A Pip of a Chip

I don’t eat a lot of snack foods. Not that I don’t like them and the hollow calories that they provide (if my body craves hollow calories, I usually drink a beer), but it is a habit (one of the very few good habits that I have) that I developed as a child.

My parents didn’t keep snack foods (except for potato chips, which were only to be eaten with lunch) in the house. My Mom would always tell us that these foods would ruin our appetites for supper. Snacks were only eaten after supper. And most of the time we were too full to eat them before nine at night.

The snack foods that my Dad ate were pickled herring, sardines in mustard sauce and occasionally popcorn. Needless to say, as a child and a teen the popcorn was the only one of these snacks that appealed to me.

We also always had Ice Cream on hand, but Ice Cream was considered to be a dessert and not a snack; the only time we ate it was after supper, as a part of our dinner. My favorite was Spumoni which we would get from a nearby Italian Pizzeria (more about this in my next Blog).

As usual I have digressed from the main topic of this Blog; which is Potato Chips.

When I was a kid my parents would buy a Potato Chip Brand named Jays (not to be confused with Lays); these were Chicago’s most popular potato chip, at that time. Their slogan was “A Pip of a Chip”. They came in one and a quarter ounce bags (I believe that there were also family size bags available). My Mom said that this was the prefect portion to accompany a lunchtime sandwich. If we bought the larger bag we would tend to eat more than we should and therefore ruin our appetites. She also monitored the bag count daily to make sure that no one was cheating on their potato chip intake.

I have always enjoyed eating potato chips with a sandwich.

The other day I ate a sliced chicken breast sandwich, and of course, I wanted potato chips to accompany this sandwich. My daughter had purchased a box of (fifty count) one ounce bags (vending size) of Lays Potato Chips at Sam’s Club. When I buy chips, I usually buy the 12 and ½ ounce to 14 ounce bags (ounce for ounce it is less expensive – especially when they are on sale – but is it really less expensive?).

Here is what I found in the one ounce bag. There were 85% whole chips, 15% broken chips and no crumbs. In the big family size bags you are lucky if you get 60% whole chips, 25% broken chips, 12% bits and pieces (not worth eating) and another 3% crumbs (also not worth eating). You end up feeding 15% of your purchase to the birds and insects, or worse yet putting it into the trash.

I used to attribute this to the grocery store’s mishandling of the bags when stocking the shelves, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Does Frito-Lay put their scraps in the larger bags so that they can put them on sale more often? Also, why aren’t potato chips packaged in clear bags as Doritos are?

I want to know!

The Beach Bum

Cajun Cooking

Few days ago, the infamous forwarder of emails, Cazzo, forwarded an email about Cajun Cuisine. I read some of the recipes and thought about an old female friend that I called the Raygen Cajun. I was in between live-in girlfriends at the time.

Her surname was very French and she was originally from the New Orleans (Nawlins) area of Louisiana. But she didn’t look French, so I questioned her about her heritage.

She told me that it was her former husband’s name and it sounded better (for business purposes – Real Estate Sales) than her maiden name. Her father was of Spanish and Arcadian French descent and her mother was Turkish. Both parents were educators at Tulane University.

She was a petite woman probably weighing in at 90 pounds. She couldn’t drink more than two alcoholic beverages before getting wild, crazy and very passionate. She was an inexpensive date, to say the least. If she had three drinks, she was like one of those young ladies that you see on the “Girls Gone Wild” videos. I bought her three drinks many times.

On one of those three drink nights she began to reminisce about New Orleans. I had been there, as a young man, for Marti Gras; but never really saw the much of the city or the surrounding areas.

I asked her if she would like to visit her parents. Her eyes lit up like sparklers and she asked me “really?” I said yes, we’ll go in the morning. We then adjourned to my bed.

On Saturday morning we took the first flight from BWI Airport to New Orleans. I believe that it was on American Airlines. We arrived before noon, rented a car and proceeded to her parent’s house which was west of New Orleans proper.

The house was an old Plantation House that was built in the 1880’s. The original house that was built in the 1700’s was razed. The house sat on about 5 acres. The property had been sub-divided several times over the course of the years. Her father told me that it was originally on more than 1000 acres of farmland.

This house had six bedrooms and one bathroom. Each bedroom had French doors that led to a veranda. My bedroom had a steel mesh chair and table on the terrace and faced west. It was the ideal place to have a sundowner cocktail.

The first night there we went out to dinner, courtesy of her parents, to a New Orleans restaurant named Brennan’s; I ate the blackened Red Fish.

On Sunday morning, I accompanied her father to the local seafood market where he bought 3lbs of fresh (caught that morning), head on, shrimp. He told me that he was making Gumbo for us for dinner that night.

I had had Gumbo before, but never like this Gumbo. It was made with fresh okra and Cayenne peppers that came from plants in the back yard. This was authentic Cajun cookery. I helped to prepare the dinner by dicing the onions, chopping a knob of garlic, beheading and peeling the shrimp and slicing the okra (about 3lbs). I also had watched his every move in the kitchen.

First, in a large cast iron skillet, he put bacon grease and lard and heated it to a moderate temperature. He then placed the diced onion and some sliced shallots into the pan. When they became translucent he drained them with a sieve and placed them into a stainless steel pot, returning the liquid to the skillet.

Next into the skillet were the garlic, hot peppers and the okra. This was constantly stirred until softened. This was put into the pot, grease and all, along with the shrimp and a local smoked sausage (sliced). Two cups of water was added as well as what her dad called fillay powder which thickens the Gumbo.

I have duplicated his recipe many times, but using olive oil instead of bacon grease and lard and using Habanero peppers in place of the Cayenne peppers. Hillshire Farms smoked sausage is a reasonable substitute for the Cajun smoked sausage. Served with rice and beans, it is a great meal.

Although it was a memorable and pleasurable trip; my lady friend and I hadn’t had sexual relations for three days. For me, it was good to be home again!

The Beach Bum

Memories of Ethiopia

Two of the photographs that I decided not to post on the Guest Blog by my friend Dave, evoked several powerful memories of the time that I spent in Ethiopia.


After seeing them, my first thought was of the children that I had met in the rural areas outside of the city of Asmara. I had worked, with other GI’s, on several projects (including building a windmill) that benefited the local village population. Many other US military people did much more than I did for the people of our host country.

The children would gather around us (and as Dave says “they loved to ham it up in front of our cameras”). Although they never begged, we would give to them tokens of our friendship; usually small change and sometimes even an Ethiopian dollar (40 cents US). We would also bring items to these children such as paper, pencils and clothing from the Post Exchange at Kagnew. Many of these children had never left their village and had never seen the city of Asmara, just 30 miles away.

To the rural population outside of the city of Asmara, an Ethiopian dollar was a lot of money, considering that their annual family income was about $60 US (in 1967) or less. They bartered livestock (goats and sheep) for grain (mainly Teff) and other food stuffs. In drought years the grain was sparse and the livestock were very lean (little spare food or water to give them). But there were always hot peppers that would grow in any soil and under the most adverse conditions. These peppers were a staple in many Ethiopian dinners.

Ethiopia is where I acquired my taste for spicy foods. There was a local dish called Zigny (Zigne) that made Curried foods seem tame. Zigny was a stew that was seasoned with many spices that were roasted to make a powder called Berbere (Beri-Beri) which predominately was made up of local hot peppers. Just looking at the powder would bring tears to your eyes.

The most common Zigny was made with goat meat. It was served in a community pot placed in the center of the dinning area (usually a two foot tall table) and often accompanied by an equally spicy lentil dish. A flat sourdough bread called Injera (made with Teff flour) was used to scoop the Zigny from the pot. As in very many Mideast and African countries no utensils were used; you ate with your right hand only (never your left).

I had been honored several times, by locals that invited me to their homes for a Zigny dinner (one time we brought a live goat as a gift for the host). As my friend Dave said the people there were amazingly friendly and looking for nothing in return but a pleasant conversation.

Unlike my world traveling friend Dave, I’ll never return to Ethiopia; perhaps I should have never left!

The Beach Bum

Baseball, Hamburgers and Politics

Last weekend I spoke to a friend and fellow Cubs fan. I hadn’t spoken to him since last October. As always, the first 20 minutes of our conversation centered on the Cubs and Baseball in general. Once the 2009 season begins we will be on the phone nearly once a week.

Then we moved on to health concerns, particularly mine. This lasted for about 3 minutes; he has no major health concerns (except for high cholesterol – he takes Lipitor) and mine are Status Quo.

Finally we moved on to meatier topics. Our new President, the Bailouts, the Economy and Hamburgers.

This part of the conversation began with Hamburgers. I asked him if he remembered the name of a certain restaurant in Melrose Park that served the best burgers that I have ever eaten. When I lived Berwyn in the early 1980’s I would take my girlfriend there at least once every ten days.

I began to describe the Restaurant and within seconds he said “Come Back Inn.” How could I have forgotten? I then asked him if he been there lately and he told me that it was closed several years ago. I said “What? – Why?”

He then asked me if I remember why he moved from Cicero (Cook County) to Downers Grove (DuPage County) in 1990. He had lived on the southwest side of Cicero for 38 years (from birth until 2 months before his 39th Birthday). The house that he bought in Cicero was just two blocks away from his parents’ house. So I said “To be closer to work (the Company that he work for had moved to Schaumburg the year before)?” He laughed and said “Guess again.”

My second guess was lower taxes. Wrong again! “OK I give up.”

He answered “The demographics (in Cicero) were rapidly changing, the crime rate was swiftly rising and the Democrats were outnumbering the Republicans (Cicero and neighboring Berwyn had always been a stronghold for the Cook County Republican Party). The same thing happened in Melrose Park, but at least the criminals there spoke a version of the English language; when they asked you for your wallet, you understood what they were saying and didn’t get knifed or shot.” Now it was my turn to laugh.

Next, I said “I guess that you’re not happy with the outcome of the last election.” He then said “What do you mean, I voted for Obama.” For a few seconds I was thunderstruck. All that I could say was wow. After the shock wore off, I asked him why?

He gave me the same reasons that other Chicago suburban area lifelong Republicans had given me.

For that one moment, they put aside the bigotry that they were taught (as I was) as children. They voted with their minds rather than their hearts. I hope that President Obama proves their decisions to be right.

The Beach Bum

Warning Signs

There is a warning label on every beer that I drink. Although I do not read and heed them, I know that they are there. It is a generally agreed to fact that the consumption of alcoholic beverages in more than moderate quantities is not good for your physical well being.

The warning on the label of the beer that I am now consuming reads:

GOVERNMENT WARNING:
1)According to the Surgeon General women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. 2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery and can cause health problems.

There is no warning label on my Vodka bottle. Why? Is drinking beer more dangerous than drinking Vodka? My beer is less than 10 proof – my Vodka is 80 proof.

The cigarette that I am now smoking also has a warning label on each pack. The warnings vary from carton to carton. The current warning reads:

SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING
Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema And May Complicate Pregnancy.

It is a known fact that both tobacco and alcohol contribute to heart disease. Yet I continue to put myself at risk even though I am aware of these facts and the statistics.

However what I don’t do is eat a Super-Sized Big Mac and Fries with a large Coke (not Pepsi). This food combination is known to clog the arteries and cause Heart Disease if consumed on a regular basis.

This now brings us to the Question of the Day:

Why isn’t there a Government or Surgeon General’s warning on the Big Mac and French fry containers that you get from McDonald’s or any other Fast Food Restaurant?

The Beach Bum

You Deserve a Break Today

I am writing this Blog at the risk of offending/alienating several (4 to 6) friends and semi-regular readers (of this Blog) who live in Wisconsin.

Last week I read a news item about a man from Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin. The 54-year-old man, Don Gorske, says his obsessive-compulsive disorder drove him to eat 23,000 Big Macs in 36 years. That averages out to be about 1.75 Big Macs per day; he has eaten as many as 5 per day.

MacDonald’s Headquarters should be sending him a gift certificate to the local Hospital’s Cardiac Ward or at least a lifetime supply of Lipitor. Of the 540 calories in a Big Mac, 270 are from fat. Add to this an order of French Fries (who can eat a MacDonald’s burger without fries?) and you are looking at some serious cholesterol problems.

Not to mention, that being from Wisconsin, Don probably eats a lot of cheese. The only thing that is saving him from a multi-bypass surgery is probably the fact that he, more than likely, also drinks a lot of beer. I have great cholesterol numbers and I attribute this to my consumption of alcoholic beverages.

I don’t believe that Mr. Gorske suffers from an OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) as he has stated. Any food that has that much fat in it must taste good. And, as the sign on my cousin’s (The Admiral) refrigerator sez “If it tastes good, don’t eat it”.

I have been to Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin and unless it has drastically changed in the past 45 years, which I doubt, there is virtually nothing to do in this town except to go fishing on Lake Winnebago, eat cheese, drink beer, dine at the local MacDonalds or hang out at the A&W Root Beer stand.

I rarely eat MacDonald’s food. Not that I don't like the taste; my digestive system just can't handle it. During the past 5 years I have probably eaten 4 Double Cheeseburgers (a real tasty bargain at 99 cents), a Filet of Fish Sandwich and a few orders of French Fries (the greatest fast food fries available). I never liked Big Macs because they were just a shadow image of the Big Boy burger. Our local Big Boy (Tops) just outside of Chicago, in Berwyn, had Car Hops, MacDonalds didn’t.

The Beach Bum

Eating Out in Greece

One of my old Army buddies returned from a trip to Europe last week. During the past three years he has made several 6 to 8 week trips to Asia. This is the first time that I can recall him going to Europe.

In his email he said that the trip was OK but not a great trip. He writes “Europe is kind of expensive to start with, but with the dollar down so much against the euro it gets almost ridiculous at times. There's like a 60% tax on everything just because you're American. Greece was particularly bad. Now this morning I see U.S. prices are up by the largest amount in 26 years.”

I have been to Greece twice. One time for 1 day and the second time for two days. Both were layovers on my flights to and from Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia.
On my first trip I did all of the normal tourist things that you could do in one day. I visited the Acropolis, bought souvenirs for my family, took two rolls of slides and ate in a restaurant across from Constitution Square (The food that I had eaten at the Greek Islands Restaurant on Halsted St. in Chicago was better and a lot less expensive).

On my return trip I had the good fortune to be seated next to a gentleman who was attached to the Diplomatic Corps at the US Embassy in Athens. He had just spent three weeks at the American Consulate in Asmara. He spoke several languages including Greek. Being that I was in the Army Intelligence Service (AIS not MI), I knew better than to ask him what he was doing in Asmara.

He asked where I would be staying and I told him the Niki Hotel on Nikis Street in Athens. He told me that he knew where it was and that it was a nice small hotel. He asked me if I wanted to partake in some Athens nightlife and I said sure. He said he would meet me in the Hotel Lobby at 1930 hours.

The Hotel Niki was just a few blocks away from Constitution Square and not far from the Acropolis. They had put me in the penthouse. The bathroom was larger than the entire room that I had been in the last time that I was in Athens. Plus I had a private stairwell leading to a rooftop patio.

When my new friend arrived, I told him that I needed to eat and suggested that we walk to one of the nearby restaurants across from the Square. He asked me if I was crazy. First, he said, those restaurants carry menus in several different languages with varying prices according to language. The French was the most expensive, followed by the English and the least expensive was the Greek. But better yet, he would take me to a local Taverna.

The Taverna was less than a mile away, so we walked. He told me several interesting facts about Athens and Greece. When we arrived at the Taverna it was virtually deserted, we seated ourselves and were given small cardboard menus (in Greek). My friend asked me what kind of food was I interested in eating. I said anything local. He suggested the mixed grill. I said OK.

The mixed grill was a combination of raw organ meats and lamb chunks. It was served with a fondue pot full of hot olive oil and several skewers. It was very tasty. It came with broasted seasoned potatoes and a bowl of lemon chicken soup.

By the time we were finished eating, the Taverna started to fill up with locals. We decided to move on to a bar which we had passed along the way to the Taverna. The entire bill for two dinners was just slightly more than what I paid for my dinner on my previous trip to Athens.

The bar we went to had an outdoor patio. Inside there was a three piece string band playing Greek music, we sat outside. We both ordered Fix Beer and a small bottle (I think 300ml) of Ouzo. By midnight we had had about 5 beers each and were sharing a second bottle of Ouzo. Men were outside, on the patio, dancing to the music, in a circle with arms on one another’s shoulders. One of the men spoke English and asked me if I would care to try to dance. Egged on by my friend, I reluctantly joined in. It was a lot of fun.

Since my friend had paid for dinner, I insisted on paying the Bar Bill. It was less than US$12 (in 1968). The next day I paid dearly with one of the worse hangovers that I had ever encountered.

Several years later I ran into my friend again, this time in the Executive Dining Room at No Such Agency. He was a Major in the Air Force. I thanked him again for showing me such a great time in Athens.

The Beach Bum

Eating it Raw

Today on the iGoogle Homepage one of the “How to of the Day” topics was How to Eat Sushi. This was a very informative article, especially for someone who has never eaten Sushi. It also had a link to sushi etiquette, so that you don't accidentally insult the chef or the culture.

I like to eat fish, but I have never attempted to eat Sushi. I prefer to have my fish cooked, not raw. This is strange because I immensely enjoy eating raw oysters and clams.

Another reason that I do not eat Sushi is that ounce per ounce of fish served; it is outrageously expensive in comparison to the cooked fish that I am accustomed to eating in Restaurants. This is the same reason that I do not eat Lobster

I have noticed that they are also selling Sushi in the local Grocery Stores. Six little one ounce rolls of raw fish circled around a glob of rice. It’s probably a total of two ounces of fish and four ounces of rice for $6.95. Who would buy Sushi in a Grocery Store anyway? I would want to see the person that is preparing it before eating it. If they were not Japanese, I wouldn’t put it in my mouth.

Years ago I read about an old Japanese custom, which was part of the geisha culture, which had spread to California. I’ve been patiently waiting for it to spread east before eating Sushi. At least this was one of my excuses, for not eating raw fish. The custom has finally arrived here in Florida and just a forty minute drive away from where I live.

The Sushi is served on the body of a young woman wearing only a G-string and tiny flower shaped Pasties (although I believe that in Japan the women are entirely nude). Now this is “How to eat Sushi”.


I’ll now have to fall back on my second excuse for not eating Sushi; I am inept at using chopsticks.

The Beach Bum

An Epicureans Delight

A few days ago, I was talking to a friend who lives in the western Chicago suburbs. As we do every year at this time, we conversed about our favorite baseball team; The Chicago Cubs. Basically, we have the same conversation every late February; just the names of the players are changed. We both tend to over analyze the team and we are both hopeless optimists.

The highlight of our conversation was not concerning the Cubs, but instead the Chicago Hot Dog. He had gone to one of our favorite Hog Dog emporiums for lunch on Sunday. He was appalled by the behavior of the customer in front of him. The man asked for Catsup on his hot dog. The young employee, behind the counter, told the man that they didn’t have Catsup. The man then became indignant and told the employee where he could put the hot dog. Nasty words were exchanged.

My friend, who is well known for his lack of tolerance, jumped in and said “get the “xxxx” out of here and go back to Detroit". I guess that they serve hot dogs with Catsup in Detroit.

If you have never had a Chicago Hot Dog, you have no idea what I am writing about.

The classic Chicago Hot Dog uses a Vienna Beef Frank (2oz) which is steamed and served on a poppy seed bun which is also steamed. The condiments are mustard, a bright green pickle relish (picklelilly), chopped onions, tomato wedges, a slice of dill pickle or cucumber, a dash of celery salt and optional hot (Sport) peppers. The dog is usually served with French Fries. It’s wrapped in white paper (fries included) and served in a brown bag.

Please note that there is no mention of Catsup, Chili or sauerkraut!

The better Hot Dog Emporiums do not keep Catsup on the premises.

Last night I was drooling while thinking about a Chicago Hot Dog. We have a Chicago style food carry-out less than a mile away. I sent my daughter to fetch one. It was good, but just not the same as eating one in Chicago.

The Beach Bum

Super Size This

I read today that three Mississippi legislators want to make it illegal for restaurants to serve obese customers in Mississippi.

House Bill No. 282
If this Bill is enacted into law I will not be able to eat in a Mississippi Restaurant. Not that I feel that I am obese, but by Government Height/Weight Standards I am obese. For my height and my build (medium) I should ideally weigh between 164lbs and 178lbs. I currently weigh 191lbs. But for years I weighed between 182 and 185. And that is even over the limit.


I rarely eat at Fast Food Restaurants and haven’t been to an all-you-can-eat buffet in nearly 20 years. When I go out to dine I usually eat a salad, a baked potato and a seafood dish. I stay away from fatty foods, fried foods and beef. Not that I do not like them, but because they cause major distress in my gastro-intestinal system. I occasionally cheat and then I pay for it the next day.

In the past 6 years I have gained somewhere between 6 and 9 pounds. However my waistline has gone from 34 inches to 39 inches. Why? No exercise and the fact that most of my daily caloric intake comes from alcoholic beverages.

What’s next? Is Mississippi going to attempt to pass a law that prevents obese people from drinking in bars and restaurants or from buying alcoholic beverages in stores?

People that are obese are good for the economy. Look at how many jobs would be lost by people working in the Hospitality Industry and Health Care Industry if this law passes. This translates into less tax revenue for the State of Mississippi and more unemployment compensation paid out.


This legislation will never pass.

The Beach Bum

Going, Going, Gone - It's a Homer

Last night we had Pizza for dinner. One of the Pizzas was plain cheese and the other was a cheese, sausage and pepperoni combo.

These were frozen Pizzas that were purchased at a local grocery store. My daughter cooked one pizza on her Presto Pizzazz Pizza turntable and the second in the oven on her Pizza stone.

I like Pizza, but the things that they attempt to past off as a Pizza at most of the chains is not what I call Pizza. Worst yet, are some of the frozen Pizzas that are available in the grocery store.

I’m spoiled. I grew up on the southwest side of Chicago. There were 3 small Pizzerias within a 2 block radius of my house. None of them served what is now called Chicago Style Pizza (a deep dish abomination). All had a thin cracker crust.

But the best Pizza came from a small Pizzeria across from Lawndale Park (Keeler Park) on west 31st Street. The place had a few tables and a small bar, most of their business was carry-out. There was no delivery back in the 50’s and 60’s. To this day this Pizzeria does on deliver, although they have 6 units in Chicago and its Suburbs.

It was named the Home Run Inn because an errant baseball from Lawndale Park broke their front window.

Last night, as my daughter was cooking the store bought frozen Pizzas, she brought out the box that the Pizza came in and showed it to me. My eyes lit up like Roman Candles on the Fourth of July: A Frozen Home Run Inn Pizza. She then read the back of the box which has the Home Run Inn historical story. She got choked up and tears were pouring from my eyes. Great Memories of simple pleasures!

I have seen these Pizzas in the Jewel Grocery Store when I visit Chicago, but never tried one because I could get the real thing and not a frozen facsimile.

My daughter said, last night, that it was the best frozen Pizza that she had ever eaten. The flavor of the cheese and sausage was unrivaled. The crust was excellent and the sauce was perfect.

She had this style of Pizza before (from Al’s and Falco’s in Cicero) when visiting Chicago, but never one from the Home Run Inn.

The Beach Bum