The GypsyNesters

Keep Portland Weird

P-Town, Bridgetown, Little Beirut, Stumptown, Rip City, The City of Roses, Beervana or Beertown, what is this all about? Let’s see… it starts with the letter P, has a lot of bridges, protested the visits of the first President Bush so much that his staff compared it to Beirut, grew so fast that the cleared trees left stumps everywhere, had a play-by-play announcer named Bill Schonely who used odd phrases, has a lot of roses and a ton of micro breweries… must be Portland, Oregon.

So with all of these informal handles, how did the official name come about? How about a flip of a… CONTINUE READING >>

P-Town, Bridgetown, Little Beirut, Stumptown, Rip City, The City of Roses, Beervana or Beertown, what is this all about?

Let’s see… it starts with the letter P, has a lot of bridges, protested the visits of the first President Bush so much that his staff compared it to Beirut, grew so fast that the cleared trees left stumps everywhere, had a play-by-play announcer named Bill Schonely who used odd phrases, has a lot of roses and a ton of micro breweries… must be Portland, Oregon.

So with all of these informal handles, how did the official name come about?

How about a flip of a coin?

It’s true, back in the 1840s Francis W. Pettygrove of Portland, Maine and Asa Lovejoy of Boston, Massachusetts were co-owners of the land and each wanted to name the new town after their old homes back east. How to break the deadlock?

Believe it or not, Portland was named in a best two out of three coin toss. The Portland Penny used to decide the matter is on display at the Oregon Historical Society. Wonder what would be on display if they’d used rock, paper, scissors method?

We decided to mount our trusty cycles for a tour of Rip City. The Willamette River runs right through Downtown and bike trails skirt both banks.

Eleven (that’s one more, isn’t it) bridges connect the two sides of Bridgetown and supply great viewpoints for The City of Rose’s landmarks.

We pedaled past The Rose Garden, no, not a plot of flowers but the home of the NBA Trailblazers, viewed the Aerial Tram from the Hawthorne Bridge and wheeled around the Historic District.

While rolling through Chinatown we found the Chinese gardens, which DOES sport a collection of flowers, displayed based on traditional Chinese landscape paintings.

The design is from Suzhou, China during the Ming Dynasty.

As usual, it didn’t take long for our thoughts to turn to food.
When in P-town, a growling belly leads to a stop at Voodoo
Doughnuts where “The Magic Is In The Hole.”

Maybe their slogan should say Hole in the Wall, because this place defines the phrase.

Oddly, there were several hundred thousand dollars worth of Mercedes, Volvos and Porsches parked right in front of this tiny dive.

The line for fried dough ran halfway down the block and consisted of everything from tie-dyed T-shirts to business suits. Looks like health food fans come in all shapes and sizes. The locals in the queue explained that this kind of crowd is business as usual at the Voodoo.

What was drawing this strange blend of characters? We stepped into the closet sized shop to find out.

The décor is early punk rock teen bedroom with the music turned up loud. Real punk, serious angst filled I’ll-cut-you punk — no Greenday here — we’re talking Lou Reed, The Sex Pistols, Iggy Pop and The Ramones.

Needless to say, it’s all take out, there’s no place to stand, much less sit.

We ordered the famous Voodoo Doll with a pretzel stick through his heart, bleeding raspberry- blood filling and the equally illustrious Maple Bar with not one, but two strips of bacon on top.

Our little chocolate frosted supernatural pin cushion was a-dough-rable and tasty to boot but the homely little confection of maple icing and hog won the day flavor-wise — despite our initial revulsion.

Turns out it’s like when the pancake syrup gets on the bacon.
Good eatin’.

While our deep fried sugar and dough appetizers settled we decided to take in the Saturday Market down by the riverside.

Since 1974 Stumptowners have been gathering downtown to consider the offerings from local artists, musicians, chefs, bakers and candlestick makers.

This weekly event has become America’s largest open air arts and crafts market.

While browsing the booths we eerily felt that we were being browsed back by dozens of faces looking out from their perches at Toyu Ceramics and Life Masks.

Beverly Toyu makes the most lifelike art possible. They are perfect replicas, molded in plaster from a living face then fired in clay from the molds.

The expressions are completely captivating and the detail, down to the hairs of the eyebrows, amazing.

Moseying on, Doña Lola’s stand caught our eye. A pause for a bite of Salvadorian fare wouldn’t suck. We were immediately drawn to the pupusas, an item on the menu that neither of us had seen before.

Pupusas are El Salvador’s version of the tortilla, made from corn masa and thicker than what we are used to, similar to a gordita.

Originated by the Pipil tribes, they are stuffed with meat, cheese or bean filling and pan fried to perfection. Muy bueno. Now to find something to wash it down…

In keeping with the Beertown title, a beer garden is right in the center of the Market. Weird and intriguing musical combos entertain under the tent while the assemblage samples offerings from some of Beervana’s twenty-eight breweries.

Ah, Saturday in the park.

All in all, we found Saturday Market the optimal place to embrace Little Beirut’s unofficial motto “Keep Portland Weird.”

Weird is good.

Remembering is good too, so we were thrilled to receive the Portland version of an Explore Local Box in the mail recently. The unique items included took us right back to the Pacific Northwest.

Tasty treats like hazelnuts and jasmine tea may not qualify as weird, but they sure are good. Yet our favorites were the coasters and soap dish fashioned from reclaimed Douglas fir trees that have fallen in storms.

Pretty cool… and maybe even a little weird.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

Revealing Victoria’s Secrets

Queen Victoria of England dubbed the westernmost region of Canada British Columbia in 1858 — in tribute, her name remains on B. C. ‘s capital city and our destination, Victoria.

Just before our arrival we were treated to a breathtaking show. The captain announced that orcas were sighted… CONTINUE READING >>

Queen Victoria of England dubbed the westernmost region of Canada British Columbia in 1858 — in tribute, her name remains on B. C. ‘s capital city and our destination, Victoria.

The chilled salt sea air was in our faces as we steamed north aboard the good ship Coho, crossing The Strait of Juan de Fuco toward the southern tip of Vancouver Island.

Just before our arrival we were treated to a breathtaking show. The captain announced that orcas were sighted off the starboard bow as he slowed the vessel to a crawl.

We bounded to the forward deck, grinning maniacally. Sure enough, two black and white killer whales were passing within a few hundred feet of the ship. The glorious glimpses of fluke and fin were a wonderful welcome.

Slipping into the harbor is a picturesque passage in and of itself. The port is dominated by two grand old buildings, The Parliament
Building and The Empress Hotel.

It’s not only the structures of these venerable landmarks that are so impressive but the grounds as
well. Meticulously manicured and managed — botanical gardens just a few steps from the ferry dock.

The hotel is magnificent. Built between 1904 and 1908, the four hundred and seventy-seven rooms and four restaurants are all beautifully restored to their Edwardian era grandeur.

High Tea for over eight hundred people is served every afternoon in the Tea Lobby and reservations are required well in advance. Unfortunately, due to our “the plan is no plan” philosophy, we would not be partaking in their high-falutin’ tea time.

Even more impressive is the Parliament Building with its five hundred foot andesite facade, white marble and prominent domes.

Back in 1893, the provincial legislature determined a new parliament building was needed and announced a competition for the design.

A 25-year-old — with no formal training — anonymously submitted drawings for the project under the moniker of the A B.C. Architect.
Nevermind that it sounded like one of those names that serial killers make up for the media, he won the job.

The result was so popular that he went on to design many of Victoria’s most famous buildings including The Empress Hotel, The Crystal Garden, the Steamship Terminal (now the Royal London Wax Museum), the Court House (now the Vancouver Art Gallery) and The Merchant’s Bank.

Not bad.

By the way, A B. C. Architect was Francis Rattenbury and he is well known to law students who study the “love triangle” murder case that ended his life in 1935. Moral: Think twice before getting in over your head architecturally.

Hanging out near the water, we stumbled upon a floating village. At Fisherman’s Wharf the shops, markets, restaurants, houses and boats all float in the bustling harbor.

On one end, the fishing boats fetch their catch. The docks on the other side have become little lanes between homes built on barges, giving the term “houseboat” a new meaning.

Several little markets sell the haul from the fishermen just a few steps from their boats. Now that’s fresh fish!

Turns out that harbor seals like fresh fish too and two of them had staked out a spot in front of one of the markets.

It’s quite the symbiotic relationship. The seals draw a crowd and the market provides — for a fee — scraps for people to feed them, which draws a crowd who need scraps to feed the seals which draws more people… everybody’s happy!

Watching those adorable little faces chow down their lunches made us hungry too — so it was off to Chinatown to find some grub.

Victoria’s Chinatown is Canada’s oldest and second only to San Francisco in North America. The gold rush brought prospectors from China to find their fortunes.

In order to keep traditions alive for their children, a “Forbidden City” was built within the interior of the buildings.

This created a unique architecture featuring hidden courtyards and incredible little alleyways.

However, our search was for food, not gold, and the choices in Chinatown are plentiful.

We were attracted to Don Mee by the overwhelming groovyness of their sign and entryway. It looks very much like an old theater.

Through the doors and up the stairs, we felt like we were in one of those cheesy old Charlie Chan movies.

We mean that in the best way imaginable — we LOVED it!

They were serving Dim Sum.
Truth is, we didn’t know Dim Sum from Chop Suey and felt like Dim Bulbs — but we are fast learners, especially when it comes to new ways to stuff our faces.

Dim Sum means touch the heart, referring to the loving touch in the small portions of succulent dishes. Its tradition stems from Yum Cha, or “drinking tea,” the ritual of family quality time in the south of China.

Kind of like Mother’s Day Brunch with a twist. Don Mee does Dim Sum right — bamboo steamer baskets containing artistic appy-sized delectables served from carts rolling through their large dining room.

Fragrant jasmine tea is served by the boatload.

We learned quickly that if we removed the lid from the teapot, refills came instantly.

There is no menu, each cart contains different dishes and we pointed and grunted at what we wanted as the carts rolled by.

The table had a little checklist that the cart keepers marked each time we ordered.

Immediately we were offered to consume things that were completely unrecognizable. Of course, we’ll try just about anything and, luckily, everything was delicious.

Steamed dumplings stuffed with any manner of stuff were prevalent as are steamed buns, also stuffed — the array is impressive.

The rice cooked and served inside a lotus leave was unbelievable! Who knew rice could be the star attraction of a meal?

On the odder side of the bill of fare stood the chicken feet.

Googling at the table like maniacs, looking for any excuse to get away with NOT eating the feet, we found that you haven’t really had dim sum if you haven’t sampled them, so… off the cart and into the pie hole.

There’s not really much on a chicken’s dogs to gnaw on, just skin and bones. Chicken skin is — well, chicken skin — the sauce was yummy but we won’t be petitioning the Colonel to sell them by the bucket.

Not that we need any help with food preoccupation, but we found it odd that we were thinking about food so much. Maybe it was all the secondhand pot smoke.

As we wandered about Victoria we noticed the propensity of the locals to smoke what they call B.C. Bud — right out in the open. On the sidewalk, in the park, we even spied a guy at a stoplight rolling one up as he waited for the light to change.

Curious, we asked our friendly bartender (we get most of our information from bartenders and taxi drivers) about the rampant pot consumption later that evening.

He said, “We grow the best stuff in the world so everybody smokes it. Well, not everybody, but almost.” He went on to explain that the laws have changed back and forth from legal to illegal to decriminalized that finally the local authorities decided to ignore them.

Well, mostly. Even the explanation has exemptions.

We tipped him a loonie and a toonie and headed for the ferry. LOVE it — a loonie is a one dollar coin with a loon on it and a toonie is the two dollar coin with a polar bear, eh?

In actuality, they don’t say “eh” much out here on the west coast — they’re too mellow for that. Reckon why?

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

Pacific Northwest Seafoodapalooza

Nothing draws us GypsyNesters to an event like sticking the word “Fest” on the end of it. Like moths to flame, kids to candy, cats to a catbox or flies to…. windshields (what did you think we were gonna say?) we’re there in a heartbeat.

We were downright giddy with excitement to hit Washington State just in time for Salmon Fest AND Crab Fest. As we ventured into the Pacific Northwest, the salmon were running upstream with their insane, unstoppable urge to spawn. The horniest teenager ever has nothing on these swimming sex fiends.

Many Cohos and Chinooks fight their way up… CONTINUE READING >>

Nothing draws us GypsyNesters to an event like sticking the word “Fest” on the end of it.

Like moths to flame, kids to candy, cats to a catbox or flies to…. windshields (what did you think we were gonna say?) we’re there in a heartbeat.

We were downright giddy with excitement to hit Washington State just in time for Salmon Fest AND Crab Fest.

As we ventured into the Pacific Northwest, the salmon were running upstream with their insane, unstoppable urge to spawn. The horniest teenager ever has nothing on these swimming sex fiends.

Many Cohos and Chinooks fight their way up Issaquah Creek for their reproductive romp, desperate to return to The Washington State Fish Hatchery from whence they came.

In the Seattle suburb of Issaquah this fascinating annual phenomenon spawns the beloved Salmon Days each autumn. (The 2023 festival is October 7th & 8th.)

As Fests go, this is a winner. For forty years now, hundreds of thousands of people have come to celebrate and sell-a-brate the return of the salmon.

Scores of booths hock the wares of local artists and artisans along the closed off streets of downtown Issaquah. Five stages scattered throughout feature music while humans satisfy their urges through feeding frenzies at the food vendors.

Larger-than-life salmon are toted throughout the festival on specially harnessed volunteers along with banners that say “This ‘spawn’ brought to you by…”

In an odd quirk, almost none of the available vittles contained any salmon whatsoever.

Where were all the salmon steaks, sandwiches, salads or sushi?

Not here.

All we could find was one booth selling smoked salmon packaged to take home and a couple of cubicles with questionable fried cakes.

What we did find was a fascinating view of the life cycle of these giant fish at the hatchery.

Thousands of salmon, anywhere from three to six feet long, fighting their way up dozens of miles from Puget Sound, in a stream too shallow to cover their backs in many spots.

At the end of the journey they pile up in a traffic jam at a dam waiting to get into the tanks where they began their lives several years before.

The hatchery has been breeding and releasing Coho (King) and Chinook (Silver) salmon since 1936. These days they return a whopping four million fish a year to Issaquah Creek.

Between the salmon in Issaquah and the big Crab Fest in Port Angeles sits Seattle. We figured we ought to take a look.

In keeping with our theme, our first stop was Pike Place Market on the waterfront. This was our kind of place!

There was seafood galore. Pike Place is famous for their vendors and their propensity to toss large fish over the counters to fill an order. A whale of a good time!

Colorful produce booths line the market with free samples of candy-like Washington apples — fresh off the tree — offered every step of the way.

Literally. Our fiber intake went way up that day, we couldn’t help but gorge.

Our never-ending search for weird regional food brought us to PIROSHKY, PIROSHKY… where piroshky rule the day, in fact, piroshky is all they serve.

We had never eaten — much less heard of — a piroshky, so not trying one was out of the question.

A piroshky is the Russian version of a handheld filled pastry, much like pates in the Caribbean or pasties in the U. P. of Michigan. Or possibly an apple “pie” from McDonald’s.

The shop offers over thirty varieties and our favorite, both for its fresh local content and its shape like a fish, was the smoked salmon. Besides, we’d been craving salmon since we got skunked at the Fest.

Just a few blocks walk from the market and a quick trip on the Jetsons- esque, world’s first full sized monorail and we were staring up at the landmark of The Emerald City.

No visit to Seattle is complete without a trip to the top of The Space Needle.

Built for the 1962 World’s Fair, the 605 foot tall structure is perhaps the best example of cheesy 1960s space age architecture on the planet.

Better yet, it was the location for the Elvis 1963 cinematic classic It Happened at The World’s Fair.

The view from the observation deck 520 feet in the air is fantastic, but pales in comparison to standing on the very spot where The King portrayed Mike Edwards, Cropduster.

Elvised up and ready to rock, it was time to head out across the Olympic peninsula for The Dungeness Crab & Seafood Festival in Port Angeles. (This year, 2023, the festival is October 5th through the 8th.)

On the northern coast of Washington, this is definitely the place to be for any decapod chowing seafood lover.

Not nearly as vast as Salmon Fest, what Crab Fest lacks in size, it more than makes up for in crustacean tastiness.

Wanting to work for our grub, we tried our hands at crabbing in the Grab-A-Crab Derby on the pier.

For $12 each we were handed a little contraption with snares made from loops of fishing line and pointed towards a oversized tank full of crabs. If it were left up to David we would have starved.

He couldn’t snag one of the claw footed, bug eyed buggers to save him but luckily, Veronica snatched them out of the water like an old salt. She snared six of them, so we chose two for dinner and released the others back to the tanks to be snagged again by some other lucky crabber.

For those who don’t want to fish for their supper there is also “The Famous Crab Feed” where a whole Dungeness Crab is served up with corn, coleslaw, music and beer.

Demonstrations of crab cookery from celebrity chefs help to whet the palate.

Shells cracked and bellies filled, we wandered through beautiful downtown Port Angeles.

Nestled between the Olympic Mountains and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, scenic beauty and ginormous trees define the area but a more recent claim to fame dominates the business district… The Twilight books and movies.

Port Angeles is the town where the bloodsucking characters come to shop and hang out.

The local entrepreneurs have embraced it wholeheartedly — we glimpsed Bella’s prom dress at a clothing store and were bombarded with displays for days at the book store, restaurants, gift shops and, of course, the movie theater — all decked out in an endless array of Twilight swag.

We discovered that Port Angelean teenagers have a love/hate relationship with Twilight when we visited the local downtown movie theater.

As we settled in with our popcorn, we were surrounded by young folk — giggling, gossiping and flirting amongst themselves.

As the lights dimmed the preview for New Moon, the second movie in the Twilight series, lit up the screen and the place filled with audible groans.

Teenage angst aside, the Twilight phenomenon has really benefited the area. As one bookseller told us, “Anything that boosts the economy around here without clear-cutting trees — I’m all for it.”

And so are we.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

Balls to the Wall

Ever since I was a kid growing up in the Colorado Rockies, I have heard the lore of the “oysters” but never had the balls to try them. Suddenly my opportunity was just over the horizon.

Pressing across Montana, we began to travel through another dimension — a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind, mountains and cooked animal parts… CONTINUE READING >>

Ever since I was a kid growing up in the Colorado Rockies, I have heard the lore of the oysters but never had the balls to try them. Suddenly my opportunity was just over the horizon.

When we pressed across Montana past the three Bs: Billings, Bozeman and Butte, ever westward, past Helena and even Missoula, things began to seem strange.

Like we were traveling through another dimension — a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind, mountains and cooked animal parts. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination, deep fryers, Idaho and Canada. Wait, there’s a signpost up ahead… our next stop: The Testicle Zone!

Yes Virginia there IS a Testicle Festival (love how the words roll off the tongue!) and it is held every August at The Rock Creek Lodge just outside the booming metropolis of Clinton, Montana.

The signs along I-90 point the way cuz no doubt this stuff could not go on within the city limits.

Luckily, the festival had been over for several weeks by the time we arrived — it takes that long to recover — not to mention clean up. But even a couple fortnights after the big bash, The Rock Creek Lodge was still having a ball serving up Rocky Mountain Oysters.

Testicle Festival in Clinton, Montana

For ll you flat-landers out there, Rocky Mountain oysters, also known as prairie oysters or cowboy caviar, are considered a delicacy by many mountain folk and are made by slicing and frying bull testicles.

The Rock Creek Lodge is a typical mountain inn with the exception of their obsession with livestock gonads.

We sauntered in and bellied up to the bar amongst the usual mix of cowboys and Grizzly Adams types, fortified ourselves with a beer — even though the sun was still high in the sky — and chatted up the bartender, Frank, between the telling of tall tales by our already half-in-the-bag barmates.

Through Frank we learned that the Testicle Festival was founded by Dr. Rod Lincoln, the Baron of Balls, twenty-seven years ago.

Rod is no longer with us, but he died doing what he loved, leaving this world on the last day of the twenty-fifth Testy Festy.

Conceived to boost sales for the Lodge, the Testicle Festival can be likened to any major ballet companys production of the Nutcracker — it keeps the place in business for the rest of the year.

Asking the regular clientele about the Festival gave us the impression that it was fairly benign. Aside from the wet tee shirt contest and the over-the-top drinking, that is.

Everyone seemed to be very proud of the international attention the Festival has gotten the past few years. After a bit of prodding, however, we were treated to a peek of the photo albums from the early years.

Suffice it to say Mardi Gras in New Orleans began to seem tame compared to the antics of the original Testy Festys. Let’s say bovine reproductive organs were not the only species represented. Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.

Still lacking the fortitude to order the house specialty, we felt a stroll through the gift shop was in order.

Walking past the wood peckers (think the worst thing possible and youll be right on the mark) and the baby shirts decorated with barb wire with I ripped Mommy a new one emblazoned across the chest, we noticed the church.

Wait, what?

Yup. Sharing space with an ex-home-on-the-range-roaming stuffed buffalo was The Set Free Ministries, a self proclaimed Biker Church. Refreshments are served after the services, in the bar. Bring cash.

The time had come to take the bull by the horns and head back to the bar to face the inevitable.

We asked Frank to rack em up. There was no turning back now, since the triple-dog-dares had already been laid out.

Thankfully the testicles are VERY thinly sliced, HEAVILY breaded and spiced, then deep-fried until there’s no telling what’s inside.

A heavily flavored cocktail sauce makes consumption a little easier, just try not to think about it and pop em down.

Having lost the coin toss, I was the first to give the balls a try. Summoning up my courage, I dipped the wafer into the cocktail sauce and took a bite.

Spicy and glistening with oil, down the hatch, knowing that any sign of discomfort would turn Veronica from the task at hand. It was not easy but I smiled right through it. The uneasiness over the main ingredients overpowered the fact that the taste wasn’t completely appalling.

Veronica kicked into her panic mantra (People do this every day and do not die, People do this every), closed her eyes, dipped and chewed. Uh. The best compliment she could come up with was that it wasn’t the WORST thing she had ever done.

Close, but not the worst. It helped that we were pretty hungry and with the proper breading to grease ratio almost anything is edible. It also helped that often the breading would accidentally slip off… oops, I guess Ill just eat this part.

Quite a few grey slices of bull ball were left in the bottom of the basket. Mmm, Mmm, Good eatin’.

It was time to see the source.

Luckily, we had not thought to ask to view the raw frozen bull testicle prior to the tasting, as THERE WAS NO WAY in hell we would have eaten anything with the picture of that huge frozen, veined gonad burned into our brains.

That would be nuts.

David, GypsyNester.com

Video – Beautiful, Majestic Yellowstone

enlarge video
Two-thirds of all the geysers in the world are within the borders of Yellowstone. Superheated water gushes… CONTINUE READING >>

Two-thirds
of all the geysers in the world are within the borders of
Yellowstone. Superheated water gushes hundreds of feet into
the air from some while others spout tiny bursts of steam.
In some spots, boiling
springs and pools of sulfur-rich water dwell next to pits of bubbling
mud called paint pots, all reeking like rotten eggs.

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Antelope + Jackrabbit = Jackalope

Once the mighty Mississippi disappears in the rear view mirror, there’s not much to look at for the next thousand miles except corn. An insane amount of corn. It goes on and on and on and then, the corn turns to wheat. An ocean of wheat. Amber waves of grain. Then, a few hundred miles farther West, the wheat turns to tumbleweeds and we can drop the “mid,” we are in the West.

To break up the monotony along the way, or perhaps because of it, there are signs. Millions of signs. This is the home field of the billboard. Every business garishly competes for attention. Out there, you’ve got to have a gimmick. See the World’s Largest this, five-legged that, First Ever this or two-headed that. Almost any collection becomes… CONTINUE READING >>

Once the mighty Mississippi disappears in the rear view mirror, there’s not much to look at for the next thousand miles except corn. An insane amount of corn.

It goes on and on and on and then, the corn turns to wheat. An ocean of wheat. Amber waves of grain. Then, a few hundred miles farther West, the wheat turns to tumbleweeds and we can drop the “mid,” we are now in the West.

To break up the monotony along the way, or perhaps because of it, there are signs. Millions of signs. This is the home field of the billboard.

Every business garishly competes for attention. Out there, you’ve got to
have a gimmick.

See the World’s Largest this, five-legged that, First Ever this or two-headed that. Almost any collection becomes a museum, farm implements, “bob” wire, cars, signs and… well, just about anything. Of course, some are more legitimate than others.

When we spied the signs for The Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota, we jumped at the chance to canned-ham it up!

Like moths to a flame, soon we were pulling off the highway toward the light.

Situated right next to the Spam packing plant, the first thing we (or anybody with a working olfactory organ) noticed was the unique and not-so-savory smell.

A whole museum dedicated to a canned meat? Our wondering eyes had to see, we never pass up a cheesy tourist diversion.

Passing by the bronze pigs being led to slaughter, through the front doors, we were greeted by three thousand Spam cans stacked in a stunning display in the lobby.

This museum is no cheesy collection.

The Hormel folks have done a fine job of capturing the history of their preserved meat-food product through displays of packaging, ads and pop culture references.

See more photos ofthe Spam Museum

Hall after hall of the stuff while the infamous Monty Python Spam-Spam-Spam-Spam song plays over and over (and over) again. Ah memories… the dancing can ads, the smell of frying mystery meat, the bloody fingers nearly severed by the twist key top’s ribbon of razor sharp metal… good times.

Special attention is given to the love-hate relationship between
GIs and Spam.

From what we could gather, the good ole US of A would never have had a chance back in WWII if not for this magical blend of ham and pork by-products shoved into wind-up cans.

An entire exhibit is dedicated to an unseen soldier in a tent bitchin’ about all the spam he and his fellow men-in-arms must consume in the field.

Seriously folks, if an army moves on its stomach and Spam was keeping those bellies filled… it follows that we would all be speaking German if not for Spam.

Something to ponder as we headed towards the next roadside distraction, I mean attraction.

See more photos ofthe Spam Museum

Rumor had it that The Jolly Green Giant resided in Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Once again we found ourselves veering off the interstate and down the exit ramp to investigate.

Catching a glimpse while scanning the horizon for the towering vegetable spokes-model, we made our way toward the green Goliath.

In 1978, the town of Blue Earth, Minnesota paid $43,000 to erect a 55-foot fiberglass statue of the Jolly Green Giant.

The erection was to commemorate the linking of the east and west sections of Interstate 90 and the local Green Giant plant (now owned by Seneca Farms). It was unveiled on July 6, 1979, much to the delight of all future I-90 travelers.

Back out on the super-slab we headed into the Dakota territory to get plumb western. But before we could put on our hats and boots, we had to see one more tribute to corn country, the World’s Only Corn Palace. Mitchell, South Dakota has held the honor of home to the Corn Palace for over a century.

Back in 1905, the townsfolk of Mitchell made a play to wrestle the state capitalship away from those uppity bastards up in Pierre.

Their big idea? Build a Corn Palace, that’ll show ’em! A cornucopia castle complete with domes, towers and murals all covered with kernels of corn depicting scenes from a new theme each season.

The corn crazies are coughing up $130,000 each year to decorate the mansion of maize much to the delight of the half a million Palace Subjects visiting each year.

The Palace doesn’t just sit around doing nothing while wearing its corn coat.

The hall is the home court of the Dakota Wesleyan University Tigers and the Mitchell High Kernels basketball teams as well as the host of the Corn Palace Festival, the Corn Palace Stampede Rodeo and (we saved the best for last) the Corn Palace Polka Festival.

Personally, we are surprised by the lack of other corn celebrating venues… what’s wrong with Iowa? Where’s their freaking Corn Coliseum? Something to think about as we pulled back out onto the west bound side of the big road.

See much more about the Corn Palace!

If we were ever going to make it across the vast expanse of the great plains we had to put some miles behind us. We simply couldn’t stop at every Ride the Jackalope, See the Two Headed Snake or World’s Largest Prairie Dog that we passed along the way.

But one thing had demanded our attention for many hundreds of miles, it had to be seen.

The signs for a place called Wall Drug begin more than a days drive from the place. In a region infested with signs, Wall Drug sets the gold standard.

Back in 1936, Ted Hustead’s wife Dorothy got the big idea that they could draw travelers off of the highway into their drug store with signs offering “Free Ice Water” and it worked. As time went on, the billboards were put up further and further away from the store in Wall, South Dakota.

At their peak in the 1960s, there were highway signs in every state of the union, over 3,000 in all.

Fans have since spread the signs literally around the world. The mileage to Wall Drug is posted at The Taj Mahal, bases in Afghanistan and even the South Pole.

Metro riders in Paris, bus passengers in London and rail commuters in Kenya have all seen signs for Wall Drug. The phenomenonhas subsided a bit these days but the billboards still cover over 500 miles of Interstate 90, stretching from Minnesota to Billings, Montana. Wall Drug spends an estimated $400,000 on the signs every year, always on wood because, as Ted always said “Painted wood isn’t as fun to shoot at as enameled metal.”

All of this hoopla leads to the mother of all crap shops. In addition to the free water (yup, they still serve it) there are a couple restaurants and more crazy souvenirs than any tired tourist could possibly ponder.

Wall Drug is quite possibly the premiere place to buy all things Jackalope. Stuffed Jackalopes, Jackalope banks, Jackalopes holding a shot glass, Jackalope post cards, it’s a veritable Jackalope jackpot here.

Of course, no western crap shop is complete without the usual candy rocks, rattlesnake eggs, outhouse Christmas ornaments, Buffalo bobble heads and such, and Wall Drug does not disappoint.

After contracting a severe case of tourist trap overload, we rode off into the sunset, out of Wall and into the Badlands.

David & Veronica,
GypsyNester.com

The Unhealthiest Menu on the Planet

In our never ending search for intriguing foods, a jackpot was hit with what has to be the mother of all unhealthy menus. Seriously, there is a deep-fried cheeseburger on the menu.

Heart stopping, artery clogging foods are favorites all over the world and the American Midwest is certainly no exception. In Michigan, it’s Pasties in the U.P., cherry pies in Traverse City and the great Coney Island dogs in Flint. But for real gut busting nothing beats… CONTINUE READING >>

In our never ending search for intriguing foods, a jackpot was hit with what has to be the mother of all unhealthy menus.

Heart stopping, artery clogging foods are favorites all over the world and the American Midwest is certainly no exception.

In Michigan, it’s Pasties in the U.P., cherry pies in Traverse City and the great Coney Island dogs in Flint. But for real gut busting, cholesterol increasing, Wolverine State food nothing beats a gizzard.

That’s right, a good ole chicken gizzard, fried up and thrown down at the gizzard capital of the world, Joe’s Gizzard City.

About 15 miles South of Lansing, in Potterville, Michigan we discovered the undisputed king of the cooked chicken ventriculus.

The what?

That’s just a fancy way of saying gizzard. It’s part of a bird’s digestive system that grinds up food and is where the word giblets originated.

Gizzards are a popular food throughout the world, served grilled in Asia, stewed in Portugal, curried or barbecued in Pakistan, with mashed potatoes or a Perigordian Salad in France, in gumbo or even pickled here in the States.

But for real greasy gizzard flavor, they’ve got to be battered up and deep fried.

Battered and fried is what Joe’s Gizzard City does best! Not just gizzards, the fine chefs at Joe’s will fry up anything and everything. All of the usual suspects are there on the menu — fish, onions, shrimp, potatoes and even cheese.

But the true CPR inducting, defibrillating, rib spreading bang for your buck has got to be the Triple D Burger.

A whopping third pound of ground cow topped with onions, pickles, tomatoes and American cheese, dipped in batter and doused in hot grease. Bun and all.

Consult your physician before attempting to eat this puppy, as most insurance carriers count the Triple D as a preexisting condition.

If that’s still not enough, perhaps some deep fried meatballs, pickles or olives on the side will round out the meal.

Too heavy?

Well then try the Battered Dog Melt. Nothing like two hotdogs battered, deep fried and covered in chili and cheese for a light snack. Joe has even figured out a way to fry up spinach dip in stick form.

That’s just messed up. Seriously.

Be sure to save room for dessert. Really, how can cheesecake, Oreos or ice cream get any better? Well by coating them in batter and deep frying them of course.

The granddaddy of them all has to be the “Frinkie.”

A deep fried spongy snack cake smothered in caramel and chocolate sauces, slathered with whipped cream topped off with a cherry. The candy cherry allows one gets some fruit with one’s meal!

Everybody wins.

On our visit, we decided to stick to the namesake and order the famous original gizzards.

The menu called it a half pound, but it was more than enough for a big snack for both of us… with a lot left over.

Joe, Jr. must have some kind of wacky scale back there in the kitchen. Maybe he inherited it from his dad Joe, Sr., as Joe’s has been passed
down from generation to generation of the Bristol family since 1960.

Gizzard City guarantees that their gizzards are so tender you can cut them with a spoon and they were. Asking around, we discovered the secret is that they are pounded and boiled before being dipped and fried.

Served “bite-sized” in a basket with cocktail sauce, we popped the little nuggets down our gullets until our grease quotient had been met and surpassed. Tasty enough, but for us, a little went a long way.

While they’ve been known to batter and fry almost anything at Joe’s, it’s the gizzards that make them world renowned.

They go through 400 pounds of the battered bird bites every week.

And speaking of batter, Joe knows how to use that too, to the tune of about 25 pounds a day. Now that may sound like a lot of breading and chicken parts, CUZ IT IS, but that won’t last a couple hours during the true gizzard chowing madness of Gizzard Fest.

Every June for nearly a decade now, downtown Potterville — both blocks of it — is cordoned off for the one and only festival of gizzard gluttony… Gizzard Fest.

Three days of music, dancing, tractors, fireworks, food, beer and the star of the show… gizzards.

The undisputed highlight of the weekend is the big gizzard eating contest. Two thousand pounds of poultry parts are prepared for the perfervid participants.

The contestant to consume two pounds of fricasseed chicken guts fastest is crowned the champion. This is often closely followed by the less public gizzard puking ceremony.

We stumbled upon Joe’s Gizzard City completely by accident. Lured in by the big fiberglass chicken on the side of the interstate, we just followed the droplets of grease leading to the front door.

So now the next time you’re thinking, gee, I sure could go for some gizzards, you’ll know right where to get them.

Just don’t get them stuck in your craw.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

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