Frangipani - Skin Gear at its Best

Since scents and grooming were such a topic of conversation this week at Home on the Range,  I thought this would be a good time to share with my readers, especially the gals, the skin care I found a while back that I just love.  Like my gear and gun reviews, I will not accept free product or payment and I don't promote something that I don't personally have in my house and use.  I share because this is what I would share with my family, which now, includes you folks.  I also, would rather promote the "I DID build this" small business owner, especially an Indiana one.

Indianapolis based  Frangipani Body Products  specializes in all-natural skin care and body products and recently won a 3rd Annual Beauty with a Conscience Award.

When I first saw the products in a local magazine, I didn't know it was an Indy based company. When I checked out all the positive feedback on facebook from others with similar ages and skin types, I HAD to order some. The owner and creator of the products, Tracy Land, originally had been making them to heal her own skin, as she battled the skin condition rosacea (which I have as well) then sold it to a few friends while she worked in the Quality Assurance end of IT.

Tracy continued to develop the concept and when her position was eliminated, instead of just picking up an unemployment check, she started refining the products, producing the products and selling to the public, using word of mouth, farmer's markets, trade shows, etc.  I can only imagine how much telephoning, strategy, business planning and leg work that was. The product was a hit, and is now carried in a number of stores, including Whole Foods, in addition to being on line.

My skin has done so much better with natural products in the long term.  I'm a crazy mix of Norwegian/Swedish/Scot-Irish/Cree Indian.  My skin is very fair and cantankerous on a good day and the rosacea has made my cheeks irritated and red since grade school.  I love the Frangipani products! They may cost a bit more than what you can get at the drug store, but conventional products use a LOT of water and fillers to keep production costs down.

Frangipani products contain only plant based ingredients, and almost NO water. Only a small amount is needed so the product is quite long lasting which makes it a value.  Compared to what I spent at the Lancome and Clinique and Estee Lauder counters over the years for things that only made my skin redder and more irritated. . . a bargain!

Sure, I could go out and get buffed and abraded and bo-toxed, quick, fake fixes. I prefer a product that heals the skin in the long term, helping it glow from the inside out.

I have no desire to be 20 again, (which is like 2 in dog years). Aging gracefully is wonderful, whether you're a famous black lab or his redheaded "Mom".

The Frangipani products:  So many - cleanser, creams, serums, Shea butter creams that would be perfect for gals OR guys to make work worn hands feel like velvet, lip balm, all kinds of things.  The skin care selections range from oily teenage skin to OMG, I remember 8 track tapes! My favorites are the cleanser and the facial serum. I love gel cleansers but they dry my skin.  Cream cleansers remind me of Grandma's Ponds Cold Cream and make me break out if I use every day. The Frangipani cleanser is smooth and very creamy but it lathers just enough to clean and rinses completely, without rubbing,  leaving my face soft without having to irritate it with a wash cloth. To exfoliate, there is an exfoliating product that's plant oil based with little jojoba beads that gently get rid of dry skin, as they gently dissolve.

 

I'm thinking the facial cleanser might work well for guys for shaving.  The faint coconut and olive oil based scent is very pleasant but NOT girly. Tracy does not use fragrance oils in her Frangipani line, but only essential oils, much gentler on the skin while still smelling wonderful.  

 

I also love the body oil, (you have to try that one) it's rice bran oil based so it soaks right in after bathing avoiding that whole, "Honey I just got out of the shower and moisturized and would love a hug", wherein he complies and you go shooting out of his arms like a watermelon seed and bounce off the walls, ruining the mood). And both the grapefruit and the lavender blends smell incredible but not overpowering

But don't let the all natural, plant based products fool you. I've talked to Tracy several times as I got her permission to post this and not only is she a wonderful lady and product genius, she likes bacon!

Check the website out (just click on the Frangipani name in purple at the start of the post).  Everything can be shipped promptly and the beautiful amber recyclable glass bottles are carefully packaged so there is no breakage (and trust me on the body oil thing.)

  - Brigid

Barkley, C4 and Bacon - lessons from our pets

Mom, the book is boring.  Can't you go blow up

 a side of bacon or something as an experiment.
If I lived with the Mythbusters people, they'd do it.

Words can do our bidding but sometimes nothing else will.

Especially a cat.

It seems I've always had a dog. But there have been a few cats in my life. During grad school I somehow ended up with caring for an elderly cat who had been dumped one winter night, a cat who I swear had a purr with a British accent. I really got fond of that four legged ball of fur, whom I named Sir Edmund Hillary Cat.

Outside of that, and the guard kitties of Roseholme Cottage, the only cats I've been around are Midwest Chick and Mr. B.'s cats.  Tank, oh, so aptly named, the one that sleeps with me every night when I'm there alone (which is something like Mr. T. sharing covers with Gidget), lovable Bob, the big orange nerf ball with legs, Socks the Bitch and Goldie, the cat in the Quantum box.   I've learned much about cats while visiting them or watching the homestead for a couple days while they travel.

Cat lessons -

(1) Out in the country, no matter how many cats are in the house, mice will still come in when it dips down into the low 30's at night. Even though all four cats are peering out the window at them, the mice would come in, a suicide mission if there ever was one.  I could only assume they were Jihad mice.  Sitting in the living room reading, one such night while house sitting, there was a very faint  "poof" noise from the basement.  Partner was with me and lifted an eyebrow . . "Jihad mouse, blowing himself up apparently" I said, and went back to reading my book.

(2)  Four cats, defying all laws of physics and thermodynamics, can, on a daily basis, turn 36 ounces of basic sustenance into 16 pounds of poop.  Outside of Congress, I've not seen a conversion quite like it.

Cats can be so much fun (except for that morning I had to clean up the stain the size of Vermont where Goldie horked up what appeared to be William Shatner's Toupee.

Still, as much as those critters are family, I still am a "dog person". I love how dogs wait, they long for your return and greet your with an unbridled joy that knows no bounds. On those days that I come home drained from a difficult day, tears in my eyes and the worry of ghosts in my soul, Barkley simply lays his head on my knee and looks up, as if that moment is what he lived for. His tail will wag with a healing that humans can't always give.

If there is a ball to be thrown, he will abandon all restraint and give every fiber of himself, to reach that for which was before, only a dream; unmitigated glory.  His life is not deadlines, or deals or caring about the things that in all reality, will not matter at the end of a life.  His life is simply a joyous run ahead of that avalanche of time that would be his enemy had he any concept of it.

He doesn't care how new or fancy his house is, what he rides in, or what coller he wears.  All he cares about is how to bequeath that for which sustains him, in his too short life, his faith and his love, as he patiently waits, only wanting me to come back into the room where he lay.

But  I admire how that when I am away, he is fine, bonding with friends who care for him, some related by blood, some just related by love and friendship.   Unlike most cats, who just have staff, dogs have their pack and Barkley has his own among my friends.

They care for him as do I.  Once while I was away, he injured a leg, jumping high for a toy,just like he always did, one minute happy, the next, hobbling with pain. My friends were beyond concerned and we hoped it was just a sprain. When I got home, he was a little better, then quit eating, then drinking and my concern turned to panic.

I called Tam and she came over, helping me make a little stretcher out of a rug to get him into the truck and off to the doggie hospital in the city for x-rays. It was a simple soft tissue injury and they kept him overnight for some hydration, some pain and anti-inflammatory meds and he was better. But I was like a parent there, in the waiting room, the male vet tech trying to sooth me as I fought tears. He said "are you by yourself" and I sniffed," no a friend is with me" He said, I'll go find them, what do they look like " I said, "look for the beautiful  6 foot tall, pony-tailed blond in the Blackwater hat and AR15 T-shirt pacing the lobby looking  really worried."

I understand, when I blew my knee out, in a city far away, needing surgery, not even able to drive my own truck home, to my own doc with Barkley, my friends took care of me.

That is what family does and pets are our family.  But although you can own a dog,  he's with you because he wants to be. Short of tying him up, if Barkley was truly unhappy here he could just jump the fence and be gone in a heartbeat, off to the land of unlimited biscuits and Mom's who don't live out of a suitcase part of the year. He's not bound by ring, by vow, by law; he can leave if he wishes.

But he doesn't. Each day, be it rain, shine, or snow,  he is here for me, even if I am not present.  That is his gift to me, one I accept gladly for as long as he lives. For all of you here at Home on the Range, who understand the travel, my need for alone time and privacy, those of you that just accept me as I am, without expectation or obligation, thank you, for you are MY pack.

In a Lather - Men's Grooming Products

I bought this bottle of shower gel on sale, as sort of a fun Christmas stocking stuffer, just because the name sort of cracked me up and I figured it would be good for a smile.  Plus cheap shower gel for the guest bath.   Anarchy.  Unleash Chaos.

Then I opened it and unleashed something.  But it wasn't chaos.

Once, when I was a totally first time deer hunter, I opened up the bottle of Tinks, deer in estros scent and took a big whiff, to see what it smelled like.

I do believe most of my nose hair incinerated, my retinas briefly detached and there was a compression somewhere between C-11 and C-12 as I attempted not to throw up.

This was worse.

Thinking it was just me, I ran it past  Miss D. when she was over for a visit. " Wow, that's horrible" she said (and some special words she learned from Alaskan bush pilots).  Her husband Peter offered his nose for a test and then promptly offered me a bottle of mead to get it out of the room and bury it.

Maybe, when one of the red hazmat bins is empty. . .no, safer to bury it.

To the Anarchy-showered male in the advertising above  - trust me, unless you're one of those effeminate vampires from Twilight and tube top dress girl has a wooden stake and a big mallet handy, she's not going to be smiling on her drive home.

Scent is a deeply personal thing, and certain scents bring do bring back memories. 

Brut was beyond popular when I was growing up, one of the first to use a celebrity endorsement to persuade men that grooming wasn't for wimps. Famed  heavyweight boxer Henry Cooper was the original "face" of Brut, urging men to "splash it all over" long before David Beckham had his first shave.  I think there were little machines in the bathrooms in bars you could go into with a fake ID and  have something with Kahlua and the guys would go douse themselves with it or so I heard I don't know I was at choir practice. . .

I wasn't a big fan of Brut.  But I worked at the airport after school, pumping gas, driving this humongous truck with lousy brakes that was full of flammable liquid between large pointy moving objects and Samoans racing bag carts.  And Dad freaked out if I drove the VW Bug on the freeway. 

So I smelled like kerosene, which sort of cancelled out the Brut smell.  Besides, I was holding out for my grade school girl crush, Illya Kuyakin, so teenager boys in Brut didn't stand much of a chance.

Remember Hai Karate! ? My Dad had some of that and was supremely disappointed and used to tease my Mom that his bottle must have been a dud as he didn't  have to fend of any super models with karate chops like on the commercials.   I don't remember what it smelled like but I don't think he ever had to fend off Mom wearing it, though, come to think of it, once, when he put on too much, she drove a golf ball from the back yard through the back kitchen window with a Five Iron.

Dad gave that up for Old Spice which he has worn ever since. When I go home, he gives me a big hug and I can still smell it on his sweater, that "Dad" smell that's both reassurance and comfort.

Now, there's not just aftershave, there is cologne, shampoo, body washes, shampoo/body washes (and the difference is?)

Most advertise themselves to smell like "fresh glacier extinguishing a giant forest  fire full of deer in heat" or such things.

I think the perfect man natural scent would be some sort of mysterious combination of gun cleaning fluid, coffee, bacon, woodsmoke, and dark beer (with a slight undertone of 20 year old British Motor Car Wheel Bearing Grease.) 

But if one has to wear an actual store bought scent, I vote for the most subtle of sandalwood (And Demeter makes this unisex fragrance called gin and tonic that's smells really good on clean skin).

But boy, are there some bad ones out there.

Russia makes some particularly vile ones though they'd be good with a twist of lime and some ice,

And there's one I can't remember the exact name of,  from a small central European country that smelled like the bottom of the sea. The place where fish poop a lot, not the Aerial the little redheaded Mermaid happy place.

Pinaud Lilac Vegetal- can be used as a substitution for Tinks.  Seriously. You'll have a 12 point buck trying to climb your head as quick as you can say C'est vraiment de ta faute!

Masters Island Breeze - be careful you don't get any on your skin. 

Secretions Malefiques -  the Kardashians Kat in heat.

Aqua Velva Musk - if you want to be hit on by a hairy fur trapper,  go right ahead.

Clubman - Very 80's name.  Dries down to Cat box and Mrs. Butterworth syrup. 

Black Magic (various grooming products) - If  you see it?   Kill it!  Kill it with Fire!

And I'd avoid Anarchy, for now.

So ladies - what are your favorite (and least) scents on a guy?

And Gentlemen - do you have a favorite or do you just agree on that whole woodsmoke and bacon thing?

Love and Hope - a Journey Through Alzheimers

Do you ever wake up and not know where you are?  If you've traveled a lot on business, you know the feeling. But to wake and not know who you are, that would be a terrible thing to behold.

My step mom  married my Dad two years after my Mom died.  He grieved for my Mom terribly, but he was still a relatively young man, and lonely. She was a widow with three grown kids. They were set up on a blind date by a female friend of my Dad's.

She was always a bundle of energy, 5 feet nothing and 95 pounds of whirlwind motion, laughter and care.  An expert seamstress, she joined a group of ladies from the church who hand crafted stuffed teddy bears to give to kids being brought into the trauma unit at the hospital.  I've written of them before, the ladies making the bears from scratch with clothing and accessories, all unique, cowboy bears, farmer bears, made with love, and all at their own expense. 

I remember one story of a trip the ladies made to the hospital with the newest batch of bears. While they were there, a very elderly man was brought in, muttering in pain and confusion, hurting and alone.  His eyes lit up at the bears and he asked to hold one. She gave him one and he hugged it to him, like a little child would, talking to it, breathing deep of the comfort of soft fur. The ladies let him keep it, a small bit of peace for someone lost and alone.

She had her little moments of forgetfulness, like any aging person, but a previously diagnosed cancer was in remission and she was doing really well, still active in church and in volunteering, taking dance classes, working in the garden.  But one morning, a few months later, she came into the kitchen and sat down, looked at me and I realized she did not have a clue as to who I was.

What struck me, was not that, but the look on her face as she realized this, realized she should know. I obviously wasn't a bugler or a neighbor over for coffee, I was a girl with red hair like everyone else in the family, wearing a fuzzy robe that she herself had washed and put in the guest closet the night before.  I will never forget the look of her at that moment. It was the most starkly exposed face I'd ever seen, a face in which which unknown terrors haunted the edges; the face of a fledgling dove about to tumble from the nest.

It came into our lives quickly, one moment she was laughing, engaging in board games and puns with us, her face bright, her wit razor sharp. Then came those moments where everything just went sort of dim. The doctor only confirmed what Dad had suspected and kept from us for some months until he knew for sure.  Alzheimer's.

It's a terrible disease for all involved. We read what we could about it, we planned as a family  and we prayed.  There really wasn't more we could do.

As the next year and a half passed, there were a  few moments she was quite lucid, and happy. But those were the hardest for all of us, for in those bief moments she was fully aware that her mind was going, what was happening to her and how helpless she was to do anything about it.

The disease's progression is as predictable as its course is certain.  Mood swings and aggression, words that made no sense, dropping to the floor like marbles, tears as she tried to mentally gather them up, anger at the very air around her. She always was gentle with my Dad though. Only with him would she remain calm, the reasoning that was blind and deaf somehow responding to something in him that her mind could still see.  Dad cared for her at home, no matter how bad it got.   We arranged for a home health aide to come in and lend a hand a few hours a week but he refused to let anyone else care for "his girl" or to send her to skilled nursing care. When she passed, it was quite sudden, after she contracted pneumonia. From her sudden coughing to her collapse, was just days.

Sometimes when you get to the far edge, the edge just breaks away.

We laid her to rest  on tree covered hill top. We visit, we bring flowers, we hug and shed some tears, neither of us immune to having our heart broken.  Then we smile through the tears, sharing their stories as we make the long trip home to photos and a little stuffed bear wearing the colors of the flag.

Would she have lived her life differently had she known her fate ahead of time? Perhaps not. Perhaps, in essence, she did, her mother dying of the same disease, as she and my Dad courted. 

She lived life to the hilt, a wheel in motion, racing downhill, a light against the darkness, the whir of a needle into soft fabric. I have a picture of she and my Dad on their first date, and you could see something in their smiles that would be lost on so many people.  Love is a story that tells itself.

I woke up the other morning abruptly, the glaring ringtone of the bat phone waking me with a message just after I'd fallen asleep.  For a moment, I did not know where I was at. The small room was cold, the sound of Barkley checking on me muffled from carpet, not hardwood floors.  I was in my place near work, traveling in the previous day to go on call.  My heart was pounding as that particular ring will do that to me, the surge of adrenalin. There would be no going back to sleep.

But I was aware, of every tick of the clock, of the feel of my skin, the soft panting of doggie breath waiting to see if I was going to get up and leave  or go back to sleep..  I was so blissfully aware, of these moments, these sounds. It was a new day, and even if tired and cranky, I'd leap right in, like a deer into the brush, feeling no thorns.

So I go, and so I watch, finding sense in the senseless, finding my purpose even as sparrows fall to earth. People watching from a distance would think me too quiet, too still, shouldn't this activity be a frenzy of lights and motion, like on TV?  But there is great activity in being the quiet observer, standing in a stillness that smells of silence,  breathing in so many scents in damp cold  air. Sweat, blood and a flower that only blooms in the dark, the wind so scant it's like breath on a mirror. Each smell blended yet distinct, always overlayed with the copper tang of life spilled. The air hums along to the nights quiet as all I see, smell and feel, forms into a substance I can almost feel on my flesh, capturing it, recording it there in the stillness. The truth is often still, inarticulate, not knowing it is the truth.

When I next get out to my Dad's, I'll once again see that photo of them on that first date, the feelings there so sudden and so very unexpected, incapable of being formed into sound. I'll look at another photo, the last one we have of her where she was completely with us, a laughing woman on my deck in the Indiana summer, her movements that of a bird, free and spirited. There is no fear in her, in that memory, even as the picture lays silent. But there is hope.

Those last days with her were difficult, but they taught me a lot.  Not just visible confirmation of what my Dad was truly made of, but that words aren't  necessary to define what you believe, that nestled in the strong crook of an arm of the one who understands you without words, you know exactly who you are.  Even when she didin't know who I was, she taught me about not being limited by fear, but going forward with hope, even if the future is not articulated.

Home and love, love and desire, can be what propels us silently onward.  Hope and love,  love and desire, can also be merely sounds, that people who have never hoped or loved or desired have for what they never possessed, and will not until such time as they forget the words. 

 - Love, Brigid

Throwing Cupcakes

 

“Who throws a cupcake? …honestly!”
- young Dr. Evil, Austin Powers

I took a day off to create in the kitchen. Something thrown together to share with friends and coworkers who could use a little cheer in the coming week.  We'll start with cake.

Cake for celebrations or for cheer is a tradition that dates back as far as the Romans, with the idea for the candle on top being attributed to both early Greeks and later, Germans. The origins notwithstanding, the cakes vary from region to region and even among families. Everyone has their own favorite cake for celebrations.

The first one I remember, was not a birthday cake, but an Easter one.  I can still recall that ranch house, the apple trees I was almost big enough to climb, Mom's rose garden that  she painstakingly kept up, that after her death, still bloomed without help or hindrance from any of us.  I can picture that moment as she brought out the cake like it was yesterday.  For at Easter every year, Mom would make a two layer cake, then cut it in half, adding a nose, ears and tail to make a bunny cake. Then she'd make a small cake into a baby bunny.  We'd eat it at the very end of the day, after church, after thanks, after dinner.  There is an extremely faded photo close by from the sixties of one of them.

There were other cakes over the years, some plain, some fancy. Another family member  made me a cake one year that, well, was completely burned on the outside and raw in the middle (using that bachelor cooking time conversion  method of doubling the temperature and cutting the cook time in half).  We still laugh about that.

Birthday cakes come in all sizes and flavors.  Everyone had a favorite, though mine has been, since the very first cake that I can remember, yellow with chocolate buttercream.

Birthday cakes range from  memories of "Oh, that's so sweet!" (and yes, that's a plumbers candle and as Partner is passing the big three-oh very soon, there will be payback, as we say).

to "Get a rope. "

Then there are wedding cakes. Cakes at weddings are intense elaborate affairs that can cost hundreds of dollars. (Seriously?  Register at Midway and make your own cake, think of all the money you'd save). 

What were once tradition white cakes and frosting with the bride and groom toppers are now  as individual as the couples involved.

But todays post is about my favorite- cupcakes.

The first mention of the cupcake can be traced as far back as 1796, when a recipe notation of "a cake to be baked in small cups" was written in American Cooker by Amelia Simmons. They're more than a dressed up muffin. They're fun, they're easy to prepare and share, and if they turn out too dry and overdone they make dandy replacements for sporting clays (pull!).  For lunch OR launching in a trebuchet, they're dandy little things.

What kind?  Honestly, the simplest things are often the best.  My favorite is a vanilla cupcake with vanilla icing but today I added a twist.  The cake is infused with the delicate flavor of almond and brandy topped with a whipped butter cream frosting that is both buttery and sweet, but leaves just a touch of salt on the tongue as the faintest of aftertaste. This is a cupcake for grown ups.  But throw on some sprinkles, because there will always be a little kid in each of us.

 

 Almond Cupcakes with Brandy and Vanilla Buttercream

 

You can just eat one and share the rest.  Right?

click on photos to enlarge

HOTR Housekeeping Tips

Some folks clean their house like they do everything else, ordered, deliberate, careful, behaved.

I can as well.

Sometimes -

Just some advice - if you're going to vacuum in your bright yellow undies while your jeans and T shirt dry in the dryer. . .

and you're going to listen to Kool and the Gang "Jungle Boogie" REALLY loud. . . .



and you start dancing around with the Oreck in your hand, sucking up those dust bunnies while the red hair whips around. .  .

Make sure you have your drapes are completely closed.

Otherwise, there's a whole 'nother meaning to "neighborhood watch".

 

On Books

I don't know what I'd do without my books. Remember the book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury?  It was set in a dystopian future in which firemen intentionally burn any house in which a book is located, because it's against the law to possess them.  In the end, a fireman who had grown to love books. escapes the city of quick, mindless but big screen, reality based entertainment, to find a small group of book-loving refugees banded together.  Each person is assigned the memorization of one complete book -- Aristotle, Dickens, James Joyce and more -- so the books will survive until society is ready to embrace them again.

Sitting here, I thought "if that little band grows in number, would one poor soul eventually be forced to spend the rest of his days reciting the chapters of Captain Underpants and the Incredibly Naughty Cafeteria Ladies from Other Space endlessly in his head?"

I don't read a lot of popular novels, though I have a rather large collection of classic Sci-Fi.  When my grade school classmates were reading The BoxCar Children and Pippi Longstocking, I was reading the works of Ayn Rand and Robert Heinlein and a whole world beyond my quiet, hushed one at home, opened up to me. Reading is for me not just intellectual but embracive. I love the way the spine of a book feels in the crook of my fingers. The smooth, hard end boards snug on either side of the pages sewn together, their edges flush and perfect. The smell of ink, the texture of a page as my fingers gently turns it.

I tend to read a lot of non fiction, of history. I like reading about long ago. know more about my own life when I know more about the past. It's a sense of perspective; of days full of people that killed, tortured, struggled and suffered, agonizing for things that were of the utmost importance to them; working and living for reasons that may be well the same as ours. Now they've been gone some 500 years and all that is left to us is the essence and quintessence of their lives.

To me, history is more than a story, more than a book, it's the life, the heart and soul of ages long ago. It's the ultimate myth and inevitably ambiguous, but I do believe, as Lord Bolingbroke stated, "History is philosophy teaching by example and also by warning." History not read is like ammo not used, someone once said, and without reading, for myself at least, the past is silence and the future is haze.

Quantum Physicists have stated that time, as most of us think of it, is an illusion. They have postulated thatthe past,the present and the future are here, now, captured in a touch, the blink of an eye, or perhaps,simply between two pages.

Nothing for me is worse than being in the back of an airplane or at a hotel with nothing to read. When in one mountainous far off place, I had to downsize a bag as the little airplane being piloted by what I believe was a Yeti, was weight restricted and my books were left behind for materials I had to have for the mission. I almost would have given up my tools, my poncho and my hiking boots than my little collection of paperbacks, of Earth Abides and Stranger in a Strange Land and a small leather bound book of Shakespeare sonnets.

Let the weather play God with my itinerary, let the tanker bringing in supplies break down somewhere, let the post sell the last bottle of whiskey, but if I'm laid up alone in the middle of no where after I bust a move down the Himalayas and break my leg, I want a book. Curled up in strange places among a couple artifacts of family that get toted around in my suitcase, I may be lonely, but I will be be content. 

For I have a book.

Such is it tonight. I am alone, but in my head is history, the cries of warriors, rushing forth immortal beneath disported sabres and brandished flags, men rushing forward into time, propelled by gunpowder and righteousness, underneath a sky of thunder.  I have a book.  I  am caught up in battles, in loves, both forbidden and forgotten, coursing like blood as long as the words will, that immortal, fresh, abiding blood which bears respect above regret and commitment above the ease of dishonor.

My work is put aside for at least an hour or two before bed and I'll pick up that book. I'll let it transport me to somewhere far away, until a chime will toll for warriors, for battles won and those so easily lost. As my hand turns the pages, I will move among people who lived and died, or perhaps never existed at all, their shadows not of flesh of blood but of imagination, shadows as strong as finely honed steel and shadows as quiet as murmuring breath, forgotten until they were put upon paper.

Then, on the sound of that chime, perhaps a clock, perhaps something that just travels within me, the note cutting the air, as sharp, clear and quiet as a blade, I will fall off into sleep.  Outside the world continues in that illusion of change, the sky letting go of its tears, washing a burned landscape anew.

Smashing! - New Burger Joint in Town

If you are reading this, that means the bat phone rang and tonight's post will be one saved for just such occasion.

It's not in Indiana yet, but in our neighboring states, all over actually, a new burger place has popped up.  Smashburger.  Opened in 2007 nationally, most consumers have been comparing them to Five Guys.  It's hard not to draw comparisons between the two, both use fresh beef, both serve foods fast, and both offer a whole bunch of toppings and freshly made fries with a similar franchise model.

Five Guys is popular around here. When the coworkers get to choose where we eat when in the city, it's one of their favorite choices. Having a big table at Five Guys we can all sit at to talk and share fries (their fry servings are HUGE) in a very casual atmosphere (loud music, friendly personnel and peanuts on the floor) is something the fellows I work with enjoy. The guys are comfortable with that red and white tile storeroom feel.  They can be loud, they can be messy, they can just relax and eat and the staff is always so friendly to us.

I introduced Dad to them (he'd been a huge Wendy's fan til they changed their burger and fry recipe and at 92, says his time is too short to to sit in the drive through while some kid figures out which of the now apparently 12 different Frostys they want).

It was a hit (Dad, being part Scot saw the "free" toppings and went for it).

This was one happy Dad.

But it's not someplace I'd dine at by myself.  If I need to do fast food because of location or time available, I get a Chick Fil a Spicy Chicken Sandwich, squirt it from the packet of hot sauce and top it with a small side of their coleslaw and have a small lemonade.  It's not the best thing to eat in the truck and I usually arrive where I'm going, looking like Zombie Paula Dean, but I'm happy and full.  I like Chick Fil a. They're always clean and friendly; the food looks as advertised and my server usually isn't sporting 3 pieces of face tackle and dreadlocks. But that's about it for me and fast food, as frankly I'd kiss a wolverine before I'd eat a Big Mac.

But sometimes you just have to have a burger, even if you have to grill one at home in the dark and improvise.

So when I saw Smashburger (and the huge line out the door) one day I said I'd try it.

We went right before noon, it was very busy but there was still seating space. The decor was clean and neat with the red and white theme (sound familiar?) but this one more retro hip than warehouse.You get a menu off a holder on the wall as you come in, order at a counter, get your  drink and seat yourself with a numbered tag that sits at your table. The seating is more private, with dividers giving some areas some space between your table and the neighbors, nice if the place has a lot of kids or a noisy crowd.  They then bring your food to you, in a basket, not a bag that will soak up the fry grease, so once you are seated you can just relax and enjoy some conversation.

There are a lot of items on the menu but burgers are the star. Big balls of fresh Black Angus beef are "smashed"  with this medieval looking cookie cutter thing that looks like it was made out of a dismantled Dalek, on a a grill prepped with melted butter, not oil. As the patty cooks, the melting fat percolates through the small holes in the burger, sending wisps of smoke upwards that make the whole restaurant smell like PETA repellent. mmmmmm.  They then use an extremely sharp edged spatula to scape the specialty seasoned (garlic herb mix of their own) smashed patty off the griddle, a two handed operation and one that leaves an impressive sear on the beef.

Then a double thick piece of cheese is applied.  "No Kraft Single" cheese here, mine was a big thick piece of sharp cheddar (they had six types of cheese). Their systems seems designed so the buttery toasted bun and toppings reach the grill just as the meat is ready to come off. The burger is hot, the cheese is hot and melty and the toppings  are fresh, not limp.

Burger combinations are endless and each regional area has their own "specialty" burger.  The free toppings are many and you can also add (for a paltry amount), applewood smoked bacon, avocado, a fried egg, onion straws, fried pickles, garlic mushrooms, sauteed onion.

The picture above is my small burger.  It's larger than the small Five Guys,1/3 pound to 1/4,  but it is also about a dollar more so the value is about the same.  The large Smashburger is 1/2 pound (a bigger single patty instead of two thinner patties like Five Guys).

I went for simple - sharp cheddar, chipotle mayo and lettuce on the egg bun.  Partner in Grime had  the small burger with Sweet Baby Ray's barbecue sauce, cheese, applewood smoked  bacon and onion straws (oh, that looked good). Both fairly simple so they probably aren't the most impressive, photo wise, but they were indeed very, very good.

We both selected the egg bun. They also have a whole grain and a spicy chipotle bun, all buttered and toasted, as well as a pretzel roll which I've made for my own grilled burgers at home. I would come back for the taste and the texture of the egg bun alone, but the burger was very good.

Moo - I've yet to have a restaurant burger that had the depth of flavor as a home grilled one, enough to stand alone without any topping but cheese,  but this is about as closed as fried can get..  I liked the slightly thicker patty of Five Guys but this patty was much more flavorful and juicy without being overly greasy as the Five Guys patty can be. The nice bit of snap and crunch from the violent smash and grill resulted in the center more juice than grease.  I still prefer my meat a little more rare in the middle.  But  being smashed they will be  pretty much medium, but it was no less juicy for it.

The patty isn't square, it isn't round, it's it's own unique shape, full of inlets and valleys where the condiments can loiter, waiting for that first bite.

The fries I'd say I'd prefer to Five Guys.  They weren't  nearly as greasy, and you can order them tossed with a bit of olive oil, garlic and rosemary which is a really flavorsome combination.  Five Guys has a Cajun seasoned fries as an alternate to plain but they are way too salty for my taste. The Smashburger fries still look as if they were made from frozen but I still preferred that over home cut and cooked but with grease soaking into the bag. (I'm not saying the greasy ones don't taste good, they do, but after a small  F.G. burger and a half of an order of those, I feel like I ate a live hedgehog).

We also tried the onion straws that came with a spicy dipping sauce (pictured below) They were crisp, salty, addicting, but more than enough to share. There are multiple other sides, including  sweet potato fries (with or without the garlic rosemary seasoning and probably really good with some blue cheese dip)  fried pickles with a buttermilk ranch dip, chili or a side salad.  You can get an adult beverage. If you are feeling especially snooty you can order veggie frites – flash fried carrots, green beans, asparagus, with sea salt and black pepper, though I didn't see anyone that ordered that. Lift your little pinky finger, hoist your wine and raise your half pound burger at the first Vegan that walks past the window.

There's chicken sandwiches (fresh chicken breast, not dismantled chicken bits made into a patty), black bean burger options, salads and hot dogs.  We were too full to try anything except their  iced tea bar, but any place that has a Butterfinger Malt (or just a regular shake) made out of Hagan Daz ice cream is OK in my book. Making a shake without soft-serve with all the gums and stabilizers would make for a pretty good, thick treat that would suck, but through a straw in a good way.  Next time, I'll pass on the fries and get a burger and a malt.

Price wise, it was about $20 for the two of us with soft drinks, including tax.  Not a cheap lunch, but I've spent that on the road for "fast casual" for two and not enjoyed it nearly as much.

Dad will always enjoy his Five Guys (and the peanut flinging) and I'll happily eat there with him and the guys if they want to go. 

But I definitely have a new favorite burger joint.

Posts from the Road - Faith and a Firearm

Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. - Psalms 1"44

With my most recent trip West, I took Big Bro to Breakfast one morning.  Not feeling so good, he wasn't sure about going, but he went, if only to please me.  Before we dug into our plates we prayed. As we bowed our heads, the entrance door opened,with a waft of cold air and light arriving with the murmur of pouring rain. I looked up. I noticed the people at the next table were not looking at the door, but rather, at our table, either the gun on the hip of my dark blue pants, or our prayer. Should either be considered that unusual in public?

I was born to a Catholic mother, Mary-Brigid being the name I was first given. I was taken in from the Children's Home Society and later adopted by an older couple in a small lumber town that was probably 80% Scandinavian. Their family came west via Minnesota or North Dakota after arriving in America, and homesteaded in Montana. My Mom's mother was from Sweden, her Dad form Norway so the Lutheran church is what we were raised in. And so, I spent my early early years with the stories of Lutheran Basement Church Women, creamed peas and toast, and that bastardized offspring of a can of cream of mushroom soup and leftovers, the Lutheran Supper Hot Dish.

We didn't have the Saints of my birth, but in a Scandinavian town we had stories of the Nordic Gods -Frigidaire- god of ice fishing, Lesfse, the goddess of unseasoned food, and Inclement, the god of school closures due to all the snow you betcha. The homes were warm, and full of the scent of coffee cake. On the kitchen walls were brightly painted plaques with sayings in Swedish that probably translated to "Keep making fun of the lutefisk and we'll ship Socialism over there".

It was a good place to grow up, community both inside, and outside of the church. I remember Sunday service, the Communion cup glinting like a newly minted coin, the people around me that loved me like my own family, as from above, the bloodied and life sized Christ crowned with thorns looked down on us with forgiving eyes that had seen too much, his face, smooth and impenetrable. I'd take a sip of the cup, taking in the blood that contained an indomitable spirit which came from the fire that exists in us all, looking up at Jesus there on the cross with a conspiratorial nod and a silent thanks, having no other words.

I was raised with meals taken as a whole family, except for one night a week that we ate on TV Trays, just the kids, in front of the TV, a special treat on Friday if we'd behaved and performed well in school that week. It was always the same meal. A small piece of steak (from the steer we'd butcher each year), oven baked french fries, buttered toast, green beans and milk and a few slices of orange for dessert. I'm not really sure why we always had buttered white toast with our steak, but it would have seemed wrong if it was missing.

Even for those meals, as we set about to watch cowboys or spies save the world, we said Grace.

"Why pray?", someone asked, "you did, and look at everything bad that's happened to you, people you loved whose days were numbered too few?" Can I say I never questioned God, in anger, wishing that he felt the same pain that I did, shoving my fury into the sky like a fist.

I married young, to a Catholic, returning to my roots, I guess, and remember studying the many Saints, St.Wulfric, St. Fina, St Barbara. I looked St. Barbara up and it said that after her father whom she had loved and trusted had tortured and killed her, he'd been struck down by lightning. That likely explained why she became the patron saint of artillery and the protectress against sudden death. Years later, watching my husbands farm and business fail yet again through inattention and excess and sporting bruises that hopefully did not show, I prayed to St. Barbara for some lightning, but my pleas went unheeded.

When I go back to my hometown now, I return to that same church I was raised in, with my Dad.  The people who loved me as a child, for the most part, are still there, though elderly. My piano teacher, in a nursing home now, but always open for a visit, my best friend's Mom, now widowed, another woman who sat by my Stepmom's bed for days with Dad and I as she struggled in her last days, the people that drive my Dad to his doctor's appointments when we can not. There's comfort there in that community of saints.

As I sit in the pew, I look at my Dad, who has lived a life of total love, service and honor, sensing how his heart will soon fail him. It's a strong heart, a good heart, a railway station of life and blood, blue lines in and red lines out, switching tracks flawlessly for nine decades until one day there will be a derailment and the tracks will be silenced. He sees me looking at him and puts his hand on mine as we bow our head in the silence that is not silence but is innumerable.

Is that fair? Yet, he's had nine decades more than his first daughter, born in extraordinary perfection, simply too early and too small, the awful perfect prayer of his firstborn, who breathed only days, my mom rendered barren from the travail of the birth. Yet from that death came life, adopting children no one wanted, and soon the table was filled, with small hands, small hearts and much laughter.  "Bless us, O Lord, for these Thy gifts. " and ""Mom he took my garlic bread!" and "May I please be excused?"

Had my parents closed off their hearts in that original loss, that table would have been silent.

I  believe that the Divine, force and free will are all intertwined. I have to bite my tongue when I hear of someone who left us by other than natural causes, "it's so bad the Lord took him early" when all I can think is "you know, if he hadn't intentionally busted several laws of the State and physics he'd still be here, the Lord notwithstanding".  I don't dare say such things out loud but it makes me remember why Darwin was not made a Saint. God may watch over us, but he doesn't direct our every single thought and move. We make choices through our own  free will, the bad ones we get through and carry with regret, hopefully still intact. God did not force those choices, he simply forgives them.

I've certainly had to ask for that forgiveness in my talks with God. For I talk to Him regularly, in the woods, hunting with my Browning, when the light has a weary quality to it, like a backwater pool of light lying low, winter's light is crisp, clean, illuminating everything so clearly.  The words are less than wishes and more than regrets, and even if I didn't state them out loud,  I could hear them with my breathing as they gathered within the intent of breath and came forth in a rush of cold air, invisible words going up to an invisible God.

Sometimes He and I  talk as I'm sitting in a vehicle in the middle of an open field, ash in my hair, red smeared on my boots, as bold as if painted on a door frame, a sign, that for tonight, I was to be spared.  Perhaps this one time I did not save His sparrow which He  perhaps neglected to mark, but I am here to reconcile the remains. It's just talk, but it's still a prayer; prayer being more than the order of words, the conscious calling of the mind that is speaking, or the sound of the voice praying. I do not expect to hear anything back, the communication between us tongued with fire beyond the blaze that is dying next to me. But it's comforting, words spoken into the void, penitence and belief, as all around hope is falling into embers. He may not respond, but He is there, Never and Always.

So I do not care if someone looks at me oddly if I bow my head. I only smile when someone says, how can you do that with all that you've seen, the pain that man can inflict on one another.

But I can, for I have come to realize that the same God that seemed to sit silently while hearts ceased beating, also blew life into everyone else around me that I love deeply, now shaping their strong hands and putting spark in their vision. So it is, I don't clench my hands in anger in all that I've witnessed, have borne, but simply give thanks. God writes death on all our hearts, just as he writes life, our story penned as much by our actions as His creation, our heart a journal that only we keep, it's entries scribed by both man and God, it's ending as much as a mystery as we are.

I, for one, am thankful for the words.

It's time for a call to Big Bro. He's gained 4 pounds, even with the chemo and I can usually pique his appetite with a photo of some supper. Tonight, a small steak sounds good, maybe some toast (though I'm so going to pass on the creamed peas). I look at the table on which rests my pistol, sitting quietly, waiting to protect me and others, when higher powers can not. I am blessed that I live where my God given right to have that protection is recognized. But then again, I am blessed in so many ways.

With the meal I will say a prayer, of thanks for that and many things. For my Dad and his brave heart. For my brother, for healing, or comfort if that is not to be.  For forgiveness of sin, for the blessing of friends, those near, and one very far away.

Bless us oh Lord for these thy gifts. . . .