In the meantime...

I'm working on something else to share with you all but it needs some tweaking so in the meantime here is something that I wrote in college. Some of you have already read this. It's silly and fun. The assignment for class was to write about food. We were to describe the food while telling it's relevance to us. So I wrote this, "An Ode to Cheese Quesadillas". My prof loved it which I find funny because other papers that I worked my butt off on, she found only to be okay.... Anyway, It's Dave's favorite college paper of mine I think because of all the sentiment. Hope you enjoy! :)

David and I were newlyweds. We were 18 years old and freshman in college. Most people our age were enjoying dorm life and partying like rock-stars with their parent’s money. And while our friends were discovering sex, drugs, and rock and roll, David and I were simply trying to survive. As teenage bride and groom we had very little income to get by on. We were living on a few college scholarships and the leftover cash from our summertime jobs. Most of our money was spent on rent, tuition, and books. The little bit that we had left over was strictly set aside for food and gas. These rigid details, however, never seemed to bother us. We still managed to avoid boredom and starvation. Creativity became our greatest asset and we helped each other along the first and most resourceful year of our marriage. In short, the love was there, but the money wasn’t.

Grocery shopping was a simple task for us as we couldn’t afford much. The main food groups consisted mainly of pop-tarts (breakfast), macaroni and cheese or ramen noodles (lunch), and frozen pizza pockets or chicken pot pies (dinner). Every once in awhile we would get crazy and throw a couple Henry Weinhardt root beers in the cart. But this was a very rare occasion and only done when we could afford it. Needless to say, eating the same foods everyday got old fast. And this is when David began his cooking attempts in the kitchen.

At first I doubted his ability, but then I remembered that he had worked in a Mexican restaurant the year before. And much to my enjoyment (and my taste bud’s) he used this to his advantage. He never got fancy; there were no chicken fajitas or beef flautas, but there were other minor Mexican menu attempts. My favorite attempt was Dave’s cheese quesadillas. For those of you who don’t know, a cheese quesadilla is simply two flour tortillas laid on top of one another with melted cheese in between. As simple as they sound, they were a poor married couple’s favorite meal for the better part of a year.

I came home from class one day, anticipating yet another dull frozen dinner. Instead, I was greeted at the door with a heavy buttery aroma. I heard the popping and crackling of grease and the cling of a metal spatula against a frying pan. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Was he frying eggs? Was he making hamburgers? As I walked into the kitchen, I saw Dave bent over a bowl, both hands occupied with a shredder and a block of cheddar cheese. I glanced at the frying pan and saw the tortilla enclosed in grease. Without skipping a beat Dave handed me a plate and scooped the quesadilla out of the pan with his spatula. He then handed me a bowl full of salsa and said, “Try it.”

I did not hesitate. Months of eating pop-tarts and ramen noodles would have made peanut butter and jelly look like king crab. But this… this was homemade! It didn’t come in a package complete with microwave instructions. The ingredients didn’t even come in the same package! They came in two separately-sold packages; one cheese package, one tortilla package! I picked it up with my bare hands and let the grease drip down my knuckles. I folded it into a taco-like shape and dipped it into the cold salsa. And then I had my first bite. For those of you who have experience with cheese quesadillas, you know the bite I’m talking about.

For those of you who don’t know, I shall explain myself further. I will begin with the texture. There is that perfect blend of the crunchy tortilla and chewy cheese. The tortillas will break off, sometimes whole and sometimes with little deep-fried flakes falling onto your lips and then onto your chin. As you pull the tortilla away the warm cheese will stretch and string its way across the gap from your hand to your mouth. You can stretch it as long as you want in the attempt to break it off but you are usually better off holding the tortillas with one hand and grabbing the cheesy string with the other and tearing your way through. Once you have fully broken free you are finally able to chew your way through the fried tortillas and roll the melted cheesed around your mouth, dissolving its velvety surface. However, the texture is only part of it.

The other equally enjoyable part of the quesadilla process is the taste. The taste is surprising, yet extremely pleasing. During that first bite, once you have chewed your way through the quesadilla to deliver equal parts of cheese, tortilla, and salsa to the various taste-buds on your tongue, you are met with the mouth-watering mixture of the smooth flavor of cheddar and the strong punch of salsa. The oil-cooked tortilla and cheese provide a buttery or creamy taste which is immediately followed by the spicy zing in the tomato/pepper based salsa. That extra kick of spice is the perfect compliment to the mildness of the quesadilla.

The amount of zing, however, can be controlled. You can choose mild, medium, hot, or extra-hot salsa. You can even choose to forego the salsa. There are a variety of ways to serve a quesadilla. For example, you are not completely limited to salsa as your only condiment. Guacamole and sour cream are often used as sides or dips. You can also use different cheeses such as Monterey or pepper jack. Some people will even add grilled chicken or vegetables to the cheese filling. The possibilities are endless and the final result is completely up to the quesadilla consumer.

David and I have experimented with many of the possibilities, but I keep going back to that first and, perhaps most simple, one; the cheese quesadilla. I cannot seem to overcome the pleasure that swirled around my mouth during that first initial bite. Nor can I forget the immense sensation of pure satisfaction as I swallowed and it descended into my appreciative stomach. What a feeling of joy and relief that followed! No more macaroni and cheese! No more ramen noodles! No more dehydrated, frozen dinners! I can eat cheese quesadillas whenever I want!

I looked up at Dave who was staring at me with anticipation.

“How was it?” he asked.

“It was pretty damn good!” I replied. He smiled and handed me a Henry Weinhardt root beer.

Wilco: A Love Story

Jeff Tweedy and I

First concerts are a milestone for any music –lover.  Particularly for a kid who is raised in a family of musicians, singers, songwriters, and enthusiasts.  Music is not taken lightly in the Shinn household.  Some of my first memories are nights spent in my Mom and Dad's room listening to them sing while Dad played the banjo, or guitar, or autoharp... whichever of the three suited their fancy that night.  I don't know if it was the thumping of Dad's foot on the ground, Mom's soulful energy that she put into each song, or the frenzy of the banjo, but each time they played, I felt it necessary to jump on the bed whilst singing and giggling.  My siblings tell me that they have the exact same memory. They also recall numerous times in which they bounced around to the beat of the songs sung by our parents. They had jumped and giggled and sang at the top of their lungs just as I had. Each of us had the exact same reaction to the music. We had all found ourselves overcome by the sound, compelled to move our bodies in such a way that sent us flying into the air, wild arms and legs flailing, and landing on pillows in fits of laughter.

I suspect that the elation I was feeling at the time of the bed-bouncing incidences was very much in the same vein as the enthusiasm that I displayed three years ago at my first Wilco concert. No, not enthusiasm... that's the wrong word. Lets call it passion. Okay, okay, let's be honest here. It was actually more like a temporary madness. But before I tell you about that embarrassing display of affection, you must understand the thirteen year long-distance love affair that occurred between the band and I prior to that moment.

I can remember the first time that I listened to them. It was the summer of '95 and I was 13 years old. My brother was home from college and had brought with him an array of new CD's. He was working at Pump 9 of the Pipeline and would be gone for a few days at a time. While he was away he loaned me some of his music and his giant CD player. Now, he remembers this differently and to this day he claims that I snuck into his room and stole the music while he was gone. Despite his accusations, I stand by my story. (Older brothers. Sigh.) But that is neither here, nor there. The point here is that he was older and, in my eyes, the coolest, hippest guy around. And upon his return from Eugene, Oregon, my big brother now possessed a college understanding of music. An understanding outside the realms of little old Tazlina, Alaska. An understanding that surpassed all of my Junior High classmates and all of the High Schoolers too. An understanding beyond the over-processed, mainstream MTV that I had become so accustomed to relying on for album recommendations. And all that understanding was right there, stacked in piles on his bedroom floor.

The square, plastic cases called out to me. It looked like a lifetime of music. At my fingertips I had an abundance of bands, a wealth of songs. If there ever was musical gluttony, I would've sworn that was it. I was awe-struck.

Chomping at the bit, I sampled only the bands I recognized at first. The boombox sat on my bookshelf and for the first few weeks it played albums like, "Nirvana: Unplugged", U2 "Joshua Tree", and Jeff Buckley's "Grace". These were beautiful, fantastic, and, arguably some of the most important albums of our time. It was great. I made mixed tapes and gave them to my friends. I fell in love with Bono over and over again. I was saddened by the fact that we would never hear more from Kurt Cobain. My summer began to seem like one to remember. But it wasn't until I began to venture into the other albums, the unrecognizable titles, that my summer became life-changing.

I picked up Wilco's album, A.M., and thought, "Who the heck is Wilco A.M.?" (I actually thought the name of the band was Wilco A.M. for about a year. I still have a mixed tape that I made in which I wrote, "Too Far Apart by Wilco A.M.") What a dork. I put it into the boombox and hit play. The first track, "I Must Be High", it's catchy, it's fun. I probably bobbed my head a little, but it didn't grab me. I think I was feeling a bit skeptical and considering going back to the frequently rotated stack of "recognizables." But I let the CD play. And it's a good thing I did. A very good thing. The second track... holy mackerel. An insistent guitar riff came tumbling out of the speakers and "Casino Queen" sprang into my world. I'm not sure what I did at that moment. But I do know that that was the song that transformed "Wilco A.M. who?" into "Wilco, you have my attention. I am now listening." And listen I did.

That album took over my summer and surpassed all the other recognizable titles. It also cured me of any skepticism I had of my brother's alt-country collection and opened the door to a whole new genre. "Casino Queen" was on repeat, as were "Too Far Apart" and "Shouldn't be Ashamed." Later it was "Box Full of Letters" (genius!) and "Passenger Side" (Hilarious song about designated drivers) and "Dash 7"... oh the beautiful, beautiful "Dash 7." These songs did so many things to me. Things that U2 and Nirvana never did. Wilco made me want to dance, drink, smoke, sing, play guitar, buy a leather jacket, grow my hair long, acquire a whiskey-voice the good old fashioned way, and start a band. I was only 13. Jeff Tweedy was my new hero and Bono was kicked to the curb. Sorry Bono. And good riddance.

Of course a few years later the beloved Being There came out and I listened to that album repeatedly while writing love letters to my boyfriend on my bunk bed. I scrawled the lyrics to "Misunderstood" and "Sunken Treasure" on my notebooks and in journals. I put on my headphones and listened to Jeff croon, "Was I in your dreams?" Yes you were, Jeff. Yes, you were.

Years passed and they stood the test of time. They recorded Mermaid Avenue with Billy Bragg, a tribute to unrecorded writings of Woody Guthrie. They were dropped from their label when they refused to change their recordings to make their new album more "commercial". They were picked up by another label and, in one of the best "sticking it to the man" stories I've ever heard, they released Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and sold more copies than they had on any other album. Not to mention, the critics loved it. They continued on, releasing A Ghost Is Born, for which they won their first Grammy. They survived member changes and drug addiction. They were labeled and categorized by fans and critics, but the genres never stuck long. They became a band with no rules, no set limitations, answering to nobody. Now that's rock and roll.

All of this happened and I did not bear witness to it. No. I was a bad fan and had let the three albums I owned collect dust on the shelves. I don't know what happened. I had never fallen out of love with Wilco. I guess like many first loves we simply had to take a hiatus. A break, if you will, the ultimate relationship test. For some time, Jeff wasn't invited into my stereo and certainly never my ears. It was a strange phase. I was seeing other bands and the great love of my life, Wilco, moved on without me.

Then one day, at a Moose's Tooth First Tap concert, an Alaskan band, The Whipsaws, was jamming onstage. I stood with a group of friends, talking, smoking cigarettes, and sampling way too many hoppy beverages. We were bobbing our heads to the music and occasionally breaking into a bouncy hippy jig. Suddenly I heard a familiar song being played by the band. I knew the words but amidst the haze of too much booze I was having a hard time placing the band. When I finally realized it was "That's Not the Issue" by Wilco, I started stomping, dancing, singing/yelling?, and spilling beer all over my friends. I was elated. I had forgotten how their music made me feel.

 The next day I pulled out the only three albums I owned and listened to them repeatedly. I heard Jeff's raspy voice and the twang of their guitars and remembered why I had loved them in the first place. Then I went out and bought Billy Bragg & Wilco and A Ghost Is Born and forgot all about our hiatus, our missing years. It was like we were old friends playing catch-up, like we had never broken up. A couple years later, I bought Sky Blue Sky the day it was released. "You Are My Face" became a road trip favorite of my husband's and he sang it at the top of his lungs. "Please Be Patient With Me" made me cry as a I recalled Tweedy's candid interviews about drug addiction and panic attacks. I put them on my iPod and they accompanied me on long walks in Portland. They sang to me at my cabin in Alaska when I got lonely. They were there for me when I needed a laugh, a cry, an escape. Things had never been better between Wilco and I. We had survived the trial, and I was a better person for it. That's how true love is you see. It can only make you better.

So, after all of this, you can understand my elation when I found out that Wilco was coming to Alaska to play an outdoor concert at Moose's Tooth. I think I must have screamed into the phone as I told my husband the news. I woke up in my cabin on July 25th, 2008 and put on my Xtra Tuffs, my rain coat, and a hat, and made the 200 mile journey to Anchorage. I stood in the rain and listened to The Whipsaws play their set. They did a tribute song to Wilco, the same one that rekindled my love for them. They left the stage and I couldn't be happier to see a band go. Not because they were awful in any way. Quite the contrary. The Whipsaws played an excellent set. No, I simply couldn't wait for Wilco any longer. The moment had arrived. I was going to see them live. I was 26 years old and I was going to see my favorite band perform right here in my own neighborhood, the band that I had grown with since I was 13. The musical love of my life was about to walk off their tour bus and onto the stage that was only yards away from me. I was feeling a bit weak in the knees.

The door opened. I thought I was going to faint. At first all I saw was a blur of denim and hair. Then, through the haze of rain and my own overwhelming excitement, I was able to make out a few bodies. And as they emptied the bus, one by one, my eyes jumped from person to person until I found the one. Jeff Tweedy sauntered off of the bus in a cloud of calm and cool. He glanced at the crowd and walked toward the stage. I think he may have waved. I don't know. Sometimes I think that our eyes locked but then I remember that I was in a bit of a frenzy at the moment. I tried to utter something intelligible, something impressive and worth saying at that particular moment. I could have whistled, I could have simply cheered like the rest of the crowd. But no. No, no. Remember me jumping on my parents bed? Sometimes I just can't control what music does to me.

I opened my mouth and, before I could slap a hand over it, I screamed, "I looooove yooouuuuu Jeeeeffffff!!!!!!!!" I followed it with many more hoots and hollers and unintelligible admissions. I was like one of those teenage girls that you see in old Beatles' concert footage. I. Lost. My. Marbles. If there would have been a bed there, I would have been jumping on it.

My friends laughed at me and one commented, "Everyone drink up... because Jolene is going to be very embarrassing tonight." Wilco played the best set I had ever heard in my life. They encored. Twice. In the rain. One of their encore's was "Casino Queen." I had died and gone to heaven. If the previous 13 years was a relationship, this concert was our marriage. And like any good love story, we lived happily ever after.

As I write this, I am listening to "The Lonely 1".

"When you perform/ It's so intense/ When the critics pan/ I write in your defense/I understand I'm just a fan/ I'm just a fan."

I couldn't have said it better, Wilco. I couldn't have said it better.

Facebook Fatigue

I love a new phrase thats been floating around and I have used it quite liberally in recent weeks. You may have heard me say it. "Facebook fatigue". Although at first it may inspire some chuckles in internet addicts like myself, I have for some time suspected that the joke may be on us. But, hey, I'm no stranger to being the butt of jokes. I was, after all, photographed in both the eighties and the nineties, donning cringe-worthy outfits and questionable hair. And these photos are floating around out there somewhere in cyberspace for all to see and comment on. Thank you, Facebook. Thank you.

Speaking of bad fads, is that all that Facebook is? Are we merely buying into a craze? A craze that has gone completely global? Does it have a shelf life? Is it The Macarena of the internet? Are we going to join in, dance with it a bit, learn it, love it, jump at every chance to do it, include it somehow at every function, until the fun wears and we realize that the cool kids left the party a long time ago? Well, that remains to be seen. I, myself, am no "cool kid" and never have been. But I am considering leaving the party.

My guess is that Facebook is here to stay, in some form or another. But you see, I am finding myself spending way too much time checking the latest status-posts when I could be spending time on... well, a million other things. I am now a mother/housewife and everyone knows that a woman's work is never done. I have long been wanting to start a blog as a creative outlet and as a way of communicating with close friends and kinfolk. And as Facebook brought me back in touch with these friends and kinfolk, I admit it also brought me back in touch with a lot of other not so close "friends."

Don't get me wrong, it is a blast seeing what old fellow high school alumni are up to these days. I love learning who what's-his-face married and what career path so-and-so chose. Unfortunately, I don't really care to read about what they had for lunch, what their fortune cookie says, or their latest political rant. In a perfect world, I would "un-friend" these people and keep only the close friends and kinfolk that motivated me to get on Facebook in the first place. But then I feel like a snob or a bully. And snobs and bullies remind me of high school. And in high school I did The Macarena.

So, therein lies the question. To Facebook. Or not to Facebook. For right now, I can't decide. I don't want to leave the party too early and miss out on something really cool. But, I also don't want to get sucked into a mind-numbing fad when I could be being creative and blogging for you fine people. What I do know is that I am suffering from extreme Facebook fatigue and I am going to try spending less time on that damned network and more time cleaning my house, playing with Wolfie, reading books, working out, taking Keiser for walks, cooking delicious dinners for my husband, and writing in my new blog.

So, here it is folks. Smoke Signals from Alaska. Comments greatly appreciated.