The Brewmaster And The World's Largest Pig Farm

Nigeria had a newspaper that was the equivalent of The National Enquirer, and one week it ran a sensational headline: “I SMOKE, I DRINK, I EAT PORK”.

The newspaper interviewed a popular female singer who is Muslim, and she shocked the country by publically admitting that she breaks three Muslim taboos: cigarettes, alcohol, and pig meat.

I lived in Kano, deep in the heart of the Muslim section of Nigeria.  Kano was the site of the largest pig farm in the world.  It puzzled me why a huge pig farm would be located where most of the people never eat pork.  Then I realized: the pig farm did not have to worry about livestock disappearing.  It only hired Muslims and no Muslim employee would ever sneak a pig out of the farm to take home.  The pigs were shipped 450 miles by railroad to be slaughtered and processed in the Christian section of Nigeria.

So, when a beer brewery was built in Kano, there was a similar logic: hire Muslim employees because they would not sneak bottles of beer out of the brewery. 

The new brewery used the same advertising approach as American breweries: drink our beer and attractive females will flock to you.  This new beer was named Double Crown, and the gimmick was that if you drink Double Crown beer, attractive female twins will flock to you.  “Double your pleasure with Double Crown Beer”.

The brewery hired a brewmaster named Dieter from Germany.  Dieter noticed that Kano had the largest pig farm in the world and, being German, turned part of the brewery into a small sausage making facility.  This was the only sausage within 450 miles.

When Dieter heard that I gave evening Hausa lessons for foreigners who wanted to learn the local language, he started coming to my lessons.

I was hoping that my friendship with Dieter would pay off some day. 

I was hoping to get invited to the legendary Friday Beer Evaluations at the Double Crown Brewery.  The Evaluations were famous for providing a wonderful spread of food, including sausage, while soliciting judgments about the latest batch of beer.  A select group of brewery employees attended and a handful of outsiders were invited.

I finally got an invitation.  Two friends from California were visiting Kano at the time, and I talked Dieter into three invitations.

That Friday came, and I felt so special.  The Double Crown beer makers wanted to hear my opinions, and they wanted my opinion so much that they would serve me some sausage. 

There were 2 Germans, 5 Nigerians, and us 3 Americans at the Friday Evaluation.  At the start, we were each given three glasses painted black so we could not determine the color of the beer inside them.  The glasses were labeled A, B, C.  Two glasses contained Double Crown and one contained a competitor’s beer.

We tasted, and wrote down which glass held the competitor’s beer.  Then we were given a clear glass of Double Crown from a recent batch and we filled out a questionnaire about that beer.  Then we had some food, and then they announced which black glass held the competitor’s beer.

It was glass B!  All the Germans and all the Nigerians got it right.  All the Americans had gotten it wrong.  I had chosen glass A; my California friends had chosen glass C.  We had humiliated America in the eyes of the beer world.

I am pretty sure it was the last time that Americans were invited to a Beer Evaluation at the Double Crown Brewery.  It was certainly the last time I had sausage in Kano, Nigeria.

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In case you haven't seen it before, here is an 11-minute YouTube video of Doug telling how he came to buy a mud house in Kano -  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jw16p1HQnc8

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

An East Coast Guy Living In The Middle Of The Continent

I am reminded that I am living in The Middle Of The Continent every time I watch the nightly news on television, every time I am outside on a summer afternoon, and every time I drive on a road with a lane closure.

Back on the East Coast, the Eleven O'Clock News comes on at eleven o'clock.  Here in the Midwest, the Eleven O'Clock news comes on at ten o'clock.  One channel even does the Eleven O'Clock news at nine o'clock.

Since the trend is for people to go to bed right after the news, that means that St. Louisans go to bed earlier that East Coast people.  And get up earlier.  That suits my metabolism just fine, but it was not my pattern back East.

Back on the East Coast, you would swelter on a summer morning, but around 1:30 PM, the temperature would start to fall.  You could feel the sea breeze.  The Sun would heat up the land and by 1:30 PM the land would be warmer than the sea.  The land air would rise, and be replaced by cooler air from the sea.  So, the temperature would fall. 

When I am standing outside and sweltering on a summer day in St. Louis and I notice that the time is 1:30 PM, I do not expect the temperature to fall.  I expect the St. Louis temperature to keep rising into the late afternoon.  There is no sea nearby for the Sun to heat up.  The only relief the Midwest can look forward to is watching the Sun drop below the horizon.  That’s when the Midwest temperature will start to fall.

Back on the East Coast, the drivers know how to merge when a highway has a lane closure.  When East Coast drivers see a sign saying “Right lane ends – 2 miles”, they wait 2 miles and then the two lanes merge.  There is a common merge point.  A driver from the left lane lets in one driver from the right lane; the next left-lane driver lets in the next right-lane driver, and so on.

This means that an East Coast merge is expected, measured, co-operative, and safe.

Midwesterners see the “Right lane ends – 2 miles” sign and the right lane drivers start to merge immediately.  They do not wait; each right-hand driver darts over into the left-hand lane whenever they spot an opportunity.  This creates hundreds of merge points.  This means that a Midwest merge is unexpected, erratic, individual, and unsafe.

I have to follow this pattern because Midwesterners consider it arrogant to continue driving in the lane that will end.  I do not want to be the object of road rage if I wait until the merge point and try to get in the left-hand lane.

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch has a regular column about traffic, highway construction, and transportation news.  A former New Yorker wrote a letter to the columnist, describing how East Coast people merge at a common merge point.  The St. Louis columnist could find only one response when faced with such a sane, safe, and common-sense way to merge.

The columnist, who lives in The Middle Of The Continent,  responded: “This is not New York.”

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Here is a newspaper report on the famous 1996 U. S. Geographic Survey Expeditionary Force, whose goal was to discover if the land between New York and California was inhabited: 

http://www.theonion.com/articles/midwest-discovered-between-east-west-coasts,1686/

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Brancusi Sculpture On The Staircase

My friend Marion realized that I needed a little coaxing.  “Go ahead, push the doorbell.”

We were standing on the doorstep of a rather large house on Castle Street in Cambridge, England.  The house was formed from three adjoining sixteenth-century cottages.

I pushed the doorbell. The door was opened.  For a few hours every weekday afternoon, the public is welcome to come and roam around inside this house. 

Marion and I roamed.  I immediately recognized a painting by Joan Miro hanging in the dining room...and I noticed that there were two guys sitting at the dining room table writing in notebooks. 

In the living room there were British folk art paintings on the wall and some twentieth-century sculptures sitting on tree stumps.  Amidst the art and sculptures, three women were sitting on a sofa, chatting.

When we passed a bookcase, somebody grabbed a book, sat down in a nearby chair, and started reading.

As we walked down a small stairway, I spotted a small Brancusi sculpture sitting on the next-to-top step.

What was this place?  It was filled with art --- but it was not exactly a museum.  It had lots of furniture --- but it was not exactly a house.

Marion saw the bewilderment on my face, and explained.  This house had been owned by a man who once worked at the Tate Museum in London back when modern art was struggling to be accepted by the art community.  This man, Jim Ede, encouraged the Tate to buy modern artists.  The artists were so grateful that they gave Ede artwork as presents for his house.  That explained the Miro on the wall and the Brancusi on the staircase.

The house is called Kettle’s Yard.  It is being maintained exactly as it looked when Jim Ede and his wife retired to Scotland in 1957.

Marion pointed out that the house is not all art.  She showed me a table where smooth stones had been arranged in a spiral.  Jim Ede would pick up objects when he went walking with his grandchildren.  He integrated the everyday objects into the house. 

Me:         “I wonder what is in this drawer.” 

Marion:   “You can open it.”

Me:         “Can I really open it?”

Marion:   “Go ahead.”

I don’t remember what was in the drawer, but I do remember that I felt like a guilty child and expected a guard to come swooping down on me the moment that I opened it.  No guard swooped down.  In fact, I don’t remember any guards whatsoever.

A woman sat down at the piano, played a tune, and moved on.

I realized that people do not visit Kettle’s Yard --- they hang out in Kettle’s Yard.  Marion and I were hanging out.  We were hanging out with a bunch of strangers in a place of art and found objects and books and inviting furniture and a tranquility only interrupted by piano music.

When my friends tell me they are planning a trip to England, I always mention Kettle’s Yard.  When asked to describe the place, I can only say that there is no place like it on this side of the Ocean and there is no place like it on the other side of the Ocean.

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Here is a 2-minute YouTube video about Brancusi, the sculptor:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj5jpMpuml8

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I

Lawn Guyland

When I was a soldier, I drove up to Seattle for a concert.  During intermission, I talked to the people in the row behind me, and they asked me if I was from the United States.

Normally, I should have been annoyed – there I was giving up years of my life to protect these folks from Communism, and they didn’t recognize me as a fellow American.  Instead, I was pleased.  I was pleased because their comment meant that I was 25 years old and I had gotten rid of my childhood accent.

I grew up on Long Island.  Not only is the island long, it is also large --- large enough to hold many accents.

I was at a work picnic here in Missouri in 2003, and started chatting with a co-worker’s wife.  It had been 42 years since I left my home on the North Shore of Long Island, but I immediately recognized that this woman had a South Shore accent. 

I interrupted her: “Are you from Valley Stream?”  “No, I am from Lynbrook.”  Lynbrook is 2.2 miles from Valley Stream.  Not bad --- after 42 years, I could almost pinpoint where this woman grew up.

There is a problem with saying that you are from Long Island. 

People immediately assume you are a heavy user of glottal stops, and mock you:  “Long Island?  Don’t you mean Lawn Guyland?”  So, we are very cautious about telling people our origins.  “Back East” is a safe thing to say.  “Near New York City” is pretty safe.

In spite of my having lost my North Shore accent, I went back to Long Island for our 50th high school reunion.  

One of my classmates couldn’t come to the Reunion; she was living in Idaho and undergoing chemotherapy.  But she could talk on the phone.  The Reunion was held in a yacht club, and I talked to my friend in Idaho while I stood on a balcony overlooking the bay in our hometown.  I was happy to talk to her, but I was also horrified. 

I was upset because she was battling cancer, but I was horrified because she had lived in Idaho FOR DECADES, and she still talked with a North Shore accent.  What in the world had she been doing out in the middle of the Rocky Mountains for all these years?  How come her voice hasn't left Long Island?

However, when I lead a walking tour here in St. Louis, I am reminded that while I may have lost my childhood accent, I still retain my childhood vocabulary. 

Standing at an intersection in downtown St. Louis and pointing to a building on the diagonally opposite corner, I cannot do it.  I cannot bring myself to say “The building cattycorner from us was designed by Louis Sullivan”.  I would gag.  I can only use the Long Island term: “The building kittycorner from us was designed by Louis Sullivan”.  The people on my tour then give me an odd look.

So, I guess I have not totally left Long Island.

FOOTNOTE: When I typed this blog post, Spellcheck mocked me.  It found nothing wrong with the word “cattycorner”, and it did not recognize the word “kittycorner”.

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Here is a YouTube video (5 minutes) of two Long Island girls pronouncing a list of 20 words to demonstrate their accent:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jHr1QrJizI

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com