By Greg Evans
When I grow up I want to sit behind a desk or counter doing work I don't really like for a boss I despise, walking into work Monday morning thinking how darn short the weekend was and how far away Friday afternoon is which seems like a light-year. I do my time collecting a lousy or decent pay check that may be enough to allow me to save up for retirement at age 75 and then I will sit around watching reality television and eating chicken fingers until my children can't take it anymore and put me into an old person's facility where I can rot away or God willing before being shipped off to such a place a massive heart attack takes me." How many children have you heard say such things when they are asked what they want to be when they grow up?
T.S. Eliot once said, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper." I don't know if it had anything to do with the spider bite, the exceptional physical reaction or the fear of the unknown having never been speared by such a poisonous creature before, but I have found myself thinking much more about mortality than I ever had in the past. That moment when the bells toll. I sat down a few days after the attack, my wrist at the time still aching and slightly itchy, the flesh still being devoured by the hellacious venom and I rudimentarily pondered mortality. What is the meaning of life? Of everything or anything? Most people don't want to think about it. It is a scary thought when you start to get down to the nitty gritty. We are born, live fairly normal routine lives and then we pass on. But in those short years that we are living and learning and seeing and loving and hurting and thinking and planning and working and saving and spending and healing and soaring, at that moment when you gasp that last breath will you think to yourself, "I wouldn't have done anything different," or would you say, "thank heavens this execrable life is finally over!"
One thing I came to realize is that too many people lose their ability to believe in their dreams. The hard scrabble life, irking out a meager living, trying to guide contemptible children in the right direction in a world so seemingly filled with attractive and lurid vices. Go after those dreams, doesn't matter whether you are 16 or 69. I heard a story one day about a man in his sixties who was nearing retirement decided that he was going to quit his job and begin a new career. He was going to pursue the dream of his youth and become a practicing attorney. So this man enrolled into a law program and found going back to school was harder than he had thought it would be but he refused to quit. He studied with students most of whom were 45+ years younger than him. Three years later he earned himself a JD. The next step on his journey was the state bar exam. This man took the exam and failed. He took it a second time and failed. He took it a third time and failed. It wasn't until his sixth try that he finally passed the exam and became a licensed attorney and went on to have a successful law practice that spanned twenty years. He finally retired in his mid-eighties. His story is one I think about sometimes when I think life has hit a lull or I feel as if I am in my early nineties instead of my early thirties. The point of the story is to go after it because tomorrow you could take a step and a bolt of lighting may come out of the blue sky and have your number. The beauty of life is that we are given a freewill to go out and make this life what we want to make it. I see it all the time, people who speak of and see themselves as being trapped. The reality is that you are never truly trapped, you just aren't taking the correct angle. There is no point in looking at another's life and wishing that you had their life because how can life have any meaning if you aren't the one to carve it out, to recognize your talents, dreams and go after them with your whole heart and soul. Each and every one of you who wakes up tomorrow and decides that it is the day you are going to begin transforming yourself into that curious dreamer you were when you were five. You can bet there will be plenty of people putting you down, telling you to get your head on straight, telling you that you are down right nuts. Artist Jackson Pollock was the worst drawer in his class. His own brother was a more talented artist then he was but Jackson's paintings today sell in the Hundreds of millions. Walt Disney worked for a newspaper but was fired and told by his editor that he didn't have any creativity. These people who are everywhere spreading their poison trying to make you feel small. The same people who cut you off in traffic and don't pick up their dog's business in your front yard, they talk on cell phones in nice restaurants and steal your morning newspaper.
Let me tell you another quick story about a Chinese playwright named Gao Xingjian who in 1983 was diagnosed with incurable lung cancer. There was nothing he could do but wait to die. A few weeks later a second examination revealed that the cancer had gone away. Gao was given a second chance at life. Due to his inflammatory writing he was on the verge of being sent away to a prison farm because of the repressive government and he packed up a few belongings and took off on a soul searching journey. He traveled to ancient fortresses and climbed enchanting mountains. For five months he journeyed and took notes and upon returning to his home he wrote a novel called Soul Mountain that is a study as well as ponders the human soul. Gao went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. IT just goes to show you that sometimes taking a risk and wandering out to the edge uncovers things about you that you may not have realized or if nothing else creates satisfaction. Gao went in search of the meaning of life. I don't know whether or not he found it, but he "lived" and as far as I am concerned that there is the meaning of life. Get up tomorrow and really live.
Simple Life
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
STOWAWAY TO SALZBURG
By Greg Evans
Nearly a month has passed since we sat in an astral medieval music room in the 900 year-old Hohensalzburg Castle and listened to an ensemble performing the enduring compositions of Mozart, Hayden and Dvorak as the sun set over the most beautiful and romantic city in Europe, Salzburg. An enchanting Baroque city on the banks of the Salzach river and the northern boundary of the Alps, it remains an absolute gem to those lucky enough to wander the ancient cobbled streets and speak with the kind and curious locals.
Almost every night I find myself dreaming of having coffee with Mom and Mary at the Cafe Tomaselli and eating fried fish and chocolates on the Getreidegasse stopping into small shops to chat with the pretty Salzburg girls working behind the counters. I strolled with the ghosts of Leopold and Wolfgang, shared communion with St. Rupert and scribbled lines of poetry in Mirabell garden while the sound of Mozart's piano concerto no. 21 floated through the warm balmy air. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers, that I longed to pick and place on the hotel window sill, carried in the breeze. Along the river we rode on a square barge against the racing green water flowing down from Bavaria, as the city, stoic and alert passed by eyeing us suspiciously. The ash gray stones of the old cathedrals, worn and tired, history written in the dust collected on the rafters and the echoes of the haunting organ. We sipped Austrian wine and dined on bread and soft sweet cheeses thinking slowly and speaking of music and Mozart, admiring the view from the Straatsbrucke, the padlocks placed for posterity clinging for dear life above the raging water. On the 26th exchange downstream is where ours is located, there forever. There for some great, curious mind to stumble upon one day and stare at it and wonder of the lives that were once lived, tired hands that placed that rusty lock there so many years before.
I have never in my life stumbled upon such an endearing place as Salzburg. Never have I left a city I only just met and experienced such terrible nostalgia. Never have I gazed into the eyes of a local population and felt as if I had known them somewhere before. The angle at which the fading light strikes the city and the eye, the manner in which the aromas catch the breezes and how the music of the people and the past ricochet off the stone walls and steep cliff sides, tales told by candle light and every day a new experience, a new emotion and a new memory. It is the last pure place on the planet and forever etched in my mind that first moment I stepped foot into the old town and for a minute I wondered if I was flying. Soaring over the rooftops like a sparrow, exploring the new town with the wistfulness of a young child, grasping a hold of every scent and sight, sound and sensation of touch and timeless dreaming. Humming The Sound of Music and dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful girl in a green Dirndl with green eyes and braided blond hair, soft hands and a gentle smile. A silver brooch glimmers in the lantern light, and the scent of a freshly lit cigar lingers.
Nearly a month has passed since we sat in an astral medieval music room in the 900 year-old Hohensalzburg Castle and listened to an ensemble performing the enduring compositions of Mozart, Hayden and Dvorak as the sun set over the most beautiful and romantic city in Europe, Salzburg. An enchanting Baroque city on the banks of the Salzach river and the northern boundary of the Alps, it remains an absolute gem to those lucky enough to wander the ancient cobbled streets and speak with the kind and curious locals.
Almost every night I find myself dreaming of having coffee with Mom and Mary at the Cafe Tomaselli and eating fried fish and chocolates on the Getreidegasse stopping into small shops to chat with the pretty Salzburg girls working behind the counters. I strolled with the ghosts of Leopold and Wolfgang, shared communion with St. Rupert and scribbled lines of poetry in Mirabell garden while the sound of Mozart's piano concerto no. 21 floated through the warm balmy air. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers, that I longed to pick and place on the hotel window sill, carried in the breeze. Along the river we rode on a square barge against the racing green water flowing down from Bavaria, as the city, stoic and alert passed by eyeing us suspiciously. The ash gray stones of the old cathedrals, worn and tired, history written in the dust collected on the rafters and the echoes of the haunting organ. We sipped Austrian wine and dined on bread and soft sweet cheeses thinking slowly and speaking of music and Mozart, admiring the view from the Straatsbrucke, the padlocks placed for posterity clinging for dear life above the raging water. On the 26th exchange downstream is where ours is located, there forever. There for some great, curious mind to stumble upon one day and stare at it and wonder of the lives that were once lived, tired hands that placed that rusty lock there so many years before.
I have never in my life stumbled upon such an endearing place as Salzburg. Never have I left a city I only just met and experienced such terrible nostalgia. Never have I gazed into the eyes of a local population and felt as if I had known them somewhere before. The angle at which the fading light strikes the city and the eye, the manner in which the aromas catch the breezes and how the music of the people and the past ricochet off the stone walls and steep cliff sides, tales told by candle light and every day a new experience, a new emotion and a new memory. It is the last pure place on the planet and forever etched in my mind that first moment I stepped foot into the old town and for a minute I wondered if I was flying. Soaring over the rooftops like a sparrow, exploring the new town with the wistfulness of a young child, grasping a hold of every scent and sight, sound and sensation of touch and timeless dreaming. Humming The Sound of Music and dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful girl in a green Dirndl with green eyes and braided blond hair, soft hands and a gentle smile. A silver brooch glimmers in the lantern light, and the scent of a freshly lit cigar lingers.
BROWN RECLUSE SPIDER ATTACK
By Greg Evans
I was lying on the floor playing with my daughter when I felt a strange initially mild sting on my right wrist that quickly increased in intensity. Then a fairly intense burning sensation could be felt around the spot of the wound. I thought at first it was a wasp sting but the burning then began racing up my arm and into my chest area and back down my arm and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. My arm then felt extremely heavy and I looked at the wound and watch it morphing into different shapes and colors. It looked like a rotten fried egg, similar to a mosquito bite surrounded by a redness and I knew then that it wasn't a wasp sting but some kind of spider. I could see venom drainage being discharged by the wound and I washed it away with cool water. At first I feared angina pectoris and I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me back in fifteen minutes and if I don't respond than I would probably be dead and to come pick up the kid. I searched the area of the attack for the culprit but I couldn't locate the wretched arachnid. For hours a mild burning and itchy feeling continued and the wound swelled considerably and then the venom began eating away my flesh at a rapid pace. Over the next three days the venom continued to feast on my wound and began eating into my wrist. Finally feeling frightened after a night of nausea and dizziness I went to the doctor and was prescribed a strong ointment. I have been using the cream now for multiple weeks and the wound is doing much better. I think one day it will heal completely but there will be at least a 1/2 inch scar in its place.
For those who think they may have been mauled by a similar demon the first thing to do is get ice directly on the wound but don't leave it on too long. You also want to try and remain calm because the anxiety will help the venom to travel faster through your system. Then get to a doctor as soon as possible. I should have also and because I didn't I will have a noticeable scar. The one thing I am thankful for is that I was gorged by the monster and not my daughter. After doing research on the creatures I learned that there are around four species of the spider and not all the attacks result in the horror stories their reputations carry. Most recluse attacks are mild and must be cared for as any poisonous spider attack but it is rare for it to be fatal in healthy adults unless you have some pre-existing condition. They live in dark undisturbed areas like closets, in unused beds, log piles, crawl spaces, etc. Stay vigilant my friends!
I was lying on the floor playing with my daughter when I felt a strange initially mild sting on my right wrist that quickly increased in intensity. Then a fairly intense burning sensation could be felt around the spot of the wound. I thought at first it was a wasp sting but the burning then began racing up my arm and into my chest area and back down my arm and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. My arm then felt extremely heavy and I looked at the wound and watch it morphing into different shapes and colors. It looked like a rotten fried egg, similar to a mosquito bite surrounded by a redness and I knew then that it wasn't a wasp sting but some kind of spider. I could see venom drainage being discharged by the wound and I washed it away with cool water. At first I feared angina pectoris and I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me back in fifteen minutes and if I don't respond than I would probably be dead and to come pick up the kid. I searched the area of the attack for the culprit but I couldn't locate the wretched arachnid. For hours a mild burning and itchy feeling continued and the wound swelled considerably and then the venom began eating away my flesh at a rapid pace. Over the next three days the venom continued to feast on my wound and began eating into my wrist. Finally feeling frightened after a night of nausea and dizziness I went to the doctor and was prescribed a strong ointment. I have been using the cream now for multiple weeks and the wound is doing much better. I think one day it will heal completely but there will be at least a 1/2 inch scar in its place.
For those who think they may have been mauled by a similar demon the first thing to do is get ice directly on the wound but don't leave it on too long. You also want to try and remain calm because the anxiety will help the venom to travel faster through your system. Then get to a doctor as soon as possible. I should have also and because I didn't I will have a noticeable scar. The one thing I am thankful for is that I was gorged by the monster and not my daughter. After doing research on the creatures I learned that there are around four species of the spider and not all the attacks result in the horror stories their reputations carry. Most recluse attacks are mild and must be cared for as any poisonous spider attack but it is rare for it to be fatal in healthy adults unless you have some pre-existing condition. They live in dark undisturbed areas like closets, in unused beds, log piles, crawl spaces, etc. Stay vigilant my friends!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
MONTICELLO
By Greg Evans
My young daughter and I were traveling south on the interstate 81 when we decided to take a detour and visit the famous homestead of Thomas Jefferson. We were on our way back to our cabin high in the
Sunday, June 26, 2011
AL PETTEWAY AND AMY WHITE
By Greg Evans
I have to say the weather has been pretty freaky lately and I do know, because of science, that the planet is undergoing a geomagnetic polar shift which is why Appalachia is now experiencing tornados and heavy daily showers like a Guatemalan rainforest. Some say that eventually the Appalachian mountains will be sub-tropical. Fine with me. I wouldn't care if I never saw snow again for the rest of my days. Summertime in Appalachia is beautiful. The clear, fresh, warm mountain air and lush green forests. Birds and butterflies are everywhere, the sweet smell of fresh moss and trickling streams. I drift off with the wind to times past, when the world was smaller and the forests bigger, when the oceans were blue and green instead of brown. I walk through endless golden fields of wheat and meadows of crocuses.
I lived in cities for years, New York, Los Angeles, just outside Nashville and who knows where else? I'll tell you what, the skies were never as blue as they are here at the top of the world, high up in the clouds of the Appalachian Mountains. The bluest blue you could ever imagine, bluer than a Van Gogh painting, a blue that is so pure and vibrant you get a strange warm tingling feeling like you are flying, or that sensation of laying in a field far from any humanity without any shoes on, your eyes closed and the soft mountain breeze tickling the soles of your feet in the shade of a green apple tree on a warm summer's day. You can't put stuff like that into words, you have to experience it. A world full of little yellow inch worms.
Saw a show the other night, drove down, out of the mountains and along winding, narrow roads with hairpins turns and speeding trucks like being in Peru, and watched guitarist and banjoist Al Petteway and singer, harpist, guitarist, mandolinist and doboist Amy White, perform. It was an extraordinary show and the purity of the music was Appalachia. This couple comes from the east near the Flattop mountain in the Carolinas and showcased their mountain music with the precision, fluency and passion of Apelles painting a line. So in a small concert hall, a couple thousand people, dimmed lights, the clanging of flasks of peach moonshine and the scent of nearby peppermint chew wafting through the quiet crowd the music took us away, floating through the ancient hills and howling of raiding injuns, whispering waterfalls and swaying of Revolutionary War oaks tree branches we soared and swam through our own thoughts and memories, accompanied were we by incredible photographs of nature and mountain top views, photographs taken by Al and Amy. I was moved by the performance and I'm not moved by much. Another day high in the mountains of Appalachia.
I have to say the weather has been pretty freaky lately and I do know, because of science, that the planet is undergoing a geomagnetic polar shift which is why Appalachia is now experiencing tornados and heavy daily showers like a Guatemalan rainforest. Some say that eventually the Appalachian mountains will be sub-tropical. Fine with me. I wouldn't care if I never saw snow again for the rest of my days. Summertime in Appalachia is beautiful. The clear, fresh, warm mountain air and lush green forests. Birds and butterflies are everywhere, the sweet smell of fresh moss and trickling streams. I drift off with the wind to times past, when the world was smaller and the forests bigger, when the oceans were blue and green instead of brown. I walk through endless golden fields of wheat and meadows of crocuses.
I lived in cities for years, New York, Los Angeles, just outside Nashville and who knows where else? I'll tell you what, the skies were never as blue as they are here at the top of the world, high up in the clouds of the Appalachian Mountains. The bluest blue you could ever imagine, bluer than a Van Gogh painting, a blue that is so pure and vibrant you get a strange warm tingling feeling like you are flying, or that sensation of laying in a field far from any humanity without any shoes on, your eyes closed and the soft mountain breeze tickling the soles of your feet in the shade of a green apple tree on a warm summer's day. You can't put stuff like that into words, you have to experience it. A world full of little yellow inch worms.
Saw a show the other night, drove down, out of the mountains and along winding, narrow roads with hairpins turns and speeding trucks like being in Peru, and watched guitarist and banjoist Al Petteway and singer, harpist, guitarist, mandolinist and doboist Amy White, perform. It was an extraordinary show and the purity of the music was Appalachia. This couple comes from the east near the Flattop mountain in the Carolinas and showcased their mountain music with the precision, fluency and passion of Apelles painting a line. So in a small concert hall, a couple thousand people, dimmed lights, the clanging of flasks of peach moonshine and the scent of nearby peppermint chew wafting through the quiet crowd the music took us away, floating through the ancient hills and howling of raiding injuns, whispering waterfalls and swaying of Revolutionary War oaks tree branches we soared and swam through our own thoughts and memories, accompanied were we by incredible photographs of nature and mountain top views, photographs taken by Al and Amy. I was moved by the performance and I'm not moved by much. Another day high in the mountains of Appalachia.
Monday, April 4, 2011
SPRING IN APPALACHIA, GROWING AN ORANGE TREE IN THE MOUNTAINS
By Greg Evans
A song through the woods came to me, just past dark, I heard it softly, like a whippoorwill through the purple shadows and I knew it was coming from down yonder by the ole Brode's cabin so I followed the sound along the old creek bed. Little Annabel, I recognized her voice, pulling laundry off the line and folding it on the picnic table in front of the little white barn, once a black smith's shop before eighteen hundred and sixty-one, still standing. It was Pretty Saro, in perfect pitch I imagine, and I sat down where I was on a dried rotten log with my cigar, tipped my hat up so I could see the stars and hummed quietly along. It's nice on a warm night, to sit and enjoy a fine smoke and listen to a pretty song. The sounds of the forest alive, crickets and evening birds, the scuttle of little rodents and whispering of the wind. Throughout the mountains folks were out strolling and chatting and playing music from Clinch River to Roan Mountain. Haven't had but one such evening in maybe seven or eight months. It was a hard winter this year. Since last October we have only been out of the mountains once. During the day the bumble bees and wasps zipping about in every direction, though neither is an aggressor and thus I can enjoy the weather comfortably alongside them. With all the heavy rains and snows we're due for a mass hatching of blood thirty mosquiters ready to enjoy a fat spring meal. I'll have to erect a few torches to chase them away or else I'll be filled with welts in the duration it takes to have a cigar. It wasn't until today that I can confidently say, spring is now here and darn it if it didn't take long enough to arrive! I have decided that this year I am going to plant a couple orange trees. As I have mentioned before I have three lemon trees that I have been growing for two years and they are as healthy as ever. The secret is to take what people who claim to be "experts" say with a grain of salt. I am not saying they don't know what they are talking about, but there are more than one way to grow a nice tropical fruit plant in the Appalachian Mountains. The first thing is that you need a pot or a empty plastic coffee container, cleaned of course. The tropical fruit plants won't grow well in the natural clay and come winter they will obviously die. Next, simply purchase a fruit from your local market, like a lemon, lime or orange. Purchase some regular fertilized soil and put it into whatever pot you are going to do your growing. Then remove a few seeds, at least three just in case one or two don't grow (not all seeds will grow regardless of how careful and attentive you are), bury no more than two per pot, about two inches under the soil. Water them well the first day and then a little every day after until they begin to sprout. Then make sure they get plenty of sunlight (southern exposure) because, don't forget! They are tropical plants. They will grow slowly so don't be alarmed. During warm and hot days and nights they can be kept outside but come autumn and winter they must be brought in doors. They will go dormant, which means they won't grow much at all but they will survive if you keep them watered and in front of a window that gets a lot of sunlight. They will survived for years if you care for them well.
A song through the woods came to me, just past dark, I heard it softly, like a whippoorwill through the purple shadows and I knew it was coming from down yonder by the ole Brode's cabin so I followed the sound along the old creek bed. Little Annabel, I recognized her voice, pulling laundry off the line and folding it on the picnic table in front of the little white barn, once a black smith's shop before eighteen hundred and sixty-one, still standing. It was Pretty Saro, in perfect pitch I imagine, and I sat down where I was on a dried rotten log with my cigar, tipped my hat up so I could see the stars and hummed quietly along. It's nice on a warm night, to sit and enjoy a fine smoke and listen to a pretty song. The sounds of the forest alive, crickets and evening birds, the scuttle of little rodents and whispering of the wind. Throughout the mountains folks were out strolling and chatting and playing music from Clinch River to Roan Mountain. Haven't had but one such evening in maybe seven or eight months. It was a hard winter this year. Since last October we have only been out of the mountains once. During the day the bumble bees and wasps zipping about in every direction, though neither is an aggressor and thus I can enjoy the weather comfortably alongside them. With all the heavy rains and snows we're due for a mass hatching of blood thirty mosquiters ready to enjoy a fat spring meal. I'll have to erect a few torches to chase them away or else I'll be filled with welts in the duration it takes to have a cigar. It wasn't until today that I can confidently say, spring is now here and darn it if it didn't take long enough to arrive! I have decided that this year I am going to plant a couple orange trees. As I have mentioned before I have three lemon trees that I have been growing for two years and they are as healthy as ever. The secret is to take what people who claim to be "experts" say with a grain of salt. I am not saying they don't know what they are talking about, but there are more than one way to grow a nice tropical fruit plant in the Appalachian Mountains. The first thing is that you need a pot or a empty plastic coffee container, cleaned of course. The tropical fruit plants won't grow well in the natural clay and come winter they will obviously die. Next, simply purchase a fruit from your local market, like a lemon, lime or orange. Purchase some regular fertilized soil and put it into whatever pot you are going to do your growing. Then remove a few seeds, at least three just in case one or two don't grow (not all seeds will grow regardless of how careful and attentive you are), bury no more than two per pot, about two inches under the soil. Water them well the first day and then a little every day after until they begin to sprout. Then make sure they get plenty of sunlight (southern exposure) because, don't forget! They are tropical plants. They will grow slowly so don't be alarmed. During warm and hot days and nights they can be kept outside but come autumn and winter they must be brought in doors. They will go dormant, which means they won't grow much at all but they will survive if you keep them watered and in front of a window that gets a lot of sunlight. They will survived for years if you care for them well.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
SPRING, WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE, TAMARIND TREE
By Greg Evans
The day was full of colors and light, 70 degrees and the mountain mists burned away before noon. I kept the lemon trees and the mini palm outside over night and I'm sure they grew an inch after today. The wife purchased two hanging inpatients which I hung beneath the awning on a porch. The wine now flows through my blood and the cigar tobacco sticky on the corners of my mouth, a sweet bitter flavor. Evening has set in and I can see Orion's belt in the direct western sky from my perch on the top of world. The bats twisting and twirling still at this hour, dogs barking in the distance, guns being fired down in the hollow. Venison for a week I suppose, or maybe squirrel. Went shooting the other day at the range. Talked with an old timer from across the mountain. Said he's about done with this darn winter and at 82-years-old said he can sniff the coming spring and sure enough spring has arrived. The blossoms on the dog wood trees opened full this morning decorating the hillsides and valleys with gorgeous whites, lavender, rose and purple. My perennials are beginning to flower and I believe I even saw a mosquito sneaking around but it's too early in the season for them. By mid summer this place is so full of mosquitos if you walk through the woods in shorts and a t-shirt you look like a case of the small pox. Aside from playing with the little one I worked all day long, from the morning until I threw burgers and hot dogs onto the grill. I took the hamburger meat and mixed it with chopped white onion, minced garlic, parsley, Italian seasoning, black pepper and Worcestershire sauce before packing into paddies. I then grill them on the top level of the grill at about 400 for about 30 minutes and they were fantastic. Did you know that Worcestershire sauce was actually created by accident by two chemists in Worcester England in the 1830's trying to create a good curry. They had made the sauce but it was too strong so they stored it in a factory and a year later when they were making room in the factory they tasted the sauce and it had fermented and mellowed and was tasty and thus a wonderful hamburger sauce was had. In 1838 the first bottles were put on the market called "Lea and Perrins Worcestershire sauce." The ingredients according to an article by Fay Schlesinger on Nov. 3 2009 from Daily Mail online, are malt vinegar (from barely), salt, sugar, molasses, spirit vinegar, anchovies, onions, tamarind extract, garlic, spice and flavoring (cloves, lemon, pickles, soy sauce and peppers). By the way, Tamarind is a tree in the Fabaceae family indigenous to tropical Africa. It also grows wild in South Asia and Arabia particularly in the country of Oman, though it is thought to have been transported there by people. It was introduced to Mexico and Hawaii in the 16th and 17th century respectively. It is now grown in many nations with a tropical climate. The tamarind flowers with red and yellow flowers. It is a busy tree with evergreen leaves and reaches heights between forty and sixty feet. Tamarind has a sweet and sour taste and is high in vitamin B and calcium.
The day was full of colors and light, 70 degrees and the mountain mists burned away before noon. I kept the lemon trees and the mini palm outside over night and I'm sure they grew an inch after today. The wife purchased two hanging inpatients which I hung beneath the awning on a porch. The wine now flows through my blood and the cigar tobacco sticky on the corners of my mouth, a sweet bitter flavor. Evening has set in and I can see Orion's belt in the direct western sky from my perch on the top of world. The bats twisting and twirling still at this hour, dogs barking in the distance, guns being fired down in the hollow. Venison for a week I suppose, or maybe squirrel. Went shooting the other day at the range. Talked with an old timer from across the mountain. Said he's about done with this darn winter and at 82-years-old said he can sniff the coming spring and sure enough spring has arrived. The blossoms on the dog wood trees opened full this morning decorating the hillsides and valleys with gorgeous whites, lavender, rose and purple. My perennials are beginning to flower and I believe I even saw a mosquito sneaking around but it's too early in the season for them. By mid summer this place is so full of mosquitos if you walk through the woods in shorts and a t-shirt you look like a case of the small pox. Aside from playing with the little one I worked all day long, from the morning until I threw burgers and hot dogs onto the grill. I took the hamburger meat and mixed it with chopped white onion, minced garlic, parsley, Italian seasoning, black pepper and Worcestershire sauce before packing into paddies. I then grill them on the top level of the grill at about 400 for about 30 minutes and they were fantastic. Did you know that Worcestershire sauce was actually created by accident by two chemists in Worcester England in the 1830's trying to create a good curry. They had made the sauce but it was too strong so they stored it in a factory and a year later when they were making room in the factory they tasted the sauce and it had fermented and mellowed and was tasty and thus a wonderful hamburger sauce was had. In 1838 the first bottles were put on the market called "Lea and Perrins Worcestershire sauce." The ingredients according to an article by Fay Schlesinger on Nov. 3 2009 from Daily Mail online, are malt vinegar (from barely), salt, sugar, molasses, spirit vinegar, anchovies, onions, tamarind extract, garlic, spice and flavoring (cloves, lemon, pickles, soy sauce and peppers). By the way, Tamarind is a tree in the Fabaceae family indigenous to tropical Africa. It also grows wild in South Asia and Arabia particularly in the country of Oman, though it is thought to have been transported there by people. It was introduced to Mexico and Hawaii in the 16th and 17th century respectively. It is now grown in many nations with a tropical climate. The tamarind flowers with red and yellow flowers. It is a busy tree with evergreen leaves and reaches heights between forty and sixty feet. Tamarind has a sweet and sour taste and is high in vitamin B and calcium.
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