Top 10 Rum Bacon Bits

In this the meat of a three-part crumpwich series documenting the Cajun Migration, The Crumpets pilgrimage to the Queen’s landholdings to trace the embarkation of the Acadians in Nova Scotia.


Rum Bacon Bit #1: Canadian bacon, marked by its signature ham-like, juicy, lean, departures from regular bacon, does not compare to the product that emerges from ravenous swimmers, a propane stove, and a bottle of Cuban rum under a looming U.S. embargo on Cuban goods. With 14 hours before a border-crossing, the Cuban rum must be consumed, and what better way to do so than use it for culinary purposes in a provincial campground under liquor ban. Voila! The inflammatory taste of rum bacon—the new Canadian bacon standard.

Rum Bacon Bit #2: For the adventure-seeking enthusiasts, soaking up a host of “Highway 1s” on craggy coastlines on quests for sea-faring villages of ballad-worthy renown [read: Sherbrooke] is quite the wall-of-fog driving experience. Most rewarding is when the fog breaks to reveal groups of village children waving and chasing one’s vehicle amid joyous whooping and yawping—presumably at the sight of another human being.

Rum Bacon Bit #3: The bustling metropolis of Halifax seems to be the only urban center of significance in Nova Scotia, and despite the apparent lapse of rigid enforcement from what may be assumed of the British-esque guards who man the city’s central fort whilst iPhoning on duty, purchasing alcohol at Halifax establishments surprisingly requires two forms of government-issued identification including but not limited to: passport, driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate.


Rum Bacon Bit #4: Fast food chains in Canada, simply put, have odd variants. To order a burger from the A&W one must choose from a “burger family”: the papa burger, mama burger, and the special—“grandma burger.” McDonald’s also has its oddities in the double Big Mac and what must be a regional favorite—the McLobster.

Rum Bacon #5: Canada is quite fond of calling its educational/museum/historical sites “interpretive centers.” Example: Fort Bickerton Lighthouse Interpretive Centre. It could mean full sensory experience of place. Or it could refer to the confusion of visiting the Acadian National Historic Site, where the natural greeting is “Bonjour” and if one member of the party proceeds to converse in French, it is assumed the rest will do so as well. Interpretive.

Rum Bacon #6: Agriculture (along with fishing) in Nova Scotia appears to be the economic mainstay. Though the fields of fallow land during what seems to be a short-window optimum growing season would negate this observation, the stretches of wide open land—fallow or not—are quite astonishing. Alternatively, lawn care could be a close second for occupation choice. Any day, all day, somewhere lawn-mowers hum.


Rum Bacon Bit #7: Unlike many American state signs, Nova Scotia has its signage down to a gargantuan science for optimal tourist cam photography. Not only does every province seem to have larger than life decorative, engraved lighthouse carvings, but every exit has its own picture-book landscape road sign of what culture awaits in just half a kilometer.

Rum Bacon Bit #8: Do not try to be local and cultural and experimental by ordering a Canadian. Beer, that is. It may sound exotic: “I’ll have a pint of Canadian.” But ye b warned, if Bud-Light is lowest on the shelf, Canadian is rolling around underneath the rack. A much finer alternative is Rickard’s, which comes in Red, White, and Dark varieties.

Rum Bacon Bit #9: The temperature of the North Atlantic around Nova Scotia is between approximately 25-35 degrees during winter, and 50-60 in summer. Given that summer does not really begin until late June (if the abandoned tourist towns are any indication), one really appreciates Suburban seat warmers after a dip in the ocean and subsequent frantic dash to the heat-cranked vehicle on a dreary/foggy/windy/wallofogged day.

Rum Bacon Bit #10: Thankfully the U.S.-Canadian border patrol agents at Calais do not find it necessary to detain four whippersnappers bedecked in American flags waving Acadian ones bellowing “Viva L’Acadie!” and “Rule Britannia” in a Suburban full of wet tents, wet towels, wet clothes, unwashed camping utensils, half-eaten pots of jambalaya, and a backseat stuffed with sleeping bags and potentially-embedded Cuban cigars. The border patrol agents are much more interested in posing existential questions to the motley crew of Louisianans, Cajuns, quasi-Cajuns, Las Vegans, Knoxvillians, Americans with questionable allegiances, finance students-turned-lit, lit-students-turned-grad-students: “What ARE you?” and “Driving from Louisiana. To Canada. Camping. In four days of rain. And no one’s killed anyone yet?”

Such is “leave no trace” camping.

[Bonus Bacon (because it’s Canada): Nova Scotia, Canada’s playground of the Maritimes or some such thing, is actually on a different time zone in parts. It is in fact possible to drive around the island for days unawares of the time change and what time it actually is, but only because Canada’s signature aviary--the loon--signals when dawn has arrived. The loon, not to be confused with Canada’s monetary increment the looney, heralds the dawn with punctuated squawking yawp screams sounding like a bird with short term memory loss surprised every five minutes to discover that, “WHAAHH!,” it is indeed a bird.]

Most Wanted List: Sunrises from easternmost continental points (thanks, wall o’ fog)

Crump It Up List:

(Editor’s note: This list is by no stretch of the imagination exhaustive. With more than 72 hours of driving time and expert DJs and Library-of-Congress-size iTunes, what gets listed here is simply one perspective of “memorable.”)
“Go Do”—Jonsi, “Barrett’s Privateers”—Stan Rogers, “June Hymn”—The Decemberists, “Rule Britannia,” “Thundercats”—Reliant K, “Woods”—Bon Iver, “Galway Girl”—Steve Earle, “Paper Planes”—M.I.A., “Ignition”—R. Kelly, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”—Paul Dukas, “All of the Lights”—Kanye, “Albuquerque”—Weird Al, “Into the West”—Annie Lennox, “Scott Dowdin’” (to “Free Fallin’”)—T-Matt & G-Matt

Acknowledgments: Gratitude for The Cajun Migration exploration leg of the great roadtrip is owed to Pat—the empty nester Mountie dad who offered us lanterns, propane, light, hot tea, and showers from his campsite across the way, to the camp manager at Nimrod’s Campground (Ms. Nimrod?) who changed out of her pjs and opened her trailer to us for a campsite in the dead of night in desolate Sherbrooke, to the Halifax security officer who cared enough to ponder where we could find Guinness stew and in so doing offered the history of Halifax and gave suggestions for stellar interpretive centres, to the Border Patrol officers who, despite their best judgment, allowed us safe and unencumbered passage to and fro our various homelands, to Megan the cranky pub server who did in fact manage to bring three of the same orders to the table despite an initial bleak outlook, to the bullet-proof-vested liquor police who did not search our campsite, to the Book of Nova Scotian folklore for providing many a head-scratching riddle, to T-Matt for educating us all in the ways of the Acadians, to G-Matt for saving Bertha from being stuck-in-the-gravel/mud, to Mario for expertly handling the inquisition at the border patrol both times, to the Great Lob, god of the sea to whom sacrifice was paid but from whom our lives were spared, and finally to Longfellow—who made the quest for Evangeline so poetic.



Prequel (New England adventures) and Sequel (the majesty that is Buffalo) to follow soon.

Peace out Brussels sprouts, yo.

Top 10 Moonkey Calls

Prequel to the adventures of Canadian rum bacon, The Crumpets go vocal with monkey calls documenting the road-weary journey up the Eastern Seaboard to Canada.

Moonkey Call #1: The moonkey—a cross between a donkey and a moose—was invented over the delirious course of several 10+ hour driving days eventually resulting in the call of the moonkey, characterized by bellowing braying: Mooooon-key, moooon-key (to the inflection of the traditional donkey bray “heee hawww”).

Moonkey Call #2: The first natural stop for any good roadtrip is Lynchburg, Tennessee for a tour of Jack Daniels. While the distillery is in a dry county without enough voters to reverse the liquor ban, thankfully Jack’s newest product line Tennessee Honey Whiskey can in fact be purchased (and was purchased) in Knoxville.

Moonkey Call #3: New England is a smorgasbord for the discerning munchkin connoisseur as Dunkin’ Donuts are in ample supply. Though one begins to realize that perhaps it is not donuts that are necessarily more popular but coffee.

Moonkey Call #4: Along with an increase in Dunkin’ Donuts, vanity plates suddenly multiply in droves once one hits Maryland and D.C. They certainlyl do make sitting in morning traffic more entertaining.

Moonkey Call #5: There is little else in the world so detestable as driving through New Jersey—Newark/Hoboken—on a Monday morning. Not only does New Jersey seem rather fake at times with its “planted” agricultural fields to make itself appear to have green spaces near its urban megalopoli, but its horrendous signage for tunnelage near New York is a heinous travesty. Road signs looking like coiled snakes with poking arrows misaligning every which way cost poor Bertha a good hour of disorientation, though to the crew’s credit, most toll roads/bridges/tunnels were avoided.

Moonkey Call #6: Free from the trappings of smog and confusion that is infernal New Jersey, pristinely coiffed Connecticut is a refreshing Paradiso—or at least Purgatory. For the weary and hungry travelers, the small (deserted) town of Wallingford seems a likely choice for a rejuvenating lunch stop. Though the centerpiece of the town is a decrepit cemetery surrounded by abandoned businesses and empty streets save for a young mother and a stroller who darted away down an alley upon our approach, the Wallingford Pizza House is a beacon of repute by comparison. That is of course until the employees asked if cheese was needed. For a cheese pizza.

Moonkey Call #7: Apparently the wrath of New Jersey is vast as it can detect when a group of dissenters burn the hallowed New Jersey map for marshmallow-roasting fuel even all the way in New Hampshire. Jersey exacts her revenge by sending a raging storm with low lightning and thunder that shakes the ribcage to torment all dwellers of the open field.

Moonkey Call #8: Driving Maine’s interstates is a generally barren experience. Driving Maine’s coastal highways at dusk into nightfall is a generally foggy experience made more exciting by playing games with the rain spritz on the windshield. How long can you take it with the mist coagulating before you succumb to the windshield wiper? Exhilarating game. Try to top 45 minutes.

Moonkey Call #9: One of the most iconic lighthouses in Maine—the Bass Head Lighthouse—is in truth rather run-of-the-mill as far as lighthouse collecting goes. However, just north of the lighthouse is a trail that winds its way along the coast eventually to a secluded beach that rolls in the smoothest of rock pebbles. It is a beach full of dinosaur egg-like wallowing rocks, perfect for rock petting whilst listening to the incomparable sound of the sea pulling and culling the clocking rocks. Bliss.

Moonkey Call #10: If one is ever entering Acadia National Park in Maine after dark, be advised navigation will be an issue. The town of Bar Harbor is situated in such a way as to be accessible from the park via loop roads that cuts in and out of the park at various points that all look strangely similar. The National Park is itself on an island, making everything quite circuitous as it is. All of this, complicated by rain, windshield wars, starvation, a long drive, nightfall, texts from parents saying we’ll never make it and should get a hotel, general delirium, and (lovely) impromptu ukulele recitals from the backseat makes winding through a desolate national park pre-tourist season in the dead of night slightly surreal. But with a generous 17 minutes to spare before campground closure, we rolled up to our first night of camping at 9:43 to pouring rain in which a tent was raised (despite the initial lack of poles), the propane stove was ignited, pasta was cooked, appetites were assuaged, and the saving remedy of the night—Tennessee Honey Whiskey—was partaken of by all.

Most Wanted List: Moonkey/Moose/Moonquixote sitings

Crump It Up List: (see Rum Bacon crumpets)

Acknowledgements: Gratitude is owed to the following generous souls who made this leg of the Cajun Migration possible: to Scott Dowd, keeper of the dynamite, rounds-maker, and difference-splitter who recommended a lovely hike to Great Head and whose memory we sustained throughout the migration’s entirety, to the Girl Scout leaders who gave us kindling for our fire and who patiently aided us in getting it lit without contacting my Girl Scout council to report Girl Scout camping ineptitudes, to the Boy Scout scoutmaster who also aided us with our fire in another location, to Megan and Tom who so magnanimously provided hospitality, showers, and beds for our Philadelphia stay despite our delirious mental states, and finally to Lucia and Tomas for the fascinating psychology of your working relationship and advocacy work.

Peace out, Moonkey scouts. (Thanks for indulging the Crumpets, once again.)

Stay tuned for the ultimate sequel with tales of the last leg of the journey—Rivendell/Buffalo.

Top 10 Macaroons

The Crumpet Collection records a saloonin’ and macaroonin’ mash-up in Nashville this week.

Macaroon #1: After a few hours of scootin’ around boots with the spurs on honkey-tonkin’ Broadway, teatime with raspberry and pistachio butter cream macaroons at Provence spécialité patisserie francais in Hillsboro Village (circa Vanderbilt) is the order du jour. Fo sho.

Macaroon #2: A testament to the skills of the West End’s go-to organic eatery Fido’s: even after watching a local episode of “Hillbilly Handfishin’” (in which office-bound adventure seekers voluntarily splash about in mud pits whilst seeking catfish lairs from which to wrestle the manatee-sized bottom-feeders), Fido’s catfish tacos still taste superb.

Macaroon #3: Very few places in the South will one find solar-powered trash compactors. Which is why the one on the sidewalk in downtown Franklin (just outside of Nashville proper) is practically a tourist attraction in its own right. Yes. The solar-powered trash compactor is replacing those corny penny-squashing souvenir machines; why chip in a penny when you can throw in a few bits of rubbish from the bottom of your purse and get a similar result?

Macaroon #4: Unrelated to Nashville, but after a the better part of a midnight hour was spent attempting to blow up a British air mattress, sans pump, it should be permanently documented that: 1. All caps should be screwed in, save the stopper on the underside. 2. Using a hairdryer with cool setting, inflate the mattress from the underside opening. 3. Cap and sleep. Voila.

(There will likely be a certain seven former Europe-trekkers who probably thought they would never forget this handy trick after a certain British-Italian night of similar consternation at mattress assemblage, but rest-assured, the trick is heretofore recounted. Sleep easy).

Macaroon #5: With the plethora of used bookstores frequently rounding most corners of Nashville, one would think a prestigious university had parked itself nearby or something. A favorable causal relationship soon becomes evident. High-profile universities à used bookstores with high profile signatures, such as, eh, Lee Smith and Bill Bryson. In the same case. Not two of my favorite writers or anything.

Macaroon #6: There are in fact legal mechanisms for conjuring Puff-the-Magic-Dragon up from the mists of childhood play. A trip to the Dragon Park, for instance. It’s quality therapy to spend one’s afternoon clamoring about the Gaudi-esque dragon mosaic with all the kids at “Fannie Mae Dees Park,” affectionately known as the Dragon Park. Forget McDonald’s Playland. After such a thoroughly enriching experience at age 22, what every McDonald’s really needs is a height-limitless Dragon Park.

Macaroon #7: With its trendy shops and swanky boutiques, posh downtown Franklin shows few signs of suffering through one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles in 1864—though the chipped hat (due to misadventured canon fire) on the little dude who is the towering monument in the centre of the square (which is most accurately a roundabout) does suggest otherwise.


We are young. For Bluegrass and Country we stand.

Just record bids and Opryland.

(But we know. . .)

Nashville’s a battlefield.

Macaroon #8: Despite the seemingly random undertaking of replicating the Greek Parthenon and housing a gargantuan Florence + the Machine lookalike rendition of Athena inside (bedecked in pure gold) the sculptor, Alan LeQuire, is coincidentally the very same sculptor of the (unassuming by Athena proportions) Women’s Suffrage Memorial in Market Square (Knoxville).

Macaroon #9: To adequately describe Nashville’s southern country roots blended with organic affluence, one must look no further than the surprising frequency with which fruit tea—a refreshing mix of fruit juice, tea, and a hint of mint—is served alongside the traditional lifeblood sweet tea. It is entirely plausible to consume more than a few gallons of fruit tea, also known as tea punch, in mere days.

Macaroon #10: For the discerning out-of-towner, particularly those acquainted in any capacity with the western half of the U.S., one of the signature draws of Nashville will inevitably be the Jack-in-the-Box fast food chain. Nashville is officially the closest franchise for fans from Atlanta to Knoxville who may be on pilgrimage for the 2 for 99-cent delicious taco deal. A ground rule for Nashville: if one sees a Jack-in-the-Box, one stops. If Jack should pop up at midnight on the way back from St. Patrick’s outings and one must order “four tacos, love” in an Irish accent through the drive-thru, so be it. The JITB code stands. Without exception.


Crump it Up List: “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy”—Big & Rich, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—Kenny Chesney, “Love Song”—Sara Bareilles, “Hiphopopotamus”—Flight of the Conchords ft. Rhymenocerus, and “E.T.”—Katy Perry ft. Kanye.

Most Wanted List: Super Pollo (an apparently infamous chicken eatery, which, we were devastated to never have found. Sadly, it is likely under new management and no longer flies the flag of. . .the Super Pollo).


Acknowledgments:

The Crumpet Collection : Nashville Edition is brought to you in part by:

Semanticz and her mad navigational, tour guiding, eatery-picking, banana-waffle-making skillz, Mr. & Mrs. Holt and their magnanimous hospitality including lavish dinners and most entertaining TV programming, Ommie for her exciting lacy thong travel stores from the 70s (and her almond brownies), the kindred spirit at the Goodlettesville Jack-in-the-Box who kindly took our photo with Jack, the quizzical Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru worker who deciphered our Irish-accented taco order, the patient wine store attendant who humored us on our Louisiana-inspired (though unsuccessful) quest for Shaide, Brandon from EyeMaster’s whose jovial over-the-counter flattery will live in infamy, “Carlton” the Demos server who delivered when it came to the soup coming with the salad, St. Patrick for a good excuse to down a Guinness, the Mercantile of Franklin for an idyllic St. Pat’s evening, and Maggie & Ringo for weenie-lickin’ snugglin’.



Thank you all for your contributions to cultural edification.



Peace out Brussels sprouts. Yo.

Top 10 Beignets

The Crumpet Collection goes carnivalesque with a visit to New Orleans for Mardi Gras; it’s no contest as to what delicacy is on par with the crumpet for communicating signature tidbits of local lore—the beignet.

Beignet #1: A hint the wait staff at historic 24/7 Café Du Monde Coffee Stand withhold upon serving one’s powdered sugar with a side of fried dough, known as the ‘beignet’—do not exhale whilst consuming.

Beignet #2: McDonald’s establishments near parade routes should offer a combo #1 meal around Mardi Gras time to include chicken nuggets, fries, and substitute toilet use for the fountain drink. Although, it’s hard to compete with daiquiri vendors offering similar combo deals near the Portas.

Beignet #3: It’s about time someone demystified the bead-earning experience and point out that there is, in fact, a perfectly classy method for beadin’ up. The secrets: game face, visibility, direct eye contact with a thrower, verbal cajoling and flattery helps, but spastically waving and jumpin’ on it generally are just as effective. However, be advised that one could be breakin’ it down to one of the marching bands doin’ the epileptic Mardi Gras innocently unawares to the passing double decker float, and such inattention may result in beads projectiled at high velocities, potentially causing cerebral damage. Another caution, old ladies can and will try to steal the beads off yo back.

Beignet #4: In Louisiana, medians—yes, between roadways—are known as “neutra-grounds.” Not to be confused with “no man’s lands,” “underground Neutria-rats,” nor “Neutri-grain rats.” A nutria-rat is, from what I ascertain, a wetland woodchuck, beaver, squirrel, amphibious mammal, groundhog substitute, though the nutria rat has no affiliation with the best parade vantage point—the neutra-ground. Despite my best efforts, no doubt I will still stand to be corrected.

Beignet #5: Levy. Is NOT a concrete interstate median blockade. Quite green, actually. Surprisingly natural and organic, if you will. Kind of like (or, unlike) advertisements for “organic window tinting.”

Beignet #6: When ordering a “muffaleta,” despite what one imagines to be a grand muffin stuffed with bruschetta, the resulting “sandwich” stuffed with pastrami, salami, and ham deftly puts imagination to shame.

Beignet #7: It may be Mardi Gras on the streetz, but the St. Louis Cathedral of New Orleans, boasting ‘oldest cathedral in the nation status’ dating back to 1793, is zero tolerance for beverages during Mass. Exposing that water bottle will get you an emphatic reverberating “NOoOOooOOOoooOOOoooO,” and you WILL be escorted out.

Beignet #8: The Two Cardinal Rules of Mardi Gras: 1) Use plastic cups. 2) Don’t talk back to the law enforcement. Though I’m not sure the latter applies so seamlessly for the hulking Ringwraith-like equine steeds the law enforcement rides upon.

Beignet #9: New Orleans. Pronounced New Orl-ens. Not leeeeans. And, heavens no, not the ghastly N’awlins.

Beignet #10: For the undiscerning and musically illiterate (I am brave enough to own this), ska music—a mixture of calypso, jazz, and R&B—goes shamefully unappreciated as dance music. Or at least, it goes unappreciated as dance music in the way it is intended to be appreciated. Reader, in your travels, if you should stumble upon a circumspect “dance” loosely known as “The Cassie” characterized by a bizarre amalgamation of window polishing, sandwich-making, tray-handling, nebulizing, and T-rexing, know that comes fresh from NOLA right out of a new dance genre known as ska-dapted.

Crump-It-Up List : “Tipitina,” “Mardi Gras”—Professor Longhair, “Annie (Don’t Wear No Panties)”—Erykah Badu, “No Hands”—Waka Flocka, “F---- You”—Cee Lo Green, “Right Above It”—Lil Wayne & Drake, to name only a few.

Most Wanted List: Rubber Ducky beads. But no sweat. The game’s afoot next time.

AckNOLAdgements:
The Crumpet Collection Krewe de Knox Edition brought to you by:
Mr. and Mrs. Smith who fueled the transport, T-Matt—master of the Taurus—who maneuvered a ballin’ 10-hour roadtrip there and back again, the monsooning rain which resulted in a historic double-feature-parade and historic Mardi Gras experience, Mr. Gassan whose gumbo culinary skillz belie comparison, Ms. V. Gassan and her spacious room, Ms. Bertha Gassan and her wheelin’ rollouts, a certain Aunt Sally who made parking expertly feasible, Mr. Gaston—driver, beat-dropper, navigator, tour guide, and cosmopolitan-maker extraordinaire, the enchanted Bird Mask and the vendor who sold it at a reasonable price, the owner of Jazz Daiquiri and Lounge who may have opened three hours ahead of schedule to accommodate our morning daiquiri run, Cassie—inspiration for many a dance routine, Ms. Chole—fearless naviGator of the 11-person hand grenade pilgrimage through swamped Bourbon Street, the masked floatsman and his bestowal of prized Fleur-de-Lis beads, and finally, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons for refreshing Co-Colas circa Kewanee, Mississippi. Thank you all for contributions to supporting cultural edification.



Peace out, Brussels sprouts.

Currently pre-heating the oven for Crumpets from the Nash. Stay steepin.'

Top 10 Yards of Flannel

The Crumpet Collection rings in its third year this 2011 with double dosage weekends to liminally-spaced Asheville, Carolina Northside.


Yard of Flannel #1: To succeed in fitting in wardrobe-wise on what is arguably universally the classiest occasion of the year most everywhere—New Year’s Eve—Asheville implicitly requires puffy vests, facial hair, cigs, dreads, and, most critically, flannel.

Flannel #2: Mecca of health foods and vegetarianism, Asheville’s dining cuisine is peculiarly tasty. . .one “wheat meat” burrito at a time. Even carnivores probably will have tastier luck at vegetarian establishments than, say, restaurants advertising the “BEST” Mexican cuisine, yet who, befuddlingly, seem to experience severe angst at fulfilling an order of queso and margaritas. Also, as a general public service announcement, if a flannelite native should ask for a “bowl,” s/he does not mean the piece of pottery one just purchased as a desk-deco paperclip holder.

Flannel #3: A rhetorically-significant tunnel—landmark for most anything immediately outside of downtown: past The Tunnel, just before The Tunnel, right after The Tunnel, 10 miles past The Tunnel—seems to separate the environmentally artsy vegan downtown core from the suburban Waffle House, Longhorn, Super 8, Wal-Mart culture. Such is life beyond and before The Tunnel.

Flannel #4: The Biltmore Super 8 (past The Tunnel), for all its wobbly toilets, towel shortages, frozen biscuits, and the occasional scent of illegal substances, actually has quite friendly customer service. Having stayed there twice in successive weekends, the clerk will kindly grant one’s request for the same room and, upon checkout recalls, “Oh yes. Ms. Hoover. I spoke to you on the phone about your room request. I’m so glad we made such a good impression on you!”
AKA: Should you need assistance in society, drop my name at the Biltmore Super 8, and you will be well-attended. (Though I highly recommend Sweet Peas Hostel, walkable in the heart of downtown—the crème-de-la-crème of hostel accommodation and reasonably-priced at $30/night/person.)


Flannel #5: Asheville’s River Arts District is a fascinating slice of warehouses-turned-art-studios with eclectic art and fortuitous conversation. One such artisan, Joey the Potter, self-proclaimed maker of “pots and empty beer cans,” helpfully recommended his friend’s Sirius.B band as New Year’s Eve entertainment. With hits such as “Monkey Robot Soldier,” it shouldn’t be a surprise we found ourselves raucously heralding the new year to a vamped version of “Auld Lang Syne,” followed by amoeba absorption in a flannel mosh pit cheering the new decade.

Flannel #6: Perhaps as is the case for most cities, Asheville is wholly ill-equipped for the barrages of taxi requests supplying the hoards of pilgrims gravitating to the city from far-reaching mountain hamlets in search of grog on New Year’s Eve. After 40-some-odd calls to taxi busy signals between 3 and 4 a.m. and much wandering of the perilously icy streets, we caught a ride with sober Anne—a kind soul whose grandparents, coincidentally, met and married at our alma mater.

Flannel #7: Even a cursory perusal through the many art vendors’ shops, particularly the famed Woolworth Walk (venue for selling local crafts and art), yields speculation as to the cosmic leanings of the greater Ashevillain populous. Recurring themes in the artistic renderings of this city include, but are not limited to: robots, flying saucers, alien renderings, spaceships, and general other-worldliness.

Flannel #8: The surrounding mountain beauty hugging the city is truly moving; however, the seductively accessible tendrils of roads creeping up steep mountain slopes are rather deceptive in their propensity to cause motion sickness, especially on gloomy, rainy days where the visibility from “scenic” overlooks is…zero. If such a scenic drive is attempted, it would be of considerable worth to all passengers involved to check to see of the Blue Ridge Parkway is indeed open and accessible BEFORE winding upward, up, and up to reach a only a roadblock…and an adequate space for passengers to be ill if (likely) necessary.

Flannel #9: After rainy climbs up random mountain peaks in the driving rain, there is nothing more rewarding than snagging some world-famous truffles from the Chocolate Fetish (official chocolatier to the Biltmore family) and moseying over to Double D’s for afternoon tea. The (stationary) London-style double-decker bus turned Atlanta party bus turned Asheville landmark is a two-story coffee shop: sipping coffee from the second floor watching the always-interesting Asheville clientele go by is a memorable afternoon, guaranteed.

Flannel #10: Asheville is certainly the eyeball’s playcourt with vibrant and striking stimulation converging from all sides—so much so that it’s rare to ever look down at one’s feet. And so it may not be until the end of an unnoticeably long day or perhaps upon returning home and unpacking that the foot-traveler notices a dusty, shimmering sheen coating her shoes. The glittery flakes of mica rock so common to Asheville are welcome complimentary souvenirs to take home and disperse. The aliens most likely had this in mind when they left it behind.

Most Wanted List: Meat?

Crump it Up List: “OK It’s Alright With Me”—Eric Hutchinson, “Little Lion Man”—Mumford and Sons, “Auld Lang Syne”—Robert Burns (feat. Sirius.B), “Monkey Robot Soldier”—Sirius.B, “Sick Tonight (Dr. P remix)”—dan le sac Vs scroobius Pip

Peace out Brussels Sprouts.

(This issue of “The Crumpet Collection” is brought to you in part by: Melissa, Nicole, Danae, Kimmy, Kelli, Joey the Potter, Alex the Dread, “Put Your Pants On” Reid, Sirius.B, Anne, Sweet Peas Hostel, Martha—reservations specialist at the Biltmore Super 8, the Mellow Mushroom TV coordinator, the hazelnut latte maker at Double D’s, the yarn shop alpacas, and the dapper mystery gentleman who smoothly bequeathed his parking stub. Until we meet again, Happy Trails!)

Keep it flashy, Ashy.

Top 10 Trips to Walgreens

In this non-traditional format, the Crumpet Collection soaks up a rare look inward to the dialogic ingredients of genius Christmas card-making.

Yes, Christmas card-making.

This you must remember, or nothing that follows will seem wondrous.

Trip to Walgreens #1. On Christmas Eve’s eve, the Hoover parentals, on account of helping Santa scour East Tennessee for a highly rare sonorous gift, commissioned their daughters to design the family Christmas card—thought to be most expediently achieved at the neighborhood Walgreens. The guidelines: folding photo card (with blank writing space on the inside!), just generic “happy holidays” (NO references to “Christmas” or “New Year!”—seeing as how the greeting will likely be late for both), NO snowflakes (it will clash with the beach in the photo!), NO designs you wouldn’t send to a 90-year –old (nothing too “modern!”), and for goodness sake NO corny REINDEER (Tara!).

Trip to Walgreens #2. NO problem. Enter Walgreens Online greeting card design and begin customizing for all the above criteria. Endless, customizable options? Oh, joy:

“FINE. You’re taking over this entire thing. Why don’t you just crop yourself a little photo of you, by YOURself, with a lone palm tree and make your own card. And write ‘have a warm, spicy Christmas’ inside.’”

“I’m NOT ‘taking over.’ I’m just editing. Over my dead body will there be a typo in OUR Christmas card. And it wasn’t ‘spicy Christmas.’ It was ‘warm wishes and spiced seasonings.’”

“We’re NOT writing that! Whatever. Just make your own. Here. Here’s your crop.”

Trip to WG #3. After hours of heated deliberation as to how “happy holidays” should/could be expressed most eloquently and in which font style, the in-store photo kiosk defaults begin looking more peaceful. There, whilst waiting in the eternal line, one might ruminate upon the Evolution of the Bow: 1) Handmade ribbon bows, 2) pre-made tape-on bows, and finally 3) the 2010 model—the 1-dimensional adhesive sticker bow. And still, after all that, shockingly, the line remains.

Trip to WG #4. The line, coupled with the out-of-stock status on York Peppermint Patties suspends the mission to a later hour. How any institution worth their pepper can afford to be out of stock on peppermint patties at Christmas is beyond comprehension.

Trip to WG #5. And so, back to the online drawing board to the unfortunate strains of “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,” which apparently got erroneously dragged into the Christmas playlist, much to widespread consternation and mounting frustration.
“Shut UP E-J!”
[Gasp] “You CANNOT call him B-J!! It’s WRONG.”
“I didn’t say B-J. I said Eeeee-J. This is Elton John. Not Billy Joel. Why can you never keep them straight?!”
“I can. Only one of them is straight, actually. But it doesn’t help that they each have two first names. We need some Kenny G.”

Trip to WG #6: And since one is wondering and online anyway, it may be discovered that G stands for “Gorelick.”

Trip to WG #7. Final product still elusive, and again, hours later, Walgreens beckons in the night. On the way out the back door, navigating through some sort of routine home-maintenance project worthy of power tools, Dad warns:
“Tools by the backdoor. Don’t kill yourself on the way out.”
“Bite me.”
[Gasp!] “You can’t SAY that!”
“It was a PUN! We just stepped in a pile of drill bits. It was a PUN!”
“Your puns AREN’T funny.”

Trip to WG #8. While in line—again—one might this time ruminate upon members of the NRA as the new pagans of the millennium. They are, after all, perhaps the most seasonally-inclined of humanity today (farmers excepted). Happy Festivus.

Trip to WG #9: Miraculously, a card is born—approximately 40, in fact—matching nearly all specified criteria. Sisters confide in Christmas wishes of yore over two bags of York Peppermint Patties (miraculously now re-stocked):
“I used to want to be a member of the E.L.F.S. emergency rescue squad, you know, with the elfish jetpack and jail-breakin’ tinsel (see Tim Allen’s “The Santa Clause”). [Who knew?]
“That reminds me, I used to want to date Rory Buck.”
“Rory Buck?”
“Yeah, you know. The fatherless, bad-boy snowboarding kid from “Jack Frost.”

Trip to Walgreens #10. In the end, Santa sure knows how to keep this family occupied while calling every Walgreens, Target, and Wal-Mart from Knoxville to Chattanooga to Asheville to track down the last remaining boxed set of the 45th Anniversary Edition of “The Sound of Music” complete with Blu-Ray, 2-disc special features (including karaoke sing-along setting), a “Meet the Cast” book, an Edelweiss music box, and my treasured favorite, a glossy letter addressed to “Film Enthusiast.” Not to mention, Alps that really pop. Digital remastery at its finest this Christmas.

Oh, and warm wishes and spiced seasonings from The Crumpet Collection. :)

Top 10 Crimson Letter A's

The Crumpet Collection tides itself over with a visit to Pamela in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #1: One wonders how Hester Prynne lost to an elephant for Alabama’s mascot; Hess comes complete with a crimson enough A.

Crimson Letter A #2: The checkered Houndstooth blazer is a must-have for masquerading as a local Tuscaloosan. And, they’re versatile for church, a stroll in the park, in 30-degree weather, in 70-degree weather, and they’re even sold at sporting goods stores.

Crimson Letter A #3: If a Tide fan is faced with the game on TV next to a giant hotdog in a hula skirt, she will see have no problem seeing the forest for the tree; even an entire forest of hula-ing hotdogs probably wouldn’t deter attention from the game.

Crimson Letter A #4: Jack’s, a fast food chain apparently indigenous only to Alabama, should not be confused with Jack-in-the-Box—a southern rarity with the best fast food tacos.

Crimson Letter A #5: After a series of restaurant mishaps in which one orderer repeatedly gets forgotten, brought the wrong order, and given the wrong change all at different establishments in the span of two weeks, maybe there’s some sort of breakdown happening on the part of the orderer and not the service. Enlightenment courtesy of Jason’s Deli in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #6: When one sees auspiciously-pillared mansions complete with gated front lawns and “brothers” sipping what is likely mint juleps as they lazily rock on front porch chairs passing the Saturday afternoon, fraternity housing isn’t exactly the first assumption that comes to mind. All that’s missing for an Antebellum South re-enactment are waves of cotton.

Crimson Letter A #7: What surpasses TCBY self-serve ice cream are walnuts in honey self-served and oozing atop said ice cream.

Crimson Letter A #8: Catholics visiting other Christian denominations should remember to tote a Bible to service (Catholics are used to finding each Sunday’s readings printed in the missal) to get full prepared-for-class credit. :)

Crimson Letter A #9: If one hears “Les Miles” on ESPN, no, football yardage has not been converted to mileage, this is merely the name of LSU head coach.

Crimson Letter A #10: For those drivers who are too preoccupied trying to figure out the math of crossing the central/eastern time zone line on a daylight savings time change weekend, therefore losing track of how low the fuel tank is, never fear. Despite the sparse exits around said time boundary, Exit Rising Fawn rises out of the mists as a truck stop oasis just across the Georgia line, equipped with high-speed fuel pumps and the accurate time.

Most Wanted List: “High School Musical 2”—that first one, I tell ya, Cliff. Hanger.

Up Next: Crumpets from Nash & Grad-School Crumpets

Much thanks to Pamela Harris for her local expertise and cultural adventure-seeking in Tuscaloosa! Love and best wishes to her and Alex!