I'm Hungry - I'm Full

Goonie gets smarter every day. She has learned the artful dance of negotiation, she reads like a 12th grader, and she even composes improv songs on hilarious subjects such as excrement and throw up. She gets her smarts (and humor) from me. However, sometimes logic floats away like a helium balloon and becomes an airhead. She gets that from her mother. Last night after a meal of two forkfulls of Mac & Cheese she proceeded to ransack my kitchen in search of snack booty. “I’m hungry” “Then eat your dinner” “But I’m full” “???!!!??” Even after six and a half years of parenting I’m still trying to plug in to kid logic. They obviously understand that to get out of eating any more of the ca-ca that is set before them all they have to do is feign fullness. But their strategy to get up from their dinner and go straight for the kitchen pantry, well, I’m on to that scheme like Pooh Bear to hunny trees. But I take the cue and run with the ball and say, “I’d be happy to get you a popsicle – as soon as you finish your meal.” “But I don’t want any more.” “Then obviously you don’t want any popsicles.” “Then can I have potato chips?” “No.” “Popcorn” “No.” “Cheez-its?” “Uh uh.” So off she goes to play and dance, forgetting that she’s hungry. But near bed time she can’t stand the hunger any longer and eats her cold cheesy noodles. And after reading stories and hugs and kisses, and getting her cups of water and milk for her bedside, she walks into the living room 10 minutes later… “Can I have a popsicle now?”

EB Knows Omelettes

Ok, I know. Another post about food. But just one more and then on to other subjects pertaining to music & opera. But aside from being one of my favorite subjects, food is important to singers, right? I mean, we must eat to keep up our strength, or forego eating so we fit into our costumes, which is what I recently did for the musical review, Cole. I had to force myself to fit into a pair of tuxedo pants a size smaller than I normally wear, from size 30-something down to a size 30-something. All for the love of theatre, folks. That sounds like a good topic to discuss on my next post. So now that the show is closed, I feel at liberty to loosen my belt and enjoy some culinary delights. This morning before leaving Spokane for home I was fortunate to dine at the self proclaimed "Spokane's Best Breakfast since 1949", the Knight Diner. One would normally drive right past it and perhaps notice that the diner is simply a passenger railway car built in 1906, much like the ones Presidential candidates used to deliver their candidate speeches. On a weekend morning one would expect Spokane's best breakfast to be super crowded, especially considering the total seating capacity is only about 24. But my father and I were lucky enough to beat the morning rush and sit right down at bar which runs the length of the diner. All the brass was polished, wooden finish cleaned, and stained glass, well, all stained in their original beautiful colors. The passenger car has been cleverly renovated with all grill, counter and storage space along one side, one long bar with attached stools separating the 'kitchen' from the guests, and a small walkway behind the guest stools. The diner staff, all wearing pink polos, except the one young high school gentleman with a more macho fuscia, get to know each other very well as they pass by each other behind the bar. There is room only to squeeze past hip to hip, but they've got their system working smoothly, allowing the grill cook to flip flapjacks as a kitchen schmuck passes harassingly close with a tall stack of hot, clean plates. Vicky greets each guest as they enter. When asked if she was the manager, owner, head server, she said, "all of the above." And she does it with amazing dexterity, agility and razor sharp wit. She doesn't take any guff from her customers, nor her workers. I half expected her to mutter Flo's famous line from Mel's Diner, "kiss my grits!" The food is always prepared right in front of the dining guests. One can witness the fresh ingredients pile onto an omelette, and the hand grated hashed browns browning into a bright golden brown. The one thing I was disappointed with was as fresh as all the ingredients are, they only used pre-sliced plain ol' American cheese. I would much prefer a grated sharp cheddar, or Tillamook Swiss. All meal prices are reasonable, flavor is fabulous and you may not leave without a smile or good conversation with Vicky and the gang, and a famous smile

Alex, I'll Take Ribs for $1000

Hello, my name is Evil Baritone, and I'm a carnivore. As you remember from my previous post, I enjoy eating the flesh of animals. So it's not often that a carnivore like me, who's been surrounded by Northwest vegetarians for the last 9 years, gets a chance to rip into a plate of barbequed slathered ribs. My chance came today when I made a trip to Spokane, WA. I made a point to visit one of my favorite meat serving restaurants, Tony Roma's - a place for ribs! Now, TR's used to have roots in Portland, and I do remember a time when I actually tore into the cooked, steaming flesh of baby back ribs beneath at least a half an inch of sweet Carolina sauce. But it seems the vegetarian packs lurking in the great Northwest have run my favorite place for ribs right outta town. So tonight, this baritone is happy and feeling wave after sweet wave of protien rush. I fear, though, that my dreams will take me to fields where I am chasing prong horned antelope, or clawing after the elusive Impala holding a jar of Texas style BBQ sauce. Well, looks like broccoli for breakfast. I'm heading back to Vegetarianville. Wish me luck.

Sausage Monster

My little Bobo is a true born carnivore. Takes after her dad. That’s me! Yes, Bobo the Klingon has a craving for animal products. She and I can enjoy a heaping stack of babyback ribs, a plateful of greasy bacon, or extra raw horsemeat burger if we ever travel to Hungary. Goonie, however, takes after her mother. She’s a self-taught vegetarian and prefers to dine on fresh vegetables, fruits and whole grains. Ok, I know I can’t get that one past you. She actually prefers deep fried okra, fruit roll-ups and Kraft Mac & Cheese, and please do not make it the Sponge Bob shape! I took my girls to eat at kid-friendly Dennys, where they offer delicious and nutritious meals for kids consisting of rocket shaped chicken planks, happy face pancakes, and colored sugar additive that turn water blue, red or green, as well as providing one hell of a sugar rush lasting the entire meal. Not to mention kids eat free on Sunday! SCORE! The girls decided to order identical meals: cheesy pasta noodles (c’mon it’s mac & cheese!) and a side of grapes. I ordered the meat lovers scramble. Goonie’s quick vegetarian response was, “eeewwwwww!!!” To which little Bobo mimicked and cried, “eeewwwwww!!!” Goonie is so proud to be training little Bobo to become a vegetarian just like her. Our server placed our food before us on the table about 10 minutes later. By that time the sugar squad duo was in high gear. Goonie stuffed grapes in her mouth, creating chipmunk cheeks. Of course, little sis had to do the same. Yup, you guessed it…one laugh and the grapes flew all over the table. I noticed, however, that Bobo seemed indifferent to her cheesy mac and was eyeing my plate as I shoved gobs of meat-filled scrambled eggs into my mouth. I knew her secret desire for salty bacon so I offered her a piece. Bobo tasted the bacon, shoved it into her mouth, dropped her fork and walked around to my side of the corner booth and sat very snuggly next to me, looking closer at my plate. “Do you want some more bacon, Bobo?” “Mmm hmmm” She says ‘mm hmm’ to just about everything. You could ask her, “are you an alien from Mars,” and she would respond in the affirmative, “mmm hmmm.” So I give her an entire slice of bacon. Gone. I’ve only been provided two slices of bacon and the same amount of sausage. I’m already running low on meat products. “How about a sausage, Bobo?” “Mmm hmmm.” She took the sausage link, savored a small morsel just to be sure, then I kid you not, she shoved the rest on the link into her mouth, grabed the other link with both hands and gobbled it just like Cookie Monster, “mmmaaarrrhhgghhhmuaahharrrghgghgh!” After a few chews she swallowed the Tyrannosaurus size bite and said, “Uuuuuurrrrrppp! ‘Coo me!” Which, of course, is ‘excuse me’ in Klingon dialect. Well, Goonie got a big kick out of Bobo’s production and laughed and giggled with delight. Then did it herself. “Uuuuuurrrrrrrppp!! ‘Scuse me!” “Uuuuuuurrrrpp!!! “Coo me!!” repeated the Klingon “Urrrrrrpppp!!!! ‘Scuse me!!!” parroted Goonie. Oh boy. Despite my attempts to subdue the belching chorus of these two rugrats fueled by a super sugar high, they continued a crescendo of stomach noises until we left, which was pretty promptly after the beginning of the impromptu performance. Meantime, the nice older couple nearby attempting to enjoy a plate of grits & a bowl of prunes gave me the double stink eye. But as we departed said, “they’re so cute.” “Thanks,” said I. “I taught them everything I know.” Then without hesitation I provided the coda to the chorus with my signature Daddy fake belch, “UUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP!!! Oh!! ‘Scuse me!”

An Aura of Aroma

Today my sixth sense awakened. I saw an aura. Or at least what I thought was an aura. Let’s see how dictionary.com defines an aura…ah, here’s a good definition Au-ra noun -A distinctive but intangible quality that seems to surround a person or thing; atmosphere -A distinctive but intangible quality surrounding a person or thing; "an air of mystery"; Yup, that about describes it. I walked into the local down town Taco Bell to get my guacamole fix for lunch. My first reaction to the essence I sensed as I entered was, “hey, that’s not the smell of delicious seasoned ground beef.” The aroma was sickening, almost to the point of hurling. What could it be coming from? Did they actually kill a cow and it is decaying right now in the back room? But my sixth sense went to work and I peered to my left and saw, yes I SAW, the source of stink. There, sitting in a booth all by himself, was a man wearing a ratty trenchcoat, fingerless gloves, munching on a burrito of some meaty variety. The man’s “aura” looked much like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon. I could only suppose that he was one of the local homeless beggars who hustled enough kopecs to buy himself a burrito but not enough to shit, shower & shave at a local hostel. Funny thing about the beggar: on his head he wore what appeared to be brand spankin’ new fancy Sony headphones and was jammin’ to a beat. I reckon the begging business ain’t so bad. But one must have the aura of pathetic helplessness in order to be successful, so a clean beggar is a broke beggar. As broke as I’ve been lately I may just bite the bullet & take a second job as a beggar. But I’m a clean evil baritone so I MUST shower, but lucky for me I’ve got lots of good stage makeup and can pull off the aura without the smell. I’ll just carry a loaf of limburger in my ratty trenchcoat when I’m on duty.

Is There An Octogenarian In The House?

As read on my fortune cookie consumed before Flying Dutchman's final performance: Seek advice from an octogenarian. What? What's an octogenarian? And why must I seek advice from one? Am I sick? Do I have only 6 months to live? Never in my childhood life until the present have I encountered such a fortune. Even when I was 11 and snuck an entire week's worth of fortune cookies from the local Chinese joint, opened every one, (ate half of them) and sorted through every slip of paper looking for the one telling me that Angel, my beautiful 6th grade classmate, was meant to be my guiding light, or at least my first kiss, there was Ne'er a fragment of fortune telling me to 'seek advice' from anyone. I mean, singers are neurotic enough! Ya can't just let me snarf down a bucket of pork fried rice and tell me to seek advice from some octo-something-or-other and then "break a leg!" What if I did break a leg? Then I'd have to seek advice from someone for sure. I was about to enter an auditorium full of 3,000 people ready to watch German opera make it's triumphant return to the Portland stage. I was half tempted to ask... "Is there an octogenarian in the house?" Or at least ask if one would stand by just in case. But years of training and professionalism paid off. I made it through the show without breaking a leg. But I needed to find out what this octogenarian is and quick! I needed answers! So I did what any normal curious and concerned fortune recipient would do. Get the answer from Answers.com! oc·to·ge·nar·i·an (ŏk'tə-jə-nâr'ē-ən) adj. Being between 80 and 90 years of age. n. A person between 80 and 90 years of age. Huh? Can't seek advice from Grandma (may her soul rest in peace). Granpa is now 91. Who the heck could I turn to for this much needed advice? The answer came in the most subtle yet obvious place. Palm Sunday Mass. The next morning while I performed my cantor duties I was approached by a parishoner. She was elderly, I'd say in her 80's. She told me she enjoyed the opera the previous night. But she had some advice. Oh, here it is! The fortune cookie was right! I waited in great anticipation for the advice I had sought for so long. Well, at least sought for the last 12 hours. She leaned in, motioned for me to bring my ear closer. Obviously this was important advice that mustn't be overheard by just anyone. Then she said to me: "I enjoyed the opera last night, and my husband goes every time whether he needs the sleep or not. But I think the opera would be more popular if it were more like football, with cheerleaders and a halftime show during intermission." Amen, sister! I'll soon be holding auditions for the opera halftime cheer squad.

Shyaddup and Eat Your Poop

Photo by Jocelyn McCuley First, I can’t wait to find out what Google searches end up on this entry. (You sickos!) Little Goonie is 5 (“and a half”) and has reached the stage where all things Poop releated are the funniest jokes on the planet. Simply mentioning the word ‘Poop’ gets her rolling hysterically on the floor. Bobo the Klingon had her #2 birthday this week. She adores her big sister and anything funny to Goonie is worthy of being funny for her. Goonie has lured Bobo into the fold of “poop is funny”. When she has soiled her diaper she makes no hesitation to run up to a parental unit and shout “POOP!” ‘Course, in her little Klingon accent it comes out more like ‘pyooooop’ making her embarrassing moments in public a little more cute and endurable. But Bobo only knows the shape, color texture of her own poop and the little tiny poop droppings from the Chihuahua. Stay with me… On Bobo’s birthday we went with my in-laws to dine at Sweet Tomatoes. If you’re not familiar with Sweet Tomatoes, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet style restaurant except the buffet line is about a quarter mile long stocked with all varieties of salads, noodle salads, toppings & dressings, creating a sweet sensation of ‘I’m gorging on healthy food so it’s ok to overeat’. After devouring two mountainous plates of salad there was still room for desert. So I headed for the desert bar and found a delicious variety of chocolate pudding and chocolate mousse. (Review my addiction here) I piled about three servings full onto a plate and sat back down. Bobo sat across from me and when she saw the giant glop of brown gelatinous pudding she all but screamed, “POOOP!! Poop, Dada!” All eyes in the crowded restaurant flashed our direction to see what the poop commotion was about. I’m sure they didn’t want to step in anything as they left in disgust. I grabbed a spoon, hunched over my plate of ‘poop’, looked at Bobo and said, “shyaddup, kid. Here, eat some poop.” Goonie witnessed the entire ordeal and could not contain herself after I offered poop to her younger sister. “Poop! You’re eating poop! Ha ha!” For the rest of the meal and the entire ride home it was a “POOP!”-fest for the girls. Songs about poop. Farting noises. Uncontainable laughter. Then when the laughter subsided a little, Bobo would say, “pyoooop” and hysterics started again. I guess Bobo’s subconscious worked overtime with the topic of the day, ‘cause when we got home…you guessed it! A very large token of appreciation awaited us in her diaper. Whew! I’m pooped.

Overdressed at KFC

So, all morning & afternoon I faithfully sum the beans, ya know, the boodle, the moolah, the gravy. Then suffer the slings and arrows of a long and crowded bus commute chock full of crabby, inconsiderate schmucks trying to make their way home, all of us with white iPod earbuds stuffed in our heads isolating us from the cruel world. And I arrive home just in time to jump in my car and turn around to go back downtown to the opera for rehearsal. Don’t even have time to prepare a meal at home. Even a ham sandwich would take too much energy. So I think to myself, “self, there’s a KFC right here in the burb. Stop on by & enjoy a hot meal and a fresh Coca Cola.” When I arrive I stand behind a pair of twenty-something-or-others and notice they are both wearing flannel PJ bottoms. Yes, pajamas. AND SLIPPERS! I think to myself, “self, I should have thought of that. Be comfortable & wear PJ’s to rehearsal. It’s what all the cool kids are doing these days” But civility overruled that argument. How could I possibly wear my bedclothes in public? As I pondered these thoughts on top of whether to have extra crispy or original recipe, another patron enters, a motherly type, with two kids in tow. She also dons a comfy flannel bottom. I’m now sandwiched by folks who clearly just rolled out of bed and headed to the local grease factory for breakfast. What? Is this world your private living room? As much as I admire a woman in a nighty and a loose robe, I believe those clothing items were intended to remain at home, and more particularly, IN YOUR BED! Ok, alright! I admit it…yes, I wore those crazy but comfortable Joey Buttafucco pants in the early 90’s. And sure, I was a teenager who on occasion wore parachute pants in the 80’s. What’s my point? My point is fashion. It was fashionable to look like a dork in the 80’s & 90’s with clothes designed and meant for the purpose of being worn and displayed in public. Pajamas, to my knowledge, are still designed with the notion that they be worn in the home. Nobody wants to see your saggy flannel butt with Homer Simpson and a thought balloon which reads, "Mmmmmmm....donuts" in public. Now, please excuse me while I go slide into my Garfield house slippers and practice Largo al factotum on the street corner…