Just A Little Cruise Through The Clouds

Hop a freight, grab a star, swim or fly to get to this restaurant!

Or, there are other modes:






Not all as classy as this, I'm sure.

And if parking is tight, there's always that sweet spot by the back door!

Once, a little family climbed down out of a plane, the little kids still in their jammies, and they filed into the restaurant for breakfast.

However it is you get to the Auger Inn at Ogden Hinckley Airport,


it will not disappoint.


Nothing especially unusual about the fare, except it that tastes so dad-gum good, you can't get it out of your head for more than 30 years. My sister used to waitress here in the 70s and we went back the other day hoping that the hamburgers were as good as memory promised. You know, sometimes Memory lies and you have to watch out and her sister, Hope, can mess with your head, too, but this time they were right on.

How could that be, though? Most restaurant burgers look good, right? Even as good as this one looked. I wondered what specifically made my hamburger taste so good, but I didn't want to stop eating it long enough to ask my sister what she thought makes these things taste so good. I even had to comment on the crispy, sweet onions that seemed bigger than the beef patty without overpowering it.

Well, I don't know. It's a puzzle but somehow this food tastes like the past. Oh wait. I know what it is. NO KETCHUP. Who puts ketchup on their hamburgers, anyway?! (I think that was one of the biggest culture shocks my family went through when we moved into this state many long years ago. Forget about religious differences, these people couldn't keep from messing up a perfectly good hunk of meat by putting ketchup on it! I had a friend in high school who would take the Heinz jug out of her mother's refrigerator and haul it with us when we went to Hardee's for lunch. She didn't like their ketchup and ask for her burger plain so she could "fix" it when she got it.)

However, I must say, I had to try Auger Inn's ketchup on those fries, just for authenticity's sake, don't you know. Not bad, and I'm not a fan of ketchup--oh, you knew that did you? It was in a Chef Dave's from Texas bottle and the label was washed out and worn down, some. You can do what you will with that information.

And as we are at the fries, now, yeah, yum. Hot and crunchy on the outside, hotter and soft on the inside.




I asked owner Paul Cromwell, "Remember when Robert Redford came through here?"

He laughed and said he remembered it well. SLC was fogged in and Redford had to hole up in Ogden for a while. He asked Paul if he could hide out in his kitchen, because the runway out back was littered with all these commercial and news planes.

"That was a big mistake. All my girls just went crazy in that kitchen!"




My sister was one of his "girls." He changed her name. "That table's waiting for service over there, Suzy."

"My name's not Suzy."

"It is now."

Suzy

(Well, this was maybe a couple of years before Suzy worked with Paul.)

The restrooms haven't changed that much, either.

A Farr Better Beacon in the Cold Cold Night

Well. What do you think? Think it bears repeating?

OK, how's this?

And this?

Right. You get the picture.

But do you get the aroma?

They should call it Vanilla Waffle Warm. It has steamy little tendril-like fingers that waft up to your nose and pull you through the door.

Oh. Mmmmm...

I counted, oh I don't know--a gazillion deep? There are little heads in that crowd that you can't even see when you're in the store. And this was on a cold Utah winter's eve.

They're waiting for cherry chocolate chip, or moose tracks (with miniature peanut butter cups,) or some outlandishly chunky strawberry ice cream--if they can make up their minds, that is.

But what am I telling you for? If you live anywhere in the vicinity, you already know about Farr's--it's about like 80 years old or something.

You can buy allkynna sherbet, ice cream that looks like playdough, old fashioned Iron Port or retro Root Beer, creamy scoops dotted with little surprises and real teddy bears, too.

This place is mere steps from my front door, but that's all right because they have the best "no sugar added" vanilla ice cream and they pack it tough down into the little pint carton that I schlep home with, vowing to make it last longer than five minutes.

And I do. Because you know--a vow is a vow, after all.

Right On The Tip O' My Heart

Was it memory or imagination... or age... that made me hanker after a loaf of that old Monastery bread? And if it was memory, what of it? The taste? The place and time I first tasted it? The cache of experiences collected and contained in my nineteen-year-old sensibilities? I don't know, but over the years I have been visited by sparkly flashes of memory that distill in the word part of my brain as "Monastery Bread."

I volunteered during the early shift as a "Pink Lady" at the county hospital in Roy, Utah, walking across the street from my backyard without first taking time for breakfast. After helping a few patients with their morning meals, I could take a break and head to the dining room for my own snack. I'd been smelling that hearty, yeasty, toasty aroma all morning and now I could go get my free slice, (volunteers get some perks!) slather it with peanut butter and strawberry jam and forget I was even on the earth!

I ended up taking a full-time paying position at the hospital as an over-worked, under-paid, trod-upon lowly nurse's aide and stayed for a full year, in part because of that bread. Not that I couldn't or didn't have resources to go buy my own loaf, but some things are just not the same taken out of their contextual homes. As a matter of fact, doing winter restoration work at Camp Utaba up in the Valley, I could slip over to the Abbey and buy some bread and honey, which memory also entertains me at this late date.

Drive,

drive,

drive,

ARRIVE

But no one toasted it like those little kitchen ladies at the hospital. My mother remembers when she was a patient herself St. Benedict's Hospital (Old St. Ben's) up there on the East Bench just below Mt. Ogden Park. She had an appendectomy and for five days survived on jello water and clear broth. Her first post-surgery bite of real food was toasted Monastery bread. She still claims that she must have "died and gone to heaven!"

Until very recently, I had given that memory a special place in the Cave of Never Coming Out Again and was hoping for an archival photograph of the monks making bread--just for fun, because googling is great fun for me. I happened upon a site http://www.gallagherstravels.com/States/UT/abbey/ which had a story about the Holy Tinity Abbey in Huntsville and this is what I read:

Although the monks no longer sell their fabulous Monastery Whole Wheat Bread the monk who was the baker has developed a recipe for homemakers who wish to bake their own wheat bread from the monastery recipe. Sweetened with Holy Trinity Abbey liquid honey, this wheat bread is delicious.

Could it be? Dare I scroll down and see if he posted the recipe?!

Here is the recipe...

OH MY HEAVENS, YES!!

(I won't re-post the recipe here, but it's still at that link above, if you want to try it--or ask me for it and I'll give it ye. Oh, and, well duh! They have the recipe right on their own website, but that would have been too logical and not convoluted enough for me to figure out early on: http://www.holytrinityabbey.org/recipe.htm)

I'm not silly enough to have expected it to be the same, even if I could make it just like the monk used to make it for me. (Yes, he made it especially for me until they took him out of the kitchen and sent him to work the farm.) I tried to prepare for the eventuality of at least a little disappointment. I tried to know what my brain knows. I made an adventure out of expecting, plotted the way I would photo-chronicle the process of following the recipe as closely as I could, imagined what I would say to people as I told this story.

But I still sort of hoped in a little hopeful heart, a little tiny bit, that it was possible to loosen that gleaming gem from the crusty, dusty rock of "real life."

So I drove up to Huntsville to get some honey and some pictures.

I walked into the gift store and asked casually of the man sitting behind the desk,

"Honey's the only thing you still make up here, eh?" (I know, I know--I'm a dreamer. Maybe if I asked it the right way, he would say, "Oh no. Didn't you know? We make bread, too!")

But he didn't. He said, "We make monks. That's harder than honey."

We talked, Fr. Patrick and I, about the bread and the honey and my daughter and a wonderful scripture that I could even quote without having to look it up! ("Inasmuchasyehavedoneituntotheleastofthesemybrethrenyehavedoneituntome.")

Twice, Fr. Paddy gave me a message to relay to my swell gehl of a daughter.

I should have stopped right there. What could be better than such friendly, casual banter with a stranger, meeting someone I wish I could really call a friend because he was so lovely and engaging, feeling so connected just by having yesterday's bread and honey in common? Or was there more to it? Did my search for a piece of the past lead me down a winding path of spiritual connectedness? Well, okay...I'll rein it in a bit.

But I really liked this brother.

And actually, the bread didn't turn out half-bad, either.

http://www.holytrinityabbey.org/ Visit this site for more information about the Monastery, including the ascetics' prayer time in the chapel, retreat information--yes, you too can repose and reflect in the mostly unspoiled mountain location--history of the order and, well, you know, other things monastic.

The Story of a Gehl and a Fella

This really cute and cool gehl works on H25 in a boutique called Ume, that no one really knows how to pronounce. You say it "You May" because it's a clothing boutique where "you may" purchase your dreams. This gehl likes this job because she gets paid to try on clothes. Once in a while, she will look out the front window and see this really cute and cool fella trying to make his way down the street:He supports himself on the window ledges along the way and walks like he's an "L." Ghel runs out to offer assistance and sometimes Fella is going to the barber shop on the corner where he will announce, "Willie. I'm so poor. I have no money. I spent it all on whiskey." (It might be a joke; it might be true.) And Willie will laugh at him and say, "I know. Sit down and get a hair cut."
He wonders aloud whether the person taking pictures is an American. Why would an American be out there on 25th street taking pictures? He's puzzled, she's wise, because my daughter knows me and she knows I just bought a new camera and she knows I've been bit by the blogging bug.

Sometimes he is going home from the barber shop.

Fella says he is 91 years old and ready to "go home any day...Many moons. I'm just waiting. Been waiting many moons."

"Yes'm, old friends is always best, 'less you can catch a new one that's fit to make an old one out of." ~Sarah Orne Jewett

This Is A Fine Town

I read it with my own eyes:

"Ogden has become Utah's little sweetheart.

I have a lot to say about Ogden, myself, but I know it's pretty much been said by bigger and better sayers: National Geographic, The Salt Lake Tribune, The Wall Street Journal, New York Times. They have all written about "...the adrenalized adult's version of Disneyland," in some form or another. So good for Ogden.

I like it for some other reasons, too, not the least of which is this Star Noodle dragon, a photographer's dream of a sign. As with a lot of people, Ogden and I go way back. I wasn't born in Ogden and I'm not a native Utahn. Got dragged here with my family when I was a kid, but not even to Ogden. Syracuse, actually. Onion fields, flooded ditches and Stimson's market were our playgrounds, then, until we grew up a little and found ways to get into town on our own.

Got our vinyls at Woolworth's, hot dogs at ZCMI snack bar, ham salad sandwiches at Kiesels on the corner and suede moccasins at Cross Western Wear. We tried on clothing at Auerbach's, but didn't buy much there. A little too rich for our blood at that time. We were lucky to find peasant blouses to fit our budget in the Bon's basement.

We still have the Egyptian, but we went to more movies down the street where we watched "The One and Only Genuine Original Family Band," "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Camelot" and (still a favorite of mine) "To Sir With Love" at the Orpheum.


Then I grew up, moved away, came back, moved away, came back, moved away-away, came back...well, who's counting? I'm here now. I've been through some growing pains with Ogden and have developed a nearly sentimental loyalty to the place.









I'm developing this grab bag blog just to chronicle snap shots (literal and literary) of places and things, people and surprises about living in this cradle of the Wasatch. For fun. Because I want to.