Day Trip to Lovely Wickenburg (Sarcasm!)

About four weeks ago, Sara and I went to Wickenburg, Ariz., with my family for a little day trip to the Vulture Mine, which is this old mine that was abandoned and turned into a tourist attraction. Well, not long after that Sara got pummeled with order after order from EssBee's Bakery, her new bakery endeavor. Needless to say, she's been swamped and has been unable to post of our wonderful trip to Wickenburg. I pestered her and everything, but it was either type or bake ... and she chose wisely.

So now here I am many weeks for a brief photo essay about Wickenburg. Enjoy!

(By the way, all photos are clickable!)

_______________________________

In one of the old mine shacks was a large kitchen. I told Sara to imagine baking in one of these ovens. Her face is her response: "No, thank you."

_______________________________

I told Sara to steal that muffin tin and use it for her customers. The little kleptomaniac STOLE it! (Just kidding.) And that guy with the goofy shadow ... that's me.

_______________________________

I'm kinda bummed, Sara and I didn't have a single photo taken of us together. Instead you get me in my Hero Pose apparently and Sara trying to loosen this old drill press with her bulging muscles.

_______________________________

We found these old cars behind one of the buildings. Sara took a photo of me climbing through the windshield of one of them; I'll spare you that shot.

_______________________________

"Penetrating Oil: A Spring Lubricant"?!?! What were these miners doing at the mine? Well, apparently they weren't taking spelling lessons as you can tell from the "gold paning" sign.

_______________________________

People were actually hung from this tree that Sara is standing under. I told her not to look so happy for the photo, after all we were under a hanging tree.

_______________________________

This is my beautiful niece Bristol. She's six months old and ADORABLE! (And I use that word only sparingly so you know I mean it.) We had to tell her alcohol was bad, the little boozehound. Later, I held her until she fell asleep, which was the best.

_______________________________

There was this one big shed that had a massive diesel engine in it, like the size of a school bus big. Visitors could touch and climb on anything they wanted so Sara and went up top to check the oil and refill the windshield washer fluid. Down below we saw my brother Jason and my dad.

_______________________________

Locked up!

_______________________________

Right after Sara pulled this lever a prisoner somewhere was killed.

_______________________________

Journey to the Center of the Earth

Paul McCartney once lived in Tucson. You hear that and you think, "Wow, a Beatle lived there so it must be pretty nice."

And then you drive into Tucson and you notice the horrible drivers, the streets choked with telephone wires, trash cans on the sidewalks, homeless people panhandling at every gas station and the many seedy neighborhoods. It's right then, at that exact moment, that you realize something: Paul McCartney, that rich SOB, probably never had to come into Tucson. He had a house out in the hills with a private driveway, armed guards, salivating rottweilers and razor wire and pits with sharpened bamboo spears and bengal tigers. Paul didn't live in Tucson; he lived in the desert near it.

And then something else hits you, something more profound: "I liked John better anyway."

I have a whole sad history with Tucson. Some of it I take out on Paul, who lived there with his late wife Linda (and has now since moved away). But I was excited to go back to Tucson and have fun, and do it under much different circumstances with Sara. And fun we had, although very little of it was in Tucson. Much of our adventure took us southeast of Tucson and beyond.

We started at the Reid Park Zoo, Tucson's quaint little animal park in a skeevy neighborhood south of downtown. For a zoo, it's dirt cheap ($7), and it's charming how simple and clean everything is. I'm used to the Wildlife World Zoo, which is wonderful (especially after they added an aquarium). That zoo is very large, very dusty and, in certain places, it looks kinda cheap — although it's totally not cheap at something like $26 a person. So going to Reid Park was a fun alternative. Highlights include the giraffes, the dancing/twitching elephant, the various monkeys, the kissing anteaters and the otters, which we must have watched play in their lagoon for like 15 minutes.

After that, we wandered back to the freeway and started heading further southeast to Benson for our reservation at Kartchner Caverns, which is this huge cave system that nature carved into the desert limestone. These two college students found them in the ’70s and they've been miraculously preserved by the state since the ’90s. They look wonderful, but to keep all them stalagmites and stalactites ticking there are rules, and they are extensive: no cameras, no phones, nothing held in your hands, no food, no drinks, no purses or bags. And if you take your jacket off inside (because it's hot and humid) then be ready to roll it a very special way. Also, as we walked in we were lightly misted to keep any hair, dust or dead skin cells from becoming airborne. (Remember Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen ... he would have been denied entry.) I was going to be a wiseguy and ask the guide if smoking was allowed, but Sara pinched my arm and wagged her finger — she keeps me from embarrassing myself, or maybe just herself. All the rules were worth it, though, because the caves were amazing.

After that, we made a mad dash further south to Tombstone for lunch and an authentic cowboy experience. Within about 15 minutes I was explaining to Sara that Kurt Russell and Kevin Costner both did versions of Wyatt Earp, and that Costner's was more accurate but Russell's was more entertaining. This took place in Big Nose Kate's Saloon, where I had a cowboy burger in an authentic cowboy bar. How authentic? Well, it had the longhorns above the bar, a painting of a naked lady behind the bartender and buckets of ice in the trough-style urinal. Yee-Haw! After eating and walking through Tombstone's storied streets, we caught the daily showing of the Gunfight at the OK Corral, which was most definitely not worth the admission price — I think the Doc Holliday actor was legitimately sauced.

We also stopped at the original Boothill Cemetary so we could desecrate some graves with our smiling mugs. The sign on the door reminds people they're at a gravesite so to act accordingly, but that's hard to do when you're standing over a headstone that reads, "Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a 44, no less, no more." Or the one that says, "Here lies George Johnson, hanged by mistake in 1882. He was right, we was wrong, but we strung him up and now he's gone." Hey, that's like executions in Texas nowadays. And I can't forget to mention the Chinese graves, one of which was marked, "Two Chinks."

After scraping the crap from our boots and spittin' our chaw (kidding) we made another mad dash even further southeast — damn near Mexico, hombre — to Bisbee, an old mining community. It was here that we donned yellow slickers, hardhats, leather belts (kinky!) and flashlights to ride a little train way down into the Queen Mine. After the mine closed two decades ago, it has since been turned into a tourist attraction with daily tours. I heard about it from my brother and his wife — thanks, Jay and Char — so Sara and I wanted to give it a whirl. It was a lot of fun. The mine was cold, but our tour guide warmed us up with his colorful narration, which was intentionally drab and monotone. He said he retired to the Honeydews — "Honey, do this," and "Honey, do that ..." He was actually a miner from the mine; and I think he missed his job. Looking up the mine on Wikipedia after our trip, I was pleasantly surprised to see that he was in some of the photos on the page. Midway through the tour he pointed to this tall mine car with two seats on the top and said that was the miner's bathroom, and then he offered everyone the chance to stick their hands down inside. Only Sara took him up on the offer — "Hey, look there's candy down there," she said.

After that we toured Bisbee for a little bit, then headed back to Tucson where we refueled on gas, pie at a desserts-only diner, and I dropped some 5-Hour Energy for the two-hour drive back to Avondale. It was a whirlwind trip, but so worth it.

Trip to Gangland — aka, the AZ State Fair

Going to the Arizona State Fair could be like going to Baghdad. Let me stress the word could. See, it's very crowded, very noisy and at any point you might be in the crossfire of a massive firefight. For some reason, though, this never happens. Or rarely happens. Or happens so often the news media just kinda shrugs its shoulders and asks, "Firefight at state fair or a fluff piece on a Welsh corgi named the world's fastest canine texter? Run the one we don't see everyday."

See, the state fair is known for its gangs probably more than it's known for the fried pickles, fried bacon, fried beer or whatever new deep-fried, intestinal-blocking, heart-stopping commodity is currently in vogue (fried cholesterol). The fair is so infamous for the pervasive gang activity that several people laughed at us when it was announced in our weekly staff meeting we would be visiting. One older reporter — the crime reporter no less — jokingly told us to "pack your Kevlar." Sara and I wouldn't back down, though; after all, we've been to Jamaica, Queens. Besides, I had been to the fair before and I knew two things: that the rumors about gang activity were mostly true, and that the rumors about gang activity were mostly false.

In summary, yes, there are gangs of shady individuals at the fair, but no, they aren't dangerous, assuming you don't go pushing them around or "dissuhspectin." We're still watching The Wire, and the Omar Little character keeps talking about "the game." He specifically says, "I don't go putting my gun on anyone who ain't in the game, yo. You feel me?" Yes, Omar we feel you, and with that advice we didn't go to the fair to step up on some cholo and his khaki'd droogs with their well-starched shirts and teardrop tattoos. And for this reason, we survived the Arizona State Fair. (And also because we wore neutral gang colors: pink and purple, yo.)

We actually had a lot of fun. If you've never been, you should consider going. It's not very clean, or cheap, and the amenities are so bad we chose to hold our bladders for the entire evening rather than risk contracting some exotic disease in the ripe honeybuckets called Port-O-Lets. But, all in all, it still makes for an exciting evening. Plus there's carnies, who have enlisted young, well-spoken protégées (with full sets of teeth) to join their ranks in hopes of improving the carnie reputation (it worked!). Most of all, though, the Arizona State Fair is a cultural experience. Not like cultural in the sense that we saw other cultures and their arts, but in the sense that we saw the native culture of this bizarre state. From the bandana'd gang members and their watchful police shadows to the boyfriends toting around Kong-sized stuffed animals for their girlfriends to the fat men in their Hoverounds sucking on bottled air and puffing on cigarettes. These aren't just freaks at the fair; they're the people we share the state with. And really there's no better way to see the cross-section of your state than by going to events like the state fair.

We went on the opening night. Our reasoning: it would be cleaner, and the people working there would be less likely to jam a shiv in your ribcage. The only bad thing about this night was that it was packed. Really packed. And most people don't really understand how to walk in crowds like this. They stop for no reason, look around, mess with their stroller, take a phone call … and meanwhile, a stampede of people behind them are elbowing each other to maneuver around the obstruction. We braved the crowd, though, and managed to see some vendor exhibits, the youth photography entries, lots of farm animals and, for Sara, the baked good entries. Sara could have done any of the baked goods, which means that next year she might enter something — I'm encouraging her. It was strange to look at the baked goods, though, because they were all several days old and many didn't look very appetizing anymore. Some of them looked like they were about to grow legs and cut in line on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

The animals were interesting, too. Lots of rabbits. Lennie would have loved it. We saw part of the goat show, which was run kinda like a dog show: goat owners parade their goats around a little arena, and then let a judge poke the goats in places the goats probably don't like. A woman next to us told me that goats are really smart: "They can open gates, you know." She was kinda miffed when I said that opening gates wasn't that great. Smart is changing the oil in my car, goat. Then Sara whispered to me that Jack can't open gates. True, but he can balance a ball on his front paws and stare at it for hours. Let's see a goat do that. We also saw the large bulls and cows. It was especially fun to watch the children point and laugh at the bull testicles that were swinging like giant pendulums underneath all the bulls. Kids will be kids, and bull nuts just can't be ignored. (Oh, you think I'm joking, don't you? Take your kids and secretly time them to see how long it takes to point them out. You'll be shocked.)

Sara and I were determined to eat some fair foods even though we're both on Weight Watchers after our jetBlue trips. We agreed to eat bad for one night; we even prepared by eating really healthy that morning and afternoon — in fact, I think we could have eaten with the goats. She had a Navajo taco, or Indian fry bread, and I had a corn dog. We also had an ice cream dessert called a Cow Pie, a funnel cake and we shared an ice cream cone as we were leaving. (Word to the wise: 9 times out of 10 it is smart to say no to anything called a Cow Pie.) It was all tasty, and we didn't even feel grossly full, which is how we were feeling after every meal last month on the East Coast. By the next day we were both eating healthy again after our little splurge in Phoenix.

The last thing we did was ride the big Ferris wheel, which provided a wonderful view of the fair below us and of the Phoenix skyline to the southeast. On our way out of the fair I was determined to win a prize for Sara at one of the Midway games, and guess what ... I did. It's a little neon turtle. To view it you first need an electron microscope and then someone to use the damn thing, but I promise the turtle is there. I didn't win a big prize — or a prize with a gun or a pot leaf printed on it, which is what Sara was hoping for — but it was fun to walk away with something for my girl at the Arizona State Fair.

Adventures close to home ... really close

Thank you, jetBlue. You've been good to us, but this weekend we're staying home.

Oh man, did we ever deserve it! Seriously, we both took it very easy this past weekend. I think we earned that after four straight weekends of jetsetting. Sleeping in, going to bed early, eating better, sitting in one place for more than 90 minutes ... these are the spoils of travel war.

We didn't take it too easy, though. For starters I had to cover a local parade in Tolleson, the small, rural city where I went to high school. The Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church puts on their Fiesta de Amistad event every year, and every year I cover it. And every year I enjoy it. And with the passing of SB1070 here in Arizona — the controversial law that makes being in this country illegally a state crime, not just a federal crime — it's nice to support and participate in the other cultures here in this diverse state. Specifically, it's fun to experience Mexican culture. Mexicans are a festive people, and they throw down when it comes to parades.

Native dancers, mariachi bands, Knights of Columbus members carrying the Blessed Virgin Mary, vaqueros (Spanish for cowboy) and their lasso tricks, low riders and folklorico ... the parade had it all. Sara went with me, so she brought Jack and sat in the front lawn of my high school — like 50 feet from where I had sophomore English with Mrs. Williams. Jack was well-behaved, as was Sara. Ha! Jack just chilled out and seemed rather confused when people would walk by banging their drums or spinning in their colorful dresses.

The parade was over in less than hour, so we were back at my house in no time flat. It was definitely a change of pace from our jetBlue schedule.

Wholly Cannoli!

While Michael has done a superb job at giving our readers (you!) a travel log of our wild expeditions, I've been a bit, well, busy. See, Michael has most of his evenings free and some time during work to catch everyone up on where we've been. Whereas my week nights are filled to the brim with school on Mondays and Tuesdays and then mostly laundry and bill paying on Wednesdays and then we're out the door and back on a jet come Thursday morning. That was the routine for the past four weeks: Work for three days, travel for four. It hasn't been until now, and the conclusion of our All-You-Can-Jet passes that life has really slowed down and I've been able to catch up on everything that has happened — the great, wonderful, fantastical, can't believe we actually did them — things that Michael has written about.

But I have another subject to tackle: bakeries. Our trips were really two-fold for me. I was able to spend some much needed time with dear friends and family while visiting a few bakeries. The schooling I previously mentioned is to receive a baking and pastry certificate. I want to one day open up my own bakery, so every place we visited, from Duxbury to Sarasota to Boston and New York, was an opportunity for me to examine how other bakers and shop owners do it. And they all did it differently.

Our first trip to NYC included a checklist of must-see bakeries that have become popular, in their own way, with New Yorkers. Our very first eatery was a mobile truck unit called Cake & Shake. It features a small number of cupcakes and shakes each day. The customer never knows what cake or shake is baked and mixed on any day of the week — a brilliant plan to keep customers coming back (other than the fact that both are delicious). Obviously, the cupcakes are not baked on the truck, but the milk shakes are made on site. I imagine this business plan allows for lower overhead costs, less employees and a unique experience for customers. But it's not the bakery for me.

At least five different bake shops were found inside the Chelsea Market but the two that stick out most in my mind were both bread houses: Sarabeth's and Amy's Bread. They were very similar in that they allowed people to view the entire bread-making process. Glass windows allowed onlookers to watch as bread — such a simple, simple food — starts from flour, water, yeast and salt and turns into rolls, baguettes, boules, bagels and more. The process is really fascinating, even if you're a "non-baker." A dozen workers shaped, pressed, decorated, baked and then sold bread in the adjoining sales room. It is most unfortunate that we did not actually buy a loaf of bread from one of these shops, but it excited me to see that other people were as interested in this age-old practice as I am.

City Market, our next bakery, this one in Midtown, was kinda/sorta what I pictured myself owning one day. I liked that cookies, muffins and simple sweets were offered. It was bustling. Employees wore aprons dusted with flour smudges. A second level offered seating and a wonderful view of the activity happening below. But I didn't like that it also offered a salad bar, pasta bar and other hot foods. I want to focus on coffee and old-fashioned, don't-need-an-ingredient-list-to-know-what-it-is baked goods. The tastings I had from City Market were grand, but the atmosphere seemed sterile and too big for me.


There is sooo much more to eat in New York City than I'm not telling you about: Crumbs (LOVELY black and white NYC cookies), Momofuku Milk Bar (a bit weird and dodgy), Magnolia's Bakery (quite popular and busy to the point where it was claustrophobic inside but loved that we could watch bakers top off cupcakes with whipped frosting while we ordered and paid). And I'm sure thousands more. But there was also some fine eats in Massachusetts and Florida that I want to tell you about.

First, Florida. The peninsula astounded me with its bakery options, well at least the many we found in Sarasota. Who ever would have thought that a coastal vacation town was ripe for traditional French and Italian bakeries? But they are! Oh and I can't even remember their names but they left quite an impression on me. These bakeries are classical, rich, decadent and delicious but not at all pretentious in their surroundings. Outdoor wrought-iron tables and chairs welcomed patrons to sit for a sample of key lime pie, a taste of a mini eclair, and a cream puff suited with dark chocolate. Tiny tarts of frangipane coupled with blueberries and kiwi with a grape top hat were wonderful two-bite treats. The tiramisu was out of this world; can I have some more, pretty please, I will dream about you tonight, fabulous. I fell in love with a thick slice of sweet napoleon and I had a very strong inclination to change my next flight to Paris so I can sample even more decadence from the town with the Eiffel Tower. (Michael here: I must brag that I talked Sara, the coconut-hater, into trying a coconut-loaded macaroon in Sarasota. And I think she kinda liked it.)

Boston should not be nicknamed Bean Town. I will forever think of it as Wholly Cannoli. Our second night in the city we sought out only three bakeries: Maria's, Mike's and Modern Pastry. All are within the North End and less than a half-mile from each other. Our first visit was to Maria's and my first observation sort of surprised me: it was busy. Maria's is not new, not flashy, not big. It is Italian and there was a line a few feet out the door to order traditional butter cookies (something like 30 different colorful varieties were stored in open containers along the back wall of the store. It reminded me of the cubbies I'd stuff my lunch box and coat into when I was in second grade). There was a refrigerated display holding empty cannoli shells -- Maria fills them when they're ordered. There were lobster tails and sfogliatelle, both traditional Italian puff pastries. Less, seemingly unpopular items included pizza and gelatto. Michael ordered a cannoli or two and I ordered a sfogliatelle and an item I can't remember the name of but can be described as a log of nuts and nougat coated in milk chocolate. I very much liked the log and only enjoyed the sfogliatelle. Michael raved about the cannoli. I've never been a big fan of cream-filled items, whether they're doughnuts, pastries or cakes. But it seemed to be a hit with everyone else; after all, there was a line out the door and it wasn't the logs flying off the shelves.

Mike's Pastry was next. We knew before even finding the place that Mike's was a popular joint. We'd seen many a commuter carrying a box with the blue Mike's label on it during our time on the T. We didn't understand exactly how popular until we were halfway down the block and realized the line in front of us was for Mike's. So, we moved on to Modern Pastry without even going inside Mike's. We also learned Mike's was a cash-only place and we are both card-carrying-only spenders. We thought Modern was more modern (Ha!) and would allow the use of plastic, but no. It was cash only as well. So, after finding an ATM, we decided to return to Mike's and wait a mere 20 minutes or so to see what all the fuss was about.

When we finally got in the door we were introduced to a sea of hungry Bostonians -- all wanting cannoli. There was no congruent line to point us the right way. In fact, there were so many people swimming about that I can't even describe what the floor looked like, what hung on the walls or if there were even tables and chairs to chat about on. There were so many people. And I started to get excited again. Not about cannoli (oh brother there was so much cannoli in so many different forms and flavors) but because I realized people were going to bakeries — in crowds. Bakeries! And what they want isn't a trendy fru-fru cupcake but a classic, century's old cannoli. A curved, crispy shell filled with a cream and dusted with confectioners sugar. Oh, I was so happy! And I don't even like cannoli but it tickles me to know that people appreciate food, working man's food, comfort food — the kind of food I want to make them.

Traveling and eating in New York, Boston and Sarasota taught me some very sage advice. No matter how different the destination, the one thing they had in common (for me) was an ability to attract and retain a hungry populous. Food was appreciated. It was waited for. It was flocked to. It was devoured and talked about.

It made me hopeful for the day when I open my bakery to a line out the door.