Princess Kay of the Milky Way

Last year my sister, Ms Middle Guysister moved to Minneapolis, and regaled me with stories of the Minnesota State Fair. Among my favorite new facts was that each year the Midwest Dairy Association crowns the fair's princess, officially named

Princess Kay of the Milky Way

As part of the state fair celebration, Princess Kay's likeness is sculpted in 90lbs. of butter. Her likeness is on display in a refrigerated cabinet during the length of the state fair. It doesn't get much better than this, does it?

For those who have not been to the Minnesota State Fair or are disinclined to believe, I offer the following:

A panorama of the Princess Kay exhibit

Photos of Princesses Kay past

And PK facts, including what PK's did with their buttery tribute at the end of their reign

Owen Wilson, Taking Away the Pain of Otters

Even my barest acquaintances know how much I hate otters. Horrible, horrible otters with their fleshy noses and rows of needle-like teeth.

Hate otters but love dreaming about celebrities, apparently. The cognitive dissonance of celebrities and otters met last week when I managed to combine thoughts of both while I was sleeping.

In a dream, I was at a 1960's motel, which had overgrown tropical landscaping. The pool had been transformed into an otter pond. I remember thinking "I should overcome my distaste for otters and try to tickle their bellies as if they were cats." I reached into the pool to find that they weren't nice like cats at all. Big surprise. They're otters.

Later in my dream, Owen Wilson was swimming in the decommissioned pool / otter pond (in his street clothes, I believe, reader). He was sent to my dream by my subconscious in order to distract me from the pain of otters.

-- This post was completed in the blessedly wireless reading room of the Seattle Public Library. Despite the amazing architecture and cool furniture and styling floor coverings, it's their local history collection, vertical files and biographical card index that really fill me with impure thoughts.

Bright Barnyardy Tang, and Beyond

I'm eating a sandwich made for me by Mr Guy of smoked trout that he caught himself, and fancy blue cheese from Vermont that tastes a little like dirty goat teat.

When describing the taste of gjetost, a Norwegian goat cheese, a food writer from the New York Times referred to the cheese's "bright barnyardy tang." This cheese goes further. It tastes the way the goat pens at the county fair and floral fiesta smell.

And I like it.

I'll Be in the GOOD Bar

“I’ll be in the good bar” – The Big Guy, on how to locate him on arrival at Seatac.

Post 9/11 you can’t get back to the Good Bar once you’ve collected your luggage. Doesn’t matter. The Big Guy’s not here, but he’s everywhere. The escalator reminds me of the first time I ever saw him. We were coming down, and he was going up. The baggage claim reminds me of the time he forgot which flight we were on. The parking lot reminds me of his pimpy white Lexus sedan with the Peace Frog sticker on the back, which in the post Big Guy era we have converted into a Prius. I salute him by drinking a hefeweisen and writing this while waiting for Mr Fishing Guy to drive down from Canada and find me at the airport (written Sunday, posted Monday).

Adventures in Gardening

Mr Guy brought me my iPod to keep me entertained while I was gardening. That Mr Guy.

I learned that gardening and technology aren't always so compatible, and that some days it's all you can do to just keep raccoon poop off your iPod.

But listening to Sol Hoopii while planting cannas is a pretty righteous Sunday endeavor.

On the snack front, Calbee has denied my request for a tour of the factory from which flows my beloved carbohydrates.

Rats

Flayva

While you were sleeping, new flavors of chip were inspected (or as Mr Guy might assert, Mrs Guy pumped her own gas for once and thus threw herself in the path of flavor):

Lays Salt & Pepper
A tasty chip that has none of the bite or perfume of pepper. I would eat this chip again, but to call it pepper and anything is a stretch. The primary flavor is garlic, actually, and it's extremely subtle.

Lays Limon
In a word: Trix. Whoa

Calbee Seaweed & Salt
These rank high in the Pantheon of great chips. There is something harmonious, nutty and addicting about these chips. And they have really great mouth feel. A teensy bit thicker than your average (i.e. Lays) chip, and conspicuously groomed by the people of Calbee. In the bags I've consumed so far, there were very few bubbles, blemishes, and chips that fold like a taco.

People of Calbee, I salute you.

Drove past the factory on our way home from the four-generation eatathon and Balderdash smackdown, and now I really regret not making a pilgrimage.

Time for a glass of water.

Shypoo

The Guy Family is descended from pharmacists.

MR Mr Guy, henceforth known as The Big Guy, was full-blood Pharmacist (both parents, who owned a pharmacy), making Mr Guy one half Pharmacist.

My Maternal GrandGuy attended pharmacy school, and Paternal GrandGuy was a full-time pharmacist and later pill-jobber for Eli Lilly, who had a weekly 15 minute radio show that instructed listeners in the benefits of VIT-i-MINES. Based on this, I claim slightly less than a half Pharmacist.

The Big Guy grew up in the pharmacy. He told us of the mystery of Shypoo. When his parents made ointments by hand, and had some left over, they'd put the excess in what they called the Shypoo pot. In cases where no topical ointment was having any success, he claimed that they'd write up a prescription for Shypoo, scrape some out of the pot and sell it to the customer.

On reflection, this story has the delicate aroma of untruth, but it gives me the opportunity to write Shypoo over and over and over.

I wish I had a Shypoo pot. Or not

Sometimes It's Better Just To Ask

While trying to determine which baby gift registry a friend is using (without asking him), I felt the lure of a celebrity baby registry blog which coughed up the following ad:

urp.