The Cookblog by Brian Cook

Thanksgiving in Nebraska

I recently discovered that I’ve visited more foreign countries than U.S. states. And so it was with much interest that I accepted the invitation from my brother, Aaron, and his fiancée, Megan, to join them for Thanksgiving in Nebraska. While I considering geography an area of my expertise, I must confess I placed Nebraska far too south in my brain. It shares a border with South Dakota and Omaha is about as far north as Chicago. Now you know, too.

The trip started off with a ride to the airport from good pal, Marta. My flight to Chicago was smooth and I even had time to stop off for a pint before catching my connection to Omaha. Once there, I was met by Megan, who showed me all the sites of Omaha and took me to get some coffee while we waited for my brother’s flight to land in an hour. After all of that, we still had the better part of 45 minutes to kill, so we drove around, picked up a bag of sugar for Thanksgiving and stopped by the site of their impending wedding. Finally, Aaron arrived and they drove to Shelton, NE while I slept in the back of the car.

Thanksgiving was a fun day. I met Megan’s family, all of whom were delightful and accomodating. Aaron and I tossed around the football and chatted with the future in-laws before sitting down to an excellent feast of the usual suspects: turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn casserole, green bean casserole, squash and gravy. Megan Grammie took us out for a tour of Greater Shelton afterward, pointing out their family corn fields and the grave of a pioneer woman who was rumored to be poisoned by Indians. Good stuff.

The evening was spent playing parlor games, including Werewolf. After several false starts, everyone got the hang of it and reveled in the lying, backstabbing and indignance that make it such a great family game.

Friday was spent attending the Nebraska v Colorado football game in Lincoln, which apparently becomes the 3rd largest city in the state during game days. For sure, Nebraskans love their college football team, particularly their defense, which they’ve dubbed “The Blackshirts”. The carnival atmosphere was shattered when Colorado scored a touchdown on their second play 54 seconds into the game. They added another two plays later to make it 14-0, before Nebraska decided not to disappoint the 85,000 rabid fans. Back and forth the game went, until Nebraska’s kicked hit a 57-yard field goal with about a minute left and won the game. It was a great day out and a real slice of Americana.

Saturday allowed us the opportunity to check out the inside of a Nebraskan movie theater, which was virtually indistinguishable from those in Connecticut. Megan, Aaron and I took in the latest James Bond flick, which I’d give a solid B+. Aaron reinforced his credentials as the family curmudgeon with a less-than-glowing review, but I enjoyed it. We stopped at a Nebraska souvernir store and then at Cabela’s, where our fancy city dress made us more of a spectacle than the stuffed antelope, industrial meat grinders and camo pajamas for sale.

One of the highlights of the trip was Saturday night at the Sportsman, a serious meat-eating establishment in Gibbon, Nebraska that compares favorably to the legendary Silver Swan in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. For until $10, patrons can get a “Man’s Cut” of delicious prime rib, a trip to the salad bar and a complimentary mini-bottle of White Zinfandel. I’m proud to say that I downed the Man’s Cut in one sitting, and didn’t have to eat again for at least another 24 hours.

Sunday was meant to be a traveling day, first driving from Shelton to Omaha, then flying home. Everything went to plan early on, as we made it back to Omaha with time to grab a burger at a local brewery and some freshly made ice cream before heading to the airport. I checked in, bade farewell to Aaron and Megan, and made my way to the terminal. That’s when the fun started.

Because of the East Coast weather, my 4:10 PM flight to Newark, NJ was delayed 2 hours. Then two more hours. Finally, we left a little after 9 PM, landing around 1 AM. There were quite a few people still milling around, having missed their connections and had their outbound flights delayed. With the Continental customer service line about 200 people long, I washed up a bit, got some water, stood in line for a bit and then decided to lie down for some sleep and get my boarding pass for Hartford in a few hours. I found an unoccupied spot in the terminal, fluffed my hoodie into a pillow and lay down for a nap at about 3 AM.

At 3:45 AM, a woman went around waking everyone up, telling them they had to leave the terminal and re-enter. This was apparently due to “security regulations.” Since I was awake and the new Continental line was relatively short, I figured I might as well sort out my boarding pass. An hour later, it was taken care of, and I wandered over to the proper terminal, stopping in a coffee shop for a mocha and finding my gate a couple of hours before my 8:30 AM flight.

I finally landed in Hartford at 9:30 AM on 45 minutes of sleep. I was 90% sure my bag wouldn’t make it, and debated whether I should even check the luggage belt or just go straight to the customer service office. Miraculously, it was there and I sensed things were finally going my way. My colleague, Ali, had agreed to pick me up and I went straight to work. After a full day, I returned home, exhausted, at 7 PM, made a simple meal, and went to sleep, putting an end to a memorable and enjoyable Thanksgiving weekend.

You can see a few more pictures of the weekend on Flickr.

Fresh Fall Links

The past few days and months have been a whirlwind of activity. I prefer understatement, so I’ll just provide some links that you absolutely shouldn’t miss, and you click on them. Deal?

- My friend Dan wrote a terrific article about canvassing in New Hampshire.

- Dinky won a Fat Cat photo contest, giving me an excuse to meet some interesting people who know a lot about Springfield and Hartford politics.

- I’ve been taking a lot of pictures.

- I’ve gone sailing in Newport.

- I’ve joined a stock club.

- I tried my hand at knitting in Connecticut.

- I’ve been reading a bunch of books.

- I’ve become a regular at my local Manchester pub.

- I’ve been writing in my Field Notes.

- I’ve been meeting a lot of new people and realizing how much all of my older friends mean to me.

Thoughts on the DMV

The Department of Motor Vehicles is better known by its fear-inducing abbreviation: DMV. Just the mention of it conjures up visions of long waits, frumpy employees, miles of red tape and the queerest cross-section of society you can find in one place. It’s a place everyone avoids for as long as they can, but eventually nearly everyone has to go. The same, of course, can be said of death. Unfortunately, my need for a real car was dire with my beloved 1990 Celebrity Eurowagon, Big Red, threatening to crap out on me with every turn of the engine.  Therefore, I identified a suitable replacement, agreed a fee, gathered the paperwork and braced myself for my own purgatory at the DMV.

I firmly believe in being pleasant and polite with people who are doing their jobs, particularly in service industries. Judging by the scenes at the DMV, many people don’t share that belief. Still, I like to think that such a positive outlook makes experiences like a visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles far more tolerable for everyone involved. It was with that frame of mind that I went to take care of business, and despite having to wait for 3 hours in line and being told that a $32 property tax from two years ago prevented me from registering my new car, I tried to stay upbeat. Of course, I couldn’t drive home then, as was my plan, and everyone who could give me a lift was otherwise occupied. So then there was a 2 hour wait in the parking lot. I won’t say I was in the best of humor, but everything got sorted out the following day, leaving me to muse about possible ways to improve the DMV. Here’s what I came up with:

Let the employees take turns picking the music that plays over the loudspeakers. Facing up to combative people all day must take a toll on them, and hearing their favorite song come on would certainly lift their spirits a bit. I don’t think anyone likes the Muzak that plays there now, so anything would be a step up.

Put a big sign outside with the line numbers counting down. There are picnic tables, a river and a park by the Wethersfield DMV, and other DMVs have or should have similar attractions adjacent to them. Why force everyone to sit in a room for fear of missing their number? Let them go outside, soak up some sun, play with their kids and pets, whatever. Anything is better than sitting in a stuffy room glaring at the employees behind the counter.

Give the idlers sitting in the room something productive to do. I was lucky to find a crossword puzzle, but most of the hundreds of people in the room just sat and stared ahead with their eyes glazed over. Let them pedal some stationary bikes and provide power for the building, or having a knitting instructor teach them how to make clothes for the homeless. Let them paint a mural or learn algebra. Just harness the free time of thousands of people each day in a positive way.

Finally, make as much as possible web-based. Documents that require signatures and ID are obviously difficult to process online, but cutting down on the number of people forced to physically go to the DMV will save the time and resources of the state and its citizens.

That’s my take on what could be improved. If you’ve got other ideas, leave a comment and be heard!

Awesome Travel Tip #714

It happens to everyone. You’re down in Florida, living in a hot, dusty boatyard through the scorching summer months. You don’t have a refrigerator and all you want after a sweaty day of work is a nice cold beverage. Oh yeah, and you’re too cheap to pay for one. What do you do?

Find a motel. 

Your average Day’s Inn or Hi Ho is an open-air structure, at least on the ground floor. Just park your car, grab a trash bag, and make your way to the unguarded ice machine. If you want to do it right, make a note of a room number or two while you’re walking in, so that you won’t be caught cold if challenged by a motel employee. Once you’ve filled a few sacks with ice, you’ve got enough cooling power for a chilled brewski in the evening and good milk for cereal in the morning.

Of course, this technique works for more than just boatyard-dwellers. Here are some other opportunities to put it into action:

• A trip down to the beach. Got a cooler? Don’t want to shell out for bags of ice? Problem solved.
• A keg party. Your freezer isn’t big enough, and you didn’t plan ahead.
• A severed finger. You’ve already had your finger severed. You don’t want to pay $5 for a bag of ice, too.
• A camping excursion. There’s no ice in the woods. Ever.

Do you have any sweet travel tips? Do share!

It’s Been a Long, Strange Trip

I’ve had my share of difficult travels. I’ve crashed a dinghy and lost an outboard motor in a stalagmite-studded New Zealand tidal cave. I’ve battled legions of leeches in a Tasmanian swamp. I’ve simultaneously vomited and experienced diarrhea in the mountains of Nepal. But before last week, I had never seen the world beat such a cadence of misfortune against my plans.

Though I already intended to travel to Georgia so I could see my parents and pick up their car, my father’s traffic accident in the same car threw the trip in doubt. Fortunately, he escaped with relatively minor injuries. I decided to buy a return plane ticket and make the most of the situation. A cold virus was the first plague to befall me, and it’s proven to be the worst such sickness I’ve ever had. It’s fair to say that a permanently clogged head magnified my injustice at the events that transpired.

Before leaving on Friday, I consulted the web for information about parking at White Plains Airport. The Westchester government website helpfully lays out the situation:

Flying out of Westchester County Airport? Thinking of driving there? Think again. With more flights to popular destinations than ever before there are simply not enough parking spaces for everyone.”

Heeding their advice, I opted to park my car at the Mount Kisco Metro North Station and take the train down to the airport. Unfortunately, all parking was of the “2-hour” or “Permit Only” variety. I resolved to risk a parking ticket and leave my car, which I’ve dubbed “Big Red”, in a remote corner of a distant parking lot about 1/4 mile away. I grabbed my suitcase and trudged through the freezing rain to the station, only to rethink my decision, return to Big Red, head south and try to find parking at the airport. A call to my father confirmed the wisdom of this decision. And indeed, parking was plentiful despite what I’d read. I happily parked in a long-term lot and headed into the terminal.

My flight was canceled. Two hours from home, I had the option of going back and returning early the next morning, or driving an hour to Laguardia on Long Island, where there was a flight due to leave that evening. I opted for the latter, paid $2.80 for my 10 minutes in the long-term lot, and headed south through the frozen hellscape of New York. Arriving at my second airport of the day, I once again found a long-term lot, parked Big Red and gathered my bags. That’s when the next shoe dropped.

But instead of a shoe, it was the rear, right side of my car, due to the flat tire spread luxuriously across the pavement in the cold rain. It’s unclear how long it had been flat, and a bit worrying to realize that I may have been driving 70 mph with it that way for a quite a while. With the bad weather and my impending flight, I had no choice but to leave it as it was and worry about changing it upon my return.

Big Red is probably the least desirable car in the eyes of an American car thief, with the passenger side door almost impossible to open and the fact that the windows don’t work. The flat tire was a further anti-theft device, but my six months worth of empty beer and soda bottles in the back seat would be a veritable gold mine for any itinerant bum that happened to wander through Laguardia’s Long Term Parking Lot 3. For that reason, I chose to lock the doors, perhaps for the first time ever.

As it turned out, I had plenty of time since my new flight was delayed for two hours. I treated myself to some Au Bon Pain chicken noodle soup and read most of my 4-4-2 magazine at the gate, periodically hooking down cold medication. Two more delays pushed the flight back even further, but we finally got to leave. Aside from the obligatory fat man sitting next to me and helping himself to our mutual armrest, the flight was memorable only for my throbbing head and aching jaw, which I had to work furiously to keep my ears clear for the duration of the flight. It was past midnight when we landed and my head hurt like hell, but it was great to see my parents and get a little sympathy for my troubles.

An excellent visit included dinner out at Murphys, where my limited taste didn’t prevent me from enjoying seared salmon, a tasty pinot and some decadent dessert. I also got to see the Patriots choke in the Super Bowl, eat a deliciously inventive birthday cake, hike at Kennesaw Mountain and enjoy a lovely dinner out on the deck in 70 degree weather. If only I didn’t have to travel again.

Checking the flight status repeatedly during the day on Monday, we saw a variety of predictions. On time, then delayed an hour, then delayed two hours, then delayed one hour, and finally delayed two hours again. I showed up at the airport an hour and a half before the latest predicted time and almost couldn’t check my bag. I got some Serious Attitude from the AirTran man for checking in less than an hour before the scheduled time of the flight

“It’s delayed two hours,” I said.

“But it’s scheduled to leave in 30 minutes,” he said.

“But it’s delayed two hours,” I said. Clearly, he was irate that I didn’t want to show up three hours before the flight was actually going to leave. He slapped some “Nick of Time Check-In!” tags on my bags and let me pass. Naturally, the flight was delayed a few more times. As I told my parents, the only thing worse than changing a tire at 9:30 PM is changing a tire at 12:30 AM.

When we finally got in the air, the flight was about empty and I thought my luck was finally changing. I opted to fill myself with caffeine instead of taking a nap, due to the long night ahead of me. Upon landing, I headed for the bathroom and changed into some warm clothes. True to form, it was 34 degrees and raining in New York. At the baggage claim, there were only a couple of people left. I grabbed one of my bags and waited for the other. And waited. And watched the carousel stop.

Of course, my other bag, full of wine and my more-than-3-ounces-of-liquids overnight bag was MIA. The bag I did have contained nothing but my parents’ TV and a Muslim prayer rug that I acquired in Malaysia, two fine items but not much help in taking out my contact lenses or making me smell better.

The baggage claim woman was actually helpful, and suggested I wait an hour for the next Atlanta flight, which was sure to be carrying my bag. Since I still had a tire to change, that sounded reasonable, so I headed for the parking lot. The nice crisp air, gentle rain and manual labor were actually enjoyable and I changed the tire without trouble. I took Big Red for a few laps around the parking lot. She didn’t seem to mind the prosthetic appendage, so I walked back to the baggage claim. Needless to say, I hung around for an extra 45 minutes and my bag didn’t come on the next flight.

Amazingly, when I walked into the baggage claim service room, there it was! But it wasn’t. It was someone else’s bag that, against the odds, looked exactly like mine. They’d taken mine to Brooklyn and left theirs. What does this oh-so-common bag look like? It’s so common that I couldn’t even find the brand (Fifth Avenue) despite all of my Google chops. I filed the necessary paper work and was told it was arrive on Thursday.

It was 12:45 AM when I paid $80 for my great parking experience and headed for Connecticut. There were no road signs to speak of at the airport exit, so I quickly got lost and called my girlfriend, who got me back on track. And so began the slow crawl northward, going 55 mph in my shattered car. There was nothing to do but turn on the radio and ride it out.

There is a stereotype that New York drivers are assholes. I’d like to add my voice to that school of thought. I was only just over the Tribero Bridge when the car in front of me took a curve too fast and spun out, ending up sideways across the road. Fortunately, my slow pace left me plenty of time to stop and watch with disgust as this particular asshole turned himself around and sped off again at 90 mph.

My progress was steady, my fatigue was manageable and I was optimistic. Then I looked down at the gas gauge: EMPTY.

With a sinking heart, I took the first exit, searched frantically for a gas station, and found one that was closed. I tried the illuminated pump, but it was stopped for the night. My choices were to ride around the ghost town at 1:30 AM looking for gas or head back to the highway and pray that an exit with a gas station wasn’t too far. I chose the latter.

Back on I-95, I soon saw a sign: “Connecticut Welcomes You! Tourism Center, Gas & Food: 9 miles”. Clearly, I didn’t have nine miles worth of fuel left. I needed a miracle. I got it. An exit with a fuel sign loomed in the distance. Gingerly, I guided Big Red onto the exit ramp. As I rounded the curve, she sputtered and bucked. As I came to a stop at the light, she died. Desperately, I put her in park and turned the key. She roared to life. The sign indicated a Shell station to the right and a Mobile station to the left, but didn’t bother to give distances. Blindly, I turned right, and there it was. Yelling with glee, I coasted in on fumes and slaked the thirst of my brave vehicle.

The rest of the trip passed slowly but pleasantly. Stamford, Bridgeport and New Haven drifted by. With a string of classic music from the ’90s, I passed Cromwell, Wethersfield and Hartford. I finally pulled into my parking lot at 3:45 AM on Tuesday morning, for once celebrating my good fortune with a safe arrival. I was going to work in four hours, but so what? I was home.

Have a terrible travel story of your own? Want to tell me to stop being a baby? Share it in the comments.