Archive for July, 2015

Hipster Food Palace in Boston

July 31st, 2015

bpmsunsHipsters, foodies and the dwindling herd of yuppies have a new (and clean, make sure to say clean) food shopping place i Boston. The Public Market opened yesterday after a couple of years of planning. It’s not bad, but it has its limits.

Regular readers here know I’ve been a fan of the Haymarket here since late ’60s college days and weekly since we moved her in December 1979. The whispers in town are that the city wants to replace the always boisterous, much beloved, remarkably cost saving, and splendidly diverse Haymarket with with a more sanitary indoor facility better suited to the temperament of tourists and suburbanites.

You can forget that. The Haymarket has been at it since 1830 and serves restauranteurs and home cooks alike. The new joint is very different. Some locals may shop at both. Certainly visitors and nearby office workers will swarm like ants for lunch and snacks to the new market. There’s no way restaurants and plain folk would want to or afford to shift to the new one.

ABPMroomsll of that written, the new market has some fine offerings already. The vendors are all New England sources, for everything from honey to cheese to bread to ale to ice cream to cheese to flowers. In fact, A Taste of New England might be a subtitle or epithet here.

PR and ads leading up to the opening were, of course, hyperbolic. The predictable unique aired repeatedly…and inaccurately. For a few, Seattle’s Pike Place Market has been at it since 1907, much bigger, grander, diverse and still local sourced;  the concept of year-round, indoor, local vendors started in Québec in 1841 with its Le Marché; even in Rochester NY, its Public Market has been perking 3 days a week since 1905 with more vendors and even the most remarkable cheese shop I’ve ever seen, even including Manhattan. Oo, oo, and the Rochester market features Amish baked goods and crafts as well as numerous NY State vineyard offerings. It’s fab.

Ycheesegorillaet, for New England, the new spot down next to the Haymarket is a remarkable place, well worth regular visits. Truth be told, I won’t make special trips. However, I’m at the Haymarket weekly on Friday or Saturday and shall certainly augment my regular haul with speciality items from next door. I’m a food slut.

I won’t build a FAQ, but you need to know:

  • Unlike the Haymarket and nearly all of Boston, this shopper-friendly market has obvious public restrooms, water fountains, and tables for two or four. You can buy and then eat. In fact, the slugs clogging up the area around the ice cream vendor should get some manners.
  • jasperhillNext to nothing is inexpensive. An exception is fresh pasta (Nella Pasta) was only $3.99 a pound. Veggies and fruits are two to ten times higher than the Haymarket, where it has the same.
  • You’ll find goods that are hard to impossible to source elsewhere and you might not have known about. Several vendors had splendid, often huge, mushrooms of exotic varieties, for example. Unlike a friend who eats Japanese knotweed shoots, I think those plants are vile pests. Yet, Boston Honey offers samples of its wares, including knotweed honey. It’s earthy, powerful and damned good. Likewise, Hopsters Alley has a wide range of New England craft brews and wines, but hard-to-find spirits, like Berkshire’s Ethereal Gin. They don’t discount, but they have the goods.
  • 1% dinners are easy here. Those who don’t mind dropping several hundred dollars for a meal for themselves or a few chbpmsilberbrookums can buy prepared or frozen meals, mains, meats, desserts and such.
  • The market offers an hors-d’oeuvre paradisse. The few cheese vendors are very high priced (up to $30 a pound), but again they have the variety and quality for a memorable cocktail event. Likewise, the Boston Smoked Fish Company gets a bit silly about its small-batch products, but they are remarkable if very high priced.
  • The airiness and high ceilings and open spaces make for a good experience. I had to stop at Silverbrook Farm (Dartmouth MA) for its beautifully arranged stalls.

In the main, the new market is at the Orange and Green Lines’ Haymarket stop. It’s worth a visit. Bring cash.

Pix note: Published under Creative Commons . You are welcome to use them. Just credit Michael Ball once.

Burned bucks

July 29th, 2015

BURNTBUCKYesterday, crossing the Slattery bridge over Boston’s Fairmount train line, I noticed this burned U.S. dollar on the sidewalk. Who knows the trivial tale here?

While my first thought was that some young person was showing off lighting a blunt. Yet, as the bill seemed to have been lit in the middle, that’s not likely.

Instead, perhaps someone who’d been drinking or was otherwise high decided it would be fun and funny to burn currency.

Regardless, it brought me to a flashback to a post here five years ago. That deserves a reprise.



abecentSkipping pennies was and remains a teen amusement. Yet when I was in high school a dear friend a little older than my mother wove an entirely different tapestry and forever changed my mind.

She was Evelyn Justice, my biscuit lady. We had known each other from my elementary-school days in Danville, Virginia. She worked for the dentist we used and became a family friend. She was surely the kindest and happiest person I have ever known. We were sad when she and her husband moved to Plainfield, New Jersey.

Jump to high school and my mother moved us to that same city. There, I would walk across a broad park and a few more blocks to her house. She was a master biscuit maker (look and feel; no measuring) and glad to oblige me.

One afternoon though, Evelyn was still upset from what she had experienced walking home. She had been just behind three guys from school — my school. They gouged pennies from their jeans and with one in hand, they took turns skipping it along the sidewalk.

She was aghast and transported to earlier times and distant places. She had grown up in a tiny town in the mountains of Western North Carolina. The region, including her family, was among the hardest of the hardscrabble during the Great Depression. Few had much and no one had anything to spare.

To Evelyn, one U.S. cent, one one-hundredth of a dollar, was real money. A few pennies could make the difference of the family eating OK that week. Every cent was precious. The family coin jar was a shrine.

In Plainfield, nearly four decades later, she was riven by the puerile pleasures of those young men. A penny by itself didn’t count for much to them, so little in fact that they could use them as disposable toys. Those guys did not share in family fears of want and deprivation. They did not save, remake, repair and conserve.

She said that she followed behind them, picking up every penny they threw away. She didn’t care if they thought she was a crazy old lady. She knew what a cent had meant and still meant to her. She didn’t really need a palm of pennies, but she would be damned (a word she never would profane the air with herself) if she would let them literally throw away what had been so powerful to her.

She asked me and I was able to say that I never engaged in skipping pennies. Yet when she asked I realized that it would not have been out of the question for me. I had never been presented with the activity. Plus, I had never been wasteful. I had earned money selling vegetables, being a paperboy, life-guarding, and on and on. I made my own money and quite literally did not throw it on the street.

My mother said that she realized in college that she had been shielded from the Depression. Her father had a full-time job on the B&O Railroad for 48 years, including those when many were unemployed and hopeless. He also grew one or more one-acre vegetable and fruit gardens every summer for fresh and cannable food. He sold Chevys on the side.

He also had a tailor shop and made clothes for the family. That led to a story my mother told on herself. She was always embarrassed to be wearing clothes her father made rather than store-bought dresses, skirts and blouses. She was short but long-waisted and could hardly wait to be fashionable when she was away from home. She rushed with her spending money to buy off the rack and was flabbergasted. Nothing fit. She had lived her life in tailored clothes!

Even so, like many of the WWII generation, raised by those who navigated the Depression for their families, my mother carried that mindset. She taught us as she had been thought — respect objects, whether they be food, clothes or pennies.

So in Plainfield, Evelyn had me tearing up with her. Her tales of how a few pennies might mean subsistence or the rarest of the rare, a treat, brought me beyond my frugality. In our nation of plenty, even in these hard times, we toss much, thinking nothing of what it means to those who have nothing or what it might have meant to other Americans.

You’ll never catch me skipping pennies. That’s a lesson that went from Evelyn to me to my three sons and now to you.

The First (really about 27th) Lowell, The Angels…

July 26th, 2015

This must be musical adultery. I only spent four hours at the Lowell Folk Festival this year, before heading to a  Spinners game. I have never combined those and usually am there for one or two full days. I think we have hit 27 of te 29 of the festival.

To mitigate my callousness, I did drag three friends who had never attended any LFF. I bet they’ll be back. That sort of makes up for my uxorial unit being out of state playing grandmother to our two littlest ones.

We did manage to catch four groups in a range. If you have never been, do go and before, check the site above and see how many, how varied and how impressive the lineup is. I write and say it often, this is without any doubt the best free (yes, free) musical festival in the country. If you have the slightest honor, you’ll chip in money when bucket bearers come around swapping sleazy Mardi Gras beads for donations.  Lowell is easy to get to from much of New England. The difficulty in the festival is choosing which of five or six simultaneous performances to catch. Sometimes you have to play honeybee and flit from one stage to another.

Here follow a few sample snaps. There’s a link at the bottom to a Flickr album of 33, four groups and a gigolo-ish Park Ranger keeping the customers happy by dancing with them.

 

Like any music fan, I can carp. I’ve listened to a lot of Zydeco and Cajun going way back. Leroy Thomas & the Zydeco Roadrunners put too much rock-and-roll to suit me, but they are damned good. Leroy is a statue until he makes love to his squeeze box. leroy2
leroy4 One of the Zydeco  Roadrunners scant instrument is, depending on where you grew up, a washboard, washboard vest, rubboard or scrubboard. It works and he works it.
We have heard the Fairfield Four several times, previously when all were oldsters. Only one is a senior in latest incarnation, but it’s gospel at its best. fairfield7
harrisbros3 The Nashville-based Harris Brothers, Reggie and Ryan are more power than grief in their Appalachian blues.
I can’t find the name of the John Berberian Ensemble drummer. He truly got into the performance. berberian1
berberian8 The man himself, John Berberian, is an oud master.
Armenians and others couldn’t sit still when the Berberian Ensemble was on. berberian5
lffdance




One National Park Service ranger had a great, sweaty time spinning one audience member after another.

More pix: These and additional shots are on Flickr.

Pix note: Published under Creative Commons . You are welcome to use them. Just credit Michael Ball once.

JP Porchfest smokes in sweltering summer

July 11th, 2015

Something like 130 bands or musicians played in over 70 porches or just on the sidewalks in Jamaica Plain today in the second JP Porchfest today.

Yes, at 90-something it was too hot. Southerners certainly would have used their porches to sit or headed for air conditioned bars. Yes, there were so so-so/humdrum bands. In the main though, it was very impressive.

 

Again, my choice for best JP band was Grass Gypsys. Here lead vocalist Colleen Kleya belts it. she and hubby Justin perform with various pickup band members. Online on their sites and YouTube, they seem New Age and do make money playing for large yoga gatherings. At #JPorchfest, they offer powerful original rocking songs. grass5
grass4 Justin Kleya looks dull and gungy…until he plays and sings. He and his wife are well matched.
Several pols were extras in this year’s Porchfest. City Councilor Ayanna Pressley did passable renditions of Over the Rainbow and here Dancing in the Streets.I missed Councilor Matt O’Malley, but Stephen Smith got his OK version of Springsteen. State Reps Jeffrey Sanchez crooned to Pressley and Liz Malia spoke to marriage equality and read Jabberwocky. ayanadancing
titoshuffle Another local political delight was Councilor Tito Jackson teaching the crowd the cherub shuffle.
Anjimile‘s four piece rocked the Brewery. anjimile1
jphonk4 With slightly outrageous instumens and clothes, the JP Honk Band was a repeat crowd pleaser.
Another local fav, Sugarcoma, featured vocalist Paula Vivier. sugarcoma1

After trying to see too many bands last year, I planned my drop-bys and did much better. I ended up lingering at Grass Gypsys. …time well enjoyed…

More pix: These and additional shots are on Flickr.

 

Last Flap of Confederacy

July 6th, 2015

To me in elementary and junior high schools, it was my beloved library. To Civil War buffs, it is the site of the last capital of the Confederacy. To Danville, Virginia’s simultaneous pride and shame, the CSA headquarters for its final 13 days was in the mansion of William T. Sutherlin.Danvillelibrary

(Oddment: Sutherlin was not a real military officer, despite a rank of major in the Confederate army. He was too sickly to fight, but he was a wealthy and influential resident given that rank as nominal quartermaster of the city for the war.)

How do you suppose the locals are taking the CSA/Confederate battle flag controversies? As you might expect, as shown in this piece in the city paper, the Register and Bee, here.

Be sure to read the snarling leave-it-like-it-always-has-been comments from readers. The more measured gist of the article is that city officials checked with state ones to find that Danville has no authority to remove the flag without a change to state law.

The mansion was a gift to the city, became its library, and when a new library went up, the building became a Civil War museum owned by the city and run by a non-profit. With all the changes came a new flag pole that the city designated as a memorial to Civil War veterans. Per this commonwealth law, officials can’t remove veterans’ memorials.  ThinkProgress covers the whole mess well here.

Stars and Bars worshipers say if the law doesn’t change, the flag stays up. Others are not convinced and hold that the base and pole may be the monument, but the flag itself is run up and maintained by a private group and is not covered.

Blah, blah. They’ll resolve this, but it certainly is more difficult than it should be.

 

Mysteries of gym locker doors

July 1st, 2015
open gym locker

open gym locker

Two flavors of locker jerks:

  1. Door slammers
  2. Don’t close the door types

At my local Y, about one in three men are one of those two.  At another Boston Y we used to go to, there is a third variety. There, they hand out one small towel per visit. About half the men toss their wet towel near but not in the hamper by the exit door, on the floor, or on a bench.

From my Southern background, I have to wonder who their people are. That is, how were these guys raised that such inconsideration is automatic?

Ridge runner philosophy

I often refer to drugstore psychology. It could ask easily be called lunch counter or barstool instead of drugstore.

For me though, as a youth, I philosophized often in the Romney Rexall drugstore in the small West Virginia town where I spent summers and holidays. Other local sages of various ages did too.

The drug store had a big magazine rack with window seating, a stand-up area near the coffee equipment, and maybe six round glass top tables with cafe chairs between the front and the pharmacy area. The tables each had a locking door under the top, which let employees put impulse-purchase goods, like eyeshadow or hair brushes, on display. It seemed to be good promotion, as girls would have their lime rickeys and buy cosmetics on the way out.

For my friends and me though, the magazine rack was it. We could clearly see and sneak peeks at comics and more sensational fare, like True Detective magazine.

Each group of philosophers solved various problems and mysteries in their own corners.

Locker logic

On occasion, I have said something to the locker slammers, like “Wow, that’s really loud.” I don’t expect that will change their behavior any more than their seeing me quietly close my locker will.

I do often wonder though if they are aware of what they are doing and whether there’s anything other than emotion behind their slamming lockers or leaving them open. For slammers, they are going to trouble to make a display and make noise. They are aware they are startling and annoying others…and don’t seem to care. Those who leave the doors open may be smart enough to know they are leaving sharp edges that can hurt the unalert. At the least, they have to know that someone more considerate and polite will have to close the doors they leave open.

My drugstore psychology has it for each:

Slammers — Simple male insecurity here. My wife verifies that she has never seen or heard a woman slam a locker door. On the men’s side, men often make big movements and loud displays as though they consider those manly. They’ll grunt and bellow when lifting even light weights. Some will make huge noises when tying shoes, like they were delivering a child. Some plop down on benches or chairs with loud exhalation, regardless of how it affects others nearby. They need attention and feign strain from the most ordinary activities. I figure they came from fathers and brothers who also had to prove their manliness with silly displays. Poor them, locked in a cycle of melodrama.

Open Door Types — I peg these as momma’s boys. Their mommies closed their doors and drawers for them. Their mommies picked up their socks and underpants and towels. Likely their wives do that now, as they’d marry someone very much like mommy. They leave the doors open because growing up they found that nothing was too good for mommy’s best boy. He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want. It’s only right that someone else should clean up after them. They are special. Yawn.

There’s still a drugstore on Main Street in Romney, but it’s a Rite Aid and in a different place. The Rexall is gone. Philosophizing likely takes place in the cafes and little restaurants. Folk wisdom abides.

Pic note: Published under Creative Commons with attribution to middleagedmormon.com. I also enhanced the contrast and cropped the original.