Riverfolk Festival in Manchester

“Did you hear that Mandy didn’t like the food at the Chicken Broil?” a friend announced loudly as Dan and Pepper settled to our table at the Riverfolk Festival in Manchester.

“I know she didn’t like the Chicken Broil! And CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHE LEFT ANN ARBOR AND IS ACTUALLY HERE IN MANCHESTER AGAIN?!” Pepper responded, equally loudly.

“Shut up you guys!” I rasped, leaning in low over the table, “you’re going to get me beat up!”

I’m not a big fan of the seemingly endless drive out to Manchester (I’ve been assured that it’s only 35 minutes, but it always seems longer – I keep watching for an “Ohio Welcomes You” road sign), but given that once again I cadged a ride from a friend we headed out for the Riverfolk Festival’s opening night.It was a Cajun theme - $12 got us admission tickets, and another $10 got us a Louisiana-styled meal. We could choose from pulled pork or jambalaya, cole slaw or corn on the cob, strawberry shortcake or brownie, and a slice of cornbread thrown in for good measure (awesome cornbread - so sweet and moist that it was just shy of yellow cake). Stockwell's Catering provided the food, and it was all perfectly fine, and a good value. Plus I was most impressed that they served the food on aluminum pie pans. No saggy plates, plus recyclable!

There were soft drinks, beer, and wine. The two men dispensing the beverages were jolly, age-appropriate, and wedding-ring-less, so my friend Beth and I brushed off our best flirting reparte:

“Look at those tubes for the keg,” Beth said, “they look like something from a science experiment. Or worse.”

“A hospital,” I mused.

“Like a catheter,” one of the guys chimed in.

“Or like the stomach tube my daughter had to have,” I bantered wittily.

“Oh, yeah, I had to have one of those tubes up my nose once,” Beth nodded.

Sexy. I can’t understand why they didn’t ask for our phone numbers.

Anyway, Cedric Watson and the Bijou Creole Band were the headliners, packing the dance floor. That's Cedric and his friend Jermaine taking a break in the photo at left. Woody Pines also played – they were charming, though their rootsy-bluegrass didn’t lend as well to dancing. Besides the music and the beautiful weather, the best aspect was the small crowd. It seems like lately, every activity in Ann Arbor involves me and about 1,000 of my best friends. It was refreshing to go to an event, to see some new faces, and for there to only be 150 or so people. Very pleasant.

Riverfolk continues all day today (Saturday) – thumbs up, and worth the drive.

The Spy, the Stage Manager, the Swan, and the Stay-At-Home-Mom…

...And Then There's Me

“One of us is going to get lucky tonight!” Jenny pronounced from the passenger seat, as we motored down M-52 towards Manchester.

“What do you mean?” Kristi asked, alarmed.

“I mean one of us is going to end up making out with a guy! At the Manchester Chicken Broil.” Jenny continued in the confident tone of a woman who knows of what she speaks. “What goes on at the Manchester Chicken Broil, stayyys at the Manchester Chicken Broil!”

“Do you really think one of US is going to end up playing tongue hockey?” I piped up from the back seat, imagining that I’m the most likely candidate since I’m single. And wondering just how drunk I’d have to be. And glad that I wasn’t doing the driving.

“Tongue hockey?” Jenny repeated the words, rolling them around for effect. “Tongue. Hockey. Toooonguue Hockey. I’ve never even SAID those two words together before! I love it!”

“If you had a sixteen-year-old daughter who has a boyfriend, you’d use those words on a regular basis,” I pointed out.

Manchester, Michigan Hot Spot

My friends Jenny (the Stage Manager) and Allison (the Spy) flew into Michigan this week, and along with locals Kristi (the Swan) and Beth (the Stay-At-Home-Mom) we all went to the Manchester Chicken Broil on Thursday night. Allison’s family still live in Manchester, and her aunt owns the Village Tap. Amazingly enough, I’ve never been to the Broil, so was really looking forward to it, and to catching up with the girls.
The first thing you need to know (and I realize this may ruffle a lot of feathers) - don’t go to the Broil for the food. Because it sucks. Awful. Eat before you head out there. The chicken was pale and rubbery, the “famous” cole slaw was only notable by the large portion flopped onto your paper plate, and nothing seems to be seasoned enough. Honestly, a little marinade and about five extra minutes on the grill would have done wonders for the chicken.

But, ohhhh, the people-watching opportunities.

I grew up in a small town, and the Manchester Chicken Broil is exactly the kind of gathering that brings back fond memories. The cloggers (photo below). The trio of 50-something guys in Hawaiian shirts performing from the flat bed of a truck. The 85-year-old man on the loudspeaker keeping a running commentary of the various home states of visitors. (At one point, when he announced Alaska and then “Romania!” I surmised that somebody had gotten the bright idea to pull his leg, and that one of us should go up and say we’re from “American Samoa.”)

And just as it should be in a small town, Allison still seemed to know everybody. A steady stream of old family friends wandered in and out of our space at the end of one of the rectangular rental tables, and I have to admit I was a little jealous. Last summer I went back to my hometown for the county fair, the social highlight of the season in that rural area. And didn’t see a soul I knew. Not a single one. Allison’s lucky she still has those roots that are sunk deep.

You Can’t Beat $3.50 Chablis In A Plastic Cup

After doing the best we could to wipe down with the wet naps provided, we walked up the hill from the Broil back to town and the Village Tap. The Tap hosts “Roosterpalooza” to coincide with the Broil, and Allison’s cousin’s band, “Star 69” (photo below. And I really don’t want to have to explain that name to the Button), was playing in the roped-off parking lot.

What a great setting! A cool, beautiful night, cheap bag-wine from the bar, and music from the sort of workman like band that you might hear any night down on Bourbon Street, playing Eagles tunes for all the 30 and 40 somethings to sing along with.

Shouting over the music, the five of us caught up. We all went to the U of M together, and became friends through working on various extracurricular stage activities. Jenny is a stage manager and does festival work in Williamstown, Vermont. Beth used to teach math and computer science here in Ann Arbor at Greenhills and is now the stay-at-home-mom. Kristi is a retired Radio City Rockette who now does drama therapy. And Allison is a spy. No, really. A spy.

Code Name: “Mustang Sally”

Allison isn’t even her real name. Cause I’m kind of afraid to even use it, just like I’m kind of afraid to even pass on the things we talked about.

Allison works in counter-terrorism and directs a department of over 200 people. She speaks four languages, attended the Naval War College, has spent time in the Middle East, and gives regular briefings to General McChrystal, the new commander in Afghanistan. And that's just the stuff she can tell us about. I can picture her rolling her eyes at this, but I imagine that her job is like that of the director up in the glass office on the TV show “24.” Deploying analysts, agents, and resources like chess pieces in a deadly, serious game.

“It’s NOTHING like TV or the movies, ” Allison laughed, shaking her head, “satellites cannot take pictures of your license plate.”

“What about track me via my cell phone?” I persisted.

“Nope.”

“What about shoe phones?!” Jenny interjected.

“Nope.”

I feigned distrust, piercing Allison with my laser-like expression. “Ha! You’re just saying that! I bet you’ve been sent to the heartland to sow misinformation!”

“Yeah. Whatever.” she said, with exactly the same tone she would have used 20 years ago when I said something stupid. Ah, another fond memory. And then, plastic cup of Budweiser in hand, Allison got up to dance along with her aunt.

How many super spies do you know who can shimmy and sing along with “Mustang Sally?” Our nation’s security is in good hands.


PS: Almost forgot. Though there seemed to be dozens of age-appropriate guys (THAT'S where they're all hiding - out in Manchester!), disappointingly no tongue hockey occurred. At least that I can remember.

Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“I read this article in the travel section of the paper,” Kelly said to Sherry and me as we sat down to the bar on the roof at Palio. “It was all about getting the most for your dollar for a night on the town. I think the goal was $40 per person. We should try that tonight!”Kelly was in town from Chattanooga, so we were in the early hours of one of our bi-annual girls’ night out. We were exploring Main Street as part of Restaurant Week, and had just rejected Black Pearl’s $25 prix fixe meal in favor of 1/2 off appetizers and wine at the Palio roof bar. We had a very congenial bartender in the form of Vinnie (who looked young enough to be the Button’s prom date), but the restriction of staying at the bar had us literally sweating it out. Comprised of a large concrete slab, it had absorbed the heat of the day and was radiating it right back at us. A little toasty.

So we vowed to try to make it through the evening, dinner and drinks, on $40 each. “I think we could even stand out on the corner and beg for money!” Kelly laughed. “You mean like on ‘Amazing Race,’ when a team loses their wallets?” I asked. “Yeah!” I then pointed out that it would take some nerve, in a town where half the people have suffered paycuts or lost their jobs, to beg to pay our bar bill for the night. No matter how cute Kelly looked in her sundress.

Palio offers a limited menu on the roof, with only four appetizers on the menu. We ordered the bruschetta, the tapenade variety plate, and some sort of melted goat cheese thingy. The bruschetta was the best – the balsamic vinegar drizzled on the chopped tomatoes, onions, and capers was tangy and yummy. And the artichoke spread among the tapenades was also a standout - garlicy good. The melted goat cheese had been under the broiler too long, we thought – too stiff to spread and too oily.

We wrapped up at Palio and walked down Liberty towards Top of the Park, bumping into Beth on her bike on the way. Luck was with us, since it was one of the few nights this week that rain wasn’t threatening, and it was a beautiful evening on the Ingalls Mall. We marched up to the bar in the Beer Garden at TOP, and Kelly explained “Girls’ Night Out - Beg, Borrow, or Steal Edition” to Max Kurek, the bartender.

And this is where things started to get a little fuzzy, so allow me to refer to my notes…

Max is…
… a Greenhills graduate.
…junior at U of M.
…philosophy major (didn’t know people still did that).
…taking “Philosphy of Religion” with Prof. Louis Loeb spring term.
(exactly 23 years ago I took the same class, same professor. Think I passed.)
…member of Phi Delta Theta.
…not dating anyone right now.
And, without a doubt, Max Kurek is the most charming, handsome, erudite bartender to ever grace the staff of Top of the Park. If you think Max might be a good match for a friend or daughter, send me an email and I'll forward.

As I said, things started to get a little fuzzy about half-way through TOP, but emerging from our hangovers the next day an email came through from Sherry, who had been tracking our expenses on her iPhone:

Palio - $42.14
TOP, Max 1 bottle of wine - $12.00
TOP, Max 4 mini bottles - $15.00
TOP, tip $5.00
Arbor Brewing - $22.00

So, that adds up to $96.14. We easily beat our goal of $40 each.

(Thanks Max!)

Recession Potluck

“I don’t want to go out tonight and blow $50,” I said to Rachel one morning back in March, sitting in Sweetwater’s at Kerrytown. “How ‘bout a spontaneous potluck? We’ll ask people to bring just whatever’s in their fridge and call it a ‘Recession Potluck,’ cause we’re too cheap to go out!”

And thus the seed for every Ann Arbor restauranteur’s worst nightmare is planted. Normally avid fans of the downtown restaurant scene but feeling the economic pinch, our crowd has made the Recession Potluck (RP) a monthly event. Our only “rule” is that it’s BYOB and the food you bring must have come from your pantry or fridge. No elaborate planning or purchases allowed.

We had 8 or 10 people at the first RP, and the resulting menu sported just the right mix of meats, veggies, desserts, and snackies. The mix is always one of the more dicey aspects of a potluck, if you ask me. I hosted a potluck at Christmas once, and I SPECIFICALLY told guests that I was making ‘cheesy potatoes.’ And yet TWO friends also brought identical casseroles. The Button and I were eating cheesy potato leftovers for the rest of the holiday vacation.

Impromptu themes are emerging – the second RP in May was a Derby watching party, so we all wore hats. And last Saturday’s event was Beth P’s birthday, so the day was declared a birthday party for EVERYONE. Host Kristi and kids made cupcakes, which had candles and we sang happy birthday to ourselves. I also found myself particularly entertained by the contents of Kristi’s pantry and freezer – she has young kids, so her stocks skew a little more creatively than mine. Mixing a brightly-colored punch for the kids with pomegranate lemonade and ginger ale, Kristi asked me if I’d like some. I accepted, and promptly added a jigger of Pinot Grigio to the glass. “What are ya gonna name that drink Mandy?” Beth S called out from across the room.

The “Recession Potluck Cocktail,” of course. Impromptu, cobbled together from materials at hand, and crafted with a spirit of whimsy.

Underground Dining

“I’m telling ya,” Pepper said about this time last year, “Ann Arbor is going to catch up with the trend on both coasts, and underground dining is going to be THE thing.”

I had just been to Sparrow Market’s after-hours dinner extravaganza, and Pepper and I were discussing how the economy was going to be hard on traditional restaurants in town. But that out-of-the-ordinary, value-add dining experiences like Bob Sparrow’s might do well. Now, a year later, I’m definitely hearing more about events that might fall into that “underground” category. Friday Mornings @ Selma, for instance.

It all started a month or so ago with an email and a link from my ex, “you might be interested in this. We had breakfast at this house last week, with a guest chef and everyone kicked in $10.” It turns out that Jeff McCabe and Lisa Gottlieb live in a vintage house over on Soule (the “s” in Selma), and as supporters of locally-grown, sustainable food they decided earlier this year to throw their house open once a week for breakfast.

I emailed Beth, who lives nearby on Crest, “hey, do you want to do this breakfast thing in your neighborhood next Friday?” I asked. She responded that she had already been to Selma a couple times, and that it was fun and the food was good. After berating her for holding out on me, we made arrangements to rendevous with our friend Kristi the next week.

If you spend a little time reading the Selma website, or you have the Ann Arbor Chronicle loaded in your reader, you’ll know that Jeff and Lisa have had a little trouble with the local authorities. The short version is that someone complained that the couple were operating a restaurant in their home (you can download the letter of complaint via the Chronicle – I find the accusation of “animal attraction” regarding the chickens in the front yard particularly entertaining) and the county and city inspectors were forced to rattle their sabers. The intrepid foodie couple consequently massaged their M.O. a bit, and are doing their best to avoid the label “restaurant.”

As soon as Beth, Kristi, and I approached the house I thought to myself, “ahh, I bet this is one of the reasons the neighbors complained.” The offending chickens are no longer out front “attracting” people, but as we approached the first thing I noticed was what appeared to be a TV hanging from some sort of hand-assembled, stick-truss thingy.

Some of you may remember that back in the day, Arwulf (local dj, performance artist, and raconteur) used to wander the Art Fairs with a hollowed-out television cabinet on his head. And this is the fond memory that immediately popped into my head as we walked up. But alas, it wasn’t a hollowed-out TV. But almost as good – an old mini-fridge repurposed as a bread box for Jeff and Lisa’s “honor bar,” where passersby can help themselves to surplus bread, produce, and herbs and leave behind a few dollar bills in a jar. Just the sort of thing to drive the bourgeoisie crazy.

The night before, I sent Lisa an email that basically said “Hi, can I be your friend and come to breakfast?” Because parties in houses are for “friends,” while strangers showing up and paying for a meal is a “restaurant.” So when Beth, Kristi, and I entered the house, we immediately found Jeff and Lisa and introduced ourselves as their new friends. “I’m so glad it seems to be working,” Lisa said, referring to the system of potential guests introducing themselves via email. And judging by the dozen or so folks mingling around their dining room and kitchen, the new rules imposed didn’t seem to be putting much of a damper on things.

A volunteer showed us to seats at a card table in a lovely sunroom off the kitchen, and we discussed the offerings listed on a chalkboard on the kitchen wall. We were a tad late in the morning, so they had run out of the lovely sounding rhubarb bread pudding. We were left the choices of asparagus quiche or whole-wheat Belgian waffles. Beth and Kristi chose the former, and I waffled. We were offered tea and coffee by the volunteer, and our meals also came with fresh spinach greens and locally sourced bacon. My waffles were great, accompanied by a warm, chunky apple compote, and judging by my taste of Beth’s quiche, it was a home run, too.

Much like a traditional restaurant experience, half the fun of the morning was people watching. I recognized local photographer Myra Klarman socializing at the kitchen island, and as we were finishing our tea a man asked if he could take the empty fourth seat at our table. He introduced himself as Archie, and we made our way through the typical introductory chit chat. “I met Lisa and Jeff when I was putting on a festival last year,” Archie told us. “What kind of a festival?” Kristi asked. “I did a sort of food and nutrition festival, “ Archie answered, “my wife passed away giving birth to our son, so I did it to honor her.” Beth and Kristi proceeded to ask polite, civilized questions, while it was all I could do to not blurt out “You’re the guy with the lard!” Friends participated in the festival last year, and for some reason the thing that stuck in my head was how the festival’s nutrition philosophy espoused that lard is good. I mean REALLY good. Thankfully, my super ego reigned in my id and I simply said, “oh, you know my friends who own Great Harvest Bread Company.”

“It really takes trust and bravery to do something like this,” Beth observed, looking around at the bustle and activity. “To just let people you’ve never met come into your house.” We agreed it’s a great way to not only support local food growers, but to make new friends, too. And while the consensus was it’s a shame “the man” tends to throw roadblocks in front of creative thinking (see “Westside Farmers’ Market,” thankfully resolved when folks came to their senses), I think it’s a mistake for people to expect something like Friday Mornings @ Selma to settle in and become some sort of permanent fixture.

Because for me, part of underground dining’s attraction is that it’s ephemeral. Like a rave crafted for people with mortgages and middle-age spread, a large part of the appeal is the fact that it’s unique, economical, and lasts only a little while–then we move on to the next intriguing concept.

Peony Garden 2009

Wow. It's hard to take a bad picture, even with my cheesy camera and lame photographic skills.

Pioneer High Marching Band - Concert Band Edition

I rejoined the corporate workforce back in August, so haven't had a lot of energy for the care and feeding of The Brouhaha.

However, last night was pretty special - The Button and other members of the Pioneer Concert band joined the Symphony Band on the field during the half-time show of the Pioneer vs. Chelsea game.

(video also posted on YouTube CLICK HERE)

Pioneer does not field all of the student musicians for marching. Only the top band, Symphony, is allowed to march. But for one game each Fall, the kids in Concert band get to participate. The Button LOVES marching, and the excitement in our household for the past couple weeks has just been bubbling over.

And while it was unfortunate that the football team lost to Chelsea in a spirited, close match-up, the combined bands looked and sounded awesome. Lots of proud parents in the stands.

What’s the difference between a bagpipe and an onion?...

...Nobody cries when you cut up a bagpipe.

A sample of the humor that was flying about in the Red Dragon Pub tent at the Saline Celtic Festival, offered up by the lead singer of Rant Maggie Rant, a “Celtic band with an edge” from Ontario.Strangely enough, despite my heritage (“Dum Spiro Spero” is my clan motto, on our crest above) I’ve never attended the Celtic Fest. Too hot, too worn out from Summer Festival, gearing up for Art Fair – my excuses have been myriad.

Avoiding Saturday’s rains in the early part of the day, we unfortunately missed the dancing, piping, and sheep dog competitions. But we did arrive just in time for the final events of the Highland Games. Saline scored a major coup by hosting the Masters World Championships, for competitors over 40. It’s essentially the equivalent of “the Seniors” championship on the PGA. (I didn’t really need the caution tape to tell me not to go near these guys.)

We saw the finals of the Weight Over the Bar and Sheaf Toss events. On Weight Over the Bar, they’re tossing a 40 pound lead weight with one hand. The “sheaf” is actually a bale filled with 16 pounds of beans – the competitor at right won the event, and in this photo is actually trying for the world record of over 34 feet!

“Hoser, guess where I am?!” I shouted gleefully into my cellphone, connected to my much older brother in San Jose. “At the Masters Championships!!” He exclaimed, “no way! I read about that on the web!” My brother is the genealogy buff in the family, and still glowing over the fact that he was invited to carry the clan banner at the recent Highland Games near his hometown (that's him in the Hawaiian shirt).

Similar to Heritage Fest in Ypsi, there were historical re-enactors in tents (how do they cope with the bugs in what is essentially the foggy bottom of Mill Pond Park? Do they allow themselves the modern luxury of Deep Woods Off?) and a little merchant village. I was particularly tickled when one of the kilt sellers asked me about my clan tartan, which I tied as a sash onto my purse. And the men were like peacocks, wandering around in their kilts. “They must be pretty confident in their masculinity,” I commented to The Accountant. Friday night during “Pub Night” in the Red Dragon Tent, Chris Snider was crowned “Mr. Pretty Legs” wearing the Stirling tartan. When I introduced myself and asked to take his picture, Chris seemed a little alarmed and introduced me to his wife RIGHT AWAY.

How many Scots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

One. To say “occhh, screw it! We’ll drink in the dark!”

The biggest revelation of the Festival was the music. If I had had any inkling there were so many fantastic bands, I would have been attending this event for years. Two different stages hosted a whole spectrum of interpretations of Celtic music. We saw the more traditional Heaton Trio and the slightly more modern, improvisational Wild Wood, and I was especially partial to the aforementioned Rant Maggie Rant and the Kreelers. We started counting and Mark Fletcher, lead instrumentalist for RMR, played at least five different instruments - beautifully! And The Kreelers fall a bit into the “Celtic Punk” category inspired by my favorites The Pogues, and recently more popularized by bands like the Dropkick Murphies and the Tossers.

Listening to music in the Red Dragon Tent, we were joined at our table by Patrick Little, chairman of the Festival and Cliff Carlson, publisher of the Irish American News. “Who do I talk to about volunteering next year?“ I asked Pat, after introducing myself. You would have thought I’d presented him with a Red Ryder BB gun, he asked for my phone number and email address so quickly.

As pointed out by the Ann Arbor Snews, the Festival has a history of financial struggle. But Pat and the organizers worked hard this year to re-energize the event , with the addition of the Masters and new competitions. Unfortunately Mother Nature, and TV weather forecasters, conspired against them. “Did the weather this morning kill you?” I asked. “Not so much the weather, as The Weather Channel!” When I asked what he meant, Pat explained that the PREDICTIONS of rain all day, when in fact it cleared up around 1pm, were what really hurt attendance.

So, members of the Clan Brouhaha, I exhort you! Put the second weekend of July and next year’s Saline Celtic Festival on your calendars, and help keep this great event going strong! And when you attend, maybe you’ll find me volunteering behind the bar sporting my tartan and pulling a fine pint (well, paper cup) of Murphy’s.

T.O.P. Wrap Up 2008

(After eating about a pound of debris during the trip to New Orleans, my digital camera literally bit the dust. So I don't have any Summer Festival photos to share. Anybody know a good digital camera repair shop?)

“You must have been born before July 3, 1987 to purchase alcohol,” the sign at the Top of the Park beer tent read.

“I was HERE on July 3, 1987!” I exclaimed to the kid behind the counter, who seemed singularly unimpressed. This year, a little teeny glass of Pinot Grigio set me back $6. In 1987, we could get a WHOLE BOTTLE of White Zinfandel for $6, ‘cause a friend was a bartender and she gave us the employee discount. Sigh. I feel old.

Between our trip to New Orleans and the crazy weather, I didn’t spend as much time this year at T.O.P. as I would have liked. Popped by to see The Dream Engine on one of the few nights it didn’t rain. A Cirque du Soleil-esque troupe of acrobats, we saw the “human tether ball” show, which alternated nights with the “floating balloon people. “ (my terms, not theirs)

“It’s pretty damn amazing that we can see something like this for free, “ I commented to The Accountant. “In this economy, I bet people are taking advantage of this sort of thing as much as they can.”

My musical highlights this year were performances by Zebula Avenue and Bugs Beddow. Zebula Avenue was a revelation . They’re a Detroit band comprised of desk jockeys who crank out some wonderful Caribbean-infused world music on the side. And we also enjoyed Mandy Patinkin at the Power Center.

Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime; Once I built a tower, now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?

In addition to the expected roster of Sondheim and show tunes, Patinkin threw in a couple Yip Harburg compositions. Many people know that Harburg wrote “Over the Rainbow” (which Patinkin sang beautifully,btw), but I’m sure not many know he also authored “Brother Can You Spare a Dime?” during the Depression.

Do you suppose this was Patinkin’s own particular form of commentary via music?

Rebuilding New Orleans

“It’s good to be a college professor,” The Accountant mumbled from the couch in our hotel room at Olivier House.

“Why?” I asked, amused, “because you don’t have to do hard labor every day of the year?”

While The Button is on vacation in Thailand with her Dad, we decided to head south to New Orleans to volunteer for an organization called Rebuilding Together. After the first day of work on the job site, we landed back in our hotel just about as filthy and exhausted as I’ve ever been in my entire life.

Rebuilding Together (“RT”) specializes in rehabbing (rather than new construction) damaged homes that belong to the disabled and elderly. Many of their clients in NOLA live in homes that are considered historic, so the city won’t allow them to flat-out demolish. That’s where RT, and volunteers like us, come in.

1239 St. Ferdinand was built in 1904 in the St. Roch area of town, and was turned over to RT to use as a halfway house of sorts for their clients. When volunteer crews are working in a house, very often the elderly residents don’t have a place to stay while the work is being completed. So this building, once it’s rehabbed, will house clients in need.

It was a complete gut-job. We went down to the (often rotted) studs, and there was drywall dust and debris everywhere. I spent quite a bit of time one day clearing debris from the alley, and found a stash of perfectly undamaged white ceramic tiles piled near the foundation. And I couldn’t help but wonder about the history of the house. Were the people who lived there about to retile a bathroom when the storm hit? And while you’re at it, why WAS the alley a logical place to put a used toilet?

Bob Whitacre, project manager for one of our local Habitat for Humanity houses in Ann Arbor, would have been proud that I salvaged every one of the intact tiles – enough to perhaps do a nice backsplash.

There were about 25 people working at 1239, most from RT affiliates in Monterey and St. Louis, with a few other scattered odd-balls like The Accountant and me. Lisa, our House Captain, is a building inspector from San Diego, and like Bob Whitacre she was cool, level-headed, and good with volunteers. I want to be her when I grow up.

(This is Lisa’s very, very old Chihuahua. Perhaps Chihuahuas are required for a builder’s license in southern California.)

Many who haven’t been to New Orleans since the storm ask "what's it like down there?" And I tend to focus on the "French- Quarter-is-open-for-business" message. That's because I don't think it can be overemphasized since tourism is so vital to the local economy.

That said, perhaps some perspective best comes from a local resident. I subscribe to a number of New Orleans-based blogs, and this post by Laureen at New Orleans MetBlogs articulates my own reaction after this most recent visit. As we drove around the city, it seemed a crazy juxtaposition of incredible examples of the rebuilding, can-do spirit contrasting with areas that look like something from the Discovery channel show "Life After People."

"We started to see a difference last Fall, " Richard Fisk, owner of the Bombay Club in the Quarter told us. "Long about November, we really started to see things change."

Life is often defined by our ups and our downs. And while New Orleans has certainly suffered a lifetime of downs in the last 34 months, maybe moving forward the ups will start to have more impact, and be more visible.

Bunny-zilla

Great Harvest Bread Company has a tradition of selling "honey bunnies" during the Easter season. "Every year we try to come up with some creative way to mangle and or humiliate the poor bunnies," owner Janene Centurione explained. "This year we managed to bake a 50 pound specimen."

Bunny-zilla is on display in the store on South Main near Busch's, and since it's been petted and manhandled for the past week (not to mention it's doneness in the middle suspect), it's not intended for consumption. "One of our regular customers is going to take it to use a centerpiece for Easter dinner," Janene told me earlier today. "And then she's going to put it out in her woods for the turkeys to eat. She's promised to send us a photo each day, to show the progression as the big ol' thing is nibbled away."

MLK Symposium

“America is at it’s best when times are the worst,” actor Louis Gossett, Jr. told the audience, referring to the aftermath of 9/11 and Katrina. “But when it’s done, we go home and close the doors. We have to learn to keep the doors open in our hearts and minds.”

“It’s Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day every day, 24/7, for the rest of time.”The Button, her dad, and I were in the second row at Hill Auditorium this morning for the opening lecture of the University’s 22nd Annual MLK Symposium. Though calling it a “lecture” was a bit of a stretch. On stepping up to the lectern, Mr. Gossett admitted that he hadn’t brought a speech or any notes. “If I don’t know what to say by now…” he said, shrugging.

And at first, it was a bit like watching your dad ramble off track during the toast at your sister’s wedding. The award-winning actor was all over the map. But he ultimately found his path.Mr. Gossett told the audience of about 1,000 people about growing up in Brooklyn in the 1940s and 1950s, when the strong matriarchal influence–starting with his great-grandmother –provided the “connective tissue” that passed on values and strength to the children.

He also explained how he and other children benefited from being taught by educators fleeing the Black List in New York City, as well as sharing classes with the children of those men and women. Today, Mr. Gossett said, many of those children have grown up to be leaders in society. How did you do it? he asked. “We learned it’s a sin not to dream,” a friend explained.

Clearly wishing to underscore the parallel to Dr. King’s most inspiring speech, this brought Mr. Gossett to his main point. “Teaching in the home is not happening!” he exclaimed. “Where do our young men learn that it’s okay to have babies with different women, or to ‘cap’ someone?” he asked, “they don’t pick that up all by themselves!”

“Grandmothers. Family. Men. They all should be teaching a values system in the home,” he said. “We need to take responsibility for our own.” And we need to be teaching our children that it’s a sin not to dream.Mr. Gossett closed his talk with the Prayer of St. Francis for peace (view clip). “Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace…that where there are shadows, I may bring light.”

“Martin Luther King had a dream, and we must keep the dream alive,” Mr. Gossett concluded. “and remember, it is more than Dr. Martin Luther King’s day, or Black History month. It’s a 365 day, 24/7 job!”

The Cheese Whisperer

“You’ve got to let the milk tell you what it wants,” we were told. “When making cheese, you can’t speed it up, and you can’t slow it down.”

That’s what cheese expert Simone Jenkins explained to the twelve folks participating in the “Introduction to Cheese” class at Morgan & York on a recent cold Tuesday night. Only Simone wasn’t exactly whispering. Actually, she was talking rather loudly and animatedly in an adorable Australian accent. So imagine the Cheese Whisperer meets the Crocodile Hunter, and you'll have a better picture.
Morgan & York specializes in “farmhouse,” or “artisan,” cheeses and Simone was looking to spread the gospel. To start, we learned that the three most important elements in cheese making are the land, the animals, and the craft. I was intrigued by the animals. “Where are all the goats that produce the goat cheese we eat?” I asked, perplexed. We see cows everywhere, but it’s not like you drive down the road and see herds of goats that often. Simone explained that it doesn’t take many goats to produce the cheese, and that goat farming tends to occur more in the west. And the east part of the country is known for sheeps’s milk cheese.

We also spent quite a bit of time discussing the craft, particularly how cheese is made in the farmhouse (farmer makes the cheese from milk from his own cows) and cooperative (cheesemaker makes the product from milk delivered by farmers) traditions. But, it’s always the slightly gross stuff that’s most intriguing. For instance, “How do you know if it’s good mold or bad mold on the cheese?” a fellow student asked. Simone explained that molds in the green, blue, and slightly mauve shades are okay to eat, while pink and orange are bad. And, she added “if you see mold in the shape of a fingerprint, that’s bad news.” No kidding.
Basic background covered, we turned to the twelve little samples of cheese Simone had laid out for each of us. We started with fairly mild, soft cheeses and progressed until closing the evening with some fairly stinky (but yummy) examples of the cheesemakers’ craft. The fresh ricotta ($8/lb) from S Serra Cheese in Clinton Township was revelatory– sweet and buttery, it didn’t taste anything like the stuff I bought at the grocery the last time I made lasagna. The Jasper Hill Cabot Cheddar ($30/lb) had a wonderfully layered, full flavor. And we learned about that little crystally, crunchiness you sometimes encounter in such cheeses. I happen to like that texture, but I’ve never been sure if it’s in fact considered a good thing. It turns out that those little crunchies are crystallized amino acids, and they're an indication that the cheese has been aged for at least a year.

My favorite cheese of the evening was a Tomme de Savoie ($18/lb). It’s “semi-firm” which means new enough to still be slightly soft, but not quite as gooey as a brie. This cheese had the most fantastic mouthfeel! It was like biting into the perfect summer cantaloupe, only the flavors that sprang into your mouth were nutty, buttery, and earthy.

We wrapped up with the Colston Bassett Stilton ($28/lb) and the Roquefort Carles ($36/lb). Blue cheeses like these are created when the wheels of cheese are pierced with needles to allow the mold to grow inside. With the Roquefort, the mold is introduced from old rye bread. Simone told us that Monsieur Carles is the only cheese producer in France who still actually uses bread loaves to introduce the mold to his cheese, rather than a commercially produced, powdered mold product. I liked the Stilton well enough, easily imagining it gracing the top of a lovely strip steak. But, with apologies to M. Carles, the Roquefort was honestly just a bit too strong for my taste.

Speaking of mold, have you ever wondered if you’re supposed to eat the moldy rind on the outside of the cheese? According to Simone, in the cities of France they’d be quite distressed if you ate the rind. But for the most part, it’s okay. Particularly with soft cheeses like brie. With the harder cheeses, Simone pointed out that you really “get the taste of the farm” in the rind. To me, that sounds suspiciously like a euphemism for “tastes like cow poop.” So I’ll just take the Cheese Whisperer’s word for it.

For more information about farmhouse cheeses go to the American Cheese Society. Or contact Simone Jenkins, the Cheese Whisperer, directly at simone@morganandyork.com.

The Un-Primary

A once-in-a-lifetime sight at Kerrytown this Saturday morning? Hopefully...

The Buzz in Bethlehem

The youth group at the First United Methodist Church on State Street performs “What’s the Buzz in Bethlehem?” every year during the holiday season as a fundraiser (view video clip). Highschoolers have the prime speaking parts, and this year The Button’s friend Katie played Rebecca, one of the innkeeper’s daughters.

“There’s always much mayhem with bees,” was how Katie’s mom described the somewhat revisionist interpretation of the Nativity story.

We are the bees
We are the bees
We swarm, we sing, watch out we sting!
We’re here at the King David Inn

We are the bees
We are the bees
We come to this inn to visit our kin
We’re here at the King David Inn

In addition to the usual complications of too many guests (including a drama troupe from Jerusalem), the inn suffers from an infestation of bumble bees and one particularly precocious wasp named Tyler. I’ve seen “What’s the Buzz” over three or four years, and even an unreconstructed heathen like me gets a warm, fuzzy feeling every time.

Merry Christmas Ann Arbor!

Security Cameras at Pioneer

I attended the informational meeting about security cameras at Pioneer High School last night. ('Cause I don't have anything better to do on a cold, blustery Monday night during the holiday season.)

Before attending, I was actually pro-cameras. I really didn't feel that our children should have an expectation of privacy in the hallways and parking lots of the school when their safety is at stake. But, based on the presentation by administrators at the meeting, safety isn't really the issue. Crime incidents at the school are primarily property theft related.

School officials feel that cameras will help successfully "close" criminal incidents, as well as allow intervention in fights or trouble before they actually happen and thus lead to a safer school. Yet they didn't produce any data to back up these assertions - they didn't even come prepared with numbers analyzing Huron's usage of cameras for the last six months, let alone comparable data from schools in Michigan that have used video surveillance for a longer period of time. And if there's one thing I can't stand (actually, there are a lot of things I can't stand...), it's when someone expects people to make a decision based upon generalizations without the data to back them up. It's sloppy, I don't like it in business meetings, and I certainly don't like it when civil liberties are at stake.

I was so irritated that I fired off an email to Superintendent Robertson, Principal White, the school board, and some of my fellow lefties in the ACLU. Here it is...

"I am the mother of a 9th grader at Pioneer and I attended last evening’s information meeting in the Little Theater at school. I try to be an informed and responsible parent whose eyes are wide-open to the realities of our world today. And it is soul wrenching to me that a couple times each year my daughter and I have to review her “emergency exit, phones don’t work” strategy.

Going into the informational meeting, I had the opinion that security cameras SHOULD be installed at the school. However, after weighing the information presented last night, as well as assessing other data and opinions, I have changed my mind. Not the intended effect, I’d imagine.

Principal White did an excellent job of outlining how video surveillance would be simply one tool in a menu of methods for achieving a safe environment at Pioneer. All present seemed to agree that “human” measures are best, and I was not aware that the school district already employs assistants whose responsibilities sound very similar to that of private security, simply without the uniforms.

That said, administrators do not appear to have historical data that indicates “non-human measures, ” i.e. security cameras , would decrease the number of criminal incidents. If such data from comparable schools (Plymouth Canton for instance) were available I assume it would have been presented. However, I do find it reasonable that video surveillance can assist in the resolution of crimes, and I’m surprised such information was not compiled and distributed last night.

As the daughter of a principal, I can imagine what it’s like for Principal White and the other administrators to be on the receiving end of phone calls from the parents of children who have had items stolen. And I understand that the hours spent on learning the whole story of an incident could be time better spent. But our students should not sacrifice their right to privacy during school hours` for the sake of solving primarily property crimes more easily.

Property crimes aside, Principal White and Officer Foster feel that monitoring video will help the assistants anticipate trouble and send staff to intervene in potentially volatile situations. Video surveillance did not prevent the mall shooting in Omaha, nor other recent high-profile incidents. And while I realize that incidents that WERE prevented by video surveillance don’t produce headlines, again I would assume that if there were data to support this it would have been presented.

One of my primary concerns is the access to the video files, and this was not addressed at all last evening. How long would the files be stored? Who would have access to them? How would they be erased? In light of recent news regarding our government’s “mishandling” of videotapes, my small faith in the ability of government institutions to deal in a forthright manner with evidence and documents has been reduced to an infinitely small level. Installing the cameras as administration essentially says “trust us” is simply not acceptable.

Finally, Pioneer is open 20 hours a day and to me that is the most cogent point made all evening. As a compromise, I would suggest that cameras be installed but only turned on “after hours.” This would address several concerns. Children are required to attend school, and thus don’t have a choice regarding whether or not to submit to video surveillance if the cameras are on during the day. After hours activities are a choice – just as I can choose to not shop at the mall if I object to security cameras, children AND adults can choose to not attend after hours activities at Pioneer. Also, it seems that some of the most disturbing thefts – the new mixing board, lockers cut open with a bolt cutter, car thefts– have occurred after hours. Video surveillance would assist in solving these crimes while impacting the fewest number of people. My daughter and I discussed this compromise over breakfast this morning, and she seemed to find it reasonable, “Yeah, that would help catch the kids from Huron who trash our cars after games,” she said. (all issues devolve to the cross-town rivalry, it seems) Principal White told the audience that the teaching staff overwhelmingly support the use of cameras, and I would suggest that an “after hours” compromise would address their concerns as well. Intellectually I know that surveillance cameras won’t make me safer in the parking lot or an isolated hallway at night, I would find it psychologically comforting.

In the wake of the Omaha mall shooting, this excerpt from an Associated Press article is particularly relevant:

'Reed Nyffeler, director of sales and marketing at Omaha-based Signal 88 Security, said his firm had received dozens of calls from local stores since Wednesday inquiring about stepped-up security measures. The holiday season is especially challenging for mall security because of the throngs of shoppers, making it difficult for employees and guards to keep track of potentially suspicious people, he said.'

During the day, the congested hallways of Pioneer are even worse than a crowded mall –security surveillance just won’t do that much good, and it impinges on the right to privacy of our children and sets a bad example. But in the evening, when school staff are not present and the district cannot afford to have the preferred “human” presence of the assistants, I think security cameras are a viable solution (though video file storage and access issues would still require clarification).

Both Principal White and Officer Foster stressed that the Ann Arbor School District has always been a leader. I would suggest that in this case, we lead by NOT blithely accepting 24/7 surveillance cameras in our high schools as have other districts. The erosion of our children’s constitutional rights for the sake of solving a property crime more easily or a mistaken sense of security should not be the “new normal,” at least not here in Ann Arbor. We can do better than that, and we can show how civil liberties and “law and order” contingents can reach an effective compromise."

TubaChristmas!

What could be more simple, more joyful, than TubaChristmas? Believe it or not, TubaChristmas is nation-wide! And in addition to Ann Arbor, eight other cities throughout Michigan participate in the seasonal, brass concerts. The first event was at Rockefeller Plaza in New York City in 1974, conceived as a tribute to the late artist/teacher William J. Bell who born on Christmas Day, 1902. Tuba on! (view video clip)

Season of Giving

Busch’s, FM 107, and Food Gatherers are conducting their annual “Rockin’ for the Hungry” food drive at the South Main grocery this weekend. Busch’s makes it easy to donate by offering grocery bags (right) that are pre-filled with appropriate canned and dried goods. For $10, you get $17 worth of food that you simply drop off with the volunteers on your way out.

With the radio station broadcasting live ("we're freezin' for a reason") from the store’s porte cochere, they’ve gathered over 120 tons of food as of lunchtime Saturday. April and Erin are volunteers from the Culinary Arts program at WCC – they were loading a second truck, and counted over 20 skids in the big trailer!


(Sung to the melody of “Jingle Bell Rock”)
Tags for all
Have a ball
Tag Days are here.
Donate to us, and bring kids some cheer
Good cheer is coming, to all the sick kids
Innn Mott, and Wash-te-naw!
It’s the ri-ght time
To make a beee line,
And grab a tag from us.
Tag Days is to-day
Don’t let it get a-way
Without helping out ALL those kids!

Singing with gusto, Jon and Stefan are second -year medical students at the U. Jon and another student, Ajay, “doctored” the lyrics in honor of the annual Galens Tag Days fundraiser. Galens is the University of Michigan Medical School’s honor society, and since 1927 they've raised funds for local children’s charities every year in December.

Donate money into the Galens’ bucket and you receive the eponymous tag to hang on your coat, thus able to proceed about your holiday excursions guilt-free and unharassed. This year they’re raising money for several different worthy causes, including the Corner Clinic and a playroom at the new Mott’s building.

(My love affair with malapropisms started early, and back in college I thought “Galens Tag” was some sort of Ann Arbor/German thing, akin to “guten tag.”)

These two young men clearly pulled one of the primo locations in town to solicit – right in front of Great Harvest Bread Company. Benefiting from free bread and hot cocoa courtesy of GHB, Jon and Stefan told me that the “Happy Van” fortifies all the volunteers. It’s supplied and driven by supportive med school faculty, and there’s even a song for when the Happy Van arrives…

(Sung to the melody of “Here Comes Santa Claus”)
Here comes Happy Van
Here comes Happy Van
Right down South Main Street
Careening over curb, and loaded with snacks and
Other things unnamed.
Look at the wa-cky fa-cul-ty, with smiles so happy and bright.
Keep it pouring into my mug, and maybe I’ll survive the night…