A Random Post

In this season of the onset of Presidential primaries and the 

attention that will be paid to popularity polls and the like, I heard 

the Gallup Poll mentioned the other day and immediately thought 

about my personal connection to that Ivory Tower of American

opinion research. Alec Gallup was a regular customer of ours 

for decades before I was able to say "ours".  He was a grizzly

bear of a man, but as kind and self-effacing as the day was long.

The Gallup Organization was started in Princeton in the thirties, 

and well after it was acquired in the late eighties by a Nebraskan,

with whom I am also familiar, and who insisted many times on 

smoking cigars in the restaurant by the way, Alec and his close

associates came often for lunch around 1 pm.  He did his best

to uphold the 3 Martini lunch, although if he made it past 2 it

was unusual.  Soup was the appetizer almost always, and 

entrees varied.  One thing I'll never forget was him asking about 

the accompanying vegetables on a given plate.  " I don't like sticks.

I don't want any sticks on my plate."  Julienne vegetables. 

My two favorite memories of him were these:  watching the 2000

vice presidential debate between Joe Lieberman and Dick Cheney

in the back of our bar, near the mens' room where our little TV was.

He was going back and forth between the private room where the 

Gallup Org. was having dinner and the mens' room where the TV was.

Sitting on a wine crate watching at the same time was Arthur 

Schlesinger, who was attending another PU function upstairs.

And then there was me.  Picking my nose.

The second memory is actually more meaningful, because it does

not involve politics, but flavor.  Alec was sitting at the bar waiting

for his dinner guests one night and decided to have some steamed 

clams to hold him over.  Upon finishing the clams, he asked Chris

to take the buttery broth in the bowl and pour it into a glass, and 

make a spicy bloody mary on top of it.  Chris asked him if he had a 

name for this drink and Alec quickly replied, "the clamdigger!"

This man was as old school as they come and I'm fortunate

for him to have known me, even if it was just as a servant. 

OFD WKND '11

Sunset on Greenwich Cove, on OFD.  It's one of the many things

we do routinely that day.  Hors d'Oeuvres and drinks upon

arrival around noon, family photo around 3ish, then hem and haw

about taking a walk, then take the walk in staggered starts walking

assorted dogs, invariably winding up all together at the end of the

street down by the cove.  This year it was low tide, and the clams,

mussels, and oysters were all exposed for some neat beachcombing.

Gravlax, oysters, cheeses, smoked fish spread, tuna tartare,

dried fruits, olives, pickled herring, and candied nuts were out

for nibbling.  Every year someone says, "Next year we should 

just have hors d'Oeuvres and forget dinner."  Yeah, right.

Friday morning saw bagels just out of the oven with chive cream

cheese and the scantest amount of leftover salmon.  One look out

the back porch and we knew we'd been around the wine world

the night before.  Mojo lovingly refers to this photo as the 'class

 of 2011'. There were dogends in the ashtray, suggesting 

that we may have had a smoke or two as well.

On to Vermont the next day to recuperate from the

overindulgence of the day before.  We dressed loudly to

be easily seen by the local hunters, and ventured into

the woods to cut down fresh Christmas trees for $5

each.  Some of the garments are from the 70's.

Careful with that chainsaw, Grampa.....

Very funny.  Now put the saw away, Charlie Brown.

Four Wiener Drive.  She would have been

pissed if she were left at home.

Grampa felled his tree, then kept the top ten 

or so feet of it.  Ironically, after his tree was 

out of the way, the tree behind it was the best

specimen we'd seen all day.  

We came out of the woods about a hundred yards down the

road from where we went in.  In the process, we sank in a slushy

bog 'til our boots were filled with ice water and we had to kind of

chainsaw our way out to the road.  There was hot soup on the

stove when we got home though, and soon all hardships

were forgotten.  All that and a five dollar tree.  Priceless.

Travel safely and enjoy being with the those

who mean the most to you.  Happy Thanksgiving!

OFD '71

1971 was a weird year for me and my nuclear family,

 but come Thanksgiving, much was done to keep things 

as normal as possible.  And I'm thankful for that.  Don

became our family Father figure that day, and also 

was the consummate family videographer, way before

the word videographer became commonplace.  These few 

clips I'm sharing with you all are priceless to us and reveal

some very traditional goings on around our bunch on the 

most meaningful of days:  Thanksgiving. Way before 

Facebook, Uncle Don came up with his own acronymal

expression for Thanksgiving and spraypainted it (I'm

thinking it may have been Easy-Off) on the half-bow

window of his family room, nee garage.  What a 

creative place on which to declare the title of his 

holiday film!  Decades later,

THXG took the place of TGNG.  IKR?  LOL!

Lunch on the deck before the annual Thanksgiving

Day backyard brawl that would ensue well before 

the sandwiches were digested.  My brother and I were

literally inhaling our food, especially Hans to the right.

At one point I stood up to make a point, but was 

quickly told to sit the hell down by my cousin Mojo.

"If you're gonna talk the talk, you better

walk the walk",  he said.

And walk the walk I did.  Immediately after Mojo caught

the pass from Hans, I threw his ass down like a sack of

knob celery.  Then my long bomb to Julie, which burned 

Hans like a piece of Pumpernickel, sealed the game-

winning drive.  There's nothing like football on OFD. 

Sailing Hats are Cooler

Helmets are for pointy and motorcycles.

The Root of our Family Tree

Celeriac, otherwise known as Knob Celery, has been

the root of our family tree longer than I've been around.

OFD  is when we all enjoy it in a salad made very much

like German Potato Salad.  In fact it's virtually identical,

except that the knobs are used in place of boiled potatoes.

And the keeper of the tradition (Mom) includes chicory 

leaves for garnish and texture.  They're tangy and add a

slight crunch.  They happen to be my favorite part.

It's a grotesque looking vegetable, with roots and knobs

protruding in all directions, and I imagine most folks are 

just plain scared to tackle the thing.  The stalks resemble 

celery, but are more tough and bitter than their cousins.

The prize is definitely the bulbous root.  The whole root

is boiled in salted water in its jacket 'til tender, cooled, 

and then peeled and cubed.  Next step is to toss the cubes

in a simple vinaigrette with thinly sliced onions and chicory

and left to sit, marinating.  Close to service is when

mayonnaise is folded in, although not too much, just enough

to coat all involved, and then salt and pepper to taste.

It's a cold side dish to an otherwise warm array of 

accompaniments (except for cranberries which I don't 

dislike but have never found a use for on THXG).

You'll find yourself raiding the fridge early Thanksgiving

Friday morning, in your underwear, eating it from the 

tupperware with a fork, alternating bites with tugs of 

cold milk straight from the jug. 

Starting to Give Thanks Early

Where do I start?  In no particular order of importance,

because that would be impossible to decide, I

present you two men.  Two men who have been in my 

life who, in somewhat similar ways, have influenced me

in their own subtle style.  I say subtle because neither

of them was ever brash or boastful, overbearing or

obnoxious,  but instead quiet, sensitive, sensible, and

responsible for the well-being of their beloved families.

My memory of them keeps me humble and focused

on being a good provider and a loving father.

\

Here's my Uncle Don, Mom's big brother, in 1949 rowing

his scull on Carnegie Lake in Princeton.  Let's not get too

excited - he was a Yale man through and through, but he

was a Jersey boy first, and I think Grampa bought 'Geridum'

from somebody around there for him.  Please correct me if

I'm wrong, Mojo.  It's too late to call and I really want to 

post this.  You'll get your 15 minutes later.  Just comment.

Joseph George Jomo came from humble beginnings, 

not unlike so many from his generation.  He worked hard 

and became successful, and in turn provided extremely 

well for his wife and two children. He always made time 

for his kids.  My mother beams when she speaks of him. 

Don couldn't have had a bigger supporter.  

I've always wanted my girls to feel the same about me.  

I think so far I'm on the right track. That dedication to his 

family carried over to the next generation, and my 

cousins, brother and sister, and I have been fortunate

to benefit from his vision and generosity.  These two men

are always missed at the table, which has now grown

tremendously big on Thanksgiving Day.   

Assorted Penguin Guano

Okay, maybe it does blow on Cooper River.  Just goes to show 

you to keep plugging even if you don't get a bullet.

Staten Island  Penguin racing 1973.

Dad and Jill sailing 8839 in the Port half of the photo.

The cunningham is a little loose for the start, no?

Some pointers ala 'The Penguin Patter-1979'.

A couple of collegiate sailing team announcements

as well.  It's always fun to see who's going where.

Influence

Often, children of sailors don't have the choice of whether or not to 

come along on the weekend for a day on the bay, often being 

dragged by their hair or threatened by not having computer access 

later that evening. We have a couple of dear friends that we've

known for 25 years who have embraced and come to love the 

sport of sailing through windsurfing and cruising on our boats during

the course of those years.  In turn, their 14 year old daughter has 

virtually grown up around us with our daughters,  all sailing together

summer after summer.  

This fall, Rebecca had a writing assignment for her ninth grade 

Humanities/English class, and chose to write about her experience

on Chesapeake Bay a few summers ago.  Thanks to her parents 

Meghan and Dennis, she got the opportunity to learn the basics of 

sailing, and then some, through the Annapolis Sailing School.

Following is her essay describing that experience and I have to say

I'm very impressed, and even more so, honored and proud to have 

made such an impression on our great friends' daughter. 

Most people don’t usually to go to school in the summer, but then most people don’t consider sailing school an actual school. I have to admit that before my vacation in Annapolis, I hadn’t either. I’d been in a sailboat before; the one my Uncle Dave and Aunt Ellen owned since I was a toddler.  My cousin Livvie and I spent time hanging over the pulpit, doing our reenactment of the famous Titanic movie scene. We would also spend the day popping in and out of hatches, and holding onto the cables as we jumped into the water at Tices Shoal. Still, I never imagined the actual sailing of the boat was really that difficult. Uncle Dave made it look easy. That was my first mistake.

The first days in Annapolis were miserable and overshadowed by dark hazy clouds that hung like mist around the marina. I was furious with my parents at the time. Why was I in school in July? This was a vacation, really? On top of that it was an awful day, especially for sailing. The air was still, sticky, and thick enough to choke on. I pouted like a little kid and stood glaring at all the boats as if it were their fault I was here instead of on a warm sandy beach. 

To my surprise I discovered that I wouldn’t even get to go in a sailboat until I had passed an exam. It really was like school! When I first caught drift of the exam, I began to get even angrier. I admit I was also a little nervous. What if I didn’t pass? Would I still be allowed to go sailing? The questions, nerves, and frustrations bounced around in my head for a few long minutes. Then the instructor came over and introduced himself as Mark.

He looked like a high school kid, maybe nineteen. I shook his hand glumly as he grinned excitedly. I dimly wondered where all the other students were. My mom told me there was supposed to be at least four other people taking the course along with me. Paying no attention to my thoughts, Mark led me to the “classroom.” I say classroom because it was really just a glorified shed. Inside were some chalkboards and a couple of desks that looked like they might’ve been there longer than Mark had been alive. Nevertheless, I got very acquainted with that room. This was especially true because, as it happened, I was the only student in my class.

First my instructor asked me what I knew about sailing.  I told him the truth. I said that I had been on sailboats all my life and that I knew what they did, but not much else. He seemed amused, maybe at my lack of knowledge? Anyway, he told me I was going to have to learn some basics about sailing before I went out and actually got to sail. He got started putting some notes on the board while I wistfully looked out the open door and into the shimmering Chesapeake Bay, the sun was finally out and I was inside a classroom. This was going to be a long summer.

As the days went on I found the class less irritating. I was even learning most of the things he taught me. First, Mark taught me all the names of everything on a sailboat. I learned which side is starboard, what a dagger board does, how to steer a rudder, and a million other things I had never even thought about before.

After I learned about emergency procedures (such as how to turn a sailboat around if someone falls off), we were almost ready to go out on the water. I only had to pass my written boating exam before any real sailing happened. As I sat in the classroom and watched the other sailboats drift by, the cross breeze filled me with anticipation. The clear blue skies and the wind were calling me; I felt even more determined to pass that test. 

Even though I was stuck in class for weeks, I wasn’t always learning. Some days were spent on my back lazily looking at the clouds as windsurfers and jet skiers zoomed by without a care in the world. More often then not Mark and I goofed off. We played hockey with a tennis ball and some old yardsticks we found, messed with the big expensive boats, and wandered into the Wet Dog Café to get some sandwiches for lunch. When the heat got really unbearable, we even jumped in the bay!

However, I was the happiest when I finally took my test and passed with flying colors. I’d finally get to do what I’d been itching to do; go sailing. Mark laughed at my enthusiasm as I ran out on the dock gazing deliciously at all the options.  Since I was a beginner, we used a laser, but that was fine with me. Lasers were cool little boats meant for fast paced sailing.

I suddenly remembered something my Uncle Dave told me about lasers. He told me that these sailboats have their own unique number printed on them. The numbers stand for the order in which they were made. The very first one started at number 100 and the oldest one my Uncle ever owned was number 802. I glanced up at the number on the laser in front of me, 49,264.

Mark rigged the sail. We got into our bright life vests and got busy setting up the various lines.  At first it was easy going, not too fast as we eased out of the marina. When we were far enough out, Mark pulled the sail tighter and we gain some more speed. I loved the howling winds and the salty smell of bay water. My body buzzed in thrill when the boat tipped so close to the water that my face was merely inches away. Even so, the bobbing of the boat and the constant sound of the gentle waves made me feel right at home.

For a few days, I focused solely on steering the rudder. It took some time to get used to the fact that rudders steer the boat the opposite of the way I moved it. So when I turned it left, the boat turned right, and vise versa. To practice, I spent hours just aiming and running over fluorescent little buoy markers. Soon, it was like riding a bike; second nature and I hardly thought about what I was doing at all.

For the next couple of weeks, Mark would control the rudder and I would jibe and tack. I was a little nervous about messing up all the lines, but since we were using a laser there weren’t that many lines to keep track of. I was thankful for that because a lot of the time, I struggled with tangles of lines and dealt with the jittery flapping of a loose sail mocking me. Soon I got the hang of it and I didn’t need Mark to tell me what to do. I even started getting a feel for where the wind was coming from and what I needed to adjust on the boat. Every time Mark and I returned to the dock we were exhausted, but happily satisfied with the days progress.

Even though I loved sailing, there were definitely days where I hated being out on the water. Some days the blistering heat blared down on us making us sweaty and wretched. Some days the air was so humid and still the boat would hardly move an inch. There were also days where the water was rough and unforgiving, the weather stormy and cold. I distinctly remember capsizing at least once or twice.

In the middle of August, Mark had to go back to college, and I was assigned a new instructor. Her name was Anna and I really liked her. We only got a few days to sail with each other, but we laughed and joked like long lost friends. On my last day, I was really excited to get in one more good sail before I went back home. The excitement was bittersweet though, because I was also sad that I wouldn’t be able to got out sailing whenever I wanted after this.

The wind was pretty good that day and we actually went out farther than usual. Unfortunately, as night approached the wind became nonexistent and we were left drifting inch by measly inch. For a while Anna and I just laid on the boat finding our situation amusing in a cynical kind of way. We talked a while laughing, as we stared up at the moon and listened to the black waves lapping against our boat.

Soon after, we got out the oars and began paddling the long way back. During the way, I found myself thinking about how amazing this experience had been. It had been such a frustrating and exhilarating summer full of new experiences.  I would not soon forget my time in summer school. Some nights when I lie awake in bed and close my eyes, I can still feel the rocking motion of the waves and I remember that summer on the Chesapeake.  


I'm so proud.

Sailors' Helpers

I don't quite know when the name of it forever changed

from shock cord to 'bungee'.  I think it was sometime in 

the 80's when people, many of them boaters, stopped

using cotton or nylon cordage to tie their boats or kayaks

or sailboards to their roofracks.  Their granny knots didn't

always hold, and here and there you would see Laser

mast sections rolling along the shoulder of the NJ Turnpike,

often going as fast as you were. Tie-down straps, along

with bungees, became the go-to cartopping fasteners.  Feed

the end of the strap through the buckle, honk it down,

hide the loose end somewhere, and then bungee

anything else that remains.  Hooks on both ends of the 

bungee made it convenient for any schmo
 (blogger underlined in red my compound word 'roofracks'
but said nothing about the word schmo)  to quickly
secure any last minute accessory in order to make it
home without having spars rolling on the NJTP shoulder.


I'm not sure where the word 'bungee' came from.  And I
for once did not ask Mr. Google.  And please don't go
there and report back to me.  I really don't care, for a
change.  I think some Australian Outback dude invented the
word 'bungee' while wrestling a crocodile.  "Hee-yah,
hand me a bungee, mate! The bigga the betta!"
Speaking of Google, my kids have virtually no
idea of what the Dictionary is.  Oh yeah, it's that big, thick,
dusty red book on the bookshelf with the little cut-outs
on the side where the letters are.  Dictionary.com my ass.


Shock cord was and is often used to keep the bitter
ends of the traveler or barber hauler lines from getting
tangled in something else, or maintaining a taut hiking strap
or  keeping a daggerboard from slipping down the trunk
on a Laser.  We bought it from a spool, sold by the foot,
and melted the cut ends with a match. And if we didn't
have the cash to pay for it, we filled out a withdrawal
slip and walked into the bank lobby to get it.


Andy Rooney passed away this week.  I think he called
it shock cord too.  I doubt he had a debit card.
And I know for a fact he used the Dictionary.  I Googled it.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps: Take Two

Thanks to Tweezerman for the Music clip on
his blog.  That song instantly evoked memories of
listening to the boxed record set of the Bangladesh
concert in Madison Square Garden that I somehow
acquired and played endlessly on my Hi-Fi.  The
only images I could view of this event were on the
included album program inside the box.  Doofus
plastered half of them on his dorm room walls and then
in turn threw them away after the semester.  

This is one of the few remaining photos clinging to life in the torn

and frayed boxed album.

I put my name on the album cover in case one of my

 entrepreneurial dorm mates wanted to 

steal this future collector's item.

\

Apple label.  It would have been worth something

if the box weren't squashed and irreparable.

However, this may bring some Deutsche Marks.

Mojo will jump all over this when we show up on OFD.

I'm looking forward to the spirituals and a glass of spirits.

One more from the amazing Bangladesh concert.

Unhappy Valley

I'm speechless.  Penn State Football has been such a huge interest

of mine ever since childhood.  It started with my Dad being a 

freshman there in the 50's.  I automatically, to this day, check on 

Sunday to see how PSU did the day before if I didn't already know. 

Rosey Grier was a student/athlete there when my Dad was a

 frosh.  I don't know if he had acquired his love for needlepoint 

at that time yet, but he played well enough to become a New York 

Giant.  And he was held highly enough to be Ethel Kennedy's 

bodyguard.  Too bad he wasn't RFK's that night.

From what I understand, Lenny Moore, being a couple years older 

than Dad and living on the same floor of his dorm, bought beer for

Dad and his friends.  Stuff like that doesn't happen any more though.

The Baltimore Colts thought enough of him to give him a job.

He wound up getting the hang of football and had a decent career.

Franco Harris came to the restaurant a bunch of years ago and

sat in a very accessible area with a large group of people.  Toward 

the end of the evening, our bartender approached him to get his

autograph and mentioned that our chef was from the same

hometown as Franco in South Jersey (Rancocas Valley).

Way larger than life, Franco stood in the kitchen doorway

and shook all of our hands and made small talk that he really

didn't have to make.  I was amazed at his stature;  he never really

appeared on TV to be very tall, but he towered over me in person.

A couple years later I would be again dwarfed by Derek Jeter

at the front desk, but that is another story.

Penn State Football will never be the same.  More seriously,

it's a crime and a tragedy what happened with that assistant coach

and the bunch of boys just looking for some guidance and insight

from a man who was for so long associated with such a storied 

and legendary coach.  Joe had to go.  It had to happen. 

 Implicated or not, he knew too much not to put a stop to this

 years ago.  Actually that does implicate him.

Shame on you, Joe.  I'm speechless.

Accidental Visitors

Once in a while I check the real-time view on Feedjit, 

just to see where readers are coming from and more 

interestingly, if and what they googled to arrive here. 

 Lately, the most popular google is 'fried chicken'. 

I actually used this photo in a post last year, and may

have mentioned fried chicken once or twice, but I

think it's kinda funny.  If you google image 'fried chicken'

you will undoubtedly have an instant craving.  Wow, 

some unbelievably enticing photos.

Some of the recent visitors have been from Ontario,

Tacoma, Brooklyn, Shreveport, and Lawrence, Kansas.

Lawrence, you're not in Kansas any more.  You're

in New Jersey.

Chowder Bowl 2011

Jake Ballard had the winning TD reception as the 

Tomato-based chowders beat the Cream-based 

chowders, 24-20.  As far as I'm concerned, there 

has not been a great game since the Giants-Patriots

Super Bowl until this game today.  It was virtually

a remake, and I freaked out accordingly. 

Volvo Tart

JP and I have been feeling Fallsy lately, both of us cooking 

with apples.  Friday night, I made apple tarts with cinnamon

 ice cream. His crumble looks divine, especially 

with the fresh cream.  So English!

This weekend we ripped out all of the mums and marigolds and

peonies.  Chucked the rotting pumpkins, pussy willow wreath,

dried basil stalks, and all of the branches that fell with the first 

snowfall.  We put the patio furniture, the hammock,  and the 

garden hoses away, and put the snowblower in the garage,

pointing outward in anticipation of the next snowfall.  One or 

two more leaf sessions and we'll be good for winter.  Now I've

just got to get the boat out of the water.

Low Country Weekend

A few hours from our destination, we stopped for a late lunch.

A plateful of the south.  Pulled pork with Carolina vinegary sauce

 (yum), fried chicken, fried livers, fried gizzards, fried okra, fried 

squash, okra and beans, broad beans, cole slaw, and sweet 

pickles and cauliflower.  I went back and got a half plateful of 

collard greens with more fried okra and pork barbecue.  I could 

eat this every day.  Just make sure I'm sitting next to the 

defibrillator machine though.  For convenience' sake.

Folly Beach, SC.  Our nest for the wedding weekend.  Not bad digs, 

and a mere crawl from the reception next door.  There's nothing like 

opening the sliding doors and getting a faceful of ocean air.  

Thanks so much, Reno and Michele.  I feel like I say that an awful lot.

Looking south toward Kiawah Island.  I love the Carolinas;

in so many ways they remind me of the New Jersey coastline.

Why are you laughing?  No, really..........

Bowen's Island Restaurant, just inland of Folly Beach.  The line went

out the door behind me and down the switchback stairway.  At first

I was skeptical about waiting, but as soon as we got drinks to nurse 

while standing in line, we were at the counter in no time.  Place your

order, find a table, and wait for the food.  It wasn't that bad a wait.

My daughters found a table, suitably right next to a large oyster 

shell garbage can.  I didn't mind.  Rather than putting my empties

on my tray, I tossed them over my shoulder.  I'm thinking of

getting one of these for our kitchen table.

They must not be tea-baggers down there, 'cause they spelled

everything correctly.  And their warning could not have been

more telling.  There was booze, shellfish, and plenty of

finger licking.  Kind of like being at home, but this time no clean-up. 

College daughter waiting for grub.  

Down in the basement where the all-you-can eaters are seated.

This way, they can watch and make sure you're not feeding the

rest of your table from your tray upstairs.  The coolest thing in my

opinion is the hole in the middle of the table where the shells go.

Spartan, yet functional accommodations.  What more do you need?

Once the oysters come out of the steaming pots, they're dumped on 

this hot flat-top until they're shoveled onto cafeteria trays.  The 

oysters spend very little time there because there's usually a line 

of hungry folks waiting just behind this camera.

My first tray.  They aren't individual oysters, but clusters of them

jutting in all directions, some open, some not yet.  It's more work

than you think.  And I guess that's how they don't go out of business

with the all-you-can-eat feature.  After a while, especially if you're 

drinking at a decent clip, you become exhausted from prying and

shucking before you start to actually get ahead of the game.

Charleston's Carolina Yacht Club, Saturday morning.  Word had it 

that a young Bahamian hotshot was to sail off the end of the dock 

early that afternoon and I went down to see if I could meet him 

before he went out. Turned out his Dad was in town and he spent 

the morning with him, as he should have.  I guess I'll just have to 

visit Charleston again.  Brent seems like a good guy and I 

look forward to being in his presence the next time around.

Charleston Community Sailing was/were holding races off the 

dock that morning.  There were/was (never quite sure) an 

awful lot of young kids out on the water. High School sailing 

is alive and well in South Carolina.

Daytime photo of Bowen's Island Restaurant.  Note aforementioned

switchback stairway.  Apparently this place is fairly recently expanded

and re-modeled.  Check out the earlier link for vintage-er photos.

On the way back from CYC, I needed to get some brighter shots of 

this place.  They serve dinner only, so the only noises I heard were 

the wind and crickets.

Sophisticate:  To make complicated or complex.

It hasn't happened here yet.

Salts of the earth.  I'm sure they don't live an

extravagant lifestyle, but when their workday 

ends, they can sleep well.  The hose guy said he's

usually asleep by 9, still likes oysters, and, well,

that's all I got out of him.  In season, those oysters

are 28-32 bucks a bushel, like those baskets in

the video.  The night before, Saturday night, the 

restaurant went through 40 bushels.  They get 5

trays from each bushel.  I had two trays from the

200 that were served.  Would I go there again?

You bet your Crassostrea Virginica !

Now I know why they call this 'Low Country'.

At times, the water is at the edge of the road.  This photo was

 taken from the mounds of shells at Bowen's.  I spotted Forrest's 

shrimper across the marsh.  Several hours later, that marsh

was a couple of feet above sea level.

Catch anything?   

Downtown Folly Beach.  I found myself becoming instantly and

scarily at home in this community.  It's not hard to imagine shifting

right into the groove of this easy-going, laid back beach town.

Ah yes, the reason why we were all here!  It was without a doubt

the most relaxing, comfortable, and natural setting for a wedding 

ceremony I've ever had the pleasure of attending.  And to think 

that folks back home were shoveling snow.

Strings attached

Our niece Loren and husband Victor.  Love them

The Goddamn cornmeal-crusted scallop was so friggin big that 

the guest had to set it down on the surfboard bar because her

arm was getting tired.  The duck nachos were a bit lighter.

The Blu Bar.  A place to which I bellied up often that night.

Has everyone signed the guestbook?

Poogan's Porch for Sunday Brunch.  College daughter

took a pass and waited painfully in the car after a long

night of beer pong and flip cup games after the reception

 'til well into the morning.  We all eventually go 

through it, and it was her turn that day. 

A bloody mary in front of the fireplace.  People that ask for

this table rarely get it.  I just wanted to sit down.

The famous biscuit with honey butter.

The omnipresent Shrimp and Grits.  The poached eggs actually

made the dish.  I thought there could have been a lot more of the

cheapest ingredient in there......Grits!  Good though.

We followed this tour carriage slowly from behind in our 

car for several minutes, craning and listening intently before

he pulled over and told us that if we were to continue sitting

in, we would need to donate some gratuities to his cup.

Gorgeous Charleston, South Carolina

The pier at Folly Beach at the end of the day.

Sunset just around to the right.  I could really get used to this.