How We Look at Knives

Photo: Kramer Knives

I don't look at a knife the way I used to. I'm more aware of what it is. I think twice.
         – Neil Young

Of course, Neil Young is looking at a knife differently than I do; not as a necessary kitchen tool for meal preparation, but as a dangerous item that could easily sever the fingers he requires to make his wonderful music. Had I turned out to be a musician I would have shared his concern. But I’m not. I do not view knives as an inherent threat.

When I was a kid I would accompany my mother to the grocery store and I would spend my time at the meat counter watching the butchers prepare and trim various cuts. I found the whole thing absolutely fascinating and dreamed that one day I might grow up to be a butcher. Fate would take me in a different direction. Yet even today, on a trip to the local Costco, I am drawn to the meat department where I observe the butchers and their knives at work.

I love to cook and prepare various dishes and over the years I have had a variety of knives of different sizes and purposes to facilitate my work in the kitchen – a good all purpose chef’s knife (commonly referred to as a butcher knife); a paring knife for smaller chores and to cut vegetables and fruit; a boning knife to fillet the occasion fish or to debone chicken or trim meat; and a serrated knife to cut bread and which is ideal to get better purchase when slicing tomatoes. A chef’s or cook’s knife is without a doubt the single most important tool in any kitchen, and it is used in the creation of virtually every dish. And a sharp knife guarantees more control and more consistent cutting and slicing. A blunt or dull knife is dangerous and is more likely to slip and cause an injury. On this point I share Neil Young’s concern. 
That said, I have to admit that I no longer look at a knife as simply a utilitarian instrument for the kitchen. It can also be a family relic or keepsake passed down through the generations recalling those who used it to prepare memorable meals in the past. I am reminded of an episode of the NBC series The West Wing (one of my all time favorite television programs) aired just before Thanksgiving, in November 2000. The story line of "Shibboleth" focused on the White House as the fictional Bartlet administration prepared to celebrate Thanksgiving. President Bartlet (Martin Sheen) sent his personal aid Charlie Young (Dulé Hill) to search for and procure the ultimate carving knife to be used to serve the holiday turkey. Young returned several times with what at first blush appeared to be just what the President was searching for. Perhaps a good Japanese knife; a 1985 Japanese "Cumin Yamado" with its lighter weight blade "which facilitates the cutting and reduces usage fatigue." Or perhaps a good German knife. Yet each time the selection came up short for one reason or another. Exasperated at the President’s inability to select a proper knife, Charlie pressed the point. "OK, Mr. President, I say this with all possible respect, but each of these knifes cuts. . . you know. . . meat. Why is it important?" The President interrupts: "cause it's something we pass on, something with a history. So we can say, my Father gave this to me, his Father gave this to him and now I am giving it to you." The President took a box containing a knife from his desk and gave it to Charlie. "Take a look. The fully tapered bluster allows for sharpening the entire edge of the blade." As it turns out the knife was made for the Bartlet family by a Boston silversmith by the name of Paul Revere. He wanted Charlie to have it. You get the point.

All cultural or familial significance aside there has long been a great deal of debate about the need for a high-quality knife in the kitchen. It can be argued that it will remain sharp longer and feel more balanced in the hand with less pressure on muscles and joints. President Bartlet seemed to understand this when his aid returned with various knives manufactured in Japan and Germany. Most quality Japanese knives can be sharpened to a much finer degree due to harder steel used in their manufacture. Unfortunately they are also more prone to chip or break. German manufactured steel knives are softer due to the lower carbon content in the steel and are therefore more durable and do not require sharpening as often. Each chef has his or her preference for whatever reason.

The preparation of food is an intimate thing that we frequently use to celebrate, to mourn on occasion, and as we have learned, to share family ties and to preserve cultures. In recent years, when I began to take cooking more seriously, I finally looked upon knives and other kitchen tools and implements with more appreciation and respect, not only for their utility, but also for the craftsmanship that went into their creation. Like President Bartlet I view a good knife as a piece of art with a culinary function.
 
Later, reading Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, his 2000 memoir of his time as a line cook and chef, and his follow up Medium Raw (2010), my respect for a proper knife grew exponentially. One did not need a kitchen drawer full of useless sub-standard knives; just a few that accomplished what needed to be done and in an efficient manner. These knives did not necessary have to be fancy, or have long and illustrious cultural histories. They just needed to be well made; craftsmanship is a must.

Writing in his Les Halles Cookbook (2004), Bourdain preached the necessity of a proper and well maintained chef’s knife. It is one kitchen tool one cannot afford to be without and it should be treated with the care and respect it deserves. A knife of good quality and reputation is an extension of the self, and expression on one’s skill, ability and experience. Or the opposite. "A sharp knife is a must. A dull knife, as any one knows, leaves a bigger, nastier wound - and worst of all, does a lousy job." It comes down to a very simple adage. "If you cannot take pride in your tools, you are incapable of preparing food you can be proud of."

Bourdain perhaps took this necessity to an extreme as his fame and celebrity grew. He met Rob Kramer, a one time kitchen creature like himself, who went on to become one of the consummate bladesmiths in this country. Each Kramer Knife is made individually and there is a long waiting list. Bourdain, despite his celebrity, would have to wait his turn. When it finally came, Bourdain left it to Kramer to create something fitting. He spent two weeks in his shop to produce a 10-inch chef’s knife (shown above) from steel and meteorite with a handle and sheath fashioned out of durable cocobolo Dalbergia retusa, a traditional hardwood found in Central America which is known for it beautiful patterns of earth tone colors. (I have a money clip fashioned out of it.) Kramer spent hours melting and grinding and hammering in his shop to create what Bourdain would call "the most awesome knife in the world." Bourdain loved it, paid $5,000 dollars for it, and it would become one of his most prized possessions for the remaining two years of his life.

This past October over 200 items from Bourdain’s estate went on the auction block and the custom Kramer knife was one of the items most sought after and it was expected to be the highest-valued item prior to the auction. Lark Mason Associates, the firm that conducted the auction online (iGavel.com) predicted it would sell for somewhere between $4,000 and $6,000 given the fact the is was in good condition for a well-used knife with only minor oxidation and verdigris. Part way through the bidding process the bid had risen to $50,000. The auctioned items eventually fetched almost $2 million, and the Kramer Knife netted the highest bid of $185,000. Add the 25% buyer's premium and the final selling price was $231,250! I wonder how much Charlie Young might get for the Paul Revere knife if it went on the open market today? Probably quite a bit given that Paul Revere was a silversmith known for crafting spoons rather than knives. A set of eight spoon recently sold for $8,000.

I will never spend several thousand dollars, or even a few hundred dollars, for a good chef’s knife. I am not a professional chef responsible for a large commercial kitchen. But I do take pride in the tools that I can afford and there are a number of decent, good quality knives to be had for under $100, or even a few dollars more if one chooses to go that route. But let it be said that I do appreciate a good knife for all the reasons elucidated by the late Anthony Bourdain. I do not know if my knives will be passed down for generations. I seriously doubt it. But they do mean something to me in the here and now and perhaps that is the most important thing of all.

An Extraordinary Vacancy - Jim Harrison, 1937-2016

Photo: Robert DeMott

Jim Harrison, one of my favorite writers, passed away on March 26, 2016 at his modest casita near Patagonia, Arizona where he had spent his winters in more recent years. The rest of the time he resided in Paradise Valley, in the shadows of the grand Absaroka Mountains, near Livingston, Montana. I just want to take a few minutes this morning to mark this sad fourth anniversary of his passing at age 78.

Thomas McGuane, perhaps Harrison’s oldest living friend at the time of his death, remarked on his passing in The New Yorker, noting that Harrison died at his writing desk. It seems to me entirely appropriate; that he would have wanted it that way. McGuane added that Harrison’s death "leaves an extraordinary vacancy" for family, friends, and admirers who never had the pleasure to meet and know him. I was one of those who felt cast adrift. I still do. The thought that no more words will be unleashed from his pen saddens me deeply. I never met Harrison, yet my life and my own writing has orbited his since the early 1970s, when I first became aware of his unique perspective on human foibles and interaction with the natural world.

I have been rereading Harrison’s last poems published by Copper Canyon Press in Dead Man’s Float shortly before his death, as well as his last collection of novellas, The Ancient Minstrel. Both of these volumes arrived in my mailbox just days before Harrison died at his writing table in Arizona. The poems especially memorialize his pains and sadness in his earthly twilight. I took perhaps a small degree of comfort at the time in the fact that he was no longer suffering the various pains and infirmities that plagued him late in life. Nor would he be burdened by the loneliness he endured after the death of Linda, his beloved wife of 55 years the previous October. After a long and productive life, perhaps the fire in his heart just flickered and finally went out.

Once again I close my eyes and I try to imagine a young boy casting an alder fly into a quiet pool under a distant cutbank on the Pere Marquette River not far from his boyhood Michigan home. A rainbow trout eyes it closely as it drifts past, not realizing, if it strikes out of habit, its quick transit to an awaiting net would one day be quietly and thoughtfully memorialized in the words Jim Harrison as if etched into pages of his own immortality.

Sang-Froid is More Than Just a Feeling

Today’s post is #500 since I first began this project in late November 2008. I never imagined I would still be posting in 2020. Thanks to everyone who has supported this effort over the years.

We sit at home and practice shelter in place and social distancing as we listen to reports of the coronavirus pandemic spreading like wildfire across the globe. Thankfully more and more leaders (although not as many as we would hope) are taking this crisis seriously and they are taking important executive actions and introducing crucial legislation to address the pandemic with the hope of quickly arresting its spread. One of these steps includes the shuttering of all non-essential businesses although the definition of such is not readily apparent in many instances.

Thankfully there are businesses large and small that are still open and providing necessities of life to local communities in these very uncertain times. I would like to take just a moment to spotlight one rather new local business, a small artisanal distillery, that has come up with a creative way of addressing the crisis and the shortage of critical products now difficult to find in grocery stores and pharmacies that have remained open.

Craft and artisanal distilleries and breweries across the country have joined together to produce the high proof ethanol required for hand sanitizer for their local communities. And it is happening right here where I live on the fringes of Washington, DC. Sang Froid Distilling, just a short distance up the road from me in Hyattsville, is the brainchild of Nate Groenendyk and Jeff Harner. It is the first distillery in almost a century to open in suburban Prince George’s County, Maryland, the eastern gateway to our nation’s capital. The small storefront distillery and tasting room on the US Route One corridor, is primarily known for its limited production of a Dutch-style Genever gin, rye whiskey, and assorted fruit brandies inspired by the European and early American traditions, and by using the best locally found ingredients and fruit grown in their own orchard in western Maryland.

Sangfroid, or sang-froid, is a French term translated as "cold blood," but is normally defined as a feeling of composure or coolness, frequently while under pressure or trying circumstances, or even during dangerous conditions. I would imagine one wishes to remain cool and composed while creating artisanal spirits, yet the distillery’s name is also rather appropriate given the dangerous and uncertain times in which we find ourselves.

At this important stage of its early existence, as it tries to establish itself and ramp up production and marketing of a variety of spirits, Sang Froid Distilling’s founders remain cool and composed as they now gather the necessary supplies they will require as they convert their distillery’s modest equipment to process sugar rather than grains for the production of hand sanitizer pursuant to a recipe provided by the World Health Organization [WHO]. This is possible after the federal Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau altered its policies and regulations by waiving provisions of internal revenue law to permit licensed distillers to produce high proof ethanol after being contacted by local agencies to help address the current shortages. The distillery notified it customers that its capacity for sanitizer production would only be a "drop in the bucket," but the effort had to start somewhere local and it was hoped that larger distilleries across the country and beyond would step up to the plate. Apparently they have.

It has been reported that Pernod Ricard, Jameson Irish whiskey, and Absolut vodka have now received federal authorization to produce hand sanitizer and the President and his White House task force have praised corporate distilleries for their actions while seemingly ignoring (what’s new?) the small local artisanal distilleries and breweries that have at great sacrifice set the effort in motion to address shortages in their local communities.

I consider myself lucky to live in such a community and I just wanted to give a big shout out to the good folks Sang Froid Distilling and all the other small operations around the country. We appreciate your spirit (and your spirits) and sacrifice, your coolness and composure, in these trying times.

We Are All Brothers and Sisters in Arms

Although the lovely and haunting song "Brothers in Arms," first recorded by Dire Straits in 1985, is about the brotherly bonds forged by the destruction and pain of World War I, a bond between soldiers on both sides, I am struck by the lyrics as they are applicable to today's pandemic crisis. We are all in this together. We will succeed or fail together. Be kind and compassionate. We are all brothers and sisters in arms.

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be

Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged high

And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die

But it's written in the starlight
And every line in your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9oakm9-vjo

My Own Silver Linings Playbook

I don't want to stay in the bad place, where no one believes in silver linings or love or happy endings.

– Matthew Quick, The Silver Linings Playbook (2008)

Please consider the potential silver linings provided by this enforced sheltering in place during the COVID-19 / coronavirus pandemic. We are all in this together (at a distance of at least six feet) and there are the little things we can do to weather this crisis. Here are a few in no special order. 

Enjoy your family (from a reasonable distance). Prepare a special meal. Read that book or watch that film you have not had time for. Listen to some music. Sing (even if only in the shower in consideration of others reasonably nearby). Work on some craft projects you have been putting off. Address the odd jobs around the house that need doing. Send a sympathetic e-mail to a friend (better yet write a letter and mail it). Keep a journal or a diary and record how you are confronting this crisis; it will be a valuable historical record one day. Open a bottle of wine you have been saving for a special occasion and enjoy it without regrets. Remember spring has just arrived; enjoy the flowers and budding trees outside your windows. Wave to your neighbors and shout out a greeting and wish them well. Sing to them if you dare. Play with and cuddle your pets who don’t understand why you are always around (or maybe they do). Light some candles and burn some incense. Take time to meditate or pray.

I am sure there are other things I might suggest. Be creative. Come up with other ideas and share them with your family, your friends and your neighbors. Now is the time when a sense of community means so much more. Margaret J. Wheatley perhaps said it best. "There is no power for change greater than a community discovering what it cares about."

Finally, take time to remember our health care and public safety officials who are sacrificing their own silver linings to protect us in this time of crisis.

A Joyful Noise? - Entering my Seventh Decade

I want to extend my appreciation to Kurt Russell who paved the way for me four days ago; we have both entered our seventh decade. Perhaps it would be best to just remain at age 68; all things considered it was a reasonably good year. Yes. 68, or 68+, and the middle finger salute to getting any older.

But the sad fact is that I have arrived. It was 69 years ago this morning – shortly after midnight on March 21, 1951 – when the wanton cries of a bouncing baby boy echoed through the maternity ward of Holy Cross Hospital, on the southwestern fringe of Chicago, Illinois. It was a Wednesday, the first day of Spring that year. My folks brought me home to our South Side apartment on Easter Sunday.

 
The US president was Harry S. Truman serving his second term in office having been reelected in 1948. US troops were still engaged in combat in Korea and would be for two more years. Just over a week later Ethel and Julius Rosenberg would be convicted of atomic espionage and would later be executed in Sing Sing’s electric chair. "Rawhide," directed by Henry Hathaway and starring Tyrone Power and Susan Hayward, would be released four days later, one of the most popular films of 1951. A hit song at the time was Perry Como’s "If (They Made Me a King)" written by Tolchard Evans, Robert Hargreaves, and Stanley J. Damerell, and recorded by Como in November 1950. Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763, edited by Frederick A. Pottle and published by Yale University Press in 1950, was one of the best selling books at the time. Televison was a relatively new invention, and in early 1951 people were watching "Circuit Rider," an early drama about the lives of evangelical clergymen who traveled across the new American states in the wake of the Revolutionary War. It aired on Sunday nights on ABC-TV between March 5 and May 7, 1951.

If you think about it, 69 years seems like an awfully long time. But think of it as 25,199 days. Or 604,776 hours. Or 36,286,560 minutes! That is pretty hard to fathom. How many times has my heart pulsed since that morning long ago?   How many times have I blinked my eyes? Oh, if I had a dollar for each. And, if I got a good eight hours of sleep every night, that would mean I have slept away a third of my life . . . 23 years! Thankfully that was not the case. I had things to do. Places to go. People to see.

So where will this new year of life take me? What will I be able to accomplish? Hopefully, at the end of it all, I will still be raising a joyful noise. I have mixed feelings about this personal benchmark, so perhaps a middle finger salute is not the proper gesture at this juncture. Maybe a thumbs up instead? Regardless, I will just take comfort in my loving family and my many friends. It has been a good life so far, and I look forward to many more years in your good company.

Maine on a Half Shell Redux - That Other Local Shellfish

Photo:  J's Oyster - Portland Pier - Portland, Maine

This is a slightly revised and expanded version of a lecture I presented before the New Gloucester (Maine) Historical Society on September 19, 2019.

The oyster is a classical character.
      – John R. Philpots

I am not certain when I ate my first oyster, be it cooked or raw (nude). I was born and raised in the Midwest - mostly in Wisconsin with its dairy farms and breweries. Lots of cows, hay and corn. Plenty of milk, cheese, and beer. You get the picture. We did have the Great Lakes and their bounty, but where I grew up we were hundreds of miles from the closest oyster beds.

This is not to say that oysters did not occasionally pop up on a menu, especially Oysters Rockefeller, or oysters on a half shell (some say "in" a half shell), in some of the fancier restaurants in Milwaukee or Madison, or Chicago - my hometown - whenever we ventured that far. Still, folks in Wisconsin seemed content with a simple Friday night fish fry and all the yellow perch and walleye one could eat. If I did go somewhere fancy to eat on a holiday, or on a special occasion, I was content with a shrimp cocktail, or maybe some pickled herring. I even had snails a couple times and enjoyed them just fine. But oysters. They seldom entered the picture.

I attended college in Florida for most of my undergraduate career. My Midwestern culinary horizons were greatly expanded, including an introduction to other types of delicious seafood not sold in supermarkets or served in restaurants back home. At least not five decades ago. I enjoyed an occasional lobster, although unless it was a special occasion when the offering was a Maine lobster served in a restaurant, it was more than likely a Caribbean spiny lobster harvested from local waters between midsummer and early spring, or South African lobster tails before they became seafood-non-grata to protest the apartheid regime in that country. Although oysters were harvested in Florida, I would not discover them until later.

It was during the year I attended a German university and traveled throughout Europe in the early 1970s when I began trying all sorts of foods I had never tasted before. There were the fermented Vietnamese century eggs and other indigenous and foreign street foods consumed in the back streets of Paris’ Left Bank. Or live snails although they moved so slowly there was some question whether they were still alive when you pt them in your mouth. Herring in aspic was a new discovery as were smoked eel from the Rhine River. The list goes on and on. More importantly, my diet in Europe also included the delicious North Sea flat oysters harvested from the expansive tidal flats along the German, Dutch, and Danish coasts which could be purchased at the daily market in the center of Freiburg where I did most of my marketing. And who could ever forget those wonderful Belon oysters along France’s Brittany coast?

So I finally had a taste for oysters when I returned from Germany to Florida and discovered that the Sunshine State, as well the Gulf of Mexico coastlines of Mississippi and Louisiana, produced some of the finest tasting oysters in North America. Back then oysters grew like weeds along the Gulf coast; most of them still grown wild on contrast to farmed oysters. And best of all, they were relatively inexpensive. The lower salinity levels of the Gulf also protected wild oysters from certain diseases in a way that has not occurred in the Chesapeake Bay and elsewhere. My favorite Florida oysters are those from the waters near Apalachicola, on the eastern Panhandle, which is the last place in the United States where, by law, wild oysters are still harvested by tongs from small boats. I still love to visit north Florida and drive over to the Gulf coast at Cedar Key where you can find me slurping down trays of local Pelican Reef (Eastern) oysters on the half shell arrayed over crushed ice . . . with a drop of Tabasco sauce, a dab of horseradish, and a few wedges fresh lemon.

I moved from Florida to Tucson for graduate school in early 1974. Yes, it’s in the Arizona desert and it is not especially known for seafood although there is good seafood to be found not far away, in Southern California, and even closer, in Mexico. Fresh seafood could be found in the better restaurants around town. But no oysters to speak of; at least I never ate them while living out West to my recollection. Being a graduate student on a limited budget, I tended to seek out less expensive fare.

It was probably not until the autumn of 1976, shortly after SallyAnn and I moved from Tucson to Maryland with easy access to the Chesapeake Bay, that I finally got into a regular habit of eating wild oysters harvested by trawl and hand tonging . . . and a raw one to boot. They were at the time plentiful and relatively cheap. I will occasionally eat cooked oysters - roasted or fried - but my default preference is freshly shucked bivalves served on the half shell . . . and yes . . . with a drop of Tabasco sauce and a little dab of horseradish and some freshly cut lemon wedges. That’s all you really need for a feast fit for the gods! I became an official ostreaphile . . . an oyster afficionado.  

While wines have terroirs, oysters are defined by "meroirs" determined by water salinity, temperature, the types of algae present in the water, and seabed characteristics. These all factor into an individual oyster’s distinct flavor. There are only five unique species of oysters in the United States – Pacific, Kumamoto, European Flat or Belon, Olympia, and the common Eastern Oyster from the Gulf of Mexico all the way to the waters of Maine and the Canadian Maritime, including the Chesapeake Bay. The Eastern Oyster – Crassostrea virginica – has many different market names –"Wellfleets" "Blue Points" "Dodge Coves" – depending where they are harvested. They are all the same species yet these oysters differ from state to state, from river to river, and even from cove to cove.

Chesapeake Bay, long considered the "Napa Valley of Oysters," is not a bay at all, but rather a tidal estuary, the largest in the US, where fresh and salt water mix to medium salinity. Its oyster beds were once dense throughout, and the local bivalves flourished in the warm waters along its indented shoreline and in its several tributaries – especially in the Susquehanna, the Potomac, and the Choptank of Maryland, and in Virginia’s James and the Rappahanock rivers. Oyster rocks, or reefs, were so abundant that they presented a hazard to shipping in and out of Baltimore. Chesapeake oysters grew plump and sweet and forty years ago you could buy a bushel and not break the bank. Alas, the local watermen have harvested this apparently inexhaustible resource for over three centuries until today there are virtually no more wild oysters to harvest in the Bay. All the best oysters now come from aquaculture operations in the Virginia tributaries and Maryland is expanding its oyster farming operations. In fact, 95% of all oysters consumed in the world today are farm-raised. And they are no longer cheap or as easy to come by. You can imagine my consternation.

***

To many, perhaps most, Maine is synonymous with lobster; and understandably so. Of course, there is the ubiquitous steamed or boiled Maine lobster which is always easy to find and relatively inexpensive (although not as cheap as it used to be), if you buy it direct from a lobster pound; they can be rather dear, if served in a restaurant. There are also lobster rolls, lobster stew, lobster bisque, lobster salad, lobster mac and cheese. You name it! And who can forget the indigenous soft-shell clams, or "steamers," which are usually quite plentiful and relatively inexpensive during the summer months unless there is an active red tide bloom in progress. And there are also the local mussels. But I am here to talk about oysters, and Maine’s roughly 100 oyster farmers deserve a little love, too.

Maine and oysters actually have a rather long mutual history. The original hunter-gatherers, and then the Mi’kmaq and the Abenaki First Nation peoples, were beneficiaries of an astonishing abundance of oysters to be found along the Maine coast and tidal tributaries. They were responsible for the giant piles of discarded oyster shells, or middens, found today along the banks of the Damariscotta River on Mid-Coast Maine. Rising over thirty feet high and 150 feet long, these middens are around 2,000 years old and stand as a testament to the once abundant wild oyster population in Maine.

Today almost all of Maine’s commercial oysters are the product of a thriving and expanding aquaculture industry along Mid-Coast Maine. Actually, oysters have been farmed in Maine since the 1800s, but never on a large scale. In the late 1940s, Maine scientists attempted to cultivate Europe’s native oyster species (Ostrea edulis, or the European Flat Oyster) in Harpswell, Boothbay Harbor, in the Taunton River in Franklin, and at other Mid-Coast locations. Yet this species generally never took hold because the Maine waters were too cold to sustain it. A few did survive, however, and reproduced to establish wild oyster beds where they were eventually harvested by divers beginning in 1973 when the first official aquaculture lease was issued by the state. The industry is now growing fast and with good reason.

According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), Maine’s 3,478 miles coastline ranks fourth in the nation after Alaska, Florida and Louisiana. That is a lot of oyster farming potential. With over 1 million acres of territorial waters in Maine, and only 293 of these held in lease for oyster aquaculture, there is plenty of room to grow to meet a growing demand. Maine’s inner coastal waters, the fingerling coastal rivers (actually estuaries much like Chesapeake Bay only in miniature), and upriver tidal coves, provide stable seabeds and growth depth, as well as shelter from the Gulf of Maine’s strong tides and severe icing along the coast during the long winters. These provide excellent conditions for oyster farming. Many of currently leased acres – ranging from as small as 400 square feet and as large as 40 acres – are found in the Damariscotta River which appears to be replacing the Chesapeake Bay as the "The Napa Valley of Oysters," or "The Cote D’Or of oyster farming," as it provides all the food the oyster needs as it grows to market size.

Farmed oyster methods may vary. The oysters are allowed to grow to size, raked or hand-harvested during collection, and finally floated in wet storage containers prior to sale in order to purge the oysters of any grit or contaminants as they take on the taste of the cold, crisp briny water. Thankfully, the farming of oysters does not generate waste or pollute the water, even in densely packed beds. Instead, the bivalves remove nitrogen from the water and improve clarity, which benefits other aquatic plants and wildlife. The Maine oyster’s coveted "brininess" is a product of the varying degrees of water salinity – the levels of brackishness where the fresh river water meets the sea – which results from tidal flow, and the farming site’s proximity to the ocean. The levels of briny flavor can, therefore, differ dramatically from oyster to oyster, depending on where they were raised before collection and transfer to the storage containers. The result is that Maine oysters have become a delicacy sought by locals and visitors alike. They have not replaced the lobster, but the oyster is beginning to appear more and more on folks’ radar screens. I’m one of them.

Before being bagged for sale, most Maine oysters have their shells cleaned by hand and they are graded for quality and size. Oysters are usually sold by size; "Cocktails" being 2.5 - 3 inches long, "Selects" about 3-4 inches, and "Jumbos" over 4 inches. It takes about three years for an oyster to reach market size. The wave action and the constant ebb and flow of the tides tumbles the oysters in their storage containers, shaping their shells and creating the round shell and deep cup that restaurants seek. The Damariscotta River continues to be the most productive location for oyster farming in Maine, with nearly 80% of the state’s yield.

This past summer SallyAnn and I took a pleasant early autumn cruise down the Damariscotta River during which we had an opportunity to observe up close how Maine oysters are cultivated. In the wild, adult oysters spawn into the water and the surviving larvae – less than 1% of those fertilized eggs – settle to the riverbed and develop into an adult oyster. They attach themselves for life to a rock, a piling, but more often than not, to another oyster shell. Maine oyster farmers, on the other hand, must buy their oyster "seed," or "spat," annually from a handful of hatcheries around the state. These are cultivated in floating "nurseries" until they mature to size of a quarter after which they are "planted" in leased beds on the river floor or floated in cages, or "racks." Some of these spat escape the nurseries and today naturally spawned Eastern oysters have begun cropping up in the vicinity of more than a dozen aquaculture leases on the Damariscotta River.

Maine oysters, especially those from the Damariscotta River, are very much in demand. Today there are a growing number of oyster farms in Maine, each harvesting their own, unique variety. Each is known for the high quality of the tender oyster and the briny "liquor" that surrounds it. They are perhaps the best oysters you are likely to find anywhere. This flourishing industry is steadily increasing the supply, and not surprisingly, the demand at area restaurants and oyster bars is following suit. Take it from me. Once you have tasted a Maine oyster, especially one from the Damariscotta River, you will be pretty much hooked. I will be the first to admit that most oysters I have eaten in recent years . . . and we are not talking about a few . . . do not hold a candle lit on both ends to those large, sea-tangy oysters harvested on Maine’s Mid-Coast, including above all (IMHO) those from the Damariscotta River. But I’ll also confess to you that the Maine oysters ranks perhaps highest of all among other regions in North America, and especially here on the East Coast. I believe this is due to the almost pristine environment of the tidal flushed coastal rivers and the cold waters of the Gulf of Maine. And this is a lot coming from a long time resident of Maryland and the Chesapeake Bay watershed.

At home in Maryland the oyster season on the Chesapeake Bay has traditionally been the months ending with the letter "r" – September through April – when the waters are colder and the oysters are less likely to pick up various bacteria found in warmer water. Some Maine oysters, thankfully, are available year-round, but they are most plentiful from spring through fall, and some say (and I tend to agree) that they taste best in the autumn months when they have stored fat and sugar making them plumper and sweeter yet still with that tasty brininess. Maine Oysters mature more slowly and they are a lot thicker and have much more meat inside the shell. They are a very healthy source of protein and contain very little fat. Make no mistake. Any reason to eat an oyster is a good reason.

Oyster farming is apparently here to stay in Maine, turning some lobster men and women into oyster farmers and giving them an opportunity to have a future on the water, especially as the lobster populations are quickly moving ever farther north toward Canadian waters due to the warming water temperatures in the Gulf of Maine. The demand for high-quality, cold-water oysters is rising, with Maine projected to be the Northeast’s leader as oyster prices there are commanding the highest landed prices in the region. And who can argue with success?

We are always happy to return to Maine each summer and eat a fair number of lobsters and steamers served with ears of fresh local corn. Still, I always arrive with a real hankering for some raw Maine oysters on a half shell served on a bed of ice. I have resided in Maryland just a short distance from the Chesapeake Bay for the past 44 years, and it is safe to say that for much of that time our local Chesapeake oysters have been the benchmark by which I have rated any oyster that crosses my plate . . . and palate . . . until now. As a proud transplanted summer Mainiac, I can now say without reservation that Maine is, in my humble opinion, the new gold standard for oysters. And there is probably not a finer oyster anywhere than one grown in the Damariscotta River on Mid-Coast Maine. You can take that to the bank.

Life in the Time of Coronavirus

Speak only when you feel that your words are better than your silence.
– The Buddha

The novel coronavirus strain know as COVID-19 originated in the Chinese city of Wuhan in December 2019 and this month it has been labeled a pandemic - when the outbreak/epidemic of a particular virus or disease spreads beyond a specific region to impact the entire world - by the World Health Organization. Today cases are reported in virtually every country and it continues to spread exponentially. 

I returned home from a two-week road trip to Ohio on March 8 to learn that three cases had been reported here in the Washington, DC metropolitan area and these individuals had been quarantined for a period of up to two weeks. Unfortunately, they had contact with others here and in Philadelphia before they tested positive for the coronavirus. Since then the number of cases in the region has jumped to 96 and presently doubling approximately every 48 hours.

I need not repeat what most engaged people already know about the impact of the pandemic both in the USA and abroad. It’s just about all we read and hear about. Much of social media is also dedicated to personal reactions to the outbreak. Schools, are closing, events postponed or cancelled, and sport seasons suspended. Broadway has shuttered as have cinemas. Bars, clubs and restaurants have closed either voluntarily or my official fiat. The Maryland legislature has adjourned early the first time since the Civil War.

Nor am I going to go into the debate on whether official responses in this country are up to the task. Let me just say that, in my humble opinion, the Trump regime has failed across the board, mostly due to his inability to comprehend the scope of the crisis and unwillingness to listen to experts who know far more than he. He is more interested in placing blame on others than showing true leadership when. People will die, victims to his unchecked narcissism and hubris, and the unwillingness of experts to call "bullshit" to his ignorance and pathological lying. As of yesterday, the epidemic is this country was reported to be present in 49 of the 50 states, plus the District of Columbia. The number of confirmed cases in the USA rose to 3,802, with 69 deaths. America deserves so much more than we are getting. Thankfully, some individual states and local jurisdictions are acting responsibly in the absence of a coordinated federal response.

Unfortunately there are many who have decided not to take this outbreak seriously, and in doing so they risk the chance of infection, as well as spreading it to others. Even if a personal reaction to the virus proves insignificant, it is possible to infect others, including family and friends, for whom it would be critical, even fatal.

My wife and I have decided to self-isolate/quarantine in order to protect ourselves (we have underlying medical conditions that could put us at risk) and to avoid any chance of transmitting the virus to others. We have postponed all immediate travel plans. We are taking all of the advised precautions and I urge others to do so. If you haven’t started, please do so now. Our larder is full and we are well-stocked in books and movies to help pass the hours. We stay in touch with friends by telephone, and through the mails and social media. And I am finding plenty of time to work on my novel and other writing projects.

Who knows what will happen in the coming days, weeks, and months. I fear things will get far worse before they get better. I want to remind everyone that we are all in this together. The coronavirus is no one’s fault even as many of the officials in Washington classify it as a foreign virus perpetrated on the United States by China and Europe. Viruses have no nationality and know no borders. Travels bans will not protect us; The coronavirus is in the United States.

Let’s stop trying to assess blame and work together to combat this viral pandemic. The good of the many outweigh the good of the few. Take care of yourself, but be concerned for your neighbors, your friends and colleagues, your fellow citizens, and all of humanity.

Namaste

Worth the Drive - That’s Damned Good Baloney

No matter how thin you slice it, it’s still baloney.
– Rube Goldberg

I am presently on a road trip to central Ohio to visit family in the Columbus area. This past weekend I made a side trip north to Sandusky, on the southern shore of Lake Erie, to help a dear friend celebrate his 96^th birthday. As fate would have it, my journey took me through Waldo, a small town of roughly 300 souls, some 45 minutes north of Columbus on the banks of the Olentangy River. For the uneducated, it is a town one would quickly bypass on Route 23 to Toledo. But not so fast! Slow down and get off the main highway and you are in for a treat for Waldo has for almost six decades been the home of the G&R Tavern, a hole-in-the-wall establishment home to its "World Famous Fried Bologna Sandwich" since 1962. I did just that and I was richly rewarded. 　

Apparently Ohio is the number one bologna-loving state in the country. The first time I encountered fried baloney was at home games of the Cincinnati Reds which my dad and I attended at the old Crosby Field back in the late 1950s. And there they were again when we moved to the western North Carolina mountains in the early 1960s. Fried bologna has long been a southern treat. They called it skillet cooking, and one had to score the thin slices of bologna so they would not buckle in the pan during cooking.

Growing up later in the American Midwest, thin-sliced baloney (usually from Oscar Mayer which "has a way with bologna") was a dietary staple usually consumed sandwiched between two slices of white bread with a little mayonnaise and/or mustard, and embellished with lettuce, tomato, and perhaps a slice of cheese. All additions and condiments, however, played second fiddle to that slice of baloney. But let us return to the more important topic . . . the fried baloney sandwich. It is something quite different than a slice of baloney between slices of white bread.

The G&R Tavern in Waldo claims it has "fought the good fight of elevating bologna’s humble status into something nobler." I would tend to agree. The bologna logs, a pork and beef blend with garlic-flavored fat, are produced in house and then thick sliced and sizzle fried in a skillet to create a savory crust. All that remains is the addition of raw onion, a slice of melted American cheese and sweet pickle slices between two halves of a hamburger bum. Add a few squirts of mustard and you are set. What more is needed?

A few years ago the Chicago Tribune gave the G&R Tavern and its fried bologna sandwich a very favorable review in its travel section despite acknowledging the general lowly status of the main ingredient. "Rank all the world's meat products in order of prestige, and bologna would occupy the spot between canned sausage and pre-sliced Shop 'N Save ham, which is to say, in the company of the maligned and ridiculed." The tavern was indeed successful in elevating bologna beyond its humble status into something nobler. Its fried bologna sandwich had become legendary – "worth driving from anyplace." Certainly it was a worth the hour drive from Columbus. I was fortunate that my weekend route to Sandusky brought me within spitting distance of the tavern.

The tavern has also been featured online. A guide to regional eats - roadfood.com - generally dissed bologna . . . "a circle of pale pink lunch meat about 1/16-inch thin." Even a fried bologna sandwich "might not be an appetizing concept." That said, if one is adventurous enough to actually order one of these sandwiches at the G & R Tavern, one’s "image of bologna will never again be the same." 

There has also been media attention closer to home. Mike Harden of the Columbus Dispatch has referred to bologna as "the Rodney Dangerfield of the deli case." Certainly he had in mind the reputation of that thin round cold cut marketed by Oscar Mayer et al. That said, what one finds between two buns at the G&R Tavern does not fit that mold. We are talking about an inch thick slice of bologna fried hot on the griddle until its is smoking and hinting of its underlying garlic properties.  

People do indeed drive great distances to enjoy a fried bologna sandwich in Waldo, so how could I not stop in and sample the local fare when I was in the neighborhood? The G&R Tavern reminds me of so many corner taverns I recall from growing up in the small towns and cities of the America heartland. The ubiquitous bar and stools along one wall and a scattering of table. Walls are decorate with local team trophies from over the years and photographs of Hollywood stars. Although Waldo is situated relatively equidistant from Cincinnati and Cleveland, the local loyalties definitely lean toward the latter. There is a modest choice of liquor and a respectable selection of bottled beers and wines.

Upon entering I claimed a stool at the bar adjacent to a wide window facing the village’s main street. A pleasant bar maid asked if I needed a menu and I declined; I had come for the "World Famous Fried Bologna Sandwich." It is frequently served with a side of deep fried vegetables or thin curly fries, but I settled for just the sandwich; it seemed plenty to satisfy my midday hunger. I ordered a bottle of PBR - a proper selection for such fare - and soaked in the local ambiance until my sandwich arrived.

It was the thickest slice of bologna I have ever encountered, a slice of melted cheese topped with several rings of fresh, raw onion and a few sweet pickle chips. That is all you need save a couple squirts of mustard. I made short order of this very tasty sandwich. Personally I would have preferred dill over sweet pickles, but I am not qoing to quibble. The experience was everything I hoped it would be . . . and more. It was a meal, and as tempting as sumptuous as the homemade pies looked, I was there for the fried baloney.

Someone once said, or so I have heard somewhere, that if you are writing about baloney, don't try to make it something it is not. That is the worst kind of baloney there is. Just make sure it damned good baloney. No problem there. I’m here to tell you that Oscar Mayer is not the only one to have its way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a. G&R Tavern serves up some damned good bologna . . . and well worth the drive.

Time to Bone the Duck - Ten Years On

Ten years ago I retired from my position at the US Department of Justice after a 32 year career. My decision to retire came after spending some time alone in northern New Hampshire a few weeks before. I had discovered that northern New England is definitely a good place to clear one’s head and get a better perspective on things. I returned to the Great White North seeking some much needed solitude and the quiet of a snowy woods, the wind blowing across an ice-locked lake, to ponder a different kind of future, and essentially a new way of life; to come face-to-face with this decision. And it was a decision I faced with a certain degree of trepidation simply because of the unknown factors coming into play, I had to put aside all distractions and misgivings . . . to step up to the table once and for all, to grab the knife firmly in hand, and bone the damn duck. 

So where does "boning the duck" figure into all of this? The year before, while still on the job, I had read the intensely popular book, Julie & Julia, by Julie Powell (later made into an equally entertaining motion picture staring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams), in which she describes how she came to cook all 524 recipes found in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking over the course of one year. The book and film document the trials and tribulations, victories and failures both small and large, encountered during the endeavor. Some days Ms. Powell cooked more than one recipe, getting the easy stuff out of the way and leaving the more demanding recipes until the end. Throughout her quest, Ms. Powell dreaded the thought that one day she would have to bone a duck if she were to successfully prepare the final recipe . . . pâte de canard en croûte [boned stuffed duck in a pastry crust]. Without giving away the denouement of either the book or the film, I will simply tell you that Powell eventually bones the duck and all was well with the world. Perhaps if she had sought out the snowy woods of northern New England like I did, she would have been able to accomplish her goal without all the existential dread.

The duck, in my own instance, was the decision whether or not to retire. Without going into all the specific details, I can tell you that I had been in the same job since I had completed graduate school and stepped out into the real world in search of a career. It was not the career I originally planned for, but it had been one of the most enriching experiences of my life. How could it not be seeing that I had spent over half of my life at it? I had only one career in my life, only one employer, and most of the people with whom I had worked with had been my colleagues for many, many years. Beyond the important work we shared, we had been there together for weddings, the birth of children, christenings and Bris Milahs, and, sadly, far too many funerals. We shared victories and defeats, we had popped bottles of champagne and cried on each others shoulders. I knew it would be a difficult umbilical to sever once the time came. And then there are the uncertainties of an unknown future. So I had to get away and walk the snowy trails and let the silence and the solitude bolster my courage to make the right decision.

Once home, I came to realize that the decision was not all that difficult. I had done what I had set out to do with my career, and there was still so much out there to see and do. I returned to my office after my time in the Great White North, drank a strong cup of coffee one morning, and then met with my bosses and told them that, after much soul searching, I had decided the time had come to move on and to entertain and explore a new and different destiny. It turns out it was really not that hard to bone the duck, as it were. The first cut is the most important, the hardest. Then you proceed.

And so here it is ten years on and the fears of an uncertain future were unnecessary. How nice to get up each morning and not have to worry about a tedious commute into the city and hours spent dealing with the pressures and stress of a career no matter how rewarding it might be in the final assessment. There has been time to focus on some of my own projects and not trying to squeeze them into a few hours here and there. I have been involved in several interesting research projects for others as an independent historian and research consultant. There have been guest fellowships at the University of North Dakota and Northwestern Oklahome State University and guest lectureships here and there. There has been time to do some interesting travel here at home and in Canada, Europe, and South Africa. There have been months of peace and solitude at our summer home on the shores of Sabbathday Lake, in New Gloucester, Maine. And I am now completing that great American novel I longed to write. Really. What more could I ask for?

So boning the duck proved not to be the challenge first envisioned when wondering what the future might bring. Once completed everything just fell away from the bones as it should. The adventure continues.

All of us dinosaurs feel like this!

Time and Memory

Some things will never change. Some things will always be the same. Lean down your ear upon the earth and listen.– Thomas Wolfe
 
Yesterday I spent a wonderful afternoon in Sandusky, Ohio, on the shore of Lake Erie, helping my dear friend and mentor Aldo Magi celebrate his birthday. He turned 96 on February 23.

I have known Aldo for over 32 years, having met him in Richmond, Virginia in May 1988 while attending my first meeting of the Thomas Wolfe Society. I had recently begun research on Wolfe’s relationship with Germany and I had written to Aldo who is one of the world’s most knowledgeable authorities on Wolfe and an avid assembler of Wolfeana. His vast collection at the Wilson Library on the campus of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill presently exceeds 53,000 items. I had written to Aldo upon commencing my research in 1986, and he immediately took me under his wing and opened so many doors for me in the years since.

We finally met face to face over lunch in Richmond two years later and the rest is history. Since then we have remained regular correspondents as Aldo has granted me continuous access to his encyclopedic knowledge of Wolfe and his collection while constantly singing my praises to other Wolfe scholars. I have leaned on Aldo and listened. And he has always spoken to me. So what a treat for me to share this landmark birthday with him. It means more to me than I can ever say. Time and memory.