Still Ticking....

It has been four days since I nuked the lawn to no avail, ten days since I gave notice at work, eleven days since I became an Unprincipled Vegetarian, and over two weeks since a series of other emotionally trying events. Did I also mention I am also looking for a partridge in a pear tree?

This bundle of ridiculous milestones and efforts is really the kind of stuff that gives the Madwoman her name. But I am still ticking... more or less. Maybe I'm a time bomb?

After eleven days of Unprincipled Vegetarianism, I have learned that I will become extremely FAT if I continue down this path. No longer able to seek comfort in the arms of Meat, I have sought out the loving embrace of Butter, Ice Cream, and Pasta. Even worse, sometimes I find myself forced to fraternize with the likes of All Kinds Of Fried Food.

Take this weekend, for example, Day 8. An ill-planned drive through the butt-hole of Palmer (the Butte area) succeeded mostly in creating a carful of hungry passengers. We tried very hard to find edible food, but the Lonely Planet in my glove compartment had only two suggestions for "dining," and one of them was the neighborhood Carrs. Not encouraged by the prospect of lunching at the grocery store, we decided to take our chances and to look for a local German bar on the Palmer-Wasilla Highway - an octagonal log cabin atop a hill called Schawbenhof.

At the foot of the driveway up to the Schawbenhof bar is a sign boasting a counterfeit St. Pauli's girl. The costume is the same, but if you look closely beyond her steins, you'll notice that she looks more like an elderly version of the famous Frauline - maybe what Fr. St. Pauli might like after twenty-five years of bar fights and serving drinks to mouthy frontiersmen.

After the Old Miss St. Pauli welcomes you, you drive up a steep road that leads to the log-cabin bar. The bar itself has a great vibe. Although mostly empty on a random Sunday at 2pm, it nevertheless had all the marks of a place that has seen some good times. There is a wide open deck with a virtually 360 degree view of the Palmer/Wasilla/Butt area, which my friend from Nebraska said looked a lot like Nebraska (not exactly a direct compliment). But with 16 oz of beer in your hand, even the unobstructed view of Nebraska is spectacular.

Scwabenhof boasts a long list of beers and friends of beers. For a mere six dollars, you can sample four, each served in a cute little mini-stein. It also has the typical German fare for food. Bratwurst. Sauerkraut. And you might have guessed, not so much for the Vegetarian, Unprincipled or not. My friend on the left ordered the "1/2 Bratwurst" which was later explained to be a typo that should have read "1/2 pound Bratwurst." (Her brat was literally twice as long as her bun.) My friend on the left ordered a Pork Tenderloin sandwich. I sat in the middle with a cup of water (I was driving) and an order of "nachos" - i.e., tortilla chips smothered in Velveeta. I knew there was some danger in ordering nachos at a German bar, but this was the only vegetarian option aside from beer and sauerkraut.

I can't say much about how good the food is at Scwabenhof except that the meat options appeared to my hungry eyes to be truly delicious, and both my friends left feeling very satisfied.

Driving away from the German bar having escaped the arms of Meat, I must say I was surprised I survived. A test of will is a funny thing. Some people are impressed with the length of time a person is able to abstain from something desirable. But as time passes, new habits form, and dramatic pledges and vows actually become a matter of status quo. The spirit becomes stubborn even if the flesh is weak. Perhaps the most trying challenge is that initial moment one decides to choose change over The Way Things Are, for better or worse.

Certainly being a Schawbenhof survivor steeled my resolve to continue with the Unprincipled Vegetarianism. Later that day, we headed to Kincaid Park for a summer festival - Natsumatsuri - sponsored by the local Japanese society in Anchorage. The ambient smells of yakitori - skewers of grilled meat - filled the park, and for a while, I sat on the picnic bench tortured and unhappy. I had purchased a meal ticket which my friend exchanged for three skewers. My well-meaning friends tried coaxing me into giving into the yakitori (no doubt they are absolutely sick of my unprincipled vegetarianism), but I did not fold.

At the end of the day, the lure of yakitori was a false challenge. The smell of meat over an open flame is admittedly a call of the wild - an ancestral beacon that glows within us, tying us to our more primitive times and urges. It is true that the smell of grilled meat drives me crazy, much like the smell of fresh fried donuts (no ancestral explanation available here). But I am certain had I thrown it all in for a skewer of mediocre yakitori, I would have deeply regretted it. I did end up eating the meat-juice soaked grilled scallions (which fall under the meat juice exception) and made a joke about licking up the remaining yakitori meat juice, but really it was only a joke.

In the meantime, tick, tick, tick....

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