Once every 15 years, I pay a visit to Augusta National Golf Club for the Masters. I first went to a practice round in the mid-80s and returned for Tiger Woods' "Tiger Slam" win on Sunday in 2001. And I went back again yesterday.

Mom got the tickets from her boyfriend (thanks, Bill!), woke me up at the crack of dawn, and read the newspaper as I drover her to Augusta. She was eager to see the likes of Adam Scott, Rory McIlroy, Ricky Fowler, Matt Kucher, and Jordan Spieth. She also got in a peek at former Masters winners Tom Watson, Mike Weir, Bernhard Langer, Mark O'Meara, and Vijay Singh. I swear, every hole we passed, there was Vijay Singh. Too bad Mom is no fan of Vijay Singh.

Personally, I was more excited about the food. I mean, it's a beautiful course and all, but an egg salad sandwich, a pimento cheese sandwich, a sweet tea, and a cola for only $7? Seconds, please!

Despite being seriously sleep deprived, I had a great time watching a bunch of professionals practice their jobs. (Troy Merrit seemed to be having a particularly good time.) I look forward to returning in the 2030s.

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I had a conversation the other day with my father who, like many Americans, believes that the end is nigh. It was mostly the usual stuff: Obama. Gun rights. Big government. Federal debt. Apparently, the Iranian bombs will begin falling any day now.

I was trying to argue him out of his position — I'm not saying things are great, but I don't think we're 30 seconds away from Red Dawn — when my argument was destroyed by five words from my television.

"Artisan French Toast at IHoP."

Ok, Dad. You win. It must be the End of Days if IHoP is serving quality food. The last time I was there, they couldn't manage to give me pancakes.

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Friend Cooper proved his worth this week by notifying me that a Culver's is being built in Dawsonville (252 S 400 Center Lane, to be exact). Pay attention Keith: since you live closest to Dawsonville, from now on I will be requiring you to bring me a ButterBurger® whenever we hang out.

According to the Gainesville Times It will be the first Culver's in the state of Georgia, although the article does state "More restaurants are expected around the state in coming months." Welcome to delicious, Georgia!

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To reach my father's house in Florida, I have to drive past several tourist traps advertising a myriad of Florida-related specialties like orange juice, boiled peanuts, and pornography. The advertisement that keeps catching my eye is the sign for alligator jerky. On my latest trip to Dad's house, I could resist it no more.

I knew I'd been suckered almost as soon as I walked inside the little country store and asked for the advertised jerky. "It's right there beside the kangaroo and ostrich jerky," the clerk explained helpfully. I'm not intimately familiar with all parts of Florida, but I don't think they have many kangaroo farms. However, I was already in the store, so I bought the jerky anyway.

I don't know what I was expecting, but what I got didn't taste anything like chicken. It tasted like spicy barbecued beef. If you could read that label, you'd see why: it's alligator "and beef" with barbecue flavor. To be fair, alligator is listed as the first ingredient, but if you can taste the gator over the spicy barbecue sauce, you're a better gourmand than me.

The label held another surprise. The jerky was manufactured by a company in Michigan, Zick's Specialty Meats. Michigan is nowhere near Florida, and though I've never been there, I don't recall hearing that Michigan was overflowing with kangaroos either. I wonder what types of jerky their roadside signs advertise?

So I learned my lesson. The next time I fall for one of those roadside Florida signs, it'll be for something I'm already familiar with: the pornography.

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Say, that's a good looking Ford Fusion out that window.

This screenshot comes from a Ford commercial running in the Atlanta area for about the past month. But the car isn't the reason I'm showing it to you.

This shot was taken in my favorite restaurant, Sprayberry's Restaurant. The Ford out the window is parked in the space usually reserved for the Sprayberry's International Scout. I don't think that Scout ran when I worked there in 1992. You can see it in the picture of the "229 Jackson Street" location here'.

I don't know if the commercial sold any car, but it certainly has me warning some Brunswick stew.

UPDATE: I found a video of the commercial:

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Vacation Day 3: Patriots Point and Fort Sumter

Patriots Point is a museum primarily anchored by its star attraction, the USS Yorktown.

Even at the rip old age of 72, she's an impressive ship. She survived World War II and lived to pull Apollo astronauts out of the sea. But she's showing her age in places: Brian got rust stains all over his white shirt while descending from her bridge.

The volunteer docents — all exceedingly friendly old sailors — were disappointed by our refusal to take the guided audio tour, but they agreed that we were short on time since we also planned to take the ferry to Fort Sumter. We hustled out to the flight deck and looked around as best we could in the time Brian and I had allotted ourselves. The ship is so big, it would probably take two days to explore fully.

Compared to a 20th century aircraft carrier, Fort Sumter feels tiny. Otherwise, its a good looking ruin on a man-made island in the middle of the busy Charleston Harbor. It's small size seems disproportionate to its importance in the Civil War. The big, black battery that now takes up most of the island didn't exist in 1861, so maybe Sumter had more room for whipping slaves back in the day.

We were harried by rain all afternoon, and the recurring thunderstorms that washed over the harbor also kept us from seeing most of the island. The rain came in wave after wave, chasing us back to shore. The ferry ride back was a wet one.

Returning to Patriots Point, we toured the USS Laffey destroyer and USS Clagmore submarine before taking another shot at the Yorktown. This time we walked through the galley where we saw the Navy's super scientific recipe for Peanut Butter And Jelly Sandwiches (Sandwiches No.N 014 00).

Ingredient:

• Bread, White
• Peanut Butter
• Jelly, Grape

Method:

1. Spread each slice of bread with 1 Tb peanut butter. Spread 1 slice bread with 1 Tb jelly. Top with second slice.
2. Cut each sandwich in half.

Notes:

1. in step 1, jam may be used.

And that, boys and girls, is how we won the war.

More to Come.

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Have you seen this commercial, released in time for NFL play-off season? I think it's great, but it fails to answer the most important question it raises.

What, exactly, does McDonald's have to do with love? A Big Mac sure doesn't look like love. Neither does a globe-spanning for-profit organization that steadfastly refuses to pay employees a living wage.

Cute commercial, though.

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Whoops. Skipped a day there, didn't I? It wasn't a mistake. I just didn't feel like turning on my computer and blogging after baking a yellow cake from scratch for my father's birthday.

Of course the cake wasn't really the hard part. No, that was the boiled icing. My maternal great-grandmother used to be a baker of some local renown, and her recipies, like all ancient texts, are something of an enigma to decipher. However, after some trial and error over the years (plus a quick review of pertinent information in The Joy of Cooking and a tabbing through Google for "boiled chocolate icing"), I've got the icing down pretty good.

Her recipie:

• 3 c sugar
• 1 c milk
• 1 stick butter
• 2 sq bitter chocolate
• 1 T Karo syrup

Stir on high until it boils, turn down and cook to 230° or until it forms a soft ball in water. Let it cool about 20° before stirring. Add vanilla (1t), beat until it doesn't go back into itself too quickly. Put onto cake. Cools quickly after beginning to ice.

Momo wasn't kidding. If you attempt this yourself, know that you have maybe a minute (or maybe two, tops!) of working time to spread that icing. Once it leaves the heat, it starts forming a hard, delicious shell of chocolate.

Bon appetite, Dad.

(Note that this was a food exchange: I made my great-grandmother's cake, and he made his mother's grape leaves. The cake might have been a lot of work, but I'm pretty sure I came out ahead in the deal.)

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Went and bought myself a delicious Sprayberry's® BBQ Sandwich™ (beef, chopped, extra sauce) yesterday evening so that I could have something to enjoy while the NFL tried to pass off the Giants vs. Redskins as a football game.

That's not the whole sandwich. That's what was left after someone BETRAYED ME while my back was turned! Look upon the face of a traitor:

Betrayal, thy name is July!

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I recently joined some old friends for dinner. We set out for Olive Garden, but when Brian discovered the wait at Olive Garden would be 25 minutes, he insisted we head to P.F. Chang's, a restaurant I'd never been to before. It took us 10 minutes to get there. Fortunately, their wait was only 15 minutes. Thanks, Brian!

I'd never eaten at a P.F. Chang's before. I doubt I will again. Not that there was anything wrong with the food, but the service left something — almost everything — to be desired.

The woman who led us to our table handed us menus, introduced herself, and said she'd be our waitress. Excusing herself, she said she'd return shortly to take our drink order. She wasn't gone sixty seconds before another fellow came along, introduced himself, and said he'd be our waiter. Whatever.

The dude made some small talk with James, who is always desperate for more attention, and then took our drink orders. James ordered a Diet Coke with lemon, Brian ordered unsweetened tea with lemon and sweeteners on the side (because Brian), Mike ordered sweet tea with lemon, and I said I'd have what Mike was having. Pay attention; there will be a quiz later.

James ordered an appetizer of pork dumplings. The waiter apologized that they were out of pork (!) so James accepted a substitution of vegetable dumplings. Finally the dude leaves to get our drinks and appetizer while we continue perusing the entree menu. (I'm amazed you're still reading this, but hang in there.)

The waiter returns and apologizes again. It seems that there was some confusion and he is not our waiter, but he promises us that he has placed our appetizer and drink orders. He leaves, and moments later the original woman arrives with our drinks. No lemons or sweeteners. As she hands them out, she apologizes and tells us that there has been some confusion, and she will indeed, truly be our waitress. She then apologizes again, explaining that the restaurant is out of pork. Would we like vegetable dumplings instead? Sure, whatever. We place our entree orders. And could we get lemons for our drinks and sweeteners, please?

So we sit and wait for lemons, sugar, and vegetable rolls. A manager drops by our table. He apologizes for the confusion, then he apologizes because the restaurant is out of pork. Would we like some vegetable dumplings instead? Eyes roll. Brian, who I've seen chew out hotel managers and customer service representatives for lesser infractions, again politely asks for sweeteners for his tea. Proving why he's the man in charge, the manager materializes some sugar packages before leaving. I chastise Brian. "You just missed your last, best chance to get lemons."

Soon, the waitress returns with Mike's soup. She also proves me wrong by producing lemons. It's anybody's guess what happened to our appetizer. When asked whatever happened to our dumplings, she says, "I'll check," which is waiter-speak for "what dumplings?" At this point, I figured the wait staff was performing a vaudeville routine for us.

Eventually, we are served our entrees. No sign of dumplings. They're looking for them. "They disappeared from the window," our waitress explains cryptically. I decide that our dumplings are smarter than we are, and have probably headed back over to Olive Garden. The waitress promises that we will not be charged for the food we never got. Very polite of her.

It isn't until we've all gotten down to the business of eating that our waitress brings us a plate of vegetable dumplings. "No charge," she promises. Mike is brave enough to take a bite and declares them "okay." Hooray?

In the end, I left a $4 tip on a $17.92 bill, because I felt sorry for anyone who has to work in such a madhouse. I should probably thank them. In addition to making a meal out with my friends a very memorable affair, they also convinced me never to eat at another P.F. Chang's. Brian, next time we'll just wait for that table at Olive Garden.

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