The Dive Whisperer

Today I read an article about someone named Lena Dunham whining about some new PC term called “cultural appropriation”. Now, for this specific piece, I will happily and gladly withhold my feelings on general politics. But stay the fuck away from food and the sharing of it, PC police.

I don't know about your upbringing. Mine was filled with food. We had a garden that we planted and we harvested. We toiled the soil until shoots appeared, lovingly weeding around them. Eventually, stalks of corn rocketed skyward and tender tendrils of beans wove their way towards the sun. Upon the harvest, the entire family would come over and eat until they passed out.

Around fifteen, I watched one of the 4 channels on TV. It was a large man stirring a cast iron pot with a five foot tall spoon telling me “Awh gaaruntee dis heya gun b da best ting yu eva deed eet”. I was captivated and mystified. This was my first taste of another culture. That man was Justin Wilson and he  was a “cajun”. Wait, can I still say that or did I offend someone? CAJUN. Did that trigger you?  This began a passion and hunger (pardon the pun there) of a lifetime.

Over the last 15 years, I began to take a hard look at food. Not just what's on the plate, but where it came from. Its heritage. Its culture. I've written extensively about the history and culture of food. I began professionally cooking around 2010. The history of the dish itself was what fascinated me most. I spent a lot of time in Ms. Southaven to be exact and learned much from the local populace about its history. The serious history of Southern Cuisine. Yep, ALL caps there. As I began to learn more, I began to learn more by digging deeper. Oddly, in the delta, I was intrigued by how a mexican staple, the tamale became a staple in the State. It turns out, during the Great Migration, after Black folks became free, they moved North to find paying work. Well, someone still had to tend the fields. Mexican immigrants came over and brought their food staple with them, as it was road hardy, easy to prepare and traveled well. I guess it was favored by immigrants and locals alike, because if you travel through delta or south Ms., at road stands and convenient stores, you will find tamales EVERYWHERE. Specifically, at a place called Does Eat Place, where you can order them by the dozens. I've eaten there and you are literally eating a piece of another culture. Which brings me back to that Lena lady.

Apparently, at her alma mater, “Gastronomically correct” students are wetting themselves that the lunch contained..WAIT FOR IT....SUSHI. Or Banh Mi. This self defined “ultra liberal” college and its students recently complained to the staff of “cultural appropriation” of food. I decided to do a search for what Dunham eats. In typical fashion for millenials, I see weight gain, large amounts of food and blaming others. What I don't see is “exercise” and “going outside”. It's no wonder she often writes about her battle with weight. However, let's take a look at what she eats. I was easily able to “appropriate” a diet she recently logged in some book.

Originally, flax seed comes from what is now the Republic of Georgia. It wove its way through the fabric of history from Europe to Syria eventually to Dunhams face hole where she appropriated it. Culturally.

The word yogurt, is itself Turkish. Surely Dunham knew that before she stole it for her own hunger. However, fermented milk products are generally dated back to around 6000 B.C. In Central Asia.

Yet another theft of culture from China. Before the 10th Century, China was cultivating peaches. It took another 900 years to reach the United States, in the 19th Century. The peach was STOLEN by other cultures through those nine hundred years, such as England, France and Spain. Bastards. How dare they take an item and eat it.

Salami? You gotta be fucking kidding me. Does she hate the Italians but protect the Japanese and their sushi? I demand she regurgitates that salami right now. Clearly, shes got lots of experience throwing up her meals after she eats them. Salami's exact origin is unknown, but more than 2000 years ago in the Mediterranean region, we know it was being preserved. Salami derives its name from the Italian “salare”, which means salt. We also know Roman Legionnaires were paid with salt and that the word “salary” comes from it, as well.

Her documented theft from China is beginning to show a pattern. We know rice has fed more people, over the course of time, than any other crop. Its written history begins in China, with its cultivation as a food source, moves quickly to India and passes through Sri Lanka and Greece, eventually moving to Southern Europe and North Africa. Some rice is even able to grow in the deserts of Saudi Arabia. Appropriate that Dunham.

Pecan is the only major tree nut that grows in North America. So folks, lets give her a pass here. Pecan is of Algonquin origin and means “all nuts requiring a stone to crack.” Which is appropriate, since we are already discussing nuts. And the ones we eat too.

The sweet cherry was originally cultivated in Europe, western Asia and northern Africa. The first documentation is around 72 B.C. Damn you Dunham and your thieving ways.

This one is actually safe. Don't worry millennials, you can eat this while rocking in your safe space without the need for triggering. Zucchini, like other squash, is native to the Americas. However, its a close one, as you have to credit Italy for the naming. Zucca is the italian word for squash/pumpkin. Zucchino (in the masculine) becomes zucchini in the plural. So you can eat it while sucking down your anti depressants, you just better not say its name.

Tomatoes? Nope. Thats a HUGE no no, Dunham. Originating from the Andes they were first cultivated by the Aztecs and Incas around 700 A.D. Ironically, once they made their way to the Americas, they were taboo. In Colonial Times, folks thought its poison would turn your blood to acid. Witchery, methinks. Should we begin to call the tomato The Lena due to it possibly spouting poison?

I think you get my point here. Dunham, I dont give two shits what you and the other brats do in your own home. But fuck off and leave food out of your PC fight. Food is MEANT to be shared, discovered, changed. Its the entire wonderment of it. You have lived under a pathetic shell of political correctness and you think you are armored to the world. You're right. Nothing has penetrated that possibly bright mind other than propaganda.

Like many of you, I have heard the whispers. If one can whisper on Twitter. I have several goals for writing this. One, I'd like to introduce Roanoke to Deschutes. And, introduce Deschutes to Roanoke. Apparently, there ARE people living way over there in Oregon and they are making damn fine beer. Let's dig in, shall we?

The ironic part of this is I am slam smack dab in the middle of purchasing a Roanoke icon eatery/bar and transforming it into a brewpub. I have my business plan. I have an award winning brewer in place. I meet with a large group of investors in just a few short weeks. Why is this relative? Well, for one, I've done a LOT of market research in and around Roanoke, in regards to beer. And two, Deschutes actually started as a brewpub. Brewpub is a term for “brewery” and “public house”.

Public houses date back to Roman times. Travelers could find lodging, food and alcoholic beverages. A tavern typically served wine, whereas public houses served ale and beer, generally house made. Over time, the terms became interchangeable. Pubs, throughout history, were always the places for social gatherings. In fact, the Sons of Liberty met so often at the Green Dragon ins Boston, it became known as “Headquarters of the American Revolution.”

Gary Fish opened his first brewpub in downtown Bend, Oregon. It was named after the local river, the Deschutes River. In their first year of operation, they sold 310 barrels of beer. A barrel or Bbl is a measurement of capacity. For example, you will often hear a brewery referred to as its Bbl capacity. A 60bbl brewery and so on. As a reference, 1 bbl equals 344 bottles of beer, 3907 ounces or 244 U.S. Pints. In just 4 short year, Deschutes Brewpub was making 3,954 barrels. Forced to expand to to meet customer demands, Deschutes purchased a 16,000 sq. foot facility in 1993 with the ability to brew 50bbl batches. Deschutes now operates two brewing facilities, with the addition of another 6000 sq. foot facility, with the ability to brew an additional 105,000 bbls, making it the 6th largest craft brewer in the nation. And according to the whispers, Deschutes is looking to expand to the Best Coast.

Best known for its Black Butte Porter (which I have had. Ridiculously good.).  Black Butte is the best selling porter in the U.S. In addition, Deschutes brews Deschutes River Ale, Red Chair Northwest Pale Ale (named World's Best Beer in 2010 AND 2012), Inversion IPA and many, many more. Mirror Pond, a pale ale, has won many awards, including GABF. Deschutes also donates $1 per bbl sold to many charities, local and national. Fish and his team have worked hard to preserve and protect the environment, practicing responsible brewing. Having done so earned prestigious awards such as 2012 Sustainability Award from the State of Oregon, as well as a “Green Power Partner” award from the U.S. EPA.

So, Roanoke, meet Deschutes. Deschutes, meet my favorite city and home town, Roanoke. I would be remiss to rewrite her beautiful history. But, you can read more about Roanoke's history and it's beer here. In my research for economics and demographics of my own brewpub, I came across amazing similarities between Bend and Roanoke. Now, let me preface a bit. I love beer. I write about beer. I drink beer. I cook with beer. I brew beer. I film beer. I love beer like fire loves oxygen. In January, I will likely be Roanoke's only Cicerone, and hopefully the new owner of a Roanoke favorite, but as a brewpub. I know just enough about beer to know I want to know more about beer. I say this because I know brewers and I know beer drinkers. And, I know they love their outdoors. This is one thing we have LOTS of here in Roanoke.

Bend is technically the “high” desert. At an elevation of over 3,000 feet, its nestled in the Cascade Mountain range. Surrounded by dense evergreen forests and scrub, very similar to our mountainous terrain, just at a lower elevation. The Cascades are younger, at around 2.5 million to 35 million years old, where our gorgeous Appalachian mountains are 300 to 500 million years old, which is the reason they are “shorter”. We have access, surrounding us, to some of the finest hiking in the country, if not the world, on the Appalachian Trail.

Recreation! In 1921, after the death of his wife, Benton MacKaye conceptualized the Appalachian Trail (AT). In 1923, the first section was built, from Bear Mountain, N.Y. To Arden, N.Y. Many years, later, through the hard work and effort of thousands of people, many volunteer's, the AT runs from north Georgia to Maine and well into Canada. It's highest point, Clingman's Dome, is in the Great Smoky Mountains, with an elevation of 6,643 feet.  There is no longer complete hiking trail in the world. As well as hiking, you have access to world class camping.

 Watersports? Kayaking? White Water? We got you. Here in the area, you'll find lower ranked and up to Class V and beyond rapids, easily accessible. I assure you, if you are a thrill seeker, you'll find no finer rapids than those on the James River, New River (thought to be the oldest in the world), Shenandoah River or Potomac Rivers. Rock climber? Give McAfee Knob a go. Or the sandstone climb known as Bozoo. Or my favorite, Dragon's Tooth. Hiking, birding, caving, skiing, we got you. You will NOT lack outdoor activities once you are here.

In and around Roanoke, as well as all over the State, the fishing is incredible. Trout streams dot our landscape, and our city. In Smith Mountain Lake, striper fishing is some of the finest in the country and ranked nationally. In 1963, the Roanoke River was dammed and thus, the lake was created. 32 sq miles of recreation area. 500 miles of shoreline. All this is nestled in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains. You may remember the movie “What about Bob?” Oh yea. That was filmed on SML. We even recently had our very own trampoline park open! Bet ya didn't see THAT one coming, eh?

 Next, let's visit economics and distribution. Shortly, we'll delve into beer in Roanoke and Virginia, but let's be honest. Deschutes wants to make a buck. And having viable means of transporting your product is important.

Again, as discussed in another article, Roanoke was founded on rail. We do it well, even to this day. As you wind your way through our town, you will cross them. And often. So much so, the Virginia General Assembly established a Rail Heritage Region here, complete with it's own Virginia Museum of Transportation. No doubt, when considering our fine town, Deschutes has looked at means and ways of transporting their product. In fact, rail is becoming more popular in distribution of the World's Greatest Beverage. Not only does rail give access to the region, but the East Coast in general, from a distributing standpoint. Using a refrigerator car or “reefer”, these cars are designed to carry perishable freight long distances at specific temperatures. This also fits with Deschutes superior interest in the environment, as you reduce carbon emissions drastically by using this shipping method. As well, you have close access to shipping to Europe, which more and more American beer is being exported there. As well, having access to these rail systems for incoming products such as grains and necessities needed to brew.

Now, the good stuff. I've written a few articles on Roanoke's vibrant entertainment scene. When I left sixteen years ago to head out and explore this nation, I had no idea in such a short time so many changes would occur. Beer is here. And it's good. Roanoke boasts more restaurants, per capita, than any other city. And it's nightlife is brisk and energetic, with many local and regional bands that are excellent. We are also a city of festivals and parks!

Elmwood Park Amphitheater draws thousands of fans, with talent such as Sheryl Crow performing. Dr. Pepper Park at The Bridges is new, and is filled with up and coming acts. Festivals include a massive crowd for the Chili Cook Off or since 1969, Roanoke's Festival in the Park brings arts and crafts, concerts and lots of food.  Blue Ridge Music Festival, Henry Street Festival, Roanoke Greek Festival, Strawberry Festival. So many more.

Beer? Virginia is for Beer Lovers. As I stated earlier, I am in the process of qualifying and presenting investors for a brewpub here. In doing this, a lot of research has been involved. I am fortunate, in having found a partner that's an incredible award winning brewer here in the area. Virginia beer continues to climb and dominate, not only in beer itself, but beer agriculture. In preparing our business plan, I've looked at a lot of Roanoke beer and Virginia beer as a whole and its contribution to our region. According to Thrillist, Virginia ranks 28th in beer, with incredible growth and potential. “Virginia is for beer lovers. Or at least it’s getting there fast. Another state where weird laws (these ones involving how much food you needed to sell, for some God-awful reason) held brewing back for a while, VA’s got some real action going now,”.  In 2013, at GABF (Great American Beer Festival), Virginia literally cleaned up in medals. We came away with 14 medals, with only California, Colorado and Oregon taking more medals home. Port City founder Bill Butcher states “"It felt like Virginia breweries were up on stage for most of the competition, the state took in 14 medals in the competition, that's way up there as far as states go. I believe the quality of beer in Virginia has been getting better, and I think the standard has been set pretty high.”

Virginia is an agriculture state. With nearly 46,000 farms covering 8.3 million acres, nothing else comes close, from an economy standpoint. When you, Deschutes, get here, you will enjoy homegrown hops, as you enjoy back in the Pacific Northwest! We are at the Southern edge here in Southwest Virginia, as hops are normally grown in the 35-55 degree of latitude. Just dig right into the thoughts of your own field grown wet hops. CAN YOU TASTE THAT BEER??? I can! And let's face it, this is where the nation's beer began. History tells us in 1587 Virginia colonists brewed ale using corn. In 1607, they received their first shipment of beer from England. But, that's a whole other article.

Virginia Craft Beer has exploded in popularity. However, it did take awhile to reach the East Coast. Years ago, beer noticed a marked change on the West Coast as Craft Beer began to take hold. Over time, it slowly floated East. Large mass-market breweries still dominate sales, as Craft Beer only holds about a 2% market share. Compare that to say, Portland, Or., where it commands nearly 50% of the market share of beer sales. However, the room for growth is enormous.  And Virginia brewers, as with most brewers, are well known for collaborating and cooperating with other brewers. In fact, just this year we reached a milestone. 100 breweries in the State. In fact, we are now over 120. 2014 marked a 17% increase in sales over the previous years, but, not just in volume. As stated early, Virginia is making some damn fine beer. Award winning, in fact.

Roanoke itself has joined in on the beer craze. And yes, when you choose us, you will be loved for it. Many here have never been to a large brewery. Seen the production. Tasted the beer fresh from the taps. I've literally had the pleasure of drinking a beer directly from the finishing tanks at Sweetwater Brewery, and a few other breweries. And yes, we love our local breweries we have now, which at last count, number around eight, just in the city. And that's another thing. If you guys head to that “other” place, you won't be the biggest. You will initially enjoy some fanfare, but then, it'll be business as usual, because there are SO MANY breweries there. Here, you would be king. Top dog. I would imagine we could name part of the AT for you. Hell I'm up for naming one of our mountains after you. But I am sure of one thing. Roanoke will love you. And will support you. And will join, maintain and grow your workforce, continue to establish your brand. Because, it will be our brand too. And we like our brand. There isn't another like it. This is one of those relationships that just make sense. You guys have number crunchers to figure out the deep economics. But, you cannot equate a value on having a city embrace you. And being born and raised here, I know my town well. You'll get a big Star City hug for many, many years to come.

Make sure you join the fun and be part of the community at the following links:

@deschutes2rke. ‪#‎deschutes2rke‬

The day began like any other. Up. Coffee. News.

 I was planning on going to the Blue Ridge Wine Festival but then realized that there was a block party downtown. Martin’s Ten Year Anniversary party. 3 bands throughout the evening. Hundreds of people. Well, thats more my style. In my younger days, its possible I would have taken on both with gusto. My liver demanded a choice. The choice was easy.

Before I left, I fulfilled an old habit. I packed some extra clothes and other stuff, just in case. I parked down the street, as I didnt anticipate walking to the other bars. Martin’s had a great lineup planned and I wasnt about to miss it. I talked to Will out from for a few and headed in for a beer. One of the bartenders immediately recognized me from the prior week and the fundraising we did. I was actually featured on WDBJ for bringing in the money and getting fairly emotional. She was kind enough to buy me a beer.

She was mighty cute, so I kept up the conversation for a bit. After that, I walked outside as the bands were beginning to play. Martin’s in Roanoke is well known for having excellent bands. I’ve written about it before, several times. Today was a gorgeous day and people were beginning to fill in.

 Shortly after this pic, a friend of mine shows up and we drink a beer. Jamey tells me I should go camping with them, followed by floating the James the following day. Now, let me be clear, Martin’s was a hot spot. I havent dated in over a year now. But, even a blind hog can find an acorn every now and then. And someone certainly shook the Oak tree into the roped off area at Martin’s. I was mighty hesitant to pull the trigger on leaving. So, after another beer, he casually mentions that one of Roanoke’s bands, Groovascape would be there. Just so happens, Groovascape is my favorite band here in the area and the singer was turning 30! After a few more beers, and possibly a shot in persuasion, I agreed. Then, for good measure, another shot just to be sure. Off we go to Jameys house to pick up the Kayaks.

After driving for what seemed nine hours or so, finally, we arrived. Now, let me clarify a bit. Adventure is what you make of it and where you seek it. It doesnt need to be specific. Just enjoy the ride. We were traveling on some of Virginia’s wildest back roads. To top that, tonight was a “Super Moon” and you could nearly turn off the head lights and see just fine, it was so bright. It was a gorgeous evening, I had a belly full of beer. Life was pretty good.

 When we arrive, there was a group of people already out front. Stepping out, you could hear the flow of water nearby, but you couldn't see any. There was a fire and a few hammocks hung near the water. As always, you there. No no. Hey. Pay attention. YOU. I got you. We are on this journey together so you might as well see what I see. Literally, this was just out of the truck.

Now, to sidetrack. Lets talk music. I have had the fortune, or misfortune, of dating a few musicians. If you didnt know, local musicians don’t make a lot of money. This is a labor of love and passion. One of the best parts of dating a musician is hanging out with their friends. Which, by proxy, are usually musicians. And when they get together, alcohol flows and music floats and hangs heavily in the air. Once, at a function with a girl I dated, we showed up to her house in a small town. We began to cook and people would just walk in, bringing their contribution to the meal. Maybe some fresh greens they just picked and so on. Over the next hour, 15 people are there. After the meal, they began setting up their instruments inside a screened in porch. Outside that were chairs setup already. At this point, there is a lot of laughing and such, as you will hear shortly. Tuning strings. Clearing horns. Adjusting drums. Eventually, they find what they came for. And they play. And they really play. This isnt for pay. This is for passion. And you are treated to a private concert. Its truly something that is amazing.

So, as we arrived, you can hear the soft notes of Brittany’s (singer of Groovascape) wafting on the air. Her band mate had a mandolin and was caressing notes from it. He had brought his girlfriend who had a guitar that she was strumming. Brittany’s boyfriend (sorry guys, long time relationship) was manning the harmonica. Yea. It’s that good. Now, before we left, I had called a buddy of mine, Scott K., to see if he wanted to come. He was just getting off work (bartending) and definitely wanted to come. I gave him VERY shady directions. About this time, Scott K. shows up. Brittany would begin to sing “Ballad of Curtis Loew” and her mates would tune right in. We sat there, drinking the night away with our own private concert, in celebration of her birthday, in front of a flowing creek, in front of a warm fire. Here is a small sampling of our private party. There are no amplified boxes. In today’s world, professional singers have little talent. They sing into a box and it spits out a pleasant sound. Here you will find the sounds of laughter and Brittany and Henry in the background.

Listen here.

 So, the next morning, this is the view I awake to. Keep in mind, I was never able to see much of my surroundings the night before.

Also, we are within a mile of  Roaring Run.

We partied WELL into the night, so it was well into the next morning when we wake. We had some more music, some more fun, and some solid cinnamon rolls, with a beer for breakfast. Off to kayak! But first, well, you know me. I’m always on the hunt for America’s finest back road diners. And boy did I reel in a keeper here. When I walked in, the first thing that struck me, at this supposed gas station, was an extensive menu with two people manning the grill. I saw a deli slicer in the background. I knew I was in for good eats. As well, this was in the display case.

The place was called Kelly’s, if I recall. In Eagle Rock maybe. At this point, I wasn't even sure where we were. However, I am a Reuben fanatic. Seeing it on the menu in a gas station and actually ordering it was pretty ballsy. Life rewards the ballsy sometimes.

So, we launch.

The rest of the day, well, you probably get the idea at this point. It was pretty much spent like this.

Or this.

Or even these.

12:07 pm. Remember this time and number later, as it is important as I take you through this journey. At approximately 12:07 pm on a Saturday, I had worked my way through the line at Microfestivus in Roanoke, Va. Roanoke’s premier beer festival, just wrapping an extremely successful 18th year. 12:07. It’s important to note this as it pertains to the story I am about to tell.

 This writing isn’t about the beer festival, although, I gotta tell ya, I was impressed. I’ve chased a lot of beer around this country and have been to my share of amazing festivals. I’ve filmed in several big, nationally known breweries, for example, Sweetwater Brewery.  I’ve had ten thousand bee’s dumped on my head in the name of beer, such as the Back Forty’s Truck Stop Honey.

I know just enough about beer to know I want to know more about beer. But again, I digress, this article is not about beer. Or honey. Or even beer festivals. It’s about passion and music. Or music. Passion. Whichever one you want to come first. If you do it right, they intertwine anyway.

 As my amazing evening wore on, and the beer festival was beginning to fade from memory (lots of things were fading from memory at this point), I headed down to Martins with some friends that were headed that way. I had been at Sidewinders, and I gotta say, I wasn’t overly impressed. People were nice at the door. Bartenders were ok. Although, I noticed one pocket some cash. The lighting was too bright for a honky-tonk. It was just too “nice” for my elaborate dive bar tastes. As well, no women behind the bar? All dudes? It was quite the sausage fest. I was eager to head to Martin’s to get my groove on. Although, walking was a challenge at this point, we made it to the door.

My good friend Will, the BIG tall bald headed guy at the door was working. He informed me that my (from a prior weekend) favorite band was up. Now, this is good news for me. I was deeply involved in the bands in Mobile, Al (and region) when I lived there. I LOVE music. Like a fire loves air. So I was excited when they began to settle in. The prior time, I wrote a bit about these guys. I understand their name to be Stadanko, but I feel that may change from day to day. I’ve learned, and truthfully in my opinion, Martin’s is undisputed in the Roanoke music scene as far as pulling talent. This band, the last time I was in, would bring others up on stage to play. A harmonica. Or a violin. Or a bass. And they would make music. Not in the way a garage band forms in the basement, but in the way Robin Williams made comedy. The music they put together came from deep inside the well of soul. That’s the only way to describe it. And, as always, even in my drunken stupor, I got you. No no. YOU. Yes, you. Reading this. I got you. Always. So here. Enjoy. Remember 12:07? That’s what time I had my first beer. I recorded this around midnight. Now THAT’s a solid Saturday! But wait, theres more after the video! And theres no fancy equipment here. This is nothing more than my HTC One M8 cell phone in HD. And yes, I get settled around 1:25. The fact that I CAN HOLD the camera is shocking. This, my friends, is a deep look at those who are fortunate enough to do exactly what they are meant to. I am in awe of these folks because the only musical talent I have is the ability to date a musician. Enjoy. 

Now, stay with me here. You’ve just had a night out with me in Roanoke! But, we aren’t done yet. No no. Its just after midnight. Somehow, and yes things are fuzzy, we worked our way down to Downtown Proper. Folks, I’ve partied from North Florida to New Orleans on a pretty consistent basis before moving back to Roanoke. Music. It’s infectious. When properly done, it takes your breath. As I am walking, I completely lose track of my friends. I hear the unmistakable sound of a back alley in the French Quarter. As I saunter my drunk ass towards the noise, I come upon Wall Street Tavern, in the Historic City Market Building. More on that here.

I am still high on the energy from Stadanko at Martin’s. Nothing could top that. Or could it? Let’s revist the 12:07 number we started at. We have to be approaching one am at this point. My ears aren’t lying to me though, yet, I am not standing in New Orleans surrounded by dank neon and piss smelling streets (I say that lovingly, you can only understand if you’ve spent a Mardi Gras there). No no. I am in Roanoke. Now, let me be clear, before I begin. I couldn’t identify one of the members of this band if they were in front of me currently. But, they stole from each other. Constantly. The drummer would steal from the vocalist. Then, she would steal from the bass. Then the bass would take it back from the drummer. It all worked in vibrant harmony to produce the kind of music you don’t expect to find in a small town, on a sidewalk at one am. The singer had a depth and reach that is indescribable. Her voice, as she rolled her hips towards you, was sexy. She captivated with her eyes as she made love to the microphone in front of her. But, then, as stated above, the drummer would roll into his solo and make magic. As he was done, she would take the song to heights that aren’t meant to be put into words, but only heard. She had an Aretha Franklin, Ella Fitzgerald and Adele voice, able to scale each one, or all together. I stood in awe. I did not get video. But, after the band wrapped, I got all fanboi’d on em. Which, honestly, I never do. They were just that good. She was kind enough to give me a CD. Their name is Groova Scape.

 You can hear more in the link above. Check out their songs. Just hit the “play all” feature. I wish I could tell you a favorite. But each song is my favorite. They are on Twitter at https://twitter.com/GroovaScape. And if you haven’t been to New Orleans, don’t worry. Go see a Groova Scape show. They’ll take you there.

 The other night, while cooking a requested dish for my mother, I had time to contemplate styles of cooking. As I contemplated glass after glass of Shiraz, my contemplation grew complacently congenial. I tried to pontificate to my dear mother, but she was deep into her third glass. As one who rarely drinks, she was more interested in the inner workings of my failed relationships and why, pray tell, at a local function, did I not go over and speak to a certain girl. Well, I went to my happy place, as I was cooking, which is thinking about cooking. And you, Dear Reader, are the benefactor of the results of three hours of building Meatballs and a scratch sauce. Let’s dig in, shall we?

 As I see it, there are three styles of cooking. These consist of The Handyman, The Perfectionist and The Outlaw. Cooking is my greatest passion, followed closely by Cooking. A distant third is history and culture of cooking.

The Handyman

 The handyman is a general purpose cook. Not to take anything away here, because the handyman (or woman) is a master at what he focuses on. For me, I love to make sauces. A perfectly balanced and constructed sauce will prop up any meal. It is the backbone of measurement when you speak the word Chef. But, my specialty is broth. Oh my my my. I love to create and craft broth. Starting with essentially root’s, and an oft chastised cut of meat, watching the water turn to Chef’s Wine. The translucence of the fat shimmering on the surface. Lovely laden globules of goodness. Small but part of a greater orchestra of flavor. The semi stickiness that glues to your lips as you caress spoon after spoon across your tongue. Yea. That’s sexy as hell. But, and more to the point, I can cook anything. Notice the use of the word cook. But, more on that shortly. An example. Recently, while out drinking with friends I met up with some old friends. People I used to bartend with in my younger days. We had a blast. Drank the night away laughing and telling stories of our glory days. I had started early and one of my buddies, Scott K, told me I should head back with him, versus driving. I eagerly agreed as I could drink more! Win/win yes? So later we head back to his house and I immediately take stock of whats available. We have apple cinnamon pancake mix. Cointreau. Fresh strawberries and bananas. Brown Sugar. And bit of maple syrup left. Keep in mind, im pretty much staring through one eye, trying to find the middle pan as I worked. I had been drinking all day and into the night. But, this was when I was at my best. See, I’m a cook. And a damn good one. And as a handyman, I am pretty versatile. 30 minutes later, we are diggin in to one of the finest meals you could possibly imagine. The almost crusty sear on the pancakes was indescribable. I flambéed the cakes with the bananas, brown sugar and cointreau, rolling my wrist with the confidence of a well seasoned professional. And this is the result.

Notice the small flaky bits in the syrup, thats from the deglaze. Yea, thats how we roll at 3am. But, the point of this article, a cook can do many things. And do them well, while still focusing on a specialty. Or not. They can just love to make it all. Next though, we have a dedicated anomaly of the cooking world. The Perfectionist. Oh my.

 The Perfectionist 

 This, Dear Reader, is otherwise known as The Baker. And an art I am not privy to. I general grab some of this, two of these and a dash of those and toss it in and hope for the best. The folks are culinary ninja’s, taking their time in measurements and cups and exact counts. If the Dalai Lama was a cook, I bet he would be a baker. I have never been good at breads. At making cakes. Pastries. It’s just not my thing. And I stare at these people with all the wide eyed wonder I can muster, in awe of what they do. The patience involved sets my ADD on fire. This, this Dear Reader, this....is an art form like no other. So much so a special set of tools is required to bake. Levels and special instruments designed as if out of a medieval torture chamber. Give me my chefs knife (or any knife in a pinch) and a spatula, I am happy. But these folks...they work with precise temperatures and are willing to wait, without looking in the oven, to see their creation. I am humbled and honored by them. Of course, next up, well, The Outlaw’s. Afeared yet? You should be.

The Outlaw’s

Grilling season is in full swing. Yes, I’ve had mine out. I have a great grill. It’s 3 parts. One part is gas. One part is charcoal (only the real stuff here, not that store bought shit with gas fumes built into it). The third part is a ceramic searing area that hits around 1500 degree’s. I love my grill. I dream of it when I am away from it. I gently fondle its....well anyway. To the point. Grillers are just a separate breed than the rest of us. They are still in the chef family, just a distant cousin, likely named Joe Dirt. Badass in every single way, they just don’t conform to the laws of physics we do inside our kitchens. And I love them for it. Grillers, purists at heart, study their grill with laser pointers long before applying anything to the grill itself. Like a coach in the NFL, a full game plan is mapped in their head before any sizzle is heard. You have to know your grill intimately. Where the cooler zones are, where the hotter zones are and where the sear will be. And, most important, where the bottle opener for your beer is going to be. Yes, my grill has one mounted to it, just to be on the safe side. These guys will stand in the hot sun, face down in an even hotter grill for hours, just to bring you that perfectly cooked flat iron steak, thats marinated to buttery soft perfection. When placed upon the perfectly heated surface, that wonderful sizzle and aroma scores the air around it. The Outlaw does not poke and prod. Its not moved around willy nilly while guess work ensues. It lays where its placed, until it develops that trademark crust we all love, but rarely get to eat. It’s not penetrated. Its lovingly and carefully separated from the cooking surface, and its turned over once. Then once more to get the score marks from that perfectly temperatured surface. Yea. These guys are the bad boys of the culinary universe. And as I write this, I pour out a little in a toast to you.

The daily ritual begins with some tasteless and umami-less fake sugar dumped into the coffee. The coffee is important as its estimated it will ramp your metabolism by 3-14%. This is, of course, after chugging a large bottle of water. Then, opening MyFitnessPal to log the water. Shortly after, a quality protein bar works its way through my digestion. Back to MyFitnessPal to log the protein bar. No steak and eggs. No hashbrowns. No biscuits and gravy and the most amazing strawberry jelly to ever pass your lips. None of those things for this Chef. I’m on a mission. Its not unfamiliar territory. I’ve traveled this road before, twice. In three weeks, I will have my abs back. And at 41, its quite the challenge. But first, Dear Reader, lets go back in time a bit.

 In early 2010, I lost the love of an amazing woman. I thought that by getting in shape, maybe she would come back. I was nearly 270 pounds. It just creeps up on you. You lose all track of reality. You have no concept of the amount of calories you are putting into your body, nor the amount of fat, type of fat, carbohydrates, etc. You just eat. And then you couch. And later, you eat again. I decided I had had enough. I began to set aside a time of day to work out. I had a bowflex and had just never really used it, other than to hang clothes on (we all do this). I began to monitor my diet and log my intake. I began to lessen the bad fats and intake more quality protein, all the while, suffering through intense workout sessions alone. Over a period of time, I dropped nearly one hundred pounds and ended up at 172 pounds. By this time, many many months had passed. You see, the most rewarding moments and the biggest encouragement are results. Once you hang in there long enough to get results, you wont want to quit. You will make reasons WHY YOU HAVE to work out, versus why you cannot workout. By 2011, I had joined a gym and began a grueling regimen, designed by myself. You see, I had become a student of my body. I was single. I was cutting inches off my waist and I was proud. Now, it was time to add some weight!

I was taking in over 4,000 calories a day, carefully measured with quality protein, fat and carbohydrates. And those beautiful indention’s above are my creation. I settled on a healthy 190-195 pounds and a 33-34 inch waist. My previous jeans, which I still have, had gotten up to size 44. Yep. Your body is very much like a bonsai tree. You are its sculptor. If you spend time, have passion and patience you will be rewarded. Still, its hard to believe I went from grossly obese to 12% body fat. And, its even harder at 41. Muscle is made in the weight room. Abs are made in the kitchen. You can have the most gorgeous abs in the world and if they are covered with fat, you’ll never know. 

spread out on the floor, lay the pictures from before. our life together over,  jim beam across the lips, if only one more sip . the scars are washed away, the pain of one more day.   You got to say your peace, but walked out on the life we lived. These pictures tell the story of a life so full, the bottle spills, til another wills me the way, to get another day.

Some pictures and a bottle, all that's left of us. All across the room, memories, oh too soon.   Wash away the pain nothing left to gain. As this carpet surrounds me…a sip to clean the stains As your memory impounds me…..another drink downs me While your love drowns me….the knees are the last place left to fall The next sip, will erase the smile on your face, erase the last place, we made love…

Journey out to the unknown, without your love to guide my way, without your heart to find my way, missing you each passing day. Turn to the bottle to find courage to carry on, these pictures are like postcards.   The story of our life…sad enough, one more sip, follow tears as they drip. You left me here alone,  Why I go on and on. Ask myself so many times each day, the more I learn I stay away, but one more sip can make the pain, one day, will end.

Some pictures and a bottle, all that's left of us. All across the room, memories, oh too soon.   Wash away the pain nothing left to gain. As this carpet surrounds me…a sip to clean the stains As your memory impounds me…..another drink downs me While your love drowns me….the knees are the last place left to fall The next sip, will erase the smile on your face, erase the last place, we made love…

The doorbell rang. I knew it was her. We had talked about it for months. You know, the casual flirting back and forth. I must admit, I've done this more than once. But, she was different. She exuded sexy, in everything she did. Without trying. We had been hanging out socially, and casually, for quite some time. We were recently at an eatery, with others, and she would feed me. This is a woman that did not just place food in your mouth. She would take a piece in one hand, with her other hand on your knee. All the while, never taking her eyes from yours. As she placed the food in your mouth, she would leave her fingers attached, and make the face. You know the face. The kind that, in an instant, you pictured her in the very bathroom of the restaurant you were in, up against the wall, pants down, holding her, nails in your back, breathless and devoid of sound. Your left hand bracing her weight against you. Muffling the escapes of passion coming from her mouth with your right hand. And ravaging her.

 Then, she would pull her fingers away, after perfectly long enough, and lick them, for the remnants of the food, of course. All the while, never breaking eye contact. But, I will get to that. First, let me introduce myself. By day, I am a culinary guy. A personal chef. My nights are spent either bartending, or holding up some dive bar. Dont get me wrong. I dont go to bars to pick up women. I love a good bar. The kind where the wood has wormholes in it. Ratty furniture. Rusty hinges, as the door swings open. The bartender has a scratchy voice, from too many Pall Malls. The light from the neons greets your with proper shadows. Usually, late nights in these types of places are fascinating. America is at its finest after several low quality gin and tonics. The limes are yellowing a bit. Words begin to run together. I've always been fascinated with that part of intoxication. How one of the first signs are lowered inhibitions. And more than once, I have used that to my advantage. How would I describe myself? About as tall as I need to be. Brown hair, which forms in curls, wrapping towards the back of my neck. Parted, from its weight. People generally gasp, as they tell me I look like Tom Cruise, or the guy from American Psycho. You know, the pscyho. I wouldn't know. I guess I like to think I look like me. My build is athletic. Not a body builder. Not at all. Just fit. I generally like to spend five days a week in the gym. I am in pretty good shape, for a guy thats 43. 

  I could smell her perfume as I opened the door. I was intoxicated by it, as the air rushed into the house. She was tall. As tall as me, and with heels on. I was dressed fairly casual. Generally when I am cooking, I like to wear comfortable shorts, of the sweat variety, and a tank top. Since I really wanted to impress this one, I put on one of my favorite shirts. It fit too tight, and I knew. Green, with a St. Patricks Day logo on the front. An older shirt, on the verge of tearing. She was wearing a red dress, that was back lit by the porch light. Again, the eye contact. I knew I wanted her. And I knew I would have her. I think the goal was to bring her passion out, as a treat to me. The kiss was light. It wasnt our first. And surely wouldnt be the last. We were too sober to kiss like we both wanted to. But I knew that would come later. This was a dress that took your breath. That gasp that you try to hide. Short sips of air, in succession. Tight doesnt describe it well enough. With curves befitting of a woman. Immediately, I could see her skin glisten. I have always been a fan of women that are soft. I could picture her getting ready, smiling, in anticipation, just as I had. In front of her mirror. Time selecting the dress, over and over with different ones. Shimmying in and out of each, flattening the wrinkles with her hands, brushing down her hips. Making sure the bra was perfect, and cupping and raising her breasts. I was impressed, and felt special, as I knew she prepared for me. Just for me. Tonight, she was all mine.

  I had already done some prep work. Chefs are finicky about their gear and preparation. And each has their own quirks. As I wanted her to know all this was made from scratch, I had my cutting board out, and a few of the ingredients. I left my knives in the case, as I wanted to unzip the case in front of her. I had prepared my favorite drink already. This is my go to. No hangover. Easy, and its a good sipping drink. Quality bourbon. I like Bulleit or Woodford Reserve. Crushed ice. Cut a lime in half, squeeze over the ice. Half and half mixture of bourbon and Pellegrino. No, nothing else will work. There is no reason to improve upon perfection. Some things are just better left alone. And this is one of them. That was sitting on the counter, with a large cup for her already poured. You see, we both know we will be drinking. So why not pamper her for a bit? After all, the meal is going to take awhile. And this is the time you get to talk. And tease...

 When she came in, my two dogs greeted her. Sampson and Chino. Sampson was just a puppy, but even at five and a half months, my German Shepherd can be a handful. Chino was a six year old mutt, that I got when he was six weeks. That boy is my heart. The kitchen is typical of a home like this. Gas range. Double oven. Large island. I had the top converted into a large cutting board, all made of exotic woods, pressed together. Its a beautiful thing. The cabinet space was adequate, but as any chef knows, there is never enough space. Over my cutting area, I had my pots hanging. All copper and stainless. I was serious about my craft. I was good at it. And women loved a man that can cook for them. Floating through the air, a solid mixture of music hung on the air. She was classy, and a musician herself. Normally, I had my song lists broken down into categories. I knew she would be tough to please musically, so I spent extra time preparing. Dave Matthews, for his high and low angry crescendos.Willie Nelson, for his ballad love songs.. Amos Lee. Joshua Kadison, sweetness, and love that never was. Black Crowes, long instrumentals. Alicia Keys, touched by a angel with her voice. Ray LaMontaigne, his raspy depression and desperation. All carefully selected and saved a specific play list. The name on the list was Shannon. After all, this night would be worth it. And, it was her name.

  As she sat, it was across the counter. On a bar stool. I like to keep my kitchen clear. If you have ever watched a chef in action, as the meal progresses, it can be pretty intense. I am constantly moving to one pot or pan, and almost never put my chefs knife down, but use that to shuffle ingredients to my pans. And the smell of incense was thick, in the air. However, I was not wearing cologne. I dont wear cologne when I cook. Food is actually quite sensitive and can take in odors from your hands. But I made sure the incense was near enough for her to pick up its musky odors, but far enough away not to choke. If you are starting to see a pattern here, you are right. All of this is carefully choreographed. Leave nothing to chance. As well, I had every intent of drawing her out. Ive learned, many women have an animal in them that sometimes they didnt even know about. And it takes a daring man to bring it out. And I am in my comfort zone. I've done many a filming in this kitchen, and knew my away around it. I began to pull the ingredients out of the refrigerator. This would be four courses. One of those was an appetizer. As she drank her drink, the conversation began to develop. Talking of travels.   I was making her an all time favorite. One of my go to, cannot fail meals. A southern staple, but with a gourmet flair. The meatloaf was exquisite with bell peppers and carrots. All the ingredients mixed in a bowl, then shaped in a loaf pan, and removed. I placed a meat thermometer in as an insurance policy, but I had cooked this many times before. Ten minutes in, I used ketchup, cayenne, honey and Worcestershire sauce for the glaze. I had already fried some chips, home made, of course, with heavy salt. As we talked, I mixed together ripe avacado, beautiful young tomatos, garlic, lemon and salt. Chunky style. I wanted the burn of the salt on the chips to tingle her lip. I had already placed the meatloaf in the oven. Next, as we ate the Guacamole, I began to take the peel off the butternut squash. Butternut has a defensive mechanism that oozes once cut, and its the most dangerous vegetable to work with, in my opinion. Ive cut myself more with it than anything else. I knew my menu though, and knew the time frame I had to prepare it. I then cubed it, and tossed it with heavy salt and pepper, in vegetable oil. Laid out flat, in a roasting pan. I then cut several idaho russets, and a few new potatos. I liked that starch mixture best. I had already roasted a bulb of garlic, and let it cool. So, after boiling my potatos, I put in the home made sour cream, sweet cream butter, lots of salt and pepper and squeezed the garlic into the potatos. I whipped them, and sat them aside, covered. I knew they would stay hot long enough, in the serving bowl I used. I then began to craft the cheese sauce. And yes, I would position myself in such a way to show her my body. So often, you dont look at a woman. If she is shy, she wont peek at you while you look at her. And its the shy ones with the greatest passion. Untamed and animal. She rarely lets herself go. But when she does, the Earth itself will move. A proper lover will use all the tools he has access to to bring this out of her. Allow her to view you. You are a male. Present yourself to her. Picking up heavier pots, and turning to show the back of my triceps. The tshirt itself clung like wrap to my chest, highlighting its development. And in the lighting I provided, the shadows of my chest projected into the shirt itself. My viens are well structured, and provide the structure of a solid build. You are dealing with a brilliant subconcious mind in a woman. And you must feed that, as well as her body, with nourishment. She has thought of what it would be like to place her hand on your arm. To run it along the curves of your bicep. I have learned to hold a woman the right way. In a strong way. And the very essense of a woman is to be held strong, caressed, and feel safe. Give her that, and she will give you her heart. Make her feel warm and wanted.  She will give herself to you, over and over. And over....

  As I was boiling the pasta, I put cubed sweet cream butter in a pan. To that, I added the flour, to create a Roux. Whisking quickly, I added the mustard powder and kept at it for about five minutes. My back was turned, and I have well developed back muscles, which I am sure were flexing on and off, as she watched. I had to make sure this roux was perfect. And of course, lump free, so I whisked at a good beat. After about five minutes, the roux was beginning to change color. I then added in the milk, my sweett vidalia onion, a bay leaf and smoked paprika. Next, I had to temper the egg. My towel stayed on my shoulder, as when you are chefing, you are constantly using different ingredients, and I like my towler on my shoulder to wipe. I then stirred in ¾ of the cheese mixture. I got this home made cheese from a farmer near here that had made his own cheeses, with fresh milk from his farm, formed in his musty basement. It was smoky and pungeant. Not that store bought cheese, with the white powder to prevent it from sticking. No, I shaved this into the dish from the rind. After that, I folded in the lobster. I had my local seafood market steam these for me, and this was pure claw meat. Elegant. Dedident. She would be worth it. So worth it. At its serving, I would top with fresh shaved truffles. Surely, that would seal the deal.

  Now, I had some time to work. Ray was singing one of his softer notes. There was a certain quietness to the house. The smells were overwhelming, with the meatloaf now in its final stages of cooking. I use incense that burned for two hours. I went on the other side to refill it. As I passed, I saw my weakness. We had had several tall drinks at this point. Her inhibitions had begun to subside. She turned to look at me. Those eyes. Her blue eyes were more beautiful than an artic moon, setting on a bay with ice floes setting in the distance. And she knew how to use them. She pulled her hair to the side, as her head tilted to the rear. Not a full turn, but curious, as I had stopped behind her. I took one hand, placed it on her shoulder. Her skin was soft. I had imagined that. I applied a light pressure, slightly moving it forward to her front. I then moved my hand left, towards the base of her neck. She was quiet. I could tell by her posture she was nervous. Not uncomfortable, just unexpecting. She did not know what was next. Wisps of the smoke from the incense passed between us. I was assaulting her sense of smell. I closed the distance between us, slowly. I wanted to look at her. She was her own gift to me. I had earned her. I meant to take my time. I used my hand to tilt her neck forward, a bit. She was still holding her hair, which told me she wanted me on her neck. The music now switched. It was more aggressive, but still soft. Amos Lee had taken over, and his timing couldnt have been more perfect. I ran the outside of my lips along her neck line, never moving my hand. First, to the right, well below her ear. I wasnt kissing her neck. Not yet. I intended to tease her. She chilled at my touch. I could feel her tense, but not in a bad way. I ran my fingers slowly, as I teased with my lips, towards the top of her dress, above her breasts. Just inside the fabric. Enough to show intent. At this point, I had moistened the nape of her neck with my kiss. Slowly. Just lips, but moist lips. I was feeling her. Testing her. Teasing her. I knew the timer would go off soon. A nip on the bottom lobe of her ear. I had both hands on her now. Not massaging, but caressing her skin powerfully. Her breathing quickened. I knew I was getting in her mind. She was picturing me as a lover, as Dave Matthews had revisted and was shouting DONT DRINK THE WATER over and over. The air around us thickened, and time slowed. I now turned her, in the barstool. My excitement was now very clearly showing. As I turned her, I slid my waist in between her legs. My hands were now in her cheeks, cupping the back of her head, guiding her to be where I wanted her. Not hard. Not angry. But strong. I was not pulling her hair, just cupping her face with my hands. It was a strong kiss. And our first true kiss. And the sound of the timer let me know the meatloaf was ready. 

Theres always that awkard moment of reawakening. The world had gone its own separate way for a time. Time itself ceased to exist. Waking back up to it can be an adjustment. And we were far from sober. But, as she heard the timer, she lowered her head. She wiped away the kiss. You know, a kiss can leave a certain wetness. And it was a kiss. A first kiss is so important. You never know when it will be your first last kiss, so its important that it be memorable, and is possible, spontaneous. Those are the best. Shannon asked where the plates were. I intended to let the meat rest for about ten minutes. But the squash was perfect. It was blackened and cripsy around the edges, soft in the middle. The heavy salt I used earlier had two effects. First, salt opens other taste receptors. Making food more dimensional. Many flavors can now penetrate the tongue. Second, if used properly, the right kind of salt can create a pleasant burn. A chemical type burn, not a heat. You feel it, in the back of the throat. As she sat the table, I gathered the serving bowls with the food in them, and carried them to the table. The lighting was perfect, as turned off most in the house. The ambient glow of candles, scattered through out, was prevalent. Earlier, I had closed the bedroom door. And lit several candles, creating zones of smells. My bathroom connected to the bedroom and I had candles in there as well, throwing shadows, dancing around the bathtub. I wanted the smells sealed, as in a vault, so when the door was opened, again, I get to take advantage of her heightened senses. After all, I was trying to awake all of them, and soon, I will shut several of them down, enhancing the others.

  As we sat the table, I made us another drink. However, I was careful in my pour this time. I wanted her perfectly intoxicated. But not drunk. I wanted her to remember our night. The smells in the kitchen were various, in nature. Its hard to explain my overwhelming passion for food. I am consumed by it. And sex, well, fits in perfectly with food. Food is very erotic, when presented right. At the table, I cut the meatloaf, and gave her a slice, as well, served her the lobster macaroni and cheese, which after sprinkling bread crumbs on top and then continuing to cook, had created an amazing crust, with piece of the lobster poking through. Tableside, I shaved some precious slices of truffles onto her macaroni and cheese. The Roasted Garlic and Sour Cream Mashed Potatos were a thing of perfection. They needed no extra help, in any way. I considered making gravy, but decided against it at the last moment, as these are the type potatos that stand on their own. Nothing should ever cover these. The meatloaf was a painting, along a creek bed, waiting to be discovered, untouched by human eyes. Yes, a good meatloaf is really that good. It was the centerpiece of the meal, even with shaved truffles on the mac. Never burnt, but solid around the edges. Forming it in a pan, and taking it out to cook like that decreases the surface ratio on a direct surface, making for a more even and moist cook. As I sat, I lit the two candles. One on each side of the table, and turned the lights out. Between them sat daisys. Flowers are important. The wrong flowers send the wrong signal. Red rose indicate love, and emotion. I knew I didnt love her, but intended to for the night. You see, you can make love to an amazing woman, without loving her. You can give her one night, a night that she will never forget. She will tell her close friends, whispering secrets and giggling, because it will make them jealous. No one has ever presented such a thing to them. The effort required. Years of practice for the food. And trial and error with other women, to get it perfect. This was that night.

 We ate and talked. Willie Nelson was now crooning softly to us. The food was tremendous. It was a meal for the ages. Not in quantity, but in finest chef home cooking. If a James Beard could be awarded in a kitchen, this was the meal that would win it. As it winded down, it was clear what was on both our minds. I excused myself, and walked out on my porch, to have a cigarette. Yea, I know. I keep some around for those great moments. Sometimes, nothing satisfies as much as. I wanted to watch her. My front porch is fairly large, with a tall mahogany door, with a large window in the door. Now, the glass panels are such a way that you can just see in, at certain angles. I wanted to watch her. I admitted, I wanted to watch. She sat at the counter, on this side of the kitchen counter. She adjusted, firmed and cleared. But she didnt have to. It wouldnt have mattered. This was one of those women that men get quiet around. They cant talk. Shut down a room, by walking in it. She has tempered her walk over years and years, and knows what those hips are for, and uses them so well. Wars have started, and ended, over women like her. And she sat there, trying to fix herself up, for me. As I came back in, I closed the door softly. I turned, and made sure to catch her eye. There was a glare in mine now. This was no longer a glance. It wasnt a flirt. I wasnt trying to gain her attention anymore. No. I already had it. Now, in a look, I left no doubt in her mind what was next. Left hand, along the counter top, as I look her in the eyes. The oven is off. The kitchen is clean. Counting Crowes begins to hit the strands to start She Talks to Angels. Those eyes again. I had looked at them for hours. Now, I had the chance to see them. Looking and seeing are different. Listening to music, and hearing music, are different. Often, we hear music but do not listen to it. Often, we look at something, but rarely see it. I could see her eyes now. And I intended to show her why I am a man, and she is a woman.

  She was breathing heavier, as I approached. I took her hand, softly, and pulled her from the bar stool. Leading her, I turned away to walk. There was no talking. No reason to. I opened the door and the musk was powerful. I had this idea. If I can invoke all of a womans senses, heighten them, then take two of them away, making the others extra sensitive, I would draw out her emotion. Now, her sense of touch would be extreme. Her sense of smell was overloaded. The sense of sound was assaulted by my careful choosing of music. Joshua was now singing of Jesse. And his kindness for her. His piano brought wave after wave of entwining music. I laid her back on the bed. Candles told my hands where to slip her shoes off. Black heels, sharp. Her feet had to hurt, but she wore those for me. I appreciated that. Moving to be on her, I placed my hand on her cheek. I wanted to physically reassure her, I would never betray her trust, or hurt her. Softly, I caressed her, while I kissed her. Finally, we were free of time restraints. The world faded away. There were no politics, no work, no ins and outs f daily living to deal with. Just this woman beneath me. She consumed every part of my thought process. I began to rub my hands lightly along her leg, as I kissed her. Pulling, gently tugging, at the bottom part of her dress to let her know, I wanted this off, but not quite yet. I had yet to feel her breasts, although I had imagined what they felt like, and looked like, many times. I ran one hand around the bottom. Over the dress, I could feel she had no bra on. Which surprised me, as no breasts were this perfect braless. Squeezing, lightly, I moved my hand upward. Taking my fingers, I circled her nipple. I had moved down to her neck now. You know, that moment of no more mouth kissing. I was aggressive on her ear, as I was beginning to bend and thrust my hips into her. Her dress was back near her hips now, and I could see black panties. I love panties. I love the word panties. I love the feel of quality panties. Silky, smooth fabric. Has a certain sheen to it, when you know its quality.  My hands now around her neck, I had moved my head to her breasts. Pulling her dress down past one shoulder, extra inticing the way it embraced her neck in the candle light. Nibbling upon her nipple, using teeth, lightly, but sharp bites. A bit of pain, but fleeting. Hearing her gasp was my clue that it was working. We were no longer grinding, but as I moved lower, she stopped, to remove her dress.

 As she sat up, I again noticed those eyes. Eyes, to me, are the most attractive feature on a woman. A woman can use her eyes in many ways. To divulge a secret, without telling it. To smile, without showing it. To get what she wants, without asking for it. And to tell what she feels,  having never said a word. And her eyes told me she trusted me, no matter what was about to happen. I always kept high thread count sheets. Satin in feel, but still cotton. Egyptian, in fact. I like the feel of it better than satin, or silk. I can dig in. Get a grip with my body. Cotton clasps better, against the skin. The flame from the candles danced across her skin, lighting up her curves. As she lifted the dress over her head, she threw her head back, straightening her hair. A goddess sat in my bed. As the dress lifted away, her breasts fell perfectly, in my full view, against she shadows. The air was saturated with musk. Early that day, I had tied two of my suit ties to each side pedestal. I also had a silk headband, I picked up years ago while traveling the orient, made specifically for an occasion such as this. It was very comfortable, with a padded eye cover. This was woven silk, spun from threads of silk worm, hand made. The bed was made of mahogony, high rising. The wood was solid, and as a California King, had adequate room. But, my intent was to never let my skin away from hers this night. Bed stands adorned each side, and lamps atop each of those. The paddle fan above was turned off, to allow the earthy notes of the incense to soak into the air itself. I placed my hand under her back, to guide her to the middle. We setup a safe word, which, I will not repeat here, as a safe word should only be between two people. It was ours, and a bond of trust, which is so important. As she lay there, in panties only, she closed her eyes, and laid her head on my pillow. I took her left hand, and guided it to where the tie was in reach. Smiling calmly, I looked at her, to reassure, as I tied a knot in the tie, around her hand. My ties were all silk, and I did not tie it tight enough to hurt. Maybe even loose enough to let her know if she wanted out, she could get out. I then moved around to her right, and taking her hand in mine, began to wrap the end of the other tie around her hand. With a glance, I made sure she realized this was her last opportunity to say no, but not a sound came from her lips. I am built well, and spend a lot of time and focus on my core. I am very proud, as I developed my abs out of pride, determination, and hard work. But, I have to admit, as I climbed to position myself on her, to place the head band on, I wanted to let her view my body. To be the last view she saw as she faded into an erotic, intoxicating darkness. She could no longer touch me. And I used that to tease her. There was no hiding my excitement. I had no clothes on. I bathed in her attention, and watched the focus of her eyes. She wandered about my shoulders, which are well developed. As she looked slowly downward, she saw my chest, as my hands were now just to each side of her breasts. She continued to view, as she settled on my stomach. I bent backwards, to reach the head band, and a slight noise escaped her lips. I then placed the head band over her eyes, and began my descent.

  I was now, almost, alone in the room. I had no one to watch me, so I could be free with my actions. I got off the bed, and circled. I re lit two sticks of my powerful and everlasting incense. I knew I would be here for awhile. Watching her breathe. It was heavy, but not fast. The anticipation was affecting her emotions. She scent of musk penetrated her deeply. The music was now Dave again, and he was angry in tone. Dave threw his emotions into every word. And there was simply no substitute. Dreaming Tree began. I placed my hand on her hips, to let her know where I was. She gasped. My right finger curled under the string around her leg of her panties. I tugged lightly. She lifted her hips. This is a magical moment for a man, a conquest. Easily equal to discovering fire, celebrating the universe, or finding wheat for the first time and making bread from it. Pulling the panties down, she lifted her hips upwards. Pulling downward, they slid against her tan skin. The last piece of her clothing removed, I was free to play. Experiment. Explore her. I ran my finger lightly around her thighs, occasionally flipping them, to use my nails. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out, as her chin raised. My mouth was where it needed to be. And just around the outside, I used my tongue to lift that soft part of the inner thighs. I could smell a body lotion, and it was scintillating. I could not smell it before now, but only as my nose was an inch from her skin. Any more, its scent disappeared. My tongue ran on the outside of her lips, already moist. Wet. Soaked. Yet, I had not touched her there. When my tongue finally came into contact, the ties tightened, as her hands and arms tensed. The touch of my tongue was overwhelming, in a very sensual and physical way. Not developing a pattern yet, I teased her. Lightly, on the outside. My hands were around her thighs, which with her knees bent, and facing up, were underneath her legs. As my tempo began to increase, I slid my hands to the inside of her thighs, to open the more, and allow me access. As I moved and repositioned myself I began to repeat the same licking motion. Up and down, lightly, flickering my tongue. Her body was responding. Her breathe came faster as the ties were taught, and she had a fist around them, stretching them as far as they would stretch. A moan left her lips, unbridled and freed. I continued my motion, repeatedly, watching her hips began to grind into my face. Eyesight gone, sense of smell overwhelmed, sound pounding into the room, she was only left with sense of touch and taste. One of which I was assaulting with my tongue, in the most sensitive spot on her body. As her body let me know, she was about to release, I stopped. No no. We arent there yet. That was too easy, and I meant to take my time. Lets face it, all men brag about their sexual prowess. But I thought of the female body, and the mind, as a castle, with a moat surrounding it, and an army protecting it. The reward was an animal, surprised by its own hunger. No no. I would make her wait. Until I was ready for her to release into me.

  The blind fold had slipped down now. As I looked upwards, towards her face, I could see her, breathing heavy, looking at me. Now, I just wanted to be in her. I climbed to the side of the bed, to untie her hands. The music had now slowed to Ray LaMontaigne. One hand, untied. Another, untied. She cleared the blindfold from her face. Which, my first thought was, this is a good thing. An amazing thing. Now, as I enter her, I get to look into those eyes. Intimacy, even if its someone you know relatively little about, is possible if built correctly. And looking into her eyes, passion and intimacy were in volumes. We still did not speak. There was no reason to. I slowly lowered myself onto her, never moving from her eyes. I thought for a moment to wet her, but, nature took care of itself. Her petal was engorged and swollen. As I pushed my hips forward, she placed one hand on my shoulders and one hand on my lower back, as if to guide me, where she wanted me to be. Slowly, at first. As I pushed into her, her body tensed and I felt her nails. But, I still had the intent of teasing. She had yet to have hers. As I just barely entered, I flexed my abdominals, which flexed my own swollen member. At her opening, I pushed her open further. In, and out, just barely. All the while, Shannon had dug into my back. I knew it would get more intense, and looked forward to a little bit of pain. Pain can enhance pleasure, if pain is done right. At last I pushed all the way into her. She immediately dug deeply into my back and shoulders, gripping as if I had the intent of getting away. The thrust was powerful. But, again, I wanted her to remember me. I exited, after that one thrust into her. Hovering, just outside. Once more, I pushed my hips forward, enticing her to orgasm. I was in her fully and used short thrusts to rub my pelvic bone against her, generating more than just an orgasm. After hours and hours, of teasing, Her body took over. She began to spasm. I could feel her clenching around me, wave after orgasmic wave. Now, I just wanted to ravage her, as I had pictured her against the wall in the bathroom. As I continued to penetrate, she began to cry. Her emotions were out of her control. Her body had literally taken over and was now in a pleasure whirlwind, a tornado. I raised on both hands, to back away and focus on her face. I wanted to watch the twist of her lips, and as the tears ran down her cheeks, I wiped them away. I knew she was not hurting. No, this was a tear of pleasure. Over and over, wracked and spasmed, she came, again and again. I was on both hands, still in and out of her. As she began to become exhausted, I slowed my tempo. An entire body spasm is literally as exhausting as a full day or working, and she just went through a solid twenty minutes of it. I continued to slide in and out. I then asked her, to tell me when she would come again. Never breaking eye contact, I asked her to look me directly in the eyes. That sent her again into overload. As she shared my eyes, I shared hers. There were no tears. I guess there was music on, but this was truly a tantric moment. We were part of each other, not two seperate masses on sheets. We became one, if only for a moment, two people, entwined together, wrapped in embrace. I am an aural person. Loving sounds. I had now placed my hand on her cheek, and wanted to hear her breath. I moved my head to her ear, and began to feel that feeling that I was close. She was beyond wet, beyond engorged at this point, and accepted my full length easily. She whispered to me, begging me to finish. She lightly touched my back, running her hands along the length of it, tenderly. I was close, and told her, softly, in her ear. That, again, put her in overload. Yet, this was a softer orgasm. She wanted to come with me. A light exploratory thrust, but I could no longer contain myself. Deep into her, I exploded. I grabbed her neck, so strong. She had her hand on my biceps, which strained against my own orgasm. My chest, dripping with sweat, slid against her ample bosom. Pushing harder and harder, deeper, as deep as I could go, what began three hours ago, was now done. 

  Once again, the world slowly faded back into view. The fan was on, above us. Incense long burned out. My play list had completed itself. It was quiet. Breath. I could hear myself breathing. Laying on my back, I had my left hand on her stomach, and could feel its rise and fall.There are sometimes moments between lovers when words are better left alone. This was one one of those moments. We stared at the ceiling. I reached over to the night stand with my right hand, and opened the drawer, to light a cigarette. I had placed a bottle of water on the nightstand, as well, and as she laid on her back, I took the top off and offered it to her. She, unable to focus properly, or lift an arm, nodded to me. I leaned to her, cupping her head, and poured a tiny amount into her mouth, just to wet her throat. I knew she was completely spent. I then offered her the smoke, and she closed her lips around it, and inhaled deeply. We stayed there, that night, embracing each other, as the dawn broke through the windows. After a few moments, she turned to her side, and cleared her long brown hair away, and laid her bare cheek on my chest. Her skin was flush, and warm. My chest still had remnants of sweat beads adorning it, glistening in the morning light, cracking through the blinds. As I drifted off with this goddess at my side, my thoughts were blank. I didnt want to let the world back in, not yet. This is a complete part of the experience of a woman like this. Even if, just for a night, she has given you her heart, her trust, and her body. Completely, she turned her soul over to you. No, I wasnt ready for the world yet. I ran my hand along her skin, comforting her. Holding her strong, and safe. I could feel her breath subside, as we both fell contentedly into the darkness of sleep.

Roasted Butternut Squash

One medium to large butternut squash (peeled and cubed) 1/5 cup of vegetable oil Heavy sprinkle of kosher salt. Heavy grind of pepper Preheat the oven to 4oo degrees. After peeling and cubing, place evenly on a baking rack. Make sure the cubes are as uniform as possible. Roast on foil for one hour, or until the edges become golden and crispy.

Baked Lobster Macaroni and Cheese, with Shaved Truffles. Ingredients 1/3 pound elbow macaroni 4 tablespoons butter 4 tablespoons flour 1 tablespoon powdered mustard 1/2 cup yellow onion, finely diced 2 bay leaves 3 cups milk 1/2 teaspoon paprika 1 large egg 12 ounces sharp cheddar, shredded ¼ to ½ pound lobster claw meat. Truffle, for shaving 1 teaspoon kosher salt Fresh black pepper Topping: 3 tablespoons butter 1 cup panko bread crumbs Directions Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a large pot of boiling, salt the water and cook the pasta While the pasta is cooking, in a separate pot, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and mustard and keep it moving for about five minutes.  Stir in the milk, onion, bay leaf, and paprika. Simmer for ten minutes and remove the bay leaves. Temper in the egg. Stir in 3/4 of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper. Fold the macaroni into the mix and pour into a 2-quart casserole dish. Top with remaining cheese. Put the claw meat in, before inserting into the oven. Melt the butter in a saute pan and toss the bread crumbs to coat. Top the macaroni with the bread crumbs. Bake for 30 minutes. Remove from oven and rest for five minutes before serving.

Meatloaf   6 ounces flavored croutons 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon chili powder 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1/2 onion, roughly chopped 1 carrot, peeled and broken and diced 3 whole cloves garlic 1/2 red bell pepper 18 ounces ground chuck 18 ounces ground sirloin 1 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 1 egg For the glaze: 1/2 cup catsup 1 teaspoon ground cumin Dash Worcestershire sauce Dash hot pepper sauce 1 tablespoon honey Directions Heat oven to 325 degrees F. In a food processor bowl, combine croutons, black pepper, cayenne pepper, chili powder, and thyme. Pulse until the mixture is of a fine texture. Place this mixture into a large bowl. Combine the onion, carrot, garlic, and red pepper in the food processor bowl. Pulse until the mixture is finely chopped, but not pureed. Combine the vegetable mixture, ground sirloin, and ground chuck with the bread crumb mixture. Season the meat mixture with the kosher salt. Add the egg and combine thoroughly, but avoid squeezing the meat. Pack this mixture into a 10-inch loaf pan to mold the shape of the meatloaf. Onto a parchment paperlined baking sheet, turn the meatloaf out of the pan onto the center of the tray. Insert a temperature probe at a 45 degree angle into the top of the meatloaf. Avoid touching the bottom of the tray with the probe. Set the probe for 155 degrees. Combine the catsup, cumin, Worcestershire sauce, hot pepper sauce and honey. Brush the glaze onto the meatloaf after it has been cooking for about 10 minutes.

Bored one night, I started writing the visual to one of my favorite songs. Many a night I’ve sat in a bar in this exact circumstance so it flowed fairly naturally. I hope you enjoy.

Pulling up, I could see the smoky blackness of the windows, keeping the light out and the night in. One spot left, and far away from the door, but I'll take it. And I'll be happy about it. Just getting done with the work day, at best I was scrubby. I had time to swing by my apartment for a quick shower, but not much else. Hair in locks to the shoulder, I hadnt shaved in days.

This was a normal stop on my route. Checking the watch, it was Tuesday. And more importantly, happy hour. I was a Forester and had been cutting tree's that day. Rain had bought the day to an early close. Middle aged, and not much else to do, stopping by for a few beer's made the time less idle. I slung my quilted shirt on over my tshirt and opened the door.

Busy tonight, I thought. Not unusually so, but more than most nights. I always sit at the bar. I like the interaction with the bartender. That, and most of the tables were full. I grabbed the lone stool and took off my ball cap to set it on the bar. I was just about to order a beer when the guy next to me lights up a cigar.  Personally, I love the smell and taste of a quality cigar. This smelled of sulfur from the match and burning leaves. With rubber mixed in. The bartender apparently agreed, as he yelled at the guy to put it out. This clearly pissed the guy off and he smashes the lit end into the bar to put it out. This bar wasnt much to brag about, but the bar itself was made of beautiful wood, laquered and cared for. Next thing I knew, the bartender had the guy by his cuff dragging him outside.

Watching the scene unfold, I noticed the neon's on the wall. Large and small, I've always loved the sound of the gas flowing with crackle through the tubes. The karoke neon was purple and red, with a microphone silhoutted and what looked like a hand around it. A large clover leaf, green and red, had the word "Budweiser" written through it. Another, flashing on and off, stated "Open until 2am."  My favorite, "BAR", in neon yellow red colors, was near the pool tables. I had veered my eyes in that direction, fancying a game, when she caught my eye.

Hands clenched from the cold, wearing a full length rain jacket, wrapped tightly around a tiny waist. Her head was down as she blew warmth into her hands, at the door. Behind her, just outside, the bartender had tossed cigar guy out and I could tell, she was reconsidering. As she looked up, I noticed two things. One, she saw the seat, which happened to be next to me, and headed towards it. And two, her eyes nearly shone in the darkness. Green, as of brittle emerald. Bursting or shattering, I couldnt tell which. She was unsettled, which was made worse as she walked to the seat, the guy four seats over started making his cat calls. The bartender was heading back to tend bar, and hushed him. I guess he knew, after what we all just saw, the bartender only asks once.

As she moved gracefully through the cloud of smoke, she reached the stool and took her jacket off, placing it on the back of the bar stool. Even the way she undid the sash binding her jacket to her waist, was elegant. But troubled. She was closer now, and as I looked to my left, it took my breath. Those short sips of air, like a series of hiccups, in succession. Her eyes. If Leonardo Da Vinci could come back to life, he would, simply to paint her eyes. That's what belonged on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

She laid her cell phone on the bar, and as the bartender smiled, ordered a glass of wine. My thoughts were dominated by "what do I say". I settled for just being close, for the time being. Watching, as she may have company joining her. Listening, as men simply don't do that enough anyway. As she sipped her, wine, her eyes moved back and forth to her phone. Scrolling, maybe emails, maybe news, for a fleeting moment she looked up to check her surroundings, and our eyes met. Frantic, I looked away. Some women have a power. An ability to look through you. Some men don't want their souls viewed. Like a schoolboy, my eyes diverted back to my beer. My fingers had unknowingly peeled the label away.

In the dim lit light of the bar, her eyes had an extra glow, as if blessed under a shamrock itself, and absorbing its properties. To describe them as simply "green" would be a misgiving.

 Imagine the color of a ripe Avacado mixed with uncertainty of a kaleidoscope. Sharp and piercing, brilliantly sparkling as a diamond, but something was missing. A glow that was normally there was gone. All this, you could tell in an instant. I couldnt help but think, next time they come my way, Heaven help me make them stay. As is always the case, the most likely scenario is, I'll pay my tab and catch a cab. But, what if? There is a certain passion to two strangers with a physical connection. Two people without the responsibility of tomorrow can entertwine as lovers and draw the energy from each other. Passion, intimacy, desire and lust are not requirements of love. But, they can be a by product of it. There would be no love this night. Nor likely any lust. I was still peering from my peripheral view, just to watch. But, I knew if I just had a sign, any sign, I could get deep into her and connect on a different level.

Somewhere between 7-10,000 years ago, man discovered planting grains is a great way to settle down for a moment. Stop all the hustle and bustle and put down some roots. After all, his girl had been after him to build a little place on a piece of land and grow old together. To the ripe old age of 34. Fast forward to 1980. A technology that would change the landscape of beer and of beer drinkers around the world forever.

In 1980, Dr. Kodama filed for a patent for Rapid Prototyping (RP). Sadly, Dr. Kodama, a patent attorney, filed the patent wrong. In 1986, Charles Hull filed a patent for Stereolithography Apparatus (SLA) and nailed it. Having invented the first SLA machine in 1983, he was able to duplicate and replicate items in three dimensions. Yes, Dear Reader. That is the subject of todays article. 3D printing and beer. And how it will make breweries obsolete.

In 2013, at the world renowned Brouwerij van de Opknoping Haan, expiramentation began with current technology to duplicate beer, in the pint glass, and realize Captain Kirk's reliance on the beloved replicator. Brouwerij van de Opknoping Haan is a full, state of the art brewery, with a focus on science of beer. With 3d printing working on many other applications, such as replicated organs, homes built in minutes, living and breathing dinosaurs, the crew decided to take on mankinds most important endevour, BEER. Enough practice with the unimportant. Now it was time to change things.

They said making Bud Light was easy, as its basically carbonated water. The true test for Brouwerij van de Opknoping Haan was to replicate a Dopplebock, with all the depth and complexity we've come to expect from the style. After much trial and error, hence button pushing, they came very close. The style reminded experts of a stout, but lacking the characteristics of a dopplebock. After reconfiguring and coding, hence button pushing, the brewery was able to produce a full flight, albeit accidentally, of 6 Dopplebocks, complete with paddle and inserts for the 4 oz tasting glasses. Unfortunately, one taster noticed the sheeting was incorrect on the glasses, so the team had to head back into the lab to reconfigure, hence button pushing. Three days later, drunken scientists felt confident enough to announce, via a Star Trek convention, 3d printed beer had arrived.

 March brings us many things. Warmer weather, warmer temperatures and most important,  All of us need to celebrate something very special. March is Women's History Month. As we celebrate and enjoy our better half (You KNOW this is true), it's important that we discuss some fact's about womens contributions to our favorite beverage, BEER! In fact, Dear Reader, its quite likely you arent familiar with a few things and I'm here to set the record straight.

Beer dominates and entertwines the history and culture of people. It's often theorized beer itself was discovered around 8-10,000 years ago, and was likely the reason for humans beginning the transformation from hunter-gatherer to domesticity. They discovered planting grains and harvesting those grains was a far more effective (and uses less energy) than chasing down herds of animals for months at a time. Often, men went out and did the hunting and women tended the household. Which, likely, was the farming/fields. The theory goes that a basket of grains was left  in the rain began the chemical process of Fermentation. Wild yeasts in the air joined the fray and the next thing they knew, they got out the Stone Hot Tubs, had some Mammoth meat delivered and had a party. 

We know beer was made around 7,000 years ago in Iran. We have pottery that has been submitted to chemical tests. This barley beer was found at Godin Tepe in the central mountains of Iran. Small pieces of a jug was found to be coated with "beerstone", which was a by-product of brewing. Over in Mesopotamia (now Iraq/Syra) is some of the oldest evidence of more "modern" beer. A stone tablet that depicts people drinking through reed straws out of a large bowl. It was common then to use straws to seperate the sedement.

Hymn to Ninkasi

Borne of the flowing water, Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag, Borne of the flowing water, Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Thus begins written history of women and beer. This was written by a Sumerian poet, found on a clay tablet around 1800 B.C. I won't list the entire poem (you can read it here), as its quite lengthy, but as translated, its the first known written recipe for beer! Ninkasi was a Sumerian Goddess, thought to be of brewing and beer. It's thought that she was the Head Brewer to the God's themselves! Her name translates to "The Lady who fills the Mouth" It's exciting to think that women were the early brewers of the nectar we know and love. She likely stirred her finger in each batch for extra sweetness.

Siduri – No ordinary tavern-keeper

According to her role in the Epic of Gilgamesh, Siduri is many things, depending on the version of interpretation you read. Some portray her as a barkeep of the Underworld. Others have her basking on a beach, running her tavern there, in the sunshine. Regardless of the version, she inevitably attempts to dissuade Gilgamesh from his journey in finding a way across the "waters of death" and directs him to Urshanabi, the ferryman, for safe passage. She is considered an "alewife". This was a term first coined in the 15th century to describe a "brewster" (feminine of brewer), however, it was used in translations through written history to describe any woman who brewed ale in that period. In Mesopotamia, women were principal brewers, at a time when beer was of great importance. Not only was beer consumed during the work day, it was also used in trades, as well as payment for services, such as a days work. Of utmost importance, it purified the water in ther fermentation process, making water safe and palatable.

So, lets fast forward to American colonization days. It's often theorized that beer discovered America. How? Dear Reader, I am glad you asked. It's important to know the TRUE history of our great nation. So, before leaving, the Nina, Pinta and the Santa Maria would have filled their casks with beer. Why? Because, for one, beer sanitized water, making it drinkable and would not spoil nearly as fast, especially with the addition of hops, which acts as a preservative. Now, they would have supplemented their water needs from rain water, but low alcohol content beer would have been a staple on the 2-3 month voyage. "We could not take much time for further search, our victuals being much spent, especially beer," wrote William Bradford in his firsthand account History of Plimouth Plantation.

 Upon seeing the shore line, they decided to pull over, have a smoke, get some directions, and replenish their beer stock. Well, to do this, they had to setup camp. In setting up camp, they discovered streams and wild life and a beautiful, yet rugged country. Thankfully, they decided to stick around. Women, once again, showed their prowess at brewing. Many brews were made with pumpkin, wheat, oats and honey. They also brewed beer with birch and spruce, which were substitutions they expiramented with. In doing this, several Colonial governments decided to institute purity type laws, very similar to Germany's  Reinheitsgebot, although, Germany's purity laws had been in place since 1487. This act from Colonial governments also stands as some of the first ordinances passed and regulated, making it some of the first "consumer" type laws in place.  Beer, at the time, also provided a nutritional benefit, in a diet which was often lacking certain minerals. On May 24, 1607, the first recorded free IHOP pancake day was created in the new colony. Ok ok. Not true. But the first feast was. And that included copious amounts of beer and cider. It's notable, and I hope I have impressed upon you, Dear Reader, the importance of this brew. It was not the pleasureable liquid we consume today. Beer was a staple. An absolute necessity of society. The Pilgrims experienced a critical shortage during their first few months in town. Fortunately, our explorers exhanged ingredients with Indians, beer for corn. Thus, Budweiser was born. In fact, once permanent homes were built, wives were almost always afforded a "kitchen brewery".

Brewsters were making beer in their homes but also making small batch beer for local taverns or inn's. Often, taverns were built first in the community, after housing, as it provided a place for communal gathering, as well as respite for weary travelers, which was akin to the internet then. How else were you to get your news from the next town over, or even from another territory! The time dictated that women did not drink in public, but that did not mean they couldnt imbibe their brew in their own home. As we now know, it was common place for women to have the job of tavern-keeper. They were known for making a particularly strong ale called "groaning beer", to relieve other women in labor from pain.

As we move forward in our beer timeline, we find that, in modern day, women are still perfecting the craft they've worked so hard at through the years.

Carol Stoudt – One of the first microbrewers in Pennsylvania, Carol brought beer to the area in 1987. She also owns and operates the Black Angus Steakhouse. Stoudt Brewery brews a pils, American Pale, and an English Style ale called "Scarlet Lady Ale", an American Double IPA, as a well as a Belgian-Abbey style ale, along with several stouts.

Deborah Carey – Founder and President of New Glarus Brewing. She was the first women to open and run a brewery in the U.S. Located in New Glarus, Wisconsin, the brewery was founded in 1993 and quickly rose to fame. In 2006, the new expansion and $21 million dollar facility was designed to resemble a Bavarian village and is a top tourist destination in the area. Her company gives around a $40 million dollar boost to the region's economy.

Sara Barton – Owner and Operator and Head Barrel Washer of Brewster's Brewery in Grantham, England. 20 years ago, Sara finished a Master's Degree in Brewing from Heriot Watt University in Edinburgh. In 1997, after a stint working with Eli Lilly, she returned to her life's passion and started her brewery. In 2012, she was voted as Brewer of the Year by the British Guild of Beer Writers.

Meg Gill – Co-founder of Golden Road Brewing and at 28 is the youngest brewery owner in the U.S. Forbes Magazine names her as one of its "30 under 30" to watch. And watching this young lady is a pleasure, as she is easy on the eyes, an exceptional brewer and business person. Golden Road rocked 15k barrels last year and expects to double that in the year following. Before co founding Golden Road, Meg sold Oskar Blues brew from an R.V.

Nicole Erny – One of a handful of Master Cicerone's in the world, as well as the first female Master Cicerone and the youngest Master Cicerone. The Cicerone series of tests applies your beer knowledge from start to finish in a series of exams. The first, Certified Beer Server, is an online test, designed to test basic knowledge. The second, Certified Cicerone, is decidely more complex, requiring a sitting and monitored exam covering brewing methods, equipment used, off flavors identification and much more. Ciceron.org explains it as "Those who achieve this certification have a deep and well-rounded knowledge of beer and beer service as well as competence in assessing beer quality and identity by taste." The third, and most complex, is the Master Cicerone. At my last count, there were ten in the world. Nicole is one of those ten. She had to participate in a rigorous two day exam that included multiple written, oral and tasting tests. Think Beer Dr. Nicole is a master of her craft and a testament to lovers of beer around the world.

The story goes in 900 B.C. Keith Richards established the first settlement in Roanoke. The mountains surrounding the valley were higher then, at 12,000 feet. Keith and his wandering band of minstrels were also glass blowers and the first thing they set out to do was create the Mill Mountain Star. I've also heard, because of the Star, Ben Franklin created electricity. It makes sense that, since the town is located on the Potomac River, that it was settled early and began its climb into history. Possibly, it's been there since the Earth was created. Just waiting for you, Dear Reader. Ok. None of this is true. Except for the Keith Richards part. I'm fairly certain he was around then. In truth, let's take a ride through my home city. You're in for quite a treat.

The Roanoke we know and love today wasn't always Roanoke, Va. Big Lick (insert that's what she said joke here?) was established in 1852. Very close to the Roanoke River, which flows through the heart of the city, was a large formation of salt. Deer will often lick salt blocks to get additional minerals. When Tasker Tosh (point o?) and Mark Evans saw this, they named the town "Big Lick". Careful. Don't get that word confused. For many generations these salt licks were home to Deer, Buffalo and even Elk. Later, based on explosive growth, the city was renamed "Roanoke", in 1882. The term "Roanoke" is from Algonquian Indians which were the original inhabitants of my soon to be beloved city. It means shell "money" or "Rawrenock" as shells were used for payment and trading in those days.

Roanoke was of great importance in the early formation of our country. It was a hub on the Great Wagon Road, one of the most travelled roads in colonial America and ran from Philadelphia into the Shenandoah Valley, into the Blue Ridge mountains. The Roanoke Gap, which is AKA Fancy Gap, allowed wagons to travel in and out of the valley. Still today, when entering you typically will drive up to Fancy Gap and then back down into Roanoke. It's a breathtaking view looking down and often, you are above the clouds formed. Forming off of Fancy Gap was the Wilderness Road, which ran South into Tennessee.

Roanoke was formed on rail.  The railroads came to the valley in 1852 providing expansive growth. Later, in 1882, Roanoke became an epicenter for rail which of course, brought early commerce and travelers. It's interesting to note, its downtown market was operating at this time and still continues to fuel the growth of the city today. But more on that later. Originally, the Shenandoah Valley Railroad laid its tracks on now famous soil and became Norfolk and Western Rail, later becoming Norfolk and Southern. At the time, rail secured a city on a map that was forming a nation. The importance of this cannot be understated as it provided the ability for distribution of goods and services far and wide. In fact, Roanoke was early termed "Magic City" because it became a chartered city so quickly, spurred by the growth of rail.

Fast forward to current. And the topic of today's pinings on the city that I love. I am coming home to it. In less than a week I will return to stunning mountain vista views everywhere. Breathtaking looks of peaks and valleys and when the seasons change, yellows and reds as far as the eye can see. I left when I was 26. I went out into the world and saw a fair piece of it. While I'm still hungry for more, from the day I've left, I missed the mountains I was raised in. There was always an ache in my heart for those. And now, at least for a minute, I'm coming back. And I'm excited to share with you, Dear Reader, what's in store.

I began working at Macado's at Grand Pavilion as a bartender when I was 21. We quickly became the busiest late night place in the area. Budweiser. Bud Light. Miller Lite were your primary options. If I recall, beer such as "ultra" was not even available. You poured this swill by the pitcher and people loved it. We had these massive fish bowls we served that were always breaking in the cooler. I remember my first taste of "Craft Beer". Newcastle on draft. I had no idea at the time how much this would impact my life later. It told me there was something out there thats different from the norm. I never liked Budweiser. I detested Bud Light. I guess my palate craved something better. And I found it in my beloved Newcastle. Macado's had a solid draft list, for the time. I believe we had six drafts with four mainstays. But, the other two would occasionally switch out to something new. Something unexplored. Macado's was then, in its early stages, developing peoples taste for "Craft Beer". I have no doubt there were home brewers at the time. But I had never even thought of brewing beer. I spent more than my fair share of time drinking it.

Over the last few years, as I visited, I noticed a marked change. I have seen quite a bit of this country. And I've drank my share of beer made in it. I think last count was around 500 unique beer's from the U.S. And around the world. I have hosted TV shows based around Craft Beer (watch videos here). I've been behind the scenes in many a brewery. I've cooked MANY dishes using beer. I am a certified beer server (www.cicerone.org) and in a few months will become the Roanoke area's only Certified Cicerone. This, according to the certification, makes me an expert in Craft Beer, similar to a Sommellier in wine. Beer is my thing. I drink it. I cook with it. I travel to see it. I write about it. I dream about it. And Roanoke is experiencing a Craft Beer explosion! But first, lets explore a few other notable's you'll want to visit when you come. 

High on a peak atop Mill Mountain, the Roanoke Star, or Mill Mountain star seemingly guards the valley with a watchful eye. It's one of the first things you look for as native when returning. There's a peaceful comfort in seeing it. Mill Mountain Star is the world's largest freestanding man made illuminated star. In 1949, it was built by the Roanoke Merchant's Association to celebrate the start of the Christmas shopping season. Originally, it was intended to be lit during this time but became so popular with the residents, it remained lit as a permanent structure. To start, the Star was all white in color. If the color changed to red, it meant there was a traffic fatality in the city, and acted as recognition and mourning for the loss of a resident. In 1976, (I was a toddler at this point) Roanoke decided to celebrate the bicentennial birthday of our nation and the colors were changed. A single star of red with inner white stars of white and blue shone over the valley to commemorate the patriotism my fellow Roanoker's share for this nation. On September 11, 2011 the Star changed to all white. At 88.5 feet tall and an elevation of 1703 ft the Star is built with 2,000 feet of neon tubing and needs 17,500 watts of power to operate. Standing below it, you can hear the hum and vibration of the Star itself, as you look out over the Roanoke Valley.

At it's base is a fond childhood memory, the Mill Mountain Zoo. Yes, Dear Reader, carved into the side and top of a mountain is quaint zoo which you will not want to miss when you visit. In it there are many animals, as well as many of my childhood memories. My Mom often took me to the zoo as a child. The Mill Mountain Star is a beacon for a city and stands as recognition that there is something special here.

Following the child hood memory trail is the Downtown City Market. When I left, it was struggling. You began to see businesses closed and boards on the windows. Through the years, whispers of resurgence were common in talk about downtown. My last visit, and one of the reasons I decided to return, greeted me with a vibrant downtown community. People walking from eatery to eatery, visiting the shops. It's exciting to see lofts now prominent and people living there to have the ability to walk. The food scene is not what you would expect from a city so guarded with mountains. The ethnicity is astounding. Indian food with its pleasant heat. Thai with exciting colors. Brazilian food (red means stop, green means go!) and Alehouses and Speakeasy's. But two downtown stand out. And no visit would be complete without a stop.

The Roanoke Weiner Stand. This ranks as high as any when I think back to being a kid. It was a pleasure and a treat to stop by. Opening in 1916 and continuing as an institution to this day, the menu is fairly simple. And I think that's what makes it so special. There is beauty in simplicity. The focus on one thing, done so well, it doesnt need to be changed. They have hot dogs. And they have fries. Order two dogs "all the way" and you will be handed a dog that will change your life. The buns are warmed in a seemingly ancient bun warmer. The motion in which they prep your dog can be missed literally in the blink of an eye, its so fast. Home made chili, mustard and onions are slathered on. You will then most likely stand at a bar top and inhale these gifts from the gods themselves. Honestly, they're good dogs. Nothing extravagant. You as a visitor may not taste the history and heritage of the city. But a native knows the deal. Because its not about the food. Its about eating a memory. Its about the bell ringing when you walk in and the smells of being a kid again.

A Bowl with and a Cheesy Western. Words heard echo'd into Roanoke's halls of history and a rite of passage for every Roanoker. Late at night, after a round or twelve with your pals, you head towards Church Street. A well lit building with cramped parking, it glows like a late night beacon beckoning to your soul. As you walk in, on your right is the line where the cooks make their masterpieces. Prepare for a wait. Stand or sit, or wait outside, its worth it. Fearful the building may crumble around you, you shout your order "A Bowl with and a Cheesy Western!" No, dont look at the menu. I've heard there are other items but dont be fooled. This is what youre after. That order will get you a cheeseburger with an egg on it and a bowl of chili. TT (as the locals call it) was founded by N. (Nick) Bullington on February 13th, 1930. I'm fairly certain the line cooks just reincarnate back into the TT line cooks when they die. His recipe for chili comes from San Antonio. Roanoke was one of many cities considered when he decided to take a bite out of the restaurant pie. The signs are clear. "We seat 1,000 people....10 at a time." "We don't take checks or play with bumblebee's". Trust me, Dear Reader, this is a life changer. And it'll absolutely take the wallop out of your hangover the next day.

As a kid, the world was my playground. I had a great childhood. I had land to roam and explore. We knew when it was time to come in because it got dark. I lived a few minutes away from Vinton, Va., but was practically raised in this small hamlet of a town. My parents business was in Vinton. I had family there. One of the most magical sounds a child can hear in the 70's in Vinton, Va. Was the sound of the bell announcing a mystical truck's short arrival. In this truck was housed a lemonade unlike any other in the world. Virginia can get hot in the summer. Over 100 degree's. And nothing refreshed quite like a Deb's Lemonade. Crisp and tart, with a sweet overtone, bits of lemon cascading through the ice. And at the bottom, like a hidden treat, was a slice of lemon. Now, its ice. Its lemons. Its a bit of sugar. And its a lot of magic. It's tasting a memory. No trip to Roanoke would be complete without Deb's.

We've talked about a few of the staples, a bit of the history and my memorable childhood terrorizing local neighborhoods. Let's talk about the crux of this article. Craft Beer. I could have never imagined a craft beer scene like I've seen grow in Roanoke. Of course, Craft Beer is popular in many states and around the world. It's experienced a resurgence in the last twenty years that boggles the mind. But, this country was founded on beer. In the early 1800's we had over 4000 breweries, small and large. In the 1920's we dived down to 80. The 1970's and 1980's saw home brewers working hard on small batch beer, many illegally due to state laws. But, this was a passion. There are no words to describe crafting and drinking your own beer. You took just a few basic ingredients and you made LIFE. Beer is alive in its formation. The science is mind boggling. But here we are. In Roanoke, Virginia.

The Craft Beer industry in Virginia is a whopping $630 Million Dollar industry (this info from my good friends over at @vabeertrail). There are currently seven "breweries" in Roanoke. Several of these are classified, and rightly so, microbreweries. Very small in house batches. Others, such as Soaring Ridge and Flying Mouse are setup to truly make beer in volume. At least enough to service the area. And honestly, these are my two favorites. Soaring Ridge is a warehouse type building with glass front. So as you drive by, you can see the people at tables and the bar socializing. Often, as with many breweries they have live music on certain nights, and you may see a food truck (more on Roanoke's Food Trucks later) perusing the parking lot. But the beer....folks....the beer. Its good. Its not belgium ancient. It's not Yuengling or Anchor Steam old, tried and tested against time itself. But its GOOD beer. Shockingly so.

Mosey down to Troutville, just outside of Roanoke and you find yourself a true gem, hidden against the back drop of the Appalachian Trail. Flying Mouse, if you can find it (I feel like thats intended), is WELL worth the drive and effort required. Turning into a nondescript road and driving for a half mile on gravel in the Virginia Woodlands, curious if you are close or.....oh. There it is! I see the lights! More modern in structure, this brewery is set up for a mighty capacity. I had the flight which made me decide, then and there, I want to be a part of this industry. Drinking that beer made it known in my head, this is good. And its going to get better. Just up the road is another favorite, Starr Hill. Not far is Devils Backbone. Virginia wine has been strutting its stuff for years and years. Now, its time to put America's favorite beverage and my favorite state center stage. Craft Beer has arrived in Virginia.

SuperBowl XLIX made two things clear. Tom Brady is a hall of fame Quarterback. And Craft Beer feathers are easily ruffled.

Immediately upon the airing of the now infamous craft beer commercial produced by Anheuser Busch, the craft beer community took to social media in droves, dropping their displeasure at the nerve of this conglomerate to display pride in its product, in the face of an onslaught from the craft beer freaksngeeks. Hipsters everywhere unzipped their skinny jeans, wiped their glasses off with their home made vinger and water concoction, tossed their gluten free/dairy free/calorie free soy nachos back on the plate, even going so far as to unplug their beard trimmer to charge their phone to make sure they have the juice to spout their anger.

Folks, Budweiser isnt going away any time soon. That's a fact. Let me preface this with a bit about me. I detest Bud Light. Yes, like many of you, I think its just this side of carbonated water with a beer flavoring added. And yes, I am deeply involved in the craft beer industry. I drink it. I film it. I write about it. I am also a chef that enjoys cooking with craft beer. So much so, I produced a pilot series that focuses on that very thing. You will find no defense of rice beer here. Yet, I respect Budweiser. As I respect Miller Lite. I have owned multiple businesses and know how hard it is to succeed, and even more, how difficult it is to brand an item as an icon. And yes, Budweiser IS an American Icon. As much as Ford or Chevy. As much as Coca Cola.

Ask any brewer, and they are likely to tell you, they respect Budweiser. No, it doesnt mean you have to drink their swill. But the ability to constantly produce the exact same beer is no easy task. Making beer is a process that is, at the very least, tempermental. The four main ingredients you will find in a beer are typically a grain (barley), yeast, water and love. Every bottle of Budweiser you taste will be identical to the last. In the volume they produce, this is no easy feat. This is a company that distributes that same beer to 80 different countries. It's a company that puts food on the table for over 150,000 families. Countless thousands more are employed indirectly through various distributor services. Forbes Magazine lists it as one of the worlds most innovative companies. In the last ten years, ABI has donated over $360 million dollars to non profit organizations. In 2005 they supplied over 9 million cans of drinking water to Hurricane Katrina victims.

Now, all that being said, understand, I am putting things in perspective, for you Dear Reader. And as stated, you will find no defense for the beer they make in this article. Nor will you ever find a Bud/Bud Light in my hand. Not even if its free. But, as in many things, free thinking is important. Since 2001, Google has purchased 174 technology companies. Since 1988, Apple has purchased 63 technology companies. Since 1987, Microsoft has purchased 171 technology companies. Did your Gucci Organic Bear Beard Grease cause your fingers to slip off your phone and not respond to those? Or are you simply riding the Craft Beer bandwagon and obeying whatever Draft Magazine tells you to? Sure, Craft Beer is making a major comback, in a major way. We just surpassed 3200 breweries in this nation and are approaching an all time Brewery count high, in a nation that, in many circles, is HERE because of beer. But make no mistake, Budweiser isnt going to close its doors just because you got your mankini in a wad over their commercial. Nor should they.

Budweiser spills more beer each day han 80% of the brewers in this country make. The beauty of the Craft Beer world can be summed up in two words. Creativity and passion. A Craft Brewer is a thankless job. Long hours and LOTS of sanitizing/cleaning. Most brewers I know call themselves the "janitor". But they are also a fiercely proud crowd that wants to put a product in your hand just so they can watch your face for that magical moment. I've seen it many times as a chef. The moment where you take that first sip. Your eyes close, as you breathe deep to inhale its intoxicating fumes. As the liquid passes your lips, it coats your tongue and invades your nose. Thousands of bubbles in a single sip, all carefully crafted for that exact moment, coat the back of your throat as the beer washes down. Yes. You just experienced a hopgasm. And its the finest compliment you can give your brewer.

Budweiser, now more than ever is in the business of business, more than the business of beer. It's been forced by a growing Craft Beer market to pay attention. And its going to do whatever is necessary to survive, and hopefully grow, as any business should. Elysian Brewing is a prime example. They have made it very clear, if anything, they are now able to produce an even more superior beer. They have access to new equipment and technology via the purchase from ABI. They have a better distribution platform to work from. Yet, their core beer will not change. It's business. And it's good business. And hey Budweiser, that was a DICK move with the whole "let someone else make their peach beer" statement. CLEARLY that was a shot at a brewery you just purchased.

In accordance with Greek mythology, Hera and Zeus has a son named Krokus. Hermes, while training, accidentally killed Krokus. As he died, he called for the Gods. Touched by his cry, the Gods covered him in dew and then turned his blood into the red threads of the Saffron flower.

Around 3,500 years ago, human cultivation of this spice began. Throughout time, this has remained one of the most time consuming spices to harvest, making it one of the most expensive.

Thought to have been first cultivated in Greece, now Saffron is cultivated in many climates, forming a line on each side of the Equator. Iran. Morocco. Greece are all still major producers. As well, Spain and Italy contribute heavily to the world harvest.

Once worth more than gold, Saffron is incredibly difficult to harvest. Most estimates maintain that to yield 1 lb of dry saffron, 50,000 to 75,000 flowers need to be picked.

The “stigma”, which are the part of the “crocus” that gives the yield. Also, once harvested, it must quickly be dried or the stigma can decompose ruining the harvest.

Typically, harvest occurs around the end of October. The plant blooms at dawn and the stigma strands should be harvested immediately, because it can wither very fast and loose color. In the process of drying, it will gain its bright red color and develop its aroma more.

Culinarily, Saffron is heavily used in North African, Asian and European dishes. Said to have aroma and flavor of honey, grassy or hay-like and sometimes a metallic note. Also incredibly popular in Spain, traditionally in broth or rice. Paella dishes are just not complete without the aroma and color traded for cooking with Saffron.

Morroccan cooks use this abundantly.

In France, bouillabaisse is not complete without using the spice.

Even the Swedes use this, for Cornish tea treat buns, or Lussebulle.

Iran's national dish, chelow kabab, also features Saffron heavily.