It's been a while, but.....

I haven't blogged at all since Oman. But its not because life hasn't thrown a heap of surprises at us. Simply put, I neglected to keep up with all that was post-able. I liken it to being thrown into a NASCAR race and thinking, okay at the next straight-away, I should have the time to blog. But its just been corner after corner after corner.

On Easter Sunday, my Mom passed away. Suddenly. We had made plans to go to brunch that day, and when we arrived at her house, she was not feeling well. Nothing she felt was an emergency, however, as we got her up out of her room and into the living room, she indicated she felt worse and wanted to go to the hospital. We played it safe, called 911 for an ambulance transport, and arrived at the hospital only minutes later. Unfortunately, she was wheeled straight to the back of ER and Eric and I sat patiently in the waiting room. The rescue of Capt. Robert Phillips from Somali pirates dominated the televisions. We were watching this miracle unfold as we waited for an update. In about 30 minutes, we were ushered into another waiting room, much smaller, almost the size of a closet. And no tv to occupy our thoughts. The doctor and the nurse then entered with the bad news that they have done all they could for my Mom and that she had died of cardiac arrest. It was simply hard to believe she was gone. That quickly. In a moment.

For the following days and weeks, I truly expected my cell phone to ring, as it had many times a day in the past, with her various questions, thoughts, or simply her way to discussing the latest news or political happenings. It was eerily sobering that my cell and our home phone became so quiet.

A week following her funeral, I quickly went to work on the estate. I recall sitting in the kitchen table, watching the Kentucky Derby with a handy mint julep, and writing letter after letter after letter to all known creditors. At least fifty letters. I stopped counting, probably due to the numerous juleps.

In a couple days after my estate workday, I noticed I wasn't feeling that great, but nothing too weird. I thought it was odd my monthly visitor hadn't visited, but gosh, its been absolute chaos for two weeks so anything could wreck a woman's schedule. On Sunday, May 3rd, I went to bed and had some strange dreams - one of which was taking a pregnancy test. I awoke on Monday, May 4th before Eric had gotten up, and thought, sure, why not, why not take a pregnancy test. But do I even have any? I opened the linen closet and found an old box on a high shelf. The expiration date was 2007. A reminder of our 'trying' time many many years ago. No matter, I figured I'd either throw it out, or pee on it and then throw it out. The results came in as two lines... but I had forgotten what that meant. Positive? Negative? I had to dig the box out of the trash to consult for the results.... and it meant pregnant! Oh my! I then woke Eric up and told him I had some bit of news. I'm sure he's thinking, what possible news could have happened between the time we went to sleep and the time you woke up? We both sat on the bed and thought, wow, how were we given this gift after not having any pregnancies for almost 10 years? How'd this happen (other than the obvious)? We sat there together for at least 20 minutes just trying to digest this news, absorb our new path ahead, and being given a miracle.

As muddled as our thoughts were, what was clear was that my Mom certainly had something to do with this. She loved - LOVED - being a Mom. Me being an old child probably increased her protectiveness and worry, but she was always happy to be a Mom no matter what life threw her. Of course, she would mention grandkids once in awhile to us, but not in a pushy way. She understood all that we had gone through, the highs and lows (mostly lows), and she respected our ultimate decision to let things be, and turn over our fertility fate to a higher power as science had failed us thus far.

I also realize the irony of Easter in and of itself. A rebirth, a celebration of life, through death. One of the most important Christian holidays that reinforces there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that life does not end at death. A period of jubilation following a time of grief. How ironic that she passed on such a holiday.

So, this week I enter my 36th week of pregnancy. The home stretch, sorta speak. Our precious little girl is a mover-and-shaker. She feels like the tallest thing in the world as I feel a poke up high, then a jab by the hip bone. Her essential 'wing span' takes my breath away. Many nights after dinner, I look down at my stomach shift from one side to the other. As my belly button goes up and down, I can see her breathing. I can feel her hiccups. The science of pregnancy and her development is absolutely remarkable.

In little under a month, both her world and our world will change indefinitely.

Oman: the animals

I'm an animal person. Let me rephrase... I don't want to envelope them in my arms and rescue them all, necessarily, but there's something elemental that stirs me when you see the creatures of earth, moving in their natural habitat, an environment not staged by man, and not constructed by union workers. Most recently, the animals of Yellowstone brought about breathtaking memories for me. (For my 40th, I hope to be seeing the big five in Africa)

So going to Oman, I was prepared for camel sightings. I figured we would eventually run into one at some point in our ten day journey.


We first spotted our hump-backed friends at the Muscat Festival. There was no free roaming for these gentlemen - they were tied to a small area. And one was even foaming at the mouth under a muzzle of some sort. Eww. So, not necessarily the 'natural' habitat I had hoped but the initial sighting did give me scale. And an indication that muzzling may be a necessity around people. Eric reluctantly stood close, with his lean-in-close-to-wild-animal pose that echoed the shots I had taken of the deer elk in Wyoming.


We move on in our tour to seaside fisherman communities where large amounts of goats roam.


Initially, one would suppose Omanis have goats purely for food and protein. I was expecting to see goats being slaughtered in markets or shops. Images of skinned legs hanging from clay ceilings. Honestly, this was not the case.



As our guide Khalid explained, family own many goats. Upwards of 50 or 75 if they live remotely. Like dogs here in the U.S., some are regarded as pets. In rural areas, they are considered more as livestock or an indication of status.


They travel in packs and are turned-out in the mornings from the family's pen. They roam. Eat. Roam. Eat. Well, you get the idea. In the desert, far from their Bedouin homes, and when food is scarce, you may find them munching on shrubbery some 3-5 miles from their roost. At night, supposedly, they return home. And if the farmer is missing one, as Khalid said, he knows exactly where his brood has been and will drive/ride to that area to fetch the goat. Success rates of finding any lost goats are apparently close to one hundred percent.


Goats are also bartered and sold in souks, and we had a glorious chance of visiting the Nizwa Souk on their holy day (Friday) for a fast and furious goat haggling adventure. On this day, the goats were going for about 30 OMR, or about $85.


The most desired goats are females, naturally, and those that are pregnant are even more lucrative. Khalid explained this is because a fair portion of pregnant goats actually deliver twins.

The auctioning was controlled chaos, wherein the farmers offering their goats would run around in a circular motion (holding their prized animal), yelling as to the unique characteristics of the goat they were holding. And the bartering is constant as the farmer would move around and around to interested buyers. The buyers were stacked close together, sometimes 4-5 people thick, shouting, shaking fingers, inspecting the goats. The goats added their own two cents to conversations with loud 'baaahs' during negotiations. It was truly interesting to see the Arabic exchange between parties as to why this particular goat was the best goat of the morning for whatever reason.


Once a goat was bought, he was either kept with the new owner (which made for tight standing quarters), or tied in a quasi-holding area until the new owner was done with all goat purchases for the day.




Camels, while less frequent than the ambling neighborhood goat, are just as stunning, especially so in the desert as they forage and linger in the desert dunes. Considering all the flat sand and lack of trees, they are quite easy to spot from long distances away. It was with almost school-girl-like excitement to eye one, and then another, and then three more, as we made our way into the Wahiba dunes.



At a water stop in the Wahiba, as we had just stopped for a picnic lunch under a lone tree (there aren't many trees in the desert, if you see one, chances are it is near a water source), an Omani man and had arrived with two camels in the back of his Toyota truck.




He was a Bedouin and was perhaps moving two of his herd from one family to another. Ah, a picture opportunity of my dreams!


The one closest to me eventually sneered, obviously displeased with my picture taking, and showed a menacing mouth full of crooked teeth, each the size of a domino. Luckily, I captured the moment without injury to either of us.

Oman: The Food

Here's my first in a series of posts. Originally intended to be described some two weeks ago, however, a kidney infection put a fever-laden, bedridden, kink in my plans. As a result of said infection, I am not able to consume copious amounts of coffee or wine, both of which assist in my blog writing. Or at least I'd like to think they are my liquid creativity. With this disclaimer, I begin one of my initial posts on our wonderful trip.

Omani food in and of itself is fairly elusive to the everyday visitor. Restaurants serving any traditional menus are a rarity. There are no pushcarts of grilled meats on the streets of Muscat. No walking vendors shouting "fresh pitas!". [My wheels turn with thoughts of entrepreneurship.]

With 1,300 miles of coastline, you can safely assume most of their traditional eats have to do with fresh fish, shellfish, and dried fish. Pretty much anything with a fin and gills. And, therefore, fishing is the primary industry - not only are the populations built around fishing villages, but it also encompasses fishing brokers, and then businesses that then process and ship these beautiful fish to other Arab countries. To Omanis, fish represents the heart and soul of a country, and its the appetizer, the main dish, and impregnated in fragrant rice side dishes. Stories and lure come with their catch, even for virility.





One night in Nizwa, our guide Khalid had arranged for a group dinner with traditional Omani foods. The restaurant - called Bin Ateeq - was quite busy. Our group took off our shoes and settled onto the floor covered in a thick, coarse wool rug and the firmest pillows in the world.



The walls were bamboo (perhaps?) and our room, oddly, had a television which, when tested, only got one fuzzy channel showing a telenovela-like melodrama.


The food arrived fast and furious on giant plates to pass around. We began with hummus and a dried shark dish. The hummus is wonderfully creamy, and a great representation of the hummuses (is there a plural?) we encountered all week. The shark is partially reconstituted in lime juice, spices, and hot peppers. Khalid explained the dried shark dish is also served to the groom on the wedding night for its Viagra-like properties. Well, Eric wasn't touching any shark with a ten-foot pole. I myself wanted to try a bit, and it was a chewy experience, each bite releasing the marinade between my teeth. Presented with the situation again, I'd probably not order it myself, however, I appreciate the opportunity to taste a dish enveloped in fertility lure.


The rices arrived fragrant, each prepared slightly different. Some with added fish, some without. I just love all the crispy bits of garlic folded into the rice and whole coriander seeds. Of course, I bought spices in Oman to try and replicate the pilafs we encountered. It is my hope my prized Zojirushi will find its inner Arabian fuzzy logic to deliver a rice similar to those we craved. Disappointingly, the Omani pink garlic, supposedly ten times stronger than traditional white, is not allowed over the U.S. border.

The best dish that night - and possibly in contention for the whole of the trip - was a sauteed cuttlefish with crisp-edged onions. It was a firm, buttery cousin to octopus, another one of my favorites from the sea. I'm not a cuttlefish aficionado, so I don't know how the Omani version compares to, say, the Portuguese version. (My recent memory of a cuttlefish was not on a plate, but rather at the Georgia Aquarium, with their large squishy eyeballs staring at passers-by and their thick tentacle mouth scanning rocks for morsels of food). In Oman, they are tasty creatures and well worth ordering if you happen to spot it on a menu.


Aside from our traditional dinner in Nizwa, most of the remaining meals were Indian. The tour brings a chef during the days/nights in the desert and our Indian chef, Petro, prepared some great curried stews and meats. I'm sure for our fellow tour friends, a curried dish is not considered exotic, but for Eric and I from nothing-exotic-comes-to-Cherokee-County, this is quite the treat for our tongues.

I consider Petro an extreme talent for making satisfying meals for 15 folks in the middle of the desert. Bringing the necessary ingredients, cookers, utensils, proteins, and spices, just seems very daunting to me, a person who needs upwards of three lists just to pack a simple hike picnic. One evening, Petro purchased fresh Omani fish in a village we had passed through, cut into fillets and de-boned each over a river rock, and cooked each perfectly in highly seasoned iron skillet in the back of the Nissan. Served with curried veg.




On our first night camping, when a slight chill had settled into the beach side site, his spicy hot beef curry was a welcome dish.




During a lunchtime camping, we were treated with curried samosas and chicken tikka.



Our meals while traveling with the group were Indian restaurants where one could order a whole tikki chicken, a portion of biryani rice to feed an army, fresh salad, and juice. All for about five U.S. Dollars.




The restaurants also served tuna or kingfish, but I love bone-in chicken, so this was an easy choice for me. Each piece was well seasoned and whose crispy skin kept a moist, tender meat underneath.


Even the salads were appreciated, adorned with flavorful carrots dotted with sea salt. The carrots were exceptional in Oman. A true carrot, unlike the watered-down version we have in the United States. The only carrots similar are ones to those we encountered in Oman were from Mary Anne's CSA garden. I wish I could bring home a ten pound bag of these delightful root gems.



When you go to Oman, you will undoubtedly fall in love with their dried dates which accompany coffee or tea. Dates, dates, dates. Everywhere. Served with pride and tradition, they are as sweet as a Midwest caramel.


In stores, you are shown and encouraged to sample all qualities of Omani dates, as well as dates from Iran, Armenia, Syria, Saudi Arabia, etc. Dates can be purchased in all quantities. Oh, and date related products as well. Ten gallons of date syrup, anyone?


The best dates, I considered, were the ones hand-dried by the Bedoiun people. Moist and juicy and smashed into a serving bowl. I considered these simply as breathtaking as the people who were serving them.



We were treated to dates campside as well, a wonderful reason to gather around a coffeepot and bring travelers together. By the end of the journey, I traveled with my own stash to whip out after a picnic lunch.


One Omani man in our Nizwa hotel invited myself and Eric to join him for his coffee and dates. He apparently has two wives and eleven children. And one on the way. As you can guess, Omani consider dates to be necessities for conception, as they provide the necessary 'energy' for such. And if a man has eleven children, well, you better believe him.


Last but not least, I cannot forget my former foe, the cashew. Cashews were never considered my choice nut. In a mixed presentation, I'd pick through them to get at their neighboring almonds, brazil nuts, peanuts, even walnuts. But cashews? Never. They seemed to be crescent-shaped blandness, either over-salted or under-roasted. Whatever the reason for it being boring stateside, my thirty six year-old wall of rejection simply crumbled when I tasted these cashews out of Oman. A tinge of smokey roast clings to each nut, a excellent ratio of sea salt lodges in each crevice between two halves. Buttery, flavorful, melt-in-your mouth nuts prepared and showcased at every market. The two bags I came home with will soon be gone, and my quest for similar versions (via online or at obscure Atlanta markets) will begin.


To summarize, Omani food is excellent and speaks to the heart and soul of a country. Wrapped in tradition and served with stories of male virility, we encountered a moving journey of tastes and textures. Uncomplicated. Simple. Sublime.

Oman, almost.

We leave in a couple days for Oman. And this is the picture that started it all.


You see, we were in Jackson, WY this past Fall, on our way to visit Grand Teton Brewery (and eventually onto our quest for a local huckleberry milkshake). Immediately after passing into Idaho, we were stopped on the quasi-highway by a ranch-hand. He motioned for us to slow down/stop. It is one of those weird moments in life where you either gun-it, or you stop. We decided to stop. What could possibly happen? We were captive observers in our rental car as (I swear) a 500 head sheep herd surrounded our vehicle. Eric simply stuck his Blackberry out of the sunroof, and captured a shot wherein all pairs of eyes were upon us. It was a picture we sent to close friends, giggled about the rest of the day, and relished in the obscure moment we had been placed in.

When we arrived home, we thought to enter the picture in a monthly contest for Budget Travel. Mainly because, the prior month's winner was some loser who found hot sauce on a shelf. And we wispered to ourselves, 'hot sauce? really? why don't we submit the sheep picture.'

And here we are. We won. A nine day tour of Oman. In the Middle East, on the Arabian Penninsula.

If you are like me, maybe you've heard of Oman. It sounds fairly far, right? We had one friend who I recalled had visited Oman in the past on business. But business is different than pleasure. We ordered every tour book Amazon willingly sold. Most are written from a UK-perspective, which is fine, but gives a bigger indication that not many Americans consider it vacation-worthy. Why?



The more I read and researched, the more exciting it has become. The people are welcoming, hospitable, and go out of their way to be stewards of the Middle East.


I learned that you must always accept at least 3 cups of coriander-brewed coffee from your host; less is considered rude. I learned to never show the underside of your feet during a meal. Always eat with your right hand, sans utensils. They are a proud nation, in which infrastructure has only been built and created in the past 30 years by the Sultan. Visitors and tourists are welcome, and they respect your religious views, whether based on Islam or not. People "of the book" are all considered equally. This is quite the different view than, say, Fox News Channel would like to push down your gullet during the 7:00 p.m. nightly news.


This trip becomes much more than the prize. Maybe the award from Budget Travel is really understanding a culture and a people that we had not considered in the past. A land where smiles are more prevelant than hatred. Or is the prize that Eric and I find a bit of ourselves in the Omanis? That we can relate to them on a simple laugh, or a wink? It is a chance to become ambassadors for the United States (yes, we are not all haters). An opportunity for Eric and I to grow as travelers, and not be so entrenched in 'how many shoes do I need' or 'ten t-shirts for twenty dollars' type of traveling we have done in the past.



We camp in the Wahabi desert for three nights. Certainly a challenge for a 'city girl' but one that I face head-on with spirit and humor. How many of you have dug your own poop hole? I didn't think so! But under a star-filled sky, with a belly full of grilled lamb and stories by a firepit, it is expected to be one of the most life-changing vacations of my life.

Flip Burger Boutique

Eric had been dying - I mean dying - to go to this place. Richard Blais (the silver-medal champion of last seasons Top Chef) opened the joint only a few months ago after leaving Home on Paces Ferry. It's located on Howell Mill Road, just south of I-75 and north of the water plant.


As a complete aside, we are insanely jealous of any and all restaurants that open within a 5 mile radius of Howell Mill Road. We used to live in that area and, back in the day, our choices were far and few between. We visited Fox & Hound less than we should have. And visited the Chinese restaurant (name?) more than we should have. What can I say -- we were idiots at the time. But the choices weren't great to begin with. And see what happens? We move to the stix in Cherokee County and, whola, all these buzz-worthy restaurants and cafes start popping up in the Howell Mill area. Even Via Elisa with their homemade pastas and raviolis! It's enough to make a person go crazy if you think about it too much.

So, we were determined to go, and arrived on a Saturday at 2:00 p.m., to find the place moderately busy with a substantial wait. Grab a menu and start daydreaming about the choices of your burger.


When finally seated, we had already discussed our options and desires.

I ordered the Japanese kobe burger with seared foie gras, shaved truffles, bread and butter pickles, and a red wine reduction. Yes, it was exorbitant at $45. But you only live once. And I really wanted to see what is considered the 'best' burger.


The shaved truffles were non-existent. I'm a truffle girl, afterall, and I seek these black (or white) beauties. Their aromas haunt my palate. And if a truffle were to merely walk across the bun, I would know. But not this guy. Maybe the foie overpowered it? Or the pickle? I'm not really sure, but I tasted no truffle on this at all. I also was disappointed because the burger was to arrive medium-rare. Instead, it tasted as if it had been on the grill about 3 minutes too long.

I ordered the standard fries and were impressed by their crispy bits and fresh herbs, even if the dill kinda overtook some of the pieces. Most surprisingly, I was entranced by the smoky homemade mayonnaise. It could have easily had a couple of drops of bacon drippings in it. I dipped fry after fry in it, as if my inner-Dutch tastebuds were emerging. It was thick and clung to each fry like glue. Oh, it was yummy. I would come back to Flip, just for this mayo.



Eric ordered the Lamburger, for a fashionable deal at $9. It was accompanied by green olive relish, mint, and cucumber yogurt dressing. I thought it was very very good, and, honestly just as good as my kobe. But then again, I'm a lamb girl. I was jealous of his version, but not jealous of his sweet potato tot, which were swimming in grease. There comes a point where the sweet potato no longer takes on the taste of a root vegetable, and this certainly was it. It had been chopped. Formed. And fried into hockey-puck pellets. Those fresh herbs weren't going to bring these guys back to life.

Service was sticky and we had to wait about 15 minutes for our desserts - a pistachio & white truffle milkshake. A bit of a faux pas to be presented with the final bill, and present your card, and sign for the final total and tip before the dessert even arrives. I don't expect white-glove service at a burger boutique, but I do expect the servers to honor the food and the patrons. Instead, we felt rushed to slurp down our milkshakes so that other ansy diners (who were peering over our shoulder) have an opportunity at a table. Had those other diners not seen us go through the settling-of-the-bill situation, I'd feel a little more comfortable with taking our time to savor the milkshake.



Nonetheless, the pistachios were great, somewhat chunky, but small enough to have fun slurping through the straw. I resent the green coloring - not needed. And the supposed white truffle? Again, non-existent. I'm beginning to think there are no truffles in the whole building.

Is it worth going? Sure. Is it worth standing in line for 3 hours? No. Can I get better grub elsewhere? Maybe. JCT is just down the street and their truffle fries could compete with anything in this city. I believe those fries are worth a 40 mile drive for us.

It is worth to go to Flip, simply to push the envelope ever-so-slightly on your traditional burger offering. Just expect the service to still have some issues to iron-out.