February 2015 – Unleashed in Oregon

Beware of Sunday lunch on the road

Eating on the road is a gamble, especially for lunch on Sundays. You stagger in on legs stiff from driving, starving, desperately in need of a restroom and a large dose of caffeine. You’re not feeling very sociable. Suddenly you’re in the middle of a mob. All the locals just getting out of church, and the folks who don’t do church but like to go out for Sunday brunch are there in groups, waiting for tables. They’re loud, blocking the aisles and not in any hurry. You walk back out the door, try another restaurant, and it’s the same mess. You can’t even find a parking space. Where did all these people come from?

You don’t want fast food and you’re getting desperate. You really need to make it to your next destination on time. So you go into the restaurant at a hotel. They’ve got lots of empty tables, except in the banquet room, where 30 people are waiting for their food. What they don’t have is staff. The same woman is the hostess, cashier, bartender and waitress. The TV over the bar plays an infomercial about hair products while you wait for someone to notice you and bring a menu. The choices are pretty much eggs, hamburgers or a club sandwich. You take the club.

After a while, your waitress/cashier/hostess informs you that orders are being delayed because of the big group in the banquet room. “But I don’t have much time,” you inform her. She gives you more tea and calls you honey. She says she’ll put a rush on it. The guy and his wife at the next table, locals, say they’re in no hurry, it’s Sunday.

You’re looking at your watch and thinking if your food doesn’t come in five minutes, you’re going to McDonald’s. Then she passes by, saying it will be three minutes. Okay. Here it comes, sandwich wedges artfully arranged around a pile of French fries. It’s the driest, boringest club sandwich you ever tasted, but you eat it. Quickly because you said you were in a hurry. You eat the fries, fat, doughy with too much salt. You take little sips of tea because the glass is small, there isn’t enough, and the likelihood of getting more is slim. She brings the check, she brings you change. You’re standing up, sipping the last drop of tea, rushing out, your stomach feeling like you just ate concrete. You swear to bring a sack lunch and eat by the river next time.

This was Salem, Oregon, exit 256, but it could be Anywhere, USA. When you’re traveling, beware of restaurants at lunchtime on Sundays. Especially watch out for the Sunday brunch buffets. Maybe all you want is a burger or a bowl of soup, but suddenly you face a line of fancy foods for an exorbitant price and a line of people who are not in a hurry.

Sunday evening however, no problem. Everyone’s tucked back into their houses except this writer on the road. And surprise, the New Morning Bakery in Corvallis is open until 8 p.m.

I love those giant interstate truck stops with those big, cheap, buffets, places for drivers to shower and little stores with everything from motor oil to DVDs. Folks there get the concept of fueling the vehicle and the body and getting back on the road. But your average in-town restaurant on a Sunday? God have mercy.

I’d love to hear about your experiences eating on the road. Please share in the comments.

Morning on the Willamette River

I did not know there was a path along the river behind the Super 8 Motel in Corvallis. Last time I was here, everything was covered in snow and ice. I walked cautiously in my boots, afraid of slipping, my fingers freezing despite my gloves as I snapped pictures in a quiet wonderland covered in white. The temperature was about 12 degrees. Even the edges of the Willamette River were frozen.

A rogue snowstorm had caught western Oregon by surprise. I was on my way home from San Francisco, where my father had just had heart surgery. There, it was cold but clear. When I landed at the Portland airport, I found my car encased in snow. I had trouble starting it, and my tire warning light was on. My feet slipped on the icy pavement. But I got onto I-5, drove south on partially cleared roads and took the turn onto Highway 34 toward the coast. That road had not been plowed. I crept along in a line of cars sliding all over and vowed to stop at the first motel I found. That was this Super 8 in Corvallis. For two days, I was snowed in, not daring to drive the rest of the way home. I walked along the river, and I walked into the town, enjoying the local stores and restaurants that were still open. Everything was quiet. No cars. All sounds muffled by snow.

This morning is a different story. The snow is gone, and the sun is shining. It’s still cold, but no danger of frostbite. I walk slowly, still favoring the ankle I sprained in December. Cars and trucks roar by on Highway 34, exiting at second street, stopping at the traffic light. Along the river, the trees and shrubs are still winter bare, but now I can see the dirt. I can also see the litter, including evidence of drug use. Crows squawk at me from the trees, and a squirrel as big as a cat whooshes by. A homeless guy shouts good morning and mumbles something about fog. Fog? A jogger runs by in yellow shorts, and an old lady urges her equally old golden retriever along.

Without the snow, it’s a different world. I’m not as charmed by the all-carb motel breakfast and tea in a Styrofoam cup or the bathtub stopper that growls unless you hold it down with your foot. I’m all too aware of the work and meetings facing me back on the coast, all needing my attention today. I cannot claim a snow day.

But as I watch the river flowing by and the sun shining off the blue water, I’m glad I decided to stop here on my way home from a meeting in Portland and not just so I wouldn’t miss any of the three-hour “Bachelor” marathon on TV.

There’s something about a river that feels like a prayer.

A Poem: Learning to Simply Be

The dog sleeps against my leg,
chest rising and falling, smelling of Milk-bones,
dirt and rain-washed fur.
She has nowhere to go, no thoughts
about what she ought to be doing now.

My ankle twitches, my thighs itch.
I count the ticks of the piano clock,
like a metronome set on andante, slow.
I should be practicing, arranging my music,
composing a brilliant new song to play.

The big dog whimpers in her sleep.
Her paws paddle in the air. She pants.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, stroking her back.
Her muscles tense beneath my hand,
then relax as she awakens with a sigh.

She jumps up, shakes from nose to tail,
stretches and leads me to the door.
Outside, the stars shine thick and bright.
As she trots across the grass to pee,
I gaze upward, still earning to simply be.

***************************

The pups in the picture are my babies Annie (tan) and Chico (black). They will turn seven next week.

This is my kind of tea party

An ocean of hot tea, plates of itty-bitty sandwiches, sugar cookies shaped like teapots, and sorbet eaten with doll-sized spoons, plus books–what’s not to like? Saturday I was one of the guest authors at the annual Samaritan House tea in Newport Oregon. The tea raises funds to support our local homeless shelter. The ladies who organize it go all out, and it shows. The tables and walls were decorated with books and antique tea cups. The programs, thick with ribbons and more teacup images, included recipes and bookmarks to use on our next reading adventures. The beautifully crafted treats included cucumber sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, orange lavender polenta cakes, black olive and rainbow chard bars, and little teapot figures created with green grapes and frosting.

Held at First Presbyterian Church, the tea sells out early every year. Middle-aged and old ladies and young moms bringing their little girls jam the fellowship hall. They doll up in flouncy dresses and big hats decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace. It’s a scene right out of Great Gatsby–if it was cast with our friends and neighbors. The atmosphere is loud, giddy with too much sugar and caffeine, and generous. In addition to the tickets, the tea-goers bid on a silent auction, buy the books and teacups decorating their tables, and donate cash to the cause.

The theme varies. This year as part of “Tea and Tomes,” six authors were invited to display and sell their books and give brief talks about their work. We shared a table and swapped stories from our publishing adventures. It was fun getting to know each other and showing off our books. Besides me, the authors included: M.C. Arvanitis, author of middle grade and young adult fiction; Patsy Brookshire, author of the novels Threads and Scandal at the Willamina Quilt Show; Deborah Lincoln, author of the historical novel Agnes Canon’s War; Deborah H. Trusty, author of The Kid from Valsetz, a biography of former Newport city manager Don Davis; and Karleene Morrow, who wrote a novel titled Destiny and How to Write a Novel. Morrow passed away recently, but her friends brought her books and told her story.

Many of the people at the tea knew me only as the girl behind the piano at Sacred Heart Church, which was where I had to go right after the tea, to play for the 5:30 Mass. They were surprised to see how many books I have published. I had five at the table, Childless by Marriage, Shoes Full of Sand, Stories Grandma Never Told, Azorean Dreams, and Freelancing for Newspapers. Info on all of them at http://www.suelick.com/Products.html.

For those who think I’m amazingly talented, I tripped over the microphone cord after my talk. I also dropped one of my little sandwiches face down on the carpet. Nobody’s perfect.

The photo above shows me on the right and my friend Pat Stern in her fancy hat.

Have a cup of tea and read a book. It feels good.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: