 |
  |
 |
||||||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
||||||||||
|
Theater: Sports: Food: Wine:
Is
Love Enough?
One of Neil Simon's early plays, 1960 comedy Barefoot in the Park, offers a glimpse into the mindset of the times for which it was written. In our modern age of two-income families, the notion of a wife staying home to "play house" while the husband goes off to the salt mines seems disproportionately quaint, and if you've ever viewed old reruns of "Bewitched" you'll wonder if anybody was ever sober, because every situation called for a drink. Drinking was the socially accepted panacea of the times and Neil Simon's Barefoot, in which the couple's bar is the centerpiece of the living room, reflects that attitude. Still, dated as it is, it taps into a common theme, one that just about everyone can relate to — newlyweds experiencing that inexorably dismal moment when they discover that the honeymoon is over. The play opens in an empty New York brownstone apartment — five floors up if you don't count the stoop — that the newly wedded Corie, a perky, impetuous young bride has rented at a bargain price. Corie's husband, Paul, a conservative, buttoned-down lawyer, is less than thrilled with her choice of living space when he discovers, after climbing all those stairs, that the bathroom has no bathtub, a twin size bed fills the entire space of the minuscule bedroom, all the fixtures work in reverse — sometimes — and blasts of cold winter air blow through a hole in the skylight. Adding to the building's charm are the neighbors, who embody an odd mix of wacky eccentrics. The most notable is Victor Velasco, a playfully flamboyant scoundrel who uses the couple's bedroom window to climb up the outside ledge to his loft apartment above theirs. Before they've even settled in, Corie's lonely, acquiescent mother, Ethel, makes a surprise visit, which inspires Corie to arrange a little matchmaking by way of a double date designed to bring Ethel and Victor Velasco together. The date sets the stage for an evening of multiple surprises and events, among them Ethel's life-altering reawakening, as well as events that underscore the disparity between Paul and Corie, leaving them to ponder their future together and question whether love in itself is truly enough to sustain a marriage. Carrie Ann Lane is sweetly earnest as the gregarious Corie. At the beginning of the play, Lane's performance seemed a bit stilted, but as the play progressed, she seemed to catch her rhythm and started having fun with the role. Likewise, Jef A. Robertson is convincing and aptly cast as the stoic Paul. His exasperated demeanor nicely contrasts with Lane's exuberance. Becky Croson-LaChapelle is delightfully funny and over the top as Ethel, and Steven Mandell lends a campy slant to his role as the unconventional Victor Velasco. Rounding out the cast is Rick J. Lloyd as the telephone repairman and Don Moyer as the delivery man. Barefoot in the Park runs at Very Little Theatre through June 19.
Ultimate
Ultimate
All year long Eugene high school teams hope to compete in the state championships. When a Eugene team wins a state title (once in a blue moon), a malay ensues. Parents hold parties, the team secures a better reputation (and maybe funding) for the next year, and the underage liquor is broken out. Naw, your kids don't drink. But nationals, who from Eugene? Which high school has competed at the national level and come away with more than an afternoon of hay fever? And if they did, did they do it without adults? Without a coach? Begin in 2002, when a group of lanky (and lumbering) friends tossed Frisbee on a sunny, South Eugene lawn. Discs bounced away from untrained hands, rolling across grass as often as they flew. The friends laughed, made plans for the weekend, talked about who'd just gotten a car, and what stereo they'd put in it. Fast-forward to May 2004, the National High School Ultimate Frisbee Championships in — how auspicious — Corvallis. Eleven teams flew from New York, Chicago and points east. Five more drove up and down the coast. Among them, a goliath: (Amherst, Mass.), 15 players moving as one, six-footers dressed in black, running circles 'round the rest of the country as if waiting for their flights home. Giving up only a few points per game, Amherst's thunderous footbeats sounded in South Eugene ears several fields away. South, now older, more assured, ultimately more experienced than their bobbling summer of 2002, waited as well. But there was no time to wait, being tested every round, yet ever harvesting the fruits of their long labor; they ascended from game to game, a blazing torch with limited fuel, trying to last until Amherst darkness fell. Back to 2003. Still more friends than athletes. Breeze Strout, quiet team leader, home-schooled and hanging drywall while the rest studied geography, had attracted Max Tepfer, Danny Kalman and Tim Schneider. Next, Strout's snowboarding buddies Dusty Becker and Richard and Ramsey Fuller added their momentum. "I found people to come out," said Strout. "and some of them just wanted to fuck around. But I told them what I was interested in, and we started practicing for real." They were a diverse crew: a tower of a thick kid, Richard Fuller, whose smile widened as quickly as he thinned out; a handful of unproved youth somewhere in the middle; and the mouth, Marcel Schaeffer, the kid whose impetuous humor tests everyone's patience, and who goes everywhere the team goes, because, goddamn it, he's one of you. Practices run by Strout, Tepfer and Becker progressed, until when in April 2003, still coachless, they piled into Fuller's huge van and drove to Estacada. On the ride home, nestled amid duffels and sleeping bags, the shining state trophy glowed, more golden than the headlights. Two months before nationals. Self-disciplinedd practices became brutal. Players, in top shape, signed a contract written by Tepfer, agreeing that for each practice they missed they'd run four miles. Signing the contract promised that for those next two months, ultimate would be each player's top priority.
Late May 2004, Corvallis. On Saturday South Eugene won two games, then lost a third. They needed to win their fourth and last game to reach the main draw on Sunday, where it was clear that if they continued advancing, they'd meet Amherst in the finals. All day they'd played their finest, and now before the first point they gathered in a circle, puts hands to their mouths and cheered themselves on until voices grew hoarse. Just over an hour later, they were victorious, having locked in at least eighth place in the country. Sunday was beyond intense. The quarterfinals set South against the New York Beacon Devils. At half, Beacon held an 8-4 lead in a game to 15. At 9-7 a horn blew, capping the game, first one to 11. Continuing their onslaught with high-energy defense, South finished an unbelievable 7-1 point run, advancing with an 11-9 victory. The semifinals against Northwest (Seattle) was the game of the tournament. Once again, the South Eugene cheer rumbled deep, heard across the fields. At 14-14 in a game to 15, Strout and teammate Eli Friedman were near the endzone, with the game in their palms. It was one of those plays that should work, but can go either way. How it progressed is unimportant. Despite the iron foundation laid by each member of South throughout those two years, something went uncrystalized. Northwest took possession, advancing down the field into the finals. South Eugene, smiling ear-to-ear nevertheless, shook hands with Beacon. For some it was crushing, but for only a moment. Strength that enabled the journey illuminated perspective on their great accomplishment. Northwest scored only five points against Amherst, making the finals a definitive anti-climax. Few who trod grass that day felt that South wouldn't have given Amherst a much better game for their cross-country airfare; so it goes. And so memories of the accomplishment were forever burned into their personalities: Breeze Strout, Dusty Becker, Max Tepfer, Ramsey Fuller, Richard Fuller, Danny Kalman, Will Davidson, Paul Trenler, Tim Schneider, Eli Friedman, Marcel Schaeffer, Sam Barber, Jon Bloch, Braden Larson, Corey Driscol and Patrick Hennessey. This lot was born from leaders, and from it were leaders born.
Married
to the Hmong I contained my 2-inch mane with the hair net that Mary gave me, and then she handed me a cooking condom, which is basically a plastic, disposable apron. "No double dipping," she said. Then I wandered the large stainless steel kitchen, the day before the International Food Festival earlier this spring. Under the fluorescent kitchen lights, different ethnic groups had gathered from faraway places like Estonia, Kenya and Korea. The air was thick with smells, and full of chatter in strange languages. Each group had a box of extra-special ethnic ingredients, whose secrets I needed to probe. I sidled up to some people whose name tags said Hmong. They were rolling egg rolls, which I always thought of as Chinese food. "Where are the Hmong people from, exactly?" I asked. After a short pause, the one named Vixai Yang said, "Laos." "Mongolia," said her mom, Ia Vang. Yang said something sharp to her mother and they bickered for a while. Not speaking much Hmong myself, I could only shrug. So could Arum Wati, who is Indonesian, and married to the Hmong. "We don't know where we're from," she said, smiling. It was sort of the deepest thing I heard all day. The Hmong (pronounced mong) are believed to have populated China before the Han Chinese. But records are scarce, and historical claims, including that of Mongolian roots, are many. Eventually, the Hmong made their way to the highlands of Laos and Vietnam, where they fought alongside U.S. troops during the Vietnam War. When the U.S. pulled out, the Hmong became targets. Many fled to Thailand, whence they were airlifted to the U.S., where their nomadic journey continues. Chef Boy Ari, nomad of the kitchen, wandered toward Bangladesh, where Mahfuza Kabir was stirring an enormous pot with boiling oil 6 inches deep, into which she dumped a bucket of minced onions. The onions boiled in the oil. "Mahfuza," I asked, "aren't the onions going to burn?" The middle-aged woman, wrapped in an orange sari, smiled sweetly, stirring her vat with an enormous spoon. "I'll take care of them," she said. I pressed on, arriving at a table populated by natives of Serbia and Bosnia/Herzegovina. They were manually patting spiced ground meat into patties called cevapi. Their countries, along with many others, were cobbled together by the U.S.S.R. into Yugoslavia in 1945, adding another layer of complexity to the already tangled web of ethnic, national, tribal and religious frictions in the area. When the Soviet Union collapsed, destabilization boiled over. Despite NATO intervention, tension, mistrust, disputes and vendettas remain raw in the Balkans. "What's in them meat patties?" I asked, hoping to break the ice without igniting an outbreak of hostilities. "It's mixed with garlic, onions, black pepper, salt, baking soda," said Ozren, a Bosnian Serb. "Baking soda?" I interrupted. "Why that?" "So they rise," he said. Indeed, dear reader, leavened hamburgers. "And," said Jasenka, a Bosnian Muslim, "there is also the secret weapon." At which point, Veljko, a Serbian Serb, placed a bag of Vegeta on the counter in front of me. "Its' like Mrs. Dash," he said, "but way better." I inspected the bag, noting that this Serbian/Bosnia-Herzegovinan specialty is made in Croatia. It has carrot, celery, and onion powder; salt, pepper, and MSG. The label advises, "Add Vegeta before, during, and after cooking." When talk turned to Vegeta, all five sets of eyes lit up. It's amazing how, so far removed from the context of tension at home, these folks huddled together upon the common ground of food. Put an Isreali and a Palestinian together on Mars, mention the word Felafel, and the same thing would happen. They gave me some Vegata, which I carefully folded into a napkin and took home, where I rubbed the powder on freshly oiled venison strips. While frying the strips in bacon grease, I added Vegeta again. Served with a fine mayonnaise, it was divine. Back in Bangladesh, over half an hour had passed, and Mahfuza was still frying her onions. I was amazed. "They're juicy onions," she explained. "Lots of water to cook away." Finally, she dumped in a big bowl of mashed garlic and ginger. Then she added cumin, coriander, red chili and cinnamon powder. She broke cardamom pods into the boiling oil. Then she dumped in chicken parts, letting them sizzle. When the chicken was close to falling-apart tender, Mahfuza added a mixture of yogurt and coconut milk. At this point, the smell brought me to my knees. Food can plaster you into the here
and now like few other things. That's why it is such
an effective peacemaking tool. Because where you are,
right now, is even more Chef Boy Ari, also known as Ari LaVaux, is currently living and cooking in Missoula, Mont.
Davey's
Night TONIGHT
ONLY! Huge Benefit Wine Auction and Raffle! OK, OK, I've seen too many TV ads, admitted. Buncha jive hype mostly pushing useless crapola at usurious prices. But this is real: As you read this column (don't stop), a gaggle of good people will be assembling donated goods and services for an event at EWC intended to benefit little Davey Untz and his adoptive mom, Lynn Untz, very sweet person, valued colleague, fine teacher of writing and literature at LCC. Davey is battling leukemia, Lynn with him all the way while also struggling with crushing medical bills. Friends, colleagues and decent folk from all over the city are trying to help. This little guy deserves a life. David Victor Untz was born in strife-torn Colombia, and his prospects were not rosy — until he and Lynn Untz found each other. From his infancy, he rapidly grew into a strong, healthy boy, robust, at 3 years old built like a budding middle linebacker. But he was a truckboy, knew backhoes from skiploaders, could tell a Deere from a Cat in the best sense. Wouldn't seem possible, completely unfair, in 2003 Davey was diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia, rare form, very nasty. Next month, Doehrnbecher Hospital docs will try an experimental bone marrow transplant, risky, time-consuming, very expensive. Davey and Lynn need all the help they can get. And the wine community of Lane County has stepped up with some remarkable contributions. More about that below, but first: The handful or so readers of this monthly column have been wonderfully indulgent as I have grappled, especially in the months since 9/11, with personal demons, particularly the nagging sense that writing about the beauties of food and wine in times like these is kinda like playing the piccolo while the world roasts. Lately, especially, I've descended into blistering rants because I couldn't stand by and blithely observe the opening of festering, gangrenous wounds on the American body politic inflicted by Bushite neocons whose only sense of values can be measured by their personal bank accounts — grim-eyed, slaughter-minded zealots who lie, cheat, steal, murder and torture, then hide behind God's name and the masquerade of piety to disguise their crimes and their utter indifference to the suffering they cause in order to inflate their puffed-out egos and their obscenely swollen bottom lines and .... Sorry, I'm back. Again. Trying to find the love, again. But, see, it's just that I know that most Americans really are among the world's most decent, honest and generous people, do anything to relieve others' suffering, rush to help in times of mass disasters and tragedies, but then conniving greed-heads twist and distort those altruistic impulses, grind honest concern into corporate cash-flow and .... Dangit, slipped again. Well, here's the good message: Winefolk of our area have shown me why it's OK to do this work. When I went to them for support on Davey's behalf, they opened up, as they have so often before, for so many causes. So here's the line-up: King Estate: 2002 Pinot Gris; 2002 Reserve Pinot Gris; copy of New American Cuisine, Pinot Gris Cookbook, with recipes from various fine American chefs. Thanks, Miles. Thanks, Ed. LaVelle Vineyards: Wine tasting and tour of their lovely facility. Thank you, Lori. Secret House: Patty and Ron are in with a Secret House gift basket, wines, locally produced jams, other yummy stuff. Hinman/Silvan Ridge: The Chambers family have been strong supporters of Davey through the UO's Sparrow Club; they offer two of their best, Silvan Ridge 2001 Pinot Gris and Silvan Ridge 1999 Oregon Pinot Noir. Sundance Wine Cellars: Steve reached into the collectors' specials for one of Oregon's best, Beaux Freres 1997 Pinot Noir, Yamhill County, unfined, unfiltered. Chateau Lorane: Winemaker David Hook, on behalf of owners Linde and Sharon Kester, enters a beautiful etched magnum of Ch. Lorane 1995 Estate Pinot Noir in its own box, noted as #18 of 50 in their collector series. High Pass: Owner/Winemaker Dieter Boehm tenders six bottles of fine High Pass 1998 Pinot Noir Reserve. Iris Hill: Keith Tabor, IH's new manager, steps up with three Iris Hill Bottlings, 2001 Oregon Pinot Gris, 2001 Chardonnay, and 2001 Pinot Noir, in their own carrying case. Broadley Vineyards: The Broadley family serves up a bonanza for lovers of pinot noir, a full case of Broadley 2001 Pinot Noir, Claudia's Choice (!), their finest reserve, mega-value. Benton Lane: Loren Muse submits for your consideration a bee-ootiful acid-etched, gold-embossed magnum of Benton Lane 1999 Oregon Pinot Noir Reserve. Briggs Hill: Ron Kuhn generously extends a magnum of Briggs Hill 1998 Pinot Noir, well-beloved by pinotphiliacs, just reaching its early maturity. Territorial Vineyards and Wine Company: Eugene's newest winery and tasting room (3rd & Adams) comes in with a magnum of Territorial 2001 Equinox Vineyard Pinot Noir, Gold Medal winner, Double Gold at Wine Press Northwest. More about these folks later; for now, pay your visit! PC Market of Choice: Wine Manager Steve Johnson reached into PC's abundant cellar and found — a surprise. Trust the man: Does Steve know wine? Eugene Wine Cellars: Special thanks to Bruce and most especially Bettina Biehl for hosting this event, providing space, staff and time so that Davey Untz's friends and supporters have a chance to extend their hands and hearts. Join us, for the love of wine, for the love of life, for love alone.
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
