner Trader Joe’s. Either I shouldn’t talk and knead at the same time, or the flour I used was gluten-free***. No matter how much I kneaded (it typically takes 5-10 minutes), the eggs and flour refused to become that smooth elastic mass that allows itself to be rolled and stretched into those silky satiny sheets you wish you could sleep in. I’ve made pasta more times than I can count, but this time the dough simply tore into pieces if I flattened it any thinner than my Ducati owner’s manual. I even toted my 32” pasta rolling pin to California for the occasion. Go figure. At least the wine (provided by my host) was good.

Funny. Sometimes you are tossing a no-brainer dinner into the trash and other times you are Jane Bond, rappelling down a towering foot waterfall into a string of secret grottos glimmering with sparkling cool water. You just never know.

* I’m even more impressed with this company after my visit. Every single point of design of their gear (even those that I had, at first, questioned) is so thoroughly thought out, they spent a generous amount time with me discussing the alterations on my jacket, and charged me nothing for this service.
** Two deaths and 48 rescue operations for the year at the time of my transit.
***The flour on hand was Gold Medal brand. It has lower protein content that other brands which makes it an excellent choice for some things (a delicate butter cookie, perhaps), but is less than ideal for recipes that require the formation of a strong web of gluten (say, bread or… pasta) Still and all, that was just weird, especially given that the Italian “doppio zero” flour traditional used for fresh pasta is not all that high in gluten. I did manage to make maccheroni alla chitarra when I got home a few days later without drama. Clearly it was an astrological phenomenon.

The Daily Special – Keeping the House Warm in Winter (No-Knead Bread)

2011-11-08T08:41:00.007-07:00

Ahh, the change in seasons… Motorcycle jacket vented panels are replaced with thermal liners and electric vests. One begins to wonder if perhaps riding halfway up Mount Lemmon twice is a wiser tactic than riding all the way up, once. Or an even better idea - head west and ride Kitt Peak, instead. As the temperatures drop from triple digits (and then some) to more in the frost on my car, snow in sight, plant killing range, my morning muesli gets a hit in the microwave before breakfast and my daily bread shape-shifts from tortilllas to hearty loaves. Because, while having your oven roaring at 500 degrees in the summer is a bad idea, it’s a fine way for those of us without central heating to warm up the house!*

So, the first day snow hit the Catalinas and I found myself feeling like a character from Puccini’s Boheme (yes, I was wearing a scarf and hat indoors) while cursing my high tech low solar heat gain coefficient windows, I knew it was time. Here's the result of my version of the “No-Knead Bread” method that took the world by storm back in 2006. The one that purports even a six year old (or four, or eight, depending on your source) can make bread better than almost any bakery. It’s true. See?

Making this bread is less work than running out to the bakery. Cheaper by a long shot, too!

Basic Recipe:
(My favorite tweaks and variations not shown, since you'll find your own soon enough.)

Make yourself a really too wet dough by slinging flour, salt, yeast (1/4 tsp per three cups flour) and water in the bowl, mix it ‘round, oh, maybe 10 times and walk away. For 18 hours.

Use a bit more flour as needed to form the dough into a loose roundish kind of boule shape, spending no more than 30 seconds doing so. Walk a way for an hour or two more.

Now, here’s the good part: twist that oven throttle all the way to 500 and put in an oven proof pot to preheat. If you have my silly little easy-bake sized and quality oven, it will take at least an hour to reach the proper temp. The house is a few degrees warmer already, isn’t it?

Take your blob of dough, toss it in the pot (plop!), cover said pot (don’t forget, the pot has been in the oven, so you need an oven mitt!), and walk away for a half hour. The covered pot, a clever method of approximating a professional steam injected oven, is the genius of this recipe. Everything else – the no-kneading, the wet dough, the low yeast percentage, the long cool temp rising periods - has already been done.

Uncover and cook ‘til done. (Another 20-30 minutes). So, yeah, it took you almost 24 hours to make the bread, but hands on time was probably less than five minutes.

Consider peeling off that scarf and hat. And start the next loaf now, since this one will be gone by tomorrow.

*Yes, it routinely freezes in Tucson (last year we hit a low of 18F and pipes all over town were bursting like it was the Fourth of July, okay?), and no, I don't have central heating. And, are you ready for this?... I don't have central air conditioning either. Which is why there's no way in hell I'll make this bread anywhere between March and October. Tortillas are much better for the environment during the summer months.

The Daily Special: Pesto, Anyone?

2011-10-18T22:11:00.004-07:00

Completely coincidentally, the day after my pasta post, I became the lucky recipient of this windfall. Downtown Tucson is quite prolific is seems, as my Armory Park neighborhood provided me with some 20 lbs of Mexican limes two years ago. No motorcycle was needed for its retrieval, as it was growing just a few minutes walk from my house.

Basil haul, with bonus zinnia! All for the cost of two tickets to Aida, which for me, means free!

And if you’re wondering what all that basil looks like after trimming and washing, wonder no longer:

A pile of leaves practically worthy of jumping in. Autumn under the Tucsonan Sun!

If you're wondering how long it took me to trim, wash, dry (and photograph) all this basil, I'll tell you. About two acts of Aida.

I made more than two quarts of pesto last night, which is now stashed in my freezer in little half cup portions. Winter, I am ready for you!

Recipe (of sorts)
For each time I stuffed my food processor* with leaves, I added a good handful of ground toasted pine nuts,** several cloves of pureed garlic,*** several glugs of olive oil from the bottle (four? five?), and a pinch of salt (not too much, since the cheese you’ll add later is salty.) Blend, re-stuff the processor bowl and repeat. When the bowl is nearly fully of spreadable green goodness, and you’re nearly drunk and from the heavenly scent of basil, add great handfuls of freshly grated parmesan (mixed with romano, if you have it, but if you don't, good heavens, don't let that stop you). Taste it. Adjust to your liking (although, honestly, I don’t think you can get this wrong, no matter what proportions you use). I’ve heard of mashing in soft butter after the pesto is made. I've never done it, but how could that be wrong? Eat immediately, or put it in a container and float a thin film of oil over the top to keep it from turning brown.

I really was going to figure out actual quantities for you. I really was.

*Prior rant aside, the food processor does a good job in this instance. Especially if you put the leaves in first, then all the “heavy” stuff on top of them. But if I’m making just enough for one serving, I’ll revert back to my mortar and pestle.
**I do like the Italian ones better than the Chinese ones. They’re a different species, I think, but they’re hard to find and harder to pay for.
***Four? Six? I don’t know how many, since I puree several heads at a time and keep a block of garlic in my freezer. It’s easy to shave however much you need off the block with a sharp paring knife. That's one of my strategies for quickly getting a decent dinner on the table, but still getting to work on time.

Other Fine Italian Machinery (Homemade Pasta)

2011-10-16T11:57:00.006-07:00

Remember when I bought my Ducati? I never got around to telling you, but that wasn’t the only fine (and expensive!) Italian luxury item I acquired in August of 2010*.

Pasta guitar, garganelli comb, and corzetti stamp

The fresh pasta of northern Italy is made with white flour and eggs. Nothing more, nothing less. And if you use eggs from pastured chickens (chickens that live a normal chicken life and eat a normal chicken diet, unlike those who lay the eggs you find in the grocery store), your pasta will have an especially lovely golden color to it.

For each (small Italian sized) serving, mix together 1 egg and 1/2 cup flour. Forget all that nonsense about putting the flour in a heap on a big wooden counter top, making a well in the center, breaking the eggs in the well etc., etc. Do that, and I guarantee the eggs will escape from your flour volcano caldera and make a fine mess. Just mix it in a bowl, like you’d do anything else, okay? Hold back a bit of the flour at first, and add that remaining portion a bit at a time as you finish your mixing until you judge the dough to be soft, but not sticky. Now you must knead. And knead. And knead. For eight minutes, according to the irrefutable Marcella Hazan, whose recipe I adapt here. Until the dough is satiny, silky, deliciously smooth. Dust the ball with flour, wrap it in plastic wrap, and let it rest a bit while you wash the bowl, the counter and prepare your pasta rolling surface and equipment.

Next, pick your pasta dough flattening weapon of choice. If you own a hand cranked pasta machine by all means, use it. Or, if you lost your hand cranked pasta machine in your divorce, and/or you want to make pasta the traditional way and/or you don’t have any money to buy a hand cranked pasta machine (especially after shelling out the big bucks your funky pasta shaping toys), get thee to Home Depot and have them cut you a 32” by 1 1/2” diameter wooden dowel. That shall be your pasta rolling pin. But don’t use it to roll the dough. Use it to stretch the dough. Like this: (excepting the awful music, which would most certainly ruin the pasta).

This is my method, and although I don’t take the trouble to make my circle of dough so perfectly round, I do it quickly enough to finish the job before the dough dries out (no small task here in the desert), which is all you need to get the job done. It’s really not terribly difficult, and once you get the hang of it, I think it’s actually quicker than the hand cranked machine. And a bit better, too, as it works more texture into the pasta, which is a good thing. For the record, I think this video is from a restaurant is in Japan (!!). They have a whole slew of pasta making videos that fascinate the kitchen nerd in me. The thickness of your sheets will vary in according to your personal taste, skill, and shape of pasta you are making. Aim for sheets as thin as, you know… pasta!

Finally, as delightfully fun as working play-doh, but (for those of you who ate your play-doh as a child) infinitely tastier, make your pasta shapes!**

Corzetti stampati - I served them with pesto.

Garganelli - Their classic pairing is the the three P's. Peas, Peppers and Prosciutto. In a cream sauce. Which clings delightfully to those ridges supplied by the garganelli "comb."

Roll your pasta sheets over the wires of the "guitar..."

... and automagically, you have the square cross section of Maccheroni alla chitarra! Yum yum with a simple sauce of meat drippings, rosemary and garlic.

After all that creative manipulation, do pay attention when you cook your fresh pasta. It cooks much more quickly than dried. Your sauce of choice*** should be completed before you ever put the pasta in the pot. Walk away from the pot at your own risk.

Edit: Wouldn't you know it? Oct 16 was "Blog Action Day," and the 2011 topic was food. Looks like I unknowingly complied!

* I got (and photographed) my Rosle food mill around the same time. It was quite the spending spree.
** No special gadgets needed to make ravioli, farfalle (bow ties), most ribbons (tagliatelle, pappardelle, fettuccine, etc.) cavatelli, orecchiette, tortellini, and countless other pasta types.
***Which sauce with which shape? Oy, that’s a long discussion. Ask Marcella. Or do what feels right.

Conquering Fear (Off Road on a Yamaha XT 225)

2011-10-11T16:11:00.009-07:00

Remember my pathological fear of riding upon anything that is not smooth asphalt?

LOOK WHAT I DID!!!

Bajada Loop Drive in Saguaro National Park, Western Division

That’s right! That’s me, fishtailing about in sand! On purpose, even!

In a great act of generosity and trust, a local Tucson rider (who hardly knows me, even!) loaned me her mini dual sport motorcycle to drop*, errr, I mean, ride. Perhaps it was karma for loaning my Kawasaki for off road experimentation years ago. Make no mistake, I adore my Ducati, but there is something delightfully liberating about riding a bike you don’t mind dropping. I mean LOOK at this thing…

You gotta love race track apparel on what I’ve been calling the “little burro,” aka “Eeyore”.

Who CARES if it falls? And it’s so light, I could land it upside down in a ravine and still be able to haul it out. (Maybe.) This bike is everything the Ducati is not: Ugly, utterly devoid of any power, eminently droppable and fixable with a plastic spork. I LOVE it!

Remarkably, I would actually voluntarily repeat this activity.

So I did! This time up Redington Pass. No deep sand, but now a dirt road with hills and switchbacks. I’ve often wondered the point of going off road (especially as a passenger) if there isn’t a prize at the end of the line.

How’d ya like to have Pastrami Gorgonzola sandwiches* HERE?

Tanque Verde Falls. A cool, deep pool, smack in the middle of the 100+ degree desert. Waterfall included at no extra charge. That makes TWO miracles.

Now I find out this little Yamaha XT225 is mine for the buying. I may not be able to stop myself.

I am SO ready for the Dakar.

* Make gnocchi with Gorgonzola sauce (butter, cream, and Gorgonzola of course). Use the leftover sauce for a sandwich spread. Genius, thank you very much.
** As of this writing, I have not (yet) dropped the bike. No one is more surprised than I.

Zion National Park – What I Did THIS Summer

2011-10-09T10:48:00.002-07:00

What did I do this summer? I worked. A lot. And when I wasn’t working, I was practicing. A lot. My car died and left me stranded in Utah, and my dog, motorcycle, trailer, stuff and I hitched* a ride in an un-air-conditioned van with only one operating window to get home to Tucson. My dog passed on to greener pastures soon after our return (not due to the hot as hell journey, for the record), and one of my jobs got really wonky, which is going to make the next eight months a real challenge. (I am vehemently - and I mean vehemently! - opposed to my new and highly unimproved seven day work week.) Not the best summer, I’d say, but there was one wonderfully bright spot. One precious four day respite where I packed in 800 miles on two wheels, 27 miles on two feet, 1028 river crossings (approx) and 1 scratched camera lens. Go big or go home, don't you think?

Zion National Park!

Inspiration Point

No doubt the rain opened up a few campsites. Usually the park is full for the months of July and August, but we were lucky and secured walk-in a spot (late in the afternoon, even!) at South Campground.

Riding Hwy 9 (Mount Carmel-Zion Highway) again. Unlike last year, this year I was allowed to stop and take pictures. Except I didn’t. Because it was raining.

After setting up camp, we stretched our legs in the drizzle on a short hike to the Emerald Pools. The pain you feel upon discovering your camera lens is fatally scratched is directly proportional to the grandeur of your location. Ouch. I’m glad I had a little back up Lumix in my tank bag.

Dusk on the Kayenta trail, as we return from the Emerald Pools. The pools weren't so emerald in the rain.

Good morning, Ducati! Time to hike to Inspiration Point (shown in the first photo of this post.)

We got a little off trail here, but it was worth the trouble. I thought the only place you saw stuff like this was the cover of Utah guidebooks. Magical to see it for real!

We sacrificed a chance to hike to the famous (and treacherous, I'm told!) Angel’s Landing that afternoon to complete preparations for the next day, our one chance to tackle “The Narrows – Top Down.” Listed as one of National Geographic’s “America’s Best 100 Adventures,” this 16 mile river trek brings the hiker down the Virgin River, through graceful pastures, by spouting springs, past waterfalls and hanging gardens, and into majestic and mysterious narrow gorges with walls soaring up to 2000 feet overhead. The slot canyon sections (marked on our map in a caution tape shade of yellow as "NO WAY OUT!") meant that flash flooding could be a real danger. I was only willing to attempt it if the flash flood potential rating was “low”. A hopeful inquiry at the back country permit office revealed that it was high today, medium two days later, and on the day we had designated for the expedition… low! We slapped down ten dollars for our back country permit and took some time to strategize our gear and transportation. Dry bags, shuttles, and enough food to get me to the moon and back (plus a little extra).

Food find! The Springdale Candy Company is a cut above your typical country fudge shack. As a reward for our research and prep, we took critical tastebuds to dried apricots, candied oranges and candied ginger, all covered in lustrous velvety smooth chocolate. We absolutely could not pick a favorite.

Quality stuff

Well before dawn, we stumbled and yawned by the light of headlamp about a mile to our shuttle. It stung us more than a little, but logistics did not allow for the two motorcycle arrangement (the hike is not a loop), so we reserved shuttle seats with the Zion Adventure Company. With a bit of a shrug, we rented the strongly recommended neoprene socks (to wear with our hiking sandals) and hiking sticks. The ride to our starting point of Chamberlain Ranch would take an hour and a half, consuming precious daylight, if the shuttle could make it through the slippery mud at all. If not, no hike for us!

We hit the trail and cautiously dipped toes into the gently flowing stream… HaHA! We are INVINCIBLE! The All Powerful neoprene socks protected us from cold water, sharp rocks, flash floods*... even my pedicure handily survived the assault of 16 miles of toe bashing. And my hiking stick? How I HATE YOU. Must I drag you along for the entire day? I considered abandoning it, and paying a fee for its, um, "loss."

We begin in gently rambling pastureland. The value of the neoprene socks was made immediately clear. The powers of the hiking stick would be revealed later.

In order to find the smoothest route, we crossed the river more times than we could count. I wonder if the 16 mile estimate takes this into account.

Not too deep here. Yet. Even so, I was beginning to suspect that stick was going to make itself useful. The method? Plant stick against current, stumble, stumble. Plant stick against current, stumble, stumble. Lather, rinse, repeat. Approximately 1028 times.

Pretty deep here! I do believe I was being washed away towards a small but threatening waterfall (not shown). I can thank my hiking partner for photographing the moment. As you can see, real dry bags are essential equipment. A zip lock bag is not going to do the job. We had to swim a number of times.

And after we made our first really deep, really serious, perhaps even a teensy bit scary river crossing? Oh, hiking stick! Where have you been all my life?

Bestowing blessings upon the previously despised hiking stick at the end of the day. We were told that trekking poles would not survive the trip, and when we got to the end of our hike, we believed.

I do believe I have never been on a more simultaneously awe-inspiring and heart breaking hike. This is truly the stuff that defines our American West - grand and wild, and achingly beautiful. Yet we had so little time to sit back with mouths agape at the wonder of it all. As we calculated our progress using landmarks and a timeline, we soon realized that if we continued to hike without stopping we would (hopefully) reach Sinawava Point (the end of the trek and the northern most shuttle stop in the park) around sunset. Pause to unpack the 2lb (that doesn’t count the lenses!) dSLR camera I had been lugging (not mine), along with the necessary tripod (the low light conditions of a slot canyon really demand one) and we’d be bumbling over that tricky terrain in the dark. No thanks.

Press on, press on! And so we did, snapping grainy, blurry photos in the few moments that were not fully occupied with river crossings and unstable footing, using the waterproof camera (also not mine) attached to my pack by a retractable lanyard. Thank goodness for that!

Constraints of time, equipment (because we didn’t have time to unpack the drybags that held the good stuff) and light really hampered our ability to capture this spectacular place on film. This photo comes close, though, which is why it is one of my favorites.

Even though we breezily complete mountain hikes in half the published projected time, this hike humbled us like no other. Slogging almost the entire 16 miles through a rushing river and over slippery rocks and boulders (there is no actual “trail”) is slow going and hard work. And, (what luck!), the usually clear water was muddied from the rain in the days before, making all those algae covered stones invisible. We had to test the depth of the water and find secure footholds for each step by feel using our feet and hiking sticks. The river flow that day, measured at 81 cfs,*** was enough for me. We found ourselves neck deep (or swimming) plenty of times and I was, quite frankly, simply washed away by the current more than once. In the end, we would need every minute of the listed 12 1/2 hours for our journey, and surely would not have emerged before dark without the aid of our hiking sticks. Although completing this trek in one day felt like a lifetime accomplishment, I don’t recommend it as the best way to appreciate its richness. If time had allowed, it would have been far better to make use of one of the back country campsites along the way, allowing two full days to explore this magical route. Next time, (the more I do, the more my “to do” list grows!) I’ll hike in and back out from the south end, covering far fewer miles yet somehow seeing much so much more. And that would leave me just about enough time to take in Angel's Landing, too, no?

*Okay, “hitched” gives the wrong impression. The driver of said van was caravaning with me to begin with.
**Not really.
*** Cubic Feet per Second. Anything under 70 is considered ideal or “easy,” 80 is on the upper end of “mild" (good grief, knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t sign up for the “moderate” rating of 100 cfs), and thru permits (needed to hike “Top-Down,” as we did) are not issued at flows greater than 120 cfs. The average for the month of August is about 50 cfs.

The Daily Special: Spicy Potato Matchsticks

2011-09-29T10:15:00.000-07:00

Recipe:

1) Decide you will have gnocchi for dinner. Purchase the wrong type of potato since you haven’t made gnocchi since last winter. Let the two accidental baking potatoes sit around while you are busy with other things.

2) The potatoes need to be eaten. You’ve been traveling more than not this month. There is nothing else in the house to eat. This potato shall be dinner. How to best capitalize upon the situation?

3) Drag out the mandoline slicer with which you sliced off an alarming amount of your finger last year. Discover you do not have a waffle blade, so figure out how to install the julienne blade, instead. (This may take several minutes.)

4) Slice up your potato(es) into delightfully teeny tiny matchsticks, and deep fry them only a small handful at a time, since you can not stomach the thought of using an entire dollar’s worth of oil to cook one potato. Poke at them with a fork if you want to keep them separated while frying (drying them in a paper towel first helps), but it won’t really work, and they’ll stick to the fork if you poke them immediately after their submersion. Does it really matter if they come out as a charming birds nest instead of individual sticks?

5) If you can resist the temptation to eat them all as they come out of the pan (impressive!), allow them to drain while you prepare a paste of aromatics (onion, garlic, ginger, shallot, whatever), spices (cumin, chile, coriander, again whatever), and salt. Use your mortar and pestle if you wish to avoid food processor rage. Or use the mini food processor. It’s entirely up to you.

6) Slowly fry this paste in a tablespoon or two (or more, depends on how much paste you’ve got) of oil (yes! more oil! or use leftover from frying the potatoes) until it’s nearly dry and nicely browned. You can cook the paste and fry the batches of potatoes simultaneously, but you better have your kitchen kung-fu goin’ on, because if you look away from either for more than a few seconds, something is going to burn. Add your fried potatoes to the cooking paste, gently stir ‘round and mash up the bits of spicy goodness. Don’t try too hard to get it perfect, because who knows? Perhaps you’ll be the lucky one to hit the jackpot glob of spiciness in your mouthful of potatoes.

7) Enjoy with a cold beer. (Do not open the beer until the mandoline slicer is safely put away. No, really.) Turn on some Bollywood and pretend you are in Mumbai.

8) Oh, the glorious crunchiness of it all!

What I Did (Later) Last Summer: Part Five (Picking Up Some Loose Ends at Mesa Falls)

2011-09-19T12:11:00.004-07:00

Remember my Yellowstone/Tetons ride from 2009? The one where I couldn't manage a photo because of the violent wind, and where I missed Mesa Falls completely thanks to road construction? Well I corrected both those omissions on a little weekend ride in Idaho in August 2010. Here are a few photos.


Hello, Idaho! Hello, Idaho Potato!

The Tetons as seen from their western side, near Driggs, ID. Yes, I think this route earns the name "Teton Scenic Byway." The view was every bit as captivating as in was in 2009, but this time I could stop to take a picture.

Upper Mesa Falls, one of the "two last undisturbed waterfalls of consequence in the US." Weirdly, I don't think I have a photo of Lower Mesa Falls.


And, because I am a map geek , here's the approximate route.

As for the rest of summer 2010? Well, I told you about that already. Last summer. Of course.

What I Did Last Summer (Hwy 12 Reprise Part Four: Capital Reef and Cafe Diabolo)

2011-09-18T20:36:00.004-07:00

In my eternal race to beat the setting sun, I declined a kind invitation for coffee by the Ducati Instigator to head to my next destination. Even though it was too early in the season to harvest apples, plums, pears, quince, and cherries, wouldn't it be a lovely "Eating of Two Wheels" activity to camp beside an orchard of heritage fruit trees? I must have not been the only one to think so, because there was no vacancy at Capital Reef National Park. Nada. Still, I couldn’t leave without a short tour of a that glorious place.

This orchard is right next to the campground. Self serve!


Although just on the other end of Highway 12 from Bryce Canyon and its hoodoos that remind me of the muddy sand castles I made as a child, Capital Reef looks entirely different. Surely these cliffs are the product of God's giant chisel? And Zion National Park, also just a short ride away, with its swirling waves frozen in time - how is it that these three parks be so close on the map, yet so utterly unique?

I set up an alternative camp at Sunglow Campground, not far from Cafe Diabolo in Torrey, UT, kitchen of Honda riding chef Gary Pankow, and home of some seriously tall food.

I pilfered this shot from across the dining patio. A towering skyscraper of... lamb?


Rattlesnake cakes with three sauces? Delicious!

The pumpkin seed trout had entirely too much going on for one plate. If you could eat plaid, this was it.

Next time I’m in the neighborhood, I look forward to trying Hell’s Backbone Grill, delightfully located on Highway 12 in Boulder, UT. I’ve ridden by it at least four times over the years and have been mysteriously oblivious to its existence each time. I only recently just heard of it, and it looks very promising. My “Next Year, Next Year" list continues to grow faster than my backlog of blog posts.

Back to camp, where I chatted with quirky postcard photographer Mark Smith, and on home the next morning.

What I Did Last Summer (Utah Scenic Highway 12 Reprise Part Three: A Fateful Meeting at Calf Creek Falls)

2011-09-17T09:26:00.014-07:00

Now that the dust has cleared from the meteor called August* that smashed into my life, I can continue with this little series on Summer 2010. (Actually, September is a meteor of another sort, but one of my own design, so at least I could prepare for it. Which isn't meant to imply I was ready for it.)

ANYWAY…

June in Utah can be… cold. It was so cold the night before in Bryce Canyon I couldn’t sleep. And while I can usually count on the wrestling, struggling, swearing and panting required to get my sleeping bag into its dry bag to warm me up, it was too cold even for that to be effective. I was nearly beaten by that daily athletic event, yet my teeth were still chattering. Breaking camp and loading up that shivery morning wasn’t the highlight of my trip, but even so, as I rode out of the park, I wasn’t sure if the tears stinging my eyes were solely from the weather. How lucky I am to be here, in these wonderful places, doing what I love to do!

Good morning, Highway 12! Special Bonus: I had time for the short hike to Lower Calf Creek Falls. This would serve me well, as you will soon see.

I love these stripey rock walls.

Not quite three miles in and Lo! Lower Calf Creek Falls appear!

The falls in all their glory. Next year, next year… the upper falls, from a shorter but more difficult trail.

A friendly hiker at the falls noticed my awkward attempts at a self portrait and offered to take my photo. We hiked back to the parking area together, and I learned that he too, was a motorcyclist. Do you remember, back in 2009, the day I fell in love with the Ducati 696? Not only faster than my Kawi, but lower and lighter, too. Sadly, I never did find that extra $10,000+ under the couch cushions, and had ruled it out as an impossibility. But fate, in her mysterious ways, would put this unsuspecting starving artist in the saddle of shiny new bike before summer's end. A few weeks later, this friendly hiker (who would later become my Most Excellent Tour Guide)** would search for and post a Craig’s List ad for a practically brand new Ducati (but, remarkably, in the same solar system as my budget - Pluto to be sure, but still the same solar system) on my Facebook Wall. Thanks to this chance meeting on the trail, in little over a month’s time I’d be the proud owner of my “little pony.” Who knew?

*Pack and move home from UT, dead car leaves me stranded in UT, ridiculous alternate transport home to Tucson, job goes wonky, find affordable reliable new-to-me-used car (Hah!), beloved doggie moves on to greener pastures… I think that’s plenty for one month!
** My METG took me on a most unexpected tour last week, the description of which is approximately fifth in the line of blogposts held up on the runway.

Grief and Gratitude

2011-08-26T22:50:00.003-07:00

It’s been a week since my polka-dotted hero, out-runner of greyhounds, the subject of many spontaneously and lovingly re-written opera arias, and celebrated MMM mascot, took her final journey. The collective embrace from all of you - here, on Facebook, in person, via text message, by phone, on internet forums, through the good old USPS - has been humbling. And enormous. You shared your stories, you understood the depth of my grief, you offered comfort. I heard from people who knew (and loved! - how that touched me!) her, people who knew me, and people I’ve never met at all. Some of you cried your own tears for her, and so many of you recognized the true nature of the what a pet-owner bond can be, and the deep sorrow that accompanies the loss of life’s most faithful companion. How it comforts me to know you understand! All your words of kindness kept her alive for me those first few impossible days.

I know from you and from my own experiences that time will eventually heal, but this week it has been my enemy. Each day that passes takes her one more day further away from me. So, as the flowers on her little shrine wilt, I can’t say I’m feeling any better yet. But I know I will, and that is enough for now. So many times in life, we are asked to bear the unbearable, and so many have been asked to bear much more than I ever have. Yet somehow we do. We do! It is possible, in no small part, because of the good people around us. I thank you, dear friends and readers, deeply. Your understanding and compassionate condolences have eased my way on this challenging journey of the heart.

The Final Journey (A Significant Other Matter)

2011-08-20T21:52:00.005-07:00

I met her on the examining table of the pet hospital I used to work at a lifetime ago. You met her briefly here, again here, and watched her in a little mischief here. I marveled at the sweetness of her disposition that day in 1998, and later, after I adopted her, at her remarkable emotional sensitivity. I still do.

She saw me through some tough times – my divorce, bouts of tool throwing, and the agony that was my life during 2009-2010 (a little of which I told you about, most of which I did not.)

I saw her through her own tough times, too. A cancer scare involving surgery in 2009, surgery, pins and a cast in 2002 (an injury specific to racing greyhounds - we were so proud!), and, in a bizarre coincidence, the loss of that same leg to cancer in 2010. She held up during her challenges much better than I ever have.

Freckles has a star power unlike that I’ve ever seen. Crowds cheered her as she honored the loss of her leg in the 2010 Tucson Day of the Dead Celebration. In 2004, she co-starred in a photo shoot for the Muscular Dystrophy Association's "Fill the Boot" fundraising campaign. She got the job done in half the time it took the "professional" Dalmatian used in years prior. It’s rare that I don’t hear whispers as she dances down the street, “Look! A Dalmatian!” People are often so bedazzled by her spots and sweetness that they completely miss the fact she’s down one leg. And when they do pick up on this, they are always inspired and touched by her agility and spunk. Jaws drop when people learn that this active young pup is really 15 years old. Walking her feels like community service - she brings so much inspiration and joy to all the people whose paths she crosses.

One day this week, during our daily “morning games,” I felt a mass in her belly. An ultrasound told me what I already knew. She doesn’t know it yet, but this will be her end. There really isn’t much to be done, and the medical details are purely academic at this point. I don’t know how long it will take. She doesn’t have any symptoms yet, and although it is unlikely related to the prior cancer that took her leg, that tumor moved so fast, it doubled the size of her leg in less than a week. Although she usually spends her summers in the custody of her “Daddy,” this year she’s coming to Utah with me. I don’t know where we’ll live, and I don’t know how I’ll afford not living in the free apartment usually provided to me, but we’ll find a way.

And so, I will be with her as she embarks on her final journey. I suspect, in that strange twist of fate I've experienced before, it will be the dying who comforts the living.

I wrote this post on a quiet afternoon in mid May, with Freckles napping by my side. She passed peacefully on August 19, at the age of 15 and a half, as we lay quietly spooning, just two days after our arduous return to Tucson. A spotted vase of flowers now marks her window look out perch. In one of her final gifts to me, she, who could not walk in her last days, summoned her strength to hop across the house to greet me at the door. My grief is unbearable, and my gratitude for having had her in my life overflows.

Dining While Stranded (The Daily Special) – Grilled Salmon with Garden Harvest

2011-08-15T17:46:00.009-07:00

Let’s just say you were driving home to Tucson from your summer job in northern Utah. And let’s say that your car overheated, but didn’t bother to warn you. So you kept driving. Until… kaput! You need a new engine. Pretend it’s the same car you just spent $1,300 on replacing the drive train, amongst other things. And one whose registration you just renewed last week. Let’s pretend there’s no way/no how that (a new engine) is going to happen, so you tow to Salt Lake City and find yourself stranded for a few days while you figure out what to do.

Hmm, that’s not a great scenario, so I’ll add to it. Say you had some good friends in SLC with whom you can stay. They’re off in the mountains, so you have the run of their incredible home and yard. Say the kitchen has a Viking Pro stove and granite counter tops, the yard and house have an amazing mountain view, and there are fresh veggies to harvest for dinner every evening. And squash blossoms. And, yes, even a grape arbor, delightfully hung with tiny sweet-tart dark purple flavor bombs. Oh, and say your friends left a luscious piece of fresh salmon in the fridge for you. And a beautiful porch on which to dine and enjoy the view. And a telescope to watch the full moon rise from said porch.

Sound better? I thought so, too. So while I practically (okay, really) cried when I sold my car for a whopping 300 dollars today, dinner was a delight.

Take your slab of salmon and adorn it with what you find to harvest as you amble about the garden. Colorful tomatoes (save the beefy red one for a tomato salad), basil, peppers, summer squashes… whatever is ripe at the moment. Salt, pepper, olive oil, garlic, onion. Use the fancy camera at your disposal to take a photo, since, despite the two weeks of exhaustive research you just did on cameras, you will not be buying one anytime soon. You’ll be buying an extremely used car, instead. Wrap the salmon up in foil, toss the package on the awesome barbecue on the awesome porch. Grill some bread, too, for bruschetta. Rub a halved garlic clove over the crispy browned bread, pour on a thin stream of olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper, for the simplest version, or top it with anything else delicious you can think of. Eat the salmon when it’s juuust barely done. That determination is up to you, but depending on the thickness of the fish, the heat of the grill, your personal taste, it could take 5-10 minutes. Or more. Or less. I didn’t check the clock, because, as usual, I wasn’t planning on writing about it until after dinner. Just poke at it until it looks like something you want to eat.

Consider your luck, both good and bad this week, and decide your good fortune wins, hands down. Worry about that whole car thing tomorrow.

Hmm, aluminum foil adds an entirely new lighting issue. Whatever, I had dinner to make!

What I Did Last Summer (Hwy 12 Reprise Part Two: Bryce Canyon)

2011-07-24T19:14:00.002-07:00

In June 2009, I rode through Bryce Canyon, but didn’t plan time to hike. (It was just as well, I got rained on most of the time, anyway.) But it hurt to look down into that fairyland of pink and orange hoodoos and then ride away without exploring further. I decided then and there that in 2010, hiking in Bryce Canyon would be a touring priority.

I had some serious business to accomplish on the way, however – sport riding on Fish Lake Road. Fish Lake Road! – the very place I fell in love with sport riding, in my pillion days. Back and forth, back and forth, all afternoon, each time faster… Now it was time to enjoy Fish Lake road from the cockpit end of my own motorcycle. That was the plan, anyway. Ever ride a motorcycle in a 40mph crosswind? It takes a bit of adjustment to stay on your path. All well and good until – whoosh! Gust! The wind puts you, momentarily, over THERE!. And then, for a split second, the wind lets up. Whoa! Now you’re over HERE! It took a lot of effort just to keep the bike between the lines even at a conservative speed.* So much for tearing up the asphalt. Next year, next year…

I arrived at Bryce Canyon exhausted from a day of battling the wind, but happy. I got the very last spot at the campground near the trailhead. I could park the bike for the rest of the day without worry, and go on a short hike before sunset. My Canon G11, the replacement for the Lumix that kicked the bucket a month earlier in Colorado, endured its first sandstorm on the trail. (No, the wind hadn’t let up.)

Rock formations on the Queens Garden Trail

I had planned to squat on my campsite for two nights, allowing me a chance to hike down to the bottom of the canyon the next morning. Here are a few views from the Navajo Peekaboo loop.

I’m going down THERE.

Some steep switchbacks start me on my way down, down, down...

I was the first to spot this rockslide, blocking the trail. The trail was closed later to clear path. I’m glad I got up early!

A closer view of the “hoodoos” that make this canyon famous.

One of the many windows in the “Wall of Windows”

I’m a fast hiker. That meant I had plenty of time left for a nice 250 mile day ride across the Markagunt High Plateau Scenic Byway (next year I really must detour to the Cedar Breaks National Monument via UT 143...) through Zion National Park and back to my campsite before dark. I knew there would be construction on the road through the park, but never having been there, I figured it would be worth the trouble. What I didn’t plan on is not being allowed to stop to even take a photo! Just as I had vowed to make Bryce Canyon hiking a priority for 2010, Zion had become my June 2011 priority. Except, that tour was cancelled. The mantra continues… “Next year, next year...”


Good night, Bryce Canyon! Sunset from the Rim Trail.

* This phenomenon is exaggerated if you're riding a small, light bike (like my Kawasaki, and even more - or less - so, the Ducati) and you, too, are small. (Easy enough for a speedo to read more than the bathroom scale.)

What I did last summer (Hwy 12 Reprise Part One: Starvation Lake via the Mirror Lake Scenic Byway)

2011-07-21T09:03:00.003-07:00

I had to forgo my annual June tour this year. It a damn shame, really, since this is my first summer in Utah with the Ducati, but I had good reasons. In any case, I guess that gives me the opportunity to write about what I did last summer. And to think I was feeling bad that I didn’t tell you about summer 2009 until May 2010.

Do you remember my June 2009 tour? The Kawasaki and I finally struck out to ride southern Utah on our own, to visit beloved Hwy 12. Hurrah! I rode in the rain. And in more rain. And the restaurant was closed. And then thunder. And lightening. And hail. So, in 2010 I thought I’d give southern Utah another chance.

I had thought there was a lot of snow in the Uinta Range the year before. In 2010 all the side roads off the Mirror Lake Scenic Byway (which I recently learned is Utah's highest paved road) were unplowed, with several feet of snow on them. You would have needed a snow blower to camp. (2011 would prove to be even snowier, as you saw here.)

I love Utah - blue water, red mesas and snow, all in one frame!

I camped my first night at Starvation Lake State Park, about the only established camping anywhere in the area. Not much to do there in the way of hiking, but it was a fine enough place to put up my feet after a day of riding. There’s an OHV (Off Highway Vehicle) area in the park, for you dirtin’ folk.

Starvation Lake? I don't think so! I was hoping for a dinner invite at the barbecue area, but these fish were heading to proper kitchens in proper houses. I crunched my dry granola dinner while visions of freshly grilled tender white fleshed perch swam laps in my head.

I didn't feel too sorry for myself. Dinner plans awaited me further south...

The Daily Special – Garlic Scape Pesto

2011-07-17T14:24:00.001-07:00

Because I get my produce via a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture group), I eat what is grown locally. This means I have no choice but to dine “in season.” If it doesn’t grow where I live at the moment, I generally don’t end up eating it. Well, almost. My preserving projects are an exception, and, wouldn’t you know it, today happens to be strawberry jam making day.* It’s jam day only if I stop eating these berries, that is. Hull one, eat one, hull one – Crikey, this one is way too big - down the gullet it goes… And so on.

In any case, it stands to reason that a year might pass since the last time I made baby artichokes - sliced thinly, tossed in lemon juice and slowly cooked in an amount of butter only the holder of a French passport would dare use (thankfully I have dual citizenship), until they just start to turn golden on the edges. I think sometimes I would toss them with pasta, other times sprinkle on a bit of Parmesan Reggiano, run them under the broiler, serve them with little toasts and call them bruschetta. I’m not exactly sure. A lot happens in a year, you know? Soooo, when the baby artichokes came around this spring, and my friend asked me, “How did we make those artichokes last year? They were soooo amazing,” I said something along the lines of “uhhhhh….”

I gotta start writing this stuff down.**

My annual arrival in Utah almost always coincides with that of garlic scapes. This is the only place I’ve seen garlic scapes, come to think of it. Scapes are simply the green shoots that mark the place where a garlic bulb is forming under the ground. The farmer wacks off the shoot to encourage the bulb, and, somewhere along the line, decided we should eat them. It was a good idea.

I think I used about half this many to make a mini-food processor sized batch.

You’ve got to slice the garlic scapes up before putting them in the food processor. (So much for saving me the task of washing a knife and cutting board, my frustrating little friend, baby Cuisinart). Whirl them with some olive oil and grated parmesan (another task I do separately, although I guess you could grate it in the food processor first. I, personally, will do no such thing with stuff as expensive as Parm Regg). If you find yourself needing more liquid to make it all go round and round, but the pesto is verging on too oily, add a bit of water. (This is one of the few recipes where I’m willing to do that.) A judicious splash of lemon juice would work, too. This spring I didn’t use any sort of nut in the pesto, pine or otherwise, and I don’t think I did last year either. You certainly could. But I like it with all its fiery garlicky simplicity. When you’re done, you’ll end up with something approximating guacamole colored mashed potatoes.

Although its original destination was pasta (for this purpose, you’ll want to thin it ever so slightly with some of the starchy pasta cooking water), I find myself as often as not, eating it on crackers. Topped with a sundried tomato if I’m feeling fancy. Or an olive. It’s a great sandwich spread too. Uses and variations are limitless.

* That, my friends, is a bald faced lie. I should say "preserves," since I am using whole fruit. But I like the word "jam" better.

** You do see the irony here, right?

All Work and One Tank Rides Make Jill… Heed the Call of the Open Road and Go for a Proper Ride

2011-07-11T21:48:00.001-07:00

Since making my annual summer migration to northern Utah this year, I’ve limited myself to a few “one-tank” rides, primarily Logan Canyon and Blacksmith Fork Canyon (which I’ve always incorrectly referred to as Hyrum Canyon.) I’ve got a substantial work load this summer, plus a project brewing on the side, so the flute-less days are going to have to be rare exceptions. I decided today (which means Monday in Blog Daylight Savings Time) must be one of those exceptional days. Really, it was time for a proper ride, and the camera was not invited. Like I said in earlier posts: 100 miles is: Not. E. Nuff.

Plus, I replaced fuse No. 3, (“consumers”), after it blew on my last ride. I needed a good long ride to establish whether or not this was a fluke. Right? Wrong. The fuse blew again after 12 miles, depriving me of my horn (“What’s a motorcycle horn good for," asked my motorcycle safety instructor? “Absolutely nothing,” he answered for the class.), my right turn signal (I can bend my left arm, so no problem there), my high beam flasher (don’t use it), my menu button, (really, should you be messing with your on-board computer while riding, anyway?), and a reliable clock (That one could get me in trouble. Try explaining that to the maestro whilst clambering over your colleagues into your chair in the orchestra pit to the sound of the oboe’s tuning A. It’s just not done.) Whether or not I am deprived of anything else from this malfunction I do not (yet) know. Why is the fuse blowing, is the obvious question. I guess I’m going to have to look into that wiring harness recall I’ve heard about, which will require a trip to the dealer. The dealer is almost 100 miles away, and my few days off over the next 5 weeks are on Mondays, which is exactly when motorcycle dealerships are closed. But I’m thinking outside the box on that one.

Whatever. This ride is not being called off after 12 miles. This show is going on.

So, three states, three National Forests, three scenic byways, (lots of threes, huh?), two sandwiches (one of cheddar and Swiss chard, the other of vanilla ice cream), one “No Gas Next 70 Miles” sign, one very buggy visor and one blown fuse … are they “E. Nuff?” Perhaps.* Electrical phenomenon notwithstanding, it is, at least, a step in the right direction. Next exceptional (aka flute-less) riding days coming the first week of August.

The offending fuse

*350 miles

Ducati's First Camping Trip! (Index)

2011-07-10T18:26:00.000-07:00

Here's an index to the "Ducati's First Camping Trip!" series, since it was interspersed amongst a lot of unrelated nonsense, and because I already know I want to link back to this page later.

Homolovi Ruins: Who knew?

Petrified Forest: All these years in AZ, and I finally check it out.

Canyon de Chelly: Photographer's highlight of the trip, plus an actual photo of the motorcycle.

Breakfast on AZ 191: Finally, a decent meal.

Twists, turns and scenic byways: Last hurrah before I head home.

Postscript: Yes, I'm an idiot/Wow, the Kawi never burned through rear tires like this!

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! - Postscript

2011-07-09T08:18:00.002-07:00

And finally, from the “wow, this bike really burns through tires” (aka “you’re a stupid idiot”) department…

The condition of my tires upon my return. Wrists duly slapped. Do you suppose I can run out to Gates Pass and burn off the edges before replacing it?*

*kidding

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! (Roper Lake State Park and the Swift Trail Parkway)

2011-07-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, back to our story…

After breakfast, I passed through the beautiful sauterne colored grasslands near St. Johns, my heart’s magnetic north this spring. One more gas stop and it was time to have another go at that 100 mile stretch of twisty turny goodness I love so much, the Coronado Scenic Byway. You know, the road that was a study in road hazards when I rode it a month earlier? I’ll be damned, that sand trap, not unlike the pile of sand that I woke up to in my tent, thanks to the ever present wind, was still there. Placed for maximum excitement factor, if you goof, you’ll wish you were wearing a parachute for that unexpected trip off the side of a mountain. I didn’t goof. Obviously. There were some other obstructions along the way but…

Lean left…

Lean right…

Left… right

LEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHT! Flippity flop!

For 100 miles. Wheee! Good times.

By the time I get to Clifton, I always need gas. Next time it won't be the usual Circle K gas-up and ice cream sandwich break, but a visit to Maud’s Drive-In (“Get Sauced!”), and a turn around the art gallery I noticed for the first time as I was riding by, looking nervously at my gas gauge.

I landed at Roper State Park, near Safford, AZ in time to find this.

Looks like a good place to pitch a tent to me! A good soak was just the thing after a few days of riding. After my bath, I watched the birds chase down mosquitoes as the sunset painted pretty pastel colors on the marsh.

And for the first evening of the tour, I set up my tent in peace. The wind machine was taking the night off, I guess.

The next morning it was time for this good thing to come to an end. But I wasn't heading home without a turn (two turns, actually) up Mount Graham via the Swift Mountain Parkway. This is a road as tight and twisty as you could hope for. Here’s my blog stock photo of the Parkway (you’ve seen it before).

But first one has to fuel up. Petrol and a breakfast burrito at the Mt. Graham Grocery and Deli. I’ve been here so often, the owner recognized me. This would be one of my favorite gas stops of all time, but for two absent yet critical features. Real cream for the coffee (it has that awful “creamer” which has nothing to do with cream), and no premium fuel. The latter wasn’t an issue back in the Kawi days, but that Ducati, she gets what she wants!

One last photo before I point the bike homeward. Already I was plotting a “training weekend*” back in the area, to spend a day just running up and down this mountain.

'Twas a good little tour**!

*Plan foiled. Road closed soon thereafter due to fire danger. Could very well still be closed.
** 1400 miles, I do believe.

Adventures in a Foreign Kitchen

2011-07-04T23:07:00.009-07:00

When I say foreign kitchen, I do not refer to the ethic designation of the Middle Eastern banquet my summer roommates (who are not my roommates this summer, long story) and I prepare each year, but to the fact that we’re working in, um, a less than ideal, certainly not our own kitchen. Our company-provided (thank you!) student apartment typically comes equipped with a bent fork and foil pan. Some years, we luck out and get a cutting board, too. Sure, I bring a few things, but there’s not much room in my two door hatch back after I pack all my motorcycle and canning related accoutrements.

It’s amazing how clumsy I feel cooking my first few meals here. The work flow is way off, and each year I have to re-learn how to function using an electric stove top. But soon it becomes a batterie de cuisine iron chef challenge. Just what can we put out using only a garlic press and wine bottle-cum-rolling pin?

Falafel, for one thing. But not without a few (or more) cursewords. As much as I hate food processors (they don’t do things well, and they don’t save me time, I don’t care what Mark Bittman says), I do bring along a mini Cuisinart. You know that handy feature when you’re processing something thick, and you spend more time taking off the cover and scraping the contents back towards the blade than you do actually processing? Gawd, I hate that.* Now multiply that entire procedure by six when you’re making a large batch of falafel in a tiny food processor. Saying “I’ll just knock out this falafel before I go to bed,” when it’s already almost tomorrow is akin to saying “I’ll weld my motorcycle side stand before I ride out to Colorado in the morning.” I don’t care how many times you’ve made falafel, you can count on being stuck in Oklahoma for three extra days. I wasn’t exactly cooking with love at that moment. I finally bailed, and finished it in my even smaller mortar and pestle. It was quicker. And better. But I still had to wash the damn food processor. Will I ever learn?

Falafel patties await immersion in a hot oil bath.

Making pita reminded me that the short leg disadvantage is not limited to motorcycle riding. The counter tops in my 1916 house are blessedly below regulation height, but here they are not. I stood on a chair to knead the dough.

Still and all, we did pretty well. Here are a few samples from our feast, hastily snapped as my low battery light blinked like an angry red eye.

I never really liked hummus all that much until I tasted Gil’s. There's tahini there in the center, hummus around the outside. Do note the stylish serving plate.

We all know Gil's started preparing his mushrooms when the fumes of the smoking chiles drive us, coughing and choking, out of the apartment. It's worth it!

We can not stop eating Nadine’s Sucre a la Creme (aka penuche, for you New Englanders out there). Even after we've made ourselves sick, we have to have just one more piece...

The banquet is not complete without Turkish coffee prepared in the ebay ibrik. (Say that 10 times fast.)

Not shown: roasted potatoes, marinated peppers, kabobs with warm spices, garlicky yogurt sauce, watermelon...

* Please do not tell me to add (more, or any, depending) water, oil whatever. I don’t want to. And no, I refuse to grate expensive Parmesan Reggiano in a food processor. There’s only one way to do it. And it does not involve a rasp grater, people. Sorry, but I have a strong opinion on the subject. Harrumph.

100 Miles* is Still Not Enough (Logan Canyon, Tony Grove, Bear Lake and Strawberry Canyon)

2011-06-28T14:42:00.003-07:00

As promised, I did ride the Logan Canyon Scenic Byway yesterday. I snapped a few photos for you. Each one met the four requirements set forth in my last post. As I was riding, I realized I should have listed one more point. So here it is:

5. Stopping will not cause me undue concern about being late for work. Or endanger my ability to arrive at my final destination before dark. (You know how I feel about riding at night.) Because playing beat the clock (lap times not withstanding) takes some of the fun out of it. And why partake in what is widely recognized as a fairly dangerous activity if you’re not enjoying it?

Here’s a photo of the Rick Springs Area.

No, there is not usually water rushing over the pedestrian bridge. It’s been an unusual year here, and Logan River has exceeded flood stage. The daily flood warnings continue. Areas of the road were reinforced with temporary berms of sand and gravel to guard against the rising river. That sand and gravel will no doubt find its way onto the roadway over the course of the summer (grumble). But not today! This little spot has always intrigued me, but it took a stinging insect in my sportsbra to actually get me to pull over. What timing!

I can report that the pavement on the side road up to Tony Grove is in fine form. Not a defect to be seen. It's definitely not regulation width though, so I recommend a recon lap to map it out in your head before testing your limits.

Here’s a fun left hander. Or right hander. Depending on which way you’re going.

I thought there might be snow on the Tony Grove road, but so far, so good!

Aieeee! The Duc stops here.

I could have managed another 50 yards or so winding my way through a clear tire track a few inches wide, but I’m glad I didn’t. With no way to turn around, I’d just have to push the bike backwards, expensive track boots in the snow, to get back out. I did walk the final quarter mile or so to the lake. Slogging a half mile in snow several feet deep, wearing inappropriate footwear and thirty pounds of safety gear at 8100 feet definitely qualifies as my exercise for the day.

There’s a lake around here somewhere…

Ahh! That’s better. This is what I expect to see when I ride up to Tony Grove. Like I said, it’s an unusual year here in Logan Canyon.

Archival photo graciously provided by C.S. I do believe my only photos of this lake are from back in the days of actual film and are in a closet somewhere in Tucson. Hard to believe.

If you can tear your eyes from the view (and even the most hopeless adrenalin junkie will have difficulty, the Bear Lake overlook is that much of a showstopper), and not let the scent of sage brush and wildflowers distract you, there are some fine fast sweeping turns to be enjoyed as you make your way down from visitor's center at the east end of the canyon into Garden City, UT. RazzleBlueDazzle! were my words, I do believe, when I waxed poetic about Bear Lake back in 2008. It’s worth repeating.

For nine summers now I’ve been telling myself I’m going to spend a day photographing this lake. The myriad brilliant blues to the south, the lesser known marshy Bear Lake National Wildlife Refuge in the north… Still waiting on this one.

Garden City is as fine a place as any to grab an American diner style bacon cheeseburger with fries. (If you’re looking for portabellas and Kobe beef, better to hit ZinBurger in Tucson.) Toss in a raspberry shake, for which the area is famous, and you’ve got… a really, really full belly. I find it worth the discomfort and usually opt for the "Home Town Drive-In", if for no other reason than their fine grassy picnic area. I’ve also learned you can get a freshly made donut and espresso across the street at the Holey Cow. Good to know for those morning rides.

Continue north, into Idaho, proceed through Strawberry Canyon (ID 36) and loop back down into Utah. Return home via the north end of town, where you can check a few errands off the list to tell yourself you’ve gotten something done instead of squandering your afternoon in sinful play.

Dinner that night? A bowl of muesli. Turns out I was late for work.

*This trip actually clocks in at 145 miles. Add 14 miles for each additional run up and down the Tony Grove road. (You’ll want several.) Still, Not. E. Nough.

100 Miles is Not Enough (Hyrum Canyon)

2011-06-26T20:52:00.008-07:00

Sometimes your day insists your ride be confined to only one tank of gas. Regrettable, but it beats not riding at all. Today I took my first northern Utah ride of the season, but still had to fit in quite a bit a work. My usual first ride is to Bear Lake via Logan Canyon, but as it is Sunday, I opted for the less traveled Hyrum Canyon. At least I call it Hyrum Canyon. Maybe it’s called Blacksmith Fork Canyon. I do know for sure it’s a nearby 15 mile stretch of UT 101 that leads to the Hardware Ranch Wildlife Management Area.

Here’s the “bat cave:”

The bat cave!

Can you hear songbirds chirping? Listen a little closer. You can also hear the low rumble of a Monster 696 from within. I’ve never had a garage before, and while I usually stay in a free student apartment each summer, this year is different. I’m renting (you’ll figure out why another time) a 1925 bungalow from a friend, complete with grass, shade trees, flowers and the Logan River in my backyard. I gotta say, it feels pretty cool to be hiding what you like to think of as your ferocious machine in this little country shed!

Hyrum Canyon is not national park material, but it is just full of perfect little vignettes. Like “Snowy Mountains Emerging from Canyon’s Mouth.” Or “Magestic Tree with Rushing River and Wildflowers.” Or “Magpie on Fence Post”. (I didn’t bother with this one. While I can coax a decent landscape or food shot out of my Canon G11, I find it quite worthless for anything that moves. You know, things like people. Or animals. Or motorcycles. *sigh*)

Any road has it oddities, too. Like “Water Bubbling from Beneath the Asphalt.” (Does this have something to do with the current flooding?) Or “Enormous Testicles of Upward Climbing Deer.” (Seriously, they were impressive.) And I can’t forget “Startled Sheep.” Which perhaps could just as well be named “Startled Motorcyclist.” (Just who startled whom?) That one was fairly exciting, at least from my point of view.

I do have a few actual photographs to share with you. They are not the most beautiful scenes I saw today, but each one did fit four strict requirements.

I thought it was pretty.
The lighting was decent.
I was not too chicken to pull off the asphalt to take the photograph (this road doesn't really have a shoulder to speak of). I have short legs. Anything more than .0398%* grade and at least one of my feet is not going to be able to touch the ground. If it’s my left foot, I have to let the bike free fall to land on its side stand. Call me crazy, but I like to know that bike it sitting safely on the stand before I let go. If it’s my right foot, then I can’t even lift my left foot to engage the side stand. Yes, I could free fall that perilous three inches to the right to stand on that leg, but you assume there is firm footing on which to catch 350-400 pounds of motorcycle. You also assume I am not unreasonably concerned about this incredibly awkward scenario. So much for feeling cool. Now the Ducati is lower than my Kawasaki, so that’s an improvement. Except that any courage I may have gained from this edge is overshadowed by that fact that I really, really do not want to drop my shiny, not held together with packing tape, never been horizontal (imagined extreme lean angles not withstanding), still new to me as far as I’m concerned, motorcycle. I freely admit I’m a fair weather photographer. I’m not gonna risk, or even enter into a paranoid perceived risk of, to be more accurate, dropping my bike for a photograph. I’m just not.
There is probably an RV, farm machinery and a slow moving SUV that I can’t get around right away, so I might as well pull over anyway. Let me tell you, if the road is free and clear (which today, it was almost the entire time) I ain’t stoppin’!

You might imagine that’s an awful lot of information to process whilst flying ‘round the bend in full sport mode. You are correct. It is.

Today's vignettes:

Scrumptious Looking Grass in Springtime Meadow

Wooden Cart-Thingy (There was a row of 16 of these carts, actually. Weird. Where did they come from and why?)

Pond: Cattails Not Shown

Ducati with Field of Wildflowers in the Distance

Funny. Not one of those photos looks like a canyon. Well it is. You'll just have to trust me on that one. Probably not a coincidence that this flatter area affords me a better shot at finding a place to pull over.

Dinner tonight? Kielbasa (which didn't seem very kielbasa-like, but still was very tasty), a salad of baby greens and crusty bread, all scored at the local farmers’ market yesterday morning.

100 miles.** Not. E. Nough. I think I’m getting up early tomorrow to hit Logan Canyon.

* Okay, I made that number up, but you get my point.
**Yes, I said the canyon is a nearby 15 mile stretch, but I did indeed manage to squeak in 100 miles today. I bet you can figure it out. ;-)

Ducati's First Camping Trip! (Dining on the Coronado Scenic Byway)

2011-06-19T08:18:00.001-07:00

Time to think about heading home. I had hoped to start the chilly morning off with a nice coffee a short walk from my campsite, but Changing Lady Espresso never seemed to be open. Did you know that, although AZ does not observe daylight savings time, the Navajo Nation that occupies the entire northeast corner of the state does? Neither did I. It didn’t matter, this espresso bar wasn’t open no matter what time zone you were operating in, despite the large sign (not shown) denoting otherwise. Strike three as far as dining in Chinle goes.

Changing Lady Espresso. A nice idea, if only it was open.

It was a whopping 37 degrees when I left Canyon de Chelly. After a few hours of riding in that sort of weather, even with my beloved electric vest, I was more than happy to stop and finally check out the “unique western dining” of the Apple Dumplin Restaurant I foolishly passed by on my way out of Petrified National Forest a few days earlier. You can find it in Chambers, AZ, a bit north of what is considered the actual Coronado Scenic Byway section of AZ 191.

Proprietor Beckie Mills, in her western wear. The owners themselves are riders and knew only too well how cold I was.

Some unique western decor.

Hearty, tasty, simple food fits the bill. I ate every bite and found myself wishing I could fit in a slice of pie. Finally, a decent meal!

Ducati's First Camping Trip! (Monument Valley, UT - Four Corners Day Ride)

2011-06-07T11:44:00.015-07:00

I’m up early to begin my day ride. Since I don’t have to break camp I’m looking forward to a quick get away. Except… not. The wind in Arizona really is worthy of a title, like the Santa Anas or Le Mistral, but as far as I know, it’s just referred to as “that damn wind.” In any case, it seems to roar along at 40mph for days on end each spring. It took me longer to secure my tent for the day than it would have to just pack everything up. For what it’s worth, I’ve been getting pretty good at setting up a tent in the wind single handedly. First stakes, THEN poles!

I struggle with days like these. Am I a motorcyclist or photographer? Getting good photos really breaks the flow of a ride, but it’s also difficult to pass by the spectacular scenery of this part of the country, each view seemingly better than the last, without stopping for a shot. Since these spectacular views occur at least every quarter mile, and stopping on a motorcycle to retrieve your camera is a bit more complicated then if you were in a car, (even more so with the maddening wind that blows everything out of your tank bag or top case each time you open it, and whisks away your riding gloves no matter how attentive you might be) you can’t really expect to get anywhere if you’re going to get serious about your photos. So today was the sort of day I was going to have to choose to be one or the other, and, given the weather and the fact I wanted to ride several hundred miles, it made the most sense to play the role of touring motorcyclist. I missed some great shots – the light glinting out of the storm clouds onto the enormous rocky shark fin outside of Kayenta, AZ, the freshly fallen snow peeking out from behind the red rocks of Bluff, UT… it all only gives me an excuse to go back.

I dodged spring squalls, tumbleweed the size of Sub-Zero refrigerators (I am not exaggerating!), and dirt road construction zones turned to mud soup by the rain on my loop through Monument Valley and the Four Corners area. Note to self and anyone else considering the trip: the views are much better if the loop is made counterclockwise. Another excuse to return.

Time for a rest and lunch at the aptly named Twin Rocks Cafe, in Bluff, UT. Funny, on my return from this trip, the passenger sitting next to me used to live in Bluff and work at this very cafe.

Four states in one ride: Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!

I stood in a long line at the grocery for the privilege of this fine meal. More excellent dining in Chinle. Eeek. Given the wind I've been telling you about, consider the miracle of this photo, taken whilst seated upon my motorcycle in the grocery store parking lot, holding the camera in one hand, fending off more aggressive pan handlers and securing my meal from the wind with the other.

Not exactly the “Oh Glorious Light!” moment of yesterday, but the day was beautiful in a different sort of way. The gloomy weather had me thinking in black and white, so I leave you with this one photo - ghosts in the mist of Monument Valley, UT. An unusual sight for sure!

I am pleased to report that my Ducati met the mud for the first time on this ride, and my tent spent the day unattended in 40mph winds. Both remained upright!

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! (Canyon de Chelly National Monument)

2011-05-29T20:10:00.003-07:00

Arrival, Canyon de Chelly National Monument. No entrance fee, AND free camping!
First task, grab a campsite and take a breather, gazing at the trees above me…

And now, because I skipped the Blue Mesa Trail hike in Petrified National Forest, I had time for the White House Trail…

Oh Glorious Light! I couldn’t have been there at a better time of day…

For some reason I found myself thinking of cupcakes and swirls of chocolate frosting…

Here they are, at the bottom of the Canyon, the “White House Ruins.” You can’t see it in this photo, but one of the buildings is whitewashed, giving the ruins their name.

You can see in the bottom left of the photo below how the ruins are built into the steep canyon side…

I also had time for a ride out to Spider Rock…

\

And a peek at Junction Overlook, where Canyon de Chelly meets Canyon del Muerto…

I made a friend at my campsite that evening. She quickly appeared every time I arrived, or emerged from my tent…

Not one of the heritage breed Navajo-Churro sheep, but a sheep in a Navajo canyon, nonetheless…

No camping trip is complete without a night time photo of your motorcycle! (Cool red seat cowl removed before departure to accommodate my tail bag.)

I’d stay in this campsite for one more night. Next: Day Trip to southern Utah!

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! (Petrified Forest National Park)

2011-05-24T10:36:00.002-07:00

Next stop (after a handful or two of the granola I had made before I left my house and kitchen, and after having an unusually colorful experience assisting an out-of-fuel motorcyclist), Petrified Forest National Park.

The "Giant Logs" Trail. Yup. It's wood that's been turned to rock.

The wood, er, rock, er, whatever... really is this colorful!

You can take a short hike here, off of the Blue Mesa Loop road. I regretted not doing so, but the time saved allowed me an even cooler hike at my next destination. You can't do it all when you can't ride at night.

The Painted Desert, as seen from Lacey Point...


...and again from Pintado Point. I wish my pictures could be bigger without getting cut off. I gotta figure that out. Maybe I need to skip this fancy "caption" feature. I'll try that on one of my next posts.

And then I motored north, past a really cute restaurant. I should have turned around. Why didn't I turn around? Instead I had an awful meal in Chinle, AZ, where I was quite aggressively chased across a parking lot by pan handlers before my feet even touched the ground. I was going to have to rectify my poor judgement later. But I had arrived at my next stop, Canyon de Chelly National Monument.

Ducati's First Camping Trip! (Homolovi Ruins)

2011-05-21T15:33:00.034-07:00

I took the Ducati on its first camping trip! It took a while to get my luggage set up squared away, and then I was busy, busy, busy for months, and then there was this trip, which was cool, but not camping, and not hiking, and then, a little more busy, busy, and then… AND THEN…

…I had a week off!

Yahoo! The Duc ‘n I are goin’ campin’! Through the same Salt River Canyon from this trip, tantalizingly close to the Black Mesa Ranch and Goat Cheese Dairy I've been dying to visit, yet been foiled every time (they weren't open this time), and...

...first stop, Homolovi Ruins State Park, since it was the nearest (if you call 70 miles "near") open camping to Petrified Forest National Park. I was going to take a few days to explore some AZ destinations I had yet to see. After my greens and cheese sandwich (yup, the same lunch I wrote about here), it was time for a look-see.

"Homolovi I" ruins, abandoned by the Anasazi about 1400-1500 A.D.

Ancient pottery shards were everywhere, and some were cleverly laid out , like crackers on a cheese board, for the unobservant tourist.

A view from the Tsu'vo Trail.

Plenty of petroglyphs on the Tsu'vo Trail.

The Sunset Cemetery is about all that remains from the city of Sunset, a town established on the nearby Little Colorado River in 1876, by a group of Mormon Pioneers.


Like a chick hatching on what was Easter Sunday, Mother Nature triumphs over asphalt.


Looks like a peaceful scene, doesn't it? This photo doesn't show the "blow your standing moto over" wind that I enjoyed for much of the week. Pitch your tent and park your bike accordingly.

Not a bad first day out, huh?

The Daily Special (Pumpkin Feta Strudel)

2011-05-15T15:32:00.017-07:00

I've been wanting to make my own strudel dough (primarily because I am too lazy to go to the store and buy phyllo), I had a little bit of CSA pumpkin left in my freezer, and it's that time of year when I try to clear such odds and ends out of said icebox, so...

Stretching the dough. Not quite thin enough yet in this photo, but I was pushing my luck messing with the camera. This thinner than paper dough dries out fast, especially in the land of single digit humidity. Put the camera away! Keep stretching!

You can use pre-made frozen phyllo dough to wrap your strudel, if you like. This would make you a normal person, unlike the kitchen freak that I am*. In either case, lay out your dough, brush with melted butter (clarified, if you are so inspired), spread on some of the pumpkin you cooked and froze this fall (first drain it and cook it again to ensure it's really dry**, then let it cool), sprinkle with crumbled feta, perhaps some pepper, oregano, and pine nuts if that sounds good to you, roll it up like a super-sized Austrian burrito (folding in the sides of the dough as well), brushing with more butter as you go, give the final product a final brush, and bake at 400 in the upper portion of your oven for 30 minutes or so. I used a scant two cups of filling for a 12 inch roll. You need less than you think. Or I needed less than I thought. The key in this process is speed. Don't worry how the roll looks, don't worry about any holes in the dough, just work fast enough to finish the whole process before the leaves of dough dry out. The crispy crunch is to be enjoyed after it's baked, not before!

Oh, aren't you clever? Make up your own filling, just be sure it's not too soupy. I think an apricot one will appear in my household very, very soon. I take that back. I am going to make a miniature apricot one from the left over dough scraps as soon as I hit the "publish" button on this post. Apricots from this source .

I have a little extra feta on the side. The strudel needed a bit more. It was an experiment***, okay?

* If you are a kitchen freak, then make your own strudel dough. It's magic with gluten, and super fun and easy. I followed a recipe by Rose Levy Beranbaum. More or less.

** A little insurance against a too wet filling. Use the traditional "brusel." Brown a few tablespoons of bread crumbs in a pat of butter, let cool, and sprinkle half of them on the dough where your filling will go, then the other half on top of your filling.

***An experiment. Meaning I'd do it a little differently next time. I'd do it the way I wrote it in this post! So yes, I am, basically, giving you an untested recipe. In reality, I mixed the pumpkin, seasonings and (not enough) feta together and then spread it on the dough. And I only thought of the pine nuts after the fact.

Boeing 911?

2011-05-05T19:00:00.006-07:00

This post isn’t really about motorcycles or food, although in light of my last post, it seems appropriate. In any case, I guess it’s covered under my blog subtitle disclaimer, “Occasional Other Matters.”

I’m off to another animal rescue in glorious motorcycle country!

“Yay!” [grabs helmet]

I have only five days total, and I and need get to and from the flooding located near those roads in northern Arkansas I’ve heard so much about?

“Oh.” [sets down helmet and cashes in frequent flier miles]

Sadly, my transport this time is a Boeing 757, not my Ducati M696.

I’m off to take care of the many animals displaced by what is the worst flooding of the lower Mississippi in decades. Almost 500 animals so far and still counting…

I doubt there will be any fine dining experiences over the next few days, but I can tell you one thing. I’m not taking in any airport food on my way out. I’m hastily packing a lunch, thank you very much.

Wish me “Dogspeed!”

Raspberry turnovers raided from freezer not shown.

Cheese melt with garlicky spicy greens:
Melt some cheddar on toast. Use nice crusty hard rolls or French bread, okay? Wilt some fresh greens (i.e. cook them briefly on medium heat in only the water clinging to them after washing, just until they are wilted – you can use spinach, Swiss chard, whatever you’ve got; if using frozen, just defrost but it won't be as good), squeeze them dry without burning yourself, chop them and toss them with olive oil, and lots of crushed red pepper and mashed raw garlic. Heap generously upon your sandwich. Yum.

Carrot salad:
In its most basic form, grate carrots, and toss with a dressing of minced onions, olive oil, perhaps a squirt of mustard, an acid (I like lemon juice in this case but you can use any sort of vinegar*) salt, pepper, and garnish with fresh parsley if you’ve got some. (You need a really sharp knife to chop parsley effectively, and it needs to be dry, so plan accordingly when you wash it.) Extra virgin olive oil is nice, but good heavens, don’t let it stop you from cooking if you can’t afford it. Despite all that says otherwise, the world will not get sucked into a black hole if you opt for “pure” olive oil instead. The correct proportion of oil to vinegar/lemon juice varies according to who you ask, and ultimately should be determined by you! Start with one part acid to three parts oil or so, and adjust from there. I don’t really count, so I have no idea what I do. Change your salad however you like – add grated parsnips (as I have done this time), or grated raw turnips, or grated fennel (I did that last time, but I’m saving my fennel for fennel sorbet this time, and this time I hope all my fingers will remain intact, unlike what I described here), or add cumin and saffron (dissolved in tablespoon or two of liquid) and raisins and call it Moroccan. Let the contents of your fridge inspire you!

*Can I say something about balsamic vinegar right now? When making a salad dressing, please do not use it exclusively. Think of it as a seasoning, and use a splash in additional to the primary vinegar you choose. This has been a public service announcement designed to rid the world of sickly sweet and over-balsamicasized vinaigrettes. Thank you for your compliance.

Ducati 911

2011-04-30T09:34:00.001-07:00

My Ducati M696 and I did a little nine-one-one* last month. As a Certified Veterinary Technician (no longer practicing regularly, thanks to my, uhhh, busy flute career) and a volunteer** with the Emergency Animal Rescue Service (EARS) of the United Animal Nations (UAN), I do occasionally get deployed for various emergency animal operations. You know, ya got your hurricanes, your wild fires… stuff like that. Fueled with gas station hot dogs, ice cream sandwiches and 91 octane, I put my plans to ride to Big Bend National Park on hold, and rode out to St. Johns, AZ, instead. (I’ll be honest here, the ride to St. Johns beats the ride to Big Bend by a long shot, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice.)

Although my four wheeled vehicles have had a nasty habit of breaking down in Salt River Canyon in the past, it was, surprisingly, my first go through this area on a motorcycle. The Duc and I made it through with flying colors!

A hazy day in Salt River Canyon

The Duc, loaded up, now that I finally have luggage capability. This time the usual camping gear was replaced with rescue volunteer supplies and equipment.

This latest case was different from the standard natural disaster. In a covert operation, the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS) rescued approximately 250 animals from an animal hoarding situation. Animal hoarding is tough to see and understand. For all the hoarders’ good intentions, their animals suffer, often tragically so, and, in every such situation, some animals do indeed die from neglect. HSUS found animals living in filthy conditions (think knee deep in poop), tied up, crammed in pens, trailers and abandoned vehicles without the basic necessities of food and water.*** Almost all of those rescued needed medical attention and very few were used to interaction with humans. This lack of "socialization" severely complicated both the rescue efforts and the required veterinary exam and legal documentation of each individual animal. The task of the UAN EARS was to set up and run a temporary shelter until the ownership of the animals could legally be transferred to the Apache County’s Sheriff’s Office, care for the animals, and begin to socialize them in preparation for future adoption. Many thanks to one of UAN’s official photographers for this operation, Marcia Goodman, for letting me share a few photos with you.

Although "Daisy" the pig was so underweight she could not withstand the anesthesia needed to care for her crippling overgrown hooves, she was at least the size of the love seat in my living room.

I am weirdly afraid of geese, primarily because I don't "speak goose." If you can't correctly interpret animal body language, you are at a distinct disadvantage. I opted for "immersion therapy" and made a point to be "Click" and "Clack's" caretaker each day. You may laugh, but you lock yourself in a small pen with hissing geese and see how you feel.

There were many pictures of adorable pups that I could have chosen, but the heart operates in mysterious ways, and "Baxter" was particularly special to me. Be well, Baxter!

The animals’ transformation over the course of their stay at our shelter was true testament to the power of kindness. Seeing a dog once snarling and snapping in its perceived self defense, or, quite literally, hiding with its head pressed into a corner for days gradually learn to trust and connect with us is a powerful, gratifying and humbling experience. It's difficult for me, not knowing the end of each individual animal's story, after developing my own relationship with them over the course of my week there. As I look at the media about this case (some of which is linked below), I recognize each animal - its personality, its quirks, the difficulties and successes I had, and remember fondly the time I spent with it. Writing this post almost a full month after my "tour of duty" brings on a few unexpected tears. I guess the bittersweet leash that connects my heart across the miles to these animals is more durable than I thought.

As I write, these rescued animals are being distributed to shelters across the western US for adoption, to begin a new and better life. Let me take this moment to beg you, if you want to acquire a pet, please adopt one from your local shelter. If you desire a certain breed, then inquire with one of the many breed specific rescue organizations. Don't bolster demand and contribute to pet overpopulation. Save one of the many lives that, right here, right now, need saving. You really are, as they say, either part of the problem or part of the solution. You choose.

Hard work makes for some very hungry volunteers. We were well fed during out stay, with local restaurants kindly donating lunches daily. Many thanks go to “Speedy B’s” and “Iggy’s Country Cookin’” for their generosity and hearty meals, and to the many members of the community who brought us snacks and needed supplies. Local veterinarians and staff donated their time and medical supplies, and PetSmart Charities unloaded an entire 18 wheeler of fencing, food, bowls, leashes, and everything else one needs to set up an animal shelter. The sheriff's office provided important security, and the local animal control lent a hand as well. The cast of characters in this operation ran deep.

After a few too many snacks, I crave plants!

You should know by now that any proper touring motorcyclist will opt for the long way home, especially if it involves the Coronado Scenic Byway (AZ 191), that glorious 100 mile stretch of twisty turny road I told you about at the end of this post. Having just had two days of instruction at the track the week prior, I had high expectations for fun. The gentle turns between Alpine and Hannagan Meadow give the sportin’ rider a chance to warm up both tires and brain. Just south of Hannagan Meadow, the game is on, with the turns becoming tighter, more challenging, and more fun. I dug into that first good corner with gusto and…

…sand trap! Right in that first bend, cleverly positioned such that, if not competently negotiated, the governing laws of physics would likely send motorcycle and rider over the edge of an impressive cliff. My helmet bore witness to some colorful vocabulary, but I am grateful for good instruction, good luck, and good instincts. My ride home that day quickly became a skills test of road hazard management. Sand, gravel, fallen rocks, fresh oil (and the people applying it), flocks of turkeys, leaping deer, herds of cattle (and accompanying slippery poop), all directly in my path, were stern reminders that street riding is about keepin’ it real.

My route. My sloppy photoshopping pretty much obliterated the twisties, so you'll have to take my word for it.

Further Reading about this case:
HSUS video of the initial seizure
Initial press release on the situation as published by UAN
General UAN blog link. Scroll through for all updates and details about this case, and others as they occur.
Specific UAN Blog post featuring some of my work that week
UAN Facebook page - updates and lots of photos

* I was going to use a clever play on words here, using the Ducati model 911 I was so sure existed. But, duh, the 911 is a Porsche, not a Ducati, and even Porsches have two too many wheels, so why bother?
** Anyone can volunteer! You need not be licensed or even work in an animal health care field.
*** Conditions that, in some respects, reminded me of those in a CAFO ("Confined Animal Feeding Operation," aka factory farm, except in this case, minus the food and water.) Why so many people find this acceptable treatment for food animals, yet rightfully horrifying for pets is really, really hard to grasp. It's a matter of education and compartmentalization, I guess. But all this is an entirely different discussion. Remember though, our choices, without question, once again make us part of the problem or part of the solution. Consider the choices we make in this regard over the course of a day, a week, a month. What side of the equation does your sum total fall on? Think about it, and choose knowingly.

The Track Princess Goes Back to School

2011-04-23T13:13:00.037-07:00

New school supplies in hand, I recently went back to the featured locale of my “Twelfth Day of Christmas," the Inde Motorsports Ranch, this time for some formal instruction at the Peris Riding School.

I got to play the role of Track Princess yet again, being the guest of my former employer-now-friend-now-“benefactor”. And again, this wasn’t the mob of riders I had fully expected, but a class of perhaps ten or fifteen really serious riders and racers from all over the US and Canada. Yup, all those top notch riders and… me. Hah!* I’m not kidding about that “Track Princess” part.


The Princess and her Ride

The line up gets a spot check.

The two day course was part classroom time (from which I pilfered the lean angle photo I used here) and part riding. Aside from the obvious thrill of getting to zoom around a racetrack unimpeded**, some other class features included getting yourself video taped for a lap (cool!) and having it critiqued in front of the class (groan!), a detailed talk about motorcycle suspension and how it affects your riding by guru Dave Ciesielski (who couldn’t bear to let me leave my folding mirrors on while I was riding), having the expertise of the Evan Steele Performance team at your disposal (they adjusted my rear brake lever so it would stop dragging on the ground when I cornered - I’d hate to catch the rear brake accidentally when I wasn’t meaning to, can you blame me?), and…

AND…

…a bomber thrill ride as pillion with Top Ten AMA Professional Racer Chris Peris! I can’t think of a more effective way to redefine “fast.” It went something like this:

Chris: “Okay, first we’ll go on a slow lap..”

Me (in anticipation): Hop, hop, bounce, bounce

Chris: “… then we’ll take a lap at speed.”

Me: “Wahooooyeehaaaaaaa!”

Chris: [continues to give instruction]

Me: [continues to hop and whoop senselessly]

I joyously leap on the back of the BMW S1000RR (provided, I think, by Iron Horse Motorcycles). I’m an expert pillion, but, but… the seat is the size of a basil leaf (maybe) and perched waaaaay up high. And there’s nothing, I repeat, NOTHING to hold on to. We take off and hit the long straightaway.

“Yaaaaaahoooooyoooowwwwwwwfffffast!!” (Wasn’t this going to be the slow lap?)

Brake hard at the end of the straightaway in preparation for the first turn. The pegs fold up under my feet. Now I’ve got nuthin’ ‘cept the gas tank to brace against.

“UMMMPH!”

And through 21 turns and all the straights in between, with my head being practically blown off my neck:

“WheeeeeeeUMPHwooooooooGARUMPHyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaBUMP”

Second lap. Oh. I see. That WAS the slow lap. This one is much, much faster.

“Yoooooowheeeeeeeeeeeyaaaaaabababbababbb!!”

Apologies to Chris for screaming in his ear.

Here I am, trying (and failing) to "be cool" before hopping aboard.

Yes, this was the thrill ride of a lifetime on a two-wheeled rocket ship. And as crazy fun-terrifying as it was (think high-dive or roller coaster, then multiply both thrill and fear factors by ten thousand), there wasn’t a lot of learning going on when you are busy hooting and hollering. I did have the presence of mind to ask if we could go on a “Paula-Speed” lap as well, and Chris obliged. The point being, that while I understand the concepts we had been learning about, I needed to see how they could be applied at my pace. So we went for two actual slow laps where he patiently talked through each turn for me.

I knew my non-motorcycle riding friends would ask me, so I made a point to find out. (Riders know that the last thing you’re doing while riding at the track is looking at your speedo.) How fast did we go? Well, Chris wasn’t riding his actual racing bike, so it was just a piddling 160 mph or so. Yawn, right?

After my ride, it took a good 45 minutes of recovery time before my heart stopped pounding and my legs stopped wobbling and I could consider getting back on my own bike. Let me point out here that there were plenty of fast riders out there that said “No. Way.” when presented with this opportunity. Just sayin’.


Teacher and me!

Some of the skills we worked on were the “lines” (the exact path around each corner), body position (hanging your body off the side of the bike when cornering), being either on the gas or on the brakes at all times (never in between), and trail braking all the way into the apex of the turns. The first three concepts I pretty much get. I mean, not at 160mph, but I can do them at my own level. But braking all the way to the apex of the turn? Yo, yo, THAT was new and crazy for me. I was taught to brake until you begin to turn, then hit the throttle. But today’s sport bikes are even more agile when the front wheel is carrying some extra weight, an effect easily created with a touch of your front brake. I’ve got some learning to do.

We enjoyed dinner in the kitchen I showed to you in my last track post. Simple, hearty and good – barbecued chicken (our chef for the evening gets two thumbs up for having the good sense to use dark meat), corn on the cob, rolls, beans, salsa and a cold beer or two. (The beer only comes out after the bikes are safely put away.)

* As before, gratitude to every single person there for making me feel welcome in a pack way beyond my skill level. It was a fantastic learning environment, and again, I came away feeling good about my riding ability, despite the advanced company I was keeping. Respect to all the excellent riders I met.

**Well, there were some impediments for some folks. “Get offs” (aka crashes) do happen, and there were three over the course of the two days. Two riders got away with a few curse words and banged up bikes, but my friend managed to do in six ribs, his pelvis, clavicle and scapula. All in good fun, right? (???) Oy, crashing is for boys. I think I'm going to bring him some croissants. He needs some fattening up, anyway.

A Rainbow in My Kitchen

2011-04-22T22:58:00.007-07:00

You can’t help but think about color when you’re painting your living room. Or cooking with beets. In an orange and cobalt blue kitchen. All of which I did this week. My living room walls are now the color of a brown egg. Brown eggs are anything but plain. Take a look next time you open up a carton. Each one varies slightly with differing tones of pink, orange and gold beneath what we think of as brown. Eggs laid by chickens that actually eat and live as chickens should are a thing of glory. Brilliant orange rather than the pallid yellow of eggs lain by factory farmed (and extraordinarily cruelly treated) laying hens, their yolks always have me oohing and aahing at the electric color they lend to my crepes, my omelettes, my fresh pasta.

I just made a chocolate beet cake. Yes, a chocolate beet cake. The ingredients had as much color as an electric blue Suzuki, a neon green Kawasaki, or, of course, a 1930's lipstick red Ducati.

In motorcycle related news, I’m leaving on a little trip. When I look at the backlog of blog posts I have half written, I wonder if I’ll ever get around to telling you about it.

Roll the credits:

Beets and eggs compliments of my beloved CSA.
Beets pureed with my German Wheels. I can’t believe I ever lived without them. I don’t need no stinkin’ food processor.
Recipe compliments of Ross Burden (well almost, I changed a few things), chosen after exhaustive research consisting of perhaps five mouse clicks. I had my reasons, actually, but I don’t feel like typing out the higher culinary math involved in that decision right now. I’d rather go eat a piece of cake.
Sour cream ganache (of my own design) not shown.
Happy Earth Day! How lovely to celebrate mother nature's edible colors.

Croissant Postscript

2011-04-19T23:43:00.006-07:00

I had one sharp-eyed reader of my Croissant Daily Special post object to the photo. He thinks the Ducati cup should continue to be displayed only in black and white, as in this post.

So here it is, duly (and hastily) amended.

The Daily Special: Croissants

2011-04-19T09:29:00.010-07:00

I’ve noticed that whenever I do post a recipe (which is rare, I know), it’s usually for a dish I’ve unthinkingly concocted in 10 minutes or less, about which I think as I sit down to eat, “Huh. Not bad for not paying attention.” This is not to say that I don’t enjoy spending two days roasting bones in order to make beef stock to then make a brown sauce simmered for hours to go with a pastry encased mushroom stuffed beef Wellington. Or a different two days individually roasting and frying a multitude of aromatics and chiles, grinding them each by hand to make Thai roasted chiles in oil, then making my own coconut cream by cracking open a coconut, prying out the meat, shredding it, squeezing the flesh in water the traditional minimum of 89 times and collecting the sweet smooth cream that rises to the top of the mixture, both of which are then used (along with other ingredients) to make the best sate sauce you’ve ever imagined. Or spending a half day pulling each nub off of dried posole grains so it “blooms” properly in that cozy winter stew. Or peeling a mountain of fava beans. Twice. First the pods, then each individual bean. I just never write about that stuff, I don’t know why.

Yesterday morning I woke up and decided to make croissants. If I started at that very moment, I might have them for a late night snack. It’s a 10-12 hour project, although in this case, most of that time the dough is rising or resting and you are doing something else. Like working on your Kawasaki. Or painting your living room. (Both of which I’m doing this week.)

Croissants are an ingenious trick of culinary origami. With just a few simple foldings of yeast dough spread with butter, you end up with 54 thin layers of butter separated by 55 thin layers of dough. With a slightly more ornate folding system you can make fine puff pastry – 729 layers of butter lovingly sandwiched between 730 layers of dough. So you see, the name "mille-feuille" ("thousand leaves") is not too far off the mark. In case you were wondering. Anyway, as your pastry cooks, the water in the butter turns to steam, puffing up and separating those ever-so-thin layer of dough. What that means to you and me is light, buttery, flaky goodness on our breakfast plates. Clever, huh?

Les croissants avec le latte. How cross cultural of me. Yes. I had two. What of it?

Here’s the recipe:
Go to your public library and check out “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” by Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. Turn to page 96 of Volume Two and follow the directions printed there. It’s that easy.*   Well, almost. Don’t use 1 1/2 tsp salt. Use only one tsp. Just my opinion, but I thought I’d pass it on.

Really, if you are at all serious about learning to cook, this is the one cookbook you should actually own. Anything else is, you know, gravy. Over two decades ago I bought my own copy at a bookstore in Cambridge. I probably had to skip dinner for a week to afford it. (It’s not expensive, it’s just that pesky starving artist budget of mine.) It was my only cookbook for a good five years thereafter. Fumble your way through as I did, and you will learn everything you need to know.** You’ll know why one does this, why one does that, and soon find yourself able to improvise at will with whatever is in your refrigerator.   Funny, I rarely pull it (or any cookbook) out of the shelf now, but I use what I learned in it for every meal. Will you feel as awkward as I do trying to get my back wheel back on after a tire change without having someone else hold everything in line as I slip in the axle? Probably. At first. But no kitchen toy or extra set of hands replaces the skills and knowledge you can not help but learn from these absolute timeless masterpieces.

* A few tips about working with butter in pastry. Slow and steady does not win the race. Haste makes flaky pastry. Be quick about everything you do, forgoing any urge to make things neat. Leave your tape measure in the toolbox. The butter needs to stay quite cool as you work. Although it is by no means necessary, you can spring for “European style” butter. Its lower water content makes it more malleable (i.e. easier to bend to your will) when cold. Don’t be a hero and try to do this in a 95 degree kitchen. That’s akin to, oh, I dunno, tightening bolts using the wrong torque wrench. You make do, but without experience… well, you all know it can end badly. I don’t have much of a choice in the matter with regards to kitchen temperature, living in Tucson without the aid of air conditioning, and I have been known to do delicate chocolate work with one hand as I balance a heavy cake with the other in front of the open refrigerator.    Yesterday, my kitchen was a good 90 degrees with the western sun blasting right onto my counters. I had 15 seconds working time, max, to form each croissant before it got too soft and after that the downhill slope is fast and steep. “Real” pastry kitchens are climate controlled to arctic conditions. Be sure to save the step where you beat the butter with a rolling pin for the moment you’re about to start hauling tools at the fence in the the back yard because you can’t reach the place where the hose clamp between the fuel filter and carburetor is supposed to go. It’s much more productive than breaking that expensive torque wrench.

** Yes, yes, there’s that movie, but I’ve mentioned that already once before. I did laugh, though, as I caught myself reciting, word for word, after all those years, bits of “Mastering the Art…” along with the protagonist during the movie.

Shoe shopping! (A Rare Feat)

2011-04-12T17:57:00.003-07:00

Even a girl with a defective shopping gene can enjoy a splurge on some fine Italian footwear when she’s down, no?

The boots I mentioned in the fine print of this post. Sidi Vertigo Lei. I couldn't find them with the red detailing, only pink. pbbbbbbt

The Twelve Days of Christmas: An Index

2011-04-08T11:47:00.003-07:00

Can I be done with this Twelve Days thing, already??

I've made a little index page, since my Twelve Days of Christmas story was interspersed with other posts. It gave me an excuse to spend four hours learning to merge photos in Photoshop. I found it doesn't work very well unless you use a tripod when taking the photos. I don't own a tripod. But I do have a ceiling fan pull chain conveniently located directly over the table I was using to lay out the maps. Line up camera with pull chain and... close enough.

Approximate route. Approximate because I'm trying to remember it over three months after the fact. Still, I think I got it right.

Day One: Shopping (Blech!)
Gearing up.

Days Two and Three: Floods and Astronomical Phenomena at Chiricahua N. P. and Mount Graham
Fooling Mother Nature.

Day Four: Desert Rain Cafe and Kofa National Wildlife Refuge
Making some tracks.

Day Five: Route 66
Unexpected traffic in an unexpected place.

Day Six: Lake Mead, Valley of Fire
Pleasant surprise.

Day Six: Vegas and Shining Stars of Another Kind - Christmas Dinner
Spending a week's pay on dinner.

Day Seven: Arrival - Death Valley
The other end of the dining spectrum.

Day Eight: Death Valley Blitz
We've got just one day, but half the roads are closed, anyway.

Day Nine: Headed Home
Mother Nature gets the last laugh.

Day Ten: Happy New Year!
Eating in.

Day Eleven: Kitt Peak Consolation Prize
Original Day Twelve plans snowed out.

Day Twelve: Ducati Epilogue!
I knew this was gonna be fun, but holy lean angle, people.

Well then. I guess it's about time I start my second "What I Did Last Summer" series.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-04-07T15:59:00.010-07:00

Day Twelve: Track Day!

Well, Merry Christmas to me, the stars have aligned themselves yet again. I've been wanting to ride on a track for ages, but the opportunity has eluded me until now. Not only is it a big hit to this starving artist's budget, but "track days" seem to be designed to directly conflict with the working classical musician's schedule. A friend (former employer, actually) recently became a lifetime member of the Inde Motorsports Ranch near Willcox, AZ. What this means to you and me is that he can ride there whenever he feels like it, AND he can bring a guest (that's me!) for free. So, instead of paying several hundreds of dollars to ride on the track with, oh, a zillion other people, I paid nothing, had my bike transported in the luxury accommodations of the Iron Horse BMW enclosed multibike trailer, and shared the entire track with oh, maybe 10 other riders at most. I am the Track Princess!

Here's the track. 2.75 miles and 21 turns. What's not to like?

No traffic, road surface issues or grumpy law enforcement to worry about, plus lots of safe run off in the event of a miscalculation all add up to... zoom zoom!

The picture looks so simple, but without a map in your head, it's easy to feel a bit lost on your first few laps. Those little secondary lines don't look so secondary when you're out there, and the map doesn't show the slight elevation changes. The hills are just steep enough to leave you wondering what's coming next until you have the circuit memorized in your head. And that's all part of the fun!

Someone snapped this during my "pre-flight" check.

Look at all the pretty bikes!

Although I have nothing to compare it to, I'm told this is a pretty nice facility as far as tracks go. I'm inclined to believe it. Located near Chiricahau National Monument and the Willcox Playa Wildlife Area (a popular area to view sandhill cranes, among other birds), the vistas are beautiful (not that you're gazing at scenery while racing around the track, or anything). There's an observation tower with a bar (I assume those imbibing are limiting themselves to watching, not riding or driving), showers (stocked with fluffy towels and scented bath products), classroom facilities including flat screen video equipment and a glass topped table made from a Ford Cosworth engine, a pretty little dining patio with a very nice barbecue and garden sculptures...

and...

AND...

...a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. Fully equipped with the best of the best. Check out THIS baby. Its brakes and 0-60 time rival that of many of the machines out on the asphalt here today. Serious cooks know exactly what I'm talking about. I heard a rumor that the chef gets a break on the cost of class time, so I'll be back, armed, and ready to duel for that privilege.

I was in fine company - owners of motorcycle dealerships, riding coaches and real live racers! They were friendly and helpful, showing me the map and explaining the strategy for each turn (the "delayed apex" line one uses for turns on the street no longer applies!) and taking me on "sight laps" of the track. They were graciously complimentary of my riding skills, but served up some deserved friendly fire at my footwear* (hiking boots, the only real weak spot in my suit of armor). And although they could pass me at unthinkable speeds, I ended the day feeling good about my ability.

Part of the fun of riding a motorcycle (especially on the track) is that in your mind, you look very, very cool. Something like this...

That's "FOG," the kind EX500-er who bailed me out in this post by mailing me valve cover bolts for my Kawasaki.

or even this...

I'll explain where I got this photo later.

Of course, you and I know better. I'll never look like those photos. My bike is red!

Chances are, I looked more along the lines of this...

Me (and Kawi), touring in Colorado.

To be fair, that's not quite right either. If you know where to look, there is some physical evidence on my motorcycle that suggests I was somewhere between the two.

Despite my inexperience in this new riding environment, I do think I set at least one record...

Happy, Happy Track Princess!

...the one for biggest smile!

*Tracks often offer formal instruction with professional riders, and each school has its own safety gear requirements. I'm going to have to buy some real motorcycle boots for the class offered at Inde. More shopping. Blech.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-04-06T20:31:00.013-07:00

Day Eleven: Kitt Peak and Carne Asada
Although we made it home on schedule, the rain we rode through to do so turned out to be snow in other places. The crown jewel of our trip was snowed out! Well, not quite. I got to enjoy it myself a week or two later, and I reserve the right to call it “Day Twelve” of my adventure.

We consoled ourselves with a trip up Kitt Peak and an exploration of South Tucson’s carne asada tacos and Sonoran hot dogs. Tucson swims knee-deep in a sloppy, saucy, cheesy muck of Tex-Mex combination plates (not that there's anything wrong with that, although, in my opinion, the pinnacle of Sonoran cuisine is its flour tortilla - paper thin, rich, delicious and thankfully not at all like the cardboard that, for decades, kept me wondering what the big deal was with Mexican food), but it took me more than a decade of living here to find Guero Canelo and BK Carne Asada, two of the better places to find proper carne asada tacos. Truth be told, I wasn’t really looking, for most of my time here, but now that I’ve found them, I can’t imagine not having this vital piece of information.

A View from the Cockpit

2011-04-05T17:23:00.001-07:00

I looked up from my work just now* and this is exactly what I saw. It made me smile. And stop to snap a photo.

Today’s CSA haul, in mid-prep. Every Tuesday is Christmas! I live in a pretty small house. The music stand is in the bedroom, and from there I have a pretty good view of the kitchen.

*"Just now" meaning two weeks ago. Today's CSA pick up reminded me that I wrote this post two weeks ago and never published it.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-20T15:46:00.010-07:00

Day Ten: Ringing in the New Year
Happy New Year! I wanted a celebratory dinner, minus the work or expense. One of my favorite solutions to that conundrum is lobster. Buying live lobsters is pricier, than say, ramen, I suppose, but certainly cheaper than a fancy meal out. Add a few more simple courses and you have an elegant meal that really doesn’t take much time or effort to prepare at all. Once again, I won’t take credit for the food photography. Might as well cook and let someone else man the shutter button.

Spinach and sausage bruschetta with Gnarly Head Red Zinfandel. Because that's what was in the house.

Lobster and garlic bread. And champagne, of course. The order of wines doesn't quite make sense, but sometimes you gotta break the rules.

I'm one of those people who eats the salad after the main course.

My French heritage does not allow me to skip the cheese course. Back to more Gnarly Head Zin.

And my sweet tooth doesn't allow me to skip dessert, especially after a special meal. I made a tarte Tatin with sour cream whipped cream. It looked kind of pretty before we attempted to serve it, but by that point, I think the wine and champagne were hindering both our serving and photography efforts. It's hard to tell, but at that moment I was tipsily demonstrating my whipped cream quenelle making technique. Espresso not shown.

The next day, we took a short hike up the Brown Mountain trail in the Tucson Mountains. Just enough to stretch the legs, but not too much exertion after last night’s excesses.

And that night, in an Italian take on the Chinese tradition of long noodles for good luck in the New Year, I rolled out some pasta and graced it with a sundried tomato gorgonzola sauce made from leftover cheese from the night before.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-19T14:37:00.017-07:00

Day Nine*: Headed Home

Time to head home for our big finale on the 30th and 31st. On our way out of Death Valley we stopped at the Goldwell Open Air Art Museum (“Art where it seemingly shouldn’t be…”) in the ghost town of Rhyolite, NV.

Part of the Last Supper (1984) by Charles Albert Szulkalski

Mosaic Couch

The rest of the day was unremarkable, but for the cutest little campsite ever at Burro Creek Campground between Wikieup and Nothing (I didn’t make that up), AZ. Alas, we did not get to enjoy it. We arrived well after dark, and awoke to rain. Rain. Rain. Cold, cold rain. By the time we traveled the only 60 miles to Wickenburg, we were chilled to the bone, and looking darn wet. The diners at the Horse Shoe Cafe (one of the 10 best diners according to AZ Highways magazine) all had a good laugh at our expense when we walked in. I can’t say the food was the best I’d ever eaten, but it was hearty and tasty and the folks couldn’t have been more welcoming. We holed up there for several hours, drinking eternal refills of hot coffee, eating an enormous breakfast of omelets and biscuits, while watching the weather radar and strategizing the best route home.

Turns out there was no best route home. Mother nature got the last laugh, and we finally got rained on for real. Having survived a number of rides in ugly weather both as rider and passenger, this easily won the prize for most miserable. Serves us right for gloating about our earlier successes. Rain, rain, and more cold cold, rain for 200 miles. In almost (but not quite, thankfully) freezing weather. And stuck in traffic. Twice. Which ended up meaning cold, cold rain and more cold rain in the dark, dark, dark. I paid a lot for my rain suit and it was worth every penny. But I was still pouring out icy water out of my boots and my “waterproof” gloves (hah!) at gas stops. My riding partner… well his rain suit wasn’t quite so impervious. I think he’s finally a believer in the real deal.

* You’re right. This is really two days. I’m fudging. Since my “Day One,” really wasn’t part of the journey, I had to enact a bit of poetic license to get the finally tally to read twelve.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-18T14:53:00.002-07:00

Day Eight: Death Valley Blitz
Death Valley: one of the hottest and driest places on the entire planet. Yet when we arrived, about half of the roads were closed due to flooding caused by the rains we had been circumventing. Many of the must see places on our hit list were out of reach, but we still had plenty to do. Besides, we had to get back to Tucson by the 29th for what we were hoping would be the crown jewel of the entire adventure. That left us exactly one day to see as much as we could. Arise early and go!

First stop, a walk into the mouth of Titus Canyon. Most of the rough, narrow, steep 27 mile road was closed, but visitors were allowed a short walk into this very popular narrow grey corridor of rock.

Cool, but tough to photograph.

On to a house tour of Scotty’s Castle, built with money from a non-existent gold mine. I don’t quite remember the convoluted story, but it was quite a scam.

A ride over Towne’s Pass to this eerie flat area. It feels pretty desolate here, and completely unlike the area of Scotty’s castle which was graced with large trees fed by a natural spring. Water is everything in the desert. Incidentally, though the name conjures up visions of mass fatalities, only one man died to christen the park Death Valley.

The remains of some flooding.

A ride up to Aguereberry Point, arguably one of the best overlooks in the park. Our off road capabilities came in handy here, and although I don’t really enjoy being a pillion off-road, I’ll tolerate it if there is a prize as nice as this at the end of the road. Make no mistake, it was cold up there!

The late French miner Pete Aguereberry would take friends to see his “Great View,” pictured here.

A quick stop at the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes. I’d love to spend a day here, catching the light as it glances this way and that off the dunes, changing each hour with the angle of the sun.

By the time we got to the salt flats at Badwater Basin (named for the brackish water an explorer’s mule refused to drink) it was dark. Still, it seemed a necessary journey, since it’s the official lowest place in North America (282 feet below sea level). Weird factoid: there’s actually a rare snail that lives only here, the Badwater snail. (Visions of garlicky, buttery escargot go dancing through my head...)

That evening, we considered dinner at the Furnace Creek Inn, also a short walk from our less than idyllic but oh so convenient campsite. It looked like a lovely restaurant, with a nice menu, and although it wasn’t nearly as extravagant as L’Atelier Robuchon, it was out of our usual price range, and without the trusted recommendation of the Michelin Red Guide. In the end, we decided we were not quite ready to diminish the memory of our meal two nights ago. Wouldn’t you know it? METG was in the area at the same time we were, and he later told me he gave the Inn two thumbs up after a nice breakfast of eggs Benedict and caviar!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-17T14:36:00.005-07:00

Day Seven: Arrival!
After scoring an assist (helping a Harley rider without cell phone service arrange for AAA towing) it was time for yet another meal. Our usual method of dining while motorcycle camping involves one enormous (usually inexpensive) meal out, coupled with scrounging through our sack of groceries for any other dietary needs. Since we didn’t have any casino buffet meals while in Vegas (many of which are purported to be quite good) we thought a casino buffet at the “Pahrump Nugget” was in order. This was, err…, quite a different dining experience from our meal the night before.

Gone were the dainty perfectly presented portions of exquisite luxury ingredients. Rather we piled our plates sloppily high with fried chicken, omelets, salads, fruit, bacon (I’ve never seen more bacon in my life, and I found myself wondering exactly how many pounds they served up per day, or even, per hour.) All for something along the lines of seven dollars. It was, most definitely, a quantity over quality sort of meal, which, although is not something I’d typically do at home, I’m open to when I’m only having one meal a day. Sometimes. A study in Americana. Fill ‘er up!

Our entry into Death Valley National Park Sunset Campground, (once again, running on fumes, oy) was greeted with a lovely sunset (I guess they named the campground well), what seemed like fiery busses crashing through the sky (more astronomy) and… and… a SHOWER! Sunset Campground is hardly an idyllic communing with nature – an RV parking lot gives you a better idea of where we were staying, but at that point the shower was a definite plus. As was the warm saloon across the street. Not our usual scene, but we can occasionally enjoy the perks of camping in less than pristine wilderness.

Sunset Campground provides.

Strategizing at the Corkscrew Saloon in Furnace Creek, Death Valley. It was toasty enough here that I could actually enjoy a cold beer. This practically never happens since drinking anything cold pretty much makes me hypothermic (as I’ve described before), despite living in the desert. Oddly, I don’t get the equal and opposite reaction when I drink something hot. Bummer.

Praise Jesus!

2011-03-16T15:03:00.003-07:00

When you have a Category Five homeowner situation, and the workmen in your house are dressed like this…

This guy’s name is Jesus. And he’s saving my house. Praise Jesus indeed!

… you’ve definitely earned yourself one of these…

Far and away the best margarita I’ve ever had, which means now I’ll never be able to have one anywhere else. Good thing they’re served about a three minute walk from my house.

…and a ride on one of these…

My ride still languishes in the back yard and it still hurts me more than I can say.

…in spite of everything you said here.

I got the former after a performance last week at one of Janos Wilder’s ventures*, Downtown Kitchen and Cocktails (dumb name, good cocktails and a fun, better than average bar menu – can you say “foie gras bons bons?”), but I’m still waiting for the latter.** Soon. Very soon.

* Locally famous (somewhat nationally, actually, since he's a current semifinalist for the James Beard Foundation's Outstanding Chef of the Year, actual winner TBA in May) chef who didn’t rock my world at first (take a classic, add chipotle, call it fancy southwest cuisine), but that impression was formed a good 10 years ago, and lately I’m changing my mind. Interestingly, the day after I wrote this, I saw a review of this restaurant that pretty much read my mind word for word. You can read it here.
** During the interval between when I wrote this and when it "went live," I must divulge that I did indeed go for a short ride. Stacks of music to learn be damned, I rode up Kitt Peak to use the restroom, since the only bathroom in my house has been rendered temporarily unusable, thanks to the current homeowner situation. It was the most pathetic, remedial ride ever, yet I couldn't have been happier.

The Twelve Days of Christmas (L'Atelier Robuchon Review)

2011-03-15T14:31:00.006-07:00

Day Six (Evening): Shining Stars of Another Kind
Christmas Dinner
After glorious days of riding across magnificent vistas and camping under shooting stars and lunar eclipses, cruising down “The Strip” in Las Vegas is the “re-entry” to beat all. Startlingly disconcerting doesn’t begin to describe it. But it’s a phenomenon, admittedly of a different sort, that should not be missed if one happens to be in the area. This would be a great spot for urban geocaching, and I had planned to do just that, but I think the lights affected my brain. I completely forgot. In any case, the Vegas Strip is one of this planet’s most bizarre and curious places, but also one of the best places to eat bar none.

Christmas in Vegas. Weirdest. Christmas. Ever.

So, on Christmas Day, finding herself in the midst of the Vegas hubbub, what’s a girl to do for dinner? Why, have a nine course meal at a Michelin starred restaurant, that’s what!

The Michelin Red Guide, as opposed to the Green Guide which is a different beast, is the original touring and eating manual. The first edition was published in 1900 as a way to convince people to burn through their car’s (if they had one) Michelin tires in search of fine food while touring France. These days you can buy a red guide to some twenty or more cities around the world, including Las Vegas. Although some say it’s biased to “fancy” (ie ungodly expensive) restaurants, I wouldn’t drop big bucks on dinner without consulting one first. Zagat’s guide or the equivalent US rating of AAA Diamonds just don’t match up when it comes to deciding where I’m going to plunk down a week’s pay for dinner. It’s one of the few restaurant guides that is truly anonymous with its “expert” reviewers (admittedly a vague description) rather than any old customer who might give two thumbs up just because the table cloth was clean and the service hoity-toity. Chefs live and die (quite literally in one tragic case) by their star designations. The New Yorker magazine (November 2009) has a fascinating (to me, anyway) undercover interview with a Michelin “inspector” which you can read here.

Las Vegas has a statistically decadent concentration of Michelin starred restaurants. I wanted to be fed by the man with the most Michelin stars of any chef worldwide: Joel Robuchon. His three star Vegas kitchen in the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino (“exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey,” the highest Michelin designation) was booked for weeks, and definitely wouldn’t look too highly upon our dirty touring outfits (new riding jacket not withstanding), but “L'Atelier Robuchon” (one star - “very good cuisine in its category,” and right next door) was willing to take (lots of) our money for dinner on Christmas (or any other evening). “Very good cuisine in its category” doesn’t really begin to describe it. These are really, really good eats. I’ll let the photos below do the talking. And yes, the food tasted even better than it looked.

I’m breaking my rule again, using photographs not taken by my own hand (well I stretch that for photos of me, although many of those I've taken myself as well), but it was nice to have someone else do the work while I was enjoying dinner. Plus a meal this expensive should be photographed with the most expensive camera available to you at the time.


The best seats offered a peek into the kitchen.

Roses everywhere. Hundreds of 'em.

Thank goodness we had the presence of mind not to fill up on bread. It would have been easy to do.

Foie gras parfait with port wine and parmesan foam. Or, as we called it, a "meat shake." Yum.

Lobster on a turnip slice with a (the only one I've ever liked) sweet and sour sauce. Turnips never tasted so good.

Sea scallop cooked in the shell with chive oil. Our favorite course, although it was a tough decision.

White onion tart with smoked bacon, asparagus and black truffle oil. I decided the asparagus should have been cooked about 10 seconds longer. Perhaps that's why this place has only one measly star.

Dover sole (the real thing - usually it isn't) with baby leeks and ginger. Also a strong contender for first place, in my opinion.

Lamb shoulder confit with sweet spices, couscous and black truffle. Or you could have had venison with black truffle and poivrade sauce. Between the two of us, we had both. But this photo was the better of the two.


Why not cleanse your palate with a fresh mint white rum granite with lychee fruit? Fun!


Hazelnut dacquoise, light mascarpone mousse (dessert and cheese course in one, I suppose) flavored with almond liquor.

A little coffee wraps things up.

If you’ve been counting carefully, you are correct. There are only photographs of eight courses (bread doesn’t count). We forgot to photograph course five, the egg cocotte topped with a light Jerusalem artichoke cream. Oh well. We decided it was our least favorite, anyway. Not that we were complaining.

Motorcyclists are everywhere. It’s like a secret society. One was masquerading as our bartender (we ate at the bar – some bar food, eh?). He gave us a great tip - Red Rock Canyon Conservation Area. (He got a good tip, too.) We camped there that night (taking wrong turns and finally setting up in the wee hours, on what had become a cold and rainy night), and detoured the next morning via the Red Canyon Back Country Byway before we carried on our way.

Here are a few photos snapped haphazardly from the back seat.

The rain of the night before gave way to cool clouds. I'll bet that's a rare sight. I think I could have touched them if only I had had my 36" pasta rolling pin on board. A bit much to tote on the moto, perhaps.

Our next meal couldn’t have been more different…

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-14T19:12:00.006-07:00

Day Six: Fire and Dams on Christmas Day
Lake Mead NRA, Valley of Fire State Park, Hoover Dam
Merry Christmas, Nevada! Our day started with a ride down scenic Northshore Road (Nevada Hwy 169) in Lake Mead National Recreation Area, barely making it to the Circle K in Overton without running out of gas. (What is it with guys, anyway?) Circle K was packed with people still wearing their pajamas. I didn’t quite get that, but, yanno, “whatevs.” Then a chat with fellow motorcyclists (they’re everywhere) sharing our thoughts about equipment, packing strategies and the like before we went our separate ways.

A view from Northshore Road near Lake Mead. I admit it, I'm partial to a short depth of field these days.

Thanks to the park ranger who convinced us it was worth a stop (and the fact that you have to pay the entrance fee even if you are just passing through on the state road), we came across another trip highlight: Valley of Fire State Park.

If memory serves, this is the Fire Canyon overlook.

Colors reminiscent of grocery store sherbet, non?

I took this whilst holding (rather tightly) a very expensive camera (not mine) over my head and blindly snapping away.

Petroglyphs on Atlatl Rock

On to the Hoover Dam and the newly constructed Callahan-Tillman Memorial Bridge, open for tours every day of the year except Thanksgiving and Christmas (go figure), yet completely mobbed on Christmas Day (weird, but I guess that includes us, so…). Oh my, what a picture you could get of the newest wonder of the world, the Callahan Bridge, at sunset, with lights twinkly against the dusky sky. If you were allowed to stop at that oh so perfect vantage point on the road, that is. I saw a spectacular photo exhibit of the construction of the new bypass at the Etherton Gallery in Tucson. You can view some of its photos here. If you click on only one link in my entire blog, click on this one. Who knew a construction site could be so stunningly beautiful?

If you have any doubt about the effects of the ever increasing population of the American West combined with recent drought (which, evidently, is more of a return to “normal” rather than actual drought), take a look at this picture of Lake Mead. See that white stripe along the edge of the lake? That’s the world’s biggest bathtub ring. Yup, the water level in both Lake Mead and its companion, Lake Powell, has dropped lower than ever in the past decade. Make your own conclusions about our future.*


Hoover Dam at dusk. Well not the dam itself, I guess.

A quieter corner of Lake Mead

And what did we have for Christmas Dinner? Ahh, that’s worthy of its own posting...

*Just this moment I heard a news article on the radio stating that, thanks to heavy snow in the Rockies this winter, the lake level may rise up to 20 feet by this summer. This will stave off our imminent water shortages for 1-3 years. 1-3 years? I guess that's better than now, but it doesn't sound all that great. This past summer, the lake was only at about 40% capacity, and at the time of these photos, it was at its lowest level ever. This, despite all that rain we'd been circumventing on our trip. Yikes.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-13T14:38:00.028-07:00

Day Five: Christmas Eve Traffic on Historic Route 66
After gassing up in Quartzite, AZ (weirdest and largest RV community I’ve ever seen) we found ourselves passing by Parker Dam (deepest dam in the world), Davis Dam, and the many state parks that surround them. From these sections of AZ 95 you can wave across the Colorado River to California. I regret missing a photo opportunity of the area’s wet land scenes that are so foreign to Arizona eyes. It’s hard sometimes to decide when to stop for a photo (which, when on motorcycle, takes longer than you’d think) and when to actually cover some distance. That only gives me a good excuse to go back.

What next? We happened upon a stretch of the original Route 66 (which has since been rerouted to avoid Sitgreaves Pass in the Black Hills). This “Back Country Byway” turned out to be one of the highlights of our trip. It featured not just more stunning AZ moonscapes, but a Santa Hat wearing Ducati Moto Strada rider (?!) and some decorated creosote bushes.

Christmas in the desert.

Half way between Topock and Kingman we ran into this traffic jam in Oatman, AZ. What a mess!

A closer look at this town's inhabitants.

It was easy to see why Route 66 was realigned to avoid Sitgreaves Pass in the Black Hills. This road, rightly feared in earlier days, is as steep, narrow and twisty as you could hope for, and, on the day we traversed it, covered in generous heaps of treacherous gravel thanks to those recent news making rains that we had avoided earlier. We were shamefully schooled by a FedEx delivery van hurrying through its Christmas Eve day deliveries. Ouch. That hurts the ego.

Tired, hungry and very, very cold, we reached Vegas Bay Campground at Lake Mead National Recreation Area well after dark. Dining options? It’s true, Chinese restaurants are open (and crowded) on Christmas Eve!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-03-12T11:44:00.008-07:00

Day Four: Desert Rain Cafe, Kofa National Wildlife Refuge

Go West, riders! And so we did, feeling rather pleased with our strategy for avoiding the rain. As always, victory soon gave way to growling stomachs. I’ve mentioned the Desert Rain Cafe in Sells, AZ before, with good reason. It’s a unique restaurant in many ways. Located in the capital of the Tohono O’odham Nation, it serves up meals featuring local and traditional ingredients. Think mesquite flour, prickly pear juice, cholla buds, tepary beans and the like. Although this concept isn’t particularly rare, I think the skill with which it is executed at this establishment is. It’s obvious they did their recipe development homework.

This restaurant gets my two thumbs up not just for its delicious food and interesting ingredients. It also goes far to combat the stereotypes one sees in regards to Native American cuisine. Surprise!, “Indian Fry Bread” and “Indian Tacos” aren’t traditional fare. Native Americans seem to be at greater than average risk for obesity and diabetes when exposed to modern America’s sedentary but super-sized lifestyle. Traditional ways of eating are being lost the world over, thanks in part, not just to the worldwide proliferation of fast food and the “Modern American Lifestyle”, but our acceptance of it. I like to think that the Desert Rain Cafe not only provides delicious food to its community, but more importantly, preserves and continues the thread of its rich culinary culture.

Our lunch (which was, admittedly, supersized, since we wanted to try everything):
Prickly pear glazed pork ribs with brown tepary beans, salad and cornbread. Also eaten but not shown: tepary bean and short rib stew, a “desert rain” quesadilla, tea and a mesquite oatmeal cookie. Every last bite excellent, excellent. You can peruse their current menu here.

After warming up a bit at Desert Dugs Pizza in Wellton, AZ (decent American style pizzeria, super nice owner), we planted our tent poles at Kofa National Wildlife Refuge that evening. If you're wondering, and many people do, Kofa is an acronym for the nearby King Of Arizona gold mine. We didn’t find any gold (we weren't really looking, I guess) nor did we see any of the Desert Bighorn Sheep that are refuged in the craggy mountains, but we did walk up to Palm Canyon before departing the next morning to see perhaps the only palm trees native to Arizona. You probably could get a great picture of this narrow hidden canyon, if, like Indiana Jones, you were standing in just the right spot, at the exact time of day on the exact day of the year when the sun actually shone directly upon the trees, but, well, we weren’t. Alternatively, I guess you could shoot in multiple exposures and compile them into one HDR (high dynamic range) photo. I keep telling myself I’m going to try that one of these days.

Teddy Bear Chollas catch the morning light

I've always been curious about the strange silhouettes of the mountains in this part of the state. I'm glad I got the chance to see some of them more closely.

The Daily Special (Stuffed Shells)

2011-03-02T17:50:00.008-07:00

These aren't something in my regular repertoire - I imagine them to be a bit bland and boring, but my dinner a few nights ago surprised me. I had some odds and ends in my fridge that demanded I make stuffed shells - ricotta left over from another project, a half used jar of my tomatoes, lots of greens (the spoils of my friend's fridge - she was leaving for Malaysia for two weeks so I took a few things off her hands. If it were me I would have cooked and frozen stuff before departure, but hey, in this case, I win!) and some super fancy Italian artisan bronze die pasta (Maestri Pastai Lumaconi) I found on sale quite some time ago. I kind of grumbled about this particular demand being made upon me by these ingredients at this point, because I was feeling pressed for time, about which I've recently complained. Surprise! Making and freezing a batch of stuffed pasta is really quick when you're not making your own pasta, nor hand forming individual ravioli!

If you're comfortable multi-tasking in the kitchen, you can have the spinach and ricotta prepared in the time it takes the pasta water to boil. If you want to eat sooner rather than later, and you're making your own tomato sauce from scratch, get it on the stove first, especially if it's a recipe that needs to cook down for a while.

Recipe:
Cook Spinach
Cook and squeeze dry a bag of spinach or Swiss chard or green of your choice. I think I used about 12 ounces uncooked and untrimmed. By "cook," I mean wash it, and just toss the wet spinach in a saucepan and wilt away. This takes only a couple minutes, so don't leave it unattended if this particular procedure is new to you. Let it cool, then squeeze it really, really dry and chop it up. Yes, I mean that you pick it up by fistfuls and squeeze out all the excess moisture. Alternatively, use a box of frozen spinach. Don't cook it, just thaw and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze... You'll need less (by weight) if you're using frozen spinach. I don't know what a box of spinach weighs, so you're on your own for the math. But when I picture a box, it doesn't seem all that far off. In either case, you want enough so that when you add it to the ricotta (in the next paragraph) the filling looks like my picture. Unless, of course, you want less. Or more. There's surely a point at which you've used too much, though, and the filling won't hold together. You take your chances.

Prepare Filling
Take a tub of ricotta (about a pound, more or less - don't freak out if the tub reads 15 oz., please, it's close enough) and mix it with a lot of finely grated parmesan cheese. 1/2 cup isn't enough parmesan. Use a lot, I said. And not the stuff in the green can, either. Add in your choice of seasonings: garlic (mashed up to a puree or the granulated sort), Italian herbs, onion (again, the granulated sort, or fresh minced very very teeny tiny), pepper, salt (but parmesan is salty, so watch that.), whatever. Keep adding stuff til it tastes good, but don't turn it into the culinary equivalent of plaid by using too many different seasonings. Just be generous with the quantity. This is the moment when you make the difference between yawn! and something really tasty. Stir in the spinach. Taste again. Last chance to tinker unless you're okay tasting it with raw egg. When you're happy, mix in a beaten egg.

Boil Pasta
Cook your shells until they're almost done. Maybe one minute (or less) short of being perfect. Take them out when you find yourself thinking they'd be edible as is, but could use just a wee bit longer in the pot. I had really big ones, and this recipe filled about 20 of them. I was proud of myself for guessing that exactly right. Drain and rinse with cool water. Shake 'em around so there's no water hiding in them. Easy there, don't break them. Better still, you might pick up each one and pour the water out, once they're cool enough to handle. Like I said, you take your chances. Stuff 'em with your stuff. No need to be tidy; you're getting hungry, after all.

Beg, Borrow, or Steal Tomato Sauce
Procure some tomato sauce. The amount you need depends directly on how many of those shells you plan to eat tonight, vs. how many are destined for the freezer. (Freeze them on a tray and when frozen, toss them in a ziplock. Don't freeze with the sauce, although I suppose you could freeze sauced ones in little TV dinner trays...) Use your favorite tomato sauce recipe (maybe there's already some in your freezer!), open a store bought jar, or take that open half quart of Richcrest tomatoes that you canned last summer that's in your fridge, run them through this thing directly into your saucepan (or just mash 'em up as they cook - potato masher is fine), throw in a big pat of butter and a quarter of an onion (not chopped) and cook it down, cook it down. Cook it until it's only a little more watery than you like. (The almost cooked pasta shells will absorb a little extra water when they bake.) Remove the onion. Or not. This made exactly enough sauce for me for one dinner. If you use really good tomatoes, this simple sauce will make you swoon. I've never made it with any other sort of tomatoes, and probably wouldn't.

Assemble and bake
Find a pan or dish (do I need to say oven safe?) that will snugly hold the shells you are going to eat tonight. Put a bit of sauce on the bottom, put in the shells, then pour the remaining sauce (which is most of it) on top. Cover and bake at 350 for about 30 minutes. Ouch! They're hot! Now all you need is a red and white checked table cloth, a straw bottle of Chianti and an accordion.

There are endless variations on this theme. I did it this way, because that's what the contents of my fridge offered at the moment.

I'm not really going to proofread this all that carefully before posting. If you read my last post, you know why. Maybe I will later, and at that time, I'll delete this little paragraph. Until then... you take your chances.

These shells await entry into my freezer.

A Quick Note

2011-02-25T14:17:00.034-07:00

Lest I lose one of my, oh let’s say ten readers, I thought I should post something up. Yes, I am supposedly in the midst of a “12 Days of Christmas” series, but I’m also in the midst of the busiest three months of work (possibly about to become four months) I’ve ever had in my life (why is my wallet not correspondingly full?), and although I have been doing some behind the scenes work on this series, you already know that I’ve still only put up the first two installments. Perhaps I’ll get them done by May, at which time I can start telling you about what I did last summer. Sound familiar?

Anyway, here’s what I haven’t been doing:

Posting further installments of “The 12 Days of Christmas.” Although I swear I am working on them in a piecemeal sort of way…
Posting recipes like so many of you have requested. I haven’t forgotten you.
Riding my motorcycle. My butt has touched the seat exactly twice so far in 2011. Once on my 12th Day of Christmas and the other over a month ago. To add insult to injury, the weather has been, oh, perfect. This pains me more than I can possibly say.
Cooking, aside from basic subsistence needs (if that). This is when my once fully stocked, but now beginning to dwindle somewhat freezer really shines. I had prepared for The Rapture. One exception to subsistence cooking is noted below.
Spending any time whatsoever getting the spacing between photos of this post to look right. Deal with it, okay?
Taking many photos. Most of these are archival, and those that aren't were constrained to a 10 minute work break. The archival ones probably were, too, come to think of it.
Geocaching, hiking or any other stuff I like to do for fun.

Here’s what I have been doing:

Working and practicing like mad. 10-15 services a week for numerous organizations (that's music talk for "a whole heck of a lot"), plus students (every musician has a least a few), plus meetings for various things (some good, some eye rollingly awful), plus some frequent and recurring appointments. And that doesn't count actually learning all that music (brand new stacks for each week!), most of which, by pure chance, happens to be new to me. You do know I’m a flutist by trade, right? I can’t remember if that’s come up or not. Work is a good, good thing, I keep reminding myself. But a little balance (or at least that correspondingly full wallet) would be nice about now.*
Icing down my overworked chops sampling fancy ice cream at The Hub, the new ice creamery/meatery/boozery that recently opened a short walk from my house. I efficiently combine this task with walking my dog. I love this place. I may move in and sublet out my house. Open 'til 2am every day.
Drinking caffeinated beverages to get me through the day and through insane high speed make it to the next gig on time commutes. Actually, that’s a lie. The caffeine part, not the crazy commute part. I’ve got another one of those tomorrow, and have posted Facebook messages seeking out a helicopter in order to do what even a Ducati can not. Anyway, I do very much enjoy my morning latte, but that’s typically about it as far as caffeine goes. I just said that so I could post this photo.

For the record, this is my morning coffee set up. It’s a “Brikka” pot, which is basically an old fashioned stove top moka pot (no, I don’t care what anyone says, espresso can not be made stovetop, not even by Jesus), with a funny little pressure valve inside that somewhat approximates the crema of an actual espresso.

Gazing fondly at my motorcycle stuff, since I don’t actually have time to ride the thing. Special ride coming up March 21, about which I’ll get around to writing probably some time next fall.

Making my own thin mints. That’s the cooking exception I mentioned. I did this over about four different kitchen sessions (during which I listened to recordings of music I was working on) since I didn’t have the time to make them in one sitting, (or standing, to be more accurate). Aside from the batch I burnt thanks to my kitchen timer that sporadically stops timing, they came out pretty good. Next time I’ll put a little more mint in them. And make them a wee bit crunchier. And not use Ghirardelli chocolate. I'm not a Ghirardelli fan, but this was an experiment - not something to use the expensive stuff on - and besides, it was on sale.**

Coming to terms with the fact that, on top of everything else, I have to do my taxes next week (hah!), because of the old wiring in my house (don't ask).

Here's a photo from one of the days I was stocking my freezer for this very moment. A double batch of ravioli - some pumpkin, the other mushroom. Now you know what I'm having for dinner tonight. But you don't know which variety, do you? A girl has to have some secrets.

Okay, this post took all of ten minutes. That constitutes my work break for the day. Back to it.

* I should say I am really, REALLY grateful to have all this work, and am finding it quite rewarding. Just so you know.
**Incidentally, my nails are rarely (that means never) long, much less red. It was a colliding set of unusual circumstances that led to this state. I kept looking at them with a strange sense of fascination, both good and bad. In any case, I find them so odd, and to be such a gross mis-representation of myself, that I couldn’t post these pictures without mentioning it. For the record, the nail polish has since been removed. The nails will likely break before I hit the "publish post" button.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-02-03T19:56:00.005-07:00

Days Two and Three: Floods and Astronomical Phenomena
Chiricahua National Monument and Mount Graham

Well would you look who the cat dragged in? My touring partner of years past landed some work here in Tucson. I learned to love motorcycles from the back seat of his two-wheeled BMW (since replaced by a KTM 990), and although I have my own bike now, you already know that I still enjoy being a passenger from time to time. Even so, it's been a number of years since we've been on a proper tour together. The timing could not have been better, since for the first time ever, I was staying home for the entirety of my Christmas break. I just spent any money I would have used to fly back east on a monumental shopping spree. Turns out, I was going to put my newly acquired motorcycle jacket and cold weather gear to use sooner rather than later. We decided a tour was in order, after our work for the year was complete and, once again, it was unseasonably cold weather. Not without some doubts, I decided to retake my role as pillion (passenger) and leave the Ducati at home. It seemed like a good time to get its nagging little oil leak looked at, plus the days are short in December and you know I can't ride after dark. In addition, the KTM's pilot put some real street wheels and tires on his machine (it's a dual-sport bike, meaning it's designed for both on and off road riding), and was eager to convince me that his KTM would be just as fun on the street as his BMW had been. I am a very discriminating sport-touring passenger and to date, I've been less than awed by the KTM's value to this particular pillion in regards to the sporting end of sport touring. I must be fair and add that it is, without question, a great motorcycle for its particular owner.

Our goal was Death Valley National Park. And though it's known for its extreme heat, it can get plenty cold there, too. We needed to be prepared for subfreezing temperatures (good thing I just bought that EN tested zero degree sleeping bag, huh?). Less common is rain. Surprise! All of southern California, including Death Valley, was under water, thanks to rains that were severe enough to make national news. I'll ride in the rain if need be, but it seems silly to point yourself in the direction of bad weather on purpose. Our strategy? Go east (the only dry direction) until the bad weather reached us there, then go west! Chiricahua National Monument, here we come!

We found ourselves at the lovely Massai Point for the simultaneous astronomical trifecta of a complete lunar eclipse and the Ursid meteor shower, both occurring on the the winter solstice. How many people can say that? I'll tell you. Two.

Oh celestial enchantment! Silvery, shimmery, liquid moonlight gently spooned by angels over earth, trees and rocks, over motorcycle tires, faces, and yes, even my heart - crisper and sweeter than a caramel coating, softer and dreamier than any meringue found here on our humble earth. Now, a dark chocolate shadow melting across the moon, unstoppable, dimming its sugary light - do not despair! Stars appear, ever more numerous, twinkling salt crystals on the tongue, gasp!, chile pepper hot! - one obliges to streak across the sky.

Despite all the wonderful experiences I have shared with you, the year 2010 was a painful one on so many fronts. I'll take this lifetime event in the sky as a convenient sign that 2011 will be better. Why not?

We watched the entire show in the sky, and took a little nighttime photography, too. I like to use my own photos on my blog, but when one of you has a digi point and shoot (my Canon G11 is nice and little more complicated than that, but...) and the other an expensive dSLR (Canon EOS 7D), and there is only one tri-pod between the two of you, guess which camera gets priority? I can at least say some of the photos were to a certain extent, a joint effort. "What if you shine the light more here, instead of there? What if you change this setting to that?" And so on.

The next day, a hike amongst the "hoodoos."

The the plan for the evening? Ride to Bisbee, AZ (it's only 50 or so miles, right?) and check out Cafe Roka (about which I've been curious.) Note to self: it's more like 90 miles each way, and Cafe Roka (along with practically every thing else in Bisbee) is closed on Tuesday nights. The burger at Bisbee Grill was fine, I guess (most burgers are, especially when you're as hungry as I was), but not particularly notable. The ride back to Bonita Canyon Campground was... cold. Incidentally, if you find yourself really, really cold and you think absolutely nothing will warm you up, you can always push a 600lb motorcycle around a parking lot while wearing your awkward riding gear. It's surprisingly effective, even for me. We resorted to this tactic more than once over the week.

By the next day, we knew the aforementioned weather was approaching, so it was time to head west, via one night at home in Tucson. But first, some playtime on the Mount Graham Swift Trail Parkway and a surprise drop dead run for your camera sunset like I've never seen in my life (as if the sky didn't serve up a five course dinner the previous evening). We didn't quite get to the cameras in time, but other than that, our timing for the day was good. The road up Mount Graham is closed in winter, and we may have been the very last up there for the season. Not only was it the first official day of winter, but just as we reached the bottom, it started to rain just a bit. No doubt that rain was snow higher up.

And how did the KTM fare in my estimation? It earned a star, but... Well, like I said, I'm very discriminating. More on stars later.