I cannot attest to the Butter Nut Bakery in Metro-Detroit, but according to this sign they are worth risking their shelf-life. I have decided that today, is not the day to find out.
I can be butch too…
I was warned about leaky valve cover gaskets. Â I should have known, oil leaks off of the valves and onto the top hose of the radiator. Â Oil causes the organic compounds in rubber to break down, leaving it brittle and prone to cracks. Â I was driving home and heard a loud pop which I mistook as a rock hitting the undercarriage.
I managed to park near the house and thought nothing of it. Â My neighbor, a line-worker by trade, walked over to me. Â He’s knew what happened from the sound of the car, and I knew by my temperature gauge and the plumes of smoke pouring out of the hood – it was something to do with the radiator.
We chatted there – talking about the noise, the leak, the heat, the manifold, and how I was lucky not have blown the head gasket. Â I normally don’t have bonding moments with straight men, but this was a real rarity. Â We talked about the mechanics of cars, the placement of parts to making it difficult to fix things yourself, and the high cost of labor… all while he held his baby. Â The only thing that could have made this a more masculine site is if a child of my own came running asking what the spectacle was all about as I sparked a cigar and explained in kid-terms what a radiator does.
Butchness left at the side-street, I went into the house and dropped off my groceries. Â After a quick nelly passive-aggressive phone call to snuff about having the car fixed months ago when he had the time to take into a shop, I cowboyed-up was on my way to the corner gas. Â Never above second gear and with the heater and fan cranked all the way so as not to use what coolant was left in the system.Â
Maybe it’s because I grew up in the motor city, maybe it’s because I have so many people around me that know about cars, or maybe… I can be butch too.
William Colburn Jr
Since I have been going to the Detroit Festival of the Arts, I have been fascinated by William Colburn’s sculptures. This year, with a home and expendable income I finally purchased a piece.
confessions of a husky boy: wine?
I dread the things left in our home after a party. Cheese plates are often separated into baggies left to metamorphose into another phase of refrigerated spoiled milkdom, while crackers placed in the pantry to grow stale or become desperate sustenance when we’re too lazy to go grocery shopping. We have a refrigerator shelf where uninspired bulk beer sit next to the obscure micro beers mimicking the seating arrangements between our joe-lunchbox and bobo friends.
A rather subversive product crossed our threshold and it’s struck a discordant tone. We are now in possession of a local(ish) product, a bottle of cranberry “wine”, hailing from a town known for its olde thyme charm rather than its winemaking. Snuff, who is a staunch red wine drinker and who once in nostalgic appreciation gazed upon a bottle of “Uncle Ernie’s, hillbilly strawberry wine” in our farmhouse, will not give it a chance. I however set my reservations aside and took a willing flute of it last night.
The cranberry wine has a beautiful jewel-toned which is a contrast to its tartness. Like all fruit wines, sugar is added for the fermentation processes but because of the cranberry’s lack of natural sugar the vintner is forced to over-compensate. The end result is a slightly boozy cranberry cocktail at twice the price. Though I wouldn’t be caught dead bringing this to a party, I can see its place in the world. In somewhat forced camp appreciation I can hear guests saying “wow, this is a step up from Boone’s Farm”.
My affections for cranberry wine lay further than the low-brow irony. I see the bottle in my refrigerator a part of our local economy and dare say it’s artisanal. Fruit wines get a bad rap because there are major producers out there who make alcohol out of the byproducts of cheese making [ pdf doc link ] or fruit flavored malt liquor. There is a tradition of fruit wines in the old country, but it’s grown out of fashion because it’s not marketable. So long as there are Germans making fun of German Hillbillen drinking Landwein, French Hommebillies drinking Vin du Pays, and Snuff poking fun at “Uncle Ernie’s (God rest him) Hillbilly wine” there will be no respect for cranberry wine.