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June 7 2007

Good Grape 10 Day Sabbatical: The Blogs I read 2 of 10

Jeff’s/Good Grape Note: I am on a 10 day sabbatical from the site, returning over the weekend of June 16th/17th

In lieu of wine-related posts, I’m taking the opportunity to pull a page from the, “To know a man, look at his bookshelf” school of thought, but instead of my bookshelf, I’m highlighting an RSS feed a day that I keep up with that is non wine-related--grist for the mill, so to speak.

See you back, recharged, invigorated with headspace de-gunked in about a week.

The Blog: Lifehacker

Site URL: http://www.lifehacker.com/

What I like about the site: In this day and age, most of us are blazing through the day trying to be at once progressively aggressive while maintaining some level of balance in equilibrium. If only we could be more productive with our time.

Technology tools abound around all of us, but we mostly use maybe 10% of the productivity available in a given technology. Lifehacker helps unlock the other 90%, giving quick, simple easy to digest tips along the way making us all a little more productive one tip at a time.

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June 6 2007

Good Grape 10 Day Sabbatical: The Blogs I read 1 of 10

Jeff’s/Good Grape Note: I’m on a 10 day sabbatical from writing posts, returning over the weekend of June 16th/17th

See you back, recharged, invigorated with headspace de-gunked in a week or so.

The Blog: Blog Maverick

Site URL: http://www.blogmaverick.com/

What I like about the site: Mark Cuban, the owner of the NBA franchise the Dallas Mavericks, went to school at Indiana University and went on to make his millions with broadcast.com in the late 90’s. If anything, he has a knack for timing, understands the big picture and isn’t afraid to take a punch, or give a punch. I like him, or at least his provocative ideas and his public persona.

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June 1 2007

Goethe Quote

There is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans in that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now. -Goethe

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March 12 2007

Armchair Travel: The Smell of Rainbow Pt. III of III

The final installment of a short story from my dear friend, “Easy” Ed Vodrazka while he was in NZ some years ago with no itinerary, a backpack, a guitar and some traveler’s charm.

... Fishing patiently and staying well hidden, I managed to land nine beautiful rainbows throughout the morning. All of them were in the two-pound range. Although I felt a deep gratitude in keeping three from the Rangatiki, I honestly felt more joy in watching the other six swim out of my hand and back to the freedom of the wild river. Retracing my steps downstream the mile or so to the car, I was thoroughly contented. I remember wishing that my dad could have been there to enjoy it with us. The morning was still cool along the shaded side of the wild river, but the sun was higher in the sky now, and the afterglow from a full morning of fishing helped to take the chill and stiffness from my hands. You know it’s been a good day when you find yourself walking along the banks of a wild river with a fishing rod over your shoulder, and your hands smell like fish.

Greg was waiting by the car. He was sitting on the trunk with his feet resting on the bumper, holding a cup of coffee fresh from the thermos at his side. He raised his hand in a wave when he saw me, and I stopped and raised my three fish in reply. By the time I made it down the last little hill, he had a cup of coffee already poured for me. I joined him on the trunk and he patiently listened to an over-excited kid ramble on about the full morning fishing session. I took a sip of the hot coffee and felt it warm me inside. I wondered out loud why coffee always tastes better in a place like that, and Greg smiled and nodded in agreement.

Greg made me swell with pride when he complimented me on my fish, and eventually I looked around for his stringer. I was confused when he sadly reported that he didn’t catch any. I searched his face to see if he was joking, and then prodded him to tell me the truth. But he stood by his story, adding that he hadn’t even gotten so much as a bite.

“I’ve had many a good day along this river” he said regaining his smile, “but today is obviously your day.”

We sat for awhile longer, and I accepted his praise and basked in the general contentment of it all. Although something didn’t sit right with me in Greg’s story, I couldn’t find a flaw in it. I had no real reason to suspect that he would lie, other than to make my own experience seem even more special. To be honest, the Rangatiki was so loaded with fish that it would have been hard for someone to throw a line out and not catch at least a few. Then I got an idea. I started slowly rubbing my forehead without saying a word. When Greg asked what I was doing, I quietly told him that I had accidentally hit myself with the butt end of my rod while reeling in my last fish. I said that I was just checking to see if there was a bump forming. Greg took the bait. He leaned over to see for himself and started pushing lightly with his fingertips on the same spot I had been rubbing, just over my eyebrow.

Sure enough ... his hand carried the unmistakable smell ... of rainbow trout.

*Adapted from Cooks.com

TROUT BAKED IN WHITE WINE
4 trout (1 per person)
4 oz. (1/2 c.) butter
2 tbsp. chopped parsley
1/4 to 1/2 bottle New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc
1/2 lemon
Salt & pepper

Mix the chopped parsley into half the butter and then divide into 4 pats. Put 1 pat into each cleaned fish, then place them in an oven- proof dish and rub salt and white pepper into them. Pour the wine around, cover and cook in a moderate to hot oven (350 to 400 degrees electric; gas regulo 4-5) for 20 minutes. Add the rest of the butter cut into small pieces and the juice of the lemon. Cover again and cook for another 10 minutes.

It can be served hot or cold; if the latter, chill and it will be a soft jelly. If served hot, cauliflower springs are excellent with this dish.

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March 11 2007

Arm Chair Travel: The Smell of Rainbow Pt. II of III

A continuing short story from my close friend, “Easy” Ed Vodrazka, while he was in New Zealand. Some people are born with the ability to draw people in and lift spirits. Ed has that gift. He has been a California lifeguard for almost thirty years and is something of a California State Park legend. He doesn’t carve notches on the belt but he measures good summer days by the amount of “saves” he makes, numbers that can reach double digits. Ed is my wine mentor and whenever I stay with he and his wife Jen (whom he met on the same trip that he and I met when we were camping for 10 days in Baja California) at the Guy Fleming house at the Torrey Pines State Reserve in San Diego, we frequently enjoy lobster that he has hand caught while free diving off the craggy shore. We always enjoy a bottle or three of wine--a crisp chardonnay or a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, perhaps a Zin mixed in because we drink what we want regardless of what’s on the plate. We share stories and laughs. He marvels at the relative simplicity of my living in the Midwest compared to California and I marvel at his freedom from the pull of materialism and his zen spirit that is infectious. Ed is the only guy that I know of who has met both the Dalai Lama and Mother Theresa, not to mention having spent the better part of 20 years living in a van working on the shores of California beaches.

The Smell of Rainbow Pt. II

I was awake by 5:00, but stayed in the warm bed waiting for Greg to wake up. A few minutes later I could hear him stirring around in the kitchen, and soon the smell of fresh coffee drifted into my room. It seemed that he was as excited as I was to get going. We had a cup of coffee and a quick bowl of oatmeal then filled a thermos with the coffee that was left in the pot. Greg said something about fishing being more important than breakfast, and he certainly didn’t get an argument out of me. It was still dark as we began loading our gear into his car. There was a definite chill in the pre-morning air, and it felt more like early winter than early spring that morning. There was a warm light pouring out from his open kitchen door as we loaded up the fishing gear, and each breath that I released sent a warm plume of mist into the cold air. We drove out of his long dirt driveway, and the only sound that broke the silence was that of his car tires gently rolling over the gravel. Daylight was still just a faint glow on the horizon. Our headlights shone two long beams of light through the thin layer of fog that had settled onto his farm overnight, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere.

We drove for about an hour up from Marinara and into the denser bush. We entered the Urewera forest just as the morning was upon us, and Greg drove on along the ever narrowing dirt roads. Twice we came upon wash outs in the road and had to back track to find alternate routes. We passed countless little streams and small rivers, all of which looked great to me, but Greg continued along the shrub lined forestry roads until we came to a sparse and undeveloped camping area known as Te Ara, and Greg’s favorite river...the Rangatiki.

Averaging around 60 feet across in most areas, the Rangatiki flowed strong and steady about 10 feet deep. The water was cold, crystal clear, and clean enough to drink. There were areas of gently cascading rapids and countless promising pools with bushy hiding areas from where one could cast. Greg and I shared a mutual respect for the quietness and solitude that comes to the fisherman naturally when he finds himself in such places of beauty, and we rarely spoke to each other on that cold morning. He generously suggested that I take the lead in fishing the undisturbed pools as we made our way upstream, and he stayed well below me. I used one of his casting rods with a silver Panther Martin spoon, and Greg had chosen his split bamboo fly rod. He gave me so much space to fish that I only caught sight of him several times all morning. But there was one time when I followed the river around a fairly sharp bend and hiked up and over a stand of large boulders. Being well above the waterline gave me an unobstructed view of the river’s downstream path, and there in the distance, standing on a large smooth boulder, was the old fisherman. His weighted green line danced gracefully across the sky, gently turning in perfect response to the old man’s will. I stopped to watch him for awhile. His line flew freely out over the water, and then gently followed back over itself in a perfectly controlled pattern of a wide figure eight. Just shy of seventy years old, the site of Greg Flood dancing his delicate dry fly out over the Rangatiki was sheer poetry.

To be continued ...

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