PJ and I, both California transplants, first encountered artichokes in a Pacific Palisades home in the early 1970s. Though it challenged my Midwest sensibilities, I remained intrigued and open-minded. Importantly, I did not choke, and passed a newcomer’s litmus test.
An artichoke is a perennial thistle. Someone, a long time ago, in North Africa, came upon an artichoke plant, peered at it, and exclaimed, “That looks like food!” His grub gathering partner noted the bulbous, prickly head at the end of a long stem – cut it off at its base, and then preceded to beat the crap out of his buddy, who had obviously been grazing on too much cannabis.
Fast-forward to today, and California is the home of both artichokes and cannabis, though I am just guessing on that second point. In fact, eating an artichoke without choking is one of the tests to become a Californian, third only to a valid driver’s license and choking on smog.
Today, it is not a staple in our house, but we enjoy one once a month. I have seen so many ways to prepare artichokes (or use as an ingredient) that this thistle could compete with the litany of shrimp uses recited by Forrest Gump’s best buddy, Bubba. But, you would expect that in California, home to nearly 100% of the chokes grown in the United States.
The choke migration began in North Africa. The French brought it to Louisiana, and the Spanish carried it to California. Those Spanish were everywhere in the 19th Century. Eighty percent of the production is in Monterey County, with Castroville claiming the title, “Artichoke Capital of the World”. A young Marilyn Monroe was crowned Castroville’s first “Artichoke Queen.”
Technically, an artichoke is a flower. If so, then deflowering one is something guys should know about, involving removing lots of layers, and careful handling to get to the heart of the matter.
Okay, since I have taken you this far, in the 16th Century only men were allowed to eat artichokes because they were considered an aphrodisiac and thought to enhance sexual power. As a former marketing maven, I have no idea why the California Artichoke Commission isn’t all over that tidbit. Knowing this, I suspect a lot of guys would eat them raw.
Eaten by themselves, chokes don’t have much flavor. Why else would they contain zero fat? I am not aware of anything called the Artichoke Diet, but when it comes to diets, nothing surprises. Chokes need dips to delight. The most common ones are melted butter and mayonnaise.
Think of eating an artichoke as similar to chips and dips – an American staple. The petals are the chips. After a couple of years of not choking on chokes, you will become Californianized. Zounds! Relax, you still can refrain from tofu and alfalfa sprouts.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Small Pleasures
Life’s small pleasures can enliven as much or more than an endless straining for those elusive peak periods.
Our herb garden is one of my small pleasures. My recipes require lots of fresh herbs. Most days I grab some scissors and walk outside – disappointing our dog, Dutch. Ever the optimist, he always assumes that I come outside just to play with him. Fortunately he hasn’t taken enough offense to dig up or pee on our small plot.
I grow fresh sage, mint, rosemary, chives, oregano and thyme. Rosemary, if you allow it, will become a large bush. Mint, if you allow it, will not only take over your yard, but the neighbor’s as well – on both sides. Originally I made the mistake of planting mint with the rest of the unsuspecting herbs. I’m still finding mint sprouts after thinking I uprooted them two years prior.
I re-planted the mint in two separate locations outside our kitchen alcove, giving them their own space, and am allowing them to become full bushes. As long as they don’t uproot our house, we will have a peaceful, productive co-existence. I have been preparing more lamb lately, so I’m using more mint.
I flunked the tarragon and dill classes, two more favorite herbs. They died a quick death. Or maybe Dutch peed on them behind my back. Herbs I still purchase, in addition to tarragon and dill, are basil and parsley. See my earlier Basil Me post. I use way too much to grow it. Nor do I have enough space for parsley.
I don’t know if herbal medicine works wonders or not. I do know that my HMO wouldn’t pay for it. Until someone comes up with a study to the contrary, PJ and I will remain herbally heavily medicated.
Our herb garden is one of my small pleasures. My recipes require lots of fresh herbs. Most days I grab some scissors and walk outside – disappointing our dog, Dutch. Ever the optimist, he always assumes that I come outside just to play with him. Fortunately he hasn’t taken enough offense to dig up or pee on our small plot.
I grow fresh sage, mint, rosemary, chives, oregano and thyme. Rosemary, if you allow it, will become a large bush. Mint, if you allow it, will not only take over your yard, but the neighbor’s as well – on both sides. Originally I made the mistake of planting mint with the rest of the unsuspecting herbs. I’m still finding mint sprouts after thinking I uprooted them two years prior.
I re-planted the mint in two separate locations outside our kitchen alcove, giving them their own space, and am allowing them to become full bushes. As long as they don’t uproot our house, we will have a peaceful, productive co-existence. I have been preparing more lamb lately, so I’m using more mint.
I flunked the tarragon and dill classes, two more favorite herbs. They died a quick death. Or maybe Dutch peed on them behind my back. Herbs I still purchase, in addition to tarragon and dill, are basil and parsley. See my earlier Basil Me post. I use way too much to grow it. Nor do I have enough space for parsley.
I don’t know if herbal medicine works wonders or not. I do know that my HMO wouldn’t pay for it. Until someone comes up with a study to the contrary, PJ and I will remain herbally heavily medicated.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Tour de France Groupie
Stay-at-home guys, domestic engineer or otherwise, have total control of the TV – at least during the day. Granted, there isn’t much on of interest during the day, unless you are a closet soap opera fan (if so you might want to kept that nugget of information from your best buds), or think Judge Judy is hot. You could watch Regis fawning over himself, or the catfights on The View.
I pass.
But for me, every July, primetime begins at 5:30 AM PST. That is the West Coast start of the Tour de France.
Okay, I don’t get up at 5:30, but close. Already a 6ish riser, in July, grabbing the remote is the first thing I do. Well, I put clothes on first. The broadcast is finished by 9 AM, leaving me with a full day to fulfill my Domestic Engineer Guy duties, work in some writing time, play computer Solitaire, and watch the grass grow.
I am a Tour de France groupie. Yes, I rooted for Lance during his incredible record-breaking run. But I also was a devotee during the three years he “retired.” I believe the Tour to be the #1 athletic challenge in the world, surpassing Ironman, triathlons, 100-mile endurance runs, and 50-year marriages. Any winner awes me, regardless of nationality.
Lance is back, at age 37. That still seems quite young to me. To the Tour, it is not. I’m pulling for him again, and not just because he is American. He is a walking medical miracle, not only because he is a cancer survivor, but because he is a cancer survivor who has won a record seven Tour titles.
After one victory he was quoted as saying, “I believe that the man who works hardest deserves to win. When it is pouring rain and you go ride for six hours with no one on the side of the road cheering you on or booing you, that’s why you get to nights like tonight.”
His above average femur bones’ length, one-third larger heart, and higher capacity lungs don’t hurt. Cap that with a 4-5% body fat at Tour time.
A native Texan, Lance is multi-lingual, fluent in English, French, and Texan.
The next few weeks will tell if the Tour has once again become The Tour de Lance.
I pass.
But for me, every July, primetime begins at 5:30 AM PST. That is the West Coast start of the Tour de France.
Okay, I don’t get up at 5:30, but close. Already a 6ish riser, in July, grabbing the remote is the first thing I do. Well, I put clothes on first. The broadcast is finished by 9 AM, leaving me with a full day to fulfill my Domestic Engineer Guy duties, work in some writing time, play computer Solitaire, and watch the grass grow.
I am a Tour de France groupie. Yes, I rooted for Lance during his incredible record-breaking run. But I also was a devotee during the three years he “retired.” I believe the Tour to be the #1 athletic challenge in the world, surpassing Ironman, triathlons, 100-mile endurance runs, and 50-year marriages. Any winner awes me, regardless of nationality.
Lance is back, at age 37. That still seems quite young to me. To the Tour, it is not. I’m pulling for him again, and not just because he is American. He is a walking medical miracle, not only because he is a cancer survivor, but because he is a cancer survivor who has won a record seven Tour titles.
After one victory he was quoted as saying, “I believe that the man who works hardest deserves to win. When it is pouring rain and you go ride for six hours with no one on the side of the road cheering you on or booing you, that’s why you get to nights like tonight.”
His above average femur bones’ length, one-third larger heart, and higher capacity lungs don’t hurt. Cap that with a 4-5% body fat at Tour time.
A native Texan, Lance is multi-lingual, fluent in English, French, and Texan.
The next few weeks will tell if the Tour has once again become The Tour de Lance.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
You're a Y Chromosome-challenged Guy
In Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys he writes, “To understand guys, it is essential to remember that, deep down inside they are biological creatures, like jellyfish or trees, only less likely to clean the bathroom.” Too true. But in our simplicity we can be efficient. There’s less to clean by leaving the toilet seat up.
New York Times superstar scriber, Maureen Dowd, doesn’t mince words, titling a recent book, Are Men Necessary? Her mother suggested her title be “Why Men Are Necessary” saying, “Men are necessary for breeding and heavy lifting.” Later Dowd debunks the breeding part with an exchange with Brian Sykes, a leading British researcher on sex chromosomes.
“Are men necesssary? I asked Dr. Sykes
‘Clearly not,’ he replied
Are men necessary? I asked British geneticist Steve Jones.
‘You don’t even need the sex slaves,’ Dr. Jones assured me.
‘You only need their cells in a freezer. You’d have to have a very good electricity supply.’ “
I have a one word response to this - British.
Dowd goes on to write, “The latest research on the Y chromosome shows that my jittery male friends are not paranoid. They are in an evolutionary pratfall…The Y chromosome has been shedding genes willy-nilly for millions of years and is now a fraction of the size of its partner, the X chromosome…Size matters, and experts are suggesting that, in the next one hundred thousand to ten million years, men could disappear, taking Maxim, March Madness and cold pizza in the morning with them.” Great, guys got jobbed from the get-go with one each of the Y and X chromosome. Women were gifted two of the X factor. Plus, the X chromosome has 1098 genes to the Y’s paltry 78. Making matters worse, the Y chromosome is smaller and still shrinking. That alone explains viagra.
What, me worry? My faith in evolution fortifies me. It took this long for our Y chromosome to dwindle to dwarf-like, what’s another one hundred thousand to ten million years of devolution? Besides, if women were born into gene wealth, what’s taking them so long to dominate? (About now, I’m heading for cover to avoid the incoming.)
Leave it to an American to stand up for us Y-types. Dr. David Page of the Whitehead Institute for Biomedical Research in Cambridge, Massachusetts calls himself “the defender of the rotting Y chromosome,” saying “I prefer to think of the Y as persevering and noble…not as the Rodney Dangerfield of the human genome.” Dr. Page later concludes, “The Y married up. The X married down.” That pretty much describes my marriage.
We Y-types are “persevering and noble.” When you consider our starter kit, we have made the most of it. Our Y is wimpier, but when comes to the Olympics, professional sports and heavy lifting, who ya gonna call? Regular Y-guys counter their wimpy Y with Smith & Wessons, Harleys, monster trucks, Hummers, triathlons, and when 40-something is in the rearview mirror, viagra.
Infinite changes notwithstanding, I say why fight osmosis? Let’s take our gene-shedding Y chromosome and fight back, chromosome-boosting in the kitchen. Where else can you dice, mince, chop, grate, pound, whip, peel, boil, broil, roast, flame, fry, crush, mash, toss, stuff, shake and bake? Legally. Bring out your inner-chef and come out of the closest. Just remember to bring an apron.
And women need men for more than sperm and heavy lifting. According to Jill Connor Browne’s The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love women want five things from guys:
Someone to talk to
Someone to fix things
Someone to pay for things
Someone to dance with
Someone to have sex with
Or, in my case, I have engineered a blockbuster trade - cooking in lieu of paying for things.
We have to work with the Y’s and wherefores we were given. Compensating by buying a Hummer doesn’t change anything, other than your tank account.
While I’m at it, let me debunk another myth. Men cannot multi-task. Bull. Any male cook worth his Harley-powered Kitchenaid mixer, multi-tasks every meal. Consider - the cocktails are being sipped, the appetizers are being plated, the wine is breathing, the pie is in the oven, the entrée is rubbed and ready for grilling, the sauce is soon to be assembled, the conversation is two-way, the CDs are mood-setting, the muted football game is in the sight-line, and he’s fantasizing about the post-dessert festivities.
That said, I bow down to my sister-in-law who can process three laundry loads, and prepare a five-course meal for 16, all while talking to three friends on the phone.
New York Times superstar scriber, Maureen Dowd, doesn’t mince words, titling a recent book, Are Men Necessary? Her mother suggested her title be “Why Men Are Necessary” saying, “Men are necessary for breeding and heavy lifting.” Later Dowd debunks the breeding part with an exchange with Brian Sykes, a leading British researcher on sex chromosomes.
“Are men necesssary? I asked Dr. Sykes
‘Clearly not,’ he replied
Are men necessary? I asked British geneticist Steve Jones.
‘You don’t even need the sex slaves,’ Dr. Jones assured me.
‘You only need their cells in a freezer. You’d have to have a very good electricity supply.’ “
I have a one word response to this - British.
Dowd goes on to write, “The latest research on the Y chromosome shows that my jittery male friends are not paranoid. They are in an evolutionary pratfall…The Y chromosome has been shedding genes willy-nilly for millions of years and is now a fraction of the size of its partner, the X chromosome…Size matters, and experts are suggesting that, in the next one hundred thousand to ten million years, men could disappear, taking Maxim, March Madness and cold pizza in the morning with them.” Great, guys got jobbed from the get-go with one each of the Y and X chromosome. Women were gifted two of the X factor. Plus, the X chromosome has 1098 genes to the Y’s paltry 78. Making matters worse, the Y chromosome is smaller and still shrinking. That alone explains viagra.
What, me worry? My faith in evolution fortifies me. It took this long for our Y chromosome to dwindle to dwarf-like, what’s another one hundred thousand to ten million years of devolution? Besides, if women were born into gene wealth, what’s taking them so long to dominate? (About now, I’m heading for cover to avoid the incoming.)
Leave it to an American to stand up for us Y-types. Dr. David Page of the Whitehead Institute for Biomedical Research in Cambridge, Massachusetts calls himself “the defender of the rotting Y chromosome,” saying “I prefer to think of the Y as persevering and noble…not as the Rodney Dangerfield of the human genome.” Dr. Page later concludes, “The Y married up. The X married down.” That pretty much describes my marriage.
We Y-types are “persevering and noble.” When you consider our starter kit, we have made the most of it. Our Y is wimpier, but when comes to the Olympics, professional sports and heavy lifting, who ya gonna call? Regular Y-guys counter their wimpy Y with Smith & Wessons, Harleys, monster trucks, Hummers, triathlons, and when 40-something is in the rearview mirror, viagra.
Infinite changes notwithstanding, I say why fight osmosis? Let’s take our gene-shedding Y chromosome and fight back, chromosome-boosting in the kitchen. Where else can you dice, mince, chop, grate, pound, whip, peel, boil, broil, roast, flame, fry, crush, mash, toss, stuff, shake and bake? Legally. Bring out your inner-chef and come out of the closest. Just remember to bring an apron.
And women need men for more than sperm and heavy lifting. According to Jill Connor Browne’s The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love women want five things from guys:
Someone to talk to
Someone to fix things
Someone to pay for things
Someone to dance with
Someone to have sex with
Or, in my case, I have engineered a blockbuster trade - cooking in lieu of paying for things.
We have to work with the Y’s and wherefores we were given. Compensating by buying a Hummer doesn’t change anything, other than your tank account.
While I’m at it, let me debunk another myth. Men cannot multi-task. Bull. Any male cook worth his Harley-powered Kitchenaid mixer, multi-tasks every meal. Consider - the cocktails are being sipped, the appetizers are being plated, the wine is breathing, the pie is in the oven, the entrée is rubbed and ready for grilling, the sauce is soon to be assembled, the conversation is two-way, the CDs are mood-setting, the muted football game is in the sight-line, and he’s fantasizing about the post-dessert festivities.
That said, I bow down to my sister-in-law who can process three laundry loads, and prepare a five-course meal for 16, all while talking to three friends on the phone.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Reality Bites
This is off-message from my usual postings, but now and then life intercedes in a way that gets my attention.
A few days ago I made a quick run to my regular supermarket – Vons – a California chain owned by the mega-chain, Safeway.
I only needed a few items, so I headed for the quick checkout line. Several people were in front of me, and directly in front of me was an elderly, short, Latina woman. I noted nothing else about her until it was her turn to checkout. She placed on the conveyor belt a single ear of corn.
The employee asked her if she had a Von’s Club card, the kind most stores promote, offering discounts for a litany of items each week. She did not. Yet, the corn was on sale for 25 cents an ear – with a Von’s Club card.
She showed me the 25 cents in her hand. Expecting she would have a problem, I began foraging for coins in my pocket.
To the credit of the Von’s employee, he handed her a Von’s Club card application, and rang up the sale of an ear of corn for 25 cents.
I have no context to this story – I know nothing about her. Our lives only crossed for a moment - a moment that gave me pause.
We all need more moments that give us pause, and touch our souls.
A few days ago I made a quick run to my regular supermarket – Vons – a California chain owned by the mega-chain, Safeway.
I only needed a few items, so I headed for the quick checkout line. Several people were in front of me, and directly in front of me was an elderly, short, Latina woman. I noted nothing else about her until it was her turn to checkout. She placed on the conveyor belt a single ear of corn.
The employee asked her if she had a Von’s Club card, the kind most stores promote, offering discounts for a litany of items each week. She did not. Yet, the corn was on sale for 25 cents an ear – with a Von’s Club card.
She showed me the 25 cents in her hand. Expecting she would have a problem, I began foraging for coins in my pocket.
To the credit of the Von’s employee, he handed her a Von’s Club card application, and rang up the sale of an ear of corn for 25 cents.
I have no context to this story – I know nothing about her. Our lives only crossed for a moment - a moment that gave me pause.
We all need more moments that give us pause, and touch our souls.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Bookish Club
Like most guys, heretofore your reading tastes have not progressed much beyond espionage novels, the wit and wisdom of Yogi Berra, and fart-joke books.
Maybe writing the great American novel is not on your “to do” list, or any tome for that matter, but there is still time to correct that “C” you earned in English Reading and Comprehension. Just be prepared - there are few male heroes in literature, at least literary literature (as contrasted with commercial literature - think Tom Clancy and John Grisham)*. If you need male heroes, read romance novels. I tried once and did not make it past the first chapter, but my romance-novel-addicted-wife forces me to listen to passages all of the time. She may be trying to tell me something.
For the times you cannot laugh at yourself, read anything by Carl Hiaason, or Dave Barry. For you golf gophers, Hiaason just published a non-fiction rant entitled Down Hill Lie.
If joining a book club appeals, I have bad news - you actually have to read 10-11 books a year and mutter something reasonably succinct other than thumbs up or down, or “hated it.”
If you are a male minority member of your book club, be prepared for the pre-discussion gabfest to range from the latest dog obedience school certificates to the pros and cons of tile versus slate versus limestone kitchen countertops.
After a few years, you too can discuss the subtle distinctions between post-modern and southern gothic literature**. Your vocabulary will finally surpass 10th grade level. This strategy, plus the daily crosswords, will replace some of those dead zone brain cells.
If the group picks The Brothers Karanazov, call in sick. If you are having bouts of depression, don’t read anything by Sylvia Plath.
More bad news - you have to host 1-2 times a year. You could dash out and buy prepared grub 1-2 hours in advance, but where’s the challenge in that? Besides, if you failed to finish the monthly selection, you need to redeem yourself with the spread you prepare.
We usually open three wines, two reds and a white. This further makes for a lively discussion. Better parting hugs, too.
Our book club could more appropriately called a Book, Cooking, and Wine Tasting Club. After eight years we could assemble a pretty top-notch collection of recipes.
* The library shelves are quite bare. But, it would be hard to top the modeling of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, even if he doesn’t cook. Sadly, there are too few Atticus Finches in the world, and in literature.
** Southern Gothic Literature usually deals with the struggles of those oppressed by traditional Southern culture. Southern Gothic authors include Harper Lee, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and Carson McCullers. As for Postmodern Literature, I still haven’t a clue. They let me stay in the club anyway. I think it’s because of my cooking.
Maybe writing the great American novel is not on your “to do” list, or any tome for that matter, but there is still time to correct that “C” you earned in English Reading and Comprehension. Just be prepared - there are few male heroes in literature, at least literary literature (as contrasted with commercial literature - think Tom Clancy and John Grisham)*. If you need male heroes, read romance novels. I tried once and did not make it past the first chapter, but my romance-novel-addicted-wife forces me to listen to passages all of the time. She may be trying to tell me something.
For the times you cannot laugh at yourself, read anything by Carl Hiaason, or Dave Barry. For you golf gophers, Hiaason just published a non-fiction rant entitled Down Hill Lie.
If joining a book club appeals, I have bad news - you actually have to read 10-11 books a year and mutter something reasonably succinct other than thumbs up or down, or “hated it.”
If you are a male minority member of your book club, be prepared for the pre-discussion gabfest to range from the latest dog obedience school certificates to the pros and cons of tile versus slate versus limestone kitchen countertops.
After a few years, you too can discuss the subtle distinctions between post-modern and southern gothic literature**. Your vocabulary will finally surpass 10th grade level. This strategy, plus the daily crosswords, will replace some of those dead zone brain cells.
If the group picks The Brothers Karanazov, call in sick. If you are having bouts of depression, don’t read anything by Sylvia Plath.
More bad news - you have to host 1-2 times a year. You could dash out and buy prepared grub 1-2 hours in advance, but where’s the challenge in that? Besides, if you failed to finish the monthly selection, you need to redeem yourself with the spread you prepare.
We usually open three wines, two reds and a white. This further makes for a lively discussion. Better parting hugs, too.
Our book club could more appropriately called a Book, Cooking, and Wine Tasting Club. After eight years we could assemble a pretty top-notch collection of recipes.
* The library shelves are quite bare. But, it would be hard to top the modeling of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, even if he doesn’t cook. Sadly, there are too few Atticus Finches in the world, and in literature.
** Southern Gothic Literature usually deals with the struggles of those oppressed by traditional Southern culture. Southern Gothic authors include Harper Lee, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and Carson McCullers. As for Postmodern Literature, I still haven’t a clue. They let me stay in the club anyway. I think it’s because of my cooking.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Pre-Cruise Regimens
PJ and I are off on a cruise this weekend in the Caribbean. My nephew decided he wanted to get hitched on a beach in St. Lucia. So, you know, family obligations.
Regardless, we are grateful to him and his future bride for giving us another excuse to spend a week with 3500 other people, closely billeted on the world’s largest floating septic tank, surpassed only by aircraft carriers.
The Caribbean islanders call these port-o-call stops “The Invasion of Very Large People Wearing White Nikes.” If you are not large when you board, you will be a few days later.
We are amazed that the happy couple has amassed so many close friends so quickly. I posted a special sign-up page on the Royal Caribbean’s Adventure of the Seas’ website for the “Hans & Tracey St. Lucia Wedding Excursion”. So far 2753 have accepted the invitation. It is a special surprise I arranged for my brother, Hans’ father.
Most importantly, as a veteran of three humongous-ship-cruises, I thought I would share some pre-cruise regimens I have found useful.
· Turn your air conditioner down to 70 degrees. Stay in the house for half an hour, then, if you live in a warmer climate*, go outside for half an hour. Return to your house and repeat this ritual several times a day for the next three days. If you catch a cold…don’t come. If you don’t, you will have built up enough immunity for the cruise. *If from a colder climate, turn on your shower to high heat and stand in the middle of your bathroom without any fans running.
· Buy your favorite adult beverage and drink mass quantities of it over three hours. Vomiting is allowed – you’re in training. Repeat for the next four nights. The key object is to be able to find your key and your room at the end of the evening.
· If married or you have a roommate, move into about 200 square feet or less of space for the next several days. Perform basic living exercises while in the space. Try very hard not to get into each other’s face. Try to find a place to “contribute to the ambiance” discretely. Women will find this easier to do than men. While on the cruise your best bets are the balcony or the bathroom. If billeted in an inside cabin, you’re in foul-air jail.
· Try to go several days without roto-rootering your nose or scratching yourself in your nether region…in public. For guys this is actually impossible. The ship photographers seemingly take pictures of everything. They have no compunction about posting all photos on the ship’s gallery.
· Don’t be bothered that your stateroom attendant makes sculptures out of your pillows, towels or whatever he/she finds available. Hint – do not leave your underwear lying around. They are just angling for bigger tips.
· Visit your local flea market. Practice your negotiating skills. This will prepare you for the island stops and bizarre bazaars. On a cruise stop, paying more than half of the asking price is lame.
· Buy a calypso CD and Bobby Ferrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Practice your favorite Karaoke numbers to the beat of steel drums.
· Find a local all-you-can-eat buffet and visit it several times over the next few days. Consume mass quantities of everything. The goal is to stretch your stomach. Again, if you vomit, that’s fine. You are in training. Vomiting on the cruise, however, is not permitted, especially on the party balcony.
· Dust off your favorite resort attire and get in the mood early. Just don’t wear it in public. You neighbors will talk. On the cruise you will be part of the Brotherhood of Pasty-faced, and Pasty-legged Men Wearing Hawaiian Shirts.
If you follow these pre-cruise regimens, I guarantee that all will have a memorable time.
Regardless, we are grateful to him and his future bride for giving us another excuse to spend a week with 3500 other people, closely billeted on the world’s largest floating septic tank, surpassed only by aircraft carriers.
The Caribbean islanders call these port-o-call stops “The Invasion of Very Large People Wearing White Nikes.” If you are not large when you board, you will be a few days later.
We are amazed that the happy couple has amassed so many close friends so quickly. I posted a special sign-up page on the Royal Caribbean’s Adventure of the Seas’ website for the “Hans & Tracey St. Lucia Wedding Excursion”. So far 2753 have accepted the invitation. It is a special surprise I arranged for my brother, Hans’ father.
Most importantly, as a veteran of three humongous-ship-cruises, I thought I would share some pre-cruise regimens I have found useful.
· Turn your air conditioner down to 70 degrees. Stay in the house for half an hour, then, if you live in a warmer climate*, go outside for half an hour. Return to your house and repeat this ritual several times a day for the next three days. If you catch a cold…don’t come. If you don’t, you will have built up enough immunity for the cruise. *If from a colder climate, turn on your shower to high heat and stand in the middle of your bathroom without any fans running.
· Buy your favorite adult beverage and drink mass quantities of it over three hours. Vomiting is allowed – you’re in training. Repeat for the next four nights. The key object is to be able to find your key and your room at the end of the evening.
· If married or you have a roommate, move into about 200 square feet or less of space for the next several days. Perform basic living exercises while in the space. Try very hard not to get into each other’s face. Try to find a place to “contribute to the ambiance” discretely. Women will find this easier to do than men. While on the cruise your best bets are the balcony or the bathroom. If billeted in an inside cabin, you’re in foul-air jail.
· Try to go several days without roto-rootering your nose or scratching yourself in your nether region…in public. For guys this is actually impossible. The ship photographers seemingly take pictures of everything. They have no compunction about posting all photos on the ship’s gallery.
· Don’t be bothered that your stateroom attendant makes sculptures out of your pillows, towels or whatever he/she finds available. Hint – do not leave your underwear lying around. They are just angling for bigger tips.
· Visit your local flea market. Practice your negotiating skills. This will prepare you for the island stops and bizarre bazaars. On a cruise stop, paying more than half of the asking price is lame.
· Buy a calypso CD and Bobby Ferrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Practice your favorite Karaoke numbers to the beat of steel drums.
· Find a local all-you-can-eat buffet and visit it several times over the next few days. Consume mass quantities of everything. The goal is to stretch your stomach. Again, if you vomit, that’s fine. You are in training. Vomiting on the cruise, however, is not permitted, especially on the party balcony.
· Dust off your favorite resort attire and get in the mood early. Just don’t wear it in public. You neighbors will talk. On the cruise you will be part of the Brotherhood of Pasty-faced, and Pasty-legged Men Wearing Hawaiian Shirts.
If you follow these pre-cruise regimens, I guarantee that all will have a memorable time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
