So yeah, it’s late May. What better time to drop a Christmas song? Here’s a quick link to a cover of one of my favorite Christmas songs “Leaving Heaven” by Matthew West. Season’s Greetings!!
Restaurant Review: Mai Lee – St. Louis, Missouri
On a recent trip to St. Louis, I had the opportunity to try out Mai Lee, an Asian fusion restaurant in the Brentwood area that serves up a fresh mix of Vietnamese, Thai, and Chinese food. I went on a late Sunday evening and the place was packed, a testament to it’s popularity among locals. (According to reports Mai Lee single-handedly introduced St. Louis to Vietnamese cuisine) They have a nice patio area, which I was tempted to take advantage of, given the temperate weather, but the view really wasn’t much to get excited about as it overlooks a rather nondescript driveway behind an adjacent shopping center (just a notch above alleyway). The main dining room was very busy, so I opted for bar, where a lone corner spot was open, giving me a decent view of the televisions showing the evening’s football game. The atmosphere was a bit livelier, but not too loud or overbearing. Overall, whether you opt for the patio, the dining room or the bar, Mai Lee seems like a nicely-appointed, clean restaurant with good ambiance for any occasion.
The menu itself is rather extensive and can be a bit overwhelming, but each item does have a succinct description so you know what you’re getting. The “order by numbers” system is appreciated by those not wanting to butcher the pronunciation of various dishes.
I opted to sample a variety of dishes. I had heard/read so much about the Shrimp/Pork Spring Rolls (“Best Spring Rolls in St. Louis”?) so I had to try them. The order includes two spring rolls with a wonderful peanut sauce. The spring rolls themselves are a bit smaller than normal, but that might just be because they try to wrap them short with a piece of cilantro stem sticking out. Cute, but unfortunately, that stem can be pretty tough to try to chew through. The rolls themselves were fresh and tasted fine, but nothing extraordinary. In my opinion, the flavor of an ideal spring roll should be highlighted by the proteins – the shrimp and pork – with the fresh, bright contrast of greens, typically mint, basil, and coriander leaves, balanced by the texture of the rice noodles. I had a hard time discerning either of the proteins. The rice noodles were fine, but the greens were decidedly disappointing – coriander and lettuce. Not the best, but still, with the peanut sauce, they were fine.
I also had a serving of the egg rolls. Two deep-fried eggrolls served with greens (lettuce, coriander and cucumber that you could wrap the eggrolls in) and a sweet fish sauce. I don’t typically wrap my eggrolls in lettuce, but I suppose it’s nice to be given that option. The eggrolls were crispy and the sauce worked well, but again – nothing extraordinary.
As a main course, I had the Hoanh Tranh Mi, a soup with egg noodles, sliced pork, and shrimp wontons. The flavor of the broth was light and a bit on the salty side, but quite good. It was served with a mix of greens, bean sprouts, jalapenos and lime. The mix of dumplings and pork with the noodles provided a hearty meal and overall I was quite satisfied. If I had any complaint, it would be with greens. Again, I am used to a varied mix of basil, coriander, and mint. Here – coriander and lettuce. Lettuce. Oh – here’s a hint if you opt to tear up the jalapenos to add them to your soup: Don’t touch your face or eyes afterwards. You’ll find yourself in the bathroom splashing cold water on your face to try to quell the burn. Yeah, like I did.
For desert, I treated myself to the mango and sticky rice, a Thai favorite that I always order if I see it on the menu. I’ve had it served a number of different ways, and unfortunately the way they serve it at Mai Lee has to be my least favorite way. They serve half a sliced mango atop a very tough slab of sticky rice with a sweet cream. The rice slab was hard to eat and the mango was disappointingly bland. I suppose it was my fault for ordering something that really isn’t in season.
Overall, I was pretty satisfied with my meal at Mai Lee. For all the food I ordered, the price was very reasonable – I expected to pay much more. As far as Asian fusion restaurants go, it was actually very good and I was likely disappointed only because of the very high expectations that I had. If I find myself back in the Brentwood area, I will be probably come back.
Just not for the sticky rice.
Rock Star
For many of us, childhood dreams pulled us in one of three directions: movie star, athlete, or rock star. Sure, visions of somehow morphing into an animal or superhero or even a vampire have danced in the innocent heads of the more imaginative, but for those of us who realistically (key word – realistically) answered the question of “What do you want to be when you grow up?” our responses tended to lean towards the more glamorous roles so lauded and adored by the general public. For me, my general lack of any athletic skill kept at bay any fantasies of hitting that walk off home run in the bottom of the ninth, of catching that last second touchdown, or of sinking that three-pointer at the buzzer – after all, we can’t all be Robert Horry or Tim Harrington. A fear of performing in front of people ruled out acting, but curiously that same fear seem to fade if music was involved. Yes, my dream was to be a rock star.
I would envision myself on stage in front of throngs of people with a guitar strapped on, belting out Oingo Boingo, Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet covers. Yes, oh yes – these were glorious dreams. Of course, with age and maturity and the realization that one must actually make money in order to survive, the dream of rock stardom was set aside for more practical pursuits – that and the fact that I possessed little musical skill or training. Anyway, for me the dream of being a rock star was not fueled by desires of celebrity, fame, or even riches. It was fueled by the inexplicable joy of musical performance, not necessarily for others, not for acceptance or praise, but just in general. And so I am blessed to feel this joy even if I’m not on stage at the county fair singing “Hungry Like The Wolf”. I am blessed whenever I get to play in front of the congregation on Sunday mornings, when I play on a street in Denver, or when I get to hang out with friends at the karaoke bar. At times like these, I feel like a rock star.
In my travels across the country, there I two things I try to seek out – local food and local music – flavors and sounds that may differentiate a city from another and mark the trip in some memorable way. On a recent to trip to Southern California, I stumbled into a coffee shop by the beach and got to catch the tail end of an acoustic set performed by a local singer/songwriter named Taylor Crawford. Perched atop a stool with her Ibanez guitar, Taylor sang a mix of covers and original songs to a crowd that numbered only more than a handful, at the time. I was struck by her soulful, expressive voice (Jewel and Cassadee Pope came to mind) and was especially soothed by her playful rendition of the Beatles “All My Loving.” More importantly, one could not deny the genuine joy that she exuded as she performed. As she sat there on her stool, in front of a meager crowd at a beachside coffee shop, I had to admit – She is a rock star, a rock star following her dream.
I had the opportunity to talk to her briefly after her set and picked up her debut CD entitled California, the result of a Kickstarter campaign. It has a nice mix of songs, but the real gems are Tracks 2 “White Roses” and Track 3 “This is Love” – two songs of contrasting musical style that showcase her vocal flexibility and songwriting skills. Pick it up. Check her out. And Support Local Music!
Home
I don’t know his name. I don’t know his story. In fact, for all I know, he could be a “she.” But as the crowd of sixty or so of us stood motionless and silent at Gate B18 gazing down through the windows as his flag-draped casket was being carried across the tarmac, none of that mattered.
Just an hour earlier I was sitting at a corner table at the North Hanger, one of three eateries/bars at the center of Concourse B at Omaha’s Epplely Airfield (“The Largest Airfield in the State of Nebraska.” Really? Impressive.) There I sulked, exhausted and frustrated at the boisterous crowd around me, at the growing queue of unanswered emails on my phone, at my late expense report still not complete, and at the fact that my flight home was delayed thirty minutes. (A delayed Southwest flight? Wow, that never happens.) As a business traveler, I have the opportunity work in different parts of the country on a fairly regular basis. I know I shouldn’t complain, having just returned from trips to Maui, Minneapolis, and Honolulu. But now I was stuck in Nebraska, and after three long (though productive) days of meetings and presentations, all I wanted to do was go home.
Home.
I stood up, pulled my backpack on and trudged towards the numbered metal pedestals that lined up Southwest passengers waiting to board. An announcement was made that our flight would be further delayed. Great. I looked down at the plane to see what the hold up was.
And that’s when I saw it – a black hearse, escorted by an Omaha police car easing towards the side of our plane. Officers in military dress came out of the hearse and stood at attention. My heart sank. The crowd around me slowly grew as we watched the scene below unfold. No words were exchanged. Just the somber, silent acknowledgment of what had happened and what was about to happen. We watched as eight officers marched towards the plane. We watched at the casket, an American flag on top – it’s edges swaying slowly in the gentle summer breeze – emerge from the plane. Everything was in slow motion. We watched the family come forward. The mother, the father and two brothers, with a crowd of friends and family held in the background. The mother faltered as they gathered around the casket. The younger son lurched forward, hardly able to support himself as he grasped for the edge of the flag, his older brother righting him as they shared an embrace. We watched as the father stood tall, sunglasses concealing his grief.
After the casket was lifted into the hearse the family turned to return to the terminal, escorted by the officers. As they approached, I could see the anguish on the mother’s face as she abandoned any attempt to hold back tears. She was surrounded by friends and family, but not by the one person she longed for most at this very moment. No. All she would have now would be memories. Memories of yesterdays.
Even after the procession had passed by us, the crowd remain silent. It was only then that I turned away from the principal characters and looked at the people around me. There were tears in everyone’s eyes. It was then that I noticed that there were also tears in my eyes. I wiped them away and dropped my backpack to the ground.
I thought of this soldier. I thought of his family. And I thought of all of the brave young men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice in the service of our great country. There are some who will use this as fodder in a political debate. But these fallen heroes shouldn’t be thought of in terms of casualty statistics. They were sons and daughters. Brother and sisters. Mothers and fathers. With dreams and passions and loves. And now, serving to defend our way of life, they are gone.
I thought again of Frankie.
Frankie was my sister-in-law’s nephew. My last and only real memory of him as a seven year old kid was from our wedding over twenty years ago, when he delighted our guests with energy and exuberance as he moved and shook on the reception dance floor. There was so much joy in his heart.
On May 4th, 2013, he and four other members of his battalion were killed in Afghanistan when a bomb exploded close to their transport vehicle. He left behind a young wife and daughter. His uncle, my brother-in-law, was quoted in the paper saying that they will always have their memories and that they would hold them close. Memories. Memories of yesterdays.
The crowd dispersed and announcements were made for us get back into our line, in position. We boarded the plane in silence.
Now I did not know this person. I did not know his or her family. I do not know the exact circumstances that brought him or her here today. But in situations like this, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because moments like these serve as a timely reminder of the fact that even though we may often feel overwhelmed and consumed with our own mundane day-to-day problems, like overflowing inboxes and barking dogs, at the end of the day the only thing that really matters – the only thing that really matters are the connections that we have with the people and the God that we love.
I don’t pretend to believe that this is some sort of ground-breaking revelation. We all know this. It’s cliche. It’s the resolution of hundreds of sappy dramas. But sometimes, sometimes we just need a reminder to slap us in the face.
So as I write this, I am finally heading home to my family and dogs. Heading home on the same plane that brought this fallen soldier home for the last time. Yes, the plane is crowded. Yes, the flight is late. The people in front of me are loud and the turbulence is keeping me from being able to use the rest room. But none of that matters.
None of that matters.
Design Build
So my current project has stagnated over the past few months, my initial enthusiasm waning, giving way to almost total indifference. This was to be expected perhaps, as it was likely doomed from the beginning. In an attempt to create an epic novel, I filled pages upon pages with an plethora of characters whose story lines seemed to clumsily trip over each other.
Titled Design Build, it is the story of the design and construction of a prison building. It has engineers, architects, contractors, sales reps, building owners, and even some politicians. Enticing read, right? It is actually a reboot of a novel I wrote for a girl during my senior year in high school (Imprisoned). I guess I should have known better. Anyway, the first 60,000 words were spawned as part of my 2013 NaNoWriMo effort. I reached my word count goal, but the novel is far from complete.
I am working through some plot issues and will have to come to grips with the fact that having 30+ developed characters is beyond ridiculous. If I can get through these issues, I may try to work towards a conclusion. Until then, here is a rough draft of the opening scene:
Henry pressed his right index finger over the scanner and watched as the LED above the knob flashed from red to green. The motorized latch turned and the lock released, allowing him to push the door of his apartment open. The foyer lighting flickered on, then slowly glowed to a soft white, revealing the pile of trash that he had forgotten to take out that morning. A box full of empty bottles also needed to be brought down to the recycling station. He stood in the entry and sighed, pausing for a moment, remembering a different time so long ago. Grasping the pink rubber bracelet on his right wrist, he shook his head at the mess before him.
Damn it, it was so much easier when Libby was around.
Now alone, he struggled to keep what was once their home in any semblance of order. She, with her strong spirit and calm demeanor, was always the one who seemed to keep things from falling apart. She handled the bills and kept everything where it belonged. She did his laundry and made him breakfast in the morning. And when he came home, after a long day at Stargate, it was she who, no matter how bad the day had been, would make things seem ok. Three years later and it was a surprise that he wasn’t dead as well.
He pulled a ration box out of the cupboard, tore off the top and placed the pale, grainy bar in a white ceramic bowl. He set the bowl in the microwave, shut the door, and pressed the start button. Eight seconds later, the reconstituted ONN HomeMaid Salisbury Steak with Country Gravy, Creamed Corn and Cherries Jubilee was ready for consumption. Delicious.
After dinner, Henry walked out onto his eleventh-story deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean, cupping a lowball glass filled three fingers high with Stranahan’s. It was a temperate night. The steady, gentle breeze was refreshing; the faint rhythm of the ocean’s ebb and flow, calming. Standing in front of the railing, he watched the shimmer of the moonlight against the ripples on the water and took a sip of his whiskey, savoring the hints of vanilla and red berry.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“My name is Sarah Williams,” she said.
Henry’s glass slipped from his hand, crashing onto the hard, Saltillo tile. Shards of crystal scattered. She was standing on the right side of the balcony, next to the door and behind the withered Japanese maple that Libby had once cared for so many years ago.
“Sarah?” he asked, turning towards her. She was dressed in a light windbreaker, black leggings and weathered brown leather boots that climbed up to her knees. “Sarah…What are you doing here?” His voice trembled.
“My name is Sarah Williams,” she repeated, her eyes glazed. “My parents, Steven and Elizabeth, are both dead. They died in a car accident three days before my eleventh birthday…”
“…Sarah…” he said, walking towards her.
“…I have a brother, David. I went to Mater Dei High School. I was in the marching band…”
“Sarah, what are you doing?” he asked. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to…”
“…My name is Sarah Williams. My parents, Steven and Elizabeth, were killed three days before my eleventh birthday. I have a brother, David. I went to Mater Dei High School. I was in the marching band. Blake Searcy was the first boy who ever kissed me…”
“Sarah stop!” Henry commanded. He put his hands on her shoulders to calm her, to quiet her. There was a vacancy in her gaze. She was different. She didn’t appear scared or even nervous, as she did during her previous unexpected visits. She was calm, sedate.
It was worse than he had expected.
“My name is Sarah…”
“Sarah, do you know where you are?” Henry asked, holding her wrists at her side.
She looked at him and took a deep breath.
“Of course I know where I am, Dr. Francis,” she replied. “I’m on your balcony.” That was a good sign.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to see you,” she said. “I came to see you because I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to remember. I’m trying to remember it all.”
Henry guided her to the set of chairs on the north side of the balcony, where he and Libby used to take their hibiscus tea and blueberry scones on Saturday afternoons in the fall.
“Sarah,” he said. “You do remember. Don’t you see? You remember everything…”
“…almost everything Dr. Francis.”
“I don’t understand,” he replied. “What are you talking about? All of the tests showed…”
“All of the tests showed that I remember who I am. I am Sarah Williams. I remember that my parents were killed in a car accident on Saturday, November 5th on their way home from dinner. It was raining that night. I remember that my brother David had to raise me on his own. I remember marching in the band. I remember every step, every turn, every about-face, every note of music for four years of high school. I remember the sweet smell of strawberry bubblegum on Blake Searcy’s breath the night he kissed me after the homecoming football game, when we beat Servite 45-44 on a last second 39-yard field goal into the wind. I remember it all.”
“That’s right Sarah,” Henry replied. “You do remember…”
“But I don’t remember how I felt,” she said.
“Sarah…”
“My mind is filled with memories, snapshots, images, reels of my past. I remember all of it. Every last detail. And yet…I don’t remember any emotional link to any of these events. I can’t remember the pain. I can’t remember the joy. I don’t even know what those things are anymore.”
“Sarah,” Henry said. “You’ve been through a lot. I know that you’re scared right now…”
“I’m not scared…”
“I know you’re confused right now. But things will get better,” he said. “Things will get better.”
Sarah shook her head and stood up, walking to the railing.
“Even you don’t believe that. Do you Dr. Francis?” she asked, her back to him.
He stood up and sighed.
“Of course I do,” he replied, half-heartedly.
“I don’t feel anything anymore,” she replied. “I haven’t for months now.”
“Sarah, we are working on your treatment…”
“I just want to feel again,” she said. “I want to feel alive.” She climbed up onto the railing and leaned towards the ocean.
“Sarah, be careful!” Henry cried.
“I want to feel…fear,” she said.
“Sarah, please get down!”
She stood on the top of the railing, balancing effortlessly on the cold, metal rim.
“Or what?” she asked, trying to force a smile.
“You need to be careful…or…you’ll kill yourself!” he replied.
Her face went blank again.
“Kill myself, Dr. Francis?” she asked. “I’m already dead.”
With that, she opened her arms and stepped off the railing.
“No!” Henry screamed. He jumped towards her and grabbed onto her wrists as the rest of her body fell, dangling eleven stories above the Pacific Ocean. “I’ve got you, Sarah. Don’t let go! Don’t be scared!”
But she wasn’t scared. Her empty gaze was locked onto his eyes. He struggled to keep her up. With all that he had, he pulled her upwards, trying to get her back across the railing. But her weight was more than his frail body could handle.
“Don’t let go!” he cried. His heart raced. He saw her eyes snap to focus and her hands grasped for his wrists. He pulled up again. “Don’t let go!” Her hands were wrapped around his forearms. But the strain was too much. Henry looked down at her and felt his pink rubber bracelet slowly roll off his wrist.
“Goodbye Dr. Francis,” Sarah said. “Goodbye.”
“No!” he cried.
“My name is Sarah Williams.”
And then she was gone.
Here We Go Again…
So for reasons that are far too mundane to explain, my previous blog Shoedog: Lost in the Realm of the Ball is no longer active. Well, that’s not entirely correct. It’s still there. It’s still accessible. You can get to it right now if you really wanted to. But because of my neglect on not one, but two accounts, I have lost the ability to edit the content. I can’t even have the page removed. So it will remain forever stagnant, forever static, frozen and orphaned in the ever-changing, ever-evolving landscape of the living internet.
Now that’s not a bad thing. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that since I hadn’t posted anything in on it for nearly three years, I really didn’t care.
I didn’t.
But it still sort of bothers me that I can no longer touch the site that I once breathed life into. Oh well, time for a new beginning.
I’ve decided to reorganize things a bit and will once again commit to posting on a more regular basis. I have dropped the Shoe Dog theme, recognizing that my dream of one day returning to the ranks of shoe salesmen will likely never come to fruition. Nor will I ever take the time to fully explain the phenomena of the Realm of the Ball. That is all in the past. I’ve also dropped the moniker of Mr. Peanutbutter Monkeyboy. Let’s just leave it at that.
It’s time for a new beginning. It’s time for…
random musings.
RANDOM MUSINGS 