A Tragedy at Whole Foods

It's been busy, sorry.

I DID finally find inspiration again, though. There's a story to tell.

The family and I were able to make it back to New York for a week. It's amazing how much I missed the place. I didn't realize exactly how much until I was standing with my daughter on the subway. She got her subway legs right away - it's as if she had New York commuting in her blood. Even the homeless person who grimaced at her didn't bother her. She's a born New Yorker. She screamed with glee every time she saw an MTA bus.

We visited as many people as time and circumstances allowed. My kids started to rebel at long car rides though, and we didn't see as many as I would have liked.

We did get to see my brother's new place, though. It's down the block from Whole Foods. In New York, Whole Foods are starting to replace Starbucks on every corner. After being served the cornucopia of items my brother picked up from his local Whole Foods, The Doctor and I realized how much we missed having a Whole Foods nearby, too.

So I stopped at the one in Scottsdale yesterday. I was on my way to work, grabbing dinner while I could. I like to survey my options in the sterno trays and then examine the deli counter looking for something tasty and healthy. That night I saw something unusual in the sterno tray - Sweet Kugel.

For a Jewish boy, Kugel is an emotional dish. It's one of those comfort foods that one's mother makes better than anyone. It's comfort food. My kids are extraordinarily lucky that The Doctor makes a fantastic kugel for Chanukkah, but that's only once a year. Seeing sweet kugel available in a sterno tray at Whole Foods was a real treat! This particular Kugel warming in the tray looked great. Firm but moist, with a cinnamon topping.

I was pretty sure I wanted some of that, but I had to keep looking to see if there was anything else. Sure enough, behind the deli counter, Whole Foods was offering savory potato kugel. I can't remember the last time I had savory kugel, so I asked for a taste. It was a little sweet, which I thought was odd, but otherwise nice. I thought that if the savory stuff was a little sweet, the sweet kugel would be just the thing to satisfy my sweet tooth. I was even more excited for the sweet kugel now.

You see where this is going, don't you?

Imagine my spit-flying impotent rage upon tasting my (not inexpensive) kugel. It wasn't sweet at all, but savory potato kugel. Whole Foods in Scottsdale had mixed up the labels. I was stuck with savory potato kugel. No sugar at all. It was, however, powdered with cinnamon. Have you ever tasted cinnamon mixed with potato? No? There's a reason for that. It's disgusting.

I am very angry with the gentiles at Whole Foods right now.

The Few, The Proud, The Moistened

Have I mentioned the heat lately? In case I haven't, it's hot here.

I exercise after I drop one or both kids off in the morning. I can usually get midway through a run before the sun gets really strong. When the sun does decide it wants to make an effort, one knows instantly. I'm running, the weather is pleasant, I'm settling into a groove, then BAM, on the very next step, the temperature rises as astonishing 3000 degrees and running just doesn't seem so enjoyable anymore.

By the end of my run, I'm leaving a wet trail of sweat and other fluids on the ground as I gasp desperately for water.

Because I'd like to feel good after finishing a workout instead of feeling melted, I have been looking for alternative exercise.

Indoors is OK, but running on a treadmill is boring, particularly in the morning when nothing's on TV. Swimming is much more preferable. I get my heart rate up, I get upper body exercise and the water keeps me cool as the day's heat builds. In the summer, it is by far the superior form of exercise.

This morning I arrived at the pool to find it empty. That's not unusual, so I started stretching and getting ready for my laps. That's when the lifeguard approached.

"Hello," said the lifeguard, "We have a group of Marines coming in for PT today. Do you think you might limit yourself to this lane?"

Living on a military base, I've gotten used to yielding right of way for our troops. "No problem," I said.

As I was swimming, I heard the cadence approaching. It became immediately apparent why the Marines needed most of the pool. There were about thirty of them, and they all had to exercise at the same time. On command, they all jumped into the water (with steel-toed boots on) and treaded water for 10 minutes or so. Then they swam the width of the pool under water, right under the lane in which I was swimming. Then they did pull ups out of the pool, again in unison upon command. Then it was time for laps.

All in all, it was rather intimidating. They looked pretty tired. I was all set to slink away to my civilian life when it happened.

The commander lined them all up, and, on command, each United States Marine took a turn down the water slide. As each pair of steel-toed boots hit the water, I had trouble suppressing my smile. The Marines no longer seemed quite so intimidating.

Coping, Part 6

I like Cash Cab.

At first, I watched for the novelty of a game show set in a New York City taxi.

Then I watched to laugh at the stupid people. The most recent question during a "red light challenge" was to name five of the six flags that have flown over Texas. The party got four, then got desperate, naming Venezuela, Colombia, Switzerland and Israel(!). I thought the attempt to guess a country that didn't exist prior to 1948 was particularly desperate.

At that very moment, rolling my eyes at the screen, I realized I wasn't watching this show for the stupid guess answers. My attention was focused on the windows of the cab, looking at the buildings going by.

Yes, I was watching Cash Cab to catch glimpses of New York. As it turns out, the show is particularly good for this. They drive by 6th and 12th all the time. I catch Ray's and Murray's out the window of the cab, screaming "Hey, I lived there!"

For those that care, the little map that flashes on the screen when the Cash Cab picks up a fare is usually way, way off.

So, I'm correcting game shows and playing "spot the continuity error." My pathetic waste of time serves to show how much I miss New York. My attempts to reconnect have become as desperate as guessing that the Israeli flag has flown over Texas.

I like Cash Cab, but only in small doses, and I watch long enough to catch a glimpse of a corner that I know. Otherwise the game is completely unrealistic. Here are some ways I would improve its realism:

There should be a "hold your breath challenge." Especially in the summer, the cherry air fresheners really don't cut the scent of thirty-six hour shifts.

There should be bonus money every time the cabbie risks your life to get through a yellow light. This would probably break the show's budget.

Anyone who rides in the cab (usually the back seat) and can't contribute one answer to the group's benefit shouldn't get a share of the winnings. New York is a tough place, the show should reflect that.

These suggestions would make the show that much more pleasant and give me a healthier New York fix. I'll write the Discovery Channel immediately.

BTW, the six flags were Spain, France, Mexico, Texas, U.S. and The Confederacy.

Feelin Hot Hot Hot

I knew Phoenix was going to be hot. That's really the only thing I knew about this place before arriving here. "I'm moving to Phoenix," I'd say to people. "It's hot there you know," they'd reply.

Yes, I know. I also know that it's a dry heat. If you've never experienced dry heat, allow me to tell you: hot is hot. Humidity doesn’t make a lick of difference.

The temperature will reach 115 degrees today. The low will be in the 90s. That's right. The temperature will not be below 100 until after midnight, if it ever really does drop below 100.

Honestly, though, after a while you stop noticing the heat. Outside in the sun, your sweat tends to dry up instantly. It can actually be quite dangerous, because you don't realize how hot you are until you dry up and blow away. Many peoples' last words are "when was the last time I hydrated?"

Unless your exercise consists of swimming laps or volunteering for a dunk tank (it's aerobic!), outside exercise in the summer needs to be completed by seven a.m., that is, unless you would like to leave a charred corpse.

The Doctor and I and the kids stay inside a lot. I seem to be the only person on the block who walks to the mailbox on the corner to get the mail. I wish there weren't so many charred corpses along the way.

Early to Bed...

Parenting is full of trade-offs. Yes, dear daughter, you may have ice cream, but only if you finish your half Brussel Sprout. You may watch Princess (again, groan), if you go potty first. You may have lunch or nap but "Daddy go away" is not an option. These trades are all easy because these trades are all choices presented to the children. There is at least one trade that is a matter for the parents: the trade between eating dinner with the kids or without.

Bedtime routines are comforting to young children. Having an ordered progression of steps that leads to sleep gives toddlers a sense of order to their lives, or something. One adds or subtracts steps in this progression at one's peril, as the toddler's entire psychology depends on repetition of these steps, every night. For instance, my daughter has been known to burst into tears because she forgot to brush her tongue earlier in the evening. At this point in her life, my daughter's bedtime routine is about the length of a NASA pre-flight checklist.

So the Doctor and I base our decision to put the kids to bed before we eat on whether we think we might be hungry enough to eat the kids before they fall asleep. Once the kids are asleep, dinner may be enjoyed in a relaxing, adult environment. After prep and cooking time, this is usually 10 pm, 11 pm at the latest.

The alternative to late, adult dinner is to eat with the kids, which presents its own problems. Will our kids like what we are eating? Will they let us cook? Does one child want to eat while sitting on someone's lap tonight? Despite the mathematical impossibility, will the family be wearing more food than was prepared?

But the real benefit is that with dinner over and the kids in bed, the night is still young. The Doctor and I have the entire evening to ourselves.

Which is why I'm going to bed at 8:45 tonight. Yay, sleep!

Q and A

I accept the fact that certain things are unknowable.

Is light a particle or a wave? Was there a conspiracy to shoot JFK? Will anyone ever prove the Goldbach Conjecture? Did peanut butter get in the chocolate or did chocolate get in the peanut butter?

There is a universal, weighty importance to all of these questions, insofar as they all require a fundamental understanding of the nature of the universe in order to be fully answered, with the possible exception of the one about the Goldbach Conjecture. That one’s just silly.

I never thought that observing one’s own family would generate so many more ultimately unanswerable questions.

To wit:

If my daughter wanted to color so badly, why is she dropping all the crayons on the floor?

Why is my son removing his own pacifier and then crying about it?

How is it possible my daughter gets a higher score on the Wii step aerobics than the Doctor?

Is my son fussing because he’s awake or awake because he’s fussing?

Is there a food that ketchup cannot improve? Subquestion: can ketchup improve the flavor of ketchup?

Should we install snake-safety measures on our toilets?

Why is my daughter naked, except for the socks on her hands?

I am certain there is a weighty, universal importance inherent in the answers to these questions. It has thus far eluded me.

A Teachable Moment for Daddy

As I have mentioned before, my daughter is learning a whole host of new tricks at day care. She knows that when she claims someone hit her, she gets the attention of any nearby adult.

This was cute at first, as she was claiming her stuffed animals were hitting her.

A few days ago, she came running over to me, claiming that the baby just kicked her. I looked over and the baby was in his crib, well out of my daughter's reach.

Aha! A teachable moment. I knew there would be several of these during my fatherhood career. What would Bill Cosby do?

My daughter's still little, so I don't want discipline here. I decided that the best tactic was to start with the difference between truth and fiction.

"Sweetie, it's important that you tell Mommy and Daddy what actually happened, you understand?"

"Uh-huh, yes."

"Did the baby actually kick you?"

"Uh-uh."

"When you talk to Mommy and Daddy, you need to tell them the truth, what actually happened. It's important. Okay?"

"OK!"

I continued trying to explain that I knew the baby did not kick her and she needs to tell the truth. When I was done, I said:

"OK. Let's go tell the baby what we talked about."

Satisfied that she understood, we walk over to the crib.

"No kicking, baby! No kicking. No kick me, baby!"

I don't think I got through.

Coping, Part 5

I think I've been clear how much I miss New York. I've even mentioned a few ways I've found to cope with the change in setting: cooking more, maintaining high standards for eating out, avoiding road rage, and so on. My previous post on this subject was a missive about how much I was looking forward to seeing the New York Yankees in person, here in Arizona.

Now a lawyer is taught to deal in ambiguities, but is also taught to write as clearly as possible. I believe my writing has been particularly clear on this point, to wit, that I've been dealing with the loss of my city as best I can and my little coping strategies, a good meal here, a walk (rather than a drive) there, makes the loss tolerable.

So it is with some credibility to say that I was looking forward to the Yankees' arrival in the Valley of the Sun for some time. I have had the tickets in my hand since March.

Last week, the Diamondbacks sent me an email, reminding me that I had bought tickets to the game. That was nice of them. I appreciated the little reminder, even though I wasn't capable of forgetting. Sunday, they sent me yet another reminder, this time including information concerning the starting pitchers. A.J. Burnett was going to start for the Yankees. Like a gentile child on December 24th, the next day couldn't arrive soon enough.

My hypochondria always leads me to believe that I will get sick the day of, or just before any day, that I am highly anticipating. I woke up yesterday morning, swallowed, and detected no sore throat. That's good! The kids and The Doctor also seemed in good health. Also good! All systems appear go for the evening!

There was no trouble during the day. The Doctor had six cases that day, but she was finished with five before 1 pm. She wouldn't be running late! By 2 pm, I could already smell the Yankees' glove oil.

I picked my daughter up from school, and even she was excited to see the Yankees! She kept mentioning them in the car. This only fed my anticipation to share the experience with her.

In retrospect, I probably should have called it a night right there.

Just as we're ready to head down to Chase Field, my son decides he would like to scream. He's tired and doesn't yet know that falling asleep is easier than crying about it.

It's OK - the car ride usually relaxes him.

My son's wailing puts the Doctor on edge, especially when it seems that my daughter is starting to get stressed out as well.

It's OK - let's just get everything into the car, maybe everyone's disposition will improve once we're on the road.

I try to get things organized and get moving. The Doctor takes this moment to again state her distaste for the Yankees.

It's OK - she doesn't have to like the Yankees. There will be more than enough Yankees fans there for me to connect with. A New Yorker is a New Yorker, regardless of where he or she may actually be located.

We barely make it a block away from the base before my son ramps up the volume and intensity. I have to pull over and let The Doctor have a moment to calm him down.

I'm trying to focus on the goal of several months of waiting. A goal that is an hour or so away. I'm trying to help The Doctor calm an upset and tired baby, as well as discipline an emotional toddler. I'm trying to keep the child supplies organized, so we can all make it to the game where the entire family can share in Dad's enthusiasm, maybe.

What I didn't notice is that, in my distracted state, when I pulled over, I hadn't put the car in park, I had just left my foot on the break. When The Doctor asked for some help with my son, the car rolled forward a few inches.

No one was hurt, but it was an inexcusable error. The Doctor had now had enough and wanted to go home.

I didn't handle this news so well. Not my finest moment.

After we all had a chance to calm down, we set out again for Chase Field. At least my daughter was still showing some enthusiasm.

Indeed, there were many, many Yankees fans in attendance. We found our seats in a section that contained row after row of navy blue. The evening was looking up.

In the top of the first, a Yankee fan found his seat behind us. He had one of those raspy yells. He wasn't shy about using it. Every yell made my son, already cranky and tired, jump and wake up. It was irritating. My daughter kept fidgeting, kicking the seats, forcing the other Yankee fans to concentrate on the game to ignore her. I didn't get to do much connecting with the New Yorkers.

Yankees were three up, three down in the top of the first. It was a seven pitch side, tops. The Doctor convinced Hannah to clap for the Yankees outs, at least when my daughter's hands weren't full of hot dog.

Then the D-Backs came to the plate. A.J. Burnett gave up three home runs, five runs total. In the bottom of the first. With my cranky son, my fidgeting daughter, The Doctor (who I know doesn't want to be there) making fun of the score, the cramped seats and the irritating Yankee fan behind me, I suddenly don't want to be here either. Burnett was gone after four. We were gone after three.

Thanks very much there, fellers. So much for my little piece of the Bronx in the Valley. A team with the best record in baseball right now shouldn't be getting blown out ten to four by a team at the bottom of their division. This is especially true when I'm in the stands.

So last night, despite my expectations, didn't work out the way I'd hoped.

I could really use a good bagel right about now.

Retirement Party

Most people assume I'm the family member in the military.

I don't really mind so much, it's a little flattering that people think my abs are chiseled enough and chest broad enough so that I could be active duty. It's also possible that it could be that my legs are sufficiently toned or that I have rugged good looks in the face. It might also be my biceps. Or my air of confidence.

But I've never been in the military. I got this masculine aura completely on my own. The Doctor is the active duty military in the family.

I can forgive people to leaping to the conclusion that I'm the active duty military family member. It hasn't been that long that women were active duty in real numbers. It hasn't been that long that women were in the military period. Plus, when you look at an adonis like me, it's easy to draw the wrong conclusion.

So, like I said, I don't mind that people think I'm military. What I do mind is when I sit down for a haircut and the barber throws the shroud over my shoulders and asks, "so you're retired military?"

Jeez, am I that old? Perhaps you haven't had a good look at my chest, biceps, abs, legs, etc. Shall I oil up and flex for you?

But then I told myself to clam down. One can retire after twenty years of service. If one entered at 18, one could retire at thirty-eight. I guess I'm not that far off from retirement age around here.

I guess I am that old. I blame the kids.

Time to retire, then. I think I'll spend my days playing with toys all day care, like my daughter. I am reliably told they have dinosaurs there.

Overheard

"Who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That's Bert. So who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That's Bert. So who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That one is Bert. Who's this?"

"No, Ernie's over here. This one is Bert."

"No, that's Elmo..."

The Princess Diatribe

I really have to hand it to Disney. Their marketing department is the tops.

My daughter just turned two. The entirety of her vocabulary consists of nouns and the phrase "I want." The Doctor and I have been trying, with mixed success, to introduce the word "please."

She knows her ABCs, except for E and F, which during the song are substituted with H and I. Also she tends to get lost between V and W.

She knows words for colors, but has trouble identifying the colors. She thinks everything is blue, unless the object actually is blue, in which case she thinks it's red. Or yellow. Or orange. Sometimes purple.

This morning, when she put both legs through the same leg hole in her pants, she knew that she "need help please." I was so proud of my little toddler as she fell over.

She knows she will get attention if she tells a grown up that she was hit. She has claimed all of the following have hit her, in order to attract attention: her three-month-old brother, her mother, her father, her stuffed bear, her car seat, her three-month-old brother sitting five feet away secured in his own car seat, her tub toys and a door.

But there's one word that she has used correctly every time. "Princess."

I don't recall ever teaching her that word. I don't know where she learned it. She was pulling videos off the shelf one day and came across The Little Mermaid. She identified it as a princess right away and politely requested that we all sit down to watch it as a family.

Ha, ha! No, she actually pointed to it, yelled "Princess!" and grabbed me by the hand to pull me over to the DVD player so I could put it on for her.

Now, every afternoon after pre-school, she requests to see Princess. Only Princess Ariel will do. Furthermore, only the parts where Ariel is actually on the screen are acceptable. Otherwise, we are treated to a non-stop chorus of "Where'd Princess go?"

How Disney was able to find my daughter remains a mystery to me. But they got her good. Sesame Street diapers became passe as soon as she learned there were Princess diapers. She's even started to recognize Princess Belle, just from the images on the diapers. If Disney ever decides that my daughter needs a motorcycle, I'm in serious trouble.

Who Says Computer Games Are A Waste of Time?

There's a joy and beauty to figuring things out. That's why I like games, particularly strategy games. Once one understands the mechanic of the game, that is, the essence of how to fashion a winning position over your opponent (or opponents), there's a moment where the universe simply fits, like getting the one piece you need in Tetris.

Games occupy my attention for a while, until I figure out the best way to "beat" the game. Civilization is a good game. Settlers of Catan is a great game.

Ah, but World of Warcraft.

I miss World of Warcraft. Each encounter was a new puzzle, a new game that required a new strategy. When you have to practice an encounter with nineteen other people just so you can get to the next encounter, it provided endless challenges to keep my brain occupied. I likened my experiences with that game to The Doctor's orchestra practice, in the sense be both would team up with a bunch of people all who had to time their specific roles in order to accomplish a common goal. She gave me dirty looks.

I spent entirely too much of my life with that game. The Doctor insisted I was wasting my time. In a way, my kids convinced me I was wasting my time as well.

But then I see this.

Clearly, I need to start playing WOW again, so I can keep my moose-avoidance skills current.

Coping, Part 4

A comfy robe, a pair of slippers, a song on the radio, a certain pair of handcuffs - there are little things that comfort us that we don't think about, but would miss if they were gone. I had to give one up upon moving to Phoenix and I didn't realize how much a comfort it was until it was gone.

Yankee baseball.

In New York the Yankees have their own channel, YES. When YES isn't arguing with Cablevision, their games are viewable by every New Yorker. There's a certain pleasure to getting home from work and eating dinner in time to see Rivera finish the game. It was always there, like that ringing in my ears, or Seinfeld at 7. One comes to rely on it without even noticing.

Here in the Valley, ESPN shows Yankee games from time to time, but one has to think ahead and account for a time difference. Even if I remembered to check the schedule and get home from work in enough time to see a 4 pm local time game, I wouldn't be able to devote my energy to watching until the kids were in bed, meaning that the Yankees would be in showers and on the way home before I could turn the game on.

So I catch as catch can, on weekends and occasionally when my team hits the west coast. On the whole, it's unsatisfying.

But there is one hope - inter-league play. Sure enough, when I checked the MLB schedule this winter, the Yankees would be coming to Chase Field for a three game set. I could go see them live! Catching a game in the Valley would almost make up for missing most games. Plus, unlike Philadelphia fans, Phoenix fans don't make me uncomfortable or call security on me.

Excited, I checked when the tickets would go on sale.

"The Lottery for tickets opens March 15."

Apparently, the Yankees are such a big draw in other markets, the powers that be don't want a first-come-first-served basis for tickets. Chase Field takes everyone's email address and selects people at random for the privilege of buying tickets to see the Yankees play the D-Backs, thus ensuring equality of access.

Fine. I'l roll the dice. Put me down. I'll even schedule a calendar reminder to buy tickets on March 15, first thing, in case I roll a seven.

A few weeks before the drawing, I get a phone call.

"Hi, is this Carl from the Diamondbacks, how are you today?"

"I'm OK, my daughter kept me up last night with a fever, so I'm a little tired, and they're looking for an answer on this thing from me at work in like 30 minutes and I'm hungry and I keep meaning to schedule an appointment concerning my Toyota's recall and my wife is going to give birth to our second any day now, but you aren't really interested in hearing all that, are you?"

"No, I was just being polite. I see you signed up for the lottery to buy tickets to the Diamondbacks game on June 21, 22 or 23, is that right?"

"The Yankee games, that's right."

"May I ask your interest in those particular D-Backs games?"

"I was planning on streaking in front of the largest possible audience at Chase Field," is what I didn't say. What I actually said was, "I'm a recent transplant from New York, and I was hoping to see my Yankees in person, if only once."

"I understand. You know if you bought our six-game saver package, you could select to buy tickets to one of the dates the D-Backs play the Yankees and get your tickets to that game now, instead of having to wait for the lottery. Does that sound appealing to you?"

"Well, I work full time and have kids that go to bed around the third inning, so I don't think I'll be able to actually make more than two or three games, given my constraints and a wife that only seems interested in the Phillies, who won't be on the field at that particular time."

"All right then, here's my number in case you change your mind..."

Phillies - Diamondbacks tickets were much easier to come by. But luck was with me. I'll be there on June 21st, in my robe and slippers, ready to toss one back with the team.

Membership Has Its Privileges

We pull up to the gate, and an Airman First Class comes to check my ID. At first, I'm disappointed that The Doctor isn't driving. When an Airman checks The Doctor's ID, he or she is forced to salute upon realizing the ID's owner is an officer. Seeing people salute The Doctor never gets old.

But I was driving, so there will be no salute. Too bad, a missed opportunity.

The A1C takes my ID, scans it and checks it over.

"Is the Major in the car with you?"

That's not the usual procedure, but I point to my right. The Airman bends down, hands back my ID, and snaps to attention with a crisp salute.

It made my day.

Until the next day.

I pull up to the gate, alone this time, and the Airman asks for my ID. This time there's only one stripe on his arm. He checks the ID and scans it. It comes up clean, so he hands it back to me.

Then he snaps to attention and salutes me.

The Airman probably got flustered. He made my day. I could get used to that kind of treatment.

Tumblin' With the Tumbleweeds

The housing downturn hit Phoenix hard. It hit the West Valley particularly hard.

The further west you go out from Phoenix, the more depressing the housing developments become. By the time you get past the 101 along McDowell, the majority of the developments are either half empty houses or incomplete - graveyard testaments to the housing downturn. By the time you near Buckeye, the majority of the housing developments never broke ground.

It was clear that there was an intent to build lots of housing, though, as the malls that were to be the shopping focus of the area exist. I'm sure they were meant to hold chain big box stores, but their current occupants are dollar stores. We rarely head down that direction to shop, but we had many coupons, so we decided to hit the Old Navy for some children's clothes.

Imagine my surprise when we exited the store to find tumbleweeds blowing through the parking lot. That's not a metaphor. There were actual tumbleweed blowing by.

This is either a metaphor for the state of our economy, or a symbol that we're currently living in the middle of nowhere. Either way, it can't be a good sign for the mall.

Coping, Part 3

The Doctor and I went out to dinner Saturday night. We have been saving all of our occasions (Mother's day, anniversary, birthdays) to celebrate on one night. I would like to share.

Binkley's Restaurant, Cave Creek, AZ

What's the difference between confidence and arrogance? When you're confident, you don't need to flaunt your skills. The meal The Doctor and I shared at Binkley's this past Saturday was, without a doubt, the most supremely confident yet non-arrogant kitchen I have ever encountered.

The Doctor and I were lured to Binkley's by the reputation. We were told to expect an excellent meal, in the genre of New American by way of Molecular Gastronomy. We were also told to refinance the yacht to pay for it, as it would be worth it. The Doctor and I see eye to eye on where we should spend the money we save, so there was no question that we would dine at Binkley's at some point.

The dining room was certainly not what I was expecting. Molecular gastronomic eateries tend to try remind diners that the restaurants are new and avant-garde. One often sees a lot of modernist brushed steel and straight backed chairs, as if to imply that the food at these eateries is FROM THE FUTURE. Binkley's decor struck me as traditional, yet unassuming. It contributed to the atmosphere of the place as confident yet not arrogant, without tipping off the caliber of food that we were about to enjoy.

The Doctor and I perused the menus while we sipped our drinks. Because we were celebrating, and also because of the input we received from other diners, we were settled on the tasting menu with wine pairing. We didn't know that we could select the items for our tasting menus, making the night an almost prix-fixe arrangement, which saves a lot of money over the a la carte menu. Our server explained how the menu changes about every two weeks, depending on what's fresh and what the kitchen feels like preparing, so we wouldn't go wrong.

The Doctor ordered Madai, which was essentially a sushi or sashimi platter. The fish tasted like it had been caught out back, and seasoned to perfection. The flesh melted away. I can't imagine how difficult this must be in the middle of the desert. I ordered smoked salmon, which came with chive creme and a miniature onion bagel. The taste mirrored bagel and lox while remaining true to the taste of sushi. When all the components on the plate were gathered together in one bite, the experience was completely different from the taste of the components separately. The one hiccup to the otherwise perfect cold appetizer course was that The Doctor was forced to meet the live crab that would later become part of her appetizer, as is the Japanese custom. After meeting the crab, The Doctor couldn't bring herself to eat him. He was delicious and crisp.

Next came the hot appetizers - a goose egg for me, in the shell with pork belly, and foie gras for The Doctor. The foie gras was prepared as perfectly as any we have ever tasted, rivaling the Michelin starred restaurants in France, like silk melting away on one's tongue. If there were fewer people in the restaurant, The Doctor would have licked the plate clean, then probably would have attempted to steal the plate so she could clean it even further at home. My goose egg was outstanding, but was overshadowed by The Best Thing The Doctor Ate all night.

The black cod was next for The Doctor as a fish course, while I had the red drum. The cod was encrusted with herbs that lent a flavor to the cod that prevented you from even considering to leave some on the plate to leave room for future courses. One bite and The Doctor, who isn't a huge fan of fish, was hooked. The drum was served with a sweet red pepper sauce and a ratatouille-stuffed squash blossom which, again, had the unusual ability to provide different tasting experiences depending on whatever components were eaten with a particular bite. The fish was light and well prepared with a deliciously crispy skin when eaten by itself, sweet with a bit of the sauce, but tart again with bolder flavors when eaten with the ratatouille. It was delightful to have a microcosm of flavor all on one plate.

To finish the entrees, The Doctor had lamb that melted away like cotton candy. I had beef, served with a wine sauce, potatoes loaded with butter and a bite of tartare on the side. It was expertly prepared and delicious, down to the end.

The cheese course and desserts (peanut butter soup for The Doctor, caramel cornbread pudding for me) were treats that were again remarkable for the level of flavor that could be coaxed from familiar components.

Much of the credit would have to go to the sommelier, who not only picked a wine to go with each individual dish as part of the tasting menu, but gave The Doctor and me a brief description of both the taste and fermenting process over the pour. Each generous glass of wine complemented its respective dish, adding grace notes and chords to a perfectly scored symphony.

Speaking of grace notes, between each course and before the first appetizer arrived, the kitchen graced us with amuses bouches, transformed by the wizards of molecular gastronomy to the essence of the item's flavor, so as to make sure you remember you're not eating traditional classical French, but modern American. Breadsticks with pancetta cream? Check. Fruit "caviar" pearls frozen in liquid nitrogen? Check. Blackberry gelatin "bombs" that explode blackberry coulis in your mouth? Check. Each amuse brought a new flavor or texture that left our palates cleansed and our appetites excited for the next course.

The experience at Binkley's easily rivals any top restaurant The Doctor and I have ever visited in New York, Napa, France or anywhere else. It is also half the price of any comparable restaurant in those places, making it one of the best food bargains we've ever encountered, especially considering the amount of food and wine we received. Binkley's is confident enough to prepare the food it wants to prepare, without needing to be recognized in a top "foodie" city. It's the Valley's good fortune that Binkley's is here. It's The Doctor's and my misfortune that it takes over an hour to get to Cave Creek and back from our house.

But we've cancelled every other restaurant reservation we have made. We'll save our food budget for the next time we can get back to Binkley's. Here in the Valley, nothing else we've sampled has even come close. We will just have to time our reservation a little better so we're not driving home at 1 am.

The Doctor tells me she doesn't miss New York as much now that she's had the food at Binkley's. I'd have to agree. That's about as high a compliment as I can provide. Now, I wonder what will change on Binkley's menu in two weeks?

Love Letters

Today I went to the administrative offices with the Doctor to update our respective ID cards to reflect the Doctor's new rank. It was fun to hear them call for "Major Doctor" when our turn came up. But even more fun than that is the saluting.

I never get tired of seeing people salute The Doctor. Most of the guards at the base entrances are independent contractors, but occasionally airmen are assigned to that duty. They snap a quick salute each time the Doctor forks over her ID. It always puts a smile on my face.

All that cool respect that they show The Doctor, plus the uniform. Is she cool, or what?

Oldies No Longer Goodies

I’m feeling old again. The Doctor sent me a flyer for the base’s over-30 basketball league. This was depressing in and of itself, not just because the over-30 types apparently need their own league to compete, presumably so the airmen don’t hurt them, but also that the cut off age for the league is 30. Suddenly, with the receipt of an email, I’ve become middle-aged. To add insult to injury, the flyer contains the following images: 1) A walker; 2) A rascal with the optional oxygen tank accessory; and 3) A man who appears to be about 160 years old playing basketball. There's really only one thing to say when one sees this. Get off my lawn you young whipper-snappers! Con-sarn it!

Life's Headaches

Nothing good comes in the mail anymore. What does one receive via snail-mail other than bills and junk mail?

Eviction notices. Here begins a story.

The Doctor and I reported for duty July of last year. Our lease in New Jersey ended as of June. We closed up shop, packed our stuff and schlepped across the country. We even turned in our keys. No complaints, no worries, just the wistful good-byes that one gives when one is leaving a home forever.

Nine months after getting settled in Arizona , I received the snail-mail letter. It informed me that the landlord of my sub-let apartment hadn’t paid rent and that, as occupant, I was liable for the full amount of rent while I was living there. If I didn’t pay, I was going to get sued, evicted and hit up for attorney’s fees.

Immediately my head began to hurt.

My primary reaction to life’s inconveniences of this sort is to question why I have to do my job without making any mistakes, but others aren’t held to the same standard. If anyone at the landlord (who, for anonymity’s sake, I’ll call Shmess-Kay Shmroperties) had actually bothered to examine the apartment in question before sending out threatening letters, this wouldn’t have landed on me, giving me a headache.

But now it was too late for that. Shmess-Kay Shmroperties had sent me a letter. I had a piece of writing in my hand declaring that I was liable for rent I didn’t owe.

I called the building and spoke with a Shmess-Kay Shmroperties representative. I explained my situation. “Oh,” Bob explained, “you can ignore the letter then.”

Thanks for letting me off the hook there, Bob, but I’m afraid that’s not quite good enough. “I appreciate your agreeability, however, I’m still in possession of a piece of writing from you saying that I owe you money. I would appreciate a letter from you saying otherwise.”

The answer to that simple request was no. My headache grew.

My secondary reaction to life’s inconveniences of this sort is to wonder why, when mistakes do happen, I’m the only one who seems to be willing to take the necessary steps to correct them. Shmess-Kay Shmroperties screwed up. They inconvenienced me and gave me a headache. All I’m asking for is a little comfort that they recognize their error and send a piece of writing acknowledging that, so I don’t have to spend time or money in the future guarding my rights. Apparently, this was too much to ask of Shmess-Kay Shmroperties.

In the end, they sent me an email saying that no suits were going to be instituted against anyone who was not a current resident of the apartment, and that the letter was sent to me in error. It was the bare minimum I was willing to accept. But it left a bad taste in my mouth, like someone had broken a relationship with me via text message.

If Shmess-Kay Shmroperties screws up again and it actually costs me money this time, I’m going to be very upset. Shmess-Kay Shmroperties will then witness my tertiary reaction to life's inconveniences of this sort, namely sending the cause of my headache something via snail-mail.