The Cro Po

I've just come back from a Cro Po. That's right - a Crock Pot party.

It was at the house of a couple of my sister's friends in Palo Alto. It was pretty well-attended; there was probably 30 people, and about a dozen Crock Pots. There was some good stuff--some good beef, various cobbler-esque items for dessert--and some weird stuff, such as a chocolate cake. My mom once made a cake in the Crock Pot, and this one came out the same: really rubbery. You could have taken it out of the pan and shaken it, and it would have wiggled like crazy. But I'm getting ahead of myself: Who makes a cake in the Crock Pot, anyway?

"Cro Po" (Crō Pō) was the appointed name of this gathering, though I think it missed out on the obvious "Crock Potluck" pun.

My sister made a Crockin' Potfull of Hoppin' John that was terrific, and some rice (in a normal pot) to accompany it. Good stuff. There was one Pot that caused some problems, however. It looked exactly like Funeral Potatoes--or any comparable cheesy-potato type dish--but upon closer examination, it turned out to be another peach cobbler. Lesson: examine your food closely before eating it. It may be in disguise.

My sister's been planning to have a Casserole Cook-Off for a while... an evening for folks to get together and eat White Trash Casseroles (she hangs out with real gourmet-food types. That's partly why the Cro Po was so delightful). I thought it was a terrific idea, but I'm realizing that it wouldn't really work in Provo. Instead of it being tongue-in-cheek and ironic, people would actually try to make the best casserole. It just doesn't work if the people being made fun of are also in attendance at the event.

Pizza Hat [sic]

I'd like to take a few moments today to talk about one of my favorite nation-wide greasy pizza chains. I'm referring to Pizza Hat.

Pizza Hut has been an American favorite for years. Its strength has always been the lunch buffet. There's a location right outside of Cocoa Beach in Florida, right by Ron Jon's, that I used to eat at probably every second or third time I went to that beach. It was convenient, cheap, and pizza has always been the quintessential food to have with friends. It's not that the pizza is all that great, really, though it's doable. If you argue that there is better pizza available, you're correct.

Pizza Hat, though, is really the direction they ought to be taking the business. It grew out of a conversation with my sister today. First, let's take a look at some pictures to give our discussion here some focus.

Exhibit A is the old Pizza Hut logo, pictured here on an attractive souvenir mug. Look familiar? It's very boxy, and plain. It's clearly made to draw attention to the unusual roofs of the Pizza Hut locations. Which brings us to our next picture.

Exhibit B is one of these restaurants. I guess it's a "hut." Call it what you like.

Exhibit C is the more recent Pizza Hut logo. Doesn't it look like a hat? It never looked like a hut in the first place; it has, however, always looked like a hat (especially now). That's why I've decided to call it Pizza Hat.


Think of it--they could have red paper hats for the kids to wear, just like the Burger King crowns. And they wouldn't have to change much... just close the "u" so it looks like an "a". That's it. They'd get rid of the weird "hut" connection--which doesn't make food sound appetizing--and instead, people would think how clever it is that each of the freestanding restaurants appears to be wearing one of their trademark hats.

So next time you drive past one of these fine, grease-driven establishments, think about how much cooler it would be if it were called Pizza Hat. And maybe we should start writing to our congressmen about it, or something.

Howdy.

I've begun a blog. Welcome to it.

This maiden-voyage post is a retelling of an experience I had last week on BART--the train I ride to and from work in San Francisco every day.

I was on my way home. I've made a habit of getting some reading done on my twice-daily train ride, which is somewhere aroudn twenty minutes each way. On this particular day I was reading The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, which, incidentally, is terrific; you should get it and read it. I finished the chapter I was on with one stop to go, so I closed the book and looked around at the other people on the train.

I've spent a lot of time looking around at other people trains, but this time it caused a problem. A big black man (not reggae, just tall) saw me, and called me on it.

"Whatchou lookin' at?" he asked.
I apologized.
"You staring at me?"
No, I'm not, I'm sorry.
"You staring at me?"
I apologized again. He raised his voice.
"You better not be staring at me..."

He was yelling now.
It became obvious pretty quickly that he was not altogether... all together. I decided it was in my best interest to look out the window, so I did that while he yelled all the way from Lake Merritt to the Fruitvale station. He had a lot to say, and he covered a lot of ground: he covered my race, my height, my supposed sexual orientation, etc. and didn't show any signs of stopping.

I was pretty close to the door of the train, but the man was well planted between me and it and I didn't really want to push my luck. When the trained stopped, I squeezed through an entire aisle crowded with people to get to the door on the other end of the car to get off. The man didn't stop yelling as I walked away. I'm not entirely sure he noticed that I'd left.

Possible morals to the story:
1. Everybody gets to ride the train, including crazy people.
2. Train cars have two doors.
3. Always carry a book on the train, even if it's a placebo.
4. Don't look at people, ever.