The Little Words Mean the Most

The monthly life of a consultant

May 2012. Click image to peek.

A tulip exhausted by sex

Using locally popped...

... kettlecorn from the farmers' market for a soup garnish. Click image to explode.

Whooooo am I?

I am listening to...

... a PBS documentary about the Civil Rights Movement in the US, in the 1950s and '60s. In my 3rd-floor office. The documentary's playing on the first floor. Simone chose it. Me, I have a client presentation in Manhattan on Tuesday. [Spam alert: that was nothing but self promotion.] I am listening to the voices, two floors below. Their tone. Their purpose. Their anger, on both sides. Their story, told by the narrator. Their hate. Their resistance to change. "They" (psychologists know) will predictably resist the loss of what "they" love: the average caucasian's sense of privilege, in this case. Privilege always distorts in somebody's favor. And perceived loss of privilege always triggers fear, anger, hate, resistance, violence even. Lots of murders, lest we forget. But this "loss" rite of passage is not eternal. Today's privilege can become tomorrow's museum piece. As we will all learn re: racial discrimination. I hope I live that long. I do want to see it.

Tools should be seen in the garden

Click the image to expand ... and really see what I mean. Tools have verticals and shiny, suggestive purpose. I like making them part of my landscaping.

Ohio signs

Edison Community College. Good advice for us all. UFO country. My rental is faster than your rental. Waterless urinals: bring your own.

NE CT roadside smoked meats

Dear Diners, Dives, and Drive Ins.....

The place I want to tell you about is a food stand on wheels, with a smoker puffing away outside, handy to a supply of applewood. In Killingly, CT, just down the road on Main Street from Zip's Diner.


The cook is fully tattooed, with a long chin braid. He ran construction crews in Boston before the housing bubble burst. His wife (?) was a scientist at Pfizer. They always wanted to cook for a living. He was laid off. She quit. They bought a falling down food cart in NYC, hauled it home to Killingly, rented space in a car lot, and stuck out an OPEN flag.

It's called Gut Bustas. 860-933-8615. The cook I've noticed has a close, personal relationship with his meat. He sings to it. He pours sweet nothings over it.

I've eaten there 3 times now. It took a long time to stop and get past the ramshackle appearance, and the outdoor-only eating under an unheated blue tarp. I didn't think they'd make it through the winter, to be honest. But they've now celebrated their one-year anniversary. And the church of the barbecue has begun to find them.

I ate there today, ordering a succulent meatloaf sandwich wrapped in bacon, plus a side of blue cheese fries. There was a family there from out of state. And a young couple who'd grown up eating "real" BBQ down south. Both of them had "heard about it" and come to try. The talk was about contest-winning BBQ techniques. There's good crack, as Irish say. Non-stop chatter, if you want it, through the order window into a kitchen no bigger than the bed of a pick-up truck.

Today: lousy, cold, rainy. Yet the orders at Gut Bustas hadn't paused for 8+ hours straight, from breakfast through early dinner. When I showed up at 5 PM they were out of almost everything. But there was more on the smoker.

Love the show, Tom Ahern