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Temecula, Finally

January 10, 2018 / hkraushaar

Like Rodney Dangerfield, Temecula does not get a ton of respect. It and its surrounding areas have golf courses, casinos, spas and wineries. It is a great place for locals to hang out. It just does not have enough cachet or buzz surrounding it to warrant making it a real desirable destination. According to some oenophiles, the terroir there is pretty suitable for growing grapes. Others feel that the wine produced there is imbued with high pH levels due to the hot temperatures and dry soil, which results in wine that is too sweet. The wine makers have tried to adapt their processes by tweaking the grapes they plant, managing the crops and tinkering with the wine post harvest. In many respects, the wine makers are leading the charge to garner more respect for the area, which is located about 100 miles from where I live in West Los Angeles.

As I am not a golfer, gambler, spa goer or wine enthusiast, I have never considered going to Temecula. Even though I am a native Los Angelino and have lived in Los Angeles for sixty plus years, I have never been there, though I was in the vicinity of it several times as a child in the late 50s and early 60s when my family vacationed at the then infamous Murrieta Hot Springs Resort. I have driven by Temecula the few times I have taken the inland route up to LA from San Diego, but I have never felt compelled to stop.

Temecula does have a cool name, though. It is an Indian/Spanish name that, depending on what reference you choose to believe, either means the place where the sun shines through the mist or means where the sand met the sun to create the world. Lofty meaning for a reasonably pedestrian place with a less than stellar reputation. Possibly more accurate but definitely more amusing is that the Urban Dictionary’s top definition of Temecula is, “A sunny place filled with shady people.”

Last weekend I finally had a reason to go to Temecula. I, along with 40 or so of my PCA Los Angeles cronies, met in Corona and then drove to Temecula. Our destination was the Monte De Oro Winery. I did not go for the wine. In fact, I did not drink any. I went for the joy of driving my Cayman. What mattered to me was the terrain, not the terroir. Thankfully, the terrain included hills, valleys, and twisties, which made the drive to the winery fun, but as with the rest of Temecula, not stellar. We had about 30 Porsches and, curiously, one Jensen Healey on the drive, which traversed various back roads for 66 miles from where we started in Corona. My PCA friend, David, did a great job of selecting a route that enabled us to get the most enjoyment out of our cars. The route consisted of a nice blend of sweeping turns, long straights, and stop signs, which enabled many of us to enjoy unbridled accelerations.

I got an early start on the day of the drive. My PCA friend Mark, the Mark with whom I go on drives, not the Mark from whom I buy cars, and I met in West Los Angeles before we embarked on the drive to Corona. Before meeting Mark I had to get the Cayman washed and make a trip to Starbucks for coffee, which I placed in the least functional feature of the Cayman, its cup holders.

Mark and I had a great drive to Corona. We only made one wrong turn, which, frankly, was somewhat pathetic, as we both had our NAV systems guiding us. We were kibitzing on our cell phones, which overrode the audio feature of the NAV system, causing us to miss transitioning to the 15 when we should have. Realizing our mistake, we turned around. At that point, I opted to take advantage of the detour and stopped at McDonald’s and then at the gas station before heading the last few miles to Corona.

I arrived in Corona, took a much needed pit stop, signed the de rigueur insurance forms and chatted with my friends until it was time to head to the winery. We left in two run groups. Mark and I were in the first one, which got split up a couple of times due to traffic signals. I had the Cayman in manual Sport Plus mode for most of the ride. I used the paddles to control the shift points, enabling me to rev the engine and really enjoy the sound of my naturally aspirated flat six. It was good for the Cayman to get out on the open road, as it had been confined to city driving for the past few months. Mark and I continued to chit chat on the ride to the winery. Our conversation included some mundane topics and some important ones, like the readout on his speedometer at various points in time. In theory, the second group left 15 minutes after we did. I can only assume that they left early because they arrived at the winery about five minutes after us, and we were not dawdling on the drive.

The winery was very nice. We enjoyed lunch on the patio overlooking the vineyards and the surrounding valley. While the views were not spectacular, they were very pleasant, even if I did gripe about the lack of scenery suitable for photographs. After an hour of socializing and eating, it was time to head home. That’s when things took a slight turn for the worse. I knew the ride home would be irritating. I expected a certain amount of traffic. That was one of the main reasons I chose to take the Cayman, as I did not want to clutch myself to death on the way back. What I was surprised about was the distance, as I had not given it much thought until I sat in the Cayman and set the NAV to my home address. At that time I was shocked to see it was a tad over100 miles. Oh well.

Despite the distance and the traffic, the ride home was fun. Mark was using Waze to plot his route. I wasn’t. At one point he exited the freeway and took a detour hoping to save some time and avoid some traffic. I took the long way around, staying on the freeway, bypassing the 91, ignoring my NAV and going up the 15 all the way to the 60. We kept up a running conversation along the way and I thought I was about an exit behind him until I caught up at the East LA interchange, putting a smile on my face and leaving me with a good feeling about Temecula.

Split Porschenality

December 24, 2017 / hkraushaar

2017 was a year of recovery for me. It didn’t start out that way. In retrospect, I hit bottom in March when I purchased the 1974 911 Targa. Not because it was a bad car or a bad purchase, but because it was my third car. Not the third car I had ever bought, but the third Porsche I owned concurrently. I did not need the car. I simply wanted it. I had an unquenched thirst for a reasonably early 911. So I bought it. After I bought it, I convinced myself that I was happy and I was done buying cars. Well, maybe Pam or the fact that I was out of room in the garage and driveway had a lot to do with convincing me I was done buying cars. In any event, I spent the second quarter driving the 911 and the Cayman and letting the 912 just sit in the garage, except when I pulled it out to teach my younger daughter, Kim, to drive a car with a manual transmission.

Then I noticed that I still had a desire to purchase additional Porsches. A strong one. It scared me. Not a lot, but enough. I began to question myself. What was I doing? How deep did I want to get into this? What was driving me? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had no interest in collecting more cars nor did I have an interest in modifying them or working on them, though early on I thought I did, but the reality was that I would rather work in the kitchen than in the garage, even in my newly repaired garage. So where was this compulsion coming from? What was causing it? Obviously, some of it came from my DNA.

I have always had a weakness for cars. I have always been attracted to them. I have always looked at them with longing. Cars have never been about basic transportation for me. They have not always been about looks or comfort, either. Instead, I have consistently opted for functionality and performance and to a lesser extent comfort. For 30 years I was smitten with BMWs, mainly 3 and 5 Series coupes or sedans. I could not walk into a showroom without feeling an irrational urge to buy a new one, though I never wanted to have more than one BMW at the same time. Recently, I have lost that loving feeling towards them. Porsches have taken their place, and I can walk into a BMW dealership and feel no need to buy or even sit in one. Walking into a Porsche dealership continues to be another story.

But there was more to this than nature affecting me. Nurture was playing a role here, too. Most normal people would call me a Porsheholic. And to a large extent, I guess I am. But I do not hang around with enough normal people. My Facebook news feed is a continuous stream of cars, cars and more cars. Sometimes people are present. No need to even describe my Instagram feed. My circle of friends includes many serious car club guys. They are car collectors and restorers. They own way more cars than I own. They have multiple garages to house them. They keep many mechanics in business. They own cars which have had more oil changes than miles driven. They were more likely to encourage me than not. Most thought I was simply committed to the Porsche marque not committable. Clearly, they were affecting my judgement. At least I was still sane enough to realize that.

Thankfully, summer arrived. I wanted to drive the 911, but, as it did not have air conditioning, it was very tough to justify, even though I was more willing to accept sweat dripping from my brow and my shirt sticking to the seat when I drove it than I was willing to accept not driving it. That’s when it dawned on me. I really only cared about driving my cars. That was why I owned them. As I have written about before, my friend Mark helped me realize that I had no need to own more cars. I just needed to own the right cars. And one of the right cars for me was his 1989 Carrera Targa. So, counterintuitively, I took my first step towards recovery by buying his 1989 Carrera …. and selling my 1969 912 and my 1974 911.

I have owned the 1989 Carrera for the past four months. My Porscheholism has gone into remission. I have no desire to purchase another Porsche, even a 993. My driving needs are met completely by my Cayman GTS and my Carrera. It is with more than a slight sense of relief that I can go to any car event and leave without longing to purchase another car, even when great ones are dangled in my path. I can go into a Porsche showroom and leave feeling the same way. Having said that, it is not clear if I have recovered or just replaced one illness with another.

Now that I can drive either car any time in relative comfort, I find myself having issues deciding which car to drive. It’s not like one is more fun to drive than the other. I love driving them both, even though the two cars represent wildly different manifestations of Porsche engineering. One is essentially analog. One is essentially digital. One is air-cooled. One is water-cooled. One has a rear engine. One has a mid-engine. One has a manual transmission. One has a dual electronic clutch transmission. One has a few creature comforts. One has a lot, including a seriously good air-conditioner and seat warmers, arguably one of the least functional features to have in a car in LA. One has classic styling. One has masculine elegance. One represents the past. One represents the current, though with the advent of the Cayman 718 and its turbocharged four banger, I could argue that both represent the past. So while I no longer long to possess another Porsche, I now long for a way to choose which Porsche to drive.

This is not an issue to be taken lightly. It has been causing me serious angst. I have spoken to several of my car club cronies about it, as they are way more experienced with it than I am. While they cannot help me solve my problem, at least they understand it and have helped me label it. Apparently, I have a split Porschenality. I am not alone, but I am definitely in the minority, as most Porsche sports car owners are either 911 centric or Boxster/Cayman centric. Sort of like most people are either right or left brain dominant. Only a relative handful show convergence.

As 2017 draws to a close, I have been searching for worthy resolutions for 2018. So far I have only one on my list: Find a way to decide which car to drive. Somehow I doubt I will, but I will have lots of fun trying.

High Valley At The Troubadour

December 8, 2017 / hkraushaar

It is hard to define. It is impossible to teach. It defies logic. It is palpable. It is real. It hits you right between your eyes, and it is hard to miss. There are words for it. Charisma. Presence. Charm. They do not do it justice. You cannot read about it. You cannot describe it. You have to experience it. Last night High Valley brought it to the Troubadour. And they brought it in spades.

Pam and I love the Troubadour. We love the energy and the intimacy of it. When I heard that High Valley was going to headline the Sirius XM Highway Finds Tour and that they were going to play at the Troubabour, I was instantly interested. I had heard them on the radio and enjoyed their music. I convinced Pam we should go, though she was not as sold on the idea as I was, a fact she not so subtly reminded me of as we were walking to the venue. She simply said, “I am going on record that this is your pick.” This was a thinly veiled reference to the last time I had a unilateral pick, which did not end so well.

The show started with a very nice acoustic set by Brown & Gray. They have a really pleasant sound, and we enjoyed listening to them. Their most popular song, Top Down, resonates with me, despite the fact that they use a Mustang convertible instead of a Porsche Targa in their video, which appears to be shot in and around Malibu. After their set, I knew I would gladly listen to them again, and I said to Pam, “So far, so good.” She agreed.

Adam Doleac came up next. He was great. I really enjoyed listening to him sing his songs. He has a great style, great personality and lots of talent. I didn’t even have to comment to Pam after he was done. I knew she had loved his performance, too.

Which brings me to High Valley. As they set up for their act, Pam and I could feel a change in the venue. Both of the opening acts were quieter acts. They let their talent speak for itself. Unlike many young acts they did not try to use volume to impress the audience. Before High Valley took the stage, the Troubadour kicked the background music volume up, way up. Pam and I were leaning against the back wall and could feel the bass as it reverberated through the wall and massaged our backs. We knew High Valley would not be quiet. We just hoped they were astute enough to mix their sound so that their vocals were not drowned out by the drum beat, the wailing of the guitars and the deep bass notes. It turned out we should not have worried.

High Valley, led by brothers Brad and Curtis Rempel, put on an amazing show. They did not miss a trick. They are experienced, well trained, professional musicians. Though they are new to the US, they have years of experience playing in Canada where they are from. The band is genre conflicted, with equal parts country, Christian and bluegrass, and to my untrained ear, more than a trace amount of rockabilly. They employ a collection of electric and acoustic guitars, a dobro, a banjo and a mandolin, combined with great vocals, to create a unique sound. But that does not really define them for me. What defines them is their energy, their presence, their absolute commitment to bringing the audience into their fold and pulling them along in an almost evangelical way. On stage they are a force of nature, repetitively plying their shtick, schmaltzy as it could be construed, willing the audience to have a great time. And we did.

We hope we get the chance to see them again. The next time will not be a unilateral decision by me. Pam will be fully committed. Selfishly, we hope it will be at the Troubadour, though we suspect it won’t be.

Slow Roast Religion

November 26, 2017 / hkraushaar

Go big or go home. Generally, an accurate idiom. Sometimes, though, you can go big and stay home, as was the case for me this Thanksgiving. A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving I tested a super slow roast method of cooking a turkey. The method I used was 45 minutes at 450 degrees and about 16 or so hours at 170 degrees. While my test turkey was not a disaster, it was by no means a complete success. Nor was it good enough to clearly warrant using the approach on Thanksgiving Day. The problem was it was almost good enough, which left me conflicted and wondering how much risk I wanted to take on Turkey Day.

There was no doubt that I had cut some corners and made some mistakes with my test turkey. Due to time constraints, I shortened my normal brining period. I do not know if that impacted the moistness of the cooked turkey, but I know it impacted the flavor. I put liquid in the pan at the outset instead of when I turned the oven temperature down to 170 degrees, leaving me with a burnt pan with too little liquid in it. Though I added more liquid before I went to sleep, I do not think I added enough. When I woke up the next morning and checked the turkey, the pan was too dry. I think cooking the turkey at 450 for the first 45 minutes was too much. My understanding is that the value of starting out at a high temperature is to seal the bird and to get it up to a temperature that will kill the bad stuff lurking on and in it in a hurry. Given the smoky kitchen, burnt skin and hard spots in the breast meat just under the skin, I was not convinced it was a good idea.

I spent the week or so after my test mulling over my strategy for Thanksgiving Day. I was on the horns of a first world dilemma. I had to choose between the super slow roast process with some adjustments and my tried and true cooking method, the one I have used successfully for the past ten plus years, the one which uses a more traditional 350 degree oven. As I really did not want to take the risk, I decided to chuck the super slow roast and use the tried and true method.

I guess subconsciously I was not convinced I made the right decision, as I awoke early Thanksgiving Day with turkey on my mind. Cooking turkey to be precise. I was second guessing my decision, something I do too often and something that drives Pam nuts. But, hey, I’m a Pisces so it comes with the territory. And more often than not, my subconscious is right. So I spent some quality time with Google, reviewing all the posts I could find about slow roasting turkeys. Not super slow roasting, because I had run out of time for that, but regular slow roasting at, say, 250 degrees, a process for which I still had just enough time. I was about ready to give up when I stumbled onto a post written by a guy who shared some of my beliefs. A guy who found religion in the culinary sense by slow roasting chickens and then extended the process to turkeys. I have been slow roasting my chickens for the past year or so, and I was already a convert. This was a guy who went through the same pilgrimage upon which I wanted to embark. He had instant credibility with me. If he said slow roasting worked, I believed him. I just had to commit to doing it.

I checked the time. It was about 6:30 AM. I needed about half an hour of prep time, seven hours and 45 minutes of cooking time and about an hour of cooling time. I did the math. I had about two hours before my decision would be made for me. So I did what I always do when I need to make an important decision. I went to the gym. While there, I decided to go big, or in this case, slow.

I came home and pulled the turkey out of the brining solution and prepped it for the oven. Even though I like giblet gravy, I do not like to use the neck and the other stuff to make it. But I do like to use the wings for it. So I spent some time hacking the wings off and put them aside. The brining solution I use, which I found years ago on Epicurious.com, consists of salt, pepper, honey, garlic and thyme. It provides more than enough seasoning, though I did grind some more pepper into the cavity and onto the skin. Then I squeezed lemon juice into the cavity, which I then stuffed with fresh sage and thyme, half an onion, four or five peeled garlic cloves, the rind of the lemon and half an orange. I tied the legs together and, voila, the bird was ready for the oven.

At this point, I need to remind the few of you that are reading this that I am by no means telling you how to cook your turkey. I am simply relaying a story about how I cooked mine. I opted to start the oven at 425 degrees to avoid all the smoke I generated with the test bird. I put the turkey in and, guess what, it started smoking again. I lowered the oven to 400 and then to 390 and the smoking stopped. So I kept it there for about 35 more minutes. After that I basted the bird with some chicken broth and added about a quart of broth to the pan and roasted the 21 LB bird for seven hours at 250 degrees, basting it and adding liquid as needed to keep the humidity in the oven up.

I took the turkey out and let it sit for about 50 minutes. By now my family and my guests were milling about and checking out the turkey, and I was equal parts curious and nervous. Well, maybe much more curious than nervous. I knew just how good it was going to be about two minutes later when I took the drumsticks off and sampled some of the meat around the edges. The turkey was amazing. It had the fall off the bone quality I consistently achieved with my roast chickens, and the white meat was moist, moist enough that I could eat leftover white meat two days later without gravy or water to wash it down.

So slow roasting was a success. It was the way to go this year. I, as well as everyone else, was really pleased with the result. Having said that, I know my slow roasting pilgrimage is not complete. I will have to slay my lingering super slow roast demons before I can decide how to cook next year’s bird…..

Paisley At Saban

November 24, 2017 / hkraushaar

This was not the first time Pam and I had seen Brad Paisley perform at the Saban Theatre. We fervently hope it will not be the last. The Saban is a small theatre, seating about 1,900, on the eastern edge of Beverly Hills. We go there whenever we can, especially when Brad Paisley is performing.

The show was sponsored by KABC Radio and Peter Tilden. It benefited the Tom Sherak MS Hope Foundation. Brad Paisley had graciously donated his time and talent for this organization many times in the past and was doing so again. We were thrilled he was back. The show itself was not a show in the normal sense. There was no set. There was no staging. There was no band. There was no fixed set list. There was no formality. There was only Brad, an acoustic guitar and a stool. And by any measure, that was way more than enough.

Brad Paisley is a truly gifted entertainer. Pam and I have seen him perform in a “real” show at the Hollywood Bowl. We loved it, and we will see him again in that kind of setting whenever possible. Having said that, watching and listening to him in the Saban, just sitting on a stool and singing, was so much more entertaining. It was amazing.

Not all performers are capable of putting on a show like this. Some need backup singers. Some need a band. Some need staging. Some need choreography and costume changes. Brad Paisley doesn’t. He has all the tools for an intimate show. He is witty and charming. He is an unbelievable guitar player. And he can crush it when he sings stripped down versions of his hits.

At the Saban, he played for an hour and a half or so. During that time he sang lots of songs, kibitzed with the audience, asked for requests, and just had a good time, though I doubt he had as good of a time as we did.

Twisting About

November 21, 2017 / hkraushaar

After two plus hours of constant turns, I felt like screaming. My PCA Los Angeles buddies and I were 50 some miles into a 56 mile twistfest. The road we were on, Yerba Buena, had super tight radius turns and the surface was pretty eroded and really rough. I was not having fun, and through chattering teeth I was muttering to myself that its name should be Yerba No Bueno.

I was in my 89 911 Targa. The good news was that the weather was perfect, and my Targa top was off, enabling me to really enjoy the morning. The bad news was that I had been muscling my manually steered, manually braked, manually shifted air-cooled 911 in and out of turns for the past two plus hours, and I was feeling fatigued. My hands were tired. My arms were tired. Heck, my core was tired. I was beginning to rue my choice of car for the day. Don’t get me wrong. I love that 911, but I could have been driving my Cayman GTS with traction control, power steering, power brakes, and dual electronic clutch transmission, not to mention its all important Porsche Torque Vectoring. Niceties that just about all the cars I was following had, and niceties I was sorely missing.

I found myself wishing the numbers on the mile markers would drop faster, as I knew when they reached zero, I would be at Pacific Coast Highway. The road would be flat, and the turns would end. It’s not like I shouldn’t have known better. I love driving in the Santa Monica Mountains in and around Malibu, which is where we were. Usually, I thoroughly enjoy the twists and turns there. The route, a magnificently diabolical one, zigzagged east and west, up and over and back up and over and back down the coastal range before ending at Neptune’s Net, a casual seafood restaurant and biker bar that is near the Ventura County line and that has been featured in numerous movies and tv shows, including the original Point Break and The Fast and The Furious.

As the miles wound down and I neared the bottom, I found it somewhat comforting and more than a little ironic that the opening notes and lyrics of Levelland, one of my favorite Robert Earl Keen songs, began playing on my iPod just as the road began to level out.

This was supposed to be a Sunday drive. A walk in the park. Just a jaunt through the hills. My mistake was that I had not read the whole route before I embarked on the drive in my 911. I had read the first part a couple of days earlier, though I sort of skipped over where we were starting from. I mean, I read the word Gelson’s in Calabasas, and I said to myself, “No problem. I know where that is.” The next lines referenced Old Topanga Canyon Road, Topanga Canyon Boulevard and Fernwood Pacific Drive. That was when I stopped reading.

Unless you are visiting a friend who lives on it, there is only one reason to get onto Fernwood Pacific Drive, and that reason is because it turns into Tuna Canyon Road. Tuna Canyon, not to be confused in any way shape or turn with La Tuna Canyon, which is in the Verdugo Mountains west of La Canada, is one of the twistiest downhill runs in the Santa Monica Mountains. Tuna Canyon is a one way road. It is narrow. It is old. It is eroding. It has really tight turns. It is carved into a canyon with really steep walls. Just getting to Tuna Canyon is an adventure, as Fernwood Pacific Drive is narrow with a capital N. There are many places where the road is not wide enough for two cars to pass each other even though some sadistic soul has painted signs indicating two way traffic on it. And that is before you come up on the signs telling you that the Road Narrows.

My most vivid memory of Tuna Canyon is its one way stop signs – two of them. The stop signs are not there to control traffic, as there is no oncoming or cross traffic on the road. They are positioned just before two portions of the canyon with the steepest walls. Wall so steep that rocks are more likely than not to be rolling down them. The stop signs are there to give you a chance avoid any object that might be falling in your path. The last time I drove Tuna Canyon I vowed it would be my last.

I stopped reading the route and fired off an email to David, my PCA Los Angeles friend who had crafted it. In a not so oblique way, I alluded to the issues with Tuna Canyon. David echoed my concerns, and said he planned it to be a nice and slow Sunday drive. Too bad no one in my run group knew that.

Somewhat mollified, I decided to go on the drive. I thought the 911 could use some exercise. I really didn’t plan on it getting that much. So on Sunday off I went. As I was driving, I encountered two obstacles, harbingers that made me question my commitment to the drive. First, I realized I had no idea at which Gelson’s we planned to meet. The one off Valley Circle in Calabasas or the one off Topanga Canyon in Calabasas. I reasoned that it must be the one off Topanga Canyon, given the portion of the route I had read. But just to be sure I called Pam, and I asked her to look it up. Right after solving that issue, I noted that CalTrans had closed the 405 North to the 101 North interchange. The interchange I had to take to get to Calabasas. I was already running a little late, and I was already dreading Tuna Canyon. I have to admit that I came close to just turning around and bailing on the drive. After a few choice words in the car, I followed the directions and took the detour, which added about 10 minutes or so to my drive to Gelson’s.

We had well over 30 Porsches on the drive. David had split us into two run groups. I was in the first, and randomly found my self positioned behind a GT3 and a Turbo Cabriolet. From the outset I realized that this was not a Sunday drive. Though it could still be described as spirited, that description was a little frayed, as were my nerves. My poor gutty little 911 with the 3.2 liter engine was straining to stay with its more powerful musclebound brethren. The good news was that we made it onto and down Fernwood with out any issues, and soon I found myself on Tuna Canyon. David had picked Tuna Canyon for the view on the way down, as there are several places where it feels like you are about to drive right into the ocean. While it was a great day for the view, it is not a great road on which to admire it. I have to admit that I actually enjoyed the trip down to the coast. The 911 is nimble, and it just sort of floats through the tight turns. As we hit PCH I thought the most twisty portion of the drive was over. I was wrong.

We had a brief respite from the turns as we meandered up PCH for a bit before tuning onto Los Flores Canyon Road and then onto Rambla Pacifico Street. The turns came fast and furious, but they were reasonably well spaced and the radii were not super tight. Soon we hit Piuma Road for an instant before getting onto Las Virgenes Road, better known as Malibu Canyon.

At that point I just assumed we would get back onto Mulholland Highway, one of my favorite roads, and take it until it ended at PCH. I was wrong about that, too. We stayed on Mulholland Highway for a good bit. Long enough to go past the Rock Store, run The Snake, cross Kanan Dune and Decker Canyon before turning off it and onto Little Sycamore Canyon Road and then onto the aforementioned Yerba No Bueno Road.

Upon arriving at Neptune’s Net, I just sat in my car for a few moments, decompressing and letting the lyrics of Levelland wash over me, feeling very glad that I was back on level land. In retrospect, Tuna Canyon was a cakewalk. I am pretty sure I will drive it again. Maybe because it was early in the drive or maybe because I liked it better in the 911 than I did in my Cayman, something that is a rarity for me, or maybe because I actually liked the one way stop signs. I can’t say for sure. What I can say for sure is that I do not expect to be on Yerba No Bueno any time soon.

Turkey Talk

November 12, 2017 / hkraushaar

Tom Petty was right. The waiting is the hardest part. It’s Sunday, 11 days before Thanksgiving. It’s not hard for me to wait for Thanksgiving. Even though it is my own fault, the 24 hours ending with Thanksgiving dinner are just about the toughest 24 hours of the year for me. I never intended for them to be. Yet here I am 11 days before Thanksgiving, suffering while I wait for a turkey to finish slow roasting.

It started innocently enough. About 10 or so years ago I was pleasantly sitting at the dinner table feeling the effects of the tryptophan in the turkey course through my veins. Even though the science does not validate it, I am sure I was in a turkey induced haze. In any event, I announced to the family that I would make Thanksgiving dinner the following year. Appropriately, this came as a shock to all at the table. I had never cooked any type of whole bird before. I had never made a side dish for Thanksgiving before. If pressed, I would admit that I hadn’t really cooked a whole lot before. For some reason, it just felt like something I wanted to do.

Kim, my younger daughter, loves Thanksgiving. As I made my announcement, she almost fell out of her chair. She said something like, “Dad, you have no idea what you’re doing. You know I love Thanksgiving. Are you sure you want to do this?” I have to admit it. I was not sure at all. But as I sat there, I was committed. Sort of like the pig in the bacon and egg breakfast. I had told everyone my goal. Like Tom Petty, I could not back down. So I said something like, “Relax Kim, it will be fine.”

Kim does not like to change the things she likes so she said something like, “Okay, but make it the exact way Uncle Dale made it this year.” Dale had made a great meal, and we all had enjoyed it. For those who know me, my response was predictable. I said, “Dale did a great job, but I want to do it my way.”

Kim groaned. Then she got indignant and said something like, “Fine. Just don’t screw it up.” I lamely said, “Don’t worry. It will be fine.”

51 weeks went by. I finally got around to thinking about Thanksgiving. I went online and found a recipe I liked. It was nothing like Dale’s. Thanksgiving day came. I read the recipe, freaked out because while I could read the words, but I had no idea what they meant. With Pam’s help and despite lots of my dysfunction, Thanksgiving dinner was superb. So superb that Kim said, “That was great. You can make the exact meal next year.” As I said, it started innocently enough.

Except for the year I did the bourbon brine, I have always used the same turkey recipe I found that first year. I have shared it with many people. They have all loved it. The truth of the matter is that, like Kim, I am afraid to change. I have changed some of the sides. I have changed the dressing. I have added apple pie to my list of todos for Thanksgiving. My workload has increased. But I leave the turkey alone. Until this year. Which brings me to why I am cooking a turkey 11 days before Thanksgiving.

For the past coupe of years I have been roasting whole chickens. I have tried lots of recipes and techniques, but I have settled on one that works for me. I slow roast the chicken at 250 degrees for four hours. My family likes the way it just falls off the bone when we eat it. For the past few months I have been thinking about slow roasting a turkey. Too bad I did not act sooner.

The other day I found a slow roasting recipe. It called for cooking the turkey 15 to 20 hours at a low temperature, something I could not fathom, after searing it at 450 degrees for about an hour. The theory was that because the oven temperature is low, 170 degrees, which is just about the internal temperature the turkey should be when it is done, you can roast it without fear for hours and hours. I was skeptical. This was a significant departure from my norm. I just could not bring myself to try it for the first time on Thanksgiving day. I knew I had to test it first.

I bought a turkey yesterday. I was surprised at how few thawed turkeys are in the market this time of year. I think there were three in the whole place. Lots of frozen ones, but few thawed ones. I went out and bought an oven thermometer, something I had never used before, so I could get a sense of just how well calibrated the oven was. Turns out it is pretty close, though I have no idea if it is the oven or the thermometer that is right.

I have a bad habit of screwing up the implementation of pretty much everything I cook the first time. I am not sure why, but even though I read the directions, I somehow do things out of order. Last night was no exception. The goal was for the turkey to cook overnight. That meant starting it at about 10 pm, just about the time I go to sleep. Right after I put the turkey in the oven, I realized that I should not have put the liquid in the pan until I was ready to lower the temperature from 450 degrees to 170 degrees. I figured it would be okay. Not smart. After dozing for brief periods while watching TV, I went back to the kitchen. On the way I noticed the smell. As I got closer, I noticed the smoke, which was sort of billowing out of the oven. I guess the liquid did not like 450 degrees. I rationalized it and said to myself, “I guess we will have a smoked, slow roasted turkey.”

I opened the windows, lowered the temperature and then added some liquid. I prayed it would come out okay and went to sleep. Before I did, I told Pam I sort of screwed it up. She laughed in her sleep.

I have to admit that I did not have a great night. I kept waking thinking I would smell smoke. I was convinced the house would burn down, something I would never have thought of if my 1974 Porsche had not caught fire in the garage a year and a half ago. But that is another story. In any event, I checked on the turkey early this morning. Most of the liquid was gone, but it didn’t look too bad. The skin was a little charred, but the smoke was long gone. I had some hope that all would be okay.

As I write this, I have no idea how it will turn out. It is now about 3 pm. The turkey has been in the oven for 17 hours. There is no smoke. The house is still intact. The turkey looks cooked. Literally. Kim is over and Shelby and Bryan are coming over. Dinner will be at 6 pm. I think I will take it out in about an hour. Pam and Kim keep asking me about the turkey. I say to them, “Don’t worry. It will be fine.” I hope I am right. Meanwhile the waiting is still the hardest part.

Zac’s Back

November 5, 2017 / hkraushaar

Pam and I decided to roll the dice. Two years ago we went to the Hollywood Bowl to see Zac Brown perform. We were enthralled. We loved the show and marveled at Zac’s ability to perform live. One of the highlights of the show for us that year was his cover of Bohemian Rhapsody. We did not see that one coming, but it was amazing.

Last year we went to see him at the Forum. We thought we would get a repeat performance of the show we loved the prior year. Instead we got an earful of noise, Dave Grohl and Foo Fighters inspired noise. Dark, deafening, distorted guitar sounds that drowned out all the melodic harmonies that make Zac, well, Zac. After that show, we were not sure we ever wanted to see them perform again.

We discussed seeing him for a third time more than once. Each time we were undecided. Then Pam said she wanted to see him at the Bowl this year. I said, “Sure.” But I was not totally convinced. We bought seats, and as the concert approached, we listened, with hope, to Zac’s new songs. We wanted a return of Zac. We definitely got what we hoped for.

The first act was Caroline Jones, an up and coming country artist with poppy and folky blends to her sound. As her soft sounds wafted over us, I relaxed and enjoyed her performance. She was a good opening act, and I think I will spend some time listening to her music in the future.

The second opening act was Darrell Scott, a singer songwriter I had never heard of. Darrell Scott is more well known as a studio musician and song writer than a singer. He has written songs that have been covered by Travis Tritt (It’s A Great Day to Be Alive), The Dixie Chicks (Long Time Gone), Faith Hill (We’ve Got Nothing But Love To Prove) to name a few. His music tends to skew towards roots music, blues and Americana, genres I really enjoy. To be honest, though, I just wasn’t connecting with him as he performed. That all changed in a heartbeat. After performing several songs solo, he brought some “friends” out to add some instruments to his songs. Frankly, I was not paying attention, until Pam said, “I think that is Zac Brown’s fiddle player (Jimmy De Martini) on the stage.” I took a closer look. She was right. Just as I saw that, Darrell had a few more “friends” join him on stage. The “friends” included Zac and most of his band. All of a sudden, Darrell Scott was amazing. I thought it was pretty cool of Zac to be singing background for Darrell. I was now pretty sure the Zac Pam and I love was back.

Shortly thereafter, Zac took the stage for real. From the opening notes, the show was just about perfect. It was Zac and his band at their best. My only complaint was that he didn’t play Toes, arguably one of my favorite songs. Pam and I had studied the set list from the night before and sort of expected it. It never happened. Instead, we got treated to another perfect cover of Bohemian Rhapsody, which we didn’t expect. We also got an energetic shredding of the Allman Brothers’ Whipping Post, as Zac and the band paid homage to the passing of Gregg Allman earlier this year.

Zac performs so well live, and he is a joy to listen to. He wowed us with his guitar playing, as he and the band really cranked up the tempo on a couple of numbers. We felt so good after the show we were singing Zac songs and yacking about the concert all the way back to our car, which was parked 20 minutes away from the Bowl. The next day we flew to Wailea for some much needed vacay. That night we sat on our balcony, drinking Mai Tais as we enjoyed our ocean view and watched our first sunset of the week. As we did so, we were still feeling good about the show. So good that Pam played a steady stream of Zac YouTube concert videos on her iPad. These is no doubt that we will see him a fourth time.

Zen In My 911

October 7, 2017 / hkraushaar

I awoke in a funk. I had been out of sorts for several weeks, as work was insane, causing Pam and I, and consequently John and Kris, to cancel our trip to Austin. On top of that, I had been dwelling on the Route 91 shootings all week. Pam and I had plans to see Jason Aldean at the Forum Friday night, but, thankfully and appropriately, the show was cancelled.

I got up and just felt wrong. I thought about going outside for a walk/run, but as I walked around the house, my hamstring reminded me why I shouldn’t. I thought about going to the gym and riding the bike, but then I thought about doing that tomorrow and just lost interest in exercising.

The only tug I felt was from my 89 911 Targa sitting in the garage. I realized I wanted to get out and drive. I did not care where. I just needed to get in the car and go. So after playing with the dog and eating breakfast, off I went.

At first, I wasn’t feeling it. My drive down Robertson towards the 10 was lumpy, more crowded than normal on a Saturday morning. I stopped to get some gas, got back on Robertson and then got on to the 10 west, heading towards PCH. The 10 west was lumpy, too. As I entered the McClure Tunnel, I was still in a funk.

I had my iPod, yes I still have an iPod because I like special purpose devices, playing on random. While I was in the tunnel, I heard the first few notes of one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “Desolation Row. ” The twisted lyrics of that 11 minute song never cease to grab me, and I marveled at the timing of it popping up on my iPod just as I hit PCH and absorbed the beauty of the Pacific Ocean and the bluffs of Santa Monica.

I drove. Dylan sang. There was enough traffic that I had to work the five speed manual transmission most of the time. Clutch out, accelerate, clutch in, shift gears, clutch out. Repeat. Decelerate, brake, clutch in, downshift, rev match, clutch out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I made my way up PCH. “Desolation Row” ended. I replayed it. I drove on. My window was open. I felt the wind. It added to my soundtrack. I kept the 911 in low gears. The engine noise added to my soundtrack. I relished the repetitive manual motions to work the gearbox. I became present. My mind stilled.

I continued up PCH. “Desolation Row” ended. I replayed it. I drove on. I did not care about pace. I did not care about anything. I vaguely noticed other cars. I vaguely noticed the ocean. I stayed present. My mind stayed stilled.

“Desolation Row” ended. I replayed it. I drove on. “Desolation Row” ended. I replayed it. I drove on. I felt great. I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks. No funk remained.

I found myself at Encinal Canyon, and decided to drive up it to Mulholland Highway. My Zen state ended. I was still present, but my mind was active. It was time to focus on the rest of my drive.

Fun To Fatality

September 16, 2017 / hkraushaar

My friends and I play with our cars. We enjoy spirited drives through back roads and mountain passes. We push it somewhat but not too much. I wish everyone else did the same.

Today our PCA Los Angeles Region had a driving event. The first part of our drive was on one of the most well known recreational roads in Southern California, Angeles Crest Highway. The problem with that is it is a two lane highway crowded with lots of vehicles moving at various rates of speed. There are normal (read slow) drivers that clog the road. Some are nice enough to let us by. Many are not. There are drivers like us who enjoy a little speed around the bends but are generally safe. There are the bicycle riders who slog up the hill and always seem to be just too far to the left. There are the motorcycle riders, most of whom are generally safe. Then there are the crazy motorcycle riders who think the road is for a Moto GP event. They dart in and out of traffic, angle their bikes to the left and right and make insane passes on both sides of the double yellow line. The combination of all these vehicles can be deadly. It was today.

Our ride up Angeles Crest was fine. There were all the usual characters I described above, but we had no issues getting to our first turn, Upper Big Tujunga Canyon Road. Angeles Crest is fun, but Upper Big Tujunga is sublime. It is recently paved and has a great assortment of varying radius turns. That combined with less traffic then Angeles Crest made for an awesome ride until we teed into Angeles Forest Highway. Angeles Forest Highway is just about as awesome as Upper Big Tujunga. We powered down it for about 10 or so miles until we teed into Mt. Emma Road. Mt. Emma Road is pretty isolated. There are very few cars on it, and we just tore it up for about 10 miles until we teed into Fort Tejon Road, another empty patch of turns which we tore up for another seven miles or so before we turned onto Valyermo Road. At this point in our drive we were literally in the middle of nowhere. And the roads just stretched on for miles with no one else on them.

Our Porsches were screaming. The flat six engines, either air or water cooled, were just howling. Drives like this are an assault on just about all of my senses. I have the window down and the tunes turned up. I love to watch the line of Porsches strung out ahead of me. As we pass through Valyemo, the turns just keep on coming. We hop onto Big Pines Road and Highway before finally getting back onto Angeles Crest in Wrightwood for stories and a well deserved lunch at the Grizzly Café. As we had about 40 Porsches today, the parking lot was overflowing, and we were parked three deep.

After lunch I was on my own. There was no organized ride back, and I just felt like driving by myself. I was vacillating about how to get back. I thought about just going up and over Angeles Crest, but a huge sink hole had opened up on it early in the summer. It was unclear if the road was open or if there would be lots of delays for construction. So that left the freeway or pretty much going back the way I came. The freeway was not compelling. So I pretty much retraced my route to get back. That is with one exception. I opted to stay bypass Angeles Crest on the way home and stay on Bug Tujunga. Too bad I missed the turn and ended up back on Angeles Crest, which is not usually a big deal. It was today.

On the way down Angeles Crest, I noticed that there was a lot of traffic coming the other way. I also noticed lots of Porsches coming the other way. Many of them looked familiar. Many of them flashed their lights. I was a little surprised by this, as the turns come quick on this road and I do not usually get that many acknowledgements from 911s when I am in my Cayman. I kept driving and soon I was within five miles of the run out into La Canada, where we had started this morning. All of a sudden I came to a dead stop. Literally.

Soon the cars in front of me, two of which were my Porsche friends I had caught up with, turned around and started going back up the hill. One of them stopped and said, “Angeles Crest is closed. There has been a fatal accident just ahead of us.” Thankfully, I have no idea what happened, and thankfully I did not see the carnage. So I turned around and followed them back up the hill, knowing that I had about a 30 mile detour to get back out of the canyon.

I drove that 30 miles slowly and carefully, reflecting on how fun can turn fatal. As I thought about it, I was actually surprised that given the traffic on Angeles Crest that there are not more accidents. As I was meandering down Big Tujunga Canyon, my thoughts became reality. We came to another complete stop for yet another accident. Thankfully, this one was not deadly.

For the past few hours I have been thinking about my drive. I love my car. I love driving in the twisties. It takes so much concentration that it is unbelievably relaxing, in a tiring sort of way. I am somewhat depressed, though. Mostly for the person who lost their life, but somewhat for me, as I may never feel the same way about spirited drives again.

HCAYMAN