BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’d start a Twitter account for this sort of thing, but I just don’t have time. Besides which, I’d just get myself accused of trying to capitalize on the “Dad Says” dude, and his success.

So, anyway, there we were, on vacation. I should probably write a vacation blog and tell all sorts of stories about how E K made us march through the woods and over huge boulders, all in the sweltering 95+ heat, with 12,000,000% humidity, but I’ll have to get to that later… Maybe… I guess it’s a we’ll see sort of thing.

Okay, so back to the real story here. There we were, on vacation, last night of the trip, and we were staying at The Davie School Inn. When we asked about “eats” the owner directed us to The Brick House restaurant, a couple of blocks away. A little eclectic fusion sort of bistro with interesting decor and good food. We even sat at the “Twister Table”… Seriously. It was painted like a Twister mat. Kinda weird, but kinda cool at the same time. After ordering up a couple of Mothership Wits for ourselves, and a Root Beer for the O-spring, we set about perusing the menu. When all was said and done, after salivating over the many wonderful sounding selections, believe it or not we all ordered sort of the same thing – E K had steamed mussels and a house specialty salad. I had steamed mussels and a spinach salad. The O-spring had… Yes… Steamed mussels, but instead of a salad she opted for French Fries. Odd combination, yeah, but hey… She’s a 10 year old. Besides, how many 10 year olds do you know who willingly order steamed mussels and then rave about them for two hours? Yeah, that’s our kid. Go figure…

But, that’s not what this is really about. Well… It is sorta, but not exactly. You see, as we sat there enjoying a wonderful dinner, some tunes were wafting in from above. This prompted E K and I to discuss our Vinyl Collection, because it has yet to be all converted to CD. In particular, we were talking about The Police and Sting. Why? Because a song by Sting was playing, silly.

Anywho, fast forward 10 minutes or so. The kid is blowing bubbles in her root beer, shoving French Fries into one side of her mouth, and discovering the creamy goodness of the steamed mussel broth at the bottom of her bowl. Yet another song by Sting begins pouring in from overhead. Being old, and because of that a bit addled, I looked at The Evil Redhead with a puzzled expression.

“That isn’t the same song we just heard a few minutes ago, is it?” I asked.

E K, being in the middle of masticating a mussel, held up a finger to indicate I should wait a second for her answer. However, before she was able to engage peristalsis and swallow the food, the O-spring spoke up.

“No, it isn’t the same song,” she said, then by way of explanation offered her personal analysis of the brass section content. “The other one was a lot more horny.”

E K choked on the half swallowed mussel. I spewed Mothership Wit all over the wall across from me. The server applied the Heimlich Maneuver to the redhead, propelling the glob of  seafood along a bizarre trajectory that landed it in the pale blue beehive of a 97 year old patron across the room who was trying desperately to enjoy a Bruschetta, even though she had forgotten her teeth. Another server who was attempting to avoid the shellfish projectile slipped, sending a tray full of chilled soup cascading across a party of 18 several feet away, prompting the…

Okay… So it wasn’t that dramatic. But, EKay’s eyes got really big, she half choked on the piece of garlic bread in her mouth, and I almost – not quite, but almost – spewed a mouthful of Mothership Wit across the table.

The O-spring looked at us and said, “What?”

E K leaned over and whispered, “You probably should have said brassy, because horny is a slang word that means someone really wants to have sex a lot.”

The O-spring having been through the “talk” at school, besides being brilliant as well, knew what sex happened to be – in theory.  Also, being 10, while she is familiar with the non-specific theory behind it, the subject is still residing in that “EWWW, GROSS!” area of her psyche. Personally, I’d like for it to stay that way until I’m dead, but hey, I’m a dad, and that’s how dads are.

So, since that’s where the concept resides, that’s what the O-spring said. “EWWW, GROSS!”

This was somewhat heartening, to say the least…

There was a moment of quiet, then she looked across the table and said, “You’re going to write a blog about this, aren’t you, Dad?”

Obviously, she hadn’t lost her faith in me…

(Aww, come on, quit groaning… you knew I would have to make at least one Sting song lyric related pun…)

More to come…

Murv

I’m sure the title of this post leads one to think I am talking about a festival where spaghetti is celebrated by pasta lovers from around the country –  maybe even from around the world. Honestly, looking at it right now, that’s pretty much what it says to me. However, as I am sure you suspect from the fact that I am rambling about such a thing, I am going to talk about something completely different. It’s just that I’m apparently too lazy to change the title – go figure…

Well, lazy AND my brain is still a bit fried from 3 1/2 days at PUF in Tennessee. Good fried, yes, but fried nonetheless.

So, let’s talk about PUF, because when you get right down to it, that is what this entry is really all about. You see, this year was the 13th PUF, and it was my 10th year of headlining same. In fact, I was their very first out of town “big name talent” ever. The fest has grown over the years, bringing in big names from all over the country, but no matter what, I am always on the schedule. I’ve been told that even if I die, they will dig me up and make sure I am at PUF. And, you know, oddly enough, that doesn’t bother me at all, because I absolutely adore the folks and the fest.

But, what does all this have to do with spaghetti?

Okay, I’ll tell you. One of the staples at just about any festival – pagan or otherwise – when trying to feed the masses is pasta. It’s inexpensive, quick, and just about everyone loves a good plate of spaghetti. If they didn’t, then you wouldn’t have all of these “Lodges” and Churches holding “Spaghetti Dinner” fundraisers. Therefore, PUF serves spaghetti. Not for every single meal, mind you. They actually have an amazing feast on Saturday night that is so beyond compare that I can’t even… well… compare it to anything. Suffice it to say, there is food for miles and I’ve never had a single thing that I didn’t like. PUF provides a portion of it, and then the rest is from “food donations” – that being various “covered dishes” brought by attendees.  The lunches  themselves are most excellent brown bag type fare. Breakfasts are cereals and fruits – although, I have to say, Rachel the Kitchen Goddess (aka VIP Chef) does up a major breakfast for those of us in the author cabin. However,  getting back to dinner, Thursday night is soup/stew night, and Friday night is spaghetti/pasta night.

“So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you.

At a PUF four or five years ago, the kitchen was short staffed during dinner on Friday night. Now, while it has always been customary at PUF for the staff to wrangle the “VIPs”, bring us in the back door, and run us through the chow queue before anyone else, on that particular occasion I saw a line of hungry people waiting to get in, and a frazzled half-staff that was trying to figure out how they were going to keep the line moving fast enough to avoid problems. For me, it was a no brainer, and over their objections, I put down my unfilled plate, rolled up my sleeves, and took up a position at the serving line. Suffice it to say, the attendees were surprised to see one of the Headline Author/Speakers slopping their choice of meat sauce or marinara onto their piles of pasta, but by the same token, they really enjoyed it.

And, so did I.

You see, sometimes folks can get the wrong impression of headline guests at festivals. They see us being pushed to the head of the line, dining at a private table – sometimes on display in a sense. We get the “VIP” treatment while they stand around and wait. For the most part these folks understand the situation, although there is the occasional person who doesn’t. Of course, I have to admit that when you get a VIP who carries about an attitude that matches the treatment, then folks aren’t getting the wrong impression, they are getting shafted. But, we won’t talk about those “big names,” because I already have to deal with them enough at events and I’ve come close to slapping the snot out of them on many occasions.

So, moving right along… The attendees generally  only get to see us at our workshops, or sitting behind a pile of books where they have to stand in line to obtain an autograph. For some – and I am definitely NOT saying all – but, for some, this seems a bit daunting and makes us appear unapproachable. For the record, this is something I have been told by the very same folks who feel this way. It’s not something I’m making up just because I have nothing to do.

On top of that, when you have vendors, multiple speakers, and all sorts of activities going on, people end up making choices as to what they will attend while on site. Therefore, when you have a fest with 300, 400, or even more folks, not everyone gets to have contact with you, even if it’s just to say “Hi.”

And that’s what this is really about. That experience all those years back allowed me to not only help out the frazzled staff and make sure everyone was fed in a reasonable time frame, it also provided something much, much more. I was afforded an opportunity to  at  the very least say “hello” to each and every person at the festival as they came through the queue for dinner. This is why I have made it a point to take a place in the serving line on Friday night ever since. It’s like a tradition of sorts. The doors open and people file in to have their plates filled with goodies from Rachel the Kitchen Goddess. (see photo above)…

I just stand wherever Rachel puts me – be it the spaghetti noodles themselves (as it was this year), or one of the various sauces, or salad, or dessert…  Rachel always objects, of course, saying that I’m a VIP and should be filling my plate instead of other folks’ plates.  But, I wouldn’t miss my kitchen time for anything.  It’s important to me that not only am I helping out the staff, but I am also able to say “Hi”, crack a few jokes, and even chat a bit with each and every PUF attendee as they come through the line. That way, if they are unable to be at my workshops, don’t run into me during the day, or for some reason see me as unapproachable, I have had the opportunity to come into contact with them. It’s my way of making sure I meet everyone I possibly can.

Afterward, once each person has had “firsts” and even a few have been through for “seconds”, I fill my plate and eat dinner in the kitchen with the staff, which is my chance to visit with them for a while. They work their tails off so that everyone – not just the VIP’s – can have a great time, and they have little to no chance of attending a workshop, or even getting to visit for any  decent length of time.

For other meals, it’s usually a different story…  Breakfast is at the author cabin where we are all trying to get our things together for the day and figure out where we are supposed to be and when. I eat lunch at my table, because I will be signing books between bites of “sammich”… And, for the feast I am on display at the head table – Please note that I’m not complaining about that.  It’s the way things are done, and I certainly understand that it puts the headliners in a central location – probably because they want to keep an eye on us so we don’t get into any mischief (although, we usually find a way to do so, even when being watched and wrangled)…  Besides, it also gives me time to visit with the other headliners who have been rushing from workshop to workshop.

Because of various logistics, I don’t get to do this at every festival where I present, but I do at PUF. Of course, if you don’t come through the chow line for Friday night pasta, well, I might not get to meet you. But hey, for 45 minutes to an hour at PUF, you know exactly where I am, and I’ll be happy to “sling hash” for you and say “Hi.” And, even though by the end of it, I am hot, sweaty, tired, and just want to get off my feet for a while, it has become one of my absolute favorite parts of the festival.

More to come…

Murv