Pacific Northwest History
Contrary to the title of today’s column, this is not a history of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, it is a skip along the paths of memory. Unless you missed it during the first three months of my writings, I was not raised in the inland Northwest.
Though I don’t remember the exact age, for a few years before I was a teenager, we had a cabin on Mount Index; on the West side. I remember the ride on highway 2 through Snohomish, Monroe, Sultan, Startup and Gold Bar. The reason I remember this ride, Gold Bar specifically, is because of a simple, road-side gas station.
Completely unassuming, this little station was naught but a bunch of peeling-painted wood, a couple gas pumps and a little market. I remember old and slightly gnarled wood sides which looked as if they’d be more appropriate in an old Clint Eastwood Western than at-the-time-modern construction. I remember dust and road-dirt covered wood sculpture. This was the kind of decoration that could have come from Tonto’s yard, had we ever seen Tonto’s house. When we first drove through, I think the gas pump pad was the only paved part of that lot.
I could have been dead asleep at any given time during the lengthy drive to the cabin, but once we pulled into that gas station I would wake with a sense of expectant excitement. I would hear the crunch of tires on gravel. I would feel the rock of the car shift into a soft stop. I would blearily open my eyes and see the dusty cloud drift slowly around the corner of the building.
And I would smell it.
As if banishing the boredom of waiting; as if waving away the fog of a sleepy daze; as if laughing in the face of all things droll and dull, the scent of heaven would gently press its fingers through the half-open window to caress my salivary senses to full awareness. The odiferous emanations drifting, winding and wending their way from the open door of the little market beckoned to lazy summer expectation. I was enraptured by that Golden Ambrosia.
That little gas station in Gold Bar, Washington, just a little pit-stop of a place, a means to an end rather than an end in and of itself, that little bubble of perfection provided more than a kid could ever ask for. Toys. Games. Gold. Diamonds. Money. None of those things had any value or meaning when compared to the gas station in Gold Bar.
The scent of fresh-made waffle cones called to my olfactory senses. The display cases drew my body ever closer with their promises of refreshing, rejuvenating deliciosity. Home-made, hard ice cream in every flavor imaginable rested beneath the pristine, gleaming, glistening glass. Rich, brown chocolate; cool, creamy vanilla; pretty, pink strawberry; delightfully deranged, blue bubblegum; those were the things that made a child’s eyes big with earnest expectation.
It wasn’t just the fact that the ice cream cones were fresh-made. It wasn’t just the fact that there were so many flavors one could ponder choices until the cows came home. It wasn’t just the fact that the scents and sights and sounds of that place were ingredients for a life time of sweet dreams. The thing that really made that particular place special was the soft-ball sized scoop of ice cream that perched atop the cone.
Most ice cream places gave you a golf ball sized scoop of ice cream. Some places were extravagant and gave you a tennis ball sized scoop. But at that oasis on the way to Index, they believed more was better.
I think I can even remember a time when the clerk behind the counter started to hand me my deeply coveted cone but drew it back at the last minute, shaking her head. She then went back to the tub of bubblegum ice cream and packed even MORE ice cream onto that huge waffle cone. I think I wanted her to adopt me.
I’ve had Baskin Robin’s, Ben and Jerry’s, Haagen Dazs, Blue Bunny and a myriad other brands of ice cream in my short-longish life, but nothing truly compares to the mountainous mass of frozen ecstasy from Gold Bar. I would do a lot for a good pint of Haagen Dazs. I love the occasional pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But, no one and nothing can truly compare to my childhood bliss.
Sigh
I bet the cones would be just as huge as I remember them to be! I wonder if I that place is still there.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all correspondence. JD_DSVic at yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
Roasted Pears And Ice Cream
Summer has finally arrived in Boise with hot days that turn into beautiful, warm, summer nights. Time for fun, easy, fruit deserts. As I was looking through some of the recipes I’ve collected, this one from Rachael Ray caught my eye. This is a great way to end the day with friends on the patio.
Roasted Pears And Ice Cream
2 tablespoons softened butter
2 cans pear halves in syrup
1 lemon, zested and 4 lemon twists of rind.
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
3 pieces crystallized ginger, chopped or grated
1 pint French vanilla ice cream
Preheat oven to 400 degreesF.
Place the butter in the bottom of the shallow baking dish. Drain off 3/4 of the liquids from each can – - pears should remain wet, but not swimming in syrup. Add pears to the dish and season with lemon zest, nutmeg and crystallized ginger then roast 20 minutes. Serve warm pears with scoops of French vanilla ice cream on top, garnish with lemon twist.
Monetizing A Blog – Part 2
First of all, please take note of our new publishing schedule. We’ve made some changes so that we have the time to meet with potential advertisers and vendors. We are working diligently to monetize this Blog in some creative ways…
One of the models we are developing is a theme and variation on generating income on a per-action or per-sale basis. When I worked at various radio and television stations we would have at least one vendor stop by wanting us to give up a half-hour of air time for a percentage of the sale. It was an interesting idea because we would make $10,000 for a half-hour of time that would normally sell for $300.
Usually, though, the general manager would say no in very clear terms. Not because it wasn’t a good idea, but because it was difficult and expensive to track the sales and collect the money – especially collect the money.
Now, with the sophistication of today’s software, a shopping cart (like the one we are adding to this site in the next week) can track sales, collect the money, break out commissions, build a database based on buyer profiles, send out email blasts when new product is added and a great deal more.
I bring this up, not only because this is what we intend to start doing in the next week or so, but also because of something I read in the Wall Street Journal about how media buyers are going to want online newspapers to charge. According to the article, media buyers are going to request that newspapers “have to tie ad rates more closely to results, charge less for ads and provide Web content that readers can’t get at every news aggregation site.”
As this Blog evolves, we will be adding content from other writers as well as marketing what we hope to interesting products and services from throughout the Northwest. Stay tuned…more changes are coming…
© Copyright 2009 Moody Publishing Co
Delsa’s Ice Cream Parlour Is Coming Back To Boise!
By Ray Littrell
I was very sad in October of 2007 when Delsa’s closed it doors. I fell in love with its ice cream specialties very shortly after moving here. In fact my wife, who grew up in Boise, said that her family would make a special night of it just to enjoy a scoop of their special recipes.
According to the Idaho Statesman, the new owners are learning the recipes from the man who owned the parlor for over 30 years so that those who knew and loved Delsa’s ice cream will experience it again.
And, since Delsa’s is just a few blocks from my home I’m sure I will be stopping by – a lot.
Copyright © 2009 Moody Publishing Co.
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