Podunk Meets Paradise

Musings from Central Idaho

Archive for the tag “travel”

Mistaken Identity

The Iron Chef and I recently put another notch in our collective gluttony belts. I have a new job with the U.S. Forest Service, thank you very much, and I was sent to Bend, Oregon for a workshop. I invited the Chef a) because I’m an awesome wife, and b) Bend is the beer playground of the world.  bend-oregon-beer-map-07

We managed to tag on a little weekend beercation, coming home through Hood River. So I’m not saying that visiting 10 breweries in Bend and 2 wineries outside of Hood River impaired my faculties, but something inspired me to jettison my purse at the first brewery we stopped at in Hood River.

For the record, I’m not sorry. The beers we tasted at the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom were worth exchanging your firstborn for, much less a silly old purse with a net worth of my half empty Curiously Strong Ginger Mints.

When I realized my mistake, the nice people at Logsdon cheerfully agreed to mail my purse to Podunk. Problem solved.

Except that I had offered to take Odd Number to Boise for a hockey tournament. In a previous post, I reported on the City of Trees’ new hipster elitism. I even presented a certain unnamed establishment with the Too Big For Your Britches Jackwagon Award of 2015. I found the 2016 winner.

After watching 2 hockey games, I talked an unlikely fellow hockeymom into going to a nearby wine bar for a little nip.


The hostess asked for our IDs, which caused us both to giggle like school girls.

I explained that in a fever of approval for the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom, I had recently jettisoned my purse. And then I showed her that I had crow’s feet that could legally vote and drink. The hostess moved back as I moved in. And then she called for the manager.

The manager tried to help me understand that Idaho state law requires me to show ID, and does not allow carbon dating or 90s trivia contests to be used as a substitute, as I was suggesting. And then, he turned me away.

The state of the world, and of the union, is in a fairly F*#@!d up state right now. Meanwhile, as surrounding states have legalized pot, Boise’s hipster elite are valiantly protecting civilization from fair-to-middle aged hockey moms sipping a glass of merlot. Congratulations, society, you’ve been protected.


Tasters Choice

When a child asks you to taste something, it’s never good. Never. If he or she is eating something delicious, they don’t care if you try some; in fact, they would prefer that you did not.
I know these things.
Still, when the Odd Number required that we go to his favorite Chinese buffet in Idaho Falls and then pushed the egg roll toward me, I fell for it. Not at first. No, at first my sensible instinct to reject kicked in.
“No way,” I told him and pushed the deep fried cylinder back.
I was eating relatively safe food — a little lo mein and fried rice. Chinese buffet is never my choice, but I remember the days when on our family outings to Boise, my mom would eliminate our 2 favorite restaurants — the Kings Table buffet and McDonalds — from the selection pool, ogre-like. And the Odd Number was already a little freaked out about the date being Friday the 13th, or 7/13 to be more precise and when I had asked him for the time earlier in the day, he reported it was 9:11.
So when he assured me that he wasn’t trying to make me taste a dog turd, he just wanted to see if I picked up on some of the distinct flavors he was noticing, I bit.
With the first chew, I knew I’d been had and the glands behind my molars started to water. As I reached for my stupidly small cup of hot tea to scald my throat and erase the foul taste in my mouth, Odd leaned forward and asked, “Doesn’t that taste like cattle manure to you?” He continued, “You know, like the smell when you first walk into a barn?”
I was angry, of course, but I couldn’t help but admire his highly accurate, extra-sensory description. Yes, for some reason that I do not want to ponder for even a half-second, the egg roll tasted like a fresh, juicy cow pie.
We discussed the etiquette of asking someone, most especially your mother, to taste something that you believe to have fecal overtones.
And thankfully, we both agreed to cross Chinese buffet off our list once and for all.
The high price of progress…

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