Serving Suggestion

Those that know me even a little bit know that I am a fairly rabid foodie.  I don't generally write much about it because a) I realize that not everyone reading this is a rabid foodie and 2) even rabid foodies like myself find food-oriented blogs excruciatingly boring.  Oh, sure, I've found some great ideas/recipes on food blogs, but I have yet to add a single one to my Google Reader.  Food-oriented message boards are, of course, a COMPLETELY different animal, but that's a post for another day.  So most of y'all will excuse if I take a brief powder from my Letters From the Front series to brag about my dinner tonight.  Because you know if I'm boring you with food, it was really freakin' good food.

That being said, there isn't a lot that I miss about Indiana but there are a few notable exceptions. 

My best friends...

My theater group...

And Corn.

There is a cheeseball amusement park in northern Indiana called Indiana Beach (On Beautiful Lake Shafer!).  Not everyone I know from the area (including yours truly) has been to Indiana Beach (On Beautiful Lake Shafer!), but everyone I know in Indiana AND Illinois knows their slogan: "There's More Than Corn in Indiana!"

Um...I guess.  There's...The Colts.  And The Pacers.  High school basketball.  The 500.  And a lot of Republicans. 

But there's also...A HELL OF A LOT OF CORN.

The Indiana landscape is often described as boring.  But to those people I say a pointed, "Pshaw!"  Sometimes, when driving down I-65 (or I-70, or I-69), you will see corn on the left, soybeans on the right.  And SOMETIMES, when driving down I-65 (or I-70, or I-69) you will see SOYBEANS on the left, and CORN on the right.

And this is nothing to be ashamed of!  In Illinois, they are PROUD OF THEIR CORN.  (But, to be fair, there IS more than corn in Illinois.  It's called Chicago.)

I can remember, as a kid, being at my grandparents' farm in central Illinois, and my grandmother saying that "Vickie should be stopping by with some sweetcorn."  My mom would always get REALLY excited, and I never got it.  It's CORN, for God's sake.  Corn is fun when you're a kid, but corn is corn.  And Vickie's corn always meant we had to sit on the porch, and shuck, and I was a fussy kid who couldn't STAND any stray strands of silk left behind.

A few years in Indiana as an adult taught me the error of my ways. 

In Indiana, you purposely take the long way home on day trips so that you can drive country backroads and smell the lovely sweet, grassy smell of corn while you watch the fireflies twinkle in the ditches along the sides of the road (which everyone should do at some point.  It's fireflies like you've never seen them before.).  In the peak of growing season, you can walk into the middle of a cornfield and HEAR THE CORN GROWING.  This is NOT a rural myth.  I've actually heard it (my family owns Illinois farmland and grows corn and/or beans - trespassing is illegal, kids!).  Granted, most of that corn is feed corn, not sweetcorn.

Even among human-consumption corn, supermarket corn-on-the-cob and proper sweetcorn are two very different things.  Alton Brown once said that he has heard tales of those who put the water on to boil before heading to the market to buy the corn.  WRONG.  Sorry, Alton, I love you, but that's not how it goes.  People will, however, put the water on to boil before heading to the garden to PICK the corn.  The less time between picking and eating, the sweeter and better the corn will be.  If I'm stopping at a market, the 10 minutes to boil the water ain't gonna matter at that point.  BUT, if you don't have a garden, there's still a big difference between buying the corn at a grocery store and buying it from the farmer.  There's one thing Alton got right in that episode, and that's the fact that good, fresh, sweet corn doesn't even need cooking.  It just needs to be heated up and enjoyed.  In Lafayette, there was one farm that would fill up trucks with freshly-picked corn every morning, then send those trucks to set up shop around the fringes of town.  Little wooden signs marked the territory when the trucks weren't there, just so you would know where to find them later:  strip mall parking lots...grocery store parking lots...or, in my case, the parking lot of the Osco Drug just down the street from my apartment.  Even on a weekday, you had to get there early or they would be sold out.  You'd get a "farmer's dozen" (14 ears) for $3.00.  And it would be gooooooooooooood.

Which brings me to today.  There's a farmer's market downtown on Wednesdays near City Hall.  It's not bad as such things go, and there are free concerts and people who will sell you ready-to-eat lunch food while you're there.  The prices were...well...Downtown Toronto Prices, so I shopped around before deciding what and where to buy.  But for less than $20 I left with strawberries...wild blueberries...raspberries...

and CORN.

This is part of my problem: I went to the cheapest vendor (and, coincidentally, the only one with a dedicated Corn Truck, which is why I picked them.  They also had a sign that read, "we recommend that you do not shuck our corn.  It will keep longer and taste fresher that way!" while other vendors had a bin handy for husks and silks for impromptu shuckers) and got a half dozen ears for...$3.00.  Apparently, it was a farmer's half dozen, because the guy actually put 7 ears in my bag (the benefits of not bagging your own produce - they throw in freebies!).  However, I am not the only person here noting the 100% markup, no?  But, meh, nearly everything costs nearly 100% more in Downtown Toronto than it did in (or just outside of) Lafayette City Limits (seriously, the Corn Truck was always JUST south of the City Limits sign).  I'm just hoping it's Good Corn.  The berries I'm less worried about - berries, in general, are pretty good as long as you buy them from nearby (i.e., not California).  (This is actually a pretty good general rule for produce - I'm not a crazy 100-mile diet kind of person, but really good produce, by definition, DOES NOT travel well.  Buy local, kids!) In particular, wild blueberries in this part of the world are something to get excited about, and something I couldn't get in the lower latitudes I've lived in for most of my life.

On a side note, when choosing my strawberries, I had many vendors to choose from.  I went to one, and was sniffing a box of berries, and the Pushy Saleslady asked, "What box are you taking?"  I said, "I'm not sure yet" and sniffed another box.  "You're not gonna sniff EVERY BOX, are ya?"

Actually, yes.  Yes I am.  Because that's how one chooses good fruit.  And you're only being obnoxious and pushy because you know DAMN WELL that your berries don't smell as good as the ones that the guy across the way has, or anyone else in this market, for that matter.  So your only hope is to rush people into buying your inferior produce.  I AM TOO SMART FOR YOU, PRODUCE BITCH.

So, as I return to work and finish the workday, my grand plans of marinating a pork chop gradually give way to just throwing a burger on the grill, but the grill is a necessity, because there is Corn involved.  But as the fire is starting, I throw a hunk of butter into a bowl, with the juice of half a lime, and a sprinkling of chipotle powder.  Dude, I'm sorry, but there ain't a thing alive or dead that wouldn't taste FANTASTIC drizzled in that shit.

Then there's the matter of the fruit.  I have the aforementioned berries, and some Ontario peaches that have finally reached tastiness and are settled into my fridge (it took several days of ripening, but they did FINALLY attract fruit flies, which means they're ready for refrigeration).  I also bought some mint on my way home, so I make a quick vinaigrette with the vanilla oil that has been in my fridge longer than I care to remember, some balsamic vinegar, a wee bit of salt, a healthy amount of pepper, and some fresh mint.  Add miscellaneous berries and peaches.  Add crumbled goat cheese that has been drying out in fridge since Friday.  Toss.  It ain't pretty, but it smells like Heaven.

Grill is finally hot.  Slap burger on grill, along with two ears of Corn.  Return to kitchen and fix mojito.  Discover that citrus reamer makes a better meddler than end of rolling pin.  Sweeeeeeeeeeet.

Flip burger and corn.  Damn that smells good.

Finishing touches downstairs.

Retrieve burger and corn.  Damn that smells good.

Shuck corn and drizzle with lime/chipotle butter goodness.  Holy SHIT that smells good.

Dish ain't-pretty-but-smells-like-Heaven fruit salad thing onto plate.

Eat.

Holy SHIT THAT'S GOOD CORN. 

Tastes like limey, smokey, spicy candy.  Seriously.  I cannot stress enough how fucking good that corn was.  Or that ain't-pretty-but-smells-like-Heaven fruit salad thing.  Or, hell, that burger.  Not bad at all for a Wednesday night.

And for dessert, I made a STRAWBERRY mojito. 

I have said it before, and I have no reservations in saying it again:

I...am a culinary genius.

Letters from the front: Day 2.

So the problem with living in a Mundane tent is that, in the morning, the sun hits it and they heat up pretty quickly.  This is why, on a normal camping trip, I tend to be rather early-to-bed-early-to-rise.  In the dead of summer, the sun comes up early, and heats up fast, so sleeping in isn't really an option.  This is why most people at War try to camp in tents that look like this:

Notice the hanging bar for clothes in the back, and the curtain that makes a lovely changing area.  Just for good measure, let's look at the living/dining room:

That tent was designed and built entirely by Brother for his second year at War (first time he went for the full two weeks).  There are 10,000 people at Pennsic, and his is the only onion-dome tent.  People build castles, and Roman temples, and pirate ships, but his is the only onion.  This was its fourth War, and it is still used as a landmark - there are people who, when trying to give directions to their camp, say, "we're up the hill from the onion dome."  And for the entire week I was there, Brother was inviting curious onlookers to come in for a closer look when he saw them stop on the street to take a picture.  I guess during its earlier days, one of the security folk riding by on a golf cart came to a screeching halt and threw it into reverse to get a better look.  Of course, he dyed the fabric himself and it is entirely homemade, so it bleeds, and isn't 100% watertight, which is why it is now the living/dining room.  And also why, a couple of days after I arrived, Brother slapped a "For Sale: One Onion Dome" sign on it.  But lest you be concerned that this is the end of an era...he is trying to get rid of it to make room for a bigger, better, two-domed model for next year.

So anyway, onion-shaped or no, these sorts of tents are breezy, and cool, and dark in the mornings.  So when the morning sunshine on my Mundane wakes me and forces me out of bed at 7:30, the only company I have are a handful of the kids in camp.

"Are you Omar's sister?"

It takes me a moment to decipher that one.

"Oh...yes.  Yes I am."

Omar would be Brother's persona.  Most of the people in our camp that have an SCA name treat them as just that - names.  They don't play a part, or cultivate a character, it's just something to add to the fun.  To a newbie like me, it makes it hard as fucking hell to learn names, because you have to learn twice as many.  Balls!  Do you have any idea how long it took me to figure out that Pico and Jeff were the same person????  I never felt the need to have a persona, so I didn't.  There was talk of giving me a name, and I think if I'm ever going to assume one, that's how it will have to happen.  I mean, my persona is and always will be a saucy gypsy, but for now, she remains nameless.  Feel free to submit suggestions in the comments.

But seeing as how I have only ever thought of Brother as brother, even though I know his alter ego is Omar, I am a bit thrown by the fact that the kids seem to know him by that name.  It may have something to do with the fact that our Chieftain has the same Mundane name as Brother - the persona may have stuck just to simplify matters.  We also had another Beth in camp, but she always goes by her SCA name of Bounty; so while there generally wasn't any confusion as to who was being addressed, she did always do a double-take when people would say something to or about me.

So after a brief chat with this lovely young lady, I try to read my book but am getting nowhere because I am still a bit restless, trying to figure out how I fit into this world.  So I retreat into the class listings, trying to sift through the pages and pages of offerings and figure out what might be interesting.  This proves to be an impossible task - the listings are organized by topic, not by time, so it's impossible to keep track of what is happening when and even less possible to figure out which teachers are the good ones, so I throw in the towel.

Luckily, by now, Brother and Girlfriend have gotten up and are starting work on breakfast.  After a decent amount of puttering, I ask Girlfriend, "Would you be interested in going to a Beginner Bellydance class with me at 1?"

"Mmmm....nah."

I should mention here that we are a Slacker Camp.  Most people don't go to half of the classes they are interested in.  9AM classes are almost unheard of.  Girlfriend has already written off anything that happens before 11AM, and even those are iffy.

I'm not feeling bold enough to wander off and find classes on my own yet, so I go with the "when in Rome" approach and Slack myself.  In fact, will make it more than 24 hours from arrival before even venturing away from camp for the first time.

So we decide to put the finishing touches on the vests Girlfriend has made for me.  This involves a quick fitting session before heading up to the oh-so-Period tiki hut that has been erected in Upper Blood Moon for daytime shade and social interaction.  In said Tiki Hut, Blade, Omar-proclaimed "alpha male" of Blood Moon, is holding court.

"What are you guys doing?"

"We are certainly not drinking already."

A bottle is being passed around - it is offered to me, but I decline, mostly because I don't know yet what's in it.  It is 12-year-old Guatemalan rum.  Now I am declining because I feel guilty accepting some seriously good shit from a complete stranger.  I keep fairly quiet because again, I don't know these people, and want to get a feel for the vibe before I start, you know, being all kinds of myself in front of them.  After a bit of banter, Blade apologizes and says, "Sorry, we get a little crude."
To which I say, "Hey, I've been holding back 'That's what she said's ever since I sat down!"

The next time the rum bottle makes a lap, I partake.

This is about the time the group seemed to decide I was okay.  If you're willing to take a swig right off of the bottle everyone else is swigging from, then you're Clan.

Oh, my That's-what-she-saids also got me in good graces with the guy known as Scoundrel.  You'll be hearing more about him later.

After we kill the rum, Brother disappears and reappears with some good tequila.

Blade disappears and reappears with some better tequila.

This is when I get my first inkling of how much fun War can be.

 

After a long afternoon of crafting and drinking under the Tiki Hut, it's eventually time for dinner.  This is the one communal meal that Blood Moon has - it is Scotch Broth, a lamb/potato/barley soup.  Simple, tasty goodness.  There are certain ceremonies that go with Scotch Broth night...as we eat, one of the little ones in camp reads a letter from a member of the Clan that wasn't able to attend this year.  Every year, she takes some of the ashes from the fire on Scotch Broth night, and saves them in a jar.  The following year, those ashes are dumped on the fire, and new ashes are collected in the morning after the fire pit has cooled.  It adds a very sweet, spiritual quality to the meal.

Now, before I go any further, I have to explain how Brother got involved with all of this.  Brother teaches pottery classes.  Once upon a time, Chieftain and his wife had the good sense to sign up for one of said classes.  The rest, as they say, is history.  And now, Chieftain and wife make a whole mess of pottery so that every member of camp can take home one piece on Scotch Broth night.  The selection order is determined by the order of arrival at camp - by some delightful little loophole, I get to go up with Brother and Girlfriend, even though I arrived a full week after them.  I now am the very proud owner of a very cool goblet that is very different from anything I own that was made by either of the two potters in my family.  That is the beauty of pottery.  Plus, now I won't have to drink wine out of a mug for the rest of the week.

After dinner, Brother takes out his guitar disguised as a lute and finds himself in the middle of an impromptu jam session with all of the kids in camp:

And I do mean all:

 

So cute I can't stand it.

At some point, someone (I think it's Scoundrel, but at this point, I don't remember) asks if anyone has taken me shopping yet.  Shopping is one of the prime pastimes at War.  There are TONS of merchants, selling everything from garb to armor to weapons to dishes to musical instruments.  And I still have yet to leave camp, so I go.  Don't actually buy anything, but it's enough to remind me that this place is friggin' HUGE and I do NOT know my way around enough to venture out on my own.

 

That will have to wait a couple more days.

Letters from the front: Day 1.

So I'm still not quite sure what to expect when I get to Pennsic - all I know is that I'm pretty sure it will be fun.  After a long day on the bus and so little sleep that I actually slept on my bus segments (and believe you me, that means I was TIRED), my brother is there waiting for me at the bus station in Pittsburgh when my bus arrives a little bit late.  After a quick check with the ticket desk to make sure it will be okay if I pick up my return bus a couple of stops closer to the place I will actually be spending the week, we pile into his truck and head back up to War.

 

Brother has Period music playing on his stereo as we make our way northward....to keep him in the right frame of mind when venturing into the Mundane world.  I will soon learn that Period vs. Mundane will become very important.

 

Still have no idea whatsoever what's going on.  Am okay with that.

 

We make a grocery run on our way back to camp.  Am informed that Brother and Girlfriend are well-stocked to feed me dinner for the duration of my stay.  Receive briefings on Breakfast and Lunch, and buy groceries accordingly.

 

We arrive at Pennsic, and the first order of business is checking in.  You do this at Troll - yes, that's what it's called, and I believe the general idea is that the Trolls are surly and efficient at getting you through the line (the Trolls are, in fact, volunteers, and do not look like Trolls at all).  Am asked if I have been to War before, and my answer is no.  Am issued a medallion, and receive standard warning about how I must not lose my medallion, and how everyone says they will not lose their medallion, and every year SOMEONE does.  If I DO lose my medallion, my only recourse is to bring my receipt back to Troll and hope someone has found and turned in my lost medallion.  Mental note: do NOT LOSE MEDALLION.  DEFINITELY DO NOT LOSE RECEIPT.  Am now slightly afraid of my own absentminded tendencies.  Am sent on my way with the friendly greeting of, "Have a nice War!"

 

Brother drives me to Camp.  We are members of the Blood Moon Clan.  I quickly change into Garb.  Garb is an important part of Pennsic.  Girlfriend has been harvesting hand-me-downs from her stash of Garb for months now, as well as sewing new Garb for me.  All of this is stored in a box in my tent, next to the cot which is going to be WAY more comfortable to sleep on than the ground.  To be clear, a dome tent complete with rug and cot is rather primitive by Pennsic standards.  Most people live in palatial rooms that happen to be made of canvas, complete with beds, shelving, and walk-in closets.  One family in our camp had a tent large enough that a minivan could be parked inside and still leave room for a smaller dome tent for the kids and a canopy bed for the adults.  I shit you not.  When they told the little one to "go to his room," he ACTUALLY HAD SOMEWHERE TO GO.

 

Going through my box of Garb is fun - have you ever bought a crapload of new clothes, and had a hard time deciding what to wear?  I decide on something simple - whatever I put on will only be worn for a couple of hours before bed anyway, so there's no point in wasting the good stuff.  Brother takes me around camp and makes a few introductions to those who are present.  The sizing-up process is odd.  I soon realize it only feels that way because the residents are aware of the fact that it takes most people a while to adjust to Pennsic, and are letting me have some space while I do so.  I get a lot of "how weird is it?" comments.  It actually doesn't feel weird to me at all.  What I think most of these people don't get is that a) I am apparently a highly adaptable person (I was once told by a doctor that I "wasn't reacting enough" to some not-great test results because I refused to freak out) and 2) I've done a lot of theater.  Seeing people walking around in odd clothing really doesn't faze me in the slightest - it just feels like Tech Week to me.

 

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful.  I eventually go to bed well-fed, a little tipsy, and still feeling...quiet. 

 

That's how I am when I'm the outsider.

De-Briefing.

Well, I thought I would have a lot of time for writing during my trip.  Actually, I spent an awful lot of my free time chatting/crafting/drinking/fiddling, and very little of it reading and writing.  Even less doing 'rithmetic.  And now that I am trying to re-adapt to the modern world, where there are e-mails to answer and groceries to buy and laundry to do, I am watching the Olympics and wondering why in the hell Bob Costas is interviewing the president.  And trying to reconcile my desire to bellydance to the music on the Target ads with my desire to not look like a complete asshole.  In other words, I am noticing that the Real World doesn't make any more sense than the Fantasy World I have just returned from.  Which is kind of a relief, and kind of makes me wish I could go back to the World in which I never hear the sound of a bicycle bell nudging me off of the sidewalk so that some dude can ride by in illegal comfort while I walk in the mud.  Thing #1 I miss about the Middle Ages: Chivalry.

 

So anyway, none of this means I don't plan to write about the experience, because if I have ever had anything worth writing about, it was Pennsic.  However, I will have to write in a slightly different way than I had originally planned: by memory, rather than by moment.  So, I will write one letter about each day, in retrospect.  I hope to do this quickly, as I've already found my memories fading after just over 24 hours back in my proper context, and I want to get as much into words as possible.  I thought my horoscope for today was strangely appropriate:
When you travel back through your memories today, nostalgia can overtake you, reminding you that something is missing at home. But the real work is to take what you have in life now and project that into the future rather than regressing into your past. Lean on your most reliable friends for the emotional support you need.

It's been a long time since I felt like a vacation changed me.  And while I don't expect those reading this to really understand how that happened, I hope that over the next few posts, you will try.  Rest assured - there is a lot...and I mean a LOT...of silliness to come, and if you know me at all, you know that that is EXACTLY why it had a fairly profound effect on me.  Community theater got me through grad school because of the escapist nature of acting; there is nothing, repeat, NOTHING more escapist than going to Pennsic.

 

So I invite you to tag along with me.  Welcome to War.