It may be hard to believe but on a rare occasion I make myself feel like a rich man and spend more than five dollars on a lunch. So this post is written by the “big spender” me, not the “normal” me who usually pays for drinks with a pocketful of nickels and dimes. Today’s lunch tab at the new Farmhouse restaurant was $12.02 – definitely pushing the limits of my generosity, but that was the price to pay for a lunch with the prominent local blogger and beer consultant to the stars – Bull.E.Vard who is  not accustomed to my usual cheap eats.

The Farmhouse Restaurant is located in the former Delaware Cafe space in the City Market area.

It’s a great location with a roomy outdoor seating area, where we had no problem finding a table. Inside the restaurant decor features exposed brick and various farm touches, like tables made out of an old door, lanterns and waitresses in cowboy boots. Before the restaurant opened for business there was a buzz among the annoying “foodie” community about the new local farm-to-table trend in the restaurant business and other such nonsense. All of this does nothing for me, except maybe waitresses in cowboy boots; the one who was serving our table was the highlight of the hour, and she didn’t charge me for the salad (sorry that was the “cheapskate” me commenting here). Unfortunately my old habit is to tune out people’s names so I can’t recommend her that way, but you will know who I am talking about when you walk in.
The reason we even thought about the Farmhouse was the unusual “Chicken Fried Duck, Sweet and Hot Pepper Relish, Arugula, Egg Bun: $8.00”; this must be the duck season on the farm or something.(that and the phrase:”All Sandwiches Comes with Fries & Pickled Vegetables” which somehow made me think of “all your base are belong to us“).

The sandwich arrived quickly, with the salad (by mistake) and “chilled potato leek soup” on the side.

A duck breast in a crispy fried coating with some relish on top was bigger than the bun.

It was pretty tasty,although it didn’t taste very ducky. If I didn’t say duck on the menu, I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but to be fair I haven’t had duck in years, so I may not remember what it tastes like in the first place. Not tasty enough for a 45-mile round-trip, but still not bad. Potato-soup was average. As another “farm” touch the drinking water was dispensed in the empty wine bottles. I am sure someone will write about great farm-like atmosphere “just like at grandma’s”. All I remember from living at my Grandma’s is the outhouse, I bet that would really enhance the atmosphere in every sense of that word.

Anyway, I liked the restaurant,the food and especially the waitress. In my opinion the place is sorely missing the alcohol, although it just opened so that may be forthcoming; I didn’t feel like inundating the people who work there with unnecessary questions. Speaking of annoying, my conversation with Bull E.Vard centered around the trend of self-obsessed foodies taking all the fun out of dining (just like social-media spammers are killing it for the rest of us). Luckily in this area there are many bloggers covering all things food from cheap to disgusting and from ethnic to traditional, all with the necessary detail and honest opinions. I am generally not interested in the Chef’s name or a paragraph-long name of a sandwich; I am very interested in how it tasted, wait times, general attitude and waitresses’ names.

With that said, I am now going back to my normal spending pattern until the piggy bank I broke today is glued back together and filled with change.

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Preface:

Hundreds of thousands of people with better cameras and better photography skills vacation at the same places as me.

Hundreds of thousands of people are better at travel writing than I am, better at writing in general, and are clearly better than me at speaking English.

Go read their damn blogs….

I love to travel. It helps me to relax; feel in charge when I am planning my next trip, buying tickets and making reservations; learn new things; change the scenery; feel better (or worse) about my hometown. Most importantly, it helps me not to raise a moron. This year we traveled to the Pacific Northwest, a place that until now remained a blank spot on my travel map. We visited Seattle, took an Amtrak train to San Francisco and drove 450 miles along the Pacific Coast on Highways 1 and 101, stopping for a night in Monterey. The trip turned out to be even better than I imagined.

The next several posts will be about these places illustrated with tons of photos (I brought back 1,214, which would probably weigh tons if I was using film).

Face:

If there was a god, the Pacific Northwest would have been his reward to the people who didn’t quit going West in the middle of Kansas, and, instead of making “Ad Astra Per Aspera” their motto and giving up, continued to endure and persevere for months and years, slowly consuming their mates on the way. When these people, exhausted and with little hope remaining, saw the water in front of them (after the rain stopped and the fog cleared 6 months later), they knew it was all worth it, and everyone they ate on the way would have wanted it that way. Over time they proceeded to cut and kill most of the things so abundant in the area, swindle the Indians, build depressing slums and fill the void with homeless people, Mexican radio stations, French-speaking tourists and a special breed of people who ride the Ducks.

Over time, people had an epiphany, and after multiple fires and earthquakes, the Pacific Northwest and Northern California (I have no idea if these are considered one geographical region) are an American jewel, a place where the nature, weather and landscape combined with the architecture, city planning, atmosphere and a number of Asian restaurants approaching infinity make one understand why people are willing to pay mind-blowing prices to live there.

If I had to summarize Seattle in one photo, it would probably be this shot of a redheaded, bearded guy in a cap, wearing sandals and smoking a pipe.

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It’s been a few months since I wrote about Gefilte Fish and, as I expected, impatient requests for the recipe did not pour into my mailbox. It doesn’t matter, you are getting it anyway; I am not letting good pictures go to waste.

Before you start, get yourself into the fish-making mood by listening to the music like this.

httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzAuTcFcd3g&start=89

Now that you are ready, collect all of the ingredients. You will need some fish, customary is to use carp and its relatives, pike and walleye. 3/4 lbs of yellow onions for every 2 lbs of fish. Onions should have nice dry brown skins, which give the fish darker color. We laugh at the people who use carrots for that, that’s a huge faux pas. Also needed is a slice of bread, a small amount of oil, salt and pepper and 4-5 eggs, depending on the amount of fish.

On the day when we went fish-shopping, carp was not available. I wanted to drive to another store, but my aunt suggested we buy mackerel. Long time ago fresh mackerel was available in Odessa, where we used to live, and my aunt used it before for the gefilte fish. In retrospect, I suggest you stick with carp – mackerel sold here is previously frozen and even in it’s best days has a strong fishy smell when cooked. However, the process is the same and that’s what important.

Purchase the fish. I recommend not going overboard for the first time. 2 medium carps will suffice. Imagine those are skinny long carps.

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I am not sure what to make of the fact that one year anniversary of this blog falls on the 90th anniversary of Komsomol – Communist Union of Youth which I joined at the ge 14 back in 1983. Komsomol was a third step in the Soviet brainwashing pyramid after the Little Octobrists and the Young Pioneers. Knowing that the big 90th anniversary is coming up I was trying to think what do I remember about being in Komsomol and couldn’t come up with anything. By 1983 joining all the communist organizations while still mandatory, became more or less a formality. People who refused to join were constantly harassed by Komsomol leaders appealing to their non-existent communist spirit; on the other hand, “troublemakers” and openly religious people weren’t easily accepted, which could have had a negative influence on their future lives and chances of getting into college.
In order to join one had to fill out an application and be recommended by two members of Komsomol and/or Communist Party and also by a local Young Pioneer Organization. To make it look even more serious the candidate had to study the Komsomol Bylaws and be able to answer specific questions. If I remember correctly “specific” questions were supplied to us ahead of time. An artist’s depiction of the ceremony in 1962 looked like this:

For your homework find a difference between the painting above and its previous version from 1949. Discuss amongst yourself.

In my case it didn’t look anything like that; several people got accepted at once after answering some questions with prepared answers. A member of Komsomol had a membership ID like this

and a pin like this

On the right side of the membership ID you see one of the pages where a payment of membership dues was marked with a special stamp. Komsomol was the first of the Communist Organizations that had actual dues. Since the Soviet kids didn’t work (unlike poor exploited children in the West) the monthly dues were two kopecks, pretty much a pocket change but multiplied by millions of members it added up to huge amounts of money.

I continued to pay membership dues throughout the technical school and in the army. It increased a little but was always a small amount.

One could stay in Komsomol until the age of 28. Some joined the communist party before that, some just let their membership run out. For my generation Komsomol slowly dissipated without a trace and no memories. When I was leaving the country in 1992 I didn’t even know where my ID was. Many Komsomol leaders used their positions, connections,probably some of the dues and other property to acquire huge amounts of wealth and become oligarchs. The rest of us just moved on…

Just like many other attributes of the USSR Komsomol is now fondly remembered by some. Big celebrations were held this week to commemorate the 90th anniversary. Years are like beer-goggles of history, they make even the ugly past look better.

And now we dance…

httpvh://youtu.be/5RK172PYo5s

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Development of my art skills stopped in the second grade when a teacher couldn’t recognize a watermelon in my drawing. However, I would have definitely applied more effort if I knew that a career in art allows for unlimited hours alone with nude women, who will not complain if their features will not look so flattering on the painting. It’s art, you know.
Life Magazine archives have some images of Thomas Hart Benton working on his painting “Persephone” with Imogene Bruton as a model.

The following photo located on Google server was deemed in violation of adult content policies by Google. Go figure. You can still see it by clicking the link.

Students sketching nude model in painter Thomas Hart Bentons studio class at the Kansas City Art Institute. Model is the same one Benton is using for his painting Rape of Persephone.© Time Inc. Alfred Eisenstaedt

Here is the final version:

More photos of Thomas Hart Benton and his works.

P.S. Nude models can apply here for free painting or just to hang out.

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