Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

The Baking Industry, Revisited

After trashing bakers the other day, here’s a positive development in the protean world of turning flour, sugar and a disgusting fungus (yeast) into edible stuff.  A commercial bakery in my neighborhood, Essential Baking, is expanding into the Fremont district, having purchased the cool brick building formerly occupied by Redhook Brewing.  Redhook brewed at the site for 10 - 15 years before IPO-driven expansion forced them to build a bigger facility out in the suburbs (boo!) near Woodinville.  Essential plans to make chocolate there from scratch, among other things.  My wife and I often walk to Fremont to shop for cds at Sonic Boom Records, and imbibe margaritas at El Camino, and now the chocoholic will be scheduling one more stop there.

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/business/122838_chocolate21.html

The Baking Industry, Revisited

After trashing bakers the other day, here’s a positive development in the protean world of turning flour, sugar and a disgusting fungus (yeast) into edible stuff.  A commercial bakery in my neighborhood, Essential Baking, is expanding into the Fremont district, having purchased the cool brick building formerly occupied by Redhook Brewing.  Redhook brewed at the site for 10 - 15 years before IPO-driven expansion forced them to build a bigger facility out in the suburbs (boo!) near Woodinville.  Essential plans to make chocolate there from scratch, among other things.  My wife and I often walk to Fremont to shop for cds at Sonic Boom Records, and imbibe margaritas at El Camino, and now the chocoholic will be scheduling one more stop there.

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/business/122838_chocolate21.html

What I’m Listening To

I was working out of town a couple of weeks ago.  At the end of the week, in preparation for re-integrating myself, I called home.  I asked if there was any interesting mail, and my wife cited the Visa bill, a birth announcement, an IRS notice for my corporation and (tick…tick…tick) a package from someone named voodoolulu in New York.  I said, “Oh, uh, yeah, it’s a CD.  Go ahead and open it.  I heard some clips on the internet and thought it was intriguing.”

I had picked up the voodoolulu blog when it first appeared on the Salon updates page, and followed links to her music website http://www.voodoolulu.com .  I listened to a couple samples of her album, meooow Royale, and decided it was worth a gamble.  This was before her breakout blog post about her 3-way experience catapulted her into Google heaven, so you must understand that my interest was purely aesthetic.

When I got home, it was there with my other mail, unopened.  I guess, in a gratifying display of chivalry, my wife was affording me one last chance to salvage my dignity, in case it really WAS a porn DVD.  I flipped casually through the other stuff, then nonchalantly opened the voodoolulu package.  My wife saw the cover of the cd, observed the bared midriff, taut abs and said, “I know why you bought this.”  I could have made some impolitic comment about how many times I’d gotten into her car and, in  shamefaced humility, slid her D’Angelo jewelcase under the seat, but it was my first night home, and I had plans…

Understand that, at 53 and married, my comments about this album will probably come off like Rick Steves touring Amsterdam and raving about the bus service.  Nevertheless: The cd, like her blog, is seething with attitude, social consciousness and in-your-face sexuality, but peppered with a wry humor.  At its best, it explores relationships minutely, from heartbeat to heartbeat.  This is all delivered in a musical package that starts with a foundation of tight drum, bass and keys.  Background vocalist Chemda has major pipes, and lulu’s rhyming tunnels in with a smoky, articulate growl.  Overall, the sound is slick but spare enough to deliver the verbal message effectively.  A nice, exceptional, even, first album that probably only hints at what happens in a live performance.

It should be unopposed for the Grammy category “best bass line backing up girl-on-girl imagery”.  Owing to content, Clear Channel is not likely to put this on their playlists anytime soon, which means that 98% of the country will not get to hear it on the radio, especially after 6/2, so buy it from her website if you’re curious (and usually get to the mailbox first).

What I’m Listening To

I was working out of town a couple of weeks ago.  At the end of the week, in preparation for re-integrating myself, I called home.  I asked if there was any interesting mail, and my wife cited the Visa bill, a birth announcement, an IRS notice for my corporation and (tick…tick…tick) a package from someone named voodoolulu in New York.  I said, “Oh, uh, yeah, it’s a CD.  Go ahead and open it.  I heard some clips on the internet and thought it was intriguing.”

I had picked up the voodoolulu blog when it first appeared on the Salon updates page, and followed links to her music website http://www.voodoolulu.com .  I listened to a couple samples of her album, meooow Royale, and decided it was worth a gamble.  This was before her breakout blog post about her 3-way experience catapulted her into Google heaven, so you must understand that my interest was purely aesthetic.

When I got home, it was there with my other mail, unopened.  I guess, in a gratifying display of chivalry, my wife was affording me one last chance to salvage my dignity, in case it really WAS a porn DVD.  I flipped casually through the other stuff, then nonchalantly opened the voodoolulu package.  My wife saw the cover of the cd, observed the bared midriff, taut abs and said, “I know why you bought this.”  I could have made some impolitic comment about how many times I’d gotten into her car and, in  shamefaced humility, slid her D’Angelo jewelcase under the seat, but it was my first night home, and I had plans…

Understand that, at 53 and married, my comments about this album will probably come off like Rick Steves touring Amsterdam and raving about the bus service.  Nevertheless: The cd, like her blog, is seething with attitude, social consciousness and in-your-face sexuality, but peppered with a wry humor.  At its best, it explores relationships minutely, from heartbeat to heartbeat.  This is all delivered in a musical package that starts with a foundation of tight drum, bass and keys.  Background vocalist Chemda has major pipes, and lulu’s rhyming tunnels in with a smoky, articulate growl.  Overall, the sound is slick but spare enough to deliver the verbal message effectively.  A nice, exceptional, even, first album that probably only hints at what happens in a live performance.

It should be unopposed for the Grammy category “best bass line backing up girl-on-girl imagery”.  Owing to content, Clear Channel is not likely to put this on their playlists anytime soon, which means that 98% of the country will not get to hear it on the radio, especially after 6/2, so buy it from her website if you’re curious (and usually get to the mailbox first).

A neighborhood alternative that promises less risk of contamination

A neighborhood alternative that promises less risk of contamination

Now We Know Where the “Kreme” Comes From - I’m Still Lost Re: the “Krispy”

I’ve worked for a bakery and, I dunno, maybe it’s the pesticide residue in the flour, maybe it’s the high that results from the presence of all that white sugar dust in the air, but my expectations of bakery employees (myself excluded, of course) have been permanently lowered.  For instance, we had to write off a whole cooler full of whipped cream canisters once because the night crew exhausted them all bleeding off the NO2. 

However, Krispy Kreme, the national donut juggernaut, finally hit Seattle last year after months of wild-eyed anticipation by their aficianadoes and fawning press, and I guess I expected something along the lines of Starbucks in terms of no-nonsense management and execution.  Then, I read the following, and I know what happened to the late-night gas huffers from my old employer:

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/122760_krispykreme20.html

Now We Know Where the “Kreme” Comes From - I’m Still Lost Re: the “Krispy”

I’ve worked for a bakery and, I dunno, maybe it’s the pesticide residue in the flour, maybe it’s the high that results from the presence of all that white sugar dust in the air, but my expectations of bakery employees (myself excluded, of course) have been permanently lowered.  For instance, we had to write off a whole cooler full of whipped cream canisters once because the night crew exhausted them all bleeding off the NO2. 

However, Krispy Kreme, the national donut juggernaut, finally hit Seattle last year after months of wild-eyed anticipation by their aficianadoes and fawning press, and I guess I expected something along the lines of Starbucks in terms of no-nonsense management and execution.  Then, I read the following, and I know what happened to the late-night gas huffers from my old employer:

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/122760_krispykreme20.html

My New Living Room

As I’ve mentioned, I work at home when I’m not on a client’s site, as an accounting software consultant.  I’ve discussed the tendency, absent the need to appear at an office every morning, towards slovenliness, and how I’ve gotten comfortable with it.  Since Thanksgiving, however, my mother-in-law has been living with us (and that’s ok, I’ll expand on that another time), and I’ve started to feel a little bit claustrophobic and fishbowl-ish lately.

I discovered a new espresso venue a couple weeks ago that the other neighborhood slackers haven’t found yet.  Although I know that a) you’re not slackers and b) you almost certainly don’t live in my neighborhood, I still won’t tell you where it is, other than that its name for these purposes is, oh, Cafe Maree.

I ordered my usual coffee drink, “a double-shot and a spoonful or two of non-fat foam”, and the baristress said, “oh, a macchiatto.”, and I was gratified and encouraged that this was going to turn out good.  I camped out at a table, spread out some papers and booted my laptop.  After 20 minutes or so, the proprietor came over, noticed my WiFi card and asked if I had a good connection.  There had been no indication that any internet connection was available, and I hadn’t even asked.  In about 30 seconds I had a WiFi connection and was off and surfing.  The only difference from the home office is that I’m shaven and dressed, and the coffee is arguably better.  I wonder if they’ll notice that I have a bedroll the next time I show up?

My New Living Room

As I’ve mentioned, I work at home when I’m not on a client’s site, as an accounting software consultant.  I’ve discussed the tendency, absent the need to appear at an office every morning, towards slovenliness, and how I’ve gotten comfortable with it.  Since Thanksgiving, however, my mother-in-law has been living with us (and that’s ok, I’ll expand on that another time), and I’ve started to feel a little bit claustrophobic and fishbowl-ish lately.

I discovered a new espresso venue a couple weeks ago that the other neighborhood slackers haven’t found yet.  Although I know that a) you’re not slackers and b) you almost certainly don’t live in my neighborhood, I still won’t tell you where it is, other than that its name for these purposes is, oh, Cafe Maree.

I ordered my usual coffee drink, “a double-shot and a spoonful or two of non-fat foam”, and the baristress said, “oh, a macchiatto.”, and I was gratified and encouraged that this was going to turn out good.  I camped out at a table, spread out some papers and booted my laptop.  After 20 minutes or so, the proprietor came over, noticed my WiFi card and asked if I had a good connection.  There had been no indication that any internet connection was available, and I hadn’t even asked.  In about 30 seconds I had a WiFi connection and was off and surfing.  The only difference from the home office is that I’m shaven and dressed, and the coffee is arguably better.  I wonder if they’ll notice that I have a bedroll the next time I show up?