Gotta Love Me, I'm a Sinclair!

I like Sinclair gas stations with dinosaur statues, if there's a statue station it'll be guaranteed my business. Remember that great Dinosaurs TV show with the Sinclair family? Not the mama! We recently watched Season One on DVD at my in-laws house, and I tell ya', the Hurling Day episode should have become an international classic...humankind just wasn't ready for it yet. And that's the end of our cross country move from Milwaukee to Salt Lake City. Now on we go to some local hijinx, as we whiled away our inter-occupation vacation in Northern Utah. Let me tell ya', we did some pretty weird stuff. How's that for building some anticipation.

007 in Big Springs, Nebraska

So check out how cool this is, we slept in the room next to a bonafide Aston Martin at the Motel 6 in Big Springs, Nebraska! It looks like Her Majesty's Secret Service was hit by the recession just as hard as we yanks. Big Springs is a great little freeway stop just about at the border of Nebraska and Colorado. The town features a fabulous little Motel 6, distiguished by a 12-foot deep swimming pool which has somehow been overlooked by the people who make sure traveling children stay undrowned. Right next door is the Sam Bass Saloon and Steakhouse, which was somehow overlooked by the people who make sure traveling adults stay unfat. How could someone possibly leave their $200,000 car in that parking lot? Clearly the owner (who I met while checking in, and is as snooty and British as I had hoped for) wasn't watching it too closely as we all gathered around the fabulous machine and took pictures. Even worse, how hard must it be to see all those bug guts get all over your car? So I absolutely had to have a picture of the Aston Martin in front of the $49.99 sign. I required Sara to pose there until the sign changed over, the whole time we were worrying that James Bond would come out with guns blazing. These are the risks that the avid tourist must take. Now we know how those National Geographic alligator photographers feel. While I was checking into the motel I heard the owner of this vehicle having a great conversation with the bumpkin hotel owner:

Hank: That's a nice car ya got there, what is that a Chrysler?

Nigel: Actually that's an Aston Martin.

Hank: Do ya like it?

Nigel: No, I bought a $200,000 car that I wasn't very fond of.

Hank: (after awkward pause) You from 'round here?

Nigel: ...sigh...

The suburban critique of an urban anniversary

I must take a break in the current travelogue to try my hand at a bit of blog moonlighting. I've decided that I should marry my intense love of food with my intense love of free stuff and become a part time restaurant critic. The catalyst spurring this on was tonight's dinner at Seattle's Palisades to celebrate Sara and I's 5th wedding anniversary. Five years and I still love the daylights out of my little wife. Getting married was so awesome, I'd do it every week if I could get all those relatives to show up so often. Now here we are, 1,826 evenings later, still making great memories together, and never regretting a single moment. Anyhow, on we go to the suburbanite's critique of some urbanite cuisine:

As you drive home after an evening of fine dining at Seattle's Palisades restaurant, you will look down your nose at the diners leaving your once beloved Outback Steakhouse as though they were hogs leaving the trough and grunting their way back to the pen. Yes, even the bloomin' onions and the smothered chickens that you once considered the culmination of culinary quality will seem as mere trifles after the truffles and tarragon of this waterfront upper-class eatery.

After several minutes of harrowing inner arguments I ordered the crab-stuffed mahi mahi, and Sara cut her way through the fillet mignon, which ended up being far more than the cute meat it's name suggests. The mahi mahi was ideal for mehi mehi, with the perfect texture in the slightly fried crust, and the crab stuffing laced with just enough spinach to hold it all together, but not so much to transform the dish from surf to salad. I can't answer to the quality of Sara's food, as she slid the plate away, leaving my invading fork empty. She did, however, say that the mashed potatoes were far better than those served at Applebee's, which is a soaring compliment since we suburbanites consider potatoes "in the neighborhood" the Cadillac of starchy tubers.

I could go on an on for hours about the dessert. When asked which type of creme brulee I'd like I couldn't decide between the Grand Marnier, Chocolate, or Vanilla Bean. I eventually answered, "yes", and got exactly what I requested. I consider myself a connoisseur of burnt cream, and this was certainly a treat to be remembered...dare I say better than that of Paris? At least to this American with an untrained pallet it was. The waiter was very kind and in no way snooty when he found out we don't drink, very unlike the waiters in the mid-west, New York, and Europe. It was touching to see our waiter take the neighboring prom-goers under his wing as he patiently explained to them how to read the menu. The stream flowing through the restaurant, and even the perfectly arranged bathrooms, made the non-dining portion of the evening a delight. I also loved the vibrant view of the city and the marina to my right, the dark ambiance of the lobby to my left, and my beautiful wife of five years ahead of me. Palisades created for us the perfect setting for a romantic evening, providing the perfect return on the risky investment of trying out a new place. Will I ever eat at the Super Mall again? No, at least not this week while that exquisite taste it still on my mouth. I wonder how long I can go without brushing my teeth.

Summer at Winter Quarters

If we learned anything at all in Sunday School, its that our Mormon ancestors had to endure all kinds of nasty stuff while crossing the plains, most of which was far more tragic than what happens to us during our daily commute downtown and back. The church is really good at commemorating such tragedies through the medium of flowers, visitor centers and statues. The site of Winter Quarters in Omaha, Nebraska is no exception. Even the cat was impressed with the beauty all around. Now that I've actually been to Winter Quarters, I better understand why the Mormons decided to spend the winter there, it's like a tropical paradise. Who'd have known that Nebraska would be the oasis between Nauvoo and Salt Lake City. Don't worry, Randy told me all about how nasty the winter really was there while he was serving his mission in Omaha. Something about ice coming directly at you in the wind. Yuck.

As I was quartering the remnants of my Diet Pepsi in the Visitors Center, I pondered the upgrade of the current facilities from those of 1846. I doubt they had 2-ply back then, not to mention touchless hand soap dispensors. I was super impressed with the giant statue of the mommy and daddy burying their little child. Look how much movement there is in the statue with the wind blowing their clothes, as they look down on the perfectly still body of their child. That is super sad stuff. I guess the wind kept on blowing for these great forefathers of ours regardless of the tragedy at hand. The Winter Quarters temple was dedicated in April of 2001, and it is right next to the cemetery where many Mormon pioneers were buried. The building sorta hides in all the trees, I love it when temples do that, you know, sorta just jump out at you from nowhere when you don't expect it. I'm glad we took the little detour to Winter Quarters, it's great to stop and smell the roses sometimes.

Pictures with Corn

We were going to use this as a family Christmas card picture, but we forgot to bring the ornaments for the corn stalks. Imagine the irony if we had actually remembered to bring the popcorn chains.

Yeah, so Zoe decided to take a brisk little stroll through the stalks, and the only way I was able to keep up with her was by following her little corn songs. I just followed my ears. Ha! Imagine losing a quiet kid in the acres of corn stalks, you'd never find them. Perhaps this is why the aliens like landing in the corn...those lost kids are so light they slide right on up the tractor beam.

This is Randy tyring to act like a corn stalk. If it weren't for the red shirt he'd blend in like a vegetable chameleon. When does one pull the plug on his or her vegetable chameleon?

More from the Field o' Dreams

It was so darn hot the day we were in Dyersville. Holy Cow, the cat was panting like a dog, and we were all sweating like sumos in a sauna. I guess we should have asked some locals about their weather in July before we got out of the car...but we didn't want them to be cold as the falling thermometer in December. How did they keep James Earl Jones's face dry while shooting the movie?

Here's Zoe and I running to catch a pop fly. Or maybe we were just trying to get our Iowa driving wiggles out. We seem to be having quite a grand slam of a time anyway. The people that own the joint allow tourists to play on the field whenever they want, unfortunately, we were without bat and ball and Sara wouldn't let us use the cat as either. Note to readers, always keep baseball equipment in your car in case you happen upon a legendary ball park.