I’ll be the first to raise my hand and say I despise most of the food shows currently on television and online. That’s why I got so excited when I heard about “The Perennial Plate,” a weekly online documentary series, “dedicated to socially responsible and adventurous eating.”
That angle by virtue does not a good show make. But Daniel Klein and Mirra Fine, the team behind the show, have the ideal background to make this concept work, which it does. Throw in a collaboration with well-regarded Australian adventure company Intrepid Travel, and you have the makings of a cult classic.
In case you’re thinking this is another “No Reservations,” or “Bizarre Foods,” the focus is different in that the duo explores the increasingly connected global food system, minus the machismo. That said, there’s plenty for those more interested in armchair travel.
Klein has an impressive resume as a chef, filmmaker and activist, while “camera girl” Fine has a background in graphic design and writing, and has previously released short, food-based films. Together, the two have completed two seasons. The first took place over the course of a calendar year in their home state of Minnesota. The second was filmed across America, taking viewers on a journey of “where good food comes from, and how to enjoy it.”
Season three, which premieres in October (check their site for dates), is the first since joining with Intrepid Travel. The season kicks off with a tour of Vietnam. Future episodes will include China, Japan, India, Argentina and Italy.
I’ve logged about 4,000 road miles (all solo) in the last few weeks, most of it in stunningly monotonous landscape. Fortunately, I’ve never fallen asleep at the wheel, but I’ve definitely had to pull over for a power nap on a number of occasions in the past.
What I tend to get is “highway hypnosis,” also known as driving without attention mode (DWAM), or “white line fever (I always thought that was a reference to a different kind of white line, but what do I know?).”
Highway hypnosis is a trance-like mental state brought on by the monotony of the road. In other words, you’re zoning out, and while one part of your brain is still able to operate your car, the other half is in la la land. If you’ve ever driven a stretch of highway and have no memory of it, you’ve had white line fever, baby. The important thing to take away from this is that it’s nearly as dangerous as nodding off at the wheel.
A 2009 survey conducted by the CDC cited that nearly five percent of adults had fallen asleep while driving in the past 30 days. Those are some scary statistics, as are those from a 2007 National Sleep Foundation poll that stated more than one-half of American drivers (at the time, over 100 million people) had driven while drowsy.
Thousands of people die every year due to drowsy-driving and highway hypnosis-related crashes. Some experts claim falling asleep at the wheel is more dangerous than driving while intoxicated, because you have zero reaction time. With highway hypnosis, your reaction time is so compromised, you may as well be asleep.
With Labor Day weekend looming, I thought I’d provide some tips on how to avoid highway hypnosis, and what to do if you need to pull over for some zzz’s, after the jump.Preventing highway hypnosis
Listen to music. When I’m getting tired, it has to be loud, fast, and I have specific songs to get me going.
Avoid driving at times you’d normally be asleep.
Avoid driving on a full stomach. I will attest to the dangers of this. Before driving back from Santa Fe a week ago, I devoured a final carne adovada plate – with posole and a sopapilla – to tide me over until my next New Mexican food fix. I regretted it the second I got behind the wheel, and no amount of caffeine could help.
Caffeine, caffeine, and more caffeine, but if it makes you want to jump out of your skin, know when to cut yourself off. An edgy, irritable driver is a danger as well.
Roll down the windows for some fresh air.
If you have a headset or Bluetooth, call someone to help keep you alert.
I play mental games, like testing my memory or recalling conversations.
Shift around while driving. I use cruise control so I can bend my right leg, and I also do one-armed stretches and neck stretches.
Keep your eyes moving to avoid zoning out. I also keep eye drops on my console because mine get dry on long drives.
Time out
If you need to pull over for a power nap at dusk or after dark, don’t choose a rest area (great for pit stops, not exactly known for savory characters, even during daylight hours). Find a well-lighted, busy location, like a gas station, fast food restaurant, or large hotel parking lot if you can swing it. Personally, I avoid stopping at deserted rest areas all together.
Keep your cellphone charged and at the ready in case of emergency.
Lock all of your doors.
Crack a couple of windows, but no more than a few inches.
If you’re in the middle of nowhere and just can’t stay awake, you may have no other option than to stop at a pull-out or side road. Just try to avoid this if at all possible and drive to the next exit.
Be honest with yourself: if you know a nap isn’t going to cut it, suck it up and get a motel room, campsite, or sleep in your car. Being behind schedule sucks, but being dead: much worse.
The twisting highways that cut through West Virginia and lead to my hometown, which is on the border of West Virginia and Ohio, are terrifying at night. The last time I made the drive, the fog was thick and low – a meteorological manifestation of my cloudy, burdened mind. Because the hills are steep and street lights are rare, the dim headlights were the only aid my vision had. I couldn’t plug in and listen to my own music because I didn’t have an auxiliary cable and there was nothing on the radio. The hum of the highway was the only sound accompanying us for the ride. My childhood friend, Karin, was sitting at a spine-straight 90 degree angle in the passenger seat and scanning the blackness for shining pairs of deer eyes. My husband was doing his best to stretch across the tiny car’s back seat and rhapsodizing about beauty, undoubtedly in an effort to help unload some of the weight Karin and I were carrying. But we were on the way to the funeral of one of our close childhood friends and our availability for consolation was erratic.
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Just 48 hours earlier, my husband and I were departing DC and on our way up to New York for a five day vacation when I received the news that she had died. She died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 28. The misfortune of her passing was paired with the serendipitous fortune of having arranged to stay with Karin in New York. She was a good friend to both of us and as I slumped down on Karin’s futon in her dark Bushwick apartment, I was grateful that, if nothing else, we had each other. We spooned, ordered in food and reserved a rental car.
We had made plans to stay with our friend, Liz, at her parents’ house. Their house was our safe place growing up, a home with both a revolving front and refrigerator door. Her parents have known me since I was 6 years old, but I hadn’t seen them in a decade. Our little car slid quietly into a space in front of their house, which looked exactly as I’d remembered, around 1am. Liz and her boyfriend were waiting for us with Karin’s younger brother on the front porch, illuminated beneath the overhead light. Liz and her boyfriend had just arrived a few hours earlier themselves after a long drive from Milwaukee. We embraced and then discovered that we were gripped by manic exhaustion, the kind that makes your stomach turn while your brain still races. We tip-toed down into her basement, which was still littered with the toys from our childhood, and hung out on the worn-down couches we always hung out on, this time as adults. Contagious, unstoppable laughter erupted every ten minutes or so between the six of us as we recounted hilarious stories of the friend we’d lost. We were childishly frightened of waking Liz’s dad, which meant that our bursts of laughter were followed by a swarm of shushing, which triggered more laughter.
She would have wanted it that way, she was a funny girl, we said.
She was one of the only people I went out of my way to see during the handful of visits home I had made since high school graduation. I hated Marietta when I lived there and I couldn’t wait to move away. But during one of the last visits in Marietta I had with her, she showed me where to find love for the town. We sat side by side in Muskingum Park during the late afternoon, ripping up handfuls of grass as we talked. The meticulously green park hugs the Muskingum River and in the late afternoon, everything glows with the warmth of over-saturation and shimmers with the river’s reflections. A golden beam of light was cast over her face. She looked so unmistakably beautiful.
Her family had asked me to learn and sing a song that was special to her at the funeral. Without hesitation, I agreed. As I removed the tags from the new black clothes I’d purchased in New York with trembling hands, I choked. I didn’t know where or how to find the strength to use my vocal cords in front of a room filled with people I hadn’t seen since high school under such bewildering circumstances when I hadn’t even yet processed the news enough to cry. I bit my tongue and looked out the bedroom window and onto that flawlessly paved, wide street on which I’d learned to ride a bike, on which I’d regularly parked my first car. I went downstairs.
It was weird to see us all dressed up. I didn’t even wear heels at my wedding and yet, here we all were, balancing and clicking in unison. The three of us held hands and walked slowly into the funeral home. We’d given all the hugs and condolences we could give and we still had 45 minutes before the beginning of the ceremony. We walked like a pack of wolves who’d grown up in the wild together down the main street in town and into a bar, one of the few. With urgency, we ordered shots, ciders and beers. Tucked into the wooden booth only briefly, we left as quickly as we came. We walked back in the direction of the funeral home although we were unwilling to reenter a minute earlier than we needed to. Instead, we crossed the street and entered the park, the same park I’d sat in with her not that long ago. We walked down to the river and we sat on the stairs, chewing on our cheeks from the inside out, trying to calm our racing hearts. The sky glowed with that amber hue and I looked over at Liz and Karin, both of their faces washed over with a beauty I now know I’ll never forget.
On Friday, Christopher Bridgeman and Martin Borger, a gay couple from Norfolk, Virginia, filed a lawsuit against United Continental for allegedly removing a dildo from their luggage, covering it in a foul substance and taping it to the outside of their bag. They are seeking compensation for the invasion of privacy, emotional distress and negligence.
Reportedly, the incident occurred on May 21, 2011, when the couple was returning from a trip to Costa Rica. They had a layover at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, and re-checked their bags without any problems; however, once they arrived in Norfolk they discovered a dildo had been taken from their luggage, slathered in a “greasy foul-smelling substance” and “taped prominently” to the outside of their bag.
When other passengers saw what had happened they began laughing, which caused the men severe emotional trauma.
“I absolutely, fervently believe that this was intentional,” Bridgeman, 34, told NBC News. “It was very sick and it was very wrong and it was just maliciously taped to the top and targeted because we’re gay.”
While Bridgeman and Borger had reported the incident to the airline, the response was unsatisfactory. Airline spokeswoman Christen David explained United Continental had offered the men a gesture of goodwill, which they declined.
The couple’s lawyer, Harry Scarborough, has declined discussing how much money they are seeking, stating they want retribution for attorney fees, mental anguish damages and other compensation.
Where can you eat a triple bypass, get a 25 cent foot massage, count mullets, see the head of a beautiful girl on the body of an ugly snake, mingle with filthy swine and pick up a novelty license plate emblazoned with the Confederate flag? That would be the New York State Fair in Syracuse, New York, which runs through Labor Day. Most Americans hear the words “New York” and conjure up images of an urban jungle filled with sophisticated people who drink fair trade coffee and don’t own television sets. But New York isn’t all about the Big Apple – it’s a huge state with plenty of rural, pastoral beauty and there’s no better place to get a flavor of the state’s small town charms than the New York State Fair, held every summer since 1841.
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I started my fair experience on Wednesday with a freak show. The cavernous fairgrounds are filled with farm animals, every type of fried food imaginable, midway rides and games, psychics, and hordes of people in all shapes and sizes. It’s sensory overload but a tinny voice coming out of a loudspeaker caught our attention.
STOP! WAIT! How could this ever come to be? She has traveled throughout the world telling her strange story of how her body transformed into an ugly snake to thousands of people. See Angel, the snake girl, with the head of a lovely girl on the body of an ugly, scaly, 200-pound snake.
My older son Leo, 5, and I couldn’t resist, so we plunked down $1.50 and headed inside. The “beautiful girl” was a haggard, middle-aged woman whose “story” seemed to consist of nothing more than her maniacal cackling, and we were kicked out after trying to shoot video (see above). But getting ripped off is an important part of any state fair experience, as is sampling all of the incredibly unhealthy food options.
I saw stands selling corn dogs, fried dough, dough nuggets, funnel cakes, and wild hog wings before I finally came upon a stand selling vegetables and thought that perhaps I needed a new prescription. Mushrooms, zucchini and cauliflower? But upon closer inspection, it turned out they were all fried. Phew. And then I came across Jim Hasbrook’s Fried Specialties, a kind of Shangri-La for people unconcerned by clogged arteries.
Jim sells just about anything you can imagine deep-fried: pop tarts, PB & J, lasagna, pizza, jellybeans, cheese curds, and a host of other delicacies.
“Last year we tried selling deep fried butter too,” Hasbrook said. “But it melts too quick and the truth is, it doesn’t taste that good.”
So Hasbrook dropped the deep-fried butter but brought back two other hugely popular specialties – deep-fried snickers wrapped in bacon, and a treat he calls the “triple bypass,” which is PB & J, two Oreos and two chocolate chip cookies, all fried, of course. When I asked Jim and one of his employees, Matt, if they felt bad about serving such decidedly unhealthy treats they were unapologetic.
“It’s no worse than French fries or chicken wings,” said Matt, a rail thin 20-something who said he eats the fried treats all day long. “People put a bad name on fried food because they think it’s so bad for you, but it’s really not because everything gets stuck inside your gut anyways.”
After spending roughly the gross national product of Namibia on rides and games for my two little boys, we almost bit on another freak show – a 29-inch tall woman on display for $1 a peak, billed as a “West Indies Cultural Exhibit.” Instead, we hit some of the farm animal exhibits – cows, sheep, goats, lamas, horses and, my favorite: pigs! In the Dairy Cattle Barn, I got to meet a few farmers, but felt like I needed to keep my voice down, as a host of others that had been up during the night tending to their animals were fast asleep on cots (see photo).
I bumped into Eli Stoltman, from Georgetown, New York, just as he was gently kicking one of his prize swines, trying to rouse him from a nap.
“I’m due to show him in the next round but the little rascal won’t wake up,” he said.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Well, he doesn’t really have a name because he’s going to be eaten,” he said, as the swine rolled back over and went back to sleep.
Visiting a state fair is like getting a snapshot of life in rural, red-state America. The food is plentiful, the people are open, honest and approachable, and you see plenty of not-very politically correct things, like Confederate flag license plates, mullet count boards and Captain Porkin’ T-shirts. Every urbanite should go at least once to see how the other half lives.
On my way out, I paid $3 to let a carnie guess my age.
“Take your sunglasses off,” he commanded.
I did as I was told, and he said, “There we go, I can see your age right there in your eyes.”
And sure enough, he nailed my age, guessing that I was two months older than I actually am. I had been hoping for an ego boost but left with a reminder to lay off the deep-fried snickers wrapped in bacon.