If you’ve ever bought anything and had a question, needed to make resrvations and had a question, paid a bill, made a complaint, called for service, this post is for you.  The days are long gone when you could call into a help desk and speak to an operator.

Rich hinted at this if you read his entry a few weeks back: the aversion we (justly) have to the Automated Voice Response system.  The unlikelihood of ever talking to a real person if you need help with a service, product, reservation, or anything else.  Some enterprising and I’m sure really ticked off people have compiled lists of these hard-to-reach companies, the “secret code” required to get through to a person, and posted them all for our benefit.  No longer do you need to repeat “help. help. help.” or “agent.agent.agent.” over and over, each time feeling more and more idiotic.

Dial A Human!

Get Human Database

Bookmark these sites, or print out a glove-box copy to help preserve your sanity in the future.

A little story to illustrate the absurdities of language as used in marketing.  Let me start by going back a little.  Well, let me go back even further for the sake of geographic necessity.

A few years ago we took a long, three week trip in the Globetrotter.  We started here in Texas, wound through Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia, Maryland, ending up in Pennsylvania, where we stayed for several days before making almost the same trip back home.  While we normally cook in the trailer in the evenings, we eat fast food more than we like to for lunch.  Usually we are trying to make some miles and fast food joints have big parking lots.  One time we planned ahead to have crackers, cold cuts, and cheese for lunch while driving.  This endeavor ended with me throwing a whole package of cheese out the window because, after trying for 10 minutes to open it with no knife in site, I had reached my limit and chucked it out the window.

What ‘Streamers know from driving around the country is that there are regional variations in fast food places.  As we were driving through Virginia, we discovered Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr.  I’m not sure why there is the name change, but they are basically the same place. We stopped at Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr more than we probably should have.  We really liked it, and it was not uncommon to order a slider – a little hamburger, meat and bread only, as a treat for our dogs.  At the time, they had a deal that was two of these burgers for $2.  Eric had even started to call Wendell, the black lab, “Carl Jr.” because of his habit of eating, if we let him, the burger in two big chomps.  One to secure the burger, and the next, with an up and back-toss of his head, to throw it down his throat.

Imagine our delight when we learned that they were opening a Carl’s Jr right here at home.   This was the first time I had ever seen Carl’s Jr in Texas.  Turns out they opened three in the central Texas area all at the same time.  We teased our dog, Wendell, that as soon as it opened, we’d get him a burger, since we knew it was his favorite.

After weeks of waiting, it finally opened, offering free food.  As we waited in line, they ran out of food.  The next time we went back it was still too packed – the line snaked out the door.  I guess us Texans get WAY excited over a new burger joint, because there was never less than 8 cars in the drive through.  We finally made inside the restaurant a couple of weeks later, with Wendell waiting patiently  sleeping in the car.  The menu had changed and was all complicated (mostly pictures of combo meals and no individual items), but we ordered, waited, and ate.  Then I went back to the counter to order Wendell his coveted burger.  This is where it gets fun.

They, of course, did not have that slider deal anymore, nor did they have any kind of children’s menu or plain burger on their menu.  This is the exchange I had when I went to order:

Me: Do you have a kid’s meal?
Order Taker: Yeah, we have chicken strips or a cheeseburger meal.
Me: Well, can I just get the burger off that kids’ meal?
OT: You don’t want the meal?
ME: Nope, just the burger.
OT: (blank look) …uuuhhh
[Order Taker #2 steps in.]
Me: Do you have just a plain, little burger?
OT2:  Well, you can get the Big Hamburger.
Me: Well, I just wanted a little hamburger.
OT2: The big hamburger’s little.
Me: Alright, let me have the Big Hamburger, meat and bread only, as long as it’s little.
OT2: Do you want that as a combo meal?
. . . .
A few minutes later, I brought the bag with the little, Big Hamburger back to the table.
Eric: Did you get a little burger?
Me: I got the Big Hamburger, but it’s little.
Eric: What..
Me: Don’t ask.

A few minutes later, Wendell got his burger.  I think he was as disappointed in it as I was.  But he doesn’t complain.  much.

Bonus points for anyone who noticed, at first glance, the Airstream in the picture.

There I was, minding my own business, hurting no one, when my husband called me into the other room to see something on tv, the fright of which would give me nightmares, send my pulse racing, the images of it burned into my subconscious.  What was this horrible thing?  It was the scene from the 1953 classic, The Long Long Trailer, in which “Nicki” and “Tacy” are driving up the side of a one lane mountain road.  Up and up and up, around the curve, rocks sliding down the drop-off, when they encounter a car driven by Norman Leavitt, and they have to inch along the road, scraping the side of the car, which has pulled up against the embankment on the ’safe’ side.  All the while I’m yelling at the tv, “no, don’t stop don’t stop, you won’t be able to make it.”    But then that big ol 8 cylinder Oldsmobile mangages to regain some gusto and chugs back up the hill.  And then they make a curve too tight, and Nicky has to back up, and the end of the trailer dangles over the cliff, and then the wheel spins in dry sand, but then he pulls out, and then…wait - I gotta slow down and catch my breath.

 O.K. and then he scrapes the side of the enbankment, has to back up again, dangles over the edge, and then finally straightens up and drives free of the cliff.  Up a few more inclines, and then they arrive at their destination.  I’m not sure where, because I had to  turn it off.  It had been too traumatic.

You see, I’m already afraid of heights and steep inclines.  I will generally exit and take the long way around rather than drive up one of those soaring “fly-overs” which could, probably, launch someone into orbit if hit at the right velocity.  But I digress.  That fear, combined with the idea of pulling a beloved old trailer up that dirt road, and the peril of plunging off a cliff was too much.  I didn’t like it at all, and I LOVE Lucy.

Was it supposed to be a comedy?  Because it’s not funny. Forget Saw 2, or Amityville.  Heck, forget The Shining, which is, unarguably the scariest movie ever.  This Ricky and Lucy “classic” affected me in a way tha none of these so called horror/thriller flicks ever did.

I’ve managed to put it behind me, though, for the most part.  I try to remind myself that it’s not real.  My therapist taught me some breathing exercises.  But sometimes, late at night, the thoughts come back and I see the trailer hanging off the cliff, and I start to shudder.  Oh, and I also remind myself not to fill our trailer with souvenir boulders from all the places we’ve been to.

(I have to apologize in advance for not having photos for this, but my props were eaten before I even had enough time to get out the camera.)

Brats are a food that people feel passionately about.  It is a topic deeply embedded in never-ending controversy,  basically centering on this question: do you boil first then grill, or grill then bathe in the beer.  I will attest to the boil then grill method, but I don’t think you will be disappointed by the other.  Try them both and see which you prefer.

The whole beer brat thing in our house started with a conversation my husband had in the grocery store.  I had lost sight of him down one of the aisles, but continued to shop.  Later I realized it had been a while.  Worried that he had gotten lost, I headed back to look for him, only to find him in an intense discussion with a complete stranger that went something like this:

E: What kind of beer do you use?
Stranger:  Shiner.  You have to use Shiner.
E: Nothing else?
Stranger: Only Shiner.
E: Are you buying the Johnsonville?
Stranger: No, I think I’m buying …….

They were deep in conversation like two women discussing how to make a Sunday pot roast.  At this point I had pretty much stopped listening, but in hindsight, I should have paid more attention.  Eric made the best sausage, excuse me, brats, that night, and it took forever to get the recipe out of him.  They were juicy and perfectly browned, but not greasy.  Only after researching it myself and presenting him with a recipe I had found, would he tell me that mine was totally wrong and this was how he did it.  So here they are, both recipes, and I do think Eric’s is the best.

Beer Brats

1 6-pack Shiner Bock
Brats, Bratwursts, or other sausage (but brats taste much better than any other sausage)

optional: buns, mustard, sauerkraut, plates,

Empty 3 bottles of beer into a large pan, add the brats and heat on medium high until boiling.  Turn heat down slightly and simmer or low boil for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile make sure the grill is hot.  After you have drunk the other three beers, or the 10 minutes is up, whichever comes first, remove the brats from the pan using tongs.  Transfer to hot grill and grill until golden brown.

Note: One time we didn’t have any Shiner, so he tried using something else – I think it was a Modelo – and it was not nearly as tasty.

Grill-first Method

This method is good if you don’t want to spend anytime at the stove or have guests straggling in at any given time.

1 6-pack Shiner Bock
Johnsonville Brats
aluminum baking dish (the disposable kid)

optional: sliced onions, buns, mustard, plates

Put the pan right on the grill.  Pour in the beer and sliced onions if you are using them.

Grill the brats.  When the brats are done, transfer them to the beer ‘hot tub’ where they can relax and soak up the beer until someone pulls them out.

Lagniappe: Ensure that you have enough brats for leftovers.  The next morning, dice them up and scramble them into eggs with some onions and bell peppers.

Biscotti are quite possibly my favorite cookie to bake.  If I’m cooking for myself, a simple chocolate chip or plain oatmeal cookie will suffice, but biscotti is the number one choice for socializing.

I nearly always bake some biscotti to tuck away into the Airstream before a trip.  They can be packed up in tins, Tupperware, or even a Zip-Loc bag and still remain, for the most part, whole and intact.  The absolute best thing about biscotti, though, is their versatility.  Depending on your guests or your mood, biscotti will go with almost anything.  They are the perfect dipping cookie.  And, because of their subtle, elemental flavors, and subtle sweetness, they can go into just about anything.  It is perfectly acceptable to dunk biscotti in coffee, tea, milk, and even wine.  Yea, cookies that go with wine!!  Even Oreos can’t make that claim.
For the unfamiliar, biscotti are a twice-baked, oblong-shaped cookie from Italy. Biscottio, means twice cooked, and comes from the custom of baking cookie dough in long slabs, cutting it into thick, long cookies, and baking them again. After the second bake, they lose any excess moisture, making them nice and crunchy, and sturdy enough to travel or be shipped. Biscotti are in the same cookie family as Mandelbrot, the traditional Jewish cookie made with oilgt. Mandelbrot is typically filled with walnuts or almonds and flavored with a bit of cinnamon. Biscotti will call for hazelnuts or almonds, and is crispier than mandelbrot due to its second baking.

There are hundred of recipes for biscotti throughout Italy, but other than flavoring (biscotti can also be subtly-sweet or savory) they fall into two distinct categories: those made with butter and those made without butter or any shortening. The cookies made with butter have a more tender shortbread-like texture, while those without are drier, harder, and crunchier.  Recipe follows:

Double Chocolate Biscotti
adapted from Biscotti by Lou Seibert Pappas, Chronicle Books, 1992

2/3 c sliced or slivered almonds
½ c butter
¾ c sugar
2 eggs
2 tbsp Amaretto, Kahlua, or double-strength coffee
2 c plus 2 tbsp flour
1/3 c unsweetened cocoa
1 ½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
2/3 c semi-sweet chocolate chips

Place nuts in a shallow pan and toast over medium heat for about 10 minutes, or until you start to smell them.  Keep stirring to prevent any hotspots.  Let cool.

In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Beat in eggs and liqueur or coffee.  In a bowl combine the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt.  Using a sturdy spoon, add the creamed sugar, and mix until thoroughly blended.  Fold in nuts and chocolate chips.

Divide dough in half.  On a baking sheet that has been lined with parchment paper, pat out dough into two logs about ½ inch high, 1 ½ inches wide, and 14 inches long, spacing them at least 2 inches apart.  Bake in the middle of a preheated 325° oven for 25 minutes.  Remove from the oven.  Gently lifting the parchment paper, transfer the logs onto a cooling rack.  Let cool for 5 to 10 minutes.  Place on a cutting board.  With a serrated knife, or even better, an electric knife, slice diagonally on a 45 degree angle about ½ inch thick.  Place the slices upright back on the baking sheet and return to the oven for 8 to 10 minutes.  Let cool on a rack.  Store in a tightly covered container.

P.S.  While cutting the biscotti, you are likely to create a lot of crumbs.  If you can resist the urge to lick them off the cutting board, save them in a Zip-Loc and store in the freezer.  Use them to crumble on ice cream, top off some tiramisu, or sprinkle over oatmeal.

The Austin City Limits Music Festival is a three day event, a spinoff of the  famous Austin City Limits television show produced by UT and KLRU, the public television station in Austin.  It is a huge music venue, bringing in famous and up-and-coming bands on several stages constructed around Zilker Park.  It also brings in thousands of music lovers, and a good time is had by all.

Since our favorite urban trailer park is but a several blocks down from the main entrance gate, it is a great place to people watch, and another great excuse to take out the Globetrotter.

This year, we met some new Airstream friends, our neighbors, April and Chris Childs and their daughter Bennett.  They restored their trailer themselves (see above), and can be found out on the road here in Austin, and at Burning Man.

Because we didn’t actually go to the festival, the weekend was quite restful.  We slept late, read, cooked, napped, and ventured out between 10 and 11 pm to witness the street antics as the shows let out.

When was the last time you can say you were part of an impromptu street dance party?

That’s what I thought.  The hijinx continued until the cops cleared the streets at about 11 and everyone drifted off into the night.

But they were back, at 9am the next morning, heading in to another round of shows.

My stomach has churned all weekend, sick with worry and updates from Galveston. As a longtime former Galveston resident, married to a BOI, this storm was more personal than others.

I moved to Galveston in 1991, in order to check off “live at the beach” from my Life List. It was there I met my husband. Lived on my own. Made tons of friends. Found ‘my place’ in the world. During college, I walked on the beach every morning with my dog Rosie, went to class in the afternoon, worked at Yaga’s (then Landry’s, then Randall’s) in the evening, and drank Vodka Collins and shots of tequila at O’Malley’s and Vibes after work.

Nearly every street holds a memory, if not one of mine, one of thousands my husband has retold to me over the years. 33rd street is where we had our bookstore. Somewhere around 23rd and Post Office is where Eric proposed, on a Sunday morning during Mardi Gras. Ave S is where I bought my first house. I was flashed by a perv on 24th street. Went to my first Mardi Gras Parade on 25th and Ave L. I could go on and on.

While I know of one friend who stayed during Hurricane Ike, I know that there are many, many others who chose to test their luck this weekend. I feel as if I nursed Elaine through the hurricane. Convinced that it would not be bad, her house having made it through numerous hurricanes high and dry, she was not worried. She took my calls, early in the week and early on Friday trying to convince me that it wasn’t going to be as bad as they predicted on the news. Then when she called at around 11pm, her voice had changed. I could tell she was worried, if not scared. The water was rising up the porch stairs. It had never done this.

I pulled up NOAA while simultaneously flipping through all the news channels. (By the way, Geraldo is a horse’s ass.) They had been eating ice cream and popsicles since the electricity had gone out earlier in the evening, and the all-weather radio had indicated the possibility of Ike wobbling to the east towards Boliver. This would have been good; they would have then been on the dry side. But everything I could find reported that the eye was heading straight for them, right for the middle of town, pretty much on a direct route across 45th street.

The eye was 60, then 50, then 45 miles in diameter. This means that it was very big, and a wobble would not have changed the impact much at this point, and it also meant that it was intensifying. The reduction in diameter is comparable to the closing of a fist - a palm-open slap is much more tolerable than a fist. But, we still had communication.

Elaine began calling about every hour or so, on the land line in order to save the cell phone battery. “How high is the surge?” “Where is it now?” “How long until the eye hits?” The water was rising slowly; she lives on a historically and relatively high part of the island. All I could tell her was to hang in there. They moved their photos and pictures upstairs, but she stayed on the sofa on the first floor to monitor the water. She could see the water rising under the house, from an old furnace floor vent that they opened. It was high, but never actually came up through the old, oak flooring.

She was going to try to sleep. I dozed off with my phone on my nightstand at about 2:30. She called again at 4:00, this time in a panic. The eye had come ashore at around 1:30, and they waited for an interminable 2 hours in a complete meteorological calm. The water had started to recede. But now it was rising again, and quickly.

I reported what I could. They were smack in the middle of it. There were still 2 to 3 hours worth of outer bands in the gulf, waiting to be pulled onshore. As the eye of Ike crossed onto land, the storm slowed. A slowing storm is never good. As it churns in place, it throws more and more tidal water on shore, spurns tornados, waterspouts, and lightning. I snapped phone pictures of my computer screen showing where Ike was, and sent them to her. She hurried off the phone to call her niece. Elaine texted me later, and I spoke to her briefly the next morning - they were hot and tired. And then we lost communication.

The phone lines are down. They charged cell phones on a generator. This worked until the back-up batteries in the cell towers themselves drained. With no power, the towers can’t send any phone calls. She can still receive texts, I think, but can only place collect calls to a land line. I just got word from a small network of friends and family, that they will probably be forced to leave for at least a month. I’m waiting for more news, and possibly house guests.

That’s what Elaine is doing. We know Henry is probably o.k. He is one of the police officers in command at the San Luis Hotel; we saw him on Fox News. William left and evacuated to Houston; I assume he’s o.k. We still have many more friends who I am wondering and worrying about. I know these Galveston people. They are stubborn, and strive to be self-sufficient. They don’t want to give in to warnings or admit defeat. I hope they all came to their senses before the storm, but I doubt it. They’re probably fine, they’re a resilient lot, but I can’t help worrying.

The call of the ocean is a siren song. With the beautiful sunsets, the hypnotic waves, rolling sea birds, and the fresh ocean breeze, come the mosquitos, ubiquitous rust, incessant humidity, and the very real threat, 5 months out of the year, of storms like Ike.

(PHOTOS COURTESY OF American Red Cross)

Today’s tip is a very practical one: how to avoid the driving blindspot. You know that spot that always gets you into trouble? You check over your shoulder, but sometimes you still miss a tiny little car lurking there in the next lane.

Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers, have come up with a great solution. It costs nothing and it’s really easy. All it takes is a little getting used to.

When I first heard them talking about it on the radio, it seemed too good to be true. But I set my mirrors and tried it. It seems strange at first, but it works. Since changing my mirrors, I have counted five times that they have kept me out of merging into a lane with a car already in it. I still look over my shoulder, but have eliminated the double look, shift in my seat, wrench my neck and then have someone else double check.

It’s simple, and worth at least a try. Click on this link:

Click and Clack, Features: Mirrors

Just like I love giant stuff, I love festivals also. Sometimes they’re cheesy or lame, but for the most part, they’re interesting, fun, and a good place to people watch. Recently, our town held it’s annual festival, the only thing we’re known for: The Watermelon Festival.

The parade starts at 10:30 sharp, usually. This year, it was slightly postponed due to an unknown parked car on the parade route. Any group or family can make a float, and there is a lot of participation. Even the nudist ranch down the road enters a float (clothed and decorated). There are awards for the most decorated horse and rider, best decorated car, best float, etc. At the end is the big flat-bed trailer with all of the watermelon entries. This year’s watermelons were not that spectacular in size, but we are locally famous for their flavor.

After the parade, everyone walks a few blocks down to the Watermelon Festival Grounds where the local barbecue vendors open up for barbecue sandwich lunch. Circling the perimeter of the grounds are dunking booths, a band stand, a country walk, bingo, and other games. All kinds of the hometown hokey goodness. But, it’s all about the watermelon.

So, after the barbecue dinner at 6, all of the watermelons are chopped up and passed out for a melon free-for-all. There are sanctioned (and non-sanctioned) seed spitting contests and everyone ends up with juice dripping off their chins, running down their elbows, and usually some amount of watermelon flesh in their hair.

Watermelons are great for summer because of their high water content, messy quotient, and general fun-ness. When I was a kid, we made sure that someone brought a watermelon when we went to the lake. It was usually too big to fit in the ice chests, so we rigged up a net and floated it in the lake itself. It never got ice cold, but it was cool. Before serving we usually played watermelon water soccer. The rules weren’t very clear, but basically you oiled the watermelon with whatever oil you have and try to swim the watermelon to whatever goal you have chosen, while your friends try to take it away from you or push it out of your grasp.

Now, because of research and varietal selection, some watermelons are small enough to fit in a trailer fridge. And if it won’t fit, you just have to keep eating it until it’s gone. You can pretty much cut them up right on an outdoor picnic table. Dice em up, throw em in a bowl, and you have breakfast – or dessert. Drizzle them with balsamic vinegar. Toss with cilantro, diced jalapenos, and lime juice. Put them in a spinach salad.

So before the weather starts changing, take a moment to cut up a watermelon and enjoy the taste of summer.

Do you yearn for the perfect highway? One that is spacious, not overly crowded, but not too remote? I’ve never found THE ONE, but I did find one that comes close. It’s actually two highways, but it’s one route, and the change from one to the other is…well, I don’t even know when I changed.

Highway 183 from Cedar Park, Texas to Lampasas, where it changes to 281 to Mineral Wells one road in the competition. I’ve driven this route several times, towing and not, and I was pleasantly surprised each time. A few weeks ago, the last time I drove it, there was even road construction in a couple of places, and it still wasn’t a problem.

183/281 is topped with smooth, flowing blacktop, sometimes 4 lanes, sometimes two. It was 11:30 am and the majority of the time I was the only car on the road. The landscape changes from scraggy hill country to the petite mountains on Parker County. While not technically mountains, the outcroppings on the North Central Texas Plains and actually plateau remnants that have withstood while the rest of the landscape eroded away. Wide shoulders line the highway, easing your mind as you worry about blow-outs or other mechanical mishaps - plenty of room to pull off to the side. And while we’re talking about it, remember Texas highway law is practically unique: if you’re driving slower than traffic and there is a wide shoulder, YOU ARE SUPPOSED to pull onto the shoulder and let the faster traffic pass. But yet another good thing about this 183/281 route is that every few miles, passing lanes were built into the highway, providing just enough passing space and time to get around that slow moving tractor.

But, the greatest thing about this route is that it has GIANT STUFF on it. I love oversized things. Big ‘ol, great big giant stuff. Outside of Morgan Mill is this huge rocking chair, a sign for a Texas cedar furniture maker and store.

Then a little further south is this giant spur. I’m not sure what it’s significance is. Best guess - an old dance hall?