Don’t ask.

You may ask, “Why chili?” Considering that the Christmas holiday is mere days away and this time of year is filled with all forms of Eastern European starch concoctions and Polish pork product, the days leading up tend to lean vegetarian. There’s also the fortunate cheese wheel incident in which I was given via not-so-secret Santa a three-year aged hunk of cheddar weighing in at an impressive three pounds. Of course this means grilled cheeses galore, or panini to the gourmand in your life, and thick soups like chili on which to mound fistfuls of the white dairy gold. Everyone knows that gooey chili is the best. There’s no argument there.

I approached the streetcar stop stepping through my exhaled patches of cold breath. It was easily twenty degrees colder that it was earlier in the morning when I’d ridden my reviled Magna to work during the pre-dawn hours. Avid cyclists with their multi-hundred or even multi-thousand dollar rides tend to dislike bikes that don’t shift well and have a hard time braking when traveling at a comfortable clip. Yes, my bike may be substandard and, indeed, cheap, but it was free and it gets me to work in less than fifteen minutes.

I looked at the LCD readout at the stop that, in the darkness of the Solstice, brightly advertised the next arrival in four minutes. There was a lone Asian woman sitting at the stop. I refrained from sitting next to her and chose to stand a good distance away. She seemed lost in thought and looked lonely. I may have looked the same standing there like an oafish goof, uncomfortably leaning to one side, burrowing my hands in my coat’s pockets. I felt a drop of rain on the tip of my nose and I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella.

The headlights of the box-like car approached, blazing the way through a silky evening mist. After a spark, a series of squeaks, and a whispering slide, the street car came to a full stop. The front of the tri-sectioned car was filled with moms and kids ranging in age from probably four to thirteen. There were no seats available. I chose to stand in the second of the three sections. My days are often spent sitting for ten hours at a time in front of computer screens, so standing is usually a distinct pleasure for me.

I counted the usual suspects that I see on my daily rides around the city. They normally drop off near the Safeway to get money for their recyclable cans. They sometimes head to the library stop to congregate with some of the other homeless or to hop on the commuter rail. Some even dare to head into the Pearl, eventually getting off where the ride is no longer free and the fare surveyors reign supreme with their mantra: “Taking a survey of the fares. Fares please.”

The streetcar slid down the avenue and from the front came the sound of children singing. I thought it was someone’s music player at first. After careful aural inspection, I realized that there seemed to be spontaneous caroling a-brewing. Taken aback, I inched closer to the front cabin holding on to the rail above me making sure I didn’t fall into the middle-aged woman parked next to me. She was gabbbing into her iPhone about shopping. I decided to keep staring into my Blackberry’s void.

The din of the carols became louder and the words broke the residual noise. “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains…” floated gaily into our cabin. Despite the voices belonging to untrained children, the song seemed to flow nicely. Even the spazzy little boy sung with a certain level of expertise. I listened further and continued to stare into the void. Something, however, was amiss.

As the group segued into “Silent Night,” I realized that I felt strangely. Dissecting how this unsettled feeling came about, a soaring wave of dread overtook my emotions. What was this? Why was I feeling this way? Was there something visual that was cluing me in? Was something about to happen around me? I swept my gaze across the cabin and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The usuals had already gotten off a stop back to hock cans for cash. Everyone in the car seemed normal and looked like they were headed back from work. “Shepherds quake at the sight…” the children continued. As I sung along in my head, it became clear that I was reacting to this song that I loved as a child. This harmless song that I remember most distinctly from an episode of Benson when one of the characters, Gretchen, sung it in German. It truly is a beautiful representation from such a harshly-regarded language: “Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht!”

I could not relieve myself of this feeling of dread, nonetheless. It was then that I became sad. I realized the root of why I wasn’t warmed by the carolers and why I felt no pangs to hum along. Both songs that this group of merry public transportation riders chose to sing revolve around Christ’s birth and this, honestly, put me off. In a country, and world, where the year-end winter holidays are dominated more and more by the sentiment of putting Christ back in Christmas as if Christmas is the only reason to celebrate. While the sentiment may be earnest, what it ends up being is exclusionary. Christ never left Christmas. Those that celebrate the Christmas holiday are Christian or are lapsed Christians that continue the holiday. The holiday may have in many ways been supplanted by the frenzy of commercialization required to bring so many retail outlets into the black, but the core remains.

Christmas, though, was not the first celebration of the dawn of a new day. The history of man is filled with celebrations related to the coming of the sun and the revelry behind lighting the darkest of days. So many of the stories told during these days are allegorical and it’s important to remember this. This time of year for the northern hemisphere is largely dark, cold, snowy, and wet. We need a day to turn on a bunch of pretty lights, eat a lot, and get drunk! This notion is not shoved aside by the addition of Christ to the picture, of course. It was adopted and transformed just as humans have done for time immemorial.

“Silent Night” made me sad, indeed. Should I feel that a cute group of kids, when singing Christ-centered carols, is proselytizing? And if I do, why has it even gotten to this point? Why has this time of year turned contentious instead of joyous? Was this my own paranoia?

The kids moved on to the next selection and loudly belted out “Jingle Bells.”

I hummed along and smiled.

Our days are filled with some structure but normally end up morphing into experiences and artistic forays. I’m not an ardent supporter of un-schooling as my rigidity refuses to allow for any such thing in any part of my daily life. But, a little relaxation in lieu of imparting creativity to my kids is perfectly fine in my eyes.

This morning I decided to move our workbook tasks to St. HonorĂ© Boulangerie for a change of scenery and to alleviate the aforementioned boredom. As Hero cracked her book open to work on a vocabulary list, behind her le boulanger began working on a batch of freshly proofed dough. Decked in a white skull cap and shirt, he looked more like an artist as opposed to an artisan. He caught Hero’s eye instantly as she took a moment to case the room. Workbook be damned, she got up and walked to take a seat at the counter to watch as if he had a gift-wrapped present for her. I began to stop her, but realized that her attentiveness to his work was in and of itself an education.

From her earliest days, Hero would pull on my pants leg and beg me to hold her in my arms as I cooked. Realizing full well that this was dangerous, I would most often tell her no, but even more so, she would coax me with forlorn countenance to merely hold her. After very tired arms holding a growing child, she became my “sous chef.” What else would she be, this sponge of all things food? Mind you, though, that she doesn’t have the biggest appetite, but does try now and then to expand her tasting horizons beyond cheese, bread, and chocolate. Hero is still interested in watching food prep no matter if it’s something she likes or not. This is profoundly child-like and eager – and I adore it.

I gathered our books and packed them away in my bag as I approached the bar to take my seat next to the baker-in-training. Apparently she’d already drilled le boulanger with questions regarding what he was making. As I watched curiously, Hero informed me that she relayed my story of ill-fate with my baguette attempt from the day before (they over-proofed, and a layer of gray residue from the half-sheet pan somehow adhered itself to the dough). The artist softly told me he often fails at baguette-making at home.

I felt a little better.

Hero and I watched as the dough was shaped and set to rest, shortly to become long tubes of delicious bread, light and crisp. I sipped my cappuccino wondering if I’d realized earlier in life my obsession with baking and food that I’d be the artist behind that counter, sensing every sour bouquet; wishing I’d found that path instead of where I am. Snapping back to reality, I realized that there was a man with a heavy French accent standing a few feet away from me, sipping on a thick, dark espresso. He laughed while speaking in French to an older, attractive woman and broke to tell le boulanger how good the loaves freshly removed from the massive clay oven smelled. “The smell – the smell is very important, eh?” Le boulanger nodded and shot half a smile.

Hero turned her sweet face to me and drew a long breath through her nose and nodded. “Yep, Dad, that guy is right. It smells so good.”

There are things that no book can ever hope to teach you.

From the New York Times:

Mr. Pandit, the head of Citigroup, pledged to cut his salary to $1 a year until the bank returned to profitability and took personal responsibility for the “mistake” of even thinking about buying a new $50 million private jet after getting government financing. “I get the new reality, and I will make sure Citi gets it as well,” he declared.

Mr. Pandit, the “new reality” as you chose to call it (in a phrase, downsizing our own finances to barely scraping by levels) is actually the life-long reality for the majority of us.

Mr. Lewis of Bank of America, who occasionally grew testy and red-faced at questions about lending, told lawmakers that his bank had “every incentive to lend.”

I have every incentive to provide a comfortable life for my family, Mr. Lewis, but, sorry, reality kicks you in the ass sometimes and it’s your ass that has the target affixed to it for once.

The final quote rings with an air of populist realism, a sentiment that most of us feel, unless we’re sure that we’re going to be “rich” in the next couple years like Joe the Plumber did, facing the disparate realities of these bankers compared to your average American:

Louann Prosack, a retiree from Jessup, Md., said she traveled to Washington to understand why Wall Street workers were being paid so much, even as their companies foundered.

“It’s coming out of other people’s pockets, the money,” Ms. Prosack said. “And they say they can’t live on their $150,000 salary. That’s more than I ever made in a year, and I managed.”

Keep crying, banking CEOs. The new reality might just mean you have to live in a five bedroom house instead of that compound you’re used too.

Cry me a river.

Today, I’ve come to my judgment and it is as such: we are fighting a war in Iraq, a war in Afghanistan, but America’s most immediate enemies crawl in the green halls of Wall Street.

I watched the DOW tank today when the Senate finally set the stimulus package up for a vote and, judging by Wall Street’s reaction, they are not happy. I am now thoroughly convinced that since September 16, 2008, when the reality of our economy’s fragility came to fruition, Wall Street collectively has sought to usurp control of our country. They knew then that President Bush was headed out and figured that, most likely, Senator McCain was not going to win. Their reaction, mostly knee jerk, was to bail on America knowing full well that the hole they (“they” being big business, lenders, and banks) dug with Americans’ hard-earned dollars was never going to get filled and under an Obama administration it was only going to get worse. Hence, they committed the ancient practice of seppuku; they disemboweled themselves, hurtling America into such economic chaos that it seems likely that, unless President Obama’s stimulus package does indeed work, our government itself may unravel at the hands of obstructionist Republicans sitting at the wretched lap of Rush Limbaugh.

And this, my friends, is what Wall Street wants.

There is a gun pointed at our heads and we’re being held hostage by suits crying about having to make less than $500,000 a year.

Upon walking into Portland’s CaffĂ© Umbria, I was clubbed over the head by the jubilant blackjack. Like Anton Ego, I was transported to a time a decade and a half ago where, with the help of my future wife, I became privy to the cafĂ© culture of not only Ilha Terceira in the Azores, Portugal, but to the cafĂ© culture of Europe. This way of life exists only in isolated pockets across America and mostly in European dominated areas that have since been spoiled by highways and high-traffic roads. Luckily, though, here in Portland, arguably America’s most European city, we have the likes of CaffĂ© Umbria.

CaffĂ© Umbria is, at its base, a simple cafĂ©: various coffee and espresso offerings, some alcohol, pastries, and light Italian fare. That’s all. While my cafĂ© latte, double shot, was deliriously delicious (along with the sensually dark chocolate piece that came with it) and the varied sandwiches we tried were hearty and satisying, it was the atmosphere that caught my attention. From walking by the front windows and outdoor seating, overhearing the gathered group of men laugh while loudly discussing the calcio match that had just ended, to observing finely dressed people on a Sunday stand at coffee bar tables chatting in various accents, to smelling the silky aroma of fine espresso; this place has it right. Some how, some way, they have been able to capture that European sense of camaraderie, of living a slower life, and of savoring the moment in beautifully delicious ways. The warmth of the cafĂ©’s colors and the slick and modern styling enhance both the lighting and the mood, seemingly urging conversation between even perfect strangers.

I’m not even sure I’ve come back from my journey, yet. I’m not even sure I will any time soon. It forces me to wonder if this is what it’s like to get stuck in a high. Times like this hold on to too small a portion of our attention and it just shouldn’t be that way.

I had a great day and it was completely the fault of Caffé Umbria.

Thanks.

I’ll be back soon for more.

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Over the holidays I managed to sneak a present into my wife’s stocking, Cindy Anderson’s Portland Happy Hour Guidebook, and since then (because of Kim’s great idea to follow through with the book!) we’ve been on a quest to avoid the fast food dark side in favor of cheap eats and drinks – real food and real drinks. Go figure!

So far, so good.

So far, so very good.

On New Year’s Day and a few days later, Kim and I treated ourselves to Cha Taqueria, which received a high rating from the guidebook and seemed to have reasonable prices. We left both times literally on a high and, in my case, a little buzzed from the cheap and delicious house sangria. The food was, indeed, that stupendous.

Well over a year ago, I wrote the following in a past blog entry:

I’ve had this continuing battle between my taste buds and my brain since I moved here almost a year ago. One of the things I greatly anticipated upon entering the gates of the San Diego area was its overflowing plethora of Mexican street food – tacos, burritos, quesadillas. Considering this area is not only famous for them, but is one of the areas where this particular cuisine was given birth, you’d expect that fare of this sort would, well, be astounding. I haven’t found astounding yet. Nay, I’ve barely found good. As I’ve oft said to my dear wife, if this is authentic Mexican, then I don’t like Mexican food.

At this point I’d like to retract that last sentence because, strangely enough, I’ve found the Mexican food of my dreams here in Portland. Yes, Cha Taqueria may be the saving grace for all Mexican food that San Diego somehow doomed for me. Cha, though, from the minute you walk in is a definite Portland establishment. You might catch some banda over the overhead speakers but then you may get some indie rock or some techno. The ingredients tend to remain local with most of the meats sourced within Oregon or Washington. The make-up of the restaurant leans modern, arty, yet is comfortable. The service both times was impeccable and when service seems to be an ever-present issue amongst Portland eateries, it’s well appreciated to be paid attention to so closely without being constricting.

The food…ah, yes…the food. Have I mentioned that I am gleeful beyond all smiling to have found such delicious Mexican food? Over the two visits, we tried five separate happy hour offerings and all five were delectable. Notably, the dos marias (Draper Valley chicken quesadillas with salsa verde) and the picaditas de morelos (from-scratch corn cakes topped with black beans, veggies, and cheese) both caught our attention with their textures and strong flavors. Delphina had a burrito de vegetariano which was beautifully dressed with two sauces, making the plate look like a canvased painting. Two other plates held their own, a plate of carnitas enchiladas served covered in a mole sauce and a plate of chicken and potato taquitos served with pico de gallo. Kim took a few minutes to warm up to the carnitas enchiladas, but came around to enjoying them quite a bit. The key here was that nothing felt like, looked like, or, especially, tasted like it was frozen or prepared days ahead of time. Everything was fresh, crisp, and genuinely prepared with care and dedication.

So, you may wonder, “OK. So, everything sounds good, but how much did it set you back?” Okay, here’s the tally:

1st visit (just me and Kim): $15 for two plates (which is plenty to make us happily full) and a sangria, including tip.

2nd visit (the four of us): $30 for four plates, a sangria, and two horchatas, including tip.

That’s it.

Period.

I would’ve spent that much at any Mexcian fast food hole, you take your pick. And I wouldn’t have even gotten the free chips and salsa that I forgot to mention!

The last time I wrote anything here was in September and the last time before that was an entry in August journaling my trip to Portland.

Of course, with my silence comes either too much work, too much thinking, or too much personal tribulation to tear myself away from. In this instance, it was too much thinking at first and then too much tribulation and, finally, too much work.

There were various storms preparing to collide in San Diego, the least of which was my actual job at Target – which I loved, actually. Our rent was going to jump significantly, life had been impossible to live financially for some time, and a future scraping-by held no promise of growth or progression. Understandably, the economy is in the toilet and our lives have reflected this in the last few years. However, I would not stand by and allow our lives to be taken down. Change was required and, indeed, change had come.

I write now from the green surroundings of Portland, OR. I made the decision to move myself and my family here not long after visiting Portland this past summer. The decision was based on a host of reasons: my aging mom is still here, the cost of living is cheaper, public transportation is top-notch, the general feel of Portland goes more with my flow.

My original intent was also to attend a smaller culinary school here in Portland. Somehow, I don’t think this is ever going to happen, though. During the application and tuition financing phase, the bottom fell out of the lending industry which, in turn, caused the bottom to fall out of any hope I had to attend culinary school. This is OK, though, because I have read far too many accounts of culinary graduates getting stuck in barely-higher-than-minimum-wage jobs for long stretches of time post-graduation. I’m pretty damn good at cooking, yes, but it’s who you know and luck that gets you far in the culinary world. I’m a little short of both. If this, my third attempt at getting into some sort of culinary arts program, doesn’t tell me that I struck out and that I should probably look at other avenues of study, then I am one dumb ass.

And, for the record, I am not a dumb ass.

I’m all right with allowing fate to lead me into whatever direction it wants to take me in regards to food, but life isn’t all that fair, especially now. I am re-evaluating my educational options at this point and most likely will finish up my degree, finally, here in PDX. Exactly what I’ll major in is still up in the air until I sit down with a counselor, hopefully in the next few weeks.

So, where does this leave me?

It leaves me in Portland!

Despite all the gloom and doom going on in America with the failing economy, I’m hopeful. Our first paychecks from Target combined (both Kim and I transferred our Targeteer jobs – I, however, have some other irons in the fire, as well) will pay rent. This is a state of finances I have not seen in over two years. There is a certain amount of freedom you feel when you know that rent can be paid for without having to scrounge. Of course, as life has it, things do not remain the same and I do not expect with the sagging economy for things to be easy. But I am hopeful and that is a step in the right direction – at least for me. I’ve some mountains to move yet, but the biggest has crumbled.

You can expect some life to be breathed into this blog from my end. I’m feeling somewhat settled in, but fit enough mentally to jot thoughts on the proverbial paper once again. Thanksgiving and the holidays approach, which always get my culinary blood flowing. Politics: they are a-changing, and seemingly for the much better. Religion: well, religion is still out there somewhere. I’m sure First Unitarian will jar some of those crags loose for me – when I can actually make it in for a Sunday service.

I am alive, indeed. The great thing is that I actually am starting to feel that way after a long, much too long dormancy.

For those of you looking to make some friends on Facebook, look me up.

Tell me you found me on iddream.com and I’ll add you.

Cheers!

The spring of the year symbolizes re-birth or renewal. The autumn often means closure or a means to an end, winter. Conversely for me, though, the fall of the year has come to mean something quite the opposite. For me, it’s the spring of life. There is no other time of year that makes me feel like living life anew. The closure of summer brings about a host of possibilities – gatherings, foods, experiences, learning. It colors the lens of my life like no other time of year. I feel like loving. I feel like experiencing. I feel like growing.

Delphina and I drove the hour or so back to our home amidst the aroma of bright, sweet, and sour apples. I’d bought probably two dozen or so of the crisp fruits of reddish gold. Of course, Fina’s face was a little messy from the caramel apple she made an attempt to chomp down. What kid – and Delphina was not a messy eater – is actually able to eat one of those without making a mess? I contemplated what exactly to do with the apples that my wife was not going to use for her apple bake – whole apples, cored, filled with sugar and nuts, baked until soft. With so many options, how could one choose?

Kim and I had a gathering planned to celebrate the passing of summer into the harvest. It was to take place on the Autumnal Equinox. We had everything planned – the food, drink, and music. We’d asked everyone to bring a dish to share with others and maybe some drink as well. Of course, everyone was notified to be aware and sensitive to the fact that there would be an inordinate amount of vegans attending. Foods of the harvest lend themselves well to being meat and dairy free.

The evening of the fest came, warm with a slight bite of chill. We lit candles, covered the television with a sarong, and waited. Who would actually attend? People can be counted on to love the idea of attending a party but are rarely energized enough to do so. The sweet smell of apples and squash filled the air all the way out to our porch.

Little did we know that this first Harvest Party would not only be well attended, but would turn into a feast anticipated yearly by all our friends. What we thought would be a small party of friends sharing precious time with one another morphed into a Thanksgiving meal. We all loved one another and we all made sure that we were thankful for the treasure of friendship. We ate, drank, and probably sang as the evenings moved on.

It’s hard to pass this time of year without remembering our lives as they were back then. The last Harvest Party took place in 2002 – six years ago. I can count those days as the best years of my entire life. I’ve come to realize that through the magnificence of food and the bare-naked power of friendship, the circle of life itself is a celebration of knowing one another. It’s an ever-lasting homage to the love we have for our friends, for our Earth and the bounty for which it gives birth every spring and summer, the harvest of fall, and the death of winter.

See, it is the autumn that brings love into my life and prods me into remembering what life is all about: living.

Here’s to the autumn and to one day celebrating the Harvest again amongst our dear friends in Michigan.

The years following were very difficult for my mother. Our relationship was strained because she became depressed and depended on me to fill the voids in her life, which I could not do. I had a young family, a baby on the way, work, music, and a social life. Although I did what I could to help my mother, not much could really propel her from the deep depression she was suffering through.

There were distinct times that brought her out of the doldrums and they invariably involved sitting down and eating food with us. Often this involved just a mere chili dog from the Mack Avenue National Coney Island in Detroit. Sometimes it involved a trip to Olive Garden where my mom would use her finger to scrape up the last of the alfredo sauce from the dipping bowl which would, in turn, cause Kim to dry heave. Every now and then, we would enjoy a two hour trip to Frankenmuth to enjoy the all-you-can-eat splendor of Zehnder’s family-style chicken dinner. No matter what, through this dark period and all throughout the rest of my life, food was at the center of our happiness and gatherings. The holidays, the summer celebrations, the random Sunday barbecues, the Catholic commemorations – all reasons to eat in communion.

After moving my mother to Portland while hoping that some how, some way her mood would lift, a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Harold was another resident at Chestnut Lane and he fancied my mother quite a bit. Being a widower himself, they both had quite a bit in common. He’d even converted to Catholicism in the recent past, which my mother thought was quite an attractive quality – along with his cigar smoking habit. On Valentine’s Day of 2004, they became an item and have been ever since. The love they share is beautiful and downright cute in their older age. They’re both younger sharing each other’s company and, indeed, my mother’s depression lifted immediately.

This is why, later my second day in Portland, after a good nap to sleep off the croque monsieur, I went with my mom and Harold to dinner. There is definite reason to celebrate their companionship. Considering that they each cannot drive and I was hoofing it, our dining choices were limited. I also needed to consider their geriatric eating habits, as well. Luckily for all of us, Pastini Pastaria made the brilliant decision in the last few years to open a downtown establishment reasonably close to the MAX lines. I couldn’t have been happier at the news.

See, Pastini Pastaria doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is – a wallet-friendly, family-friendly, pasta place with decent, fresh ingredients, good wines, and simple, excellent desserts. Of course, in Portland fashion, Pastini stays on top of all the food trends and tries to remain as local as possible. It also doesn’t shy away from being fashionable and modern in its decor all the while being as far away from kitschy as possible. This is not The Old Spaghetti Factory here – although their prices are just about the same. Pastini is serious about good, freshly made food and it shows.

We were helped inside by the remarkable staff with every consideration made for my mom and Harold’s walking assistance. Their walkers were moved off to the side after being seated (They were helped down the ramp to our booth). Our server – a mighty convincing doppelganger of my fellow iddreamer, Randy, but gay – was more than patient with us and made sure that when he spoke, his lips were visible just in case my mom and Harold needed to lip-read (For those of you that do not know, they are both deaf). It made me so glad that we made it out to dinner and it made me ecstatic to be in Portland.

Our orders came promptly after we snacked on the parmigiana bread. My mother and Harold shared a bowl of the rigatoni with meat sauce bolognese and I ordered for myself the linguini with chicken piccata. Because it was a fairly warm day, I aimed for something lighter and refreshing – and refreshing it was. The sauce comprised of white wine, lemon, butter, and capers hit my taste buds with the brightness I’d been hoping it would. Tart and smooth, it was a great accompaniment to the grilled chicken. The linguini was al dente in texture and soaked up the sauce well. Truly delicious – especially for less than ten bucks. My mom and Harold loved their pasta as well – and they are indeed a picky twosome. I tried a quick bit of the bolognese and it was dead-on with the meaty texture and the sweet overtones. Nicely done pasta – although I would’ve preferred this on a rainy day in November.

Dessert followed with a coffee for Harold and for me the lemon pudding cake, which knocked my socks off. The cake was moist with the lemony pudding and dressed with sweet berry sauce. I savored every last bit of that dessert. My mom – who hasn’t had a sweet tooth for years – loved it, too. I was sort of worried she would eat it all! However, the most interesting part was Harold’s coffee, of all things. I immediately noticed the aroma and knew that it was damn good coffee. It didn’t smell like your average crap that most restaurants serve. Just as I mentioned this to my mom, Harold took a sip, black of course, and the first words from his hands were: “This coffee is very good!” I asked our Randy doppelganger what coffee it was and, of course, he filled us in on the wonders of Portland Roasting – a local roaster renowned for its coffee but not widely available through retail outlets.

Ah, Portland.

So ended our lovely evening dining together, as we always had in the past….

I, however, wanted to walk out my full tummy. Strangely enough, I later ended up drinking coffee in a place that I would’ve sworn was an indie rock bar if I didn’t know better…..

If I have a personal enemy amidst the business world it is the credit industry. Yeah, sure, I’ve had credit problems in the past – who hasn’t? And, sure, some of that has been my fault. I’m a good boy now and don’t have any credit cards. But, there is no dispute that the credit card industry is one of the most visible culprits of our nation’s economic downturn. They sowed the seeds for what has sprouted into a giant, ugly weed feasting on the veins of America’s middle class. We were all duped into thinking credit cards would help us in the end, only to be utterly flayed by their mob-like interest rates and fast-cash fees. I only recently discovered that Citibank acted illegally some years ago when they garnished my mom’s bank account for over a thousand dollars. She is a disabled senior citizen and lives solely on social security. It is illegal to do this. If I’d known at the time, I would have done something about it. But then, when does the credit industry work within the confines of the law or within the ideals of common courtesy?

Did I fail to mention that the credit card industry is one of Joe Biden’s most important constituents?

Say adiĂłs to big oil and hello to big credit.