Even though I grew up in Virginia, I didn't grow up with bluegrass music. My mother favored contemporary Christian music and my father would usually tune to the "easy listening" music on WRVA. My parents' record collection, which was rather small, consisted of a box of 45s with songs like Ricky Nelson's Stood Up, Broken Hearted Again, Gene Pitney's If I Didn't Have a Dime (To Play the Jukebox), and Percy Faith's Theme from A Summer Place. The 33s featured artists like Don Ho, and Don MacLean Inexplicably, there was a copy of 101 Strings Play the Beatles, even though the actual Beatles made no appearance in my parents' record collection. The only banjos in the record cabinet were buried in 1960s folk scare groups like The Brothers Four and the Serendipity Singers. [REVISION 3/30/12: My mother, who just read this posting wants me to point out that she and my father didn't actually buy most of their records, but that they were given to my father by a friend of his who worked at a radio station and would pass along things that weren't being played. Perhaps this explains a lot... ]
On weekday afternoons, though, the sound of the banjo came blazing into the house, with the theme to The Beverly Hillbillies. "That's Flatt and Scruggs," my father told me, but there was no further information forthcoming.
Later, I would fall in love with the iconic "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," not knowing that the man who played the banjo on the recording was the man who, along with his Foggy Mountain Boys, pretty much invented bluegrass music. Only later would I learn that FMB had become the bane of banjo pickers everywhere, since it is the one tune, aside from Dueling Banjos, that absolutely everyone knows to ask for. Still, I love it.
That happy, rollicking banjo that Earl played made me want to play banjo, too, though my taste in music led toward the mellower tone of open-back banjos and the old-time style of clawhammer, instead of the three-finger picking style that Earl Scruggs invented. Even so, I've always loved to listen to Earl and to those who play "Scruggs style," and have dreamed of getting yet another banjo, a resonator banjo like Earl's, and learning how to play at least a bit of that three-fingered magic.
Last night, I was at the extremely cool Jalopy Bar in Red Hook, Brooklyn (NY Times article about the place here), playing banjo with friends. This morning, I woke up to the news that Earl Scruggs had passed away and I've been thinking that last night's musical adventure was a fitting tribute to a man whose genius so completely transformed American music.
Let me start by saying that it was all my own darn fault. Really. I'm a big boy and I can take responsibility for my own actions, at least mostly. Like now. Sort of.
You see, here's what happened. I was at Norwalk Hospital on Monday morning, working my shift as a Chaplain Intern in the Clinical Pastoral Education program. I set my iPhone down in the bathroom, rather than clipping it onto my belt. Dumb. I know. Then I walked away. Double dumb.
I hadn't been gone for even a minute, though, when I realized that I had left my phone in the bathroom and I sprinted back down the hall from the chaplains' office (Yes, Grammar Nazis, I do, in fact, mean the office that belongs to multiple chaplains.), and up the stairs to the bathroom on the third floor just outside of the inpatient psychiatric unit where I'm working. It is a small bathroom, a "one-holer," and is in a relatively quiet part of the building, so I was hopeful, but, alas, no phone. Snarf!!!
Ever the optimist, I sprinted down to the security office to see if anybody had turned my phone in. Nobody had. Snarflety poop!
Next, I ran back to the chaplains' office to see if I could use the Find My iPhone app on the office computer. Unfortunately, the computers at Norwalk Hospital are all running an old browser that isn't compatible with the Find My iPhone app. Dangitty poople snarf!
I believe that I may have broken the overland speed record as I zipped up five flights of steps and raced down the hall to the IT department, hoping to find a computer that could work for me. Oddly, none of the computers there could, either, but one of the IT gurus handed me his iPhone so I could use the app and locate my phone. The only problem was that my phone, when it popped up on the map, was three blocks away, on West Avenue. I remotely locked the phone so nobody could use it and used the app to make the screen display "STOLEN IPHONE!! PLEASE CALL 203-505-XXXX." (I entered my actual home phone number, but you, Gentle Reader, understand why I'd rather not post my home phone in this public document.)
A moment later, I refreshed the data and found that my phone had not moved, so I slowed down just enough to grab my jacket and hoofed it down to where the phone had been pinged on the GPS, hoping that the reason it was holding still was because it had been ditched after my locking it and identifying it as stolen. When I got there, though, there was no sign of the phone. Dadblame dangitty poopledy snarf!
Giving up on finding the phone using only my five senses, I employed Sense Number Six: Kimberly on the computer at home, who told me that the phone was now showing up at the Norwalk Community Health Center. "Clearly, my iPhone thief likes healthcare," I thought. "Maybe it is a doctor or a nurse who picked up my phone with the intention of returning it, but who was called away to a medical emergency."
In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a positive thinker.
Kimberly raced over in the Subaru and drove us to the Community Health Center, where a Kind Administrative Sort (KAS) allowed me to borrow his iPhone to run the app to find my phone. The satellite imagery showed that the phone was in the parking lot, so Kimberly and I walked through the parking lot, peering into each car, looking for my iPhone on seats, dashboards and floorboards, but to no avail.
I thought I'd press my luck and ask KAS if he'd let me actually borrow his iPhone so I could take it into the parking lot and use it to make my iPhone beep loudly so I could find out which car had my iPhone in it. I had a further plan of sitting on the car's hood until Kimberly could get one of the cops from the roadwork out front to come and have a chat with the car's owner when they came out of the building. I must have looked very trustworthy in my clerical collar because KAS handed me his phone and wished me luck. Luck, however, was not with me and, after several minutes of trying to find a car that emitted the telltale iPhone locator tone, the GPS showed that the phone was no longer at the health center, even though no vehicles had left the parking lot.
Using my powers of deduction, I concluded that there must be a lag between the phone moving and the app reporting the phone's new location. Clearly, I wasn't going to get anywhere by chasing after the signal and hoping to borrow some random person's iPhone so I could locate my phone. Instead, I was going to have to wait for night, when the phone would likely stop moving, and track it using an iPhone that I could borrow for the evening from someone who actually knew me. Armed with this plan, I went back to the hospital to finish my shift.
When Kimberly picked me up at 5:00, she told me that she had checked the phone's location several times over the previous hours and that the phone hadn't moved. Additionally, she had driven by the area to scope it out. The phone was in some woods at the intersection West Avenue and Reed Street and, as it hadn't moved, I surmised that the perp had stashed it until the battery could run down, so that I wouldn't be able to track it to his house. "Very clever," I thought, "but I've got you now!"
Screenshot from Where's My iPhone, showing my phone in a
wooded area just north of Reed Street in Norwalk.
Kimberly drove us to the location and parked in the Walgreen's parking lot, then we crossed Reed Street into the parking lot behind Durango Insurance. I looked up the hill (really more of a cliff when viewed from where we were standing) and decided that the best way to get started was simply to get started, so I charged ahead, expecting to reach the top and find a garbage bag or a duffle bag that would contain my phone. I further imagined taking my phone from the bag and replacing it with a note that said something like, "Jesus forgives you for stealing my iPhone and so do I." Ok, that's not actually what I imagined writing, but you get the idea.
Actual location of phone as shown above.
The Cliff.
There was no duffle bag, though. Instead, a short way along the ridge, there was a clearing with a camouflage tent, surrounded by tarp-covered piles of God knows what. Despite my leather-jacket-clad, testosterone-fueled desire to walk into a homeless person's camp and demand my phone back from the miscreant who had taken it, I decided to take a kinder and gentler approach, or at least one that was less likely to get me killed. I slinked back down the hill and borrowed Kimberly's cell phone and called the police.
The sun was nearly setting when one of Norwalk's Finest arrived. As the officer stepped from his police car, I knew that I was in good hands as, instead of a fifty-year veteran of the force who had spent the last thrity of them staking out Dunkin' Donuts, the dispatcher had sent a cop who was in good physical shape and looked ready for climbing a cliff, even if he did look like he was about sixteen years old.
Together, Officer Timmy and I climbed back up the cliff and he, shining his flashlight on the tent and using a rather impressive command voice, ordered the occupant to come out and to keep his hands in sight. Then, in a tone that was almost gentle, he asked "Do you have an iPhone that doesn't belong to you?" The man from the tent denied having it, but I had anticipated such a turn of events and took out Kimberly's cell phone and called my iPhone. "Gotcha!" I thought as I pressed the send key. But nothing happened. Pooplety, dangitty, muppeling snarf!
So that's where the story ends, really. A homeless person's tent is as much his home as if it were a mansion with a security fence and, apparently, my use of technology to track the phone to a homeless guy's camp in the woods on a cliff where nobody else ever goes doesn't actually constitute probable cause for a search. The officer couldn't go through the homeless guy's stuff and I had no other options left, so we climbed back down the cliff.
Now, I'm using a borrowed cell phone and waiting for April when AT&T gives me a contract renewal and I can get some credit toward my next iPhone. In the meantime, I commend the following video to you:
*** DISCLAIMER: I have the utmost respect for young Officer Timmy, whose real name I will not divulge. He did his job very well and was only hamstrung in his efforts to recover my iPhone by the Fourth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. I am still amused by his apparent youth, though I suspect that reflects more on my advancing years than on any other factor. ***
This past week, my son, Ian, my "meta-daughter", Devin, and I went out to Goulash Place, at 42 Highland Avenue in Danbury, for lunch after church. This restaurant, opened in1977 by John Aczel and his late wife Magda, is perhaps the only Hungarian restaurant in Connecticut and has some very good (though not universally so) reviews online. We arrived promptly at noon, parking in the small lot behind the restaurant, and were greeted by the restaurant's owner, John Aczel, coming out of his back door and informing us that the restaurant wouldn't be open until 1:00, so the three of us piled back in the car and went off to kill some time.
Upon our return, we parked and walked around to the front of the building, where we entered from the left-side door, set back from the street. I was surprised by how small the dining room is, with only room for a bar in one corner, a small salad bar, and a half dozen or so tables. Hungarian tchotchkes covered the walls. John invited us to sit wherever we liked and gave us a couple minutes to look over the menu.
Having read several reviews of the restaurant, I already knew that I wanted to try the Transylvanian goulash but, as Ian ordered that, I selected the combination plate, featuring beef, pork, and veal. Devin, since she's a vegetarian, had fewer options and ordered pea soup and palascinta (Hungarian crepe) with mushrooms. I also ordered stuffed cabbage as an appetizer. The youthful members of the party got rootbeer and I ordered a dark Czech beer, then John directed us toward the very small salad bar, featuring iceberg lettuce, sliced cucumbers, pickled beets, and just a few other items.
Stuffed Cabbage
When the drinks and the stuffed cabbage arrived, I poured the .5 liter beer, pausing to photograph it, as I knew that I'd never remember the name of the beer, which featured all sorts of accents, tildes, umlauts, and other diacritical marks that I didn't even recognize. (Unfortunately, my cell phone was stolen the next day, before I could download the pictures from it, which also serves as explanation for why all of the photographs in this blog post are ripped off from other locations on the internet.) The beer was quite good, dark brown like a stout, but with a lighter body and a bit more nuttiness. The cabbage was astonishingly good, made with ground pork on the inside, but with bits of briskety beef in the sauce that covered it, and a nice dollop of sour cream to give it some tartness.
The Sampler Plate
When the entrees arrived, Devin asked me to taste test her mushroom palascinta to make sure there was no meat in it. There wasn't, and the mushrooms were fantastic, particularly with a bit of cheese melted over the top of the crepe, and her soup was quite nice. Ian and I traded bites of food, with him falling in love with with the wiener schnitzel (Hungarian: Bécsi szelet) and me deciding that he had gotten the better deal with his plate full of pork goulash and dumplings (essentially spaetzle). My roast pork and beef were good enough, but were a bit overdone and, rather than being just "tender" had moved on towards "soggy.". The dumplings were very good, especially with the meat juices. The red cabbage added a lot to the flavor palette, but the green beans were canned and soggy and the carrots were indifferent.
John Aczel with his kolbasz.
I had noticed a sign over the bar advertising homemade sausages for $7.99/lb and, before leaving, I asked John for one. Later in the evening, when I sampled some, I found that the smoked sausage was semi-dry, garlicky with just a bit of sweetness. While I don't know anything about Hungarian sausage styles, I do know that I like what John made.
As Ian, Devin and I drove back to church after lunch, we discussed the restaurant and how we might review it. Ian and Devin were both very happy with their food, but I was less so. The salad bar was minimal, feeling like a throwback to the 1970s, back when "lettuce" meant "iceberg" and the beans and carrots were better forgotten. We all agreed that the service was a bit on the slow side, but that it was very friendly. The small dining room meant that the smoky-smelling drinkers at the bar were a pungent presence as we ate. Would we go back? Probably, but I'd definitely stick with the goulash rather than the sampler plate.
As part of our mission of eating at a different restaurant each week that I'm preaching in Bethel, my son and I decided to try Royal Guard Fish N' Chips/Royal Curry Corner this past Sunday. Ian had noticed a listing for the restaurant on Yelp! and we decided to give it a try, knowing as we drove there that we'd both be eating from the Pakistani lunch buffet, yet also wanting to try their fish and chips, which gets good reviews across the interwebs.
The restaurant, at 389 Main Street in Danbury, is directly across the street from the Danbury Masjid and has a neon sign in the front window announcing "Halal Food." When Ian and I walked in, we noticed that the restaurant was rather spartan, with a counter for placing orders in one corner and a buffet along the back wall. The tables were bare, with yellowed newspaper designs on them, befitting a chips shop. The other customers were largely Pakistani and wearing traditional clothing, which I took as a positive sign for the quality of the buffet.
Ian and I made our way to the buffet, lifting the lids off of the steam trays and helping ourselves to the wide variety of food. The chicken biryani was very flavorful,. I was reminded that this was Pakistani (Muslim) and not Indian (Hindu) as I helped myself to some well-seasoned beef curry. Ian really enjoyed the pakoras, though I didn't sample any. Tandoori chicken always makes me happy and Royal's tandoori chicken was better than most, moist and flavorful and fall-off-the-bone tender. The palak paneer (spinach with fresh cheese) was quite good, as was the chana masala (curried chickpeas).
Poori, as God intended them to be but not, unfortunately, as they appear on the buffet at Royal Fish N' Chips.
The only real disappointment of the meal was the poori (deep fried whole-wheat flatbread), which is usually a real treat. Poori, however, doesn't belong on a buffet. It needs to be served hot and fresh. Unfortunately, on the steam table, the poori, which was puffed up when it comes out of the oil, collapsed into depressing soggy flatness and lost all of its light and airy goodness. The naan (tandoori bread) was delicious, though, with a nice, nutty flavor from the sesame seeds that covered the top of the bread.
Despite the tragic poori, the meal was quite good and was also quite affordable. Next time I go back, I'll have to make the difficult decision about whether to get more of the Pakistani fare or to get the fish and chips for which the restaurant is named. It'll be a tough call.
Since Ian and I have been going to Bethel every Sunday while I'm the supply preacher at the First Congregational Church there, we've taken the opportunity to eat at a different restaurant for lunch each week. Our fist week, we revisited an old favorite, Pho Vietnam, but each week since, we've ventured to new and different restaurants. On February 12, we visited the Sycamore Drive-In at 282 Greenwood Ave. in Bethel CT, which Kimberly had recommended to us, as she had once eaten there after a Master Gardener event.
A view of the interior of the Sycamore, along with my
most excellent church videographer and dining companion.
The Sycamore has been around since 1948 and has the vintage feeling of Arnold's Drive-In from Happy Days, with a black and white checkerboard floor, chrome and vinyl stools at a long counter, formica tables, and plenty of mid-20th-Century memorabilia. Beyond the nostalgia factor, the Sycamore offers two unique features: fresh ground top-round hamburgers and homemade rootbeer, both of which are made from recipes that have been in use at the restaurant for decades.
When Ian and I arrived, we both already knew that we wanted the rootbeer and one of the members of the Bethel church had recommended that we order the fries "well done." Kimberly had mentioned that the burgers were rather small and that we'd do well to order double burgers, so Ian and I both decided on the "Dagwood Burger," consisting of two patties, along with american cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, ketchup, and mayo.
Dagwood Burgers, large fries and homemade rootbeer!
Our meals arrived quickly, with the rich, vanilla-heavy rootbeer in frosted mugs. Large orders of fries, it turns out, are really too large for one person, but "well done" is definitely the way to go for these fries, which are crispy on the outside and pleasantly mealy on the inside. I don't usually like ketchup on my fries, but these ones cried out for it, taking me back to childhood. The burgers were served wrapped in paper, which Ian made a tactical error in removing, as his condiment laden burgers leaked and had the pieces slide apart. They definitely wrap them for a reason and my burger held together just fine and remained mess-free in its wrapper.
Whether neatly contained or not, the burgers were quite good, though the patties, at just 2.5oz each, were surprisingly thin. They had a good, honest, cooked-on-a-griddle umami flavor. If I had ordered the burgers elsewhere, I might have been disappointed with the iceberg lettuce, but the crispy flavorlessness of iceberg definitely fit with the overall 1950s theme of the restaurant and was good in its own way.
With the burgers finished, Ian and I turned our attention to the second plate of fries and our waiter brought us a second round of rootbeers, on the house. I'm not sure whether this was because I was wearing clergy blacks or because I had been photographing my food, but I wasn't about to overanalyze things. Perhaps, if you go to the Sycamore Drive-In, you might even find out that everyone gets free refills on their rootbeer. Just be sure to take cash, because the good folks at Sycamore don't take plastic or checks.
First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Bethel, Connecticut
For the last few weeks, I've been preaching at the First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in Bethel, CT. Their pastor of thirteen years, Dr. Sheldon Smith recently retired and their interim minister, Rev. Laura Westby, won't start until March 5, so I've been filling the pulpit as something of an "interim interim minister." I've been sharing the pulpit with the congregation's Licensed Parish Associate, Jane Ellingwood, and have been enjoying myself immensely as I lead both the 10:00am and 6:00pm worship services, which are distinctly different in style. The 10:00am service is a "traditional" service, with three hymns, choir, organ, and full liturgy. At 6:00, the service is more intimate and relaxed, with a guitarist playing for the songs, only one scripture reading, and is concluded with a potluck supper in the church hall.
I've been impressed by this friendly congregation. They've welcomed me into their family and have been receptive to the small changes that I've suggested. Most notably, they've been enthusiastic about the modification that I've made to the traditional "Please turn off your cell phones" announcement at the beginning of the service. Now, the announcement goes something like, "Please take out your phones and check in on Facebook, Foursquare, LinkedIn, Twitter, or other social media. Silence your devices, but please use them to let your friends who are not here know what they're missing." There's also been a lot of interest in the way that I have Ian videorecord all of my sermon and then post them to youtube (www.youtube.com/revpaulucc) so that those who miss the service can still be able to experience worship.
Just this morning, I received a call from one of FCC Bethel's deacon co-chairs, asking if I would be willing to add an extra Sunday to my time with them, so I've agreed to preach there on March 4, which will have me celebrating communion with them on my last Sunday there. Already, though, I'm looking forward to the possibility of returning as a guest preacher when Laura takes her vacation or for a special program on the story of the Amistad.
Valentine's Day was a bust, what with my working at the hospital all day and then having (cough) getting to go to the Winter Concert at Brien McMahon High School, where Ian performed in both the Symphonic Band and Wind Ensemble. Actually, the concert was really quite good, even if I am left wondering what kind of person schedules a school concert for Valentine's Night.
Sweethearts out for a romantic
post-Valentine's Day lunch.
Wednesday, though, was a Different Story. Kimberly declared that, in celebration of Valentine's Week, we would go and have lunch at Pontos Taverna, the relatively new Greek restaurant that had caught her attention a while back. She had made a reconnaissance of the place a couple weeks prior and came away with the notion that it would be well worth a repeat visit, with me in tow. Since the car was in the shop, we walked down to 7 Isaac Street for lunch, arriving just a smidge after the lunch rush was past.
Dolmades!
After being seated and given menus, it quickly became obvious that Kimberly knew just what she was going to order: a pork souvlaki sandwich. For the sake of having different things to taste, I settled on the gyro (please pronounce that "gyeer-oh", with a very soft G, not "jie-roe") sandwich, which I ordered with french fries and xtipiti, a spicy feta cheese spread for a dollar extra. Our server went out of her way to be informative and helpful, explaining that the french fries were served inside the sandwich and recommended that Kimberly and I also get a separate order of fries to share. Of course, we also had to get an order of dolmades (stuffed grape leaves).
Kimberly's souvlaki sandwich.
My gyro sandwich.
French fries to share.
The dolmades, made with meat and rice and served cold, were a great beginning to the meal. Kimberly was very pleased with her souvlaki sandwich and she allowed me a bite of it, it being Valentine's Week. As good as it was, I was much more impressed with the gyro. While I generally like gyros (or doner, if eating Turkish instead of Greek), this one was particularly good. Instead of the usual ground-meat version, this gyro was made of sliced meat, stacked on a vertical, rotating spit, with the resulting product being a bits of lovely, browned meat, rather than strips of homogenized beef and lamb. The xtipiti, which was new to me, was wonderful, adding nice bite to the sandwich, instead of the typical tzatziki sauce, with its yogurt and cucumber flavor. As to the french fries in the sandwich, they lost their structural integrity and mostly just gave a carbohydrate boost, which definitely wasn't necessary. The fries that were served on the side were fabulous, though, fresh-cut and served nice and hot with salt and oregano. The only thing that would have made them better would be a squeeze of lemon juice.
Since it was our Valentine's Day-ish date, Kimberly and I decided to get coffee and dessert. She got an order of baklava, which looked to be enough to feed a small army, and an American coffee. I had the tiramisu, similarly large, and a Greek coffee, which was served in a cute, but decidedly right-handed demitasse set. Somehow, I didn't manage to take any dessert photos; I'll let you guess why.
Other than the strangeness of the right-hand-only coffee, Pontos was fantastic and I expect that Kimberly and I may well make this one of our regular stops when we're looking for somewhere tasty and close to home.
