Fire and brimstone and hot as hell

My sister Laura spent the last week tending the needs of a wood-burning kiln that demanded pretty much constant attention. The high-maintenance oven, a half-cylinder made of soft brick covered in clay and built into a hillside, required supervision 24 hours a day for an entire week.

The whole operation was set up under a metal roof in wine country 50 miles southwest of Portland, on the property of a Japanese woman named Ruri who built the kiln in 2005 and holds group firings about twice a year.

Laura is studying in the ceramics program at the Oregon College of Art and Craft and joined seven others in tag-teaming kiln care. Every three to five minutes, the person on duty would slide open the iron door at the front and toss in a few logs. Over the course of the week, the kiln devoured nine cords of wood (stacked together, that amount would measure 36 feet high by 36 feet wide by 72 feet long and take up 1,152 cubic feet).

The side of the kiln and staging area, as seen from up near the chimney

To avoid being blinded or catching on fire, the kiln tenders had to wear protective glasses, cover every inch of their faces with masks or handkerchiefs and wear nonflammable clothing and thick leather gloves.

Daniel working the night shift, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.

Laura monitoring the fire through a stoke hole.

When I showed up to visit on the last day of firing, the temperature inside the kiln was more than 2,400 degrees, and flames were shooting out all the vents and stoke holes. It was cold and rainy outside, but T-shirt weather by the kiln.

That’s me, almost ready to throw a log into the blazing pit of fire

The kiln tenders recorded the temperature inside the kiln every hour.

The chimney

The ceramic pieces that emerge from wood-burning kilns are testaments to the fires that create them; their surfaces bear the marks of the ash, wood and flames that lick and nick them as they bake.

But kilns cannot be rushed, and Laura and crew have to wait a week for theirs to cool before they unbrick the doors and find out how everything fared.

Laura took the nighttime pictures.

More coffee talk

It was a showdown, but rather than pistols, hot rods or decks of cards, espresso makers were the weapon of choice. Sixty of the country’s top baristas displayed their skills at the Specialty Coffee Association of America’s 2009 Barista Championship in Portland this weekend.

I stopped by the convention center on Sunday in time to catch the top six baristas facing off in the finals (oddly enough, no Portlanders made it to the final round, not even Alex Pond of the Fresh Pot, Northwest Regional Champion this year). The aroma of the competition floor alone was enough to give me the jitters and make me immediately use the bathroom three times in a row.

Devin Pedde of Los Angeles’ Intelligentsia Coffee prepares a coffee drink during the final round.

The competition took place at the three coffee-making stations at the center of the room.

Mike Marquard of the Saint Louis’ Kaldi’s Coffee Roasting Co. stepped into the spotlight soon after I arrived. The red handkerchief in his pocket perfectly matched the tablecloth and the cups he would use to serve his drinks. (Showing a little flair, the apron around his waist pictured a triceratops and the word “booyah.”)

Under the scrutiny of four judges, Marquard produced a cappuccino, a single shot of espresso and his signature drink, a citrus-laced caramel espresso wreathed by honey-cut tobacco smoke, which he created by enclosing his coffee creation and burning tobacco leaves together under an overturned glass. He finished right as the clock hit the 15-minute time limit — and placed sixth overall.

To assign points, the judges consider the quality of the espresso first and foremost. But everything else matters too. They also note the temperature of the drink, the timing of the shots, the cleanliness of the work space, the service… and probably even the music blasting from the speakers

Pedde, who placed fifth overall, answers emcee (and 2008 champion) Kyle Glanville’s questions after his turn.

Michael Phillips of Chicago’s Intelligentsia Coffee won the championship and will represent the United States in the World Barista Championship in Atlanta, Ga. April 16-19.

Check out the Oregonian’s slideshow of the event here.

The witching hour is underway

A Chinese Witch Hazel shrub in Portland’s 5,100-acre Forest Park. All over the park, they’re out in full force.

And you thought it was simple

I like my coffee like I like my men. That’s right, you’re thinking it: COMPLEX. Turns out, I’m in luck. According to the experts at Portland’s Stumptown Coffee Roasters, coffee beans have about 800 flavor characteristics, more than twice the number found in wine.

The staff at the Southeast Belmont Stumptown offer twice-daily “cuppings” (at 11 a.m. and 3 p.m.) to inform people about the finer points of the beverage. My sister Laura and I attended one with our aunt and uncle, who were visiting from Spokane last weekend.

Coffee buyers carry out the ritualistic cupping process before each purchase to determine the quality and qualities of the beans in question. And really, they approach the whole thing with a mug-half-empty mentality: they’re in it to find the defects.

We were encouraged not to share our observations during the cupping so as not to influence each other’s impressions.

At our cupping, a Stumptown coffee master lined up seven trays of coffee beans — from Guatamala, Panama, Ethiopia and Kenya — along the shop’s low, wooden counter. We sniffed, snorted and sipped our way down the line five times, evaluating the beans each time in a different way.

The process took about an hour and went something like this:

• We smelled the dry grounds of each bean, making sure to inhale the fragrance through our noses AND our mouths.
• We sniffed the grounds again, this time soaked in just-boiled water.
• We used spoons to break the crust that developed on the surface of the solution and and inhaled the aroma again.
• We dipped our spoons in the coffee mixture and slurped it up as loudly as possible, trying to get the coffee droplets to reach both our tongues and the back recesses of our nasal passages. (The Stumptown staff member demonstrating had this part of the process down, but when I tried to execute with as much gusto, I ended up just inhaling the coffee. Cough.)
• We slurped down the line again to taste the coffee at a slightly cooler temperature, when its true qualities are said to reveal themselves.

Some are fruity, some are nutty, and now I can tell you which is which

I’ve been aware that different blends of coffee have different characteristics, but I’ve never paid attention to what those differences are. I just drink whatever’s in my cup and have a general sense of whether I like it or not. The process of tasting coffees back to back enabled me, for the first time, to note the nuances that make each bean distinctive — and realize I have a lot to learn when it comes to café.

How do you accidentally purchase a vibrating pillow? Well, I’ll tell you…

I didn’t realize the corduroy cushion I purchased for $2.99 from Goodwill the other day had any special features until, after hours of using it to pad the seat of my wooden desk chair, I noticed it was especially hard in the center.

When I unzipped the back (yes, it zips) and dug around in the foam stuffing, I discovered… THE LARGEST BATTERY PACK I’VE EVER SEEN. The clear plastic apparatus inside the cushion was larger than my outspread palm and contained two D-size batteries (of the four required for operation). How I missed the extra firmness and heft of this pillow in the Goodwill store and under my ass for four hours, I cannot tell you.

I’ll be honest: I’m not quite sure what a battery-powered pillow is capable of. During optimistic moments, I convince myself that if I purchased two more D-size batteries and flipped the switch, it would sing me a Christmas carol.

During more realistic moments, however, I’m positive that I never want to touch my pillow again.

Oswald West State Park: BEACH TRIP ‘09!!!

It was February, and it was the Pacific Ocean off the northern coast of Oregon, but we dove in anyway. Stripped to our skivvies and plunged headlong into the waves. The shock was invigorating, paralyzingly so, but by the time all 45 degrees had fully registered, we were sprinting toward dry sand and a large rock in the sun.

My sister Laura and I and our friends Beth and Benjamin spent the entire day on the beach at Oswald West State Park, located in a secluded cove bounded by old-growth spruce, fir, hemlock and cedar trees. The 2,400-acre park, a mere 90 miles northwest of Portland, stretches four miles between Arch Cape and Neahkahnie Mountain and contains a section of the Oregon Coast Trail that we didn’t explore but would like to.

We’d expected weather typical of the Oregon coast in winter, but the day was so unseasonably warm and sunny that between our arrival at 10:30 a.m. and our departure after sunset, we never pulled the fleece hats, winter jackets and rain gear from our backpacks.

Here’s how we kept ourselves occupied:

• Tiptoed into and bolted out of the ocean.

Note the wet hair. Yes, we went in all the way.

• Accepted the Cartwheel Challenge (meaning 30 in a row) and eventually became unable to distinguish the up from down.

• Ate mass quantities of Parmesan-flavored Goldfish crackers and chocolate that melted in our mouths, but first, in our hands.
• Scaled the rocks as menacingly as possible.

I don’t know how I remained so calm in this situation.

• Bumped, set and tried to spike a small yellow volleyball that we dubbed “Big Red” until our forearms could not take it anymore.
• Tried to imagine why women in skorts and a large group of children were carrying around My Little Ponies and a life-sized plastic dummy with well-developed calves.
• Stared into the ocean, listening to the waves crash into the jagged rocks offshore.

• Read our books, which pretty much digressed into taking naps.

• Watched the setting sun cast the sky in shades of gold, then sink into the horizon.

All in all, a perfect day.

Skating to the tune of Ethan Rose

The Oaks Park Roller Rink in Portland had the feel of an oversized aquarium during musician Ethan Rose’s rinkside performance on Tuesday. Rose’s ethereal electroacoustic music gave the place an underwater ambiance (listen here, and you’ll see what I mean), and as I skated around and around in the dim light, I found myself feeling like an anchovy, caught up in a big, circling school — or maybe a jellyfish, drifting in directions I didn’t mean to go and posing an extreme threat to those around me.

During his performance, Rose played the 86-year-old Wurlitzer pipe organ suspended on a platform above the rink, incorporating its notes with the recorded sounds of drums and chimes. The 30-year-old Chicago transplant often uses antiquated instruments — music boxes, player pianos, carillons, skating rink organs — as the basis of his computer-generated music. Tuesday’s event marked the debut of his latest album, Oaks, inspired by the very instrument at his fingertips.

To the resonating sounds of songs like “On Wheels Rotating,” “The Floor Released” and “Scenes from When,” I rolled around the rink on bright orange wheels, trying my best not to knock down small children or get in the way of the girl in the blue miniskirt who was skating backwards, lifting her leg and doing something akin to a triple salchow. (When I tried a move — a rolling crouch, executed at what turned into a snail’s pace — the referee told me to get inside the red line so as not to disrupt the flow.)

While I did not win any rabbit’s feet or get a chance to compete in the limbo, I did enjoy Rose’s music. It seemed a perfect complement to the act of rolling around in circles.

Three cheers for the new prez

The EastBurn threw open its doors extra early this morning for Obama. The bar/grill at 18th and E. Burnside in Portland fired up four flat screens and a projector, all tuned to coverage of the presidential inauguration, and served free warm croissants, $5 breakfast sandwiches and $2 pints for those in the mood.

Amidst neon signs, skeeball runs and buck hunting arcade games, dozens perched on sturdy stools to watch the 44th president’s 18-minute inaugural address, all acutely aware of the historic significance of the moment and glad that a smart, articulate, principled man will be in charge of our country.

Energy was high. Applause was frequent. When Obama  finished, someone in the front of the room let out a “Hip-Hip…”

Everyone else responded with an exuberant “HOOORAY!”

Elsewhere in Portland, this was happening.

Foiled by ice in the Columbia River Gorge

I would have loved the waterfalls. At least that’s what my sister Laura told me as we turned around less than a mile into our hike on the Eagle Creek Trail in the Columbia River Gorge, 40 miles east of Portland. After crossing several patches of black ice over a 60-foot drop into a rushing river — and listening to a string of turned-around hikers describe the trail ahead — we joined the parade of bundled up people and sweatered dogs heading back to the parking lot.

Laura on a vigorous hike

Good thing, too. On the descent, my right foot slipped on a patch of ice, sending me hurling toward the ground. Rather than busting, though, I caught myself in the deepest lunge I’ve ever done. My left knee hovered a mere centimeter from the ice for a few seconds before I pulled myself up and recovered my composure.

“Not the Eagle Creek Trail you’re used to, is it?” asked a member of the Forest Service crew working on the trail, passing us by with a chainsaw balanced over his shoulder.

Under less-icy circumstances, it would have been a great hike:  The Eagle Creek Trail climbs 13 miles to Wahtum Lake along the wall of the gorge, passing through forests of moss- and fern-covered conifers and by a number of waterfalls, including Punchbowl Falls (15 feet high, two miles from the trailhead) and Tunnel Falls (100 feet high, six miles in). We’ll definitely go back  when it’s warmer.

On the way home, Laura and I stopped at Multnomah Falls, a 620-foot waterfall along the side of Interstate 84 — the second-highest year-round falls in the United States and one of 77 falls on the Oregon side of the Columbia River Gorge.

The scene wasn’t much better. We hiked a quarter mile up a paved path to take in the view from the arched bridge beneath the falls, and upon arrival, found a chaos of people sliding around the icy structure, holding onto fence posts, trash cans, anything that would keep their legs under them (the highway signs are true, bridges DO ice first). I clobbered a 12-year-old while trying to make my way past her along a fence. People clung helpless to the handrails as they tried to secure their footing. Grown men bowled over their children. Laura caught the tiny woman who came flying at her.

Fortunately, everyone present thought the situation was hilarious. And the falls was spectacular as well.

Candy Ass Crosses America: A Photo Essay

Laura and I road tripped across the country with a fish named Candy Ass made of shards of metal and rusty nails. The sharp-edged sea creature is the work of Greensboro artist Frank Russell, a new acquisition of mine that will hang in my room once I get one. Laura and I decided to document the fish’s journey from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.

Greensboro, North Carolina

All packed up, Candy Ass warms by the fire before his cross-country road trip to Portland.

Mississippi River, Tennessee

Candy Ass gazes over the slow-moving Mississippi, loving the fact that it’s pouring rain.

Memphis, Tennessee

At 7 a.m. the morning after, Candy Ass is still on Beale Street.

The Plains, Oklahoma

Candy Ass is home, home on the range — but not feeling quite at home.

Amarillo, Texas

Candy Ass poses with a giant steer after completing the Big Texan Steak Ranch’s 72-ounce challenge: eating a 72-ounce steak in less than an hour.

The Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico

Running on empty, Candy Ass curses the fact that this gas station’s closed in the middle of the snowy New Mexican desert.

The Desert, Arizona

Candy Ass looks over the dry Arizonan desert and dreams of the mighty Mississippi.

More Desert, Arizona

Three fish out of water in the Arizonan desert.

San Francisco, California

After taking a much-craved dip in the San Francisco Bay, Candy Ass admires the Golden Gate Bridge.

Humboldt County, California

Candy Ass takes in the immensity of the redwood trees.

Laura has learned to handle her sharp-edged travel companion with care.

Candy Ass and Christina frolic through the redwoods.

Outside of Trinidad, Northern California

Candy Ass gets a taste of the Pacific Ocean and wonders what the schools are like on the west coast.

Portland, Oregon

Candy Ass arrives in Portland intact, a bit wiser and more worldly for the journey, and looks forward to settling into his new home.

And now, for few words on the Candy Ass’ creator:

Frank Russell does not get upset when people leave broken appliances and scrap metal at the end of his driveway. In fact, he’s grateful. The Greensboro artist hammers discarded items he finds around town into sculptures of gape-mouthed sea creatures. At his hand, meatloaf trays become snouts, rubber hoses become tentacles and tin cans become dorsal fins. Piles of trash become fish, seahorses, turtles, crabs and stingrays.

In addition to creating a body of sea creatures that has gained a worldwide following, Russell has recycled nine tons of material since he started making the sculptures in 1999. He is central to the development of the art scene in downtown Greensboro.

To see more of his work, visit Artmongerz gallery on Elm Street in Greensboro or www.theartmaker.com.