A Wizard of Earthsea, Signed
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Author Archives: Beth
My Favorite Food Pics from Seattle
We ate a lot of good food in Seattle and didn’t even scratch the surface of Ballard in a month, let alone the entire city. Most restaurants we visited only once, and many of them didn’t seem to warrant a full review after so little experience, but there were memorable meals along the way.
- Blackberry brambles were everywhere in Seattle. Sometimes I picked berries from the side of the road.
There must have been 10 coffee shops within easy walking distance of our apartment in Ballard. This vegan doughnut came from Café Mox, which is attached to a game store.
The Counter, located in Ballard Blocks, is definitely worth visiting. The build-your-own burger Todd ordered was fabulous. You could order a burger patty on a salad, so I tried that with a veggie burger topped with pineapple, but the idea was more interesting than the reality.
Hi-Life was located along NW Market Street and was always packed. We intended to go there some Sunday for the fried chicken but ended up at brunch with this obscenely thick French toast.
I had oysters several times in Seattle. Here: Penn Cove. The server at Emmet Watson's Oyster Bar in Pike Place Market (not where I got this one) explained that August and September may not be the best months to eat oysters because they're spawning and they may taste funny. After I left Seattle, I read about several people getting sick from Washington oysters. I was lucky.
Salted cod with ajilimojili sauce from La Isla, the Puerto Rican restaurant in Ballard. Lovely fried fish.
Todd had the pernil, a pork dish. This restaurant had tasty sauces; I believe the red sauce is mojito sauce. It also had a waiter who wasn't comfortable looking at me, for some reason, even though I was paying.
Portage Bay, a large cafe near Ballard Locks, offered a toppings bar with French toast and such. Here it is.
The great thing about Portage Bay's toppings bar was that you could order just the toppings for $6, so I did.
I began with berries and I’ve ended with berries. There are berry brambles fruiting in Portland right now, but they’re not ripe yet. I think it’s so cool to be able to pluck berries as I’m walking along. I’ve never before lived in a city where that was possible.
Haircut in the Neighborhood
I got a good haircut in Missoula the week before I left, but by the time I got to Portland six weeks later, my hairline in back was pretty shaggy. Yesterday I was walking to our rental from K & F Coffeehouse and noticed Gilly’s Salon on Clinton. I’d also noticed Sei Bella salon while looking at Ladd’s Rose Garden Circles and Squares, which is an X-shaped set of streets a few blocks from our apartment. I checked out both on Yelp and decided on Gilly’s.
When I walked in, I saw a woman reading a magazine and told her I’d like to make an appointment. She said she could cut my hair right then and introduced herself as Gilly (with a hard G). I told her that my hair has been falling out for 15 years and my husband thinks I should just buzz it again but I’m still fond of running my fingers through my hair (all 3 to 4 inches of it). She thought I still had enough hair for a style, especially in the back, so after some negotiation about how to style the back, she got to work with a razor.
It was the longest I’ve been in a stylist’s chair for a haircut alone, probably more than an hour. She was meticulous about shaping the hairline over my ears and the layers in back. All the while, we chatted about southern Oregon and the differences between Portland and Seattle and our similar reactions to shaving our heads. She said she wished she had bought a house in the SE part of Portland before it got so hip and expensive.
Toward the end, I was feeling sleepy and thinking, “Are we there yet?” But when she showed me the neckline, I was very happy with it. My hair feels so short now but still has volume on top.
Gilly’s uses Organic Color Systems to color its clients’ hair. So if you’re sensitive to the chemicals in traditional hair dye or you are looking for less toxic hair products, this is the salon for you.
Mexican Moose
To eat at Señor Moose Cafe is to experience the despair of never being able to try everything on the menu. Even the selection of salsas was eclectic. The peanut sauce (top) had the most heat, whereas the tamarind in the lower right was mild. 
The second time I ate there, for dinner, I wanted to try Filete enchocolatado (steak sauteed with bitter chocolate, wine, and onion) and about 10 other things. I settled on Enchiladas de la plaza because I’d never been to a Mexican restaurant that advertised a sauce with cream and egg.
Señor Moose originally opened as a breakfast place, but then the owner, Kathleen Andersen, realized nobody in Seattle was serving the comida tipica from Mexico’s central plateau (Michoacan, Nayarit, Jalisco, and Mexico City) that she had been craving. So the staff started adding breakfast specials that Andersen had learned to make while eating at fondas (mom-and-pop restaurants) and making food with friends in Mexico. Then the cafe added a full dinner menu.
That kind of variety doesn’t come cheap. It costs a lot more than the $10 you might drop on a meal and a drink at El Taco de Mexico in Denver.
The name of Todd’s entree alone was worth it: Puerco en nuestro mas reciente mole. 
Among other things, the sauce was made with 4 chiles, almonds, sesame seeds, chocolate, and sweet spices. The pork cooks in the sauce for a long time, resulting in a darker, hotter flavor than the relatively mild sauce on my enchiladas filled with potatoes, corn, and carrots. Todd’s entree was flashy; mine was squishy but still good. 
When you walk into the restaurant, there’s a counter on the left and a dining room on the right that ends in a bar with the sign: “No Minors. No Firearms.” The room with the counter seemed blazingly hot both times we were there, so we sat in the other room and got served by the same no-nonsense waitress who reminded me of my friend Catherine. During our stay in Seattle from August 17 to September 17, there was an art exhibit in that room featuring a painting on a ironing board. It’s a funky little place.
The morning of our first visit, I ordered huevos ahogados, expecting tomato soup with a few poblanos and some cheese and 2 poached eggs. It wasn’t my usual breakfast fare, but that was, of course, the attraction.
What I got was a smoky tomato broth absolutely loaded with chilies. 
I ate the eggs and drank as much of the broth with chilies as I could; the broth itself was lovely—salty and spicy—but the chilies defeated me. Todd ordered machacas con papas. I remember the beef being crispy; he doesn’t. In any case, it was a hearty meal.
Writing this review from Portland has made me want to drive back to Seattle to have just one more dish. If you’re in Seattle, go up to Ballard and try Señor Moose. It’s open for breakfast and lunch until 3 and then from 5 to 9 or 10 for dinner. 
10 Years After 9/11, a Quiet Vigil on Alki Beach
On the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I wanted to be around people. So I took Todd to one of the few Seattle events commemorating 9/11 that was happening at night. We drove down 99 and over the Seattle bridge to Alki Beach in West Seattle.
First we stopped at the Loghouse Museum, a small museum about the arrival of the white settlers in 1851 run by the West Seattle Historical Society. Although the settlers soon moved up the coast to what is now downtown Seattle, Alki Beach was the place they first landed. It is called the “birthplace of Seattle.”
Alki is a word in Chinook Indian jargon that means “by and by.” I didn’t even know that there was such a thing as Chinook Indian jargon, which I believe was a language created to facilitate trade. The Chinook Indians recently achieved recognition by the federal government.
The Duwamish tribe, of which Chief Seattle was a member (he was also Suquamish), does not have federal status. They were recognized by the Clinton administration, but that decision was overturned by the Bush administration, probably in the early 2001 frenzy to overturn anything from the Clinton era. The Duwamish have, however, found the money to build a longhouse, which is located east of the West Seattle Golf Course on Marginal Way.
After we went through the museum, we walked down to Alki Beach and ate dinner. Then we joined the crowd around the replica of the Statue of Liberty on Alki Beach, where people brought flowers and offerings in 2001 after the 9/11 attacks. People put flowers and stones and writings around the base of the statue. The West Seattle Historical Society showed up with items salvaged from the original memorial, as well as candles, and people began lighting the candles and arranging them in front of the memorial. The mood was quiet but not really somber. Occasionally someone broke out in song.
There were lots of people taking pictures and video. Just down the beach, children played in the cold surf. As we walked back to our car, we noticed the moon was full.
I put my pictures of the Alki Beach 9/11 memorial on Flickr.
Unsettled, Deliberately
When Todd and I planned our 12 Cities, 1 Year trip, we anticipated that moving from one city to another every month might get a little tedious. Now we’re two months into our trip, about to head to Portland, and I haven’t gotten sick of it yet. My heart lifts when I think of going to Portland. A new place! It’s still my thrill.
I was doing the dishes tonight, though, and realized that repacking all our kitchen gear will definitely not be a thrill. Our situation has improved since June: we’ve gotten better at packing quickly and leaving enough room to see out the back window of the Prius. But we still have a lot of crap we have to fit into a small space. Todd has mentioned sending the camping gear to his parents, and I can see why, though it’s possible we might want to camp in California or Arizona. So I’m torn.
All this is part of a process of pulling up stakes, going somewhere, and resettling. But we settle somewhere only long enough to become acquainted with the place. We’re not spending enough time anywhere to get sick of it. And even though I don’t like the fact that our current bed sits right on the floor—no frame—I can’t get worked up enough about it to care. It will be history in less than two weeks.
I’m surprised that I’m not more bothered by the variability of our living quarters. After 15 years of living in one house, I expected to mourn all the comforts I gave up. But so far, I’m not. Maybe it was good that our first rental was a house; maybe that was less shocking than moving straight to an apartment after not renting for so many years.
I hope it never bothers us very much. I hope we become more flexible and tolerant this year, not less.
Fish as Pork Belly
I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur of fish, and I’m certainly not a fisherwoman. I leave that to my father-in-law. But I do enjoy eating sushi and various types of grilled or sauteed fish. Salmon, especially, I love raw or smoked, but I have never had very good grilled salmon. It has always been a little too stiff and tasteless, no matter where I’ve eaten it.
Then I went to Ray’s Boathouse, located on Puget Sound on the top side of Salmon Bay. That is, in Ballard, the Seattle neighborhood Todd and I are staying in until mid-September. I saw it on a map one day, and when my birthday came around, I knew I wanted to go there for dinner.
I chose the Boathouse rather than the Cafe, although the Cafe is cheaper and offers outdoor seating (and blankets if necessary). The former was much pricier, but I wasn’t looking to economize. I don’t usually order a bottle of wine for just the two of us, but since the Boathouse had won lots of Wine Spectator awards, I decided to try one of the gruner veltliners on the menu (a dry blend with riesling), and Todd chose a drink made with cachaça (I can’t find it on the website, so I can’t tell you its name. I don’t think it was a capirinha). 
Each of us had a salad before the meal. Mine was the Boistfort Valley Farm salad, with locally grown peas, pecorino, mint, and an onion vinaigrette.
Mostly, I remember that the cheese was nice. Todd ordered the Boathouse Salad, with butter lettuce, Point Reyes Farmstead blue cheese, almonds, and a raspberry theme vinaigrette. His salad is very colorful.
Todd finished his drink and started helping me with the wine. Then our entrees arrived. Both our entrees were smoked with mesquite; his salmon on a bed of couscous was so tender it made me like grilled salmon again. 
I had sablefish, which I’ve never eaten before. It tasted lightly smoked and was lusciously fatty, like pork belly. They warned me there might be a few bones in the middle. The reasonable portion of risotto was crisp around the edges, and the apricot coulis was nice but hardly necessary. 
I took this picture with my BlackBerry, and the shallow puddle of coulis looks quite huge and solid here.
We decided against dessert, having already filled up on wine and fish and the sunset over Puget Sound. 
Get Him to the Greek Fries
After our interview with Kate Sheridan at UM Flat (way back on July 25, the day before we went to Glacier National Park), she left to have lunch with a friend, and we headed over to #1 Gyros, also on 5th Avenue, but on the west side of Higgins Avenue in Missoula. (This is the second restaurant I’ve seen in Missoula that has “Watch Your Step” way down on the ground there. It’s a little passive-aggressive, I think.)
The restaurant was pretty empty when we arrived at 12:45, but people did trickle in after us. It was a good thing because I took a while to make up my mind about my order.
Our landlady had recommended that we order the Greek fries.
Made with oregano, salt, and lemon juice, they were the best thing we ate. Winner in the most startling category: the thick, uber-garlicky hummus. Don’t eat it if you have to interact with people before you can brush your teeth. Or if you prefer hummus that tastes of lemon—I couldn’t taste anything but the garlic. I have to admit, though, I enjoyed the purity of the experience.
I must have been craving gooey food that day because I ordered the special fries (with feta, cayenne, and tzatziki). If you want spicy fries, you should ask them to add extra cayenne. They were a little too loaded for my taste, but the tzatziki did add a nice lemon-yogurt flavor. Both of us preferred the Greek fries. 
And, finally, there was the gyro. I thought it was appropriate that it seems to be drooling. 
I realized as I was writing this that I don’t really expect much from gyros. Perhaps I’ve had too many generic sandwiches from Falafel King in Boulder. This one was good, but the gyro I remember is the one I had in Vancouver. The dollop of tzakziki on it was very thick, and the gyro-maker slit a whole pita so far down that he could fill it and then wrap the contents to make a falafel that looked like a burrito.
And do I remember the name of the restaurant? No, but if you go west on Robson Street in Vancouver to the Blue Horizon Hotel and look across Robson, you will see a Mediterranean restaurant. And maybe the man who wraps falafels will be there.
How many photos does a middle-aged woman need?
Saturday I shot my first banked-track roller derby bout, a home team championship for the Tilted Thunder Railbirds. I took more than 700 photos; god knows when I’ll have time to go through them.
All that time spent with my right arm up in the air, camera pressed to my greasy nose, mouth grimacing from looking through the viewfinder, was hard on my body. I consciously tried to pull back my shoulders, stand up straight, and not let my face twist into such strange expressions. Even so, my right shoulder, back, and legs were very tired after 10 hours of sports photography.
Todd was on his feet all day too, shooting the first team for his documentary. On Sunday he went to their practice arena, which is within walking distance of our apartment, and interviewed a couple of skaters. He had a good time and met a lot of people. I noticed that he was much more gregarious than I was. I felt shy asking people if I could take their picture (though I didn’t feel at all shy at the Ballard Farmers Market). I met a couple of photographers, mostly because they came up and talked to me. The first, Pete Eaton, usually photographs ballroom dancing. The second, Steve Messerer, loves to shoot roller derby.
Steve said he typically takes 1,000 photographs per bout and likes about 20 of them. That sounded like the right ratio to me.
At first I focused on the jammers (the people who can score), but before long I started trying to get good pictures of blocking. It’s harder than you might think. I took a lot of photos of action just before or after the block. I shot in high-speed drive mode, which is sometimes useful for getting such shots. Mostly, I ended up with 5 photos of the same 3 seconds.
Here’s an OK picture of 2 jammers (far left and right, with star “panties” on their helmets) trying to get through the pack. It was shot at ISO 2500, and I’ve done hardly any editing on it.
I spent time at the bout taking pictures of the other photographers. Sometimes it’s very amusing to turn your camera on your own kind, as shown by this picture from the Celtic Festival in Missoula. These two men were shooting the Young Dubliners.
Next time I shoot an event as long as this championship bout, I’ll be sure to take more breaks. I don’t know if I can take fewer photographs, though I’m sure I’ll learn to judge the action better as time goes on.
I will be spending my time in Seattle going through my photographs and finding some that are worth trying to sell. I’m looking forward to that.
Wanting what I want
I’ve been wondering how this 12 Cities, 1 Year trip should change me.
I know one thing I want to change: the anxiety that besets me when I’m about to do anything new or meet anyone new. You must admit, that’s a disadvantage on this kind of trip.
I’m pretty sure it didn’t used to be this bad. Not that I was ever worry-free or a social butterfly, but I don’t remember worrying so much. I don’t remember constructing worst-case scenarios in my head (in the space of a few seconds) that would prepare me for whatever might go wrong.
That brings up two questions:
1. Why do I always have to be prepared?
2. Why do I always think things will go wrong, especially when they so seldom do?
As the Flaming Lips say in “Fight Test,” “’Cause I’m a man, not a boy / and there are things you can’t avoid / you have to face them when you’re not prepared to face them.”
It would be better for me as a person, I think, to stop trying to anticipate every possible outcome.
I really don’t remember when preparation became so important to me. I know that after my mother died in 1992, I felt vulnerable. When I was out and about, I began to fear random attacks more, to regard people with some suspicion. I guess her absence from the world left me feeling unprotected.
Only a few years after her death, I started freelancing. I sat at a desk in a room at home, by myself, and wrote fiction or copyedited books. I cleaned the house and worked in the garden. I talked to my neighbors and did some volunteer work, but mostly I spent the time alone in my office.
I’m pretty sure that’s what did it. Something about living that way fostered a low level of fear. My routine became my security blanket. Now I have no need for a routine, but I find myself trying to impose it, doing the same things I did when I lived in Broomfield.
The other day, I was at the Ballard Market in Seattle, and I saw milk in glass bottles. I thought, “I should have Todd get some of that milk in glass bottles after we run out of the milk we have.” Why? Because I had milk in glass bottles in Broomfield. There are other reasons, health and environmental reasons, but really it’s just a habit. If I could, I’d like to fit my old habits into my new life.
And I really, really don’t want to do that. I don’t want to carry my old life with me. I want to adjust myself to what’s around me, sort of like the Ousters in Dan Simmons’s Hyperion and Endymion novels, who chose to adapt to space in order to fill the galaxies with life. I want to be a chameleon, not a stick-in-the-mud.
Any of you travelers out there, do you know how long it takes to shed an old life?
Chasing the Deer
I’m a sucker for stories with magical gateways, portals, paths that lead to Fairyland. And in real life, I am constantly seeing gateways in the most ordinary places: an arch in a hedge, a dim path through trees, even a street.
I went out one night to photograph such a magical place and found myself captivated by fauna instead. The fauna, however, were captivated by flora.
Guess how many fawns there are in this picture.
This shot was taken from about a block away. I kept approaching when the doe looked away. They moved away as I came closer.
All of a sudden, someone was yelling at me. I turned sharply to see an old man on a bike, admonishing me to “photograph the sunset!” I looked behind me. There was a little color in the sky, but nothing special. I shrugged and added him to my list of people who annoy me when I’m looking through a camera or binoculars.
He rode down the street a little and then stopped, saying, “Oh. Deer.”
I guess this picture explains why people go to such lengths to deer-proof their yards.
They walked around the side of the house to the backyard.
All the attention was making them nervous, yet I was hungry for more photographs. I don’t have the lenses for wildlife photography, so I made the most of this opportunity.
The fawns began to get antsy, racing around. 
I remembered that this new camera had video capabilities. While I was fumbling with it, the fawns wore themselves out and slowed down a bit, but the flags were still flying. 
After a few more minutes and 1 very boring, shaky video, I realized we were approaching Higgins, a busy street in Missoula that goes by the university district. Then it occurred to me that the deer probably wanted to eat more succulent plants from the Garden City’s yards, not cross a thoroughfare. So I turned around and went home, having been delighted by a bit of ordinary magic.
Plethora of Pancakes
Paul’s Pancake Parlor doesn’t brag about itself. Why should it? Todd and I have been there twice and it’s been packed both times. But it does tell it like it is: “All our batters are homemade.”
And what a selection of batters there is: chocolate chip, chocolate chip caramel, buckwheat, five kinds of rolled pancakes (on the crepes side of pancakes), and many more. Not to mention waffles, regular egg breakfasts, burgers, and sandwiches. And two kinds of desserts: pie, and pie à la mode.
I always feel happy about a place that declares, “Breakfast served all day.” As I’ve said before, staying open from dawn until dusk seems to be a Missoula tradition.
Or that talks about great-grandmother’s sourdough starter.
On my first trip, I had the rolled Swedish pancakes with lingonberry butter. No syrup required.
I declined to have them stuffed with cream cheese. As it was, I ate only two, and these “pancakes” are thinner than the regular ones so that they can be rolled.
On our second visit, I ordered an egg breakfast, and it was OK. The eggs and the hash browns both seemed a little undercooked. The bacon was purple and greasy, and I had 4 pieces, so I gave one to Todd. Turns out his “Western” omelet was a little different: it was filled with bacon. The onions and peppers and ham and cheese were on the wrapping, made of eggs. 
Let’s just say he didn’t lack for bacon that day. His order also included a stack of pancakes and a half-plate of fruit that the waitress was kind enough to re-plate for him. It looked neater before we started eating it.
I loved our waitress. She was beset by many tables but stayed calm. I flagged her down to get a cup of coffee, and then after I’d had two sips and she wanted to refill it, I said no. Her response: “Oh, sure, waving me down for coffee and now you don’t want any.” I didn’t say no after that.
The other thing I loved about Paul’s was the art on the walls, especially the sign for the mixer on the right below: 
“Why beat it by hand?” has become the motto of our age. Why do anything by hand when you can get a computer chip to do it for you?
If you go to Paul’s, take friends and order several different kinds of pancakes. Reviews on Urbanspoon suggested the burgers were also good.
How I Define Adventure
That’s the trouble, you see. Here I am starting the 12 Cities, 1 Year tour, and I don’t have the faintest idea how to do it. How do I distill the essence of a city and then write it for you?
Part of the problem is my reluctance to intrude. I’m a bit of a lurker at heart.
But to know a city, you have to meet at least a few of its people. I could, of course, just walk around, take pictures of neighborhoods and farmers markets and powwows and downtown buildings, and that would give you, my readers, a sense of the place. But it feels cowardly to me.
I could describe it for you, but it would be better if locals described it for you.
One local we met suggested we try to get an audience with the mayor. I’ve been thinking about sending an email but still haven’t done it. Honestly, I’d be impressed is a mayor would take the time to meet with us.
I can see that I will need to get out of my comfort zone a little.
Two Images from Yellowstone
The day before we left the park, Todd and I took two trips to Norris Geyser Basin, north of Old Faithful and south of Mammoth Hot Springs. First we arrived in the morning, just as the photographers were leaving, and we were the only ones on the boardwalk. As I went back to get my camera, other people began arriving. I took this photograph of Black Growler Vent that morning.
We went back later that night and had most of the basin to ourselves. It was the best time of day to be there, mostly because we didn’t have to get up early!
Our last day in Yellowstone, we went to Old Faithful. On the way I snapped a picture of this bison bull, who looks like he’s starving. 
Motels to Missoula
So far on this trip, Todd has arranged almost all the accommodations, including our rental in Missoula. Two places along the way I particularly liked were motels, one in Buffalo, Wyoming, and one in Montana south of I-90.
The first, the Z-Bar Motel, graces Highway 16 in Buffalo, Wyoming, on the way to Yellowstone.
Todd found it on the Internet, on Trip Advisor, I believe. Here’s the office, which faces the highway and is right across from the new criminal justice center. The center was still under construction, hence the orange cones in the first picture. I couldn’t decide whether having a criminal justice center across the street from a motel was a plus or a minus for the motel.
When we arrived, the office was closed; the landlady had put the key in an envelope and taped it to the door. Todd met her later, after she had returned from her errand, but I never did. 
Our “room” was a tiny, stand-alone cabin among other cabins arranged around a lawn. 
We were able to park between it and the next cabin. There was about a foot between the end of our bed and the bathroom, which had a nice shower. Here the door to the bathroom looks like the gateway to hell because of the limitations of my BlackBerry.
We had a hard time finding room for our gargantuan suitcases in this room. At one point mine was blocking the door to the room, causing a fire hazard.
We discovered the second motel, the Riverside in Ennis, Montana, on our way from Yellowstone to Missoula. 
I had been looking for hotels in Butte, Montana, and both the reviews on Trip Advisor and the prices were scary. By the time we reached Ennis, on Highway 359 south of I-90, we were ready to quit driving for the night. We spotted two motels along the highway, and the Riverside looked significantly better than its competition.
We went into the riverside and met one of its proprietors, John (his wife is the other; they split their time between Montana and Florida). He gave us a deal on the fanciest room in the hotel, the one reserved for groups of anglers. It had a metal rocker out front and two queen beds and a kitchenette and a very nice bathroom. 
Just as soon as he had offered us a great price, another man drove up and wanted a room, but John told him he had just given it to us. That was nice of him, considering that, as he said, people in Ennis have “four months to make it or break it” for the year.
One reason the Riverside looked so good, we learned from John, is its recent paint job. Several foreign exchange students, all female, spent time at the Riverside this year, and he taught them to paint and had them help him put a new coat on the buildings. If you look carefully at this photo, you’ll notice the side of the triplex is white.
John and the students weren’t able to finish all the buildings, but almost all the ones I saw had been repainted a light green.
At the beginning of this trip, Todd and I stayed at the Waconda Motel along Highway 24 in Kansas. Both these motels were quite a bit nicer, but they’re all the same kind of place: drive-in motels with smaller rooms than most people are used to these days. All three had WiFi, though, and two of the three had free breakfasts. The character of these motels makes up for the small rooms and occasional lack of amenities. They’re definitely worth seeking out.
Busy Bee Is All That
Todd and I spent the night in Buffalo, Wyoming, at a locally owned motel (more on that in a later post) and had breakfast the next morning at Busy Bee Cafe on North Main Street. It originally opened in 1927, closed down for a few years when the original owners retired, and then reopened recently.
We had been directed to Pistol Pete’s as the place to eat in Buffalo, but we were very happy that we ended up at Busy Bee. I had a couple of oversize pancakes and this beautifully presented fruit salad. 
The waitress assured me the fruit had been cut to order, which I think is something of a rarity.
Todd had the Busy Bee breakfast, which I can’t find on the menu I reached from the Facebook page for Busy Bee Cafe. (The entry page, for the Occidental Hotel next door, is quite annoying.) It was your basic egg breakfast, with meat and potatoes, but the large pieces of rye bread were notable.
What I loved most about the Busy Bee was the hospitality. Our waitress was a delight. At one point I realized I was blocking her way as I photographed this old stove that was serving as a coffee station. 
She waited patiently until I noticed.The cafe was full of so many cute details, it was hard not to photograph all of them.
I was also amused by the number of women who kept emerging from the kitchen to get something from this bar/soda fountain. 
My last count was four, in addition to the waitress. I wondered how many could fit back there.
The Busy Bee is located right along a creek (there was a stack of sandbags along the path, but the water didn’t look that high in early July) and has a charming dining room for breakfast and lunch. If you’re in the mood for something small, a fountain drink or a pastry, you can sit at the bar.
Devil’s Tower
After eating at Etta’s Place in Sundance, we drove to Devil’s Tower, the first national monument in the United States. I made Todd circumnavigate it with me.
There are all sorts of stories about how the tower formed. One says the vertical “lines” in the sides are the marks of a bear, clawing to get up the tower. 
And, of course, if the tower is truly devilish, it could call clouds.
Etta’s Place in Sundance, Wyoming
On the way to Devil’s Tower, we stopped in Sundance, Wyoming, for lunch. Imagine our surprise at finding an upscale restaurant at the site of the old Longhorn Bar, named after Etta Place, the woman who accompanied Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to South America.
If you search online for “Etta’s Place,” you’ll find a B&B in Fort Worth, Texas. On Urbanspoon, this restaurant is listed as the Longhorn Bar. In any case, if you’re in northeastern Wyoming, I suggest checking it out. Todd and I ate there on Tuesday, July 5, and really enjoyed the quiet, elegant atmosphere and the lunch.
The chairs caught my eye, for looks as well as comfort. 
I thought this cold strawberry soup was made with yogurt, but the waitress insisted that chef Beverly Doll made it with cream and wine. It was a bit like eating a smoothie with a spoon, but less sweet, and the cinnamon was a nice touch.
To go along with the soup, I had a salad, with flavorful beets, strawberries, cantaloupe, and red pepper and house-made blue cheese dressing.
After days on the road through Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, and South Dakota and a surfeit of meat, I was very happy with my light, fresh meal, all the more so for it being so unexpected.
Even the bathrooms at Etta’s are worth recording. 
I especially liked the double rolls. “Just in case you’re going to be here for a while…”
Monuments of Stone
On our way to Missoula, the first stop on our 12 Cities, 1 Year tour, Todd and I stopped at Badlands National Park, right next to Buffalo Gap National Grassland.
In my opinion, we didn’t get to spend nearly enough time at either. After we set up camp near Mount Rushmore, I went back one night to take more photos and was mesmerized by the birds warming themselves on the dirt roads. There were nighthawks, doves, sparrows, and horned larks just hanging out in the road, eating insects or enjoying the lingering warmth. I could have watched them for hours, if it weren’t for the mosquitoes. Here is a picture I took in the Badlands, on Sage Creek Road, which rises from Highway 44 to become the rim road.
The next picture was actually the purpose of my trip; I wanted to photograph the yellow-and-purple-striped mounds in better light.
Unfortunately, the drive took longer than I expected, and I lingered too long with the birds on the road and the curlews flying overhead.
Our next stop was Mount Rushmore National Monument, which impressed me more than I expected. 
To be honest, I don’t really approve of carving things into mountains; I’d rather we stopped blowing up mountains for coal or carving our likenesses into them and just leave them the way they are.
But the entire setup was kinda cool. 
What I liked most at Mount Rushmore was the performance by Jasmine Pickner, Lakota, nationally ranked hoop dancer. 
She mentioned that hoop dance has traditionally been performed by men, but that the last world championships were dominated by the two female competitors (of which she was one). 
She also talked about how some people she knew were surprised that she would dance at Mount Rushmore; she turned it into an opportunity to talk about her tribe and its history. 
She danced with dozens of hoops that she made into several shapes; in the preceding pictures, she’s building a sweatlodge for the finale.
In the next three pictures, she gathered a group of children, whom she called the “super-duper hoopers.” 
She showed that when she finishes her schooling in elementary education, she’s going to be a great teacher. 
I didn’t ask her permission to take these photographs because she was giving a performance in a public space, 
but when Todd and I go to the Standing Arrow Powwow this weekend, neither of us will be taking pictures.
I wrote the powwow committee and asked them about the rules, and they said we would need to get permission from each dancer (and written permission if we wanted to sell the photos). In other words, they didn’t want us to take pictures unless we were dedicated enough professionals to go to the trouble of talking to each and every dancer on the floor. I understand the history behind the committee’s rules; they want to prevent whites from profiting from Indians without their knowledge or permission. But what if we want to photograph a group of dancers on the floor? It seems a little ridiculous to ask us to get permission from all the dancers, especially if only some of the dancers are recognizable.
Our last stop in South Dakota was Crazy Horse Memorial. Both Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse were complexes or campuses, with museums and stores and places to eat, but Crazy Horse is funded through a private foundation. The plans for Crazy Horse are quite extensive, including the American Indian University and Medical Training Center. I took many pictures of the monument from different angles, starting with my attempt to get as many models in one picture as possible.
Next is the large outdoor model of the carving.
If it rains, the model can be retracted into a covered area, and it was while we were there.
There is a large deck from which to view the carving. 
Or you can take shelter in the equally large museum and check it out from there. 
If that’s not enough, you can take a bus down this road to get closer. We didn’t. 
Nice, for Chain Italian
My dearest friend, whom I have known since middle school, met me for Italian food in South Kansas City the last week of June. I was excited to see her and to try North Modern Italian Cuisine, but I’m afraid it wasn’t much fun for her. She was supposed to have a temporary crown replaced by a permanent one and thought her appointment would take all of 30 minutes. But instead the dentist got to drilling, I forgot about her appointment and kept texting her about why she was late, and she ended up having dinner with a sore mouth.
It was still great to see her, and the food was pretty good too, definitely better than Brio Tuscan Grille, the other chain Italian I’ve sampled in Kansas City (both, only once), but not as authentic as Il Posto in Denver. North is owned by Fox Restaurant Concepts, which also started the Bloom restaurant chain; I ate often at the location in Broomfield, Colorado. There is a North restaurant in Cherry Creek in Denver.
The waiter, who knew my friend from the many Wednesday nights she spent at the restaurant drinking half-price bottles of wine, brought us pretty butter whipped with red pepper. 
My friend ordered the zucca chips, which were a little soft (like the focus) but good.
She then moved on to pizza, which apparently didn’t do anything to make her mouth feel better as she took most of it home. I ordered the scallops with corn risotto infused with white truffle oil. The scallops were perfectly moist and tender, with no grit, and the risotto was good. I was impressed by the number of scallops in the serving and by the fact that the dish was not too heavy.
Thanks for meeting me for dinner, my friend. I hope you’re feeling better, and I’ll check out your new kitchen in November.
Burnt Ends and High Water
On Wednesday Todd and I made our first BBQ pilgrimage in Kansas City, to Arthur Bryant’s original location at 18th and Brooklyn, near the old jazz district. I had been there before—in the late 1980s, I believe, with two friends who soon afterward got married.
It was a hot day on Brooklyn, and the warehouses in the distance did nothing to reduce the heat.
A steady stream of customers walked up to the clear partition, picked up a plastic plate, and leaned down to give their order. 
When I ordered burnt ends, a KC BBQ specialty, the guy behind the counter wanted to know if I was from here. “Grew up here,” I said, and that combined with the request for coleslaw got me a fist bump—plastic glove and all. I couldn’t resist ordering a red cream either. 
The styrofoam cup has a little speech on it about how styrofoam cups weigh less than paper cups; the implication is that their lightness makes them better for the environment. (But what about the toxic manufacturing process? And the way styrofoam breaks down into tiny, little pieces that animals can mistake for food?) Despite the speech on the cup, we got real, albeit plastic, plates, and metal utensils.
The burnt ends were not pieces of beef, which is what I sometimes get served when I order burnt ends, but gooey strings with blackened edges, doused in a tomato-based sauce with bottom, rich, spicy, and sweet. (The next day, Todd and I ate at BB’s Lawnside BBQ on 85th near Troost. I had burnt ends soup there, which had a wonderful broth, but it was basically beef and vegetable soup.)
I couldn’t eat more than half of my serving, though I did manage to sample Todd’s pork sandwich with fries. 
After lunch we waddled along the Missouri River path for a while. I found a shady spot from which to take pictures. The river was definitely high down at Riverfront Park, but it wasn’t flooding there as it was along I-29 in Nebraska and Iowa.
Every time I come back to Kansas City and drive over the Missouri, I think, “Now that’s a river.” I know the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon and all, but the bits of it I’ve seen driving across Colorado and Utah don’t impress me as much as the big Midwestern rivers. It’s not fair, I suppose.
Our last stop downtown was Christopher Elbow chocolates. He has a store in San Francisco as well, though I don’t know where he got his start. He specializes in caramel infusions; I heard of his chocolate store because I went to Latte Land for a coffee one winter day in 2009 and saw “rosemary caramel latte” on the menu. He provides the infusion for that seasonal drink. So I had to order a rosemary caramel truffle.
I also ordered the chicory truffle because it reminded me of a truffle made by William Poole of Wen Chocolates (formerly in Denver; now relocated to New Orleans). This shot shows the wonderful lighting along the counter. 
And here’s Todd emerging from the very cold store into downtown Kansas City summer weather. Talk about the heat island effect!
Kansas Retro
Burlington Has Its Secrets
As we walked up to the library in Burlington, Colorado, this morning, we saw this mysterious sign: 
No cake pans in the book drop … OK. At first we thought it was one of those ridiculous warnings now common on products: “Don’t submerge this electrical device in water!” “Don’t stab yourself with this knife!”
We went inside, printed what we needed, and went to look for the bathrooms. And then we found this unusual little alcove. 
While I was there, a mother came in with her two children, a boy and a younger girl, and they picked out pans.
I love discovering little secrets like these.
I hope the next year is full of them. Burlington was our first stop in our 12 Cities, 1 Year project (though the first official stop is actually Missoula).
Bison Carpaccio
Todd and I frequently eat dinner at Magnolia, a restaurant in Lafayette where a friend of ours womans the sushi bar a couple of nights a week. If there are seats at the bar, we sit and laugh with her and buy her a drink and take her suggestions on the specials. And what better to go with raw fish than raw meat? It comes with smoked sea salt, fried capers, pickled mustard seeds, and pepper crackers.
Aside from two meals from the restaurant menu that sounded better than they tasted, Magnolia’s food is good. The bison is great, as is the mac and cheese.
The owners brought in someone from the Med in Boulder to help with running the restaurant. I’m looking forward to seeing some of his work.
Il Posto Pleases, Twice
There’s an Italian restaurant along 17th Avenue in Uptown that I truly enjoy. I’ve been there twice, both times sitting on the patio when it was cool enough outside that I started to shiver. This picture was taken from the table closest to the large open window.
The server started each of us off with a taste of prosecco. We paid for it later, but it’s a nice touch. I gazed longingly at the tagliere (cheeses and meats) on the neighboring table but didn’t order it this time. Instead, we got the burrata plate with its sweet, creamy cheese. After the crusty bread with an open crumb and Todd’s salad, our main dishes arrived.
Both of us felt slightly adventurous that night (but only just; wouldn’t want to go overboard, after all). Todd ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, the chewy guinea fowl with crispy skin. The asparagus was sliced lengthwise, a trick repeated with my fava beans. I want to know how that’s done.
I was dithering between the pappardelle with sausage and the tagliatelle with halibut belly. I chose the latter for the sake of adventure, and the meat itself was interesting: some of it had the consistency of a steak, and other bites were lusciously fatty. 
The tagliatelle itself was cooked al dente (ever so slightly crisp), but the other ingredients (artichoke and fava beans) didn’t really add much. Overall, the meal was a bit bland, but both the pasta and the fish stood out.
Il Posto is located on 17th Avenue near Thin Man and St. Mark’s Coffeehouse.
It reminds me of the Squeaky Bean in this way: you have to order a lot of food to get full, and the bill shows it.
