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.

Too Uncool for School

I think The Doctor and I bore our kids.

My two-year-old goes to pre-school every weekday. She's enrolled at the base's Child Development Center, which not only has a multitude of activities for two-year-olds, it has a multitude of two-year-olds that participate in those activities. Whenever I drop her off, she usually gives me a big hug, then immediately runs off to color or build block towers. Occasionally she even remembers to wave good-bye.

However, two working parents need weekends to do errands. Mid-mornings on weekdays, my daughter is painting. Mid-mornings on weekends, my daughter is watching mommy and daddy evaluate bananas in the store. Mid afternoons on weekdays, my daughter is pouring sand from the sandbox on her own head. On weekends at that time, she is participating in the discussion about what mommy and daddy should do after the kids are in bed. The answer, by the way, my loyal readers, is "go to sleep early."

So, at age 25 months, I'm pretty sure that my daughter is already cooler than I am, based on how boring her parents must seem to her. I knew that this state of affairs was inevitable, I just wish it didn't have to happen so quickly. The only thing left is for her to develop the vocabulary for her to tell me so.

Movie News

Let me be very clear on one point. I have absolutely no desire to see “Sex in the City 2.” In fact, I have even less desire than that. I have negative desire to see that movie.

I’ve seen a couple of episodes of the TV incarnation way back when. I opted to discontinue watching. If I wanted to watch shrill harpies complaining about their lives while acting way too young for their age, I’d watch daytime talk shows. They’re far more entertaining.

The Doctor loves this show, for reasons passing understanding. I think she envies the lifestyle, as fictional as it might be.

She’s organizing a night where she can go see the movie with all of her new female friends from the base. Because I have a Y chromosome, I’m not invited. I’m hurt. I would have loved to have tagged along. I could have sneaked out and seen Iron Man.

The Eternal Game

My daughter isn’t shy about what she wants. She wants to cry when she is stressed. She wants to sleep on top of an army of stuffed animals. She wants to do things herself, including cooking, driving, reading and surgery. She also wants ice cream.

Fish sticks and peas were served for dinner. She likes fish sticks, especially with ketchup. No problems there. She gingerly licked a single pea she had taken from the plate. The Doctor and I watched the reaction.

She chewed and swallowed, and went for another pea. That one was eaten as well. We were about to focus on other things when my daughter demanded ice cream.

Aha! I recognized this as the opening gambit of the parent-child eating game. I played the “maybe if you finish your peas” card.

She recognized the gambit, and responded with “no.”

I parried, “you can’t have ice cream without eating more peas.”

My daughter tried a new strategy tonight, “all done!” she said as she pushed the plate away. She gave us the stink eye to let us know she's serious.

“If you’re all done, you’re all done, but you can’t have ice cream without eating more peas.” She clearly wasn’t expecting this tactic. She looked confused, ready to argue the point.

I had prepared for an argument consisting of, “I understand your position, father, but I’m really just not that fond of the peas that you have chosen to serve me tonight. Perhaps if you have some other vegetable that I might find more palatable, I would be more inclined to eat it, rather than the peas. In the absence of another vegetable tonight, might I partake of a serving of ice cream, in exchange for eating a double serving of tomorrow night’s vegetables, whatever they may be?”

Instead, my daughter blundered forward. “All done! Ice cream!”

“Not unless you eat more peas.”

Miraculously, my daughter actually picked up a spoonful of peas. She wrapped her mouth around the spoon, and started chewing the peas. Then she made to cough, raised her hand to her mouth and spit the peas all over her hand. It was a sloppy attempt to conceal the fact she didn’t eat her peas. I’m going to have to teach her better technique someday.

“All done! Ice cream!” How do you explain to a two year old that what she just did doesn’t count?

I took the plate away.

“ICE CREA-A-A-M.” The Doctor and I sat there, looking at our daughter. “Not unless you eat more peas.” “Ice Cream!”

“Peas first.”

“Ice Cream!”

“Peas first.”

It occurred to me that this test of wills could last a while. In time, she would grow, go off to college, get married and have children of her own before ever tasting these peas.

So the three of us sat, there, taking stock of the situation. If this were poker, the time had come to reveal the cards.

As it turns out, my daughter didn’t have a great hand, after all. “Peas!” She actually requested the peas.

I got a spoonful of peas, and she ate them. She even opened her mouth so The Doctor and I could see that they were swallowed this time.

My daughter ended up licking the ice cream bowl clean. All of us have never been happier. As happy as I am now, I know she'll be outsmarting me soon enough. For now, I'm also happy she'll go off to college knowing what it takes to get some ice cream.