Cup, Mug and Glass

Tea: Hot Cinnamon Chocolate

Music: Endusk, "Four"

Time: Night.

It has been a long, productive day, marked by a triad of most excellent potables. The wellspring was the same for all three.

The "hot" in this morning's tea -- a hand-blended gift from a friend -- was more than temperature and more than cinnamon. It's seasoned with Szechuan peppercorn, which becomes more pronounced as the tea cools. It's the sort of heat one feels around the edges of the tongue, in the soft palate -- even in the teeth.

This afternoon's coffee, from Homer's Coffeehouse, was chocolate Irish cream. The same friend who sent the tea bought me the coffee, long-distance.

And tonight, after a walk that ended just as the rain began, I broke out something porty, a gift received during an impulse stop at Holy-Field Winery, and raised a silent toast to the giver.

Leaf, bean, grape ... all testaments to things that grow, take root and produce wonders. Not everything is a metaphor -- but then again, from time to time, everything is a metaphor.

Salut.

Worn

Tea: Pu Erh Poe with Ginger and Honey

Music: Elvis Costello, "Almost Blue"

Time: Night.

It's been a wearing weekend. And I am worn.

But I and mine are loved and cared for, thought of and prayed for.

And that helps. Immeasurably.

It's a grace and a gratitude, and I am grateful.

Cup XLII: Inside, Outside, KSU

Tea: Earl Grey

Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band

Time: Afternoon

Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.

I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.

Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.

The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.

I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.

It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).

It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.

I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...

Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)

We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.

Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.

But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."

For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.

Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:

A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"

Cup XL: My Child Won't Fit on a Bumper Sticker

Tea: Pu-er Poe

Music: Selections for high school strings

Time: Night.

Disclosure: The tea was steeped, and consumed, this morning. But tonight brought the events of note.

First, the junior daughter (not the younger daughter -- junior as in eleventh grader) was inducted into the National Honor Society. Yeah, I'm going braggy dad here. I'm proud of her, because she's shown a lot more dedication than I ever did in high school. I might have been the only National Merit Scholar in history never to make the honor roll. It's an accomplishment of sorts, but not exactly the right kind of sorts.

Then, I came home after the ceremony to find that the sophomore son had applied his goofy brand of charisma to charm friend/colleague/fellow traveler Seánan Forbes into writing not one, but two ghost stories for him to recite to his drama class. She's a professional storyteller, so I'd suggested he ask her for help. A few hours later, she had done far more than that. Not that I've gotten to read them. He gave me an evil grin and ordered me away from the computer. I think maybe the ghost gets me in the end.

The eighth grade daughter was asleep by then. No doubt dreaming up uses for her dry wit, which she reveals more and more every day. (She has her cockeyed moments, too. She insists I'm a frog, but won't say why or which kind. Some game she and Seánan dreamed up, when Seánan hied her away to New York for a night at the American Museum of Natural History. Yes, that's where the T-Rex mug came from.)

There's much I'm discovering about the kids. It's a grace and a gratitude that what I'm learning is good.

Tonight's story (in which I know I do not appear):

Perceval Landon, "Thurnley Abbey"

Cup XXXV: Variations on a Happy Theme

Tea: Jasmine Pearl

Music: Norah Jones, "One Flight Down"

Time: Night.

Long day. Good day -- in part because there is room at the inn, and there are good people keeping it.

Today's theme, in large part, has been that of happy interactions with good people.

First, I yielded the lunch ordering to friend/collaborator/consummate foodie Seánan Forbes -- who conspired with the server to have amazing homemade noodles (among a meal-long series of perfect bites) delivered to the table. Then, off to reconnect with one winery (and the warm people who run it) and introduce Seánan to another -- and to Concord wine. (Let the purists sniff and call it "jelly in a wine glass." The purists can bite me.)

Oh, and if you live anywhere near Weston, Missouri, and you don't visit at least once ... I shake my head slowly, sadly, pitying you.

Then across the street to dinner -- which, as did lunch, consisted of excellent food served by welcoming people.

It's been a good third day of what's been an odd work trip, a good day for hunting and finding story ideas, a good day for discussions -- both philosophical and practical -- about what good food/travel writing should be.

Would it have been as productive without the interactions along the way? Maybe. But it wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable.

(That's not counting the encounter with one person who heard, "He wants me to try x" and interpreted it as, "I should disregard that and give them y." Frowny face for him. Gold stars for everyone else.)

Tonight's spooky story:

Willkie Collins, "Miss Jéromette and the Clergyman"

Cup XXXIII: Agley (but That's Okay)

Tea: Spring Sprouting Jade

Song: Christian Langer, "Moonchild"

Time: Night

This was not the day I thought I would have. I had anticipated being out on the road with friend/collaborator/fellow traveler Seánan Forbes, who arrived today from New York. I had envisioned being here or here, possibly both, doing research for travel/food writing.

Instead, a more than minor glitch with one of the two family cars kept the two of us in the Kansas City metro area.

But you know what? We went here for lunch (yes, the same place from the first Foodspedition) and discovered new tastes (and new combinations thereof). We shared chocolate and conversation here and here. And there were fortune cookie moments, one of them leading to surprised delight on the part of a promising young writer, and they were good.

All of it was good. Better than.

Funny how things work out that way sometimes.

Tonight's story:

Eleanor F. Lewis, "The Vengeance of a Tree"

Cup XXII: Coming-out Tea Party

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Suzanne Vega, "Small Blue Thing"

Time: Late Afternoon.

As I sit at this wonderfully (other members of Clan Steve beg to differ on the adverb) cluttered computer desk, I turn my head to the left and see bags and bags of tea. Down a bit on the shelves, I see an orange notebook. Below that, more tea.

Eyes front: A paperweight, in the shape of the house-smooshed witch's legs and feet -- ruby slippers and all -- from "The Wizard of Oz." Eyes down a bit more, chocolate dipped ginger Altoids.

Eyes up, slightly right, and we find a small green stone, an eagle fetish, a Tibetan creativity symbol, two rubber ducks (one dead and one devilish) and a pen shaped like a cactus.

A bit more to the right, and more pens appear. One looks like a Holstein cow, one like a stalk of asparagus. Yet another has the Statue of Liberty atop, and it lights up when I press down to write.

So what do all of these things have in common (and in common, I might add, with the Suzanne Vega song)?

They all came to me from Seánan Forbes, who is -- in all conceivable orders -- friend, collaborator, co-conspirator, encourager (with both pushing and pulling connotations), and all-around undefinable kindred spirit.

Seánan is fond of saying that, "A good relationship expands worlds." My world, and those of my family and friends, certainly have expanded -- in all sorts of ways -- from this one. I can only hope that in some small way, I've been able to do the same in the other direction.

This is one way, I suppose. It's a daily note of acknowledgement, of thanks and of things for which there are no words.

Today's story:

Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Young Goodman Brown"

Cup XII: Weren't We a Luverly Bunch of Loroco-Nuts?

Tea: Valentine, steeped a bit too long.

Music: Harry Connick Jr., "It Had to Be You"

Time: Night.

First Foodspedition today, to El Pulgarcito in Merriam. It's a tiny Salvadoran place, with which I have fallen head over palate in an odd sort of love.

"Five white people," Brian said. "This must be some kind of a record."

We were three of the five: One with green hair, one with red and one with none. Had I avoided the sun a little more this summer, we could have put our heads together and done a pretty creditable imitation of an Irish flag.

Three Anglos in the same booth at El Pulgarcito constitutes a curiosity, although I've been part of a larger group. Clan Steve takes up five spots at the counter, and one day an excursion that started with my friend Scott and his son grew to include his wife, her mom and two more kids.

It was Aubry's first visit. Brian and I have been converts for a while, although we took separate paths to this bit of culinary enlightenment.

Aubry didn't get the full Salvadoran experience, though. They switched the music over from Salvadoran to whitebread bland (yes, that's you, Star 102), and the waitress spoke more English than Spanish. Still, Aubry's a new fan of El Pulgarcito.

We all ordered pupusas, the specialty of the house, and each of us got at least one with white cheese and loroco. (Yes, I could describe pupusas, and loroco, but that's what the links are for. Go on, click. Don't make me do all the work.) I also got a pork tamale, because I'm a sucker for just about anything wrapped in a banana leaf and steamed.

The waitress brought a large jar of curtido, sour and spicy Salvadoran slaw, which is an outstanding topping for both pupusas and tamales. Here's a recipe.

The pupusas (with various fillings) and tamales (chicken, pork or corn) are two bucks each, making them leading contenders for best cheap eats in Kansas City. There's a more extensive menu, including a whole fried fish, and I'll get to it all eventually.

Despite the soft "rock," which detracted a bit from the overall atmosphere, the Foodspedition was a great success. Next up, who knows? The only given is that we'll be going somewhere independent.

Big chains are fine for bicycles and keeping vicious dogs from sinking their teeth into innocent backsides. But for restaurants?

Not so much.