Canton again

Today I paid another visit to Canton First Monday Trade Days, in Van Zandt County. I last went four years ago. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, there are 254 counties in Texas (I discovered that from a book I picked up at the market).

Once a month, the otherwise small town of Canton holds a giant flea market on the weekend preceding the first Monday in the month – hence the name. Apparently the market dates back to around 1850, when the first Monday of each month was when the circuit judge would arrive to hold court sessions. Everyone would come to town to watch the proceedings, this being in the days before television and the Xbox.

Today, the market is spread over 100 acres, with more than 6,000 vendors, selling everything from pets to food to clothes to crafts to the usual “boot sale” fare and the even more usual craporama. I spent about four hours looking around, but have no idea how much I still didn’t see – I suspect a lot.

Lazy people on "scooters"

Since I last went, they have started renting “scooters” – really mechanized wheelchairs – which, piloted by unskilled drivers, can be a menace. They’re invaluable for the disabled, giving them the mobility that they otherwise lack. Most people that I saw using them, however, are simply bone idle – but that’s sadly a contemporary malaise. Maybe if they actually called them “wheelchairs” the stigma would scare off otherwise healthy people.

Indian taco

For lunch, I tried Indian (as in American Indian) tacos. These are similar to the familiar Mexican tacos – meat, tomato, lettuce and beans topped with cheese, served with a spicy salsa – except that the beans are pinto instead of refried and the base is Indian flat bread instead of a tortilla.

It was hot – 100  ̊F, or 38  ̊C – and the sweat running off my brow made my eyes sting. There’s plenty of shade, though, and the secret is to stay in it as much as possible and drink plenty. I bought a second hand book (signed by the authors) on the back roads of Texas ($2) and a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes ($5). Very restrained, I thought. No need to mention the cost of the fuel to get there and back …

On an entirely different topic, I was unfortunate enough to find myself, a couple of weeks ago, in McDonalds (it’s a long, and not very interesting, story). I only wanted a small fries. It seems they don’t do “small” fries. They have two sizes: medium and large. I know I’m more pedantic than most, but isn’t there an element of lunacy here? If you only have two sizes, shouldn’t they be small and large? If not, why not large and gigantic? Or giant and colossal? Am I missing something? (And, by the way, I still refuse to use that silly Starbuck-speak for coffee – it’s not venti, it’s large; and it’s not tall, it’s small (how confusing is that?). We already have perfectly good words to express these ideas – why invent new ones?)

Mural in Canton

Food stand

Grinding corn, the old fashioned way

Loving again

I went back to Loving today. The intention was to send myself a postcard, with Loving as the postmark.

I’d lined up a few places not too far away – Paradise, Athens, Paris, Palestine – and planned to mail a postcard from each. Fortunately, I got chatting to the postmistress in Loving, and she told me that the only way to do that was to go into the post office, and ask them to frank it. If I just mailed it outside, it would go to Fort Worth to be franked. That saved me some worthless trekking around, because it was 10:45am, and most of the rural post offices close at around 11am on Saturdays. Anyway, I got one; I foresee some early Saturday starts.

I came back through Jermyn, a very small town with a very small post office, and stopped in Jacksboro for lunch. A billboard had announced that “City Drug” had a soda fountain that was a tourist attraction, so I had to check it out. I wasn’t even sure what a “soda fountain” was. They were somewhat bemused by my questions: What’s the difference between a shake and a malt? (a malt has malt in it …) What’s “frito pie”? (fritos with chilli, cheese and onion). I had a chocolate malt and a grilled cheese sandwich. The locals weren’t as chatty as I’m used to coming across, so that’s about all I learned.

From Jacksboro, I headed towards Bridgeport, through Runaway Bay. Runaway Bay is a bit of an oddity – it has the atmosphere of a beach community, although, of course, it’s hundreds of miles from the coast. It is on the shore of Lake Bridgeport, which is quite a sizeable lake (13,000 acres, or 20 square miles, with 170 miles of shoreline), and is obviously affluent. Nevertheless, it’s not quite what you’d expect to find in the middle of Texas. Bridgeport, on the other hand, is distinctly forgettable – and this is a feature, I think, of every city named Bridgeport that I have thus far encountered.

Decatur has a little more going for it – a town square that, like so many others, is at least attempting rejuvenation. I’m sure you can imagine what it looks like – the town hall in a central island surrounded by a square (with ample parking) populated with bijou coffee shops, cafés, antique and “collectibles” stores, and the inevitable attorney’s offices. Unfortunately, for the most part, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but there’s almost always something to waste money on. It would be reasonable to think that Justin is the city from which “Justin” brand boots originate, especially since the town has several outlet stores selling principally that. It would also be wrong. The Justin boot company started in Indiana, moved to Texas in 1889 (Nocona, not too far from Justin), and then to Fort Worth in 1925. They bought rivals Tony Lama in 1990, and today are owned by Warren Buffet (probably the richest person in the world, at least, if you believe Forbes magazine). I only bought a couple of shirts – difficult to pass up at $12.95 – and so I’ve probably made Warren just a little bit richer.

Justin is, or rather was, also famous for being the home of the Texas Motor Speedway. I say “was” because, in 1995, the US Post Office changed its mailing address from Justin to Fort Worth. I must confess that I haven’t been to the Speedway. I keep thinking I should go, to see what it’s like, but keep forgetting to pick up earplugs.

On an entirely different topic, on an adjacent table at breakfast, a US Marine sat with his back to me. I could tell he was a marine, because his t-shirt proudly hailed “US Marines – First to Fight, Last to Leave.” I think I know what this means, but it’s easy to see how it could be misinterpreted, especially by another culture. This sort of arrogance is what makes America grate (sic).

Jermyn Post Office

Bridgeport Mural

Decatur Mural

Soda Fountain in Jacksboro

GastroPlus

I had a wonderful weekend cooking at the Ashburton School of Cookery, thanks to all of my kids! I took the “Gastro Plus!” course – a two-day course focused on cooking with local ingredients.

There were only 9 of us on the course: John, a tobacconist from Solihull – the only other male, whose friends had give it to him as a birthday present; two young-ish (late twenties, probably) sisters that were hoping to open their own gastro pub; two friends, both about to retire from the armed forces (a Major and a Squadron Leader, both nurses) who had never really needed to cook much before; a mother and daughter from London, who were using it as a “bonding” opportunity; and a rather intense woman from somewhere else.

The course alternated between demonstrations, cooking in pairs, and individual work. The intention was to cover as wide a range of cooking skills as possible in a couple of days, with some very imaginative menus, and quite a few “how the professionals do it” hints thrown in.

Some of the hints:

·        Vegetables – if it grows above ground, it goes in boiling water; if it grows below ground, cold water. Jersey Royals are the only exception.

·        If you’ve ever tried zesting citrus fruit on a fine grater, you’ve probably discovered that more stays on the grater than goes in the dish. Try cutting a small square of greaseproof paper, and place it over the grater. Zest away, and when you’re done, peel off the greaseproof and take off the zest with the back of a knife.

·        “Pin-boning” fish with tweezers is a pain, but not so much if you dip the tweezers in a glass of water between bones.

·        A garlic clove has a small “heart” that is easily seen if you slice it in half lengthways – take this out to reduce the “garlic-ness”.

·        When sweating onions or shallots, always throw in a pinch of salt – it helps draw out the moisture.

·        A piece of beef that takes 2 hours to cook needs to “rest” for 1 hour.

Since the course was fairly fast-paced, I learned the value of a “mis en place” – a list of what needs to be done, when, and in what order, to prepare a number of dishes. It covers all the preparation as well as the cooking. Most of us, when cooking, carry this in our heads, but it’s invaluable to have it written down for a meal that consists of several dish – timing is everything in cooking, taking second place only to advance preparation.

Which brings me on to the dishes!

We ate everything that we cooked, and cooked everything that we ate. The menu for lunch on the first day was:

• Seared organic salmon fillet, tomato vinaigrette, griddled asparagus and shaved pecorino cheese

And for dinner:

• Local pork tenderloin stuffed with apple, fricassee of cockles, artichokes, broad beans and Cornish new potatoes cooked in cider
• Frozen white chocolate and cardamom mousse served with seasonal fruits, minted sugar, and praline biscuits

And yes, we husked the broad beans individually, minted the sugar, and made the praline biscuits from scratch (well, nuts and sugar really, since you can’t get good quality scratch these days).

On the second day, an “extended” meal that lasted most of the day (interspersed with cooking) consisted of:

• Minestrone broth with baked red mullet fillet and truffle oil
• Plymouth gin and tonic sorbet
• Pink roasted duck breast with confit leg faggot wrapped in lettuce served with a cassis jus
• Potato rosti
• Green bean and carrot bundle
• Strawberry and lavender crème brulee

We had prepared the duck legs the day before, confit-style, by slow cooking, completely covered in goose fat, and refrigerating overnight. Apparently, this is one of the oldest ways of preserving food, and the duck legs would have kept for months like this. The goose fat can be strained and re-used several times. The green beans and carrots were blanched and tied with a thin strand of leek, to be steamed later. The jus was a reduction of red wine, cassis (blackcurrant) and vegetable stock.

The food was fabulous, the ingredients were the freshest and tastiest you can imagine, and the instructor was interesting and amusing. I think I’m not nearly so worried about high temperatures any more, nor meat that is slightly pink (as it should be). And I realize how easy it is to prepare things in advance so that the final stages of finishing and “plating” the dish are simple.

Thank you all for the wonderful experience!

Loving

Today, I went looking for Loving. Loving, TX, that is.

Loving is a small town, but not hard to find. Its nearest neighbor of any size is Graham, where I stopped for lunch at Sanderson’s Restaurant. It’s nothing to look at from the outside, but they serve good “home-style” food, buffet-style. “Take all you want, but please eat all you take.” $7.95, including a soft drink, and coffee. The buffet featured an extensive salad bar, plus meat loaf, shredded chicken, chicken fried steak, gravy (the white kind …), mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, pinto beans, collard greens, green beans, macaroni cheese, and for dessert, blackberry pie, peach cobbler, and ice cream. This is typical, and very tasty, fare. I think they were licensed, but somehow a beer just doesn’t go with this style of cooking – in the absence of lemonade, I had a root beer.

Why is the town called Loving? Look closely at the photographs, and you’ll see. There’s not a great deal to be said about the town, especially on a Sunday afternoon, so I’ll just let the pictures speak for themselves. It’s a pity we can’t all live in a town with such a name.

Loving, TX

The Community Center

Historical Marker

Ranch House

Loving Post Office

Sanderson's Restaurant

Fruitvale

As I was leaving the hotel this morning, I shared the lift with an American soldier in Army Combat Uniform. I asked him what the insignia on his sleeve meant, and he told me he was part of the 95^th Infantry Division. At first, I thought the combined Arabic and Roman numerals a little precocious (much like my pet peeve – if you look at the rear of almost any car, you’ll see lettering in about 5 different fonts; I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought about it, but it always looks way too “busy” for me …). On further investigation, it seems that the “V” is for “Victory” – it would make some sense if the victory preceded the insignia, but it didn’t.

The war in Iraq is now almost universally condemned, although the troops are supported. I’m somewhat ambivalent about this. It’s true that the troops are only doing what they’re told, but it’s also true that, if they didn’t, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I know that’s an over-simplification, and that’s why I’m ambivalent. Only history can decide, I suppose.

But I digress. After visiting my “coin lady” in Garland to pick up some missing state quarters (and you’ll be pleased to hear that she has her last chemotherapy in a couple of weeks), I headed towards Caney Creek Cowboy Church, for no other reason than that it’s east along Route 80, and that’s a quick way into rural Texas from Dallas.

Fruit stand

A little friend

I stopped at a fruit stand along the way to pick up some fresh peaches, and also to ask how far it was to the church. She didn’t know, in spite of the fact that it was only a few miles down the road. Maybe she didn’t hold with these new-fangled churches. When I got to the church, there was nothing much happening. Because cowboy churches always have a rodeo arena out back, there were a few local horse trailers, and youngsters practicing their skills – but no major event.

So I turned back towards Dallas. Just along the road, before I got to the highway, I encountered a little friend – just had to help him/her to the other side before someone else came along.

Ray

Ray's yard

Back on Route 80, I pulled off the road at “Rays Home Hobby”, just outside Fruitvale. It looked too interesting to pass up. Ray was fascinating. 76 years old, and married three times. His first two wives had died of cancer, and 8 years ago he married a Mexican woman – I didn’t see her, so I have no idea how old she is, but it’s not uncommon here for an older man to marry a younger Mexican woman – he gets a companion, and she gets the stability of a life in America. He was stationed outside Oxford during the war, and retired from the Air Force as a Squadron Leader. Now he just pursues his hobby of collecting old tools. His pale blue eyes positively lit up when he talked about his time on the airbase in England, and in Germany when they discovered the concentration camps, and later in Korea. Whenever I travel around, it seems that people (especially older people) are only too happy to “shoot the breeze” – I guess the opportunities to reminisce dwindle as technology impinges more and more on our everyday lives.

It was hot today – 95F, or 35C – and we parted with a sweaty handshake.

On the way back, I stopped at several flea markets (or “trade days”, as they’re sometimes called). I didn’t buy anything (except for some fresh white corn – sweet enough to eat raw), but I did meet some interesting people. 

BBQ

I couldn’t resist a smoked brisket sandwich (sliced, not chopped) with onions and BBQ sauce, and a Dr Pepper (which is just about the only fizzy drink I like). Delicious.

And not bad for $5.

Coin Lady

I haven’t seen my coin lady in Garland since before Christmas. The US mint is so erratic issuing State Quarters that are supposed to come out every 10 weeks, but rarely do, that I would often turn up on Saturday morning to find that no new quarters were available. I’ve been there once or twice this year, but the shop was always closed – this isn’t unusual, because personal commitments sometimes get in the way of normal opening hours. I keep saying that I’ll call before going, but I never do. The truth is that it’s fun to have somewhere to go on a Saturday morning. It was a jumping off point for the nearby Hindu temple, for an amazing sense of peace, or to Fry’s Electronics, to covet the latest gadgets, or to Whole Foods Market on Lemmon, for some grocery shopping, or to the Caribbean shop on 635 for a spicy Jamaican pattie and a Ting for lunch.

Debbie

So I was pleased as I parked opposite to see that the shop was open, and surprised as I approached to see that she’d dramatically changed her hair style. The first thing I did on walking through the door was to compliment her on her hair. She immediately responded that it was a wig, and broke down in tears. She’s had an ovarian cyst, requiring surgery and follow-on chemotherapy. Her mother died last year, and without that income (they shared the house), and without any siblings, she can no longer afford to keep the shop open. Her father was a builder, and started up the coin shop when he retired in 1971. She took it over when he died. I guess her world has suddenly been turned upside-down.

She’s looking for a job in the local education system, but would prefer an office job – although she’s trained as a teacher, she’s never had children, and has no brothers or sisters, and doesn’t feel confident about being in a classroom. The 10 year State Quarter program (5 states each year) finishes this year, and she wants to try to continue with existing customers, even though she expects to close the shop at the end of May.

It certainly makes you think. How quickly things can change. Please say a little prayer for her – half of the set of 50 quarters my children will get when the program finishes will have come from her shop. And I didn’t even know her name before today – it’s Debbie, by the way.

Turkey

Everybody Loves Raymond. I don’t seem to be able to escape this second-rate TV sitcom. As if it wasn’t enough that it’s shown on American Airlines transatlantic flights, it seems that Thomas Cook thinks it’s suitable for flights between London and Dalaman, Turkey. Maybe it’s just cheap, because I don’t recall it being that popular.

Arriving in Dalaman, you need to get a visa before going through immigration. Fortunately, Brenda had forewarned me. £10, and they don’t have change. And you thought Gordon was the king of stealth taxes! I was a little nervous about this, because Turkey is a Moslem country, and I know how neurotic the US is becoming about such things – I felt sure it would attract some comment on my return to the US (in fact, it passed unnoticed). In actuality, immigration was straightforward, and customs negligible (or non-existent), and in no time at all I was picked up by Hilary (a friend of Brenda’s) and we were on our way to Kalkan – about an hour and a half away. 

Xanthos

Brenda had already arranged a Sunday excursion – Ali (the taxi driver) picked us up at 10am, and took us first to Xanthos. Like Greece, the ruins here are so extensive that they can’t possibly protect all of them. The exquisite mosaic floors are covered with tarpaulins to preserve them until they can excavate properly, and a few areas are roped off, but, for the most part, you are free to wander anywhere. Brenda and I were dressed in shirts and shorts; Ali wore a jacket, hat and scarf!

Brenda in Saklikent

Traffic jam!

After Xanthos, Ali took us on to Saklikent Gorge. The season had not yet started, so that, although we couldn’t wade up the gorge, it was easy to get a seat at the restaurant on the river – sitting cross-legged on the floor to eat fresh-cooked trout and salad from a low table. This was my first introduction to the abundance of every kind of fresh food that is available in the region. On the way back from Saklikent, we hit the rush hour, and were probably held up for at least five minutes.

Monday was a relaxing day – at least, if you consider the almost vertical descent into Kalkan village relaxing. Fortunately, Brenda invariably takes a taxi back! Almost immediately on leaving the villa, we ran into “Auntie and Uncle” – the cleaners who look after Brenda’s villa. “Uncle” approached us holding out the stem of a plant, stripped of its outer layer, indicating (because his English is non-existent, as is my Turkish) that we should eat it. It was only after we had complied (and I have to say it didn’t taste bad … actually, it didn’t taste of anything much at all) that he pointed out the source – a thistle growing at the side of the road. If there’s one thing that impressed me about the Turkish people, apart from the fact that they are so friendly, it was that they are truly frugal. Almost nothing goes to waste – Brenda’s discarded water bottles, for example, are snapped up as containers for marinating olives.

Lunch at ...

... Alibaba's

It’s not possible to “nip down quickly to the village”. Every store you pass invites you in for “chai” – a glass of hot tea – and stilted conversation. The language barrier is not really a barrier, either – as Brenda has noted, the Turks are perfectly happy to sit together in silence, and do not, as we would, find it at all embarrassing. We had lunch at a “kitchen restaurant”, where you can view what’s cooking, and make a selection. Turkish food is typically not spicy (in the hot sense), but definitely flavourful, and always cooked from scratch, using the abundance of fresh vegetables.

Meis harbour

On Tuesday, we caught the bus to Kaş (pronounced “cash”), and from there caught the ferry across to the Greek island the Turks call Meis. Because we were crossing the border, we had to give our passports to the captain of the ferry. I must admit to some misgivings as the captain disappeared on his motorcycle, our passports in his hand, advising us that he’d come back for us when they were ready to cast off. A seemingly chaotic bureaucracy, to be sure, but one that seems to work. The ferry to Meis (Kastelorizo to the Greeks) took less than half an hour. The destination was as tranquil and uncomplicated as you could wish for. Brenda and I walked up to the castle – others simply found a harbourside restaurant (and I don’t think there are any that aren’t harbourside) and drank Amstel Light. Brits abroad – don’t you just love ‘em. The short but energetic walk left us with an appetite for callemari and Mythos (the Greek beer). As we sat replete, a young couple walked past, lost in conversation. He held some broad bean pods in his hand, and popped a raw bean into his mouth every now and then – it seemed to sum up the cultural attitude to the food that is so plentiful, and often free for the taking.

Overlooking Meis harbour

No - they didn't let me drive!

We spent the early part of the evening in a restaurant near the harbor in Kaş, waiting for a festival celebrating the start of the tourist season. The speeches were so long-winded (and, according to our waiter, almost devoid of meaningful content) that we left early.

The amphitheatre at Patara

We’d planned on taking the bus to Patara on Wednesday, but met Ali at the bus station, and asked him to take us instead. He dropped us off in the town, and we asked him to pick us up later from the beach, a mile or two from the town centre. Patara is an ancient Lycian city, and many of the ruins are still being (slowly) excavated. The village itself reminded me of a scene from a spaghetti western. We sat, drinking a beer, while clouds of dust swirled down the main street in the occasional gust of wind. When the wind blew, the door behind us creaked sympathetically. A three-legged dog hobbled down the middle of the road, while an old man crossed, sat down at an empty table, and lit a cigarette. In the restaurant opposite, a man and his wife prepared for the day by painstakingly sweeping up the dust and laying fresh tablecloths. A woman disappeared inside a shop, and reappeared with an armful of fresh baked bread.

We enjoyed lunch, and walked through the ruins to the beach, imagining what it must have been like to sit in the amphitheatre several centuries ago, before the river silted up, rendering the port useless. On the beach, the wind whipped up the sand enough to make it unpleasant for more than the briefest of visits. On the way back, we found Ali already waiting, talking to friends. We decided to walk back to the village, and asked him to pick us up there. On our way, we saw hay being scythed by hand – most farm work here is manual – and came across some broad beans, obviously refugees from an earlier planting, by the side of the road. I picked us a pod each. I can’t say I’ve ever eaten broad beans raw before, but they were delicious.

Kalkan market

On Thursday, we went into Kalkan, to the market. Fruit and vegetables occupy a large part of the market, of course, but so do clothes, household items, and things you would find in markets everywhere. We had lunch at Fred’s Place, which, despite the name, is an authentic Turkish kitchen restaurant. “Kofta at the tile” – meatballs sizzling in a cast-iron dish. Sort of Turkish fajitas …

Kalkan is, of course, only a small part of the country, and it’s always dangerous to generalize, but I found the Turks to be friendly, and never “pushy”, the culture to be relaxed and informal, and the food to be always delicious.

Kas

Acquiring the language may take time: an old proverb says, “Arabic is a language, Persian is a sweetmeat, and Turkish is an art.” Somehow though, communication transcends language.