6 posts tagged “torch lake”
Annually, we are graciously invited to spend a weekend on Torch Lake, courtesy of Cousin Matt and his monolithic-sized displays of hospitality. It is a divine lakefront property and the weekend is pretty much a food- and booze-centered pursuit of hedonism. I have been fortunate enough to conduct such research that has resulted in dispatches on Torch Lake seen here, here, here, and here. It's a hell of a great time and this summer was no exception. Or was it?
Well, it wasn't, but I was trying to be coy. This weekend was near the calendar where my 40th birthday fell. And while we enjoyed some fine company, and a full Saturday in the sun, by the dock, drinking and goofing off, the night was full of quite a rich surprise.
Friday night was a good bbq dinner and much consumption. It would end late, with a few of us in the lower level bar.
Someone had the right idea -- not to mention perfect timing -- and dropped off a plate of freshly baked monkey bread at about 1 in the morning. It's basically a giant glazed doughnut on a plate.
Spent some booze-saturated quality time with the wily and elusive Mr. Farmer,
as well as with our generous and thoughtful host and hostess, the newly engaged themselves.
Saturday would showcase quite a weekend's pinnacle. We drank all day down by the dock, in the water, on the boat, and then napped for a little before a fine meal of Matt's lamb tenderloin, expertly prepared as usual. Following that, Mrs. Chicken broke out what is arguably one of the best birthday surprises I've received since a bicycle when I was 10.
She coordinated with our dear friend Nicki Q., herself a first-rate graphic designer. The birthday theme? 40's for the 40th. Mrs. Chicken procured a case of quarts after Nicki had created 3 separate custom labels on which to affix to each bottle. Each label requires a brief description, but I admire firstly Nicki's attention to detail, from the barcode to the collateral language on the label, the entire production was just perfect.
This photo doesn't do much justice and the pdfs I have of the labels aren't loading, so I will scan the originals and reload later.
The first label is a play on a picture of me with the dog's tail draped across my forehead, presenting the appearance that I am the owner of a horribly produced rug.
For one of the other labels, Nicki went deep into the hole of design themes. It is a play on the photograph in this post, where I highlight the painful antics of falling flat on my ass on a stationary rock after having one too many mixies. The background on this label is patterned after the actual bruise itself. I love the detail on the warnings. Sad, but true.
And the last label kind of says it all ...
It appears they enjoyed a certain type of popularity, as they sat empty Sunday morning, keeping a watchful eye on the lake.
Mrs. Chicken crafted a perfect little birthday cake, which we thought we would enjoy Sunday morning with breakfast. Looks like one of the seven, four-legged guests had a different idea in the middle of the night.
Epic weekend. Everyone should turn 40 amid this much fun.
I am still higher than shit, coming off what was arguably one of the best weekends Mrs. Chicken and I have had in quite some time.
We decided early last week that we really needed to get out of town. Work has been a little breakneck and difficult for me, and things have been stressful around the house since Mrs. Chicken lost her job 6 weeks ago. Well, she technically quit a trainwreck of a job from which she may or may not have been ultimately let go, but I'm not going to mince details. When you cut your joint income stream by 60 percent, things can get fucking nutty, quick-like. She'd been interviewing with several different suitors, one of whom was in Month Four of a four-month interview process. Let's get the hell out of town, we said, even if it's just for a day trip somewhere.
Thursday she makes a well-placed phone call to her aunt, who offers us her vacation property for the weekend up on Torch Lake, one of our favorite destinations in Michigan. The place is closed down and nobody will be there. Sweet. My boss, who is all sorts of kickass, lets me cut loose from work early on Friday, Kerry picks me up, with the dog in tow, and we head north. I fall asleep and while a-slumberin', the contact person for the big, phat, killer job she wants, the one for which she's been interviewing for an entire season, calls and makes the offer. We pull off the highway and Mrs. Chicken does a little salary negotiation in the parking lot of a church in Ithaca, Michigan, carves out a little more scratch and -- poof! -- we are on our way, back up north. The only thing different is that she has the job she has coveted and the reassurance that, yes, telling her boss to suck it has actually worked out for the best. We got the dog in the back, we are headed up north for a weekend of tranquility and she got the job offer she wanted. This is a good Friday.
We arrive around 7, to an empty but beautiful cottage/home/sanctuary. We are hungry as hell but not in the mood to make something involved. We opt for Starch Fest 2008.
That's right. That's stuffing and mac and cheese. And then we made cocktails. Lots of them, actually.
We would actually get a little twisted. So much so, that Kerry ended up reading a bedtime book to Lamont, who was beat from the long drive up.
That's when we knew it was time to go to pass ou- I mean, go to bed. We slept in a little on Saturday. I fetched some newspapers and then made breakfast, an attempt to counter our not-so-healthy Friday night meal. Whole wheat pancakes with sugar-free syrup and turkey sausage was the order.
We then headed out for a nice three-mile walk. The colors are in the early stage here, but we didn't come for a tour. We came to get out of town.
We headed on down the road by the airfield,
where we promptly ignored the warnings,
in an effort to gain access to some Lake Michigan shoreline.
Lamont especially digs the sandy beach, as was evidenced here,
before he sprang into action. He kind of looks like the Puma logo.
It was a perfect day and a lovely walk.
When we neared the house, we saw some deer emerge. This was about as close as we would get.
We would enjoy turkey sandwiches from Sonny's before taking a well-timed nap. We got up, watched U-M get trounced and then made dinner plans. Kerry's aunt tipped us off to a new-ish restaurant the next community over, so we investigated, and we would be glad we did.
Siren Hall in Elk Rapids is an upscale, American bistro-style dining room done in white with high, exposed ceilings and poured concrete that separates different areas of the room. It's a little mod and kind of Euro in there, but still comfortable without being stuffy and full of pretense. We cocktailed up and had some appetizers. The plan was to make dinner at home after getting started here, but our small plates really did the trick so we were set for dinner. We started with a bowl of chicken and white bean chili, and an iceberg wedge of bleu cheese and bacon. Oh, yes.
We then agreed on these decadent goat cheese cakes that were probably the best thing I've put in my mouth in 10 years.
Sorry about the lighting. This shit-ass Vox application is not letting up upload the PhotoShopped version of these images, despite having been able to do it countless times before. I like Vox and I like how they make this blog easy to craft, but sometimes the hiccups are kind of a pain in the ass.
We would walk the dog around Elk Rapids a bit and then retreated home for lazy TV watching and rapidfire cocktail consumption by me. Sunday we slept in a little, got up, cleaned the place up and begrudgingly headed home.
It was a great weekend. It started off so well, it couldn't help but keep the momentum. Finally, it feels like we caught a break, which is a damn good feeling. Couple that with a perfect-weather weekend on a huge lake in a beautiful getaway and you have insta-bliss.
Torch Lake weekend, as usual, was quite the success. Kerry's aunt's family has side-by-side places on this enormous and pristine inland lake, one of Michigan's biggest. And every year, Matt clears it out for a long weekend of whatever the hell we want. Some of the more prominent names from years past were unable to attend, but it was still very much a solid three days (for us) of much-needed relaxation and imbibinous impulses.
The drive up Thursday was a nightmare. In one stretch, it took us 1 1/2 hours to move about 10 miles. It was a joke.Thankfully, Lamont was a good boy on the ride up.
We arrived late Thursday, hung with Aunt Liz, crashed, had breakfast the next day, took a walk with her, Kerry, and the dog, and then chilled while people started to arrive in the afternoon. Friday night was drinks and bonfires, while Saturday incorporated more of the same. One notable inclusion was Matt's signature rack of lamb, which we enjoyed in a near utopian state on Saturday. No photos of that, only a smile on my face as I recall it fondly.
There was a day of hanging out on the dock ...
... and much of the same on the patio ...
... Scout joined us for dinner Friday, hoping that something would fall to the floor.
I headed out Saturday morning to meet Tom in Leelanau for the annual fly-in/pancake breakfast/car show at Woosley Memorial Airport in Northport. There, single-engine planes fly in amid the breakfast backdrop. It may sound unconventional, but it's actually kind of cool, at least I think.
The food is choice ...
... and visitors can get up close and personal with the aircraft.
Naturally, we've been drawn to the cars in the past. This Jeep was a pretty sweet rig, complete with a mounted outboard motor ...
... as was this bomb Caddy.
Yet another delightful weekend in Michigan's north country, thanks to Matt's incomprable hospitality and some picture-perfect weather.
..or I thought so/till today/until you were there/everywhere/and I all I could taste was lov--
Fuck, sorry about that. Got wrapped up in some Manilow action.
I had that expression in my head as today, we finally made it to August. We are now in Month Eight of this 12-month deal, and I use this as a marker and portend of deliberately joyous things to come. It's August, typically the hottest month of the year, at least it is here in the Midwest. And when it's over, it is September, and we are pretty much on the brink of fall. Fall in Michigan is sublimely wonderful, and we are not that far off. With Aug. 1, we are now in the shadows of the college and pro football seasons. In a couple of days, you won't be able to drive past a high school in America without hearing the popping of Riddell pads, amid a backdrop of teenage boys pummelling the hell out of each other while coaches, awash in their own demagoguery, yell. I've interviewed dozens of high school football coaches. Every one of them was an asshole.
So, um, fuck them, but watch me as I gleefully rub my hands together, waiting for that first weekend of college ball on Saturday and the pros on Sunday. Watch me as I get my balls handed to me in my fantasy football league. Watch, as Mrs. Chicken and I enjoy cold beers and sandwiches while watching U-M navigate this rebuilding season. August is when football starts and it's when I ramp up the nostalgia machine and gear up for more selfish stimulation. August is the month of my birth, and I'm down for my birfday like you wouldn't believe. I get into it. I always get into it. I think that's because I've typically had really good birthdays, even if we hop into the wayback machine.
August is also the month of Torchapalooza, Cousin Matt's (technically, he's Kerry's cousin, but I call him Cousin Matt because he's tight like that; he's not just cousin, he's a "cos," if you knowwhatI'msaying), which I have previously chronicled here, if you scroll for a half-second. This is two and a half days of inspired chill time/decompression on Michigan's longest inland lake and second-largest inland lake. We eat delicious up here and the agenda is nothing but whatever the fuck you think you want it to be. So yeah, I have a birthday and a kickass weekend with great people in a lush and relaxed environment, in which I become a lush and relax. What else could you possibly want?
How about a third weekend that serves as the best annual camping trip ever. I've fallen in love with my August camping weekend on the Leelanau Peninsula, as the state park in Northport, where I can unzip my tent and very nearly reach out to touch Lake Michigan. It's me and one of my best friends, going back to childhood, again, drinking and eating way too much, roasting near some big-ass bonfires at night, listening to the Tigers on the radio, talking excessively, going on Yahtzee jags that last two, sometimes three, scorecards in a session and drag into the middle of the night, one mixed drink after another, each pretzel rod more wonderful and inviting than the one before it.
I have a trifecta of what I think is cool shit in this month, but I especially embrace that the hot weather won't be around much longer and the goodness that is crisp fall weather approaches. Other noteworthy (or not) elements of this month? Well, it is:
Admit You're Happy Month
Back to School Month
Cataract Awareness Month
Children's Vision and Awareness Month
May Your Reading Be A Haven Month
National Get Acquainted With Kiwifruit Month
National Golf Month
National Immunization Awareness Month
National Investors Month
National Win With Civility Month
Spinal Muscular Atrophy Awareness Month
Women's Small Business MOnth
Family Eye Care Month
Foot Health Month
Harvest Month
International Air Travel Month
National Child Support Enforcement Month
National Parks Month
National Catfish Month
National Water Quality Month
Peach Month
Romance Awareness Month
Do your part, people.
Still coming down from another stellar weekend on Torch Lake. Big ups to Cousin Matt for making it happen. There are a couple of weekends per year that are guaran-fucking-teed to go straight to me, and Torch weekend is one of them. I don't know, something about good weather, a couple of cabins full of great friends, a huge, clean lake, plenty of booze and food, and no agenda, seems to set a person straight, even if just for a little while.
Got up Thursday evening and chilled immediately, while Lamont got to know his cousin, Duffy. Those two would be doing this shit all weekend.
The grounds provide a wealth of imagery.
Naturally, there is much napping to be had, as Kerry demonstrates with her cousin Drake.
I love that you can see the dog's breath on the window. Good thing you can't smell it.
Breaking off some stoner food.
The night would blow through with a ton of drinking and goofing off. The Tiger game was delayed four hours and finally started at 11 p.m. It would end at 3:30 in the morning with a Guillen walk-off. Some stayed up for it, others crashed. Matt
We awoke Saturday to some fruit.
and chilling with the morning paper
before feasting on three pans of strata Kerry and I made (with help from Heather). We lit it up with one pan of sausage, cheddar cheese and green chili; another of bacon and Swiss; and a third of green peppers, mushrooms and parmesan cheese
And then, it was time to start another round Matt hauled coolers down to the boat, where we would spend the entire afternoon drinking and being regaled with some beautiful weather on a picture-perfect day.
It was Lamont's first foray into a lake. I tried to get him to swim, but this was as good as it got for him.
That dip sure was good
As were the beers
and would bring forth quite a yield
As well, a man in leisure must have his house kicks with him at all time. I pack these bad boys everywhere I go.
We would enjoy unrivaled comradeship Saturday night as well
It was a delightful weekend that cannot be done proper justice by these images and these feeble words. Thanks again, Matt. You know how to throw one hell of a party.
It is fall in Michigan, which amounts to my favorite time of the year, despite its all too brief appearance.
The only thing worse than getting robbed by a short fall, is the exit
from said season into five months of bitter cold and dirty snow. But
this weekend, we endured through a long one at Torch Lake with an
overindulgence of food and drink, not to mention some raging
hospitality from cousin Matt and some truly phenomenal company by a
group of people soon to be my in-laws.
We took Friday off and drove the 4 1/2 hours to Torch Lake Thursday night, getting there around 9:30 or so. We had some drinks with Matt and Kate, played some cards (which I never do, I'm not a card person; I don't even know how to shuffle a deck; give me some Yahtzee or Scrabble and it's a different story). We woke up refreshed and comfortably out of our element Friday morning, had some breakfast and tried to formulate what to do with the day. While I thought napping and reading would be the order, I saw Matt was busting his ass in the front yard raking leaves, so I chipped in, at least when he got to the back yard, which is HUGE and runs down to the lake. We did that all afternoon, worked up a fantastic sweat and then I showered and keep smoking. Rian and Julie showed with their dogs, Chloe and Scout, and Casey and Mary would show up later that evening.
Friday morning, Kerry and I made some crock pot stew, left to simmer all day. Julie brought some chicken con queso.
We hung tight Friday night, drinking, smoking and snacking. Saturday we
got up, had a massive breakfast and, again, started to diagram our
afternoons. A small group suggested a hike, so I went with them, while
others hung back at the crib and power chilled. It was a lovely walk in
the woods, probably about a good five miles, through some property on
the other side of the lake which, I think, is owned by the YMCA. They
have some huge camp up there. And a lot of sinks, apparently.
Hey, uh, Ray, what kind of estimate do you give to a rig of this condition?
We also found someone's study — a chair and bookshelf.
They also left behind some jars. I wonder what they contained.
So we kept on, following a map to some sort of fire tower. It was a perfect day, which was not the case the day before or the day after. Luckily, we had one good one, weather-wise.
We finished our hike and headed to Bellaire. Casey and Mary knew of a brewpub there they wanted to check out, so we grabbed a coupla fine beers there.
We made our way back to the house for dinner preparations. We had some garlic mashed potatoes, sauteed green beans, Michigan salad, and Matt threw down some serious beef tenderloin with a horseradish cream sauce.
The rest of the night was equal parts debauchery and hedonism, but with a serious touch of disappointment. The Tigers got paddled in Game 1, but we still had ourselves quite a time yukking it up. The dogs ran around.
We lounged by the fire.
Of course, though, you can never have it that good for long. Driving back in the cold, windy rain on Sunday, Kerry's car started making a funny noise, like it was getting a flat tire. I pulled over. No flat. I kept driving and it was as if the rear driver's side wheel was about to fall off. I pulled over again and pulled on that wheel. Yes, it was a little loose, despite the lugnuts being firmly secured. Just then a cop pulled up and offered help, which I thought was excellent timing and a classic display what the fucking police are there for in the first place. I removed the wheel and even he noticed the drum/rotor had a little too much give in it. He called for us a wrecker from a reliable shop in nearby Roscommon, about four hours away from our home. He loaded up the car and took it to his shop to reveal that yes, the bearing inside the housing there had gaulded itself to the blabbity blah.
Luckily, Matt and Kate had yet to leave Torch Lake. Everyone else was gone. We had to leave the car in Roscommon (where it still is now), while they swooped through and drove us home, with a Jeep full of their bags, two dogs and four humans. We left Torch at noon and got back home at 8:30. It thoroughly sucked.
We had to leave Lamont in the back of the car at the shop, while Matt and Kate made their way to us, maybe about 45 minutes. Our really friendly tow truck driver/mechanic, Derek, dropped us off at local bar where Kerry and I tried to soothe ourselves with vodka and sandwiches. It was tough, knowing Lamont was back in the car by himself (we couldn't hang out at the shop, they were closed; and we surely couldn't take him with us). But I didn't worry as much. He's a good dog and a brave fucker at that, and I knew he would just knuckle down and ride it out, which he did, like a fucking pro I might add.
Driving home wasn't as easy, at least not for me. While sitting in the backseat playing along with conversation, I keep thinking over and over what would've happened had we lost that wheel at 80 miles an hour, with steady traffic behind us. The car would've probably flipped. I don't know, I just keep looking at Kerry and Lamont on the way home, trying to hold myself together at the thought of anything happening to them, that I've made this unstoppable, leviathan-in-scope committment to the two of them and should anything happen, well, I don't know, I tried not think about it, but it's really fucking hard when you have an active imagination like I do.
The thought of her not in my life makes me want to fucking throw up everything in my body, everything between my toes and my neck. But, as I'm sure you're thinking at this point (if you're still with me, you're a punishment glutton if you are; but I quietly thank you), it didn't happen. Nothing bad happened and that's what Kerry pointed out on the side of the freeway. We were safe and that's what mattered.
It seems like a lot of shit is coming with a price these days, at least for me personally. A blissed out, kind of selfish weekend of fun, laughter, imbibing and eating, is punctuated with a brutal little lesson for The Chicken and a triple-shot of scary reality.
I'll take it, though. I'm better for it today.
