Open Your Golden Gates

To everything, turn, turn, turn.

Now, I'm in San Francisco, CA, which is not someplace I ever dreamed I’d live. OK, that’s not true because doesn’t everyone with half a brain dream of living in San Francisco? But given my history of under-employment, the Bay Area never seemed like a practical choice.

But here I am and I can’t believe it. I get to live in this incredible house.

Actually I get to share the incredible house that the cars live here. There are more of them than there are people at this point. The house really isn’t IN San Francisco proper as you can tell by the amount of yard and stuff. It’s in Walnut Creek, far from the wagging fingers of the public transit vigilantes. This is still California after all and it’s nice to be able to feel cozy with your vehicles under one roof. Or six roofs, as the case may be.

So, sure there’s plenty of cars in California, just like they told me there would be. I just got here so stereotypes are a nice shorthand way of getting a grip on the place. There’s the California beaches and the ocean, another icon. Though it’s cold and gray now that daylight savings time has begun, it’s still beautiful out there on the edge of the wild Pacific.





Other icons of San Francisco: Victorian houses and gays and cable cars and cults. Eventually I will encounter them all.

Let me give you a for-instance. I was over on 22nd street and went inside this building:


I thought it was another gothic-esque church but it’s been repurposed by the Hua Zang Si Buddhists. Here’s their main Buddha which resides on the second floor:

There are offerings to the various Buddhas all over the place. This one has one thousand golden cups of water in front of him along with fruit and incense and sound, which are all part of the Buddha gift bag.

In the middle of the room is this glass case. It’s kind of hard to tell what it is from the picture and it’s also hard to tell when you are standing right in front of it.



This is a sculpture of Mt. Sumera, which is an important place in Buddhist cosmology and is basically due north of the known world, where we are now. So, to me here in San Francisco, it’s like Marin. Inside that sculpture are two sacred relics, actual pieces of Satyamuni, the medicine Buddha.

It got me thinking about starting my own spiritual movement, the Nanny Orthodox Temple.



I have a captive audience of ready-made followers at the park. We will meet in our small cabals in plain view at Gymborees and fast food coffee shops like Dunkin' Donuts where there will be colorful distraction for our tiny bundles of responsibility, necessary while we plot a spiritual path for ourselves from the comfort of our tracks suits.
I think these ladies are an underutilized source of strength and I want to harness the power of nannies for enlightenment. Lately, just about anything has a ring of possibility to it, doesn’t it?

This is Moe saying goodbye while continuing my search for Nirvana in the Bay Area.

Minneapolis: Staying Power

Not to get all socialist here, since that is right next to communist, which is right next to terrorist from what I can gather from the current presidential race, but let me just say that flour milling is not the only bygone industry that made the Twin Cities great. I am humbled by the incredible manufacturing power of the workforce of this city and region. Or what it was in the generations before me. There’s still the Ford plant for now but I fear the economic downturn is not going to be good news for light truck production. Sigh.

South of town however, an oasis of manufacturing success holds strong in the town of Austin, which is very close to the Iowa border. Austin is proud home to the Hormel main processing plant and the birthplace of Spam. I am talking about Spam, the luncheon meat, not spam the digital litterbug from your in-box.

The people at Hormel have really gone all out with their Spamarium. It is an impressive modern museum that will teach you all you need to know about Spam and its universe of influence. There are state of the art, attention-grabbing exhibits that are now the modern museum-going standard, which miraculously transform meat in a can into an entertainment experience. When I say museum, I mean something closer to Epcot Center, offering a low-impact educational environment that leaves virtually nothing open to interpretation. So, not like a museum where you look at things and get to decide what you like or do not like about them. At the Spam Museum, there is little room for anything but fun.



These two gents are Misters Hormel, junior and senior, apparently sculpted out of museum-quality lard that has been frozen in place by an undisclosed Hormel lard secret. Not all of the pig goes into the can of Spam, so lard is a “value-added” by-product of the process.



Hormel made other things along the way too and they own and operate the Dinty Moore line of canned stews etc. Dinty Moore stew was a huge treat in my childhood and we only had it for the special occasions when mom didn’t feel like cooking and actually listened to that feeling. I loved its comforting canned goodness, enhanced by mom’s own relationship to Hormel products during the war. When I say war, I mean one of the older ones where the moral compass points were clear.

There was a little info at the museum about what it is like to work at Hormel, but they kind of just show the fun parts on that too. Let’s face it, it’s a slaughterhouse which I imagine is not a pleasant situation for all creatures concerned. I did get to try on the cool shark-proof glove that the workers in the plant wear so that no fingers end up contaminating the food stream.

I have to say that personally, the gift shop was really the best part and I am proud to say that I contributed to the GDP during these troubled economic times by spending 65 bucks there. I bought two cans of Spam, Hickory Smoked and Garlic flavored, even though I will never eat them. The Garlic type is sort of a special-edition collector’s item because it cannot be purchased domestically and is produced entirely for the export market. Spam is crazy good, as the commercials tell us and is crazy popular in asia.

But my favorite splurge purchase was this piece of headgear:

which is going to make a nice Halloween appearance first and then will go into my daywear wardrobe. I am Spam, Spam I am.

It's hard to tell from this picture but my Spam hat was attracted to the colossus of spatulas that was displayed near the exit. The bigger picture wouldn't load right, sorry Dear Reader.

Until next time so long from Moe, your favorite canned ham on the internet.

Hands-Free

Today I went down by the riverside to lay down my sword and shield. No baptism took place but I did get a glimpse of Minneapolis’ former life as the flour capital of the universe.

The Mill City Museum is really well done and I can say that I now have basic understanding of how the river was used to power all those giant mills along its banks. The water goes in and pushes a big thing around that turns a lot of other big things. Those big turning things transform little things like grains of wheat into even littler things like flour. Or the turning things make blankets, socks, electricity. The river was crazy useful.

And the old buildings of the former mills are crazy handsome. Majestic in their size, they give perspective to our place as specs in the universe. Like the pyramids or the Corn Palace in South Dakota, they are humbling.

Hard to believe that every single one of those mills has now been converted to luxury urban housing. Or so explained the docent at the museum. The museum itself is a new building that was somehow slipped into decrepit ruins of the old Washburn Mill A. And the condos got slipped in too. The Residences at the Ruins. Strange, but the buildings are beautiful, even ruined and if putting condos in them is going to be how they get saved from the wrecking ball, I’m all for it.

Then I was over in the Somali neighborhood, Cedar Riverside where there are again, bustling shops and modest cafes and restaurants that cater to this community of very recent immigrants. I chatted with a merchant, Farah who got my attention when I picked up a package of biscuits named Glucose and he remarked that these were his favorite and I bought them to give Glucose a try. Farah said he has been here for ten years and that he has been “treated like a king” since he arrived and has been able to open his own shop and prosper. He said that after 7 wars in his country it was time for him to find another life.

Farah’s store is in the shadow of a soviet-style housing complex that is an architectural ode to poured concrete:





There were plenty of people walking around to do their marketing and small clusters of men chatting on the sidewalks. The women were dressed in hijabs, some of them very very beautiful in their flowing miles of fabric. I know it’s not considered very feminist of me probably but their dress was beautiful, especially compared to the guys who sport wester style clothes.

One woman I saw driving a minivan was talking on her phone and had ingeniously jerry-rigged a hands-free situation by simply tucking her cell underneath her head scarf so that it clung to her head while she drove. And I thought, wow that lady is really clever and then two minutes later I saw this woman waiting at a bus stop:

Sorry this is sideways too but I am having issues with the upload. Technology has its own ideas...

The Mini-Apple

"Minneapolis-St.Paul: going your way"

According to the sign in the airport, that is the motto of the city. Or was it the motto of the airport? That would make more sense.

Just arrived here and spent the day scooting around the Twin Cities with my new best friend Allison and her one hundred per cent ADORABLE daughter, Anna, 18 months old. At 18 months, I’d say from observation that the human animal peaks in terms of irresistible cuteness, and little Anna is a prime specimen. I know it is wrong to intervene in the growth of anything, but if Anna were my kid I would consider longer than I’d care to admit the possibility of giving her those growth-stunting hormones, to kind of freeze her in place at her apex of perfection. I know there are serious ethical implications in that kind of thinking but hey, I’m a serious person.

But first things first. When in Saint Paul, go visit the saint himself. Allison drove me over to the holy side of town, which is a city unto itself. Found the impressive cathedral on the hill named for Mister Saint Paul.

I really wanted to see St. Paul, or maybe a tiny sliver of his holy shinny bone or something, and I was very disappointed to find out that he does not in fact reside here in Minnesota. That is always such a bummer for me when I go to a big church named for a saint, and in the case of Paul, a really important one, only to discover that there is no real saint there. In Italy, this is not a problem. Mexico either. I have seen some saintly bodies or little parts of them in my day and I can’t say why but I do find it comforting, like an open-casket funeral. It’s important to see the body. Habeus Corpus, and all that.

So, no Saint Paul, though they put up this incredibly impressive cathedral named after him and here is a granite likeness of him from the outside of the church. And it turns out, this is his jubilee year to mark the “bi-millenium” of his birth, which is estimated between 7 and 10 AD. Paul had quite a potboiler of a life story, from the road to Damascus where he was converted to Christianity, right straight through to his martyrdom in Rome. Dude got put in jail seven times and nearly killed in many other incidents of preaching and whatnot by angry mobs. Don’t forget about his shipwreck on Malta! He traveled all over the Greco-Roman empire and is considered the “apostle to the gentiles”.

No Saint Paul, however there are loads of Latter Day Saints around Minneapolis-St. Paul, as the Google taught me. Though they are prolific producers, the Mormons are not really giving the Lutherans a run for their money around here. So many varieties of Lutherans, who knew? Latvian, Evangelical, Norwegian. And one called Faith Free Lutheran, which makes me wonder where the clarifying hyphen should go in that name. Faith or not, you choose. Personally, I would be torn between Creamy Ranch and Nacho Cheese Lutherans.

I know, it’s easy to make Lutheran jokes or hot dish jokes or you-betcha-doncha-know jokes. I’ll try and refrain in the spirit ot trying to say something new.

Went over to one of the latino neighborhoods and to a swell market called mercato central which was full of bustling stalls of sellers, hawking everything from tamale platters to baptism dresses that look like wearable wedding cakes. Sorry the picture is sideways but I am just not that adept in the technology department.


I bought a bottle of water from a pupuseria which had this touching sign on its counter.



Strange to see the word “corpse” used, so without the usual gentle coating I associate with the language of death. It was downright medieval, especially against the backdrop of the cheerful food court area.

At Mercato Central, it all is in the mix. Life, death, tamales, devotion. There's a lovely little shrine to protect the shoppers right by one of the entrances.
So much more comforting than passing through metal detectors!

I Find a Friend

Hola! Estoy Moe! Moe en la ciudad! Bienveneidos!

Today I went over to the other side of the tracks again, the north side of town to the fabulous store above.

Mas Amigos! Su tienda amiga!

Most friends! Your shopping friend! Roughly speaking.

Inside, Mas Amigos is like a Mexican wonderland, right here in Urbana.



They sell absolutely everything from Mexico and Latin America and absolutely nothing from "El Norte", Gringo America. Look at the impressive hot sauce display:

I bought corn lollipops with chili flavor! I’m excited and scared all at the same time.

The nice lady who ran the store was there and I wanted to talk with her but she was on the phone. I had a million questions for her. Like, which tamarind soda is better, Jarritos or Boing?



I bought them both and will have a taste test and let you know.


I loved finding Mas Amigas. It was like a little trip south of the border, down Mexico way. It was fiesta and we were so gay. And can I just say, the Mexican people know a thing or two about corn and how to make the best of it. My trip to Mas Amigas confirmed that. I know I'm all corn-centric but we are products of our environments, so the psychologists tell us and right now I'm as corny as Illinois in September.

A Bao Grows in Champaign

I was toodling around Champaign today on my bike and I ran into this most awesome trailer park out by the interstate. It doesn’t look like much from the street but when you get inside, you can tell the people who live there are house proud.


They have painted the trailers bright colors in some cases and at the very least, the yards are kept up and sometimes full of kids' bikes and other signs of life.



I found this one trailer at the back of the park that had this amazing garden growing against the sunny side.

I saw these squashes and gourds and vegetables that I did not know the name of though I’d seen them before in markets and it made me think that probably Asians lived there. The front of the house had gorgeous flowers and I waved when I saw somebody in the window and they waved back. That made me bold and so I went up on the porch and said hi. A little boy came out with his mom and I said I saw the garden and admired it. The boy said “is it some kind of a contest or something?” and I said no, that I just saw the garden and thought it was beautiful.

His mom smiled and then apparently asked her son what I was saying. He translated and then she smiled more and said “garden good”! I said yes, very very good. I asked about one of the squashes in the back and the boy grabbed the mom and they took me around back to look.

This one is called bao in Vietnamese. Which is where these people are from. They have been in Champaign for 5 years. The son is in fifth grade and does the talking when nice white ladies show up on the front porch. His name is Tuan. His mom’s name is Tu.

Tuan and Tu and I had a broken but animated conversation about all the vegetables. She was explaining to me about the mint and I said yes, like in Pho which is like the national dish of Viet Nam. And her eyes opened really wide and she said in perfect English “you know pho?” Oh yes, I know pho and pho knows me.

Then the boy’s father appeared and he spoke a little English and we discussed the various vegetables some more. I asked him where he got the seeds because I did not imagine they came from the Farm and Fleet. He said someone gave them to him. Hand to hand seed dispersion.

I asked him where he worked and he said the name of a company that I didn’t recognize but explained that they boxed up toys and sent them around. I think that’s what he said. He said back in Viet Nam he was a fisherman and that he had worked the shrimp boats in the Gulf of Mexico out of New Orleans for the first ten years he was here, saving enough money to bring his wife and sponsor her and their son.



When they arrived they moved here and he bought their trailer for $5000. Good price, he said. New trailer is 25,000. He had fixed it up inside.

He said they wanted to go back to their country but “no money, no money”. I couldn’t tell if that meant no money to get back to Viet Nam or that there is no money in Viet Nam. Probably a little bit of both.

I asked them if they have a good life here and he smiled and said yes, yes good life. "My son, he learns English well. Hard work. But no work, no money."

Then he asked me how many children I had and I said none. And he seemed sad for me. Sad but hopeful. "Some day you have family", he said and he got a big smile on his face.

Seems every farmer I meet, Russ with 2300 acres or Tu with a beautiful pea patch, wants to marry me off and turn me into a farm wife. Now, that wouldn't be the wosrt thing in the world, would it?

Corn Update

Moe here. Evening Crop Report.

So, I was crabbing about corn, because that’s my favorite parlor game since I got here. And you know, I’m important enough in the agricultural tradition and industry of Champaign County at this point, that my opinion matters.

Turns out, corn is not just some annoying plants in a field that have been put there on purpose to drive me crazy.

I was thinking about this farmer I met at the market, Russ Roth from Morgan, IL. Here’s Russ:

Mr. Roth his son cultivate 2300 acres of field corn, along with the vegetables and sweetcorn they sold at their market stand. He sold me an Armenian cucumber, something I’d never seen. You have to peel the thing, and then it’s like a regular cucumber on performance-enhancing steroids on the inside:



OK, not to dwell but this thing was huge:



And it tasted like a cross between an American cucumber and a honeydew melon.

Mister Roth shucked a piece of his corn right there and made me try it, raw. Which I did and it was as he promised, the sweetest I’d ever tasted. Then he paid me probably the nicest compliment I've had in a while. He asked me if I was a farm girl. Who ever thought I’d be flattered by that question, but I was.