Lagniappe!

In the process of sweeping up after the big Mardi Gras festivities here at the cafe, we found this delicious little gem hiding among the confetti and discarded beads.  A little something extra from the Faucet Follies.  Enjoy!

Faucet Follies! (or, That Sinking Feeling!)

Some guys can look at a cabinet and tell if it’s 1/16 of an inch off level.  Others can listen to a clothes dryer and tell you it will break in 20 minutes – and be surprised when it happens in 19 and a half instead.

 I am not one of those people. If I hear a funny noise coming from under the hood of my car, my usual response is to turn the radio up.

 The Cafe, like any building, has its issues from time to time.  We have a very talented handyman to take care of those issues.

To call Eddie a handyman is to do him an injustice.  He is a craftsman of the highest order.  He takes pride in a job well done.  He’s offended by a job done wrong.  When he comes across shoddy construction or a repair badly executed, he utters a single syllable – “Hmmph.”

 Ladies and gentlemen, you do not ever want to hear the Hmmph.  That single sound, not so much a word as an expression of total disdain that renders vowels unnecessary, makes you feel as if your home is second-rate, unworthy of Eddie’s many talents – and you’d be right. It’s delivered not with arrogance or conceit, but often with a mournful shake of the head.  Hmmph.

 It looked as though we would have to call Eddie the other day after I broke the kitchen sink faucet.  I contend “broke” is too strong a word.  You could still use it, even if it did spray water all over the counter, the floor and the user.

 But Executive Chef Heatherann insisted on a new faucet.  She’s been wanting to replace the old one for some time, so it seemed like a golden opportunity.  Off to the big box hardware store we went.

 Before long, we had picked out a lovely replacement faucet, and discussed calling Eddie to install it.  But we debated whether we could save some money if I installed it myself.

 In my lifetime, I have been called many things, some of them quite memorable.  “Handy” has never been one of them. 

 The high point of my home improvement career to this point was probably the time I tried to take a swag light fixture chain off its mounting hook to lower it. I fell backward off the stepstool I was standing on, nearly ripped the light out of the ceiling by its wires, and somehow landed on the stool in a way that left a bruise on my butt for a week. Which, coincidentally, is about how long Heatherann laughed about it.

 But, economic necessity is the mother of invention, if not disaster.  So we asked a nearby store employee what he thought.

 “Oh yeah, it’s easy,” he said. “You can do it. I could do it in 20 minutes.”

 Notice he said HE could do it in 20 minutes.  Forgetting that hardware store employees tend to have actual home improvement skills, we took him at his word and decided to go for it.

 We got the faucet home, took it out of the box and read the directions.  The instructions said I should be able to do the job in 12 minutes.

 That was at 3 p.m.

 Heatherann, as befitting her role as executive chef, went off to take a well-deserved nap. I picked up my cobweb-encrusted, dust covered toolbox and headed for the kitchen.

 Step One – turn water off.  OK, that was the easy part. 

Removing the old faucet is where things got interesting. The underside of the double sink is not a pretty place. Drains from the sink bowls drop down. The garbage disposal hangs low, its drain line crossing from one sink to the other. Throw in the fill and drain lines for the dishwasher and it’s a “Hmmph”-worthy place.

 Let’s see, if I crawl in here, shift my arm that way, and slip that rib under the drain trap, I can almost breathe. So far, so good. Now where’s that wrench?  Oh yeah, I left it on top of the sink.

 $*&%.  (Hint: NOT  “Hmmph”)

 Crawl out from under sink. Get wrench. Crawl back under sink.  Whoops, the box wrench doesn’t fit.  Where’s the adjustable?  What adjustable?

 $*&%!

 Time for a second trip to the big box store.  Buy the wrench, drive back home. Under the sink I go.

 Finally, the water lines are off, the bolts are removed, the old faucet comes out. Time to put the new one on.

 What? No one told me I needed the flexible lines from the faucet to the pipes.

 $*&%! $*#%@!

 It’s 8:30 p.m.  Back to the big box  a third time. Buy the hoses, back to the house, back under the sink.

 The hot line goes on easily. So far, so good. Hey, I might even have found a new career!

 The cold line is 2 inches too short.

 $*(oh, forget it, this one’s unprintable).

 Day 2 dawns and back to the big box I go for the fourth time. Exchange the hose for one that’s four inches longer.  Back to the house, back under the sink, connect the lines, turn on the valve.

 It works! BUT ... there’s a slow, persistent drip from the cold water line.  I tighten the line. It still drips. I loosen the line. It still drips.

 $*&%.

 For several days, I can’t figure out how to fix the slow drip. Eventually, the leak reveals itself as coming from the old valve under the sink, not the new line.  

This raises the potential disaster factor considerably.

 I’ve never replaced a shutoff valve before. Taking the valve off requires shutting off the main water supply to the house.  Once I take the sink valve off the pipe, the water has to stay off until it’s fixed. If I can’t get it fixed, it will require an emergency call to Eddie, who probably won’t be able to get to it for at least 24 hours.

 I ponder this carefully. Executive Chef Heatherann has grown accustomed to certain luxuries in her life. You know,  flushing toilets, running water for handwashing, bathing and cooking, little things like that.

 I ponder. Then in the grand tradition of guys everywhere, I decide to go for it.

 In the grand tradition of amateurs everywhere, I decide to take a look at the valve, then head to the big box  (trip #5, for those of you playing the drinking game).  Do I bother to take the old valve off and take it with me? Of course not!

 I find what looks like a suitable valve. I pay for it, take it home, crawl under the sink. Of course it’s the wrong size.

 (fill in your own expletive here).

 By this time Heatherann is home for the day, it’s getting dark, and there’s no water in the house. So, back to the big box we go to exchange the valve. (Trip #6).

 Finally, through a combination of divine providence, a good flashlight and a bit of dumb luck, we get the valve in place, the water on, and no drips. I take a moment to savor the victory.

 But it’s a hollow one. For while the faucet’s in place and working, I know what’s coming.

 Sooner or later, Eddie will come over, to replace the disposal, fix a drain line, something.  He will take one look at my work – the funky routing, the convoluted S-curve in the hot water line – and he will say one word:

 Hmmph.

 

An Open Letter to Diane Sawyer

Dear Diane,

We need to talk.  One Kentucky native to another.  Come to the cafe, we’ll have coffee and a little chat about your Feb. 13 20/20 special, “A Hidden America: Children of the Mountains.”

Look, I know you meant well. As someone who grew up in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, I do appreciate your giving national exposure to the problems facing a part of the country that most Americans don’t give much thought. And lord knows, I’ve personally criticized the area more than a few times myself.

 But Diane, you committed some grievous sins. You claim you spent two years reporting for the show.  Did it take you that long to uncover every possible negative stereotype about the region?

You included the drunks, the drug addicts, the people selling Oxycontin tablets to pay their bills, the folks in trailers, the parents who didn’t support their children’s ambition for an education and a better life.

 You included the young man who won a football scholarship, but struggled with grades and college costs before dropping out to move back to his family’s mobile home.  You made room for the 18-year-old who wanted out of the coal mines, but took the $60,000-a-year job after his girlfriend became pregnant.

 You even managed to include dental problems, caused in part by “addiction” to Mountain Dew soda.

 But really, Diane, the brother-sister incest? That was the last straw.  How long did it take your film crew to find that little tidbit? Did you have to spend the two years waiting to dig that out from under a rock?

Granted, you did mention “heroes in these hills – teachers, social workers, mentors.”  But did you talk to any of them?

 Sure, you had the report on 81-year-old Eula Hall, who runs a mountain clinic.  But you had to include the fact that she carries a gun to protect the clinic.  Yet another stereotype.

 And yes, you included Dr. Edwin Smith, the traveling dentist. But you added a gratuitous statement about “people who sometimes pull their own teeth with pliers, that stereotype rooted in a fact.”

 And of course that led into the whole bit about people using Mountain Dew, with its high caffeine and sugar content “as a kind of antidepressant.”  Give me a break.

Where were the teachers, social workers, mentors, people working hard to bring the children of the mountains into the 21st century?  We certainly didn’t see any of them on camera.

 I know the troubles of the area are real. I have seen firsthand the poverty, the illiteracy, the devastation caused by drugs and alcohol. I know the doctor in Hall’s clinic was correct when he  said there was more poverty in Mud Creek than in the part of India he came from.

 People whose own education is limited sometimes don’t see the value of education for their children.  And yes, poverty and a lack of jobs force some people into desperate circumstances.

 But there’s a lot more to the region than your program showed, Diane. There are hardworking, middle-class people in that area, some who work in the mines and some who work elsewhere, even in white-collar jobs.  There are people who make sure their children go to school, who support their kids’ extracurricular activities and encourage them to go to college.

 There are people there who don’t drink or abuse legal or illegal drugs.  And there are people who keep their guns – not their medications -- locked up.

 People like my parents and grandparents.

 There are high-achieving students in local schools, with dreams of doing big things. They are smart, articulate, sober. They are future leaders of Eastern Kentucky, possibly of the nation.

 But you didn’t talk to any of those people.  Why? Maybe because  stereotypes make better television?

 

Baker's Dozen Day!

Ah, Friday the 13th. For some it's just another day.  For triskadekaphobes, it's a scary time.  For paraskevidekatriaphobes, it's downright terrifying. 

Chill out, guys.  For the triskas, our baker's dozen of buffalo egret wings comes with 14, not the scary number.  And for the paras, we've renamed today Valentine's Day Eve. Have a drink, relax by the fireplace, and try not to think of 13s. (oops, sorry.)

For those of you who are the most frightened -- the clueless guys (sometimes called commitmentphobes, sometimes just called dumb***es) who are desperately shopping for cards, flowers, jewelry or candy at the last minute -- we've got you covered too. BBQMC gift cards are available in various denominations.  Nothing says "I care about you" more than slow-roasted sea cow in secret sauce!  Gift cards are valid any time, at any BBQMC location. See your server for details.

For me, Valentine's Day is bittersweet this year. My mom, who ran her own flower shop for 27 years, passed away last June.  I miss the calls telling me how frantic she and my grandmother were getting as their biggest sales day of the year approached. I'd usually talk to Mom several times in February, with the last call about a week before Valentine's Day, and nothing more until a few days after.  In the first call, she'd usually be fretting about how many roses and carnations to order.  In the second, nine times out of 10, she'd be happily telling me about a new sales record.

N0w that's gone.  Fortunately, my grandmother's still going strong at 85, and still running the shop.  But I miss those conversations with Mom -- especially since her beloved University of Kentucky Wildcats beat Florida's Gators in basketball a few days ago. 

One lesson Mom and my dad taught me was how to spoil someone you care about. That means Executive Chef Heatherann has lots of goodies coming her way for Valentine's Day.  That's the sweet part.

So, Happy Valentine's Day to all. Remember to hug your mother, and consider this -- those $60/dozen roses you're grumbling about the price of just might be helping to put someone through college.  They did for me.

Birthday Celebrations!

It's a special day in the cafe, ladies and gentlemen.  We have two distinguished visitors celebrating birthdays today.  

You remember Abraham Lincoln, of course -- only the greatest president we've ever had. Abe, don't be so shy. Stand up at your table and take a bow!

And look, he's celebrating with our old pal,  Charles Darwin.  Charlie baby, that theory of evolution rocked our world!  In the words of Dr. Magnus Pyke, SCIENCE! (Yes Magnus, we know Miss Sakamoto is beautiful. Dude, evolve, will you?)

Both Abe and Charlie are celebrating the big 2-0-0, so it's gonna be a special night on the dance floor.  Charlie's a big fan of Warren Zevon, so let's crank up a little "Gorilla, You're a Desperado" on the jukebox.

And rumor has it that Abe's a dancing machine when the disco's playing, so hit the switch for the mirrorball, and we'll get the "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack rolling.  

Oh, nearly forgot, today's special is the Flamingo Fritters appetizer. Enjoy!

Guest Chef!

Speaking of wordplay, here's  a little something cooked up by one of the greats, George Carlin.

3:57 of magic, served by a master wordsmith.  Yes, it's safe for work.

 R.I.P., George.  We miss you.

Grand Opening!

WELCOME to the Barbecued Manatee Cafe, where the grill is always hot, the menu never changes, and the secret’s in the sauce.

 Today’s special is the Maximum Manatee Party Platter – perfect for groups of 42 or more.  Comes with fries, slaw and drinks for one low price.

 Relax, no actual manatees were harmed in the creation of this blog.  All will be explained.

 OK, so who am I, your humble host?

 I’m a temporarily unemployed newspaper reporter, or as I see it, a storyteller, in Ocala, Florida.  I’ve interviewed everyone from serial killers to second-graders, felons to fatcat financiers, often finding the felons more fascinating.  My theory of journalism is a simple one – everybody has a story, and it’s my job to tell it.

 The current economic mess interrupted that job on Oct. 17, 2008. That’s when I became an unemployment statistic, one of more than a dozen folks downsized from the Ocala Star-Banner.  Given the implosion of the newspaper industry in the last few years, that likely was my last day in a newsroom.

No hard feelings. The Banner was my happy professional home for nearly a decade, and they treated me fairly when the time came to make the budget cuts they’d been putting off as long as possible.

 I miss the job, of course.  One of the joys of being a reporter  is talking to all kinds of people on a daily basis – judges, business people, cops, hot dog vendors, folks who want to protest this or promote that.  And I miss the writing. I love the sight, the feel, the SOUND of a well-turned phrase, the magical wordplay that makes one smile.

 That brings me here – an outlet for the writing urge that drove me into the business in the first place. Birds gotta fly, manatees gotta swim, I gotta write. If I can’t tell anyone else’s story, might as well tell my own.

 Oh yeah, about the name.  That came from my last days at the Star-Banner. With six weeks’ notice of the impending layoff, choices included laughter or crying. I chose laughter. Since the S-B’s kid-friendly promotional mascot is Matt Manatee, and the manatee is one of the most beloved animals in Florida,  my desk soon sported a sign reading “Will barbecue manatees for cash.”

  After that, it just seemed an appropriate name for the blog.  Well, that and a sauce recipe passed down from my great-grandmother.... not sure I want to know how she perfected it, since as far as I know, there are no manatees in Kentucky.

 So come on in, there’s plenty of room. The jukebox is loaded and ready to go.  The coffee’s hot, and laughter is encouraged at all times. Pull up a chair, browse the menu, peruse the wine list – we highly recommend the Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill – and enjoy.  Bon Appetit!

                                                     Chef Rick