Lovely, dark and deep

At five I put my ear to the window, listened for a moment and heard the telltale sound of rain. Heavy rain. Drenching rain. So back to bed. Aroused from my slumber at about six forty five, I heard my uncle rustling around, making final preparations before heading out the door. "You're missing daylight, boy," he sang, though that was only barely technically true. The daypack was pretty much packed and ready to go so after a quick breakfast it was out the door and up the mountain.  

Wet, heavy snow weighs down every living thing in one of Paddy Mountain's clear cuts

Snow can be a boon to hunters. Movement is quieter, tracks are more visible and it takes more work for prey to forage for food buried beneath the fluffy stuff. Plus, should one actually shoot a deer, the snow makes it much more convenient to drag it back to the cabin. But it can also be disorienting. Fortunately on Paddy mountain there is only one way home - down. I frequently stray from established trails up on the mountain, but once I find my way down to the road I can always find the route back to the cabin.

This particular morning I overshot the trail up to my blind, but after having realized it, I decided to just keep going and explore an area I haven't seen before. So I turned uphill from the forest road that Fairmont Lane becomes (there's some debate about whether it's still Fairmont Lane at that point or Bonnet Hill Lane / Rt. 1857, as indicated on the National Geographic Massanutten and Great North Mountain map).

I crossed an earthen tank trap I'd never noticed before, thinking it was a jeep trail that would lead up what several of the neighbors refer to as Tartesall's Gut. Basically the next stream over from the one I usually go up. Any obvious signs of an established trail up the mountain petered away within a few hundred yards, but your intrepid narrator would not be deterred, even if I was slightly detoured. Despite being somewhat uncertain of my exact location, I was determined to get as high up the mountain as I could. The going was slow but quiet and lovely. I easily got up on the bench that runs across the mountain just beneath the spurs. It was there I started to see several sets of fresh deer tracks in the snow. I did my very best tippy toe stalking, slowly moving my way higher up the slope, following tracks as they zigged and zagged upward into the laurel. The higher I got the more jagged the tracks, with increasingly indistinct prints. I suspect I was pushing a small group upward as I moved, but as always with such scenarios, the tracks let straight into an impenetrable wall of evergreen claws and I eventually dead ended into an evil snarl of laurel. Ah well, it was beautiful and I took the opportunity to have a seat and enjoy a nice meatloaf sandwich in a peaceful little laurel cul de sac. 

Buttloads of snow

Suffice to say, the way home was considerably easier than the trip up. I wended my way down the mountain in a direction generally intended to put me back at the clear cut around which I generally hunt. As it happened I ended up within a few hundred yards of my blind. I then worked my way down the mountain edging my way around a clear cut with a stream bed running through its center, as is my typical pattern. I frequently close out my day with a visit to a rocky outcropping, overlooking the cut, that affords great views of the mountain above and the valley below.

The blanketed spurs of Paddy Mountain, Shenandoah County, Virginia

The next three days were wonderful. I only spotted a single deer, but didn't have a shot. Still, I wouldn't have traded the time in the snowy forest for anything. This year my brother, his sixteen year old son and fourteen year old daughter were able to come up for a couple of days after Thanksgiving. My niece accompanied me for two days which was a great deal of fun. I've never seen anyone who can sleep sitting on buckets, on rocks and in the snow. The girl, a lanky, athletic ginger, would sleep so deeply that her neck gaiter would become saturated with drool. Revolting. But this was a rare opportunity to spend quality time with my family and I cherished it. We should all be so lucky every year. 

After the hunt, a buttload of shearling-lined Chippewas drying in the mud room - Natural, waxed and vintage

Chillies

Autumn leapt directly into winter this year and the first hard freeze of the year came up with a howling wind. Per my habit, that meant a frigid evening of harvesting the remaining chiles from the plants.

All the colors of the rainbow - Santaka and Habanero chiles

As always with the final harvest, many of the chiles are still green with some in transition. Capsicum is basically a tropical perennial plant from Central America that doesn't know that ice and snow are coming to kill them. So they go about their business as though summer will continue forever. The last picking is consequently a snapshot of the plants which contain fruit at virtually all stages of development from flowering through red, ripeness. The Habaneros are particularly prismatic this year as I grew a red variety which transitions from green through an orangy-yellow stage to the final crimson colorway.

In addition to the mandatory Habaneros that make up the backbone of each year's crop, I planted two Japanese varieties and one Bolivian. The Japanese are the Santaka which I have not tried before and the Takanotsume, which I have grown before with great success. Back in 1996 when I was just getting started growing hot peppers in earnest, I was living in northwest Ohio in an apartment with access to about an acre of rich, black garden. Among the first batches of Picante sauce I ever made was a batch of Takanotsume, and to this day it is remembered by some of the very few, very lucky recipients. The Santaka is a similar chile, so I am hoping for similar results.

The Bolivian peppers are actually mongrels. They sprouted from saved Bolivian Rainbow seed, but as I am not a disciplined saver of seed, they are likely mixed with genes from nearby plants. They certainly did not display the lovely purple commonly associated with this particular cultivar. But they're packed with seeds, have nice heat and should make a good sauce. 

"Bolivian Rainbow" in X-mas colors!

So production of this year's picante sauce is well underway, with the early ripe Habanero already in the bottles. There will be just enough green chiles to get out a run of picante verde in each variety and probably a couple of bottles of field blend. Just a little something to warm a body through the winter...

Ripe, red organic Habanero, distilled vinegar and a squirt of lime juice. Nothing else. 

The Rut

The autumn has come and soon it will be hunting season. Okay, it's already hunting season, but I can't go yet on account'a I got this job and all. So, following the emerging pattern over the last two years, I'll take to the mountain during the week of Thanksgiving. It's becoming a family tradition, heading to the mountain with my uncle and whatever other family members are willing to come up and spend time tramping around the frozen forest from predawn to post-dusk.

This is what it looks like at my parents' house at Thanksgiving. How 'bout yours?

Of course successful hunting trips don't just happen. Like everything else in life (delightful Thanksgiving meals, for instance or securing the right to an adequate standard of living) they take planning and preparation. This year I got a non-resident lifetime Virginia Hunting License and bought the requisite Bear/Dear/Turkey tags early, so I'm legal. The paperwork is in order and I'm all set should Game Warden Timmy inquire about my bona fides.

A peculiar virtue in wildlife ethics is that the hunter ordinarily has no gallery to applaud or disapprove of his conduct. Whatever his acts, they are dictated by his own conscience, rather than by a mob of onlookers. It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of this fact.

Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

So, with my '42 Swedish Mauser I'm all set for deer. With the proper planning this year I should get five full days in. Many of the hunters up at Paddy Mountain extend their season by going out for the late muzzle-loader season, which could add another couple of weeks of opportunity, and my uncle offered to lend me a spare muzzle. But that would require an additional license and the season goes from December 13 - January 3, during which I'd probably have a hard time getting away from work and family obligations.

So this year I figured I would go out for Fall Turkey in addition to deer, which will extend the season at least as long as black powder would, and probably more. Plus my license runs through the Spring Turkey season so I can potentially go out again in April. Last year while I was ostensibly deer hunting, I heard what could only have been turkey up the hollow overlooking which I had established my stand. And this year while scouting around I found two turkey feathers quite close to the hunt club. So I've kind of got turkey fever. With that in mind, I turned my attention to my tools. I have a Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun left to me by my uncle, but it had a 28 inch barrel with a fixed modified choke; good for deer, but not so much for turkey which require a very narrow choke to keep the shot in a tight pattern. So I picked up a 24 inch turkey-specific replacement barrel and an XX-full choke tube - the narrowest I could find.

A proper turkey gun. Mossberg 500A, with a 24" vent rib bead sight blued finish barrel 90135

...and an XX-Full choke tube.

A few weeks ago I went up to the range to figure out what ammo to use. I've settled on Winchester Long Beard XR. I also tried Remington Turkey Loads, but the Winchester held a much tighter pattern much farther out. The description of their revolutionary polymer technology seems a bit gimmicky, and I worry that I am filling the woods with tons of plastic, but in my highly unscientific survey, they really did perform far better than the competition. For the moment I'm sold.

So now the ol' Mossberg is a proper turkey gun. Maybe not a perfect turkey gun, but good enough. And shortening the barrel by 4 inches makes the gun feel infinitely less cumbersome for a little guy like your faithful author. By contemporary standards a turkey gun should probably be all camo'd out. Apparently turkeys have good eyesight, and the conventional wisdom is that you need to be completely invisible. I've been advised to wear the equivalent of a camo burqa, and to paint my face in festive RealTree™. Turkeys are known to have very good hearing too, which is why, when hunting them you need to be vewy, vewy qwiet. Since this is my first foray into the quest to get a gobbler, I'm not quite ready to go full Rambo. I reckon the pilgrims managed to kill turkey with blunderbusses while wearing buckled shoes. So I should be fine in my LL Bean camo and Mossberg 500a.

Historically valid proof that the Pilgrims used blunderbusses to hunt turkeys - Gobble gobble BANG!

Speaking of shoes, that's another preparation I've made for the season. I got the old Chippewa Arctic 50s out of the closet and put a coat of beeswax on them, the better to keep the tootsies toasty and dry. I used the Justin boots beeswax-based waterproofing they gave me up to the Alvin Stokes General Store when I bought the boots last year. I am of the opinion that beeswax is by far the best treatment for waterproofing, and the fact that this was free from the manufacturer pretty much sealed the deal. And sealed the boots! The treatment darkened the leather a bit, which I like a lot. The Arctic 50 only comes in a colorway known as Bay Apache, a pleasant medium brown, but if I had my druthers I would have preferred a darker color in the first place. So form follows function and I couldn't be happier.

Newly waxed Chippewa Arctic 50's

During the summer The Managing Partner and I made a scouting trip up to Paddy Mountain to do some maintenance on my blind. It was always a kind of ramshackle affair to begin with; well situated with long sight lines in several directions, but with no more cover than a hastily assembled brush pile. We spent a couple of hours gathering up branches and leaves to construct a serviceable camouflage barrier which should obscure my presence. By the time I'm sitting in it, the blind will have been there for several months, so hopefully the wildlife will have come to take its presence for granted and won't notice the little man now sitting in it. 

So I got my gun set up, my boots are waxed and the blind is in tip top shape. The leave slip has been turned into the boss, and the plan is to spend the entire week up at the Twin Spurs Hunt Club. We will come down from the mountain long enough to make our way to Chester Gap for the Thanksgiving feast with family. Then it will be back to the mountain for the last couple of days of the deer season. Judging from the impending polar vortex, I'm sure going to be glad to have those fleece lined boots.

The hair on my chinny chin chin

Harry's - good design. But do they make good razors?

Have I fallen into some sort of retro grouch marketing trap in which I automatically fall for companies who sell sensible-seeming products in simple but attractive packaging featuring high recycled material content allegedly made by skilled craftsmen? Did Google figure out from my online behavior that I secretly want a non-stop supply of subtle, elegantly designed boxes arriving on my stoop, and then feed me ads for just such products? Well, barring an unlikely full disclosure from that oh so dark, mysterious algorithm monster, we may never know. Nevertheless, the products just keep coming, and on the whole, I couldn't be happier.

Following the recent delivery of the latest innovation in bicycle saddlery, I recently received a package from Harry's, a company devoted to making and selling razors that work as well as and cost less than the increasingly ludicrous products being propagated by "Big Shave". Harry's promises "a great shave at a fair price." Co-founded by one of the co-founders of Warby Parker (this Jeff Raider guy does a lot of co-founding), Harry's positions itself as a purveyor of sensible, affordable products shipped direct from the manufacturer to the customer by a company with a social conscience. As cliched as it sounds, they cut out the middlemen and pass the savings on to you; with 1% going to charitable organizations.

Harry's isn't the first to try this direct-to-customer model. But they're the ones who actually got me to pull the trigger. The frugality of the approach appeals to my inner penny-pincher. The 1% to charity appeals to my liberal guilt. And the whole we're just a couple of guys from Brooklyn thing appeals to my hypocritical desire to consume tons of cheap products, but not from gigantic corporations like Proctor & Gamble.

So the natural question is, do the products live up to the promise? Well, let's start with price. How does Harry's stack up against the shaving accouterments I was using previously, i.e., Gillette Fusion products? For comparison I searched for the Gillette Fusion "manual" razor. I have a constitutional aversion to using any type of battery powered shaving device, so I don't use Gillette's latest innovation, the Gillette Fusion Proglide Flexball Power Razor™ series, their hi-tech robo-razor. I am so regularly bombarded by ads for this silly contraption, that I thought to use it for comparison, but in the interest of fairness, I settled on what I consider to be equivalent products. Both Harry's and the "manual" Gillette Fusion feature a 5-bladed razor, some sort of swivel tip and a lubricating strip along the top. They seem comparable. So what's the difference in cost?  

What $40 buys you at Harry's - Handle, 19 blades, shaving cream, great typography, recyclable packaging.

What $40 buys you from Gillette - Handle, 9 blades, shaving gel, metallic orange blister packs to wrestle with.

Okay, so Harry's is cheaper. So what? Bic disposables are probably cheaper too. It's no use being cheaper if the quality isn't as good or better. Of course I'm not Consumer Reports. I don't have a high-tech lab with the ability to measure the relative sharpness of blades or the relative closeness of shaves. All I can do is provide my subjective impressions, which are these. On the whole I would say the two products are pretty close to equivalent. Harry's handles don't swivel as much, so I find I have to actually move my hand and wrist a bit more to keep the blades in alignment with my face, but if that's the toughest part of my day, I'm in good shape. The blades seem to be of equivalent sharpness and I can't say that either one is superior. I get a good, smooth shave either way.

I do like Gillette's little single blade precision trimmer on the back side of the razor for getting good and close to my nostrils. Harry's has no such feature, so it takes a little more facial contorting to not have a little rough patch just under my nose. But again, big whoop. And after years of conditioning, I am so accustomed to shaving with gel, Harry's cream seems a bit less luxurious. So for the moment I've stuck with the gel. I'm planning to get a shaving brush and trying a few alternatives, which I'll report on in a future post.  

So what's the conclusion? I have to give Gillette's Fusion the edge for superior pivotry and for their little single blade precision trimmer. I'm also more comfortable using their shaving gel than Harry's cream. But the Fusion is only marginally more convenient at over twice the price. So I'm going to stick with Harry's for a while. And as I've been exploring alternatives to the way I've been consistently shaving since I was a teenager (starting with Gillette's Atra back in the 1970s), I've learned that there is a whole cult of non-grocery store shaving people out there, and a lot of artisinal products available, so I'm likely to try out a few other shaving alternatives in the future.

No sweat

Summer is definitely here, with average high temperatures in the 90s (that's degrees Fahrenheit for you frainers; something in the 30s Celcius) with humidity to match. Ah, the Code Orange days. And that, Beloved reader, is when your humble blogger goes into perspiration overdrive. And let me tell you, it is not a pretty sight.

Paul Newman can make sweating sexy. Bartlebones cannot.

Cycling in the South in the summer entails having a constant rivulet of man moisture streaming down one's back, through the Cleft of Doom, and a steady stream of burning salt and sunscreen coursing across one's pupils and down the inside of one's Rudy Projects. Contrary to what you might think, that sucks. I can handle the incessant sphincter rinse, but the loss of sight is disconcerting when trying to navigate the mean streets of Bethesda on a bicycle.

Thus it was, in the afterglow of a recent foray into the steamy fields of rural Montgomery County, I punched the term "headband" into the search box of a certain online retailer to see what I could get my hands on in short order. I had used Halo headbands before and generally had a positive impression of them. They are pretty standard technical fabric headbands with a rubber gasket around the forehead area meant to channel the sweat back toward the temples where the stream, while annoying, will do no harm. And they work pretty well, for the most part. Certainly better than the forehead padding in any helmet I've ever known.

But as most super-sweaty cyclists must, having been enticed by the ads in the back of Bicycling magazine, (which, by the way shows up in your mailbox automatically about 15 minutes after you buy a bike and never goes away - I swear I've had a subscription for fifteen years and never paid a dime) I have been curious to try the Sweat GUTR® The Sweatband That Never Saturates™. Ooo, an actual sweat sluice. This I've got to try. So I ordered me up a GUTR® and a couple of Halo's, one of which is a new "Slim" model so as to have me a proper head-to-head competition.  

Don't sweat the small stuff.

The competition ended less than a half mile from the stately Bartlecave. See, the Sweat GUTR® is a good idea and all, but in practice, the lack of absorbent material actually makes a considerable difference. The first time I tilted my head forward (mind you, I am riding a road bike so that took about 500 feet), the sweat came coursing over the gutter's rim, splashing all over the inside of my glasses. Fail. Halo wins.

I would be remiss if I didn't point out that the Halo becomes saturated eventually and the dripping is pretty much the same when it does. But the cloth buys time and on days when it's not too humid (we have about 5 of those a year here in the Mid-Atlantic states) it suffices to keep all sweat out of the eyes. And after some experimentation, I would say that the slim version with its 1' width is less effective than the 1 ¾ inch Halo 1 or the wider 2" wide Halo II or it's "pullover" cousin. 

So I'm sticking with Halo. Sure you've got to wash them like garments rather than just dunking and rinsing the silicone GUTR®. And like the GUTR®, the Halo bands impress a line across my forehead that takes all afternoon to go away. But they keep the sweat out of my eyes longer and in the end, that's what matters.   

I'll ride that dream to the end of the line

I'm gonna take you, New York, I'll make it happen

I'm on the caboose, I'm drinking Manhattans

And I know someday they're going to name a street after me

Right next door to old Franklin D.

- Tom

The Managing Partner and I just returned from a weekend in New York City. What a town! This was a complete tourist visit; a full-on fanny pack, Bermuda shorts, Griswold affair. We visited the 9/11 Memorial, which was, as you no doubt know, an extraordinary experience.

9/11 Memorial

And of course saw the so-called Freedom Tower. It is an extraordinary odalisque, but remember that no matter how large, proud and rigid One World Trade Center is, the nation's capital still boasts the original national phallus. And don't you forget it!

Freedom Tower

I'm really looking forward to seeing how the Transportation Hub turns out. It is still in its early phases of construction, suggesting some sort of skeleton made out of recycled naval ships or airplane wings. Maybe the location put the image in my mind, but the form kind of reminded me of jet turbines. However it turns out, it is sure to be unique.

The World Trade Center Transportation Hub

We also took in the High Line park which I have wanted to visit for some years but just never had the opportunity. I must say it lived up to expectations, though I was surprised at how crowded it was. It was a lovely day, but by the time we reached the north terminus, it felt like we were marching single file in some sort of abattoir chute. Where's Temple Grandin when you need her? Nevertheless, it was a lovely day, the park is indeed visionary and a joy to experience, and we had a lovely drink at the GastroMarket afterward.

<The Bummer Report>
The one sad note of the entire weekend was the absolute, unforgivable failure of the Citi Bike system. We purchased two 24-hour passes and eagerly anticipated the ride from the end of the High Line to our pied-à-terre in the upper 50's. I had downloaded the app, mapped out the route and was anxious to be initiated into the troubled system that has somehow out shined DC's earlier, more successful bike sharing system. But, after attempting to release over a dozen bikes at three stations that the app indicated had available bikes, and a call to support, The Managing Partner vetoed the adventure and we hailed a cab. I know mine is probably not a statistically representative example, but this first foray made a very poor first impression. Several similar attempts have led to very positive experiences with Capital Bike Share. I don't know what's wrong with Citi Bike. As usual, the tawdry, erratic New York slut gets all the attention while the dowdy, dependable DC dame gets treated like a redheaded stepchild.
</The Bummer Report>

The real revelation of the trip was Roosevelt Island. We were staying at a friend's apartment up in the East 50's and looking around for an interesting place to stroll, we found ourselves taking the Roosevelt Island Tramway over and spending a morning wandering the island. 

NYC via gondola

The entire island from the tramway south is made up of an old ruined hospital and two absolutely wonderful parks - Southpoint Park, and The FDR Four Freedoms park. Southpoint Park is filled with incredible flora, offering unparalleled views of the iconic East Side. It's organic forms contrast gorgeously with the relentlessly linear angles of the city's skyline.

Southpoint Park is an oasis of bloom with stunning views of the city

AND they have a ruined Gothic Smallpox hospital in the park! Now that's upscale tourism. You can't actually go into the hospital, but it looks all spooky and evocative just seeing it from outside the perimeter fence. I'll bet it looks spectacular when they light it up at night. Alas, time was limited and we were not able to enjoy that pleasure. It'll have to wait for another trip, I guess.

Welcome to the Roosevelt Island Smallpox hospital

Given the recent revelations at NIH, perhaps we ought to think about restoring this hospital 

The FDR Four Freedoms park was every bit the surprise Southpoint had been. Laid out in rigid geometric symmetry, juxtaposed nicely against Southpoint's meandering, naturalistic forms, the Four Freedom park focuses attention on a mammoth bust of FDR, the reverse of which contains the words for which the park is named. It is a moving tribute to the man and a reminder of the shame we should feel every single day for having failed to live up to the noble aspirations he established.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt on his island

FDR's Four Freedoms

We were there on a Sunday morning. It seemed like we had the whole place to ourselves. By noon the island was crawling with Japanese tourists. Take that for what it's worth (nothing).

And I've only described the southern third of Roosevelt Island. The northern section contains some extraordinary architecture, more parks, public art, and a lighthouse. There's even a little downtown with a few eateries that look worthy of exploration. We were rushed for time and didn't get the chance to fully delve into all there is on offer, but we will very likely be back to have another look.

Red and ripe

Tomato, tom-ah-to. Call 'em what you will, they are getting ripe and ready to pluck from the vine. Lovely, organic fruit grown right in front of your eyes. It's not a big event in the scheme of things. Obviously we eat food every day that has gone through the same life cycle; one that, frankly would be difficult to suppress if we wanted to. But somehow seeing food grown in person is like witnessing an extraordinary thing. The metamorphosis from seed to fruit is truly amazing to watch. It's kind of life affirming really.

Let's call the whole thing off. 

To arms, cyclists! The war is on!

“In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage.” 
― William Shakespeare, Henry V

Bike Joust by Karl Addison

In this morning's Post, Transportation writer Ashley Halsey III writes a response to a rash of recent columns about cyclists that have appeared over the past few days, in particular this tirade from Courtland Milloy which followed this one by John Kelly. And this piece by Rachel Sadon. And this one by Sarah Kaplan. And this one by Petula Dvorak. Looks like a busy time around the water cooler for the editorial staff at the Post. I can assure you, the Comments engine at the paper must be at near capacity.

These commentaries follow a firestorm created by an ill-considered tweet from NPR's Scott Simon, which prompted this extremely well articulated response from Carl Alviani on Medium which referenced a retort tweet from BikeSnobNYC. Suddenly cycling editorials are coming out of nowhere!

A casual observer might be forgiven for concluding from the histrionic rhetoric that there is a war in this country between motorists and cyclists. In some senses there is a war; if only for funding, for space, for equal protection under law. It's an engagement reminiscent of the great American Civil War, only now pedestrians are fighting for exclusive rights to the sidewalks, cyclists are fighting for equal rights to the road, and motorists are fighting to preserve their right to continue to slaughter over 30,000 people per year in what they term "accidents". Thankfully, the fight is so far limited to the Op Ed pages of newspapers and blogs with the occasional intrusion into transportation funding meetings. Oh, and of course on YouTube, the world's new public square. 

It would be easy to be discouraged by the insane vitriol spewed by people on both sides of this debate, but I have to say I find it somewhat promising. First, it's good to know that the most significant event the Op Ed columnists of the world can think to write about on a given morning is that goddamn bicyclist that jumped a stop sign on the way to work. Or that had the audacity to ride on the sidewalk in the extremely small area downtown where that behavior is illegal. I'd much rather read about that than about actual tragedies that happen when cars ride on the sidewalks and people actually die rather than just being annoyed and possibly inconvenienced. 

And that there are so many of these rant-a-torials must be an indication that cycling has reached a certain critical mass making it worthy of comment. Cyclists are now having such an impact on the comings and goings of our fellow citizens that we warrant being hated, which is a clear sign of significance. At least we are now sufficiently annoying that we must be reckoned with. And now that drivers are pissed off, maybe they'll want to do something about it, like vote to increase transportation funding so the bicycle commuters don't have to share the roads with their laughable Humscalades they bought to chauffeur their kids to school. 

Maybe now that all these nasty cyclists are forcing drivers to repeatedly press the brake and gas pedals and maybe turn the steering wheel more often, they'll have no alternative but to recognize that there are other human beings in the world, people with different priorities and lifestyles; fellow citizens whose admittedly conflicting rights need to be taken into consideration. Nah... what am I thinking? They'll just keep bitching and spending their ever-shrinking transportation dollars on their ever-expanding superhighways so we can all spend our entire, pointless lives sitting in gigantic vehicles going zero miles per hour on Interstate 95 between Springfield and Fredericksburg. Goddamn bicycles! 

Aww Nuts!

Another year has slipped away and again we find ourselves in the blurry afterglow of St John the Babtist Day. And of course that must also mean another batch of Nocino is underway and that certainly is true too. As I did last year, I padded down to the local walnut grove with my trusty pole saw and pilfered a sack full of about seventy green walnuts.

Aww Nuts

I dutifully chopped them into quarters...

Okay, this one is halved, but you get the idea - they're cut in quarters...

And I stuffed them into jars...

4 liter jars with new rubber gaskets (try finding 3.25 inch rubber gaskets in your local grocery store!) 

So, now we wait. I'll add the sugar today and the alcohol tomorrow. I'm using an organic light brown sugar this year, but I still haven't decided what to do about the alcohol. As of July 1, Maryland banned the sale of 190 proof neutral grain spirits, so I'm in a bit of a quandary. I have to decide whether to drive into the Distrik to procure the good stuff or settle for a lower alcohol level using grappa or wodka.

This year I'm thinking of adding lemon zest and maybe vanilla. I've also been thinking of aging the Nocino in wooden casks. The native black walnuts are certainly more astringent than the more common English walnuts (Juglans regia) and I think a year in oak might help to soften the Nocino a bit. I've also considered reducing the initial soak time. At a minimum I hope to come out with two batches of Nocino. Check back in a year and I'll let you know how it went.

See Part I

See Part II

Sans Relief

The Post had several interesting pieces this week concerning typefaces. Whatever could have possessed them?

The logo for BanComicSans.com

Sorry But You Can't Fix Comic Sans is a hilarious rebuttal to an earlier piece insinuating that a typographer has found a way to make the most misused font ever cool. I side with the haters.

The second piece, A remarkably small idea that could reduce distracted driving, concerns the issue of legibility in typefaces used on displays in cars. Comforting to think that the jerk who runs me down futzing with his navigation system will have had a nice clear impression of what his dashboard interface was telling him right up to the moment he thinks, Gee, I wonder what that bump was I just went over. Still, I'm for legible, elegant letterforms, so better my killer should have them than not.