RESURRECTION – The Crumbs Parable Continues

Some called me a false prophet. Others saw it as inaccurate journalism. A few imagined that I had more to do with these events than I let on. They have reason to be suspicious. Any tale of resurrection, of course, begs the question, “But what if you were wrong about the death?”

Make no mistake about it, though. The no-longer-late, but-still-great Crumbs, my favorite restaurant (as I noted when I wrote its obituary here: http://deathpastor-lastmeals.blogspot.com/2015/01/crumbs-obituary-and-more.html.) was dead. In fact, save for one missed phone message, the proprietor/chef nearly accepted a position elsewhere, and I would have had no reason to tell of this miraculous return from the small-business abyss that is Eastern Shasta County, California.

Shelly only appears to be welcoming friends.
Actually, she's guarding our place in line.

Barbecued Carrot Soup. Delicious.

Dinosaur Egg = crab-stuffed avocado.
(You can get tuna-stuffed, too.)

As you can see by the photos, we were first in line for the Grand Re-Opening. Since this is, ostensibly, a restaurant review, you should read the captions for some of the essential information in that regard. We greatly enjoyed celebrating the event with friends last night. But I have a secondary reason for writing. I believe that Crumbs re-opening illustrates an important point that might apply to you, your friends, other local businesses, and our communities in general.

In Support of Government Intervention in Personal Problems

I admit that “public assistance” in “the welfare state” not only helps those with legitimate needs, but also benefits those who could otherwise support themselves. (Translated: Yes, some aid-recipients could and should be working for a living.) Most, however, fall somewhere between these two ends of the spectrum. Many would seek to improve their lives, but “the system” provides neither the means nor the knowledge for making that happen. Still, it is ridiculous to suggest that we leave children to go hungry just because of a few (allegedly) lazy adults.

I didn't get the camera out soon enough
to get a photo of the creme brulee.

Our society’s forms of public assistance were and are a blunt instrument. The one-size-fits-most approach has further corroded and dulled with age. But we have so accommodated its debilitating effects that we have little choice but to maintain the leaky vessel as best we can for the foreseeable future. Still, that does not prevent us from envisioning and implementing solutions to our communities’ problems through other means.

Travis Hickey, Proprietor and Chef.
Back in his natural habitat.

As much as some may object to the structures of public assistance, they exist because of the failures of private assistance. The necessity of public assistance programs is largely attributable to the North American Christian church, which largely abandoned charitable generosity and life-on-life investment in the needs of our communities prior to the middle of the twentieth century. Restoring community-service ministries is essential, but more of that history and future will have to wait for later. The more important question of the moment is…

First trip to Crumbs for 
two wonderful young ladies.

What does this have to do with Crumbs re-opening?

In Criticism of Government Intrusion in Private Enterprise

As one side-effect of “the nanny state” we have created, the original opening of Crumbs was mercilessly delayed by the ineptitude and/or malfeasance of a variety of bureaucrats whose budgets (and job security) depend upon the fees and fines they generate. Thus, initial expenses and subsequent debt-service skyrocketed before Crumbs ever opened its doors. Instead of public assistance, county officials inflicted on Crumbs, among other businesses in Eastern Shasta County, a punishment for seeking economic development outside the designated Enterprise Zones (confined to the greater metropolitan Redding area). Believing that any and all business should take place in Redding—seventy-five miles to the west—resulted not only in incentives to build there, but penalties for seeking to build elsewhere.

Thankfully, public assistance systems do not prevent us from providing private assistance to individuals. So also, the penalizing influence of bureaucracy does not prevent private individuals from supporting a business’s efforts to bring economic, social and cultural development to our communities either.

Only tried two out of three.
I was in the mood for steak.

So, do I accept the necessity of a system that rewards business investments in the already-affluent areas of our county? Especially while punishing those who seek to bring similar benefits to less-appreciated communities? No. In fact, I applaud the ending of the Enterprise Zones (terminated December 31, 2013, though initially scheduled to conclude in November, 2021).

Call for reservations!

But as one who is called to be subject to the authority set above me (Romans 13:1-4), do I accept that our county government has the right to punish those who aspire to better themselves and their community? Yes, I accept that “the powers that be” hold that authority, even though self-funded bureaucracy nearly cost us a particularly valued resource in McArthur, California. Therefore, I even more vigorously applaud those whose sense of community and generosity restored Crumbs Restaurant to its rightful place, serving those of us who reside in the communities of Eastern Shasta County. 

To those anonymous benefactors: thank you.

And to Travis, Fiona, Melissa, Robyn, and all the other unsung heroes of this one small business that holds a very large place in so many of our hearts: Welcome back!

Crumbs – An Obituary, and more.

"Casual Fine Dining," indeed.

This is an obituary. And an object lesson. It shouldn’t be either of those things. But it has to be.

At the outset, let me confess that I am breaking a rule to which I have held others: “Don’t use death as an object lesson”—whether it’s the elderly great-grandfather who dies in his mid-nineties from lung cancer (“See, kids—this is why you shouldn’t smoke. Cigarettes will kill you!”) or whether it’s the child struck and killed by a drunk driver while playing on the sidewalk near his home (“See, kids—this is why you should always look both ways before crossing the street, or your front yard for that matter.”)

My object lesson and this obituary today relates to the closing of my favorite restaurant: Crumbs—McArthur, California—Travis and Fiona Hickey, proprietors.

Sushi. Really good sushi.

For Context – A bit of my history as a Foodie

It’s not lightly that I label Crumbs as having been my favorite restaurant. Over the past fifty-four years my tastes have changed. But even if some items have been (involuntarily, in some cases) deleted from my menu, there is often so much more than the taste, aroma, service and atmosphere that returns with the mere mention of certain “places to eat.”

I once could afford to be a regular at both Jay’s Bistro and Bisetti’s in Fort Collins, Colorado. Yet I grew up longing for the next meal at Frisch’s Big Boy, Duff’s Smorgasbord, or from Cassano’s Pizza King in Wilmington, Ohio. I have extraordinary, life-altering memories of both specific meals at the Carnelian Room atop the Bank of America building, and wistful reverie at what was once the ever-present fare of Ocean Pizza and El Faro burritos in San Francisco. There are reasons that I smile broadly at the mere sight of the Taprock Northwest Grill in Grants Pass, Oregon. The same thing happens, even with the radical interior remodeling, at The Cliff House—so different, yet the nostalgia remains the same.

Now that I think about it, if I could spare the blood sugar, I might contemplate a ten hour roundtrip to have just one sandwich from Molinari Delicatessen. But I realize, sadly, that it would take time travel at this point to revisit New Pisa, The Owl and Monkey, or Zim’s.

Lamb Lollipops.

And now the same is true for the most excellent “Casual Fine Dining” experience I’ve ever known. We were blessed to enjoy it for five years, and blessed to support it for seven years (more on that in a moment), and not just because we liked the convenience of having top-quality sushi available in the remote community of McArthur (population 338) in the Fall River Valley (population 3,106) of Northern California.

So, because it bears saying again: Crumbs is my favorite restaurant. And now it’s closed.

In Memoriam – A dream-come-true that died

Obituaries are made of times, places, people, and events. Here are the ones that flood my thoughts of Crumbs.

But first, the food: The ribeye, the sirloin, the pork picatta. Chicken fettuccini Alfredo. Lamb lollipops. Salmon alla vodka. Spicy Thai steak bites. House-brined pork chops. Seared ahi tuna. Cheesy chile-verde soup. Tomato-basil soup. Coconut-curry and rice soup. And every other experimental soup that Travis ever put in a bowl. Sweet potato fries, extra crispy with a side of Sriracha to go with the usual chipotle-aioli. Sushi of several varieties—all wonderful. The Blue Juicy. The Hoakie burger. The dinosaur egg. Grilled chocolate brownie ala mode. Vietnamese crepes. Yes, grown-up tater tots. Even the fried pickles. And anything arrabbiata.

Proprietor and chef: Travis Hickey.

The occasions: My son’s and daughter-in-law’s rehearsal dinner. My surprise birthday party. Hearing Joe Choi play guitar for the first time. Being lectured by friends on the relational distance created by insisting on one check. Scores of evenings sitting quietly with my beloved, before hurrying off to Wednesday night Bible study. The Hospice crew being served just after the Community Candlelight Remembrance Service, and just before the power went out—we had our own candle (and iPhone) lit dinner together. The “safe-place, safe-people” necessary to letting children speak aloud the terrible news of unspeakable betrayals. The celebrations of job offers, test results, mortgage approvals, and college acceptance letters. The farewells to good friends with one last meal together before packing their moving truck, or planning their funeral. That last one includes my last meal with my friend and fellow-Elder, Bill Hudson. As I recall, the initial family discussion about his funeral took place over dinner at Crumbs, too.

The people: All of you. Every single one of you. Even the ones who only lasted a short time. Even those who disappeared suddenly. And all the friends who smiled and waved, or came to the table to say hello, or pulled up a chair and joined us. But I am especially grateful to those who not only pushed the rock all the way to the top of the hill, but allowed us to join in, to pray intelligently, in detail, during those first two years. When I say that we supported the five year life of Crumbs for seven years, I should explain the math. For a time, it seemed that the restaurant could never possibly open amidst the “infinite wisdom” (i.e., indecipherable regulations, contradictory advisors, and unavailable inspectors) of those Shasta County bureaucrats whose self-funded careers manufacture just two products: fees and fines. Other businesses have been crippled. Some were virtually still-born. And many have never made it off the drafting table. Crumbs had a five year run in eastern Shasta County—and, for those who understand the business environment here, miraculous is not too strong a word.

"Who could hang a name on you?"

The inside scoops: Available to anyone—sitting at the chef’s table for a front-row seat to more flash, flame, flair and finesse than five teppanyaki grills side-by-side. Available to anyone who asked—knowing who (and why) Drew was. Available to those sitting with a view of the serve-through window—watching the wait-staff balance impossibly towering offenses to gravity all the way (and sometimes only most of the way) to the table. Available to me, and maybe some others—playing Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars with the owners’ son. Drawing a quarter-horse for the owners’ daughter. (Actually, I drew “a quarter of a horse” for her—she was not as amused as I’d hoped.) Still being treated like one of the family even afterward. And being allowed to continue to pray for many other issues, distractions and challenges that allowed me to rejoice and celebrate the answers to those prayers…for the whole seven years of Crumbs’ five-year career.

An Object Lesson – Who knows? Not even those who care most.

For all that I learned in the process of watching (and praying, but carefully watching) from the side-lines of a “dream-come-true” that has died, the object lesson important enough to share, even in violation of my own rule to the contrary, is this:

I don’t know why Crumbs closed. Neither do you.

And I write this, knowing full well that my dear friends Travis and Fiona will likely read this. I still mean it. You may never know why Crumbs closed, just as so many of us couldn’t imagine how Crumbs ever got open in the first place. I can say that the first of these two events was in answer to prayer. But I also believe that the same God who said “Yes” to those of us who wanted to see Crumbs open is the same God who said “No” to us when we asked for it to remain open. Romans 8:28 (“All things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purposes.”) seems to apply in some way. But that’s not the only reason Crumbs opened, or closed.

The moral of this object lesson? My hope is to rebuke myself and the rest of us. We tend to reduce things into simplistic cause-and-effect statements that may have only a tangential relationship to the truth. This isn’t a good idea. In fact, it can be dangerously harmful. We should stop. I’m trying.

I have now been present for a number of discussions about the demise of Crumbs. In these verbal post-mortems there have been a wide variety of opinions shared. The suppositions have ranged from the ignorantly ridiculous to the sublimely hurtful. What they have in common, though, is their opening phrase: “I heard that it closed because….” Those words are invariably followed by some single event, person, economic perspective, social relationship, or other such correlation. “This caused that.” Um…no.

I want to believe that “this caused that” so that’s all the thought I have to give to it. It’s a very human thing to do. Social-psychologist Christena Cleveland calls us “cognitive misers.” We try not to use any more mental energy than we have to. Thus we operate on the basis of stereotypes and prejudices that allow us to say “the riots in Ferguson, Missouri happened because…” or “the September 11 attacks happened because…” or “that family’s kids turned out that way because…” or “I’m the way I am because….”

"In lieu of flowers...?"

While sitting among one particular group of friends who had chosen to dissect a few of their pet theories on the closing of our favorite restaurant (I’m not the only one who’s grieving, of course.), I compiled a list of the contributing factors of which I was aware. Some could be combined under various headings, I found. But at minimum: seven. There are at least seven contributing factors, of which I am aware, that led, each in part, to the decision to close Crumbs. There were, in that discussion and others, at least another seven factors that I happen to know did not lead to the decision to close Crumbs. Some of the more imaginative factors discussed were patently impossible. A few were possible, but patently untrue.

Overcoming the Confidence of Ignorance – Why this lesson is so terribly important to learn

I want to believe that I understand how life (or at least my life, or even just my lawn mower) works…so that when it doesn’t work I can entertain the fantasy that “if I just do this, then that will result.” But the brokenness I encounter regularly teaches me again and again that we are all far more complex than we could ever know. Therefore, whatever wholeness, whatever celebration, whatever months or years of being served in our favorite restaurant we may be granted…it should all be cherished as intensely as possible.

Because the cause(s) of our blessings will always be just as inestimable as we find the cause(s) of our losses.

What was. What will be? In the mean time, we be what is.

I loved my favorite restaurant. It closed. I grieve that loss. I mourn in order to process my grief (through the reminiscences I’ve noted above, along with others). And I accept that in the midst of my ongoing life story, both the wonderful experience of Crumbs and the terrible reality of its closing are equally true and valid influences on me today.

So I don’t worry about finding a “why,” or any combination of “whys.” It’s equally fruitless to focus on the similar issues of “what if.” Whatever might have happened to prevent the closing of Crumbs…it didn’t happen. Therefore, I choose to deal with “what is.” And what is? I was richly blessed to experience many wonderful meals, occasions, and people at Crumbs. Here’s what else is: those experiences will not be repeated.

Moving Forward – Wherever that may be, may it be born and bathed in prayer

Even as I recall so many of my experiences at, with and for Crumbs, I pray for my friends who also grieve their status as patrons. I also pray especially for those whose jobs, investments, and lives were bound up in being part of the inner workings of the restaurant. And I pray ultimately for Travis and Fiona Hickey, (now-former) proprietors. And as I do so, the joy of what the past has held brings a smile for what the future still holds…for me, for you, and for my dear friends whose skills, passion, and love will most certainly get set upon some other blessed diners’ plates again very soon.

Mr. and Mrs. Hickey, thanks for everything (so far, and yet to come).

Witness-Protection Pizza – on Miner Street in Yreka, California: You’ll have to look it up yourselves, and promise not to tell anyone else they’re there.

Name withheld to protect...well, someone, apparently.

I like pizza. Ask me what kind and I’ll tell you, “Anything but fish.” But truthfully, you could wrap up a week-old trout in a calzone and I’d look pretty longingly at it. Deep-dish, hand-tossed, or rolled-out cracker-thin. Piled-high and soggy, or (my own personal creation) a crisp whole-wheat crust drizzled with black truffle oil and a restrained helping of freshly-shredded parmesan cheeses. I’m partial to red sauce, but I’ve enjoyed everything you might dab, smear, spread, or pour onto the crust as a substrate for whatever number, thickness, and/or type of toppings. I’ve eaten pizza that arrived glued to the inside of the box, looking like it had been through a cement-mixer. I’ve eaten some truly bad pizza. And had more of it, cold, the next morning.

Neon never lies. Usually.

That having been said, you also need to understand the context of the rest of this post. Because, I really like this pizza. Enough so to go out of my way to have it again. Even though multiple prior attempts at doing so had been thwarted.

Once, the restaurant was simply closed during times the sign said it would be open. We still tried a second time to repeat our first experience there. Again, though, they were closed, according to a sign in the window, for five days. And so, this last Saturday, I was thrilled to find them open, especially since we had other hungry travelers in tow as we made our way home from the Medford, Oregon airport.

You have to start with the right consistency of dough. But to give its exterior a nearly cracker-like crunch while maintaining a pliable, chewy interior requires an oven that is kept significantly hotter than the usual mass-market pizza joint chooses to do. This means more energy, more expense. And this is happening in a relatively small town where there are other pizza choices available. The result of this extra heat on the topping is as remarkable as what it does to the crust. Pepperoni, especially, responds well, curling to give you an outer ring of crisp, condensed flavor while remaining succulently oily in the middle. Vegetables get just a slight carmelization on the more thickly layered combination. And where some sauces draw excessive attention to themselves by too much sweetness, heat, or saltiness, theirs is a seamlessly integrated component of an excellent whole, with the one standout flavor being the tang of roasted tomatoes around the edges. Did I make it clear? I really like this pizza. (Both of them: double-pepperoni, black olive and garlic; and traditional combination with extra garlic.)

"...subject to change, without notice."

So, then, after trying so hard to get a second helping of this particular pizza, and having it entirely live up to my memory of its excellence…why did I walk away with a bad taste in my mouth and a knot in my stomach?

Part of being “Death Pastor” is the constant realization, “Life’s too short.” Thus, the motto for this blog is “Eat well; eat now.” My overwrought sense of mortality also motivates me to be even more of a people pleaser than I would otherwise be. I want people to enjoy life. (For some, that means simply trying to get them to live life, but we’ll talk about that some other time.) When I see someone having a bad day, even when it has nothing to do with me, my impulse is to bring them at least a little brightness, or at least commiseration. I try even harder when it seems I’ve contributed to that bad day…by patronizing their employer. So, I tried.

But she was having none of that.

“She,” in this case, was washing dishes when we entered. While I was focusing my camera on the lovely arrangement of baked goods in their display case, she covered the distance to the front counter and shouted at me, “Don’t take our picture,” adding as an afterthought—it seemed to me—“please.” I impulsively addressed her anger with an apology, apologized a second time after we were seated, and a third time when placing our order at the counter.

The incriminating baked-goods case.

As I said, she was having none of that.

My shocked companions know I’m a people pleaser. They were patient as I offered a variety of possible explanations for her mood, not the least of which was that instead of most people’s cigarette-pack-sized hand-held phone/camera, I carry a “real” (and really large, relatively speaking) camera. But I also imagined aloud that there could have been some prior altercation, some previous negative experience with photos in social media, or a recent scolding by her least-favorite marshal in the witness-protection program about keeping her face hidden from the general public. Whatever the cause, the symptoms were many.

No dishwasher in sight.Still pixelated for their protection.

We ordered two larges, so that we would have extra to take home. Perhaps I should have explained that to her. I might have saved her the trouble of asking, “Have you looked at the size of our ‘Large’ pizza?” Her mood was, apparently, contagious. I know I caught some of it. But when her helper brought our salads, one each for my wife and me, another to be split between two others (which I did explain when ordering them), they came with just three forks. One of us asked if we might have a fourth. “Extra forks are on the counter,” was the concise and accurate reply. (I should note, though, that the fresh iceberg lettuce came with a generous side of good, albeit commercially-produced, blue cheese dressing. Kraft’s “Roka” comes to mind.) When I tried to return the empty salad plates to clear some landing space for the pizzas, I was reminded of their immensity. “We’re going to have to put your pizzas on another table. There’s not going to be room for them.” At least she did take the plates from me, though. But the mood at the table was badly dampened, even after we managed to move to other subjects beyond customer service.

If I showed you the pizza, you might go there. Don't.

So, the question I’m faced with, before my next trip to Ashland, Medford, Grants Pass, or other points of interest north of Southern Oregon, is whether I want to try again. (Yes, the pizza’s that good.)

I’ve wondered before, “Can great food overcome sometimes slow service?” And the answer I keep coming to is “Yes and No.” Yes, great food can overcome slow service, if the food all comes to the table together (as with Crumbs in McArthur, California where the one-man-show visible through the open counter is even more fun to watch when they’re swamped with both table and to-go service). But when a table’s orders come sporadically spaced over incredibly long periods (as with the now-defunct Highway Diner in Burney, California), people who have chosen to eat together will gravitate to other options.

But will I go back to Yreka for more of the best pizza I’ve ever had? Even though the pizza really is that good, I have to be honest: no, I won’t be back. (And since that seems to be what the proprietors would prefer, that suits my people-pleasing tendencies just fine.)

Some Pigs Fly: Northwest Montana Fair, Kalispell – August 14, 2014

Each Labor Day weekend since moving into the Intermountain Area of Northern California, my wife and I have very nearly lived at the Intermountain Fair. We’re able to catch up with former residents and youth group/study members, as well as merging the rosters of people each of us knows and presumes the other does as well. (The repeated revelation comes after we’ve concluded lengthy conversations: “Who was that?” “Oh, I should have introduced you. I thought you knew them.”) Plus, it’s a lot of fun!

So, the idea of going to a similarly-sized fair while on vacation in Montana was attractive for several reasons, not the least of which was that we had no schedule of responsibilities, no exhibits being judged, and no chance of awkwardly running into people who know us better than we know them (an occupational hazard of schoolteachers, pastors and their wives, and especially chaplains). Of course, keeping track of the other fourteen people we were with (another story for another time) generated sufficient stress that we really didn’t miss all those other factors. But before I digress into the other post I’ll write (at Death Pastor’s Diversions) on the lessons of unity and diversity in family reunions….

Where pigs fly under the radar.

My first impressions of a fair are usually centered around the opportunities afforded for what a country fair used to accomplish for communities. While competitive, the benefits of entering agricultural products in the local fair included the opportunity to compare results and techniques, and to have the primary work of the community judged by a more objective standard (represented by judges brought in to compare the produce, livestock, and other handiwork against what they were seeing elsewhere).

Priced to fly, too.

So, my first thought? “Well, this is different.” And it is. Serving a much larger area and population, the Northwest Montana Fair has a surprisingly limited number of entries in the various craft, art, food, produce, and livestock categories than I’m used to seeing. And yet, the variety of livestock categories was amazing.

At our local fair the livestock auction provides major benefits for 4-H and FFA (Future Farmers of America) participants. Therefore, entries are almost entirely limited by profitability to steers, pigs, and lambs. Top awards total just twelve: Grand and Reserve Champions for each set of animals in both 4-H and FFA, with the ultimate Grand and Reserve Champions selected from among those (so, you could add those awards, given to animals already awarded in their divisions, bringing the total up to 18).

Before.

After.

At Kalispell, however, there are rabbits, chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, goats, and…wait for it…both miniature and draft horses (in more breeds than I imagined there could be), among several other categories of competition. My perception of the families and individuals I met was that the plethora of awards was far more motivating, and that the standards of excellence were just as high. This led to another perception, of course, given my tendency to pun: “In a fair like ours, most of these kids would be shuffled in among the beef, swine, and sheep categories. But here, it’s clear that they put just as much effort into chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys…that you could say, for some of them, that their pigs do fly!”

And then we found the pig wings.

Others in line assured me they had been spreading to local farmer’s markets. Another added that there was a pizza parlor near his home in Arizona that now carried them. At the Northwest Montana Fair they’re served by the same folks who roast whole ears of corn in the husks, then shuck the greenery back to dip the whole of its hybrid gold and white goodness into a vat of butter before handing it to you on a single-ply paper plate. As a Newbie, I, of course, began to immediately roast my hand while pouring a stream of butter from the crease in the plate, dangerously near my trusty Pentax DSLR (that’s a camera). Once I received instruction in how to cradle the corn in the plate by folding it around the ear, I could turn my attentions to the many spices and sauces available for the corn and—yes, I’ll get back to them—pig wings.

Other diners were unavailable for comment.

Pig wings are the usually-disposed-of portion of the shank, slow-roasted and smoked until, cliché that it is, the meat is falling off the bone. In hopes of avoiding that cliché, I did try to simply slide the bone from within the core of the substantial portion of protein each provides. (You get two per order!) It almost worked. As it was, though, I had to give the bone a shake, and then, well…you know what happened next. And it fell from the bone without being overly lubricated. The slow roasting left almost no fat, and turned the connective tissue into just enough moist complement to the outer crust of the otherwise succulent meat. Not just an interesting marketing approach to using up the leftovers, nor a way to attract sales by clever labeling, this was delicious.

So, two pig wings for six dollars, and an immense ear of perfectly roasted corn, drenched in butter, with as much salt, pepper, cayenne, crushed red pepper, and several other less important (in my humble opinion) seasonings as you want to coat them in, as well as what others in the party assured me was a very good barbecue sauce, and you’ve got something at a “country” fair that feels like “fair food” and yet, especially important for me, involves neither a deep fryer nor batter-coating otherwise innocent indulgences. (Or, in the case of funnel-cakes, deep frying the batter itself, and offering it alamode!)

On such little wings, of course, pigs could never really fly. But (cliché alert) it’s easy to see why these pig wings fly off the shelves of the roaster. Now, if we can just get someone to bring them to the Intermountain Fair, we’d be in (yes, again, you’ve been warned) Hog Heaven.

The First Last Meal: Part Two – What Fireside Village confirmed as conviction

Fireside Village - Hat Creek, CA - prior to last weekend.

As I mentioned in part one, inspiration for this new blog came while at Beasy’s in Ashland, Oregon. But I would have procrastinated, and perhaps convinced myself that there were plenty of other food/restaurant blogs out there. But that changed. Here’s how.

On our last trip to watch the Giants play baseball, my mother donated two dining chairs for our Hospice’s annual “Chair-ity Auction.” They needed a little regluing, and the pressed-image leatherette insert on the seat was in need of either refurbishment or replacement. They rode well in the back of our Saturn Vue, and found a temporary resting place in the corner of our guest room until I could round up the appropriate craftsmen to enhance them. I was prepared to procrastinate until much closer to the date of the auction, but through the attentions of some of our Hospice volunteers, in short order the chairs were cleaned up, strengthened, and ready for new tooled-leather inserts. I was excited enough by their collective enthusiasm that I called the leather-smith they’d recommended, and was at his shop that afternoon.

After last weekend.

I still nearly managed to procrastinate, though. As we looked through the various designs he had used before (literally hundreds), the craftsman seemed hesitant to suggest what might best represent the Burney Basin and the Fall River Valley on the respective chairs. I offered that I could put together a design for each, at some point. But I also wondered aloud about the fishing more prevalent on Burney’s end of the Intermountain Area and the geese whose flyway brought them in waves of species through the Fall River Valley. Five minutes later, my host had two designs in front of me, and we’d agreed that if I’d cover materials, he’d donate the labor.

His enthusiasm resulted in two twelve-inch leather squares of 9 ounce saddle leather, tooled with the images we’d discussed, and ready to be picked up just two days later.

And, yet again, I nearly procrastinated. A full afternoon of counseling awaited me in Burney that Wednesday. A trip out to Hat Creek was only marginally “on the way.” (It’s about a ten minute detour out there, ten minutes back, but I knew we’d visit a bit, too.) But I went there first. Thankfully.

But unfortunately, I still managed to procrastinate on one count.

The Restaurant at Fireside Village

You see, when I’d asked for direction to Jack Garner’s shop, he pointed out that it was at Fireside Village, “the only A-Frame restaurant in downtown Hat Creek.” Of course, there are no other restaurants, and there isn’t, in fact, anything that would suggest there is a “downtown” along the shores of the Hat Creek. But there I was. And exiting the shop, tooled-leather seat inserts in hand, I looked across at the restaurant, intrigued by it’s shape, it’s view, and what I imagined would be simple food done well.

I’ll never know whether those imaginations were accurate or not. I’d made a mental note to drive out to Hat Creek again sometime, just to have a meal with my wife at the only A-frame restaurant in downtown Hat Creek. But today, whatever “downtown” there may have been is gone. The photos you see here are of what used to be Fireside Village, destroyed in the spread of the U.S. Forest Service’s “Eiler” wildfire this past weekend.

The store & Jack's shop at Fireside Village

Now, I admit to a certain carefulness about what I choose to consume. I am a fifty-three year old diabetic carrying about eighty-five pounds more than I’d like. (That’s down from over a hundred and twenty extra pounds, but it still requires significant diligence not to go the other direction again.) But I still stand by my decision to set as the theme of this blog, “Eat well; eat now.” Because when you decide to go back again to try it, it may prove to be worth the effort, just like Beasy’s proved to be. Or it just might be gone forever, just as I fear Fireside Village may be. So…

Eat well; eat now.

The First Last Meal: Part One – What Beasy’s brought to mind

I was sitting at Beasy’s on the Creek in Ashland, Oregon when the idea came to me.

We had tried to eat there once before, but had arrived without reservations during the dinner rush on a Friday night. My wife and I, and numerous close friends have worked in the industry, so we knew our expectations were a little high. Still, the reception was a little cooler than we would have liked. We ended up at Martino’s that night, and enjoyed a very nice meal before seeing Troilus and Cressida at the Shakespeare Festival.

So, when we were celebrating our thirtieth anniversary with a trip to see The Comedy of Errors, we called ahead. This time, my expectations were actually a little low. But the greeting, seating, serving, presentation, and cooking were all worthy of the location, reputation, and atmosphere Beasy’s has put together. My enthusiasm for the crab cakes were second only to the exuberance of our waitperson. The Inca Inca sauce with my chicken and prawns was everything she’d promised, and the entire meal was a delight.

But my purpose here isn’t to write a review of Beasy’s (nor of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival's production of The Comedy of Errors, which was also excellent) . What I want to explain is the idea that came to me while there.

I’m launching a new blog. “Death Pastor’s Last Meals.” I’m hoping to focus my particular brand of fatalism on the oft-stated but rarely applied claim, “Life is too short for boring food.” Granted, any number of hot sauces in my pantry would make the most insipid experience a little livelier. Thus, I sympathize with those who carry their own favorites along, just in case. I also acknowledge that sometimes routine, bland, and even poorly prepared meals are redeemed by the atmosphere, staff, view, or other factors that can raise bad food to bold heights. But in the interest of fostering a more interesting exploration of the gustatory stimuli we were designed to enjoy, this space will allow me to discuss not only the range of restaurants we encounter, but also some of the recipes, techniques, and ingredients that go into a more adventurous and economical pursuit in our own homes.

So, the inspiration came to me at a table in Beasy’s. And yet, this new blog would not exist if it were not for a lesson I learned over this past week. Those of you familiar with our current circumstances can probably guess where this is going. But the chain of events struck me as intentionally instructive (especially since I don’t believe in coincidences—just Divine appointments). So, stay tuned for the more important part of this introductory post—coming tomorrow.