Destination Foods

Another Saturday, another day of feasting on college football.

As an indicator of how great the matches were, a game between two undefeated top-10 teams was NOT on national television! Thanks to the infinite insanity of ABC/EPSN, Texas vs Oklahoma State was only “good enough” for regional action. And for those of us in the Midwest otherwise forced to put up with Michigan – Michigan State, only ESPN game plan saved us from watching something that was meaningless outside the Great Lake State. But with Texas- Oklahoma, Texas Tech- Kansas, and Virginia- Georgia Tech, we had plenty of tasty appetizers leading up to the big entrée: Penn State at Ohio State in the dreaded horseshoe. JoPa’s first win in Columbus in 30 years is certainly reason to celebrate, although it sounds like the good people of State College celebrated a little too hard. Makes you wonder what would happen in the streets of Centre County if they make it to the BCS Championship and win it all.

For dessert, I had the pleasure of taking in the USC-Arizona game from the friendly confines of the USC alumni bar: the Goose Island Brew pub in Wrigleyville (that’s the suburb of Chicago surrounding Wrigley field for all you living on the left and right coasts). The game was as close as I had expected- this was the one I had picked out back in June as the mid-season league game on the road that would give Pete Carroll his annual stumble. Of course, at the time I had missed the Oregon State road trip; I have to thank the Beavers for causing Pete’s stumble a little early.

All this talk of indulging in edible delights got me feeling a little hungry and I headed down the cold and windy Chicago streets for a warm, cheesy pie of comfort. The best pizza in the world is made in Chicago, and the best pizza in Chicago is made by Giordano’s. With all due respect to devotees of Gino’s East (and I really don’t want to step in the middle of that debate), Giordano’s is the Mount Everest of Chicago-style pizza. Imagine a succulent quiche packed with mushrooms and veggies. Now imagine that instead of egg as the medium, those ingredients are suspended in hot cheese. MMMMMMMM. Healthy? Of course not. A ridiculous amount of calories ? Sure. Worth it? You betcha!

If you do go to Giordano’s, one brief word of advice: one slice of this deep dish is equivalent to 3-4 slices of “regular pizza”. Eating two pieces of Giordano’s is a very large meal. To make it worse, it can really sneak up on you. You have been thinking about it all 4 hours on your drive from Iowa. You walk into the restaurant and you are overwhelmed with the beautiful sent of baking bread and melting cheese. By the time you wait 30 minutes for your pie, you feel like you are starving. When the pizza arrives, you dive into the first slice, polishing of the plate of molten cheese with nary a thought. So you reach for a second slice – why not? You always eat at least two slices of pizza anyway. Halfway through that second slice, it hits you. Bubbles of pure cholesterol begin racing through your veins. Your arteries begin to stiffen and petrify. Your swollen stomach draws an ever larger volume of blood to support its attempt at digestion. Your brain, already pickled by the pitcher of Goose Island Ale you chugged while waiting for your pie, shrinks from the lack of circulation. Your head spins, your belly swells, and sheer force of will manages to get the last few bites into your mouth. You pay your bill, waddle to the street, collapse into a cab, and wake up 15 minutes later in front of your hotel.

And you can’t wait to do it again!

Fight On,

Hans

PS: Giordano’s is a “destination food”. A meal that you miss when you leave it and are willing to drive a little further just to get. In and Out is another perfect example of a “destination food”. I want to hear about other’s destination foods- add it to the Bark Like a Dog post.

The BCS is Back

The first BCS standings have been released and the top three are no surprise (and probably accurate). The BCS wacky ranking system is every one's favorite punching bag, and I am no exception. Goofy results from chaotic upsets and exclusion of deserving teams plague the BCS every year. But heck, it gives us something to talk about. Take this column for example. I was fresh out of heartwarming stories about perfect fall weather in the heartland or teaching my daughter to make game day pancakes or tailgating at the nation's best stadiums.

As much I love to pick on the BCS, they did get at least one thing right: holding the first rankings until half way through the season. By ignoring the essentially arbitrary pre-season ratings, unsubstantiated biases are supplanted by a reflection of the teams real performance. This season is a perfect example of the value of this system: the top 3 teams in this week's BCS rankings started the season outside the AP top 10.

When the season started, the top 4 were interchangeable between Georgia, Ohio State, USC, and Oklahoma. All of these supposed "teams of the century" now have a loss, and Georgia and Ohio State are struggling to remain relevant in the national title race. With 8 undefeated teams, BCS bashers are salivating over the possibility of continued controversy and anger at th close of the season. But there's plenty of football left to play and past years have proven that the standings will get jumbled by the most unlikely of dogs. Of course, folks in Auburn will remind everyone of 2004 when there were three undefeated teams from BCS conferences. I doubt an undefeated SEC champion will get screwed this year.

Of course, if Alabama, Texas, and Penn State do win out, then the Nitany Lions will be this year's Auburn. This should come as an outrageous injustice to the folks in State College: Geriatric JoPa has been on top of the game for decades. He has 5 undefeated seasons to be proud of. But only one national championship! No team has been snake-bit by the lack of playoff more than JoPa's Lions.

See you in Pasadena, Joe.

Fight On,

Hans

Indian Summer

"The air is perfectly quiescent and all is stillness, as if Nature, after her exertions during the Summer, were now at rest."
John Bradbury, 1817

Everyone knows what an Indian Summer is: a period of still, warm weather following a frost, preceding winter, usually in October or November. But there is considerable more controversy over the origin of the term. The May 17, 2005 USA Today published an excellent review of the subject. References to the term have been discovered as far back as 1778. At that time a French-American soldier-turned-farmer wrote,

"Sometimes the rain is followed by an interval of calm and warmth which is called the Indian Summer; its characteristics are a tranquil atmosphere and general smokiness. Up to this epoch the approaches of winter are doubtful; it arrives about the middle of November, although snows and brief freezes often occur long before that date."

-St. John de Crevecoeur, "German-flats, 17 Janvier, 1778”


Theories abound about the original intent of the term. It may be because this period was the time of harvest of the native American crops and the fruitful hunting that can take place. Or that native American raids on colonial settlements peaked during the autumn before halting for the winter. Since it is a meteorological phenomenon unique to North America, European settler’s referred to it as the “Indian’s Summer”. One source even attributed it to a maritime tradition for European ships plying the Indian Ocean trade. Ships would be loaded maximally during the fairest sailing season, the “Indian Summer”. Some ships would even have hull marks indicating load level for the period, marked “I.S.”

Connections, however, to the term “Indian Giver” are more rare. A few sources pointed out that early settlers with a disdain for the locals likely called this period the Indian Summer because it is essentially a “false” summer; implying that all things “Indian” are not to be trusted. Indian Giver refers to a person to takes a gift back after it is given. A common economic practice among native tribes would be to give a gift and then expect a gift in return as part of a trade. When their new European trading partners did not understand that the gift they received was to initiate a trade, the Indians took the gift back. A century later, the term Indian Giver took on new meaning as white negotiators promised native tribes one thing, then took it back in the next “treaty”.


Whatever the source of the term, we in Iowa are currently reveling in a gorgeous Indian Summer. The air is calm and clear, the sun is bright, and daytime highs reach well into the upper 70’s. The local restaurants brought their sidewalk tables and umbrellas back out of storage, the corn and soybeans are sitting in the fields un-harvested and drying in the sun, and the downtown streets are thronged with inebriated students. We had a week or two of cool weather: the sweaters got unpacked from the basement, the apples in the trees turned a sweet juicy red, and you could just begin to smell hints of smoke on the air as home fires were burning. Last week’s games were played in this “football weather”: warm enough for fans in sweatshirts and cool enough for players to work hard and not get overheated. But this week we are back to summer time temperatures and we don’t mind one bit.

We barbecued burgers in shorts and t-shirts and feasted on farm fresh tomatoes. We harvested dozens of bundles of basil, blending it into 40 pints of pesto to freeze and enjoy in the deepest, coldest part of winter (homemade pesto in January tastes like a little touch of summer). We played on the lawn with our babies, drinking beer and hoping the sunshine would never end. And when the sun finally did set, we headed inside to watch multiple games on two projectors: Penn State- Wisconsin, Florida- LSU, and Missouri- Oklahoma State. Drained by the hot sun, numbed by countless bottles of Sierra Nevada Porter, and engorged on chips, guacamole, and tamales, we slipped into a deep coma on the couch, dreaming of the endless summer.


Fight On,
Hans

American Pie

"So bye-bye, miss american pie.Drove my chevy to the levee,But the levee was dry.And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."this’ll be the day that I die."
- Don McLean, "American Pie"

My daughter's favorite song is American Pie. We sing it together as she goes to sleep, and no matter how fussy she is at the first few bars, she is calm and ready for sleep by the final line about the Father, Son and Holy Ghost taking the last train for the coast. Singing the refrain so many times has had me thinking of a few connections between this American classic and life here in Iowa.

For those of you who don’t know, we are currently building a new home near Coralville Lake, a man-made lake just north of Iowa City. This dam holds back the Iowa River and controls flooding in Iowa City downstream. Of course, that only works until the water gets so high that it pours over the lip of the emergency spillway. Thankfully, that has only happened twice in history: in 1993 and again last June. The resulting flood at the University of Iowa wiped out a few dozen homes and the entire arts campus: the art school, the music school, the art museum (the art was saved and moved to storage before the flood), and, worst of all, the major performing arts theatre in Iowa City (Hancher Auditorium). It may be two years before these buildings can be occupied again. Other than that, however, the flood damage was mostly contained by an army of student and local volunteers. More sandbags were used in Iowa than in the entire Katrina disaster! The sandbagging efforts were so vigorous that the filling of new bags was called off more than a day before the expected peak of the flood. In its wake, the torrent of water below the spillway uncovered a bed of fossils from the Devonian era. Today, families walk in the dry gorge to gawk at the fossils, leaving their cars in a lot that was buried by millions of gallons of water per second only a few months ago. We are certainly thankful that the levee is now dry!

Don McLean’s primary inspiration for his epic piece of Americana was the tragic death of Buddy Holly, along with Richie Valens and the Big Bopper. Iowa proudly lays claim to this unfortunate pop culture event. After performing at the Surf Ballroom (which still exists and still hosts concerts) their plane took off from the airport at Clear Lake, IA only to crash into a field nearby. If you are ever wandering the back roads of Iowa, somehow lost off the I-35 between Des Moines and Minneapolis, you can visit the memorial that stands at the crash site.

A few months back, I was wandering the back roads of Iowa just south of Clear Lake and stumbled upon the tiny hamlet of Templeton, Iowa. Templeton is well known to bootleggers and whiskey aficionados as the source of the infamous Templeton Rye Whiskey, a brand that flourished during the days of prohibition. Some claim that Templeton Rye was a favorite of Al Capone, who made sure that his lackeys smuggled enough to the resort town of Galena, IL, on the Iowa border across from Dubuque, IA. Templeton Rye was even enjoyed in some of the finest speakeasies of the Windy City itself. Today, a legal edition of the whiskey is marketed. It is an outstanding whiskey: smooth, drinkable, and finishes with a subtle overtone of spice and smoke. Or, for those less accustomed to whiskey, it tastes like battery acid.
I have been to the town- there is not much there. There is only one bar, and it doesn't sell bottles of the famed whiskey. The distillery is a plain looking alluminum warehouse on te edge of town, with no tours or a factory store. Trust me, if you want to go see how whiskey is made, go to the Highlands of Scotland, not Templeton, IA

That road trip on which I encountered Templeton took me from Sioux City to Waterloo to back home in Iowa City. Normally, the opportunity to explore new communities among the pastoral bliss of an Iowan summer would have been very appealing. But as the miles and gallons ticked by, and as the rapid roll of the “sale” window of the gas pump climbed ever higher, I longed for more efficient vehicle. Now don’t get me wrong; my Subaru Outback is no slouch at 24 MPG. And during every ice storm that rolls through in January I thank my lucky stars for that beautiful piece of all-wheel Japanese engineering. But I can tell you right now what my next car will be: The Chevy Volt. Assuming this car works as well as the “geniuses” at GM say it will, I will pretty much go from having a fuel bill to having an electrical bill (actually, I believe they have do have some genius engineers at GM- the bozos in the board room are a different matter). By being able to plug it into an outlet at home every night, the car will run silently on electrical power for most if not all of my average driving of 15 miles per day. And when I do make that occasional trip to Waterloo, Clear Lake, or, heaven forbid, Templeton, the internal combustion engine kicks in after 30 miles to charge my battery on the fly. I can’t wait!

http://money.cnn.com/2008/09/11/autos/volt_official_reveal/index.htm?cnn=yes

When we do finally finish building our house by the lake, and if the geniuses manage to get the Volt into production, I can celebrate by heading out to the dam, popping open a bottle of Templeton Rye Whiskey, and drink a toast to Iowa, Buddy Holly, and classic Rock and Roll. So, yes, I will drive my chevy to the levee and drink whiskey and rye. That will be the day that I really start living!

Fight On,

Hans