Blabbed about and then quickly forgotten was the story that Kal “Kumar” Penn left White Castle, Guantanamo, and Princeton behind for a job in the White House. I don’t want to oversell the significance. But I also don’t want to miss the opportunity to say something simply because a great deal of time (over a month) has elapsed.

In his first inaugural address in 1989, Reagan laid out the vision that would guide our discussions of the federal government for the better part of the next three decades. He said “…government is not the solution to our problems. Goverment is the problem.”

Reagan’s words were aimed directly at the economic crisis underway at that moment. That’s why I included the ellipsis above - he really said, “In this present crisis, government is not the solution to our problems. Government is the problem.” In addition, his concern was excessive expansion and intrusion of the federal government.

The Great Communicator must have known that there was no way to keep his words within their more timely context (the economic malaise of the late 70s). He had to have known that they represented an affirmation that government is in fact more than the supposed roadblock to economic recovery. He had to have know by saying “government is the problem” that he was painting an image of a government that is simply and singularly incompetent. Reagan’s words, directed at a specific situation with a specific concern in mind, have been used repeatedly over the years to paint a picture of a federal government not just completely out of touch with individuals’ concerns but completely unable to perform even the limited tasks conservatives would have  it perform if they had their way entirely.

And everyone listened to the Great Communicator. Even Bill Clinton carried Reagan’s small-government torch. 

I think underlying the shrinking of our government and the continued gutting of some of its most effective and necessary programs is the self-fulfilling nature of Reagan’s words. Invoking his words whenever possible, politicians of every stripe have furthered the stereotype that government jobs are cushy, unsatisfying make-work projects - pencil-pushing bureaucratic desk jockey positions, completely undesirable if you are a mover-and-shaker or anyone with any ambition. (Of course, elected public office is the exception; let’s leave that alone for the moment.) Who the hell would want to be part of the problem, after all?

I don’t want to tell anyone that the number of applicants for government jobs has gone down since 1981; I’m guessing that’s not true. I’m even guessing it’s not true that the number of qualified applicants has not gone down. At the very least, we’re talking about a function of population growth. However, number of applicants or qualifications is not what I’m about here.

Two wars, Pakistan in collapse, severe economic slowdown, foreclosures and unemployment skyrocketing - these problems call not simply for bigger government (though I believe they do). They call for the best government. If we are going to face these problems as a nation, and if we are going to overcome them as a nation, we need a federal government that is strong enough to help us face them. States and individuals can’t do this work.

Here’s my radical notion: we need the absolute best and brightest, the most talented, the most passionate individuals in our government right now. In fact, we always need those people to be working in our government - not just in elected office but inside the government. This needs to be our goal.

If he does nothing else, Barack Obama has already done a great deal in my mind. Simply the outpouring of resumes to change.gov (even discounting the economic slowdown factor) says that he has people energized about serving in our government. About serving the people.

It’s about goddamn time. People recognize that this is a time for government to be strong regardless of size. They are offering their talents in record numbers. And I hope that the stimulus package is large enough that the federal government can take these people up on their offers.

Kal Penn is famous, and you could say that he got his job in the White House in part because of his fame/notoriety. But remember that he did have another job - a well-paying job. His taking a big fat paycut for this makes a strong statement. Also, remember that he worked pretty hard to get this job as well, stumping for Obama wherever he could. He didn’t just waltz in on the back of a high-profile TV acting gig. 

We need to see more people with his passion and dedication in the federal government. And that starts with renouncing the Gipper’s overbroad brushstroke. Government doesn’t have to be the problem.

1. I am long-winded. I will go on and on. I really, quite frankly, don’t know when to stop. I can hear inaudible cringes when I’m on the phone with my boss and am on minute 2 of explaining why a course is not moving along faster. Part of that is the fact that I fairly often don’t have a complete thought yet in my head and I refuse to synthesize before speaking. You will help me think out loud if you have a conversation with me for any length of time. Blogs help me think out loud, so I tend to write for a very long time. I really hope you didn’t make any plans.

2. I am scared of baby corn. Under the layers, I understand baby corn as just that — corn plucked from its womb early. No less an authority than my five-year-old daughter has told me so. Intellectually, I can appreciate that. But spiritually, I think it is wrong. It is a mutant perversion of corn, which should always be experienced in its most natural form — cut the f*** off that stupid cob, slathered in butter and salt, and dusted lightly with cumin and oregano. When picked at such a young age, it just looks creepy. Seriously. You’re not creeped out by it?

3. I am fervently wishing for the death of the guitar solo in rock music, pop music, any music except for classical music written for classical guitar. I personally have heard only one guitar solo I would describe as truly great (go listen to Yo La Tengo’s “Pablo and Andrea” on Electr-o-Pura — like, right now). Too often, others are an excuse to show chops for chops’ sake. Which isn’t good enough. Serve the song, not your ego — cut the solo! By the way, I believe Spoon’s Gimme Fiction is the band’s attempt to kill the guitar solo once and for all, specifically tracks 4, 5, and 6 (and to a lesser extent, track 1). I believe they were successful. Britt, if you read this blog, will you tell me if I’m on the right track?

4. If I had to take into account all pros, all cons, all positives, all negatives, all current circumstances, all past circumstances, everything added up over the course of the last 5 years and 7 months, and return to April 7, 2003 and make another decision…I would have insisted that we stay in Houston. Maine has been good to me in a few different ways. There are few honest regrets. But I stand by this.

5. I have, for my entire life, been plagued by the notion that I wasn’t in the “in” crowd. It’s something that still plagues me and has led me to make less-than-mature social decisions more than once. I don’t know that I will ever get over it and have resolved to try to live within the limits of the disease. But my anger at perceived exclusion can be very quickly and easily triggered. It’s so high school of me.

6. This is for my Twitter peeps. I believe in social networking as a means to build community and lift each other up. Therefore, I really have come to expect reciprocation specifically from those whom I follow on Twitter. When they don’t, #5 kicks in. And usually, those folks end up getting dropped like they’re hot. I’ve made a few exceptions, one for someone who I’ve met in real life and who still hasn’t followed me. She seems harmless and without malice. Everyone else better recognize.

7. I fully intend, someday, to form a band that can help me cover one of my favorite albums in its entirety, as close to original intent, sound, emotional arc, etc. as possible. That album is not one of those classic top 50 albums of all time. It is Barkmarket’s L Ron. If you are interested in joining me in this no doubt utterly futile but cathartic exercise, give me a shout.

8. I have made it my New Year’s Resolution — one month late — to call each of my representatives in Congress at least once a month. I don’t know what our conversations will be about yet, but I’m sure I will think of something. I haven’t been able to stop thinking politics for the last five months. This obsession seems to have locked out even the Red Sox mayhem I experience every year starting about, well, November. I need to be able to channel it into something other than Maddow and Countdown. I need to make it productive. So this is what I’m going to do. Note: for those of you who own iPhones and iPod Touches, the App Store has a fantastic (and I believe free or $0.99) app that puts every member of Congress’ contact information — INCLUDING TWITTER HANDLE IF APPLICABLE — right there at your fingertips. That’s going to make this easier.

9. After playing in bands for 14 years, I have not lost my taste for sheer volume and noise. In fact, that desire has only grown. Therefore, it is my intense wish to make as much racket as possible in my current and all future projects. I intend to use my distortion pedal as much as I can and never to turn down. Nothing gives me energy like a breathtakingly loud show, and I want to be part of that kind of show. Every freakin’ time.

10. I hate the Steelers like most New Englanders hate the Yankees. It wasn’t always so. I loved the Steelers when I was around 7 or 8, living in New Jersey, in the midst of their run of four Super Bowls. I was a huge Bradshaw fan until I actually had to hear him talk on Fox Sports (yecccccch). And I still appreciate that Franco Harris campaigned for Obama. Of course, on the other side, Lynn Swann’s a pachyderm, and the NFL and the Steelers both failed to recognize the health effects of poor helmet design on poor Mike Webster, who died utterly abandoned by pretty much everyone. And now they’ve got the “gritty” (read: dirty) Hines Ward and the way overrated Ben Roethlisberger and they just piss me off. How dare they bring success to Pittsburgh, the Land of Perpetual Hard Luck?

11. I am extremely lukewarm about taking a break from the Internet. I have heard many talk about addictions and not liking the amount of time they spend on the computer. But I interact with people on the Internet in ways that I can’t necessarily make myself interact with them in real life. I consider that a good thing, addiction talk aside. And I am loath to lose it. Heather and I do take a break for about a week every summer. But I really have to be dragged kicking and screaming into it. Otherwise, do not look for me to be offline for more than a plane ride’s worth of time.

12. I spent one night homeless on the streets of Berlin. Granted, it was the last night before I came back to the states from a summer trip. So I knew it wasn’t permanent. And I had money. So it wasn’t the real deal by any means. But I did want to see, kinda sorta, what it was like. So I slept at the bus stop shelter at the very Zoo Station made famous by U2. For about an hour. The rest of the time, I wandered around looking to soak in the last remnants of the street vending culture. I ate as many bratwursts as I could, as well as french fries with mayo. And frequently downed it with beer and Jagermeister. I also had to lug around a good portion of my luggage from the two-month trip, though I did stow my suitcase at a locker somewhere. I wish this experience were more interesting, in retrospect. But that’s what I got, and I bet you didn’t know it, so there you go.

13. I eat one thing on my plate at a time. Some would consider this OCD, but I’m not sure that OCD compartmentalizes itself so very much as to allow me to live like a general slob and yet keep my food separate. Maybe it does. In any case, I eat only one thing at a time, and I eat in order of least favorite to most favorite. So it’s hard for me to hide when I don’t like something on the dinner table. It’s pretty much right out there.

14. I make really good gumbo. I lucked into an Emeril recipe that I can actually manage to do. There aren’t many of those. I’ve cooked it for as many as 120 people and have used it as an incentive prize for United Way campaigns in the past. It doesn’t ship, so please don’t ask.

15. For someone who likes music as much as I do, I haven’t been known to play a lot of music for the whole house. I consider music to be a bit of a private refuge, and I am also a little embarrassed at the idea of sharing my musical taste and putting it out there for others to judge. So my house remains quiet much of the time. But that’s slowly changing as I have to fight against the tide of a constant stream of children’s music.

16. I am the opposite way in my car. I have to have music absolutely blasting at levels people would consider unsafe and unhealthy for my ears. So don’t try to pull up next to me and get my attention. You can’t have it.

17. I am not too much into other people’s kids. I have never been into being around or playing with kids much. I was concerned about that when we found out Maya was coming. Heather reassured me that it would be different with Maya, and thankfully, it has. But I still have trouble being friendly to or hanging around other people’s kids, though I am getting better at it. I’m not sure it will ever change entirely.

18. I have had sleep apnea in the past and have had to sleep with a CPAP machine. I lost a great deal of weight in 2004 and haven’t had to use the machine since, and that fact alone has kept me from putting every single pound back on. Remembering the mask on my face and the unpleasant task of cleaning out said mask are enough to keep me fairly good on my eating habits.

19. The next instrument I want to learn is the sitar. I love the design of it, the sound of it, and the fact that I could totally recreate those scenes of Andy bothering everyone during the Christmas party on The Office.

20. I do work in my pajamas most of the day. It’s not just a thumb-my-nose-at-the-Man thing. I believe people are most productive when they’re most comfortable. So I frequently keep my pajamas on when I’m doing my most important work. Because I like to remian productive. I’m sure my clients and co-workers appreciate this sentiment, even if they can’t do the same.

21. I don’t like canned tuna fish or any other canned meats. I believe it started with tuna fish casserole, which my mom made constantly when I was growing up because it was one of my dad’s favorites. But it always had celery in it. I can’t stand celery. So I began to associate tuna fish with the arduous task of picking the celery (and onions, when I didn’t like those either) out of my casserole. Often, I ate only the slightly singed cheese and the soft macaroni insides of the casserole. In any case, I still don’t like the taste or smell of tuna fish from the can. Never will.

22. When I first moved to Maine, it was the most stressful time of my life, bar none. I woke up every morning ready to throw up. Sometimes I did. I guess that’s what comes of having a job that required a skill set I wasn’t sure I had, plus moving across the country and having a baby within a span of six months. So to this day, because of the unbelievable stress I found myself under day after day, there are still roads in York County that I can’t drive down. I have to go well out of my way to get to certain places or I risk a complete breakdown and/or panic attack. Some of those roads include Route 99 between Kennebunk and Sanford and Route 35 south of Route 111. Route 1 through Arundel is also a dicey proposition.

23. I drink a pot of coffee every day. It’s true. Every last drop of it.

24. I smoked a pack and a half a day for the better part of four years. And every minute of every day, I am in danger of lighting up another. The danger becomes especially present when I am at a rock show or in a recording session. Music brings out the inner addict in a big way.

25. I have had the best luck ever, including finding a partner who props me up when I so desperately need it and understands all the things above that may well have scared off a less hardy soul. I am thankful for all that I have, but especially her.

The glow of the adult bookstore next door only added to the luster of a watershed event in my musical career: my and my band’s first show away from the cozy confines of the Rice University residential colleges. Stage One was modest enough, with wood paneling inside and out as well as limited parking and, uh, iffy location (the 186500 block of Hempstead Road) (or thereabouts). Still, the rock was on, and we were out in the big, bad world, mixing it up at a place that didn’t require student ID. All was love and flowers and devil horns back in ‘95.

We got a pretty great crowd of our peers to show up and root us on as we played for over 2 hours (with a couple of breaks). We pulled out every obscure and not-so-obscure punk cover we could find and threw it in with a limited number of pop-punk originals. We covered the People’s Court theme song. The PEOPLE’S F***ING COURT! How can you not love that?!? And we did it with…not style, exactly, but a certain amount of dogged determination (two hours? seriously? wasn’t our idea), sick drummer and all. Yeah, we weren’t tight or particularly professional, but we had been itching to play out “for real” for a very long time. And we left it, what little of it we had, all on the stage.

That passion has sustained me through some of the most difficult times as a band member over the past 14 years. Through ill-attended shows, police near-shutdowns, and near-fights over cash (more on that later), we played because we loved doing it. And we really had to, because beyond the tough uphill climb that an indie rock career represents merely from an artistic standpoint, there has never, never, never been anything approaching real money in it for me or anyone I’ve played with.

From the first days of that very first band (called the Freshmakers) (you heard me) through the heady times with the band formerly known as both Telluride and Chasmatic and into my recent involvement with bands here in Maine, I have simply assumed that I wasn’t doing this for quick cash…or any cash. Sure, there have been a couple of recent exceptions, most notably a regular camp gig and a wedding a couple of years ago, but looking at the day-to-day, weekend-to-weekend reality of being in a band, writing songs, practicing, drumming up shows, recording, and promoting our various public outlets, I see an ocean of red ink .

In Houston, I took this to be simply the reality of what passed for an indie-rock scene. Clubs were scarce, their numbers dwindling daily. Club owners could essentially dictate the terms, even if you had a fair-sized following. You just didn’t have enough options as a band member to be getting cocky about the price you commanded — if you commanded one at all. One club famously used to charge bands to play there. (again, you heard me) That is, until they determined that 100 customers paid to come see you, at which point you’d get some sort of nominal fee. One of my favorite local bands named their first album “Ninety-Nine Paid” as an hommage to this draconian and often arbitrarily applied rule.

I never questioned the reality that we would get paid nothing or next-to-nothing for our shows. I practiced weekly, schlepped unwieldy gear, flyered cars, got chased out of parking lots for flyering cars merely for the chance to be playing. It was a show. A show’s a show.

I also told myself it was for exposure’s sake. Exposure, exposure, exposure. That’s what they all said - you know, this one’s a good chance at some exposure. Maybe people would see us and become our other loyal following — the one not made up of friends who felt obligated to be there. Every show was a chance for someone who hadn’t seen us to fall in love with us, instantly and with abandon, and spend the rest of his or her life clearing the schedule to come see us. That was the hope. Exposure.

That was certainly part of the hope. I think the other part of the hope was the notion that I could rediscover the full measure of passion I felt that first night banging out a sloppy version of “Where Eagles Dare.” That passion has flickered often during this excruciating tour through indie-rock anonymity. At first, it manifests itself in the notion that you’re on-stage doing what everyone at least casually dreams about, and whether you’re doing it at Wiess College or the Orpheum, it doesn’t matter so much as that you’re doing it. After a while, though, you want to be part of something special, something people want to see, something that people, again, will put on their calendars and make time for even if they’re not related to you. You remember the bands that made your head turn when you were younger and you want to be them. Even the local bands that you find yourself going to see represent role models for what you want to accomplish. At the very least, you want the local music types to be at your shows (they’re the ones you can count on for sure if you are worth a listen and a watch).

There’s a part of me that has clutched to my chest the talisman of being in a band, treating it like a badge of honor and an instant way to connect (”You’re in a band? Cool! What instrument do you play ? What kind of music?” and so on and so on so that I don’t have to talk much, just answer questions, and that’s how I function best). The other part of me wants to toss it to the ground and turn exposure on its head, revealing to everyone exactly how uninteresting it can be to be in a band.

Uninteresting and exhausting. “The stage is how many flights up?” “How many practices this week?” “What did they steal this time?” “Recording this weekend? Better get a box of Camel Lights. Gotta keep busy…”

I didn’t expect things to be different for indie bands, or local bands of any stripe, here in Maine, primarily because I judged the numbers game to be similar; small towns, lots of bands, few outlets. And so it took me a while to come around to the idea that I wanted to be in a band again. Was it really worth it? I knew how it was going to go down. Enough was enough, wasn’t it?

But no, it really wasn’t. After several lonely and unbelievably stressful months, I finally placed an ad in the Phoenix looking for bandmates. And a few months later I was back into it.

And just as quickly, I found the scene to be direly similar to what I had experienced before. I got bored more quickly than I care to let on, and it became so difficult to get motivated toward the end of that experience that I was ready to chuck music altogether. Again, we were merely chasing exposure and not catching up with it. And the money was still nearly non-existent.

That band ended spectacularly and with a whimper all at once. And now I’m in a new thing and facing similar questions. But I am facing them this time, and that’s thanks to a significantly renewed passion for the pursuit of musical intrigue.

And that’s because I’ve got a group of folks who don’t ask me to turn down, who want to collaborate, who understand what I mean when I say that our show the other night was “big and messy” and know that I mean it as the highest compliment, who are interested in the song as concept and not merely as beats and notes as a conveyance. To be honest, that last part was something I thought I’d never say, but I’m so interested in it now that I can’t hold back. I really like this band. And I want us to be successful.

And now it hits again; the fact that this show we played the other night really was yet another shot at the E word. No money to speak of, but plenty of people, and a little press, and more f***ing exposure. Again. And we face a decision now, whether to play future shows for little money, which appears to be the status quo unless you are a little poppier or cover-band-ier than we are, or to push back on club owners who we perceive as cynically uninterested in the local music scene as a civic asset.

It’s an odd little crossroads, this. Part of my brain is asking the outward-facing questions: What does the public think of art and music? Do they, as a band member believes, “take for granted the impact it has on public life?” Are they essentially in cahoots with club owners with eyes only toward the bottom line? Is there room for an indie music scene anywhere these days, with disposable income seemingly such a fragile commodity? Has it ever been a reality, an indie music scene? Is there a public hunger that might bring about a raising of the collective roof over local musicians’ heads? And does more money mean a more vibrant art/music scene and greater diversity?

Then there’s the part of me that has to ask the inward-facing ones, which are not dissimilar: Have I too long undersold money-making as a part of being in a band, even an indie band? What is the net worth of my 14 years as a bass player, and is it in itself a compelling case for me to hold the line and ask for more from club owners?

And why do I have to think about the financial implications of being in a band when I’m just getting back in touch with the true desire and passion to play music? I dont know, but I do have to think about it. It may not be my sole reason for being in a band — I doubt you could find many who would say it is, at least not in the circles in which I travel — but it is not insignificant in my mind, the notion that I deserve my due after the time I’ve put in.

I have thought about the nuclear Steely Dan option, the one where I never play live until I am internationally famous for my jazz-rock musings. I think it’s safe to say, however, that I have no jazz-rock musings (that’s right, breathe deep, it was all a joke). And I don’t think that’s a satisfying concept to me. I do like playing live. People watching me often don’t believe it, but I do. Controlled chaos, big and messy, in front of an audience is how bands show their mettle, and I want to be a part of that.

But I can’t lose sight of the passion for the music-making even as I advocate for a sea change in the support structure for local bands. The notion of lifting our own financial fortunes as a band must co-exist with the creative process we embark upon every Wednesday at 7:30?

I can tell you that there will be many more band discussions on these points, specifically when shows come up, when compensation is at issue, and when we examine what our priorities are. I can tell you I no longer feel the absolute need to jump on any opportunity for exposure. I am too old to flyer parking lots and I am beyond offended at the notion of playing for zero money (or pay-to-play — I can’t believe we ever did that. Jer, you sure we did that?!? Did we pay them?)

But reality doesn’t change overnight, and there are clubs and club owners that represent a greater opportunity — not for exposure but for credibility and word-of-mouth marketing. Those shows may create the liveliest conversation among band members, as they may involve sacrifice at the same time that they present a chance to air our grievances to a friendly ear.

And I think it is precisely because I am back in a motivated place, because I’m playing with a musically smart and creative crew, that I can begin to engage these issues without feeling that I’m nearing the end of my musical career. I can instead keep things rolling, feeling the same passion and excitement I felt at Stage One when we brought the house down with…Wapner.

Because even as my circumstances have evolved, the market hasn’t changed.

Two nights in a row, I’ve been tripping down memory lane with Maya, watching episodes from the first season of the Muppet Show. The very first episode, which I hadn’t seen, starred Don Knotts as a very nervous and googly-eyed man with what appears to be an inexhaustible collection of fly blue-gray jackets. (Yes, I said fly. What other word would I use?)

One of the final sketches of the Knotts episode is a musical number starring Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. A running theme throughout the episode is how jazzed Floyd and the rest of the band members are to play Lullaby of Birdland. (get it? jazzed? i’m teh awesome!)

When the time arrives, the band appears from behind the curtain with, uh, Don Knotts on bass. I won’t lie to you; my first reaction was “I didn’t know he could play bass!” Those of you who know the episode know that, in fact, he can’t. He begins by simply bowing the same note repeatedly. When Floyd suggests he ditch the bow, Don just starts plucking the same note repeatedly. Then the band requests he pick up the pace, and he does. Faster and faster he picks until finally, he’s just beating the fingerboard with both hands.

It’s Don Knotts shooting one of the few arrows in his quiver — doing something he doesn’t know how to do but garnering a lot of attention for it. Keeping the spirit of Don Knotts alive is the southern Maine restaurant scene. Restaurants pop up as intriguing concepts, only to fail to have the requisite knowledge to pull off those concepts. What we end up with are short-lived spots that I desperately want to support. And supporting them for those brief periods means turning a blind eye to a number of factors indicative of success in other restaurants — quality, accuracy of ingredients, and, to a lesser extent service.

Readers who live in Southern Maine will not find this information particularly revelatory. Everyone knows the scene sucks. It has always been thus, is my understanding. And with economic troubles washing pretty much everyone ashore, I’m not sure we can hope for better any time soon.

This article, therefore, may seem akin to shooting the proverbial fish in the barrel. However, I find it infuriating that restaurateurs in this area do not even make an attempt to learn some of the basic rules that form the basis for culinary success. They have a passion for certain foods, but that passion rarely translates into actual study of and then appropriate preparation of those foods.

This has been particularly acute in a number of locations that have recently attempted Mexican food. I know this again is an easy target here in Maine, but my New Mexican upbringing will not let this sort of behavior stand without some sort of tongue-lashing. Not in 2009, anyway.

I’d like to see the knowledge of local restaurateurs match their passion for cooking (or at least restaurant owning). Therefore, I’ve prepared the beginnings of what I believe will be a lengthy quiz. The topics will be wide-ranging and will include food presentation, marketing, appropriate ingredients, and an as-yet-undetermined number of other categories. Like I said, this is just a start; first 10 questions follow.

1. Placing quotes around the words “fresh” and “homemade” on signage outside your restaurant indicates _____.
   1. emphasis of those terms
   2. use of these terms as a quote from a famous chef
   3. sarcasm about the veracity of these descriptions
   4. the need to use Maine pronunciation when using these terms
2. Fajitas are _____.
   1. marinated and grilled meats and vegetables served on a sizzling-hot skillet
   2. day-old roast beef buried inside a burrito
   3. Mexican meat-based cocktails
   4. those shaky things that look like gourds with handles
3. Which of the following is NOT acceptable as a dressing for a lettuce-based salad?
   1. a simple oil-and-vinegar emulsion
   2. a creamy “ranch-style” mixture
   3. a honey-and-Dijon mustard emulsion
   4. Italian sausage and Alfredo sauce
4. Which of the following is the LEAST acceptable topping for nachos?
   1. black olives
   2. framing nails
   3. poison sumac
   4. Shigella
5. The name for cow meat that has been run through a grinder and is often served crumbled or in patties is _____.
   1. ground beef
   2. hamburg
   3. Würzburg
   4. Nürnberg
6. Breakfast or brunch should be served on both Saturday and Sunday until _____.
   1. 2 p.m.
   2. 10 a.m.
   3. No.
   4. You moron.
7. Decaf espresso _____.
   1. exists
   2. does not exist
8. An omelet with Mexican salsa should be called _____.
   1. a Mexican omelet
   2. a Spanish omelet
   3. a Ukrainian omelet
   4. the New Hampshire special
9. True or False: A distinct garbage smell coming from the kitchen is an inducement for diners to return.
10. True or False: Cuban sandwiches have pickles on them. Always.

I hope to have a fully expanded version to share with restaurants throughout southern Maine starting in Saco/Biddeford within the next two months. With it, I’m trying to spread the gospel of good food created by passion AND a little knowledge of the subject matter. Which should go a long way. I hope.

Without that knowledge, well…let me just refer back to Mr. Knotts and what happened at the end of the “Lullaby of Birdland” sketch.

His bass blew up. And it took his fly jacket with him.

I hope this quiz can prevent at least a few restaurant owners from losing their shirts. Or fly jackets.

Though I try.

We read the Little House books to my daughter Maya all the time. With so much interesting detail about how life was in pioneer days, we all find ourselves transfixed by the difficulties of everyday errands and chores for the Ingalls family. I am so in the moment with Maya when I read these books that I often am completely unaware of what might happen next, caught up in the same web of suspense.

It was in this state that I first heard the word “darky” cross my lips. Not because it was what I wanted to say, but because it was there on the page and my brain wasn’t adept enough to apply the brakes. I just read it. And then stopped for what must have been about 30 seconds but felt like 3 hours.

Maya wanted to know what happened. Quite frankly, both of us did. I had never read these books before or seen the television shows based on the books. I wasn’t prepared to have this racist crap dumped at my feet. It just never occurred to me that this was going to be part of the mix. I knew there’d be blizzards. I knew there’d be near starvation. What I didn’t count on was “darky.” I probably shouldn’t have been so naive. But these books are meant for youth audiences. Has NOBODY thought to edit this kind of speech from these books? Even if it’s part of some old traditional song?

Honestly, this isn’t really the most ignorant, intolerant behavior evident in the series. Ma is completely anti-American Indian and has no problem saying so — in the most insufferably prim and proper fashion. Good old Ma. Even when she’s an ignorant crapbag, she’s repressed and under control. God bless her.

I consider Pa’s racist song to be a step above Ma’s pervasive hatred of American Indians. But I was so shocked by its insertion in what seemed like an innocent song sung to children that it took me a good while to forgive Pa. Fortunately, it took me a shorter time to get my mindful parenting in order and explain to Maya how wrong wrong wrong it was to say that word. Now, I just skip that part of the book. And Maya is perceptive enough to take our cues and her own good sense and combine them into a succinct synthesis of the term: “That’s an awful, insensitive, terrible thing to call a dark-skinned person.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I had breakfast with the family this morning at a local eatery, a quirky place that does not share my decor ideas but certainly shares my love of really good bacon as well as local, fresh ingredients. After being rescued by AAA from a dead car battery situation, we had a fantastic breakfast and were really counting our blessings.

The proprietor, owner, and cook walked out to address other guests and indicated that she had cooked one particular special on the menu in her “Chinese wok.”

“My chinky,” she then said.

Heather and I shared a dismayed glance and mourned the loss of our peace of mind. Maya heard the term, too, and after seeing our looks, she had no choice but to ask, adorably, “What does that mean?”

We hurriedly paid and left. When I got to the car, I realized I had left the key back in the restaurant and ran back to get it. While I was gone, Heather explained the term to Maya. And I was glad she did.

It’s definitely not that I couldn’t explain to Maya what had just happened. I’ve had plenty of practice, thanks to Little House.

What I can’t explain, though, is why a grown woman would see fit to prance into a half-filled dining room and hurl a racial epithet in front of my 5 1/2-year-old daughter. I can’t explain it. And I really want to be able to, and I consider it a pretty major failing that I can’t.

My first reaction — horror — was replaced embarrassingly quickly with a sense of loss and disappointment about the idea of not being able to come back to our new favorite breakfast spot. Then I reached bargaining territory, where I’ve been most of the day, thinking about ways I could get around it, ignore what I heard in the name of supporting a local business that could probably use the support.

But after having some discussion — with my wife and internally — I am convinced that I just can’t go back. Because I can explain it to Maya…but I don’t think I want to explain it to the person who really needs the explanation: the owner, the offender, the ignorant soul with the killer pork products. I don’t think I want to confront her. I don’t think I want to write a letter. I just can’t believe I have to have that conversation with her.

I don’t want to have it with anyone. Except my daughter, if necessary…and it’s not necessary; Maya knows better. Better than this 60-ish woman and her batcrap crazy taste in interior decor. Who should know better but doesn’t.

So despite the fact that there are precious few breakfast spots worth a visit in this area, I might be taking one off the list. And avoiding interaction with that woman and that place altogether. Behavior similar to this has likely earned me the “misanthrope” label, which I have in turn affixed above. But in this case, at least I know why I am a misanthrope.

Because you can’t edit everything.