The Fifth Annual Cheesemonger Invitiational

Picture, if you will, a cold storage unit in Long Island City. Outside it is a grubby wasteland of featureless warehouses and tiny pieces of broken glass, with only a few taped-up signs and a line of suspiciously young and well-dressed people to mark the door. Inside, a man in a cow costume is standing on a stage, calling himself "Mr. Moo" and periodically shouting things like "If you love raw milk, let me hear you say 'Mooo!'" to a moderately responsive crowd. Around the two large rooms of the warehouse tables have been set up, some offering small samples of cheese while others serve dishes like raclette and fondue and a ploughman's lunch with a whole roast pig. Drink tickets are handed out at the door, and then promptly ignored by the servers behind the two bars, who are distributing cans of craft beer and plastic cups of wine as fast as the lines can reach them. On the stage with Mr. Moo a small group of people who sell cheese for a living are preparing to demonstrate their skills. An Australian television personality stands by and tries to make sense of it all. This is the 5th Annual Cheesemonger Invitational, and I really wish I had thought to take some photos.

We did not go to New York with the intention of having surreal cheese-based experiences. We were there to visit with friends, see the city, and maybe do a little shopping. But when the announcement of the event happened to cross my path two days before, I have to admit that I was powerless to resist. You know me.

I Would Also Accept Shrubbery

I recently was in Santa Fe, where I had a chance to visit the Georgia O'Keefe museum. It's a lovely place and I highly recommend it. They, quite reasonably, have a lot of restrictions on taking pictures of the paintings, but none at all for the quotes posted on the wall.


This is about painting, obviously, but I think it applies equally well to story ideas.

And this one I could just relate to in general.

So You Think Finland Can Dance

Do not ask why I was searching for "Finnish Tango" on YouTube in the middle of the day. Just enjoy this video about the hairstyles and leisure activities of the mid-eighties in Finland, and appreciate this quote from the intro:

“. . .A country where gloom is pervasive. Melancholy, sorrow and shyness abound. All this, though, is alleviated by a massive intake of alcohol.”

Watch Out For Frogs*

When we last spoke** I mentioned that I was back from Vegas, and then vanished again. Not, as you might imagine, to sleep off the hangover, but to head up the coast for a relaxing long weekend in Bodega Bay, a place with no showgirls at all. It was a lovely trip that was exciting for several reasons, but I'm going to talk about the frogs.

We were staying at my family's vacation place***, which we call the Barn because that's what it is. But there's a shower and a microwave and a wood stove and stuff, and lots of books and it all quite nice as long as you don't mind a bit of nature in your days.

Also, under your phone. But we'll get to that in a minute.

I guess you really can't blame the frogs for moving in. For much of the time the Barn is dark and quiet, with a pretty good supply of things that frogs eat and a total dearth of things that eat frogs. I'd come across one on a previous trip, living in the toilet tank, which inspired me to try and coin the euphemism "Excuse me while I go talk to the frog." It didn't catch on.

So it wasn't a total shock when I went to look for the password for the wifi and found two frogs living under the modem. And another, slightly larger one tucked in a nook under the phone. But it was definitely a surprise.

There were three in the bathroom; not immediately evident but almost always around. It was an amphibian Where's Waldo, only with fewer people in medieval costumes falling off ladders and more hand towels.

One thing I decided is that being a frog must be pretty boring, because they seemed to take to the fact that they had an audience with enthusiasm. The game seemed to be to see who could come up with the best place to be hiding when I came across them, with some points for dropping off the top of the medicine cabinet when I opened it and perching on the shampoo first thing in the morning and a nearly game-winning play that involved climbing into my toiletries bag when I took it into the bathroom at night and waiting there until I went to get my deodorant in the morning. But the honors went to the player who hid in the sink drain until I came to wash my hands, and looking at me accusingly through the soap suds.****

It was like a frog vaudeville in there.




*Fifty nerd points to anyone who gets that reference.
**Blogged, whatever.
***"Cottage" in Canadian.
****Handy fact: Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day hand soap is apparently non-toxic to frogs. They should put that on the label.

Meanwhile. . .

In Vegas, I tried on but did not buy these shoes. I also did not have my wallet stolen, which was quite a relief.

Details to follow.

Programming Note

There won't be much going on here for the next week or so, except for one Ugly Clothes for Rich People post that I am going to write now and set to go up at some random time, because I am going to be in Vegas, testing the effects of heatstroke on a hangover. It should be warmish:

So I guess I'll just have to find myself somewhere air-conditioned.

Arizona: Canada's Eleventh Province?

When coming up with adjectives to describe spring in Arizona, "Canadian" is not the first thing that springs to mind. It comes in well behind "dry," "hot,""arid," "baseball-y" and "sere." But evidence of the presence and cultural impact of our neighbors to (or, in this case, from) the North, from the guys sitting behind us at the baseball game who actually punctuated their statements with the occasional "eh?" and the appearance, in the aggressively Olde Western downtown Scottsdale, of a place selling shwarma*, to this sign:

Curling in Phoenix! Phoenix, where ice doesn't even bother melting, it just gives you a sad, defeated sigh and vanishes.

Of course, Canada isn't the only place where people in Arizona are from. Being from other places is a major pastime in the greater Phoenix area, which is why dinner on Friday night consisted of some excellent and authentic New York style pizza, from a pizzeria with its primary outlet (and many of its customers) from Brooklyn. And, as the cooking staff there demonstrated, it's easy to forget that America's other NAFTA partner makes by far the largest contribution to the local culture and economy. But I think Canada may still have the edge. After all, plenty of other places have sent their people to The Grand Canyon State, but how many have actually relocated their educational institutions?

*Not technically native to Canada, but so beloved in its cities that people who have moved away speak of it longingly for years since, even if they have moved to a place with excellent and plentiful Mexican food.

Shoesday: Spring Wedging

Remember how I said I was going to buy these? Well, I did. I am nothing if not a shoe addict of my word. In fact, I even had a good reason*: This weekend, Mom and I are heading off to Spring Training**, and what is a weekend in Arizona without attractive and comfortable sandals. And they are comfortable, surprisingly so, given their height. (Though less surprisingly because they come from the same line that two separate people described to me as "the holy grail of shoes.") The only downside is that it seems like this level of comfort was reached by installing tiny whoopee cushions in the sole of each shoe, causing my every step to be accompanied by a series of discreet foot-farts. But I don't care, and do you know why? Because this weekend, when the forecast here looks like this:

My farty shoes and I will be looking (if possibly not sounding) fabulous in a place that's a little more like this:

*"excuse."
**Viewing, I mean, not joining. Mom's minor league contract wasn't picked up this year.

The Most Unlikely Thing to Come Out of a Cruise Vacation

And if not, it's right up there.

I think I mentioned that the cruise that Cameron and I went on last month was a little on the rainy side. Which hardly ruined it, but it did limit us from participating in some of the more standard cruise activities, like sitting out in the sun and trying to avoid being dragged into "hilarious" on-deck activities. And since the room we had was very nice and quite comfortable, with an interesting if rather eccentric selection of TV channels, we ended up spending some of our time just hanging out there. Which is how we happened to come across this documentary, about Ruth Berg, the creator and star of a seminal radio play and sitcom I had never heard of, called The Goldbergs. Which was all very interesting in and of itself, but what really stuck with me was the mention of the fact that she had written and published a cookbook, purportedly by her character, Molly Goldberg, and I ended up wondering how I could find a copy of it. I figured it would take a hunt on Ebay, or at least through some possibly sketchy Amazon reseller, but no, as a matter of fact, it's still in print.

I'm going to get a copy as soon as I have enough items for free shipping.

I'm Not On a Boat

Unless you're reading this at some point in the future* when I am. But for the moment I remain landlocked.

The cruise was a lot of fun, if a little on the cold and wet side, and I will get into that presently** but it's almost Christmas and it doesn't seem like the time. So for now I'll just leave you with the knowledge that the trip has been completed, and that spiced rum combines quite nicely with Coke.

*Or, less probably, the past.
**Also, the rather significant issues I have with Princess's approach to customer service, but that's a Whinesday all its own.

Bouchercon Baby Gone

Saturday and Sunday-- Let's put this one in the books.

I said I was going to bring my boots, and I did. (I tried them with some floral patterned tights, but in combination with the floral dress I had (Target!), it seemed like a little bit much.) And despite an array of very interesting looking panels, something, possibly related to the open bar on Friday, but I am making no accusations. My apologies to the people who spent great time and effort in constructing and organizing their morning panels, but if it's any comfort, I probably would have just fallen asleep anyway.

While I was lying in bed, nursing my inexplicable headache, Cameron was out running sixteen miles. Just thought I ought to share that.

In the afternoon, Karen and I attended one panel, along with her three-month-old daughter, Kate. (More on this interaction later.) Moment of the day: When one author started an anecdote with the phrase, "When I was on tour in France" and Karen and I turned to each other with the simultaneous, unspoken thought: "I want to go on a book tour in France."

Which I'm sure we are both going to do, assuming the people of France have any interest in land-based cephalopods.* Hey, they like Jerry Lewis; anything is possible.

Bouchercon For the Money

Because it was a great location, but I have to say, that hotel room was not cheap.

Day 2, Shoe 1:

One problem with my shoe-centric convention plan was that it was kind of incompatible with pants. Which is too bad, because I'm a big fan of pants. But these are the kinds of sacrifices we have to make if we are going to go around using our material possessions in our desperate bids for attention. Which is a long way of saying I spent a lot of time in skirts, with a heavy reliance on pieces from the last Target designer collection.*

I tried to wear my cut-out booties to Cornelia's panel ("Nancy Drew Was a Cosmo Girl"***), but it was so crowded I would have had to spend the entire time crouching on the floor. So I took myself off to the Sisters in Crime-hosted hospitality suite, for some of the generously provided snacks (best acquired when panels were in session,  due to the lack of competition).

Besides, I needed the sustenance for the next panel I attended (and got an actual chair! kind of had to fight for it though), on Ancient Greek and Roman-set mysteries, featuring every heavyweight**** best-selling author in the genre, plus Gary Corby, my twitter pal and a debut author, holding down the Greek end of things. I'd have to say it was the best panel of the convention, as measured in the number of wacko stalkers who turned up during the Q&A period (two).

By the way, I feel like I should mention that while all this was going on, it was also my thirty-third birthday. I am now firm in my belief that all birthdays should be celebrated in the company of 1400 mystery authors and fans. Also, Cameron gave me a mini video camera, and as soon as I figure out how to work iMovie it's going to be all cat videos, all the time around here. You have been warned.

Bouchercon and Done

You want to make a bad business decision? Try hosting a convention of writers in your hotel and closing the bar at midnight. That should do it.

Last weekend Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, was held in San Francisco and, aside from the management's lack of vision with regards to beverage profits, it was an exceptional experience. I could tell you all about the panels, the authors, the massive bag of free books and/or the very stylish but completely impractical design of the hotel,* and maybe I'll get to that. But first, let's talk about the shoes.

The Puccis I Didn't Pack

My shoes, of course. As promised, I packed an entire separate suitcase for them, plus the overflow that made it in the main suitcase. I had to make some tough calls, like leaving behind my beloved Puccis, and most (but not all) of my boots. And, of course, anything with any claim to sense or comfort.

Would have been perfect, if I didn't have heels

Actually, that's not entirely true. I did try (and fail) to have comfortable shoes, by wearing my black flats for the trip over. I had to do something, because the first part of my plan was to drop off my car at the shop in SOMA where it's getting a new engine (long story**), walk from there to BART and take the train to the Embarcadero, where the conference hotel was located. Unfortunately, what I had forgotten was that I didn't have heel padding in those flats, which meant that my freakishly nobby heels rubbed with every step, which meant that I was blistered before I even started.

This shoe thing, you have to be tough.

(Continued after the jump.)

Thurscheese: Poutine

(Yesterday I told you about how I am doing my new workout routine. Today I am telling you why.)

This is poutine. A dish native to Canada (that my American spellcheck doesn't even recognize as a word) with clear familial resemblance to our own chili cheese fries, it traditionally consists of french fries topped with cheese curds and then coated with beef gravy, which melts the curds and, like the right throw rug, generally pulls the room together. The curds, while not technically fully-developed cheese, are well on their way. They taste like mild mozzarella, for good reason.

The place where we got these particular poutines was called, I think "How Do You Want Your Poutine?" (though I can find no mention of it on the interwebs, so it may be merely a poutine shop of the mind). True to their name, they offered a number of variations of the dish, none of which could be considered particularly "low calorie," though there was a small size available. (I had the small regular version. The below are both larges.)

This one was called something like the "triple meat poutine" and sported, on top of the cheese and gravy, pulled pork, sausage and Montreal smoked meat, which is basically pastrami.

It's difficult to see in this picture, but an aura of evil surrounded the entire dish.

On the other end of the meat spectrum we have this, the vegetarian poutine, made with a non-meat gravy replacement. Not vegan, though, because replacing the cheese would make the whole endeavor lose its meaning.

(Although, as a Californian, I have to suppress a small shudder at the industrial green glop in the corner trying to pass itself off as guacamole.)


As I understand it, the dish exists largely as an after-drinking food, to be purchased in the middle of the night as a way to sop up the excesses of the bar. (Shwarma also serves this purpose but, as it does not contain cheese, it will not be addressed here.) I'm not sure why it hasn't crossed over in America (or, as I found myself saying after several days in Canada, "the States")-- it has all of the necessary components for widespread success* and we are not generally a nation that is opposed to foods that pile things on top of other things**. The one suggestion I would make to aspiring poutine moguls is that you leave off the word "curds" from the description, because most people here know it primarily in connection with little Miss Muffet, while in Canada they are sold as a snack food.

Of course, it isn't all joy and cheese curds. Poutine can also be used as a weapon, which is why some groups recommend a cooling off-period, or at least a blowing-on-the-surface-and-chewing-carefully period.

*Grease, potatoes, the ability to be eaten out of a box while standing.
**Exhibit A

Shoesday: This Time I'm Ready

Very little time to post, as I am supposed to be packing for the trip to Canada I am leaving for in about three hours, but I thought I'd share one of the pairs of shoes I'm bringing with me. On last trip, where I felt a little shoe-deficient, so this time I'm bringing five pairs. (Not counting the ones I'm wearing on the plane.)

Winesday: "Different From What I'm Used To"

What do you do when you get off a red-eye cross-country flight with a two hour drive between you and your destination? Wine tasting, obviously! It turns out that the Finger Lakes area is positively lousy with wineries, and since we were there it seemed like a shame not to stop and check a few out.

The first place we came across was called "Three Brothers," named after it's central marketing trope. Namely, that the winery was owned by three brothers, each of who had a corresponding winery on the property. And, in an amazing strike of business fortune, each of the brothers' personalities happened to correspond perfectly with a different market segment associated with the wedding parties that, coincidentally, would find plenty of parking available for their busses and limos in the winery's parking lot. For the parents we had the "traditional" older brother, with a tasting room fitted out in blonde wood and muted accessories, with familiar, if unexceptional, wines on offer. (Including what must have been the lightest Pinot Noir I've ever tasted. In related news, I appear to have become a wine snob.) Then, for the bachelorette party, we have brother #2, the "romantic," who conveniently appears to favor very sweet wines and a tasting room that sold cheap feather boas, that traditional American expression of the sentiment, "Woo! We're being crazy!" We bought a bottle from this one, the quite drinkable if unfortunately named "Backseat Bounce," and continued our tour.

The final wine stop of the carefully orchestrated tour was the province of the "badass" brother, a faux-roadhouse perfect for the bachelor party that is not going to get within eighty feet of a stripper if he knows what's good for him. The lady at the tasting bar asked us where we were from and, when we said California, asked what we thought of the wines. At which point I was able to say, in total honesty, that they were different from what we were used to.

The highlight of the place was, of all things, the on-site microbrewery, presumably there to serve the guests who "aren't big wine drinkers, if you know what I mean." I've never actually developed much of a taste for the brew, but there were some wheat beers I enjoyed, and Cameron liked the IPA enough that we stopped again on our way back* to pick up a growler of it to take to his friends we went to visit in Canada.**


*Which, being on a weekend, was a fun little excursion to the gates of Hell, with at least one stretch Hummer and several people wearing tiaras.
**Which is quite close to New York, though it takes a while to get there, with traffic.

Thurscheese: It Tastes Like Wensleydale

Wensleydale cheese with cranberries

 Many years ago, when I was just a wee lass, fresh out of college with only three pairs of shoes to my name, I went on a trip to England. It was a full two months, mostly spent on a backpacking bus between hostels with two of my classmates (and the less said about those aspects, the better), but I did take a small detour on my own to visit the Yorkshire Dales.

It was a place I had always wanted to see, at least since my childhood obsession with James Herriot's books, where he made it sound like the most beautiful place on earth. Of course, it's a fairly large area and I didn't know anything about it, so when I went to choose my place to stay I settled on Wensleydale, made famous by this Wallace and Gromit episode, where they go to the moon to get some cheese and find it tastes like. . . well, you know (and if you don't, you should watch):




This was my break from 15-pound-a-night hostels, to have a little luxury, so I chose this hotel as my home base for the three nights I was there. I considered it deeply extravagant at the time (though looking at the rates now I realize that, even with the exchange rate being what it is, it costs significantly less that the stay at the Best Western in Ithaca that I just booked for later this month) and enjoyed every minute, even though the dent it put in my budget meant that at least one night dinner consisted of local cheese and crackers, eaten sitting on my bed and marveling at British television.

The cheese was, of course, Wensleydale, purchased from the Wensleydale cheeses visitors' center in the nearby town. It was crumblier and milder than the one I found here but, oddly, also available with cranberries. Tradition? Coincidence? Who's to say? I'm just happy to have found this reminder of my insufficiently misspent youth.


And, while we're on the subject of British cheese, come with me after the jump for my favorite thing about the World Cup. . .

Shoesday Special Edition: Shoefinder Live!*

(Somewhat delayed, but never forgotten. . .)

Remember Abigail? Way back when I found shoes for her, none of which she actually bought, but she found some of the Fluevog shoes interesting. And since there is a Fluevog store in New York, part of our bachelorette party shopping-day plans included a visit to check them out.

Which, after a brief excursion the wrong way down Mulberry Street-- through the sad, tacky tourist strip that's what left of Little Italy and into the entirely authentic Chinatown that has replaced it-- due to a typing error into iPhone directions, we found, and shopping commenced.

Abigail tried on these shoes first. They weren't ones I'd picked out (we'll get to those in a minute), but they spoke to her, and when shoes speak you should listen. Difficult to see in this picture, but they have Funky Heels**.

These were the second choice which, though initially more promising, ended up falling short on both the looks and the comfort fronts-- Abigail thought they pinched and I thought the turned-up toes pushed them dangerously close to clown-territory.

Shoe option 1 was purchased, and there was great rejoicing.


Then Mary got in on the act:

And tried these shoes on, and found them comfy and cute, even if she did need some encouraging to get her picture taken.

She also gave these a whirl:

Which were my original blog selection (though I went with the turquoise), the sheer awesomeness of which caused me to exclaim, "I have such good taste!" in a rare moment of pure honesty. Unfortunately, they were rejected, and when I tried them on myself I understood why: The heel, though attractive, was simply too high to suit the kind of comfort they were going for and turned what could have been a sexy-but-walkable pump into something a little too unstable. If it had been about an inch-and-a-half shorter they would have been perfect, but as it was, I understood why they were turned down.

However, Mary did buy the other pair, and seeing as I was the catalyst and consultant for getting them two sales, I felt no shame at all in drinking some of the prosecco and eating one of the cupcakes the store had on offer.*** Frankly, I think I should have gotten a commission.

After the jump: More shoes! More shopping! More footnotes than are reasonably necessary!

Thurscheese: NYC

For dinner on the Monday I was in New York we ("we" being myself and the VanCorvies of Murray Hill) went to a restaurant that takes its cheese plate seriously. How seriously? Well, here's the cheese menu:

I didn't get up to go examine the cheese table, but fortunately I didn't have to, because there was a mirror over it that was angled so that the entire dining room could gaze in wonder.

Obviously, "one of everything" was not going to be a reasonable order, so we limited ourselves to four, with some quince paste*. And, once I was forced to admit that I only recognized one cheese on the menu, we let the on-staff expert do the choosing for us, with the specifications of no goat cheese and  one blue.

Here's what we got:

Clockwise from the top we have:

Etorki-- Sheep's milk cheese from France. Described on the cheese menu as "compliant, sweet, chewy." Only one of those adjectives should be used by reasonable people to describe cheese. Described by diners** as "smooth, mild," "nice with quince paste but overpowered by it" and "really nice version of laughing cow". (That last one was mine.) Ryan pointed out that as you got closer to the rind, it came across as more like a mild manchego, and chose this as his favorite.

Langres-- Cow's milk, France. "Like affinois, but better" (me again). "Creamy, buttery, rich, mild." In a close contest, it was my top choice.

Tete de Moine-- Cow again, this time from Switzerland. Cut so that it came in little ruffled cones. It drew comments like "subtle," "different," and "meaty?" and a discussion as to whether there was a hint of mushroom in the flavor, but in a good way. The quince paste really proved itself with this one, making the cheese taste creamier in combination. Lisa liked this one best.

Valdeon-- Source unknown (either sheep or cow, as the goat had been helpfully crossed out on the take-away menu the waiter gave me), from Spain. A serious blue. We had some trouble finishing this one; it got kind of foul towards the rind. The only cheese that there was anything left of in the end, though even that wasn't much. From Ryan, the quote of the night:

"Tastes like my grandpa's basement, but in a good way."


*Quince paste will be discussed here at a later date.
**I took notes!

Shoesday: So Awesome I Could Cry

I mean, I won't, because I am a tough and battle-hardened blogger who is totally above that sort of thing. But I could.

These shoes are the crown jewels of my New York acquisition-spree, purchased at the Sigerson Morrison store, where I was helped by (by his own admission) the only gay man in New York who had never been to San Francisco. I told him he should visit; he would like it here. After all, the residents have excellent taste in shoes.

p.s. It doesn't show up very well in the picture, but the shoes are actually a gorgeous shade of navy blue, which makes them even more awesome than you thought they were.