food – Page 3 – Life In A Word

Dental Essential

When I filled a prescription at my supermarket’s pharmacy recently, the line of customers snaked down an aisle of toiletries. I surfed on my phone for a few minutes as I waited but eventually took note of the products on display around me. To the right, endless shampoos, conditioners, sprays, and other hair care items. To the left, nothing but rows and rows of toothpaste.

If you’re a Millennial or older, I’ll bet you’ve brushed a time or two with Crest or Colgate. Both products have dominated the toothpaste market since their humble beginnings in the 1950s. I was raised on Crest and saw no reason to change brands as a young adult. But these days, like most anything I put into my mouth I’m a little more selective.

The shelves of toothpaste in my supermarket caught my attention for two reasons. First, the options from a single manufacturer these days are daunting. Crest may have only eight product lines (like “Gum Health” or “Kids”) but that translates to a total of fifty-seven unique tubes of paste. Wow. So you’re telling me you’d know which one would be perfect for you?

My second observation: there are surprisingly few players in the game for a product each of us uses at least twice a day. Crest and Colgate dominate the shelf space; I’d put the number at 85%. The other 15% – at least in my supermarket – goes to products from Sensodyne and Arm & Hammer. Sensodyne targets those of you with sensitive teeth. Arm & Hammer promotes, naturally, the perceived benefits of baking soda.

The truth is, there are dozens of toothpastes besides Crest and Colgate. Just think of it like a chessboard: you have the two kings and then you have the rest of the pieces. Those pieces include a few that make me nostalgic. For a short time I had a “brush” with Pepsodent; its unique taste flavored with sassafras. My dentist’s recommendations during my cavity-prone years included Mentadent and Aim (neither of which took hold). And honorable mention goes to Pearl Drops, which I never tried but was the first product to add sex appeal to brushing your teeth.

I don’t know anyone who uses Pepsodent or Pearl Drops anymore, but I also think Crest and Colgate are finally getting serious challengers. Today’s generation (and those behind it) is more enlightened. In fact, my own choice for my toothbrush – Earthpaste – has to be purchased at a specialty store or online.

I’ve talked about Earthpaste before, in Polishing the Pearls. That post was more about the ingredients in toothpaste than the products themselves. But ingredients certainly matter. Crest contains between fifteen and twenty (and some are better left in a science lab). Earthpaste contains just five, including bentonite clay, salt, and essential oils. I have no problem putting any of those in my mouth, including the “dirt” of bentonite clay.

The truth is, if you can stand the bitter taste you can just brush with baking soda. It’s a short list of ingredient that actually benefit your dental hygiene. And for me, the habits I’ve locked in besides brushing far outweigh the importance of which toothpaste I choose. Daily flossing (at night). Oral rinses. Toothpicks for my close-together teeth. Recent trips to the dentist would suggest I’ve got a good regimen going.

As for you Gen X, Y, Z and especially Alpha members, there’s a palpable point to this post. 99% of humans will continue to brush with toothpaste. Crest and Colgate still dominate the market seventy-odd years after their debuts (at least in America). It seems to me there’s room for another low-ingredient high-health product like Earthpaste. I’d fire up that home chemistry lab before someone else beats you to it. There’s potential prodigious profit in the production of paste!

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

For Whom the Road Tolls

Because we raised our kids in Colorado, vacations to visit our extended families were often by airplane, since my relatives were in California and my wife’s were in Florida. It was the rare trip where we could see any of them by taking the car. So when my wife and I drove from South Carolina to Pennsylvania recently to visit my brother and his wife, we were reminded of what makes travel by car different than by plane. Toll roads, for instance.

I have memories of toll roads my kids will never have. They’re old enough to remember passing through the booths and handing coins or bills to the collector. But they won’t remember the unmanned alternative, which was to toss exact change into a big plastic basket, listen to the coins process through the mechanics below, and hope/pray the gate to the toll road would raise. That automated approach seems almost quaint compared to today’s electronic alternatives.

I say alternatives (plural) because yes, that’s what we have with today’s toll roads. It confounds me. Why in heaven’s name haven’t we developed a painless, seamless, and most importantly, nationally coordinated approach to toll road payments? To some extent (nineteen states) we have a solution – E-ZPass, which by subscription and sticker allows convenient passage. But even E-ZPass is not a perfect system.

For the rest of the country’s tolls – and for most of our round-trip drive between South Carolina and Pennsylvania – we have the clunky alternative. You pass through a now-unmanned (“un-personned?”) toll booth, where a camera grabs your license plate with a noticeable flash. Then, somewhere down the road (ha) a paper bill arrives in your mailbox. By my count I have four or five of these bills coming my way. It’s been ten days since we’ve returned home and I have yet to receive even one.

The cookie recipe is still on the back of the package

[Trivia detour: Nestlé’s famous Toll House chocolate chip cookies aren’t named after toll booths but rather for an inn in Massachusetts where baker Ruth Wakefield came up with the recipe. Wakefield and Nestlé struck a deal in the 1940s: her recipe printed on their bags in exchange for a lifetime supply of chocolate. How very “Willy Wonka”, eh?]

Here is my unequivocally efficient approach to paying tolls across our many-highway’d nation. When you first get a driver’s license, you also sign up for a bank account-linked program which allows seamless paying of ALL tolls across the land – roads, bridges, tunnels, whatever – through a single readable sticker on your windshield. If you somehow don’t pay the tolls because of say, “insufficient funds”? Well sorry, your driver’s license doesn’t get renewed until you settle up at the DMV.

A $3 toll gets you through Baltimore’s Harbor Tunnel

My system is so logical it’s probably the reason I’ve never been pegged for a government job. In Colorado and elsewhere they almost have it right with the E-ZPass system – a sticker linked to a bank account. The problem is, they hold a minimum balance in a middleman (middle person?) account to guarantee payment of tolls. I object, your honor. Why should Colorado have forty-odd dollars of my hard-earned money at all times when they can just settle up unpaid tolls whenever I renew my license?

Then again, I have a beef with the tolls themselves, and that is, they pay for far more than the maintenance of the roads. You can’t tell me $10 per vehicle per crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge (GGB) is needed just to maintain the bridge. Here’s the jaw-dropping math for you. 112,000 cars cross the GGB every day. That’s over forty million cars per year. That puts the annual toll-taking at over four hundred million dollars. $400M for bridge maintenance? Sorry, fair traveler, you’re voluntarily lining the coffers of California (and San Francisco) every time you cross. “If I’m elected” (as we’ll hear countless times in the next two months), I’ll limit toll-taking to whatever it costs to maintain the bridge, road, or tunnel. Not a dollar more.

On our return trip from Pennsylvania, I was amused to pass through one toll both with an actual human toll-taker. Those cordial people are still out there, collecting cash one car at a time. The woman in our instance happily returned us $19.25 on a $20.00 bill (and who’s happy to do that anymore?).

I was also amused… no, “gratified” is the better word; to pull into the parking lot of a South Carolina “rest area” shortly before we got home, for the use of a perfectly safe, clean, toll-free restroom on a toll-free highway. Maybe rest areas and their restrooms are the reason tolls cost more than the maintenance of the roads? Probably not. That would equate to a logical explanation for a government expenditure, which is an oxymoron.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Connection Protection

The college my wife attended many years ago was a small Midwestern campus, maybe twenty buildings in all. Because of the extreme winter temps, the college had the foresight to install tunnels between the primary buildings, allowing for warm, comfortable walks from say, the dorms to the central dining hall. It’s the same concept my wife and I discovered in Nuremberg, Germany last month, only this tunnel complex was on a much larger scale. And getting from Point A to Point B wasn’t its only intent.

You’ll find Nuremberg in the center of Bavaria, the forested southwest region of Germany. The city served as the final destination on our recent Viking River Cruise on the Danube. Like Salzburg, Austria a few days before, Nuremberg is known for its “Old City” area (now surrounded by modern-day sprawl). Once inside those towering protective walls, it’s like you’ve stepped back into the Middle Ages. If there’s a more preserved city of the period, with its moats, castles, towers, and bridges, I’m not aware of it.

A walking tour of Nuremberg is impressive enough with the history, architecture, and stories, but what trumps everything about it is what lies beneath the city. My wife and I signed up for an excursion called “Flavors of Nuremberg”, expecting to enjoy a culinary sampling of regional delights. Indeed we did. Our first stop was for a plate of Nuremberg’s famous white sausages (with a tall beer to wash them down). This could have been lunch alone, but we pressed on for more.

Our next stop was for Lebkuchen, or gingerbread. It’s even more famous than the white sausages. Here are two things to know about Nuremberg gingerbread. One, it contains no ginger. Two, it’s not nearly as sweet as its American counterpart (typical). Okay, let’s add a Three: Lebkuchen is absolutely delicious. We packed a pile of gingerbread cookies into our suitcases to give to family members (but most of them ended up in our own pantry).

Our final stop – of course -was at a Nuremberg brewery for several glasses of local beer. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how we would get to our beer Instead of just walking through the front door of Hausbrauerei Altstadthof, our guide took us to the top of a stone staircase, set right into the middle of a nondescript Nuremberg street. The stair was surrounded by modest iron rails but otherwise would’ve been something you’d walk by without pause. Our guide explained how the original brewery was located on this spot centuries ago, marked by a plaque in the street.

What followed might have been my favorite moment of the tour. Our guide excused himself to “go get the key”, so he could unlock the imposing door at the bottom of the stairs. The key was held by some nearby merchant and our guide had the credentials to borrow it. I find that charming, versus typing on a computer keypad or gaining the approval of a German guard. You just open the door with an old brass key.

Our guide returned, beckoned us down the stairs, opened the door, and away we went. Or should I say, down we went. Even after passing through the door fifteen feet below street level, we continued down what must’ve been the equivalent of three more floors of stairs. Our guide stayed behind to lock the door behind us, so we kind of descended on our own. The walls closed in and it got darker as we went. Suddenly beer was the last thing on my mind.

What followed was the equivalent of rats in a maze. Seriously, if I planned to gulp fresh air or glimpse daylight ever again, I was entirely dependent on the movements of our tour guide over the next forty-five minutes. He’d turn here or turn there, beckon us down one tunnel or push us through another, and he stopped several times to click on or click off the bare bulbs weakly lighting our way. We passed through several intersections where we could’ve spun off in half a dozen directions, to be hopelessly lost under the city forever. We saw what looked like dungeons and prison cells. Suddenly I really wanted a beer. Above ground.

Our guide stopped us would-be-spelunkers at several junctures to explain the fascinating history of Nuremberg’s miles-long network of hand-dug tunnels, originally used in the making of beer, then used as the city’s prison, and finally, remarkably, used to hide the thousands of residents the Nazis sought during WWII. It’s an amazing history I can’t begin to do justice in this post, but you can read more about it here. Suffice it to say, us tourists had a taste of what it’d be like to live in suddenly protective, seemingly endless tunnels for months on end. Not for the faint of heart.

At long last, we carefully ascended another long, irregular staircase, and our guide unlocked the final door at the top, where we burst into the sunshine and fresh air of Hausbrauerei Altstadthof‘s colorful outdoor biergarten. It was a surreal moment, being thrust back into modern-day civilization from the medieval tunnels below. The several beers that followed not only quenched my thirst but also calmed my nerves. This “flavors” city tour was unquestionably the most adventurous excursion of the entire river cruise.

There was a time, when we lived in Colorado, where my wife and I considered connecting our house to our nearby barn. We thought, why not string together a series of shipping containers below ground, to act as a tunnel to keep us warm during the frigid winter months? After our subterranean tour of Nuremberg, I wondered what we were thinking. Better to just hoof it through the snow than to get lost in the grounds of Colorado forever.

Goulash by the Gallon

My mother used to make Beef Stroganoff when I was a kid; an easy one-pot concoction to satisfy a hungry family of seven. Mom’s recipe was a far cry from the elegant Russian original of beef strips in a sauce of sour cream and mustard. Hers started with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, added in whatever leftover beef and spices were found in the kitchen, and finished with soft egg noodles, all mixed together. It wasn’t my favorite dish, but as I recently discovered it’s a whole lot more satisfying than Hungarian Goulash.

A month ago I didn’t know the first thing about Hungarian Goulash. Now I know way too much about it. That’s what happens when you visit Budapest. Everything is about goulash. And paprika. Even goulash itself is about paprika. But I’m getting ahead of myself here (kind of like I did with the last few blog posts, which were further down the Danube).

Before our plane landed in Hungary for the start of our Viking river cruise, I imagined goulash as a more traditional version of Mom’s Beef Stroganoff. I expected a hearty casserole of meat, vegetables, and noodles, drenched in a rich, creamy sauce. As it turns out, goulash isn’t even a poor man’s version of Stroganoff. No “spoiler alert” here because you’re not missing much. Goulash is plain ol’ broth-based soup.

Check out the list of ingredients here. Besides the ground caraway (ground “carraway”?), the only item standing out to me is the paprika, and only because paprika is synonymous with Hungary. You find the peppery spice everywhere (and in everything) over there, in grades of sweet, mild, pungent, and strong. Choose wisely; a small spoonful of the “strong” knocks your socks off even if you like it hot.

On a guided walking tour of Budapest (which included an hour inside the exquisite Parliament Building), we stopped for lunch in a basement restaurant for our first sampling of goulash. The soup was served family-style with bread so we all ladled a helping. In short, Hungarian Goulash didn’t “have me at hello”. I was underwhelmed from the get-go. I looked around the table at our fellow travelers and noticed the same reaction. We struggled to come up with something distinctive or even complimentary about our meal.

Later on, we ventured into the countryside for a “Hungarian Folklore Dinner”. As soon as we stepped off the bus, the place practically screamed “tourist trap”. They greet you at the door with a shot or two of pálinka (fruit brandy), no doubt to dull the senses for what lies ahead the rest of the night. Then they seat you at long picnic tables with people who look like, well, travelers from all of the other Danube river boats. The gypsy folk dancing was impressive – I’ll grant them that – but the cauldron of goulash set unceremoniously in the center of the table was no more tasty than the helping we had at lunch.

The next day, we took another trip into the countryside for a walk through the several acres of an “open-air museum”, an interesting collection of buildings and settings from Hungary’s storied history. The tour included lunch (hold tight, I know what you’re thinking), but even before lunch we stopped at an outside kitchen for a “special treat” – a demonstration on how to make goulash! (You’ll see I earned a diploma for my efforts.) Then we were hustled into a nearby dining room for our third helping of goulash in twenty-four hours. Part of the restaurant was already set up for a wedding reception later that afternoon. Wonder what they were having for dinner…

Lest you dismiss Budapest over the goulash that seems to be oozing out of the city walls, let me set the menu, er, record straight. It’s a beautiful city, whether you choose to tour the Buda or the Pest side of the Danube River. The buildings are illuminated at night, the same way you’ll see Paris during the Summer Olympics in two weeks. And Hungary’s history is adventurous and remarkable, with many more chapters than you’ll find in America’s. But sorry comrades; the goulash (and the paprika) can only be described as superfluous.

One of the highlights of a Viking river cruise is the nightly dinner menu. In addition to standing entrees, Viking chefs design “sampling menus” made up of the food of whatever city or region you happen to be passing through. In Vienna it was the veal cutlet wienerschnitzel. In Nuremberg it was the famous white sausage Weisswurst (correction: it would’ve been Weisswurst had our ship actually made it to Nuremberg). And in Budapest it could’ve been Chicken Paprikash. Instead, it was Hungarian Goulash… again. Make that four helpings in two days. I should’ve misbehaved so our captain could’ve sent me to my room without supper.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Intangible Cultural Coffee

I like stories to demonstrate the American Dream is alive and well. Ten years ago a New York City husband and wife scraped together their savings (borrowing even more from friends) to open a coffee shop called Maman. The couple put in eighty-hour weeks, passed up vacations, and kept paychecks to a minimum to give their little cafe a fighting chance. A decade later, Maman is doing pretty well, with 34 locations and annual revenues of fifty million dollars.

In Vienna, Austria, just a short walk from the magnificent cathedral of St. Stephen, you’ll find another coffee shop called Conditorei Sluka (or “Sluka” for short). It’s the only location and its revenues are nowhere near $50 mil. But Sluka doesn’t care about making a fortune. They’re focused on delivering the quintessential Viennese Coffee House experience instead, which my wife and I were lucky enough to sample on our recent Danube River cruise.

With all due respect to the American Dream, sitting down to coffee at Maman will never come as close as a whisper to a cup at Sluka, no matter the amount of money invested or the number of locations opened. Consider, Vienna opened its first coffee house in 1685, almost three hundred years before Starbucks landed in Seattle. How can you possibly replicate that kind of history in a modern-day franchise?

What makes the Viennese Coffee House experience incomparable? For starters, the best of the Houses are still in their original locations in the city, which means surrounds of grand eighteenth-century architecture: high sky-lit ceilings, soaring columns and arches, elegant mirrored panels on the walls, and softly lit rooms. The marble-topped tables are furnished with upholstered couches and dark wooden chairs of the period. And the classical music you’ll hear – never too loud to be distracting – is often live from a nearby piano.

You could remove all of this “window dressing”, and coffee in Vienna still might be unmatched. My wife and I went to Sluka on our tour guide’s recommendation, after several hours of sightseeing on foot. We were just looking for a snack and a few moments of rest. On our guide’s suggestion, we sat down at a table way in the back, in a cozy nook of a room that felt miles from the streets outside.

A smartly-dressed waiter took our coffee order from the several pages of the menu, then guided us to the nearby pastry case so we could point to our choices; Apfelstrudel, Linzer torte, or dozens of other cakes and tarts looking as if they’d been made just moments before in the nearby kitchen. A short while later our order arrived; the coffee in china cups, the pastries on matching plates, all dolled up with tall glasses of water, logo napkins, and individual silver trays. It was the most elegant presentation of coffee we’d ever been served.

The kitchen at Sluka, steps from our table

At our waiter’s insistence, we relaxed at our table after paying the bill so we could wait out a passing thunderstorm. We watched nearby patrons enjoying their conversations or reading one of the many newspapers the coffee house makes available. We listened to the music. Instead of pulling out our phones we simply breathed in the atmosphere of this most satisfying respite. In a nutshell, this is the Viennese Coffee House experience, as it has been for hundreds of years. Stop in and take a seat. Enjoy exquisite coffee and pastries. Socialize or read. And forget about the world beyond the windows for a little while. It’ll be there whenever you’re ready to go back.

The Viennese Coffee House experience is so distinctive it earns a place – per the United Nations – on a listing of Elements of Intangible Cultural Heritage. For other examples, think Swiss watches, French perfumes, or German church organs. We’re talking about physical representations here; those which you might naturally associate with a country or people. America likes its coffee (and food) fast and to-go, while Austria prefers it slow and sit-down. I’m not claiming one approach is necessarily better than the other. I’ll just say instead; I can’t wait to go back to Vienna someday.

Some content sourced from the CNBC Make It article, “Couple spent ‘all of our money’ to open a New York cafe…”, the Conditorei Sluka website, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Monk Fruit

Let’s talk about apricots. If you read my last post, apricots are the last topic you’d expect in a series about a Viking River Cruise. But fate played a hand when our ship only got a taste of the Danube River (while others were literally underwater), so I suppose we needed to satisfy our appetites on something else instead. Like apricots.

I don’t associate apricots with Austria at all (how about all the “a” words in that sentence there, huh?) Austria is more about snowy Alps, Mozart, and the hills coming alive in The Sound of Music. So it was something of a surprise to find myself on a hot, sunny day, standing in an apricot orchard in Krems, Austria. Almost floating above this little riverside town, you’ll find the fruit trees on the property of a Benedictine monastery known as Göttweig Abbey.

Göttweig is an impressive complex of buildings, and even more impressive for its lengthy history. The Abbey was built in the 1100s, rebuilt larger after devastating fires in the 1500s and 1700s, and survived relatively intact after the Nazi occupation of WWII. Its library contains 150,000 books and papers, and its main structure houses the largest Baroque staircase in Austria. But who cares about all that, I hear you saying. Tell me about the apricots, Dave!

Let it be said; Göttweig brought apricots back to life for me. The Abbey tour starts in its apricot orchard, where we saw the trees up close, on the verge of harvest time. The tour ended with a short class on making apricot dumplings (unquestionably as scrumptious as they sound: a whole pitted apricot wrapped in puff pastry, topped with vanilla-apricot sauce, served hot). And the gift shop… oh my, the gift shop. Shelf after shelf of everything apricots, from syrups to jams to cookies to candy. Even better, you’ll find a tasting bar for several varieties of Göttweig apricot wine and brandy (also available for purchase, of course).

When the tour took us to a little theater for a short film on Göttweig’s history, one of the monks (at least, I think he was a monk) served us apricot juice in tall glasses as a refreshment. It was the proverbial nectar of the gods… and I time-traveled to my childhood instantly. My mother served apricot juice at breakfast occasionally, and I remember never really caring for its sweet/tart taste. Guess I’ve grown up since then. This juice was so delicious my wife and I are already in hot pursuit for a bottle here in the States. Not something you’ll find in your ordinary grocery store.

[Blogger’s note: Don’t take “Göttweig” for a spin on Google Translate. Our tour guide said they’ve never known the meaning of the word. Google Translate doesn’t either (but its guess is a little ironic).]

Here’s a strange word you should associate with apricots: drupe. It’s another word for stone fruit; as in, fruit where the flesh surrounds the pit. So apricots are drupes, as are cherries, peaches, nectarines, and plums. Even dates join this pit-y party.

Here’s another word you should associate with apricots: orchard. There’s nothing more frustrating with the English language than two words with essentially the same definition. So it is with orchard and grove. Technically there’s a difference. If your apricot trees are planted in neat rows with the intent of commercial production, you have an orchard. If you’re walking through the forest and come across a natural stand of apricot trees, you’re in a grove. But c’mon, if all that is true then why do we say “apple orchard” but “orange grove”? Sigh…

I wouldn’t care if I had an orchard or a grove as long as I had apricot trees. I’m not really a peach or plum fan, but man I love the taste of apricots. As a kid I also loved them dried, because they were so sweet they might as well have been candy. But the adult version of me chooses the fresh fruit instead. And now the juice.

The views from the Abbey are spectacular

Some of you more adventurous (and/or Christian) souls may be interested to know Göttweig Abbey lies on one of the routes of the Camino de Santiago, the soul-searching network of the Way of St. James. A tall glass of apricot juice would be most refreshing along the 1,100-mile pilgrimage to the coast of Spain. Of course, you don’t need to walk that far for the taste of apricots. Just mosey down to your local grocery store, because they’re in season now. Maybe you too will discover newfound appreciation for “monk fruit”.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Go(ing) With the Flow

In the camping days of my youth, I’d get a kick out of dropping little sticks into the water and watching them float lazily downstream. I’d imagine them as little boats, navigating uncharted waters on their way to some exotic destination. I’d see how far those sticks could go, sometimes removing obstructions to create clear channels. Perhaps it’s no surprise then, all these years later, I’m drawn to the adventure of Viking River Cruises.

Maybe you’ve seen their commercials. Viking River Cruises advertise by showing you one of their elegant white ships cruising slowly down a pristine river, with dramatic terrain sloping up and away from the shorelines. Viking “longships” are low, flat, and narrow; a wholly refined version of my stick in the stream. Take your pick: the Nile in Egypt, the Rhine in Germany, or the Mississippi in America, to name a few. Viking has you covered when it comes to cruising the world’s rivers.

My wife and I just completed our second Viking cruise (well, “completed” doesn’t really cut it but I’ll get to that in a moment). Our first, in 2019, down the Rhine River from the Netherlands through Germany to Switzerland, was so satisfying we were ready to sign up for another as soon as we were done. Then the world went a little off the rails so we had to wait until the waters calmed again, so to speak. A week ago then, we returned from Viking’s Danube River cruise; Hungary through Austria to Germany.

There are at least two reasons why Viking River Cruises don’t appeal to those who seek a vacation on the water. First, you’ll find little more to do on the ship besides eat and sleep. Yes, you’ll find live music in the lounge and an occasional cooking demonstration by the head chef, but for the most part a Viking ship is a floating hotel. Second, the daily excursions off the boat are fast-paced guided looks at whatever is worth seeing, with only a little free time at the end for shopping and such. Best to bring a comfortable pair of walking shoes to keep up.

Those same reasons are why Viking cruises do appeal to us. We’ve been on one of those floating-city ocean cruises before (Carnival – ick), and everything from the buffet to the entertainment felt cheap and mass-produced. A Viking river ship caters to only two hundred passengers, in rooms as nice as most anywhere we’ve stayed on shore. As for the excursions, the tour guides are carefully chosen for their knowledge and personalities, adding so much more to the tour than if you were to go it alone. Yes, you’re only getting a “taste” of each locale, but this means you see a lot in eight days of cruising, leaving you to choose if and where you might come back to for more in-depth looks.

Eight days is plenty of time to be on the river (at least in our book) but Viking offers several options twice as long, including a fifteen-day Grand European Tour covering the Rhine and the Danube. You can also add “land-based” days to either end of a cruise, exploring the cities from where you embark and disembark. Finally, Viking tailors its menus (and I do mean menus, not buffets) to the cuisine of the region you travel through. From our experience, the food is excellent.

Passau, Germany (one of our destinations)

If this sounds like a ringing endorsement for a Viking River Cruise, let me silence that bell for just a moment. Perhaps the only thing Viking can’t control is the water itself. Unbeknownst to most Americans, the Danube River flooded its banks earlier this month, forcing the powers that be (and who exactly are those powers?) to “close” the river. Residents in destinations downriver found themselves wading through four feet of water. River ships couldn’t fit under low-flying bridges, let alone dock at the shores. As a result, our cruise came to a premature halt in Vienna, Austria, with the remaining itinerary carried out with busses and hotels.

I’ll take the next several posts to dive deeper into our “Romantic Danube” Viking cruise. We missed out on the time we expected on the river, but the destinations were no less impressive. Budapest is a heck of an interesting city. Gottweig Abbey (outside the Austrian town of Krems) is keeping apricots relevant. So stick with me the next few weeks and you’ll find out more about what the Danube has to offer. After all, river cruising is a whole lot more adventurous than floating a stick down a stream.

Berry Expensive

When it comes to fruit, berries top the list of my favorites. I’ve always been a fan of grapes, apples, and pears – probably because I ate a lot of them when I was a kid – but over the years I’ve come to appreciate berries as much for their taste as for their healthy benefits. Now don’t ask me to choose a favorite berry because I’d struggle between strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries. And where-oh-where would I rank pineapples?

That’s no berry blunder I just made there. Pineapples – go figure – are a berry. I meant to start this post from a wholly different angle but I couldn’t get past this juicy tidbit of trivia. As a pineapple plant grows, the individual flowers fuse together to create a cluster of “berries”, which go through an extraordinary evolution to end up as the cohesive pineapple you and I know and love. Grow one in your garden sometime and watch it happen. For the most part, all you have to do is slice off the top of the fruit and plant it.

I could’ve guessed pineapples fall among nature’s sweetest fruits. In fact, on a list of the top ten the pineapple rates second-sweetest of them all (only mangoes contain a higher concentration of fructose). For perspective, grapes, cherries, and strawberries are further down the list and each of those are plenty sweet. We might as well be talking about candy here instead of pineapple.

I do love pineapple, and I’m guessing part of the appeal is the nostalgia of childhood eats. My mother liked to serve pineapple chunks on top of cottage cheese as a side salad. She occasionally broke out a can of Del Monte “Fruit Cocktail”, a concoction of pineapple and other fruit pieces submerged in a sickly-sweet syrup. My mother also baked whole hams with pineapple rings dotting the surface. I won’t claim baked pineapple tastes as good as a fresh slice, but the slightly-burnt taste comes to memory like it was yesterday.

There was a pineapple upside-down cake or two in my childhood but I was never really a fan. Fruit belongs in pies if you ask me (hence my dislike of Easter hot cross buns and Christmas fruitcake). Admittedly, he or she was a clever soul who realized fruit could be nestled into the top of a cake if placed at the bottom of the pan first (followed by the cake batter, followed by a flip of the pan after baking). And who knew: prunes, not pineapples, were the first fruit to grace upside down cakes.

My favorite pineapple story comes from our honeymoon. Through a travel agent we booked several days at an all-inclusive resort in Hawaii. The first morning we ordered fresh pineapple from room service. It was so delicious we ordered more every morning thereafter, enjoyed on our private balcony as we gazed out to the Pacific. But at check-out, my jaw dropped when I saw every one of those (overpriced) breakfasts on my bill. I promptly asked the hotel manager to look into it and he goes, “Oh, that all-inclusive package your travel agent booked was discontinued years ago. You have to pay for the breakfasts now. Might want to take her back an updated brochure”. Whoops.

Speaking of pricey pineapple, a new spin on the tropical fruit will set you back almost $400. Say that again, Dave. Okay, you’ll pay $400 for a pineapple if you really want to. One of Del Monte’s unique “Rubyglow” pineapples costs that much (and yes, I did say one). Those who have already indulged say the only difference is the lack of bitter aftertaste you get with a regular pineapple. Otherwise, you’re paying more for the distinctive look (and the fancy box) than you are for the fruit inside. My first thought when I saw the photo: the Rubyglow looks like pineapple and ham all in one food.

At the start of this post I was stuck on “berry”. Now I’m stuck on “berry expensive”. $400 for a piece of fruit is bonkers. I’ll never pay it. For my hard-earned dollars I’ll take forty overpriced piña coladas instead.

Some content sourced from the Medium.com article, “Top 10 Sweetest Fruits”, the CNN Business article, “$400 for one pineapple: The rise of luxury fruit”, and
Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Going for a Spin, Spin, Spin

My wife and I enjoy popcorn after dinner, probably because we’re watching more movies at home these days. It’s easy prep thanks to our Presto air popper. Dump in the kernels, plug in the popper, and “presto”; a delicious snack in an instant. Of course, one of these days our air popper will break and we’ll have to buy another one. Unlike our KitchenAid stand mixer, which will spin,spin,spin until the end of time.

If your kitchen is like ours, the cupboards are full of appliances that only make an occasional appearance. Our Breville panini press hasn’t made a “melt” in months. Our Marcato pasta maker last saw action in the early 2000s. And our George Foreman grill is retired for good, because it’s just as easy to fire up the barbecue. But our KitchenAid stand mixer spins to our “Aid” time and again, always ready to make bread dough, cake batter, or cookies.

Stand mixers date to the early 1900s. KitchenAid’s version came along in the 1930s, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn some of the original models are still spinning almost a hundred years later. The appliance is just that good. The KitchenAid was designed to be as simple, efficient, and robust as possible, and with only one task in mind: to spin ingredients in dizzying circles until they’re thoroughly mixed. Sure, you can add dozens of specialized attachments but none change what the stand mixer does at its core. Spin, spin, spin.

When I make a batch of cookies, I stand back in wonder as our KitchenAid does its thing. As I add the ingredients, the paddle blade works harder and harder to blend them together. By the time I get to the last of a dozen ingredients; say, chocolate chips, the mixer is practically bouncing across the counter as it struggles to plow through the dough. You’d expect the mixer to break down at any second in an explosion of flying gears and sizzling smoke. But it never does.

I know a lot of people who own a KitchenAid stand mixer, and I’ve never heard of one that stopped working. Even if it did break, the appliance is designed for easy repair. The parts can be swapped out individually and quickly, eliminating the need for a repair person or a new mixer. It reminds me of the old Maytag washers, and how their repairman was described as “the loneliest guy in town”.

Like most appliances, Maytags aren’t what they used to be. We yearn for the models from the 1980s or earlier, which could wash anything and never break down. Today’s Maytags are a shadow of their former selves. They don’t do as good of a job, and every five years you’re thinking about replacing them. Not so the KitchenAid stand mixer. I have no doubt ours will be a part of our kids’ inheritance someday.

Speaking of kids, our daughter has her own KitchenAid and it sits proudly on her kitchen counter. Counter space in the kitchen is precious so only a few appliances deserve to be full-time residents. A coffeemaker. Some sort of toaster oven. And a KitchenAid stand mixer, which somehow manages to look appliance-elegant with its curves and swoops.

“Mixmasters” (a popular nickname for the KitchenAid) aren’t cheap. Most models run about $300 USD for the basic setup. Consider though, it’s the only stand mixer you’re ever going to need. KitchenAid even admitted they expanded their color selection and limited-edition models in an effort to generate more repeat customers. (This year – and only this year – you can buy one in “iridescent periwinkle blue”.)

Our Colorado kitchen had a very cool below-counter cabinet, designed specifically for a heavy stand mixer. You opened the door, pulled a shelf handle, and your Mixmaster rose effortlessly out of the cabinet on special hinges, snapping into place at counter level. An appliance has to be awfully special to justify a custom cabinet. Or a spot in the Smithsonian Museum, where the KitchenAid stands as a part of the Julia Child exhibit.

I don’t need to go to the Smithsonian to see a stand mixer (nor do you). I have my KitchenAid right here in the kitchen cabinet. I can put down the laptop and whip up a batch of cookies anytime I want. Like, right now. Time for my Mixmaster to spin, spin, spin again, just like it’s done a thousand times before.

Some content sourced from The Atlantic article, “KitchenAid Did it Right 87 Years Ago”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Fresh Food for Thought

When it comes to healthy lifestyle, the chatter seems to have shifted from diet to drugs. Instead of “you are what you eat” you could say, “you are… the product of whatever prescription you can afford”. A regimen of Ozempic, the trendy weight loss injection of celebrities, will set you back $1,000 USD a month. So with this kind of pharmaceutical spending in mind, it was refreshing to read an article about the Atlantic Diet, a fresca (fresh) foods spinoff of its more famous predecessor, the Mediterranean.

Because it’s a common way to eat in Spain and Portugal, the Atlantic is formally known as the Southern European Traditional Atlantic Diet (a real “mouthful” there). But you can just call it “The Atlantic” because it’s so simple. A lot of fresh fish, a little meat and dairy, vegetables, whole-grain bread, and the occasional glass of wine. To contrast, the Mediterranean demands more plant-based foods like fruits, vegetables, and olive oil on top of just about everything.

No surprise, the Atlantic improves your health by lowering blood pressure, insulin resistance, total cholesterol, and the circumference of your waist. It’s not rocket science but it still takes fortitude to pass up the other temptations of, say, the American diet. Soft drinks. Processed foods. Just about anything with sugar in it. The usual sacrifices that come with a healthy diet.

There’s a more challenging aspect of the Atlantic diet besides whole foods. The meals are meant to be home-cooked and served family style, encouraging social interaction. Accordingly, an Atlantic dieter should a) turn off the TV, b) put away the cell phone, c) focus on meaningful conversations, d) chew slowly, and e) pause between bites. Talk about overhauling the way you eat, huh? So I ask, especially to you fellow Americans, which of those five would be the hardest to achieve? You’re forgiven if you answer “all of the above”.

Admittedly, my wife and I would be challenged by the Atlantic approach. We enjoy making dinner together, but after a long day there’s nothing more appealing than plopping our meals on trays and sitting down to another episode of mindless streaming TV. And the cell phones are always nearby in case a text chimes in. We’re so immersed in our show in fact, who knows how fast we chew or if we ever pause between bites. Heck, do we even taste what we’re eating?

At least we’re not tempted by Ozempic. “Miracle drug” perhaps, but don’t ignore the side effects. Dropping the weight through injections can gift you with blurred vision, gallstones, allergic reactions, and a constant state of exhaustion (just to name a few). Worst of all, you might literally wear your results with “Ozempic face”, a hollowed-out look with sagging skin and signs of premature aging. No thanks. Those couple of countries on the other side of the Atlantic have a much better approach.

Some content sourced from the CNN Health article, “A cousin to the Mediterranean Diet: the Atlantic Diet explained”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.