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The Hard Man Woman PB & J Sandwich

Mar 15th, 2010
by dolomitesport.
17 comments

Thanks to Alex Newport-Berra for his second contribution to DolomiteSport. Alex is a great friend and remains the fastest man I have seen on a bike. He has his own blog which I find to be one of the most creative and fun sites in my list of bookmarks.

At the end, we’re throwing out a challenge to all those getting through Alex’s post, read on and enjoy. And for our European friends, it is truly time to learn something from these wise words. Remember who was fastest on the passes in 2009 – I hear Lance even lives on these – and the fuel of choice was…..

The PB & J (for Europeans: Peanut Butter & Jelly – yes, the horror, but read on)

by Alex Newport-Berra

First, an antipasta…

Whether it’s a pre-rando race plate of Mama’s pasta and Tiramisu at Ustaria Posta, a post ride Italian pizza the size of a bicycle wheel, or a simple, yet elegant stop at the top of Passo Staulanza for a mid-ride ginseng espresso and pastry energizer for the next pass, it is clear the Patitucci’s grand adventure lifestyle requires substantial fuel. And with Dan’s stamina and power some might confuse him for a horse, except that his palette is a bit more refined. A man, especially one with Italian blood and a Swiss wife, can’t live on oats alone.  Among all the amazing photos of far-off mountains in all seasons, interviews and insight from inspirational athletes, stories, and each new post to their site, I find the Patitucci’s talents whetting both my appetite for adventure and the unique cuisine they encounter as a result.

However, there seems to be a bit of a hole as the main caloric ambassador for the Patitucci’s U.S. adventures is, beer. The recipe I share with you here is the foundation, the traditional mountain adventure food of Americans everywhere. From the dirt-bag climbers living out of vans to the lift-junkies in Aspen to the diligent cyclist putting in long base miles for the season.

For all the European readers, with limited access and esteem for peanut butter, feel free to use Nutella and that fresh loaf of bread you picked up this morning at the local bakerei.

The recipe itself is quite detailed, explicit, and a touch obsessive, but it comes down to one thing Italians and many Europeans know well, a passion for food that fuels a passion for life in the mountains!  And, when cooking, or in any technical mountain pursuit for that matter, it is not so much the ingredients you use, rather it is the process, your intention, and precision of execution that dictate success.

When I was young this sandwich was my weekend fuel of choice for mountain bike rides in the woods.  In high school this PB&J fueled my good friend Matt and I on many climbing and hiking adventures that I’m sure put both our Moms on edge.  When I was in college it was with this sandwich I courted the most beautiful woman on campus.  In my early twenties, sick, weak, and chock-full of pain killers after an ACL surgery gone wrong, this sandwich was the only food that aroused my palette, and so it was this sandwich that nursed me back to health, strength, and bike riding vitality.

And now, the main course, the true hard-man/woman’s PB&J

Ingredients:

2 slices of your favorite sandwich bread (take the slices from the middle of the loaf, this will ensure you have the moistest, biggest, pieces of bread.)

Pure, natural fruit Jam

Natural, 100%, crunchy peanut-butter (Jiffy, Skippy, or any other brand with anything other than peanuts and salt is NOT ACCEPTABLE, you might as well use drywall spackle if you’re planning to make it with a brand that ends in “y”.)

Tools:

Butter knife.

The biggest, sharpest, knife in your house.

Plate.

Hands.

Mouth.

Make it:

It is crucial you follow these instructions exactly.  It makes a difference.  This recipe is one part tea ceremony ritual, one part artistry, and one part highly calculated PB&J foreplay.  And with the PB&J foreplay in mind, it’s worth informing, “do not eat, taste, etc. any of the ingredients during the construction process, your “first bite”, should really be, your first bite.”

Have at the ready your PB and jam because once you pull the slices of bread from the middle of the loaf they immediately start losing their fluff, moisture, and goodness, and you want those babies fresh for your first bite.

Place both slices of bread on the cutting board, one above the other, not side by side.  Seriously, this is not some sort of abstract impressionism; you just can’t be putting your bread all willy-nilly wherever you want.

Cradle the lower slice in your hand, spread a thick, 3/8 inch layer* of jam on its surface.  The spread here is finesse and it’s all in the wrist, this is where my childhood tennis and golf lessons came in handy.  Make sure the middle area is just a little thicker.

*a rather long, though necessary note about spreading thickness: unless you are an engineer or of another profession that works with a ruler on a daily basis, it is imperative you educate yourself on what 3/8 of an inch honestly looks like.  If you know your fractions you’ll realize I’m talking almost 1/2 inch here.  Go, now, and find a ruler, familiarize yourself with just how thick 3/8 inch actually is.  Yes, that IS a lot of PB and J.  And that IS the whole point.  The PB&J was not intended for the modern wave of caloric fear and scrutiny.  This is the kind of sandwich Sir Ernest Shackleton, Eddy Merckx, Reinhold Messner, or The Statue of Liberty would be proud of.  It is a blissful, positive, life-affirming sandwich that Oprah, Weight Watchers, Subway, or the muddled “Vogue” magazine calorie-free chocolate sauce psyche would not approve of, and is simply not prepared for.  So do you get it now?  Don’t skimp it.  Let the 3/8 inch beauty and size be fuel for a grand adventure, a long day in nature, a chance to trust that what’s in your stomach will serve as a foundation for an amazing experience to come, one without fear or worry of growing hungry, tired, or weak, mid-way through your efforts.  Or split it with a friend.

Place the lower slice, now covered with the prescribed layer of jam, on the plate.  Now, there will be some residual jam on the butter knife.  This is good.  Wipe the knife clean on the upper slice in two diagonal swipes, creating a faint “X” on the slice.

Cradling this slice in your hand spread a thick 3/8 inch layer of PB, again, a little thicker in the middle.  I’m not going into the crunchy vs. creamy debate.  Honestly, creamy PB is like buying a white Porsche, or Fabio and Heidi Klum wearing board-shorts and a muumuu to the photo-shoot.

Carefully position the PB slice on top of the jam slice on the plate, ensuring the edges line up with the precision of an elevator door closing.  Flip the sandwich over so the PB layer is now on the bottom.

Things are getting steamy now, dark hued jam oozing, rich peanut butter smells wafting in the air, the soft texture of moist bread grazing your open palm. And this is good, remember, “do not eat, taste, etc. any of the ingredients during the construction process”.  Food foreplay heightens the senses, appetite arousal, so the first bite is sweet, salty, crunchy, moist, orgasmic bliss.

The final cutting of the sandwich is where I got to secretly live out my desire to be a sushi chef.  I always admired the intention and focus they put into each cut, and their gleaming, larger than life knives.  This cutting process is where I used the biggest, heaviest, sharpest knife in the house.  Pick the sandwich up from the plate.  You will notice the wonderful heft of the sandwich, the glory of your true 3/8 inch* layers of love.

Place the sandwich back on the cutting board, jam side up.  Lightly tamp down the top side of the sandwich by moving the knife in a diagonal position and direction from the lower left corner to the upper right corner of the sandwich.  You are tamping, not smashing.  Some jam and PB will ooze out the side, this is ok, and where the one contradiction to the rules comes in.  Pick up the sandwich and lick clean the edges.

You will either be highly attracted to, or highly suspicious of, the tamping process.  Though, as a wizened Italian grandmother said to her quivering grandson before his first confessional, “I don’t care what you believe, just do it!”  The tamping process firms the moist mid-loaf slices of bread and creates uniform layers of bread PB and jam.  It also allows the bread to hold up to the mastication process a few seconds longer so each bite is a true amalgamation of bread, PB and jam, resulting in a heavenly, sin-free, experience.

At last, you are ready to “plate” your creation.  Make sure the cut line is going from the upper left hand corner to the lower right.  No garnish, no accessories, this one stands alone.

As you look with awe, wonder, and lust, you will be amazed at your feelings of affection for what many deem a simple stand-by.  Sweet chanting in your mind has become louder, perhaps vocal, as you find yourself muttering between swallows of mouth-watering pre-bite saliva, “It’s time baby, it’s time.  Let’s eat!”

If you’re intending to transport this beauty I have found that a good wrap in foil is really the only way to contain it properly as most “sandwich” baggies won’t come close.  Where, how, when, you enjoy this sandwich is entirely up to you, and the adventure it fuels.

___________________________________

>> DolomiteSport Photo Contest <<

We’re looking for the perfect PB&J photo in one of two forms. There are two categories in which to play.

1. Design : We’ll consider Alex’s principles of construction and rate according to design and presentation – this will be the overall prize and the winner will receive a Smartwool NTS Baselayer system courtesy of our fun loving friends at the wool clothing master.

2. Consumption : For those not so talented in food photography, this is the category for you. The winning photo will be chosen based on the effects/aftermath/mess of eating a finely crafted PB&J sandwich. The winner will receive a stack of DolomiteSport stickers along with a napkin.

Please post photos by April 1 to our DolomiteSport Facebook Fanpage

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Shopping Cart Enlightenment

Feb 8th, 2010
by dolomitesport.
7 comments

When I asked Alex Newport-Berra if he would like to contribute a mountain sport post to DolomiteSport, I had absolutely no idea I would get a story about a shopping cart. Coming from Alex I can understand his seeking enlightenment, but through a shopping cart? Well… this is his genius and exactly why I asked him to write in the first place for in addition to possessing the strongest cycling legs I have ever had the frustration of being dropped by, he also has an equally strong creative skillset in photography, writing and general thought. I truly love reading what he has to say. More of his work can be seen at his own site: Building Boats.

I Like Firewood

European inspiration

Endurance adventure athletes pair enlightenment with masochism.  The sweet with the salty, like the peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuffed in a rucksack for a summit snack (for all my Euro friends out there who don’t give PB its proper respect and don’t even stock it in your grocery stores, replace with Nutella).  A typical outing can involve riding 100+ miles on the bike while maintaining the dignity to sport shaved legs and lycra shorts with a built in crotch-cuddler.  Or maybe it’s a 4 a.m. start, swapping sunbathing weather for snow, omitting the Gucci speedo for a Pata-gucci shell and the electronic chic of an avalanche transceiver.

Yet for all the salt, sweat, suffering, and sacrifice we endure, there is always the luscious, mouth watering, jaw dropping, sweet reward: a day alone in the beautiful bosom of Mother Nature, perhaps exploring new roads with new friends, or the freedom of a simple focus on body, breath and movement, hour after hour.

It was on a winter afternoon when I found myself with the familiar taste of salt in my mouth, pushing an empty grocery cart, miles from its linoleum floored home, towards the local mountain. The previous week, at the end of a long road ride, an abandoned pile of firewood rounds in the ditch got my attention.  What got my attention even more was noticing later the crumbs of bark that were the meager remains of Old Man Winter feasting on my firewood pile.

The intention to train for a specific race or adventure eases the lactic acid burn, and I have plenty more on my list of “things-to-do”.  Justifying my idea of a shopping cart turned firewood hauler seemed perfectly logical and resourceful, and a good bit of cross-training.  People whizzing by in their cars were obviously the “Gold’s Gym” type.  Their confused faces blurred by as I loaded the cart to the brim, three miles from the nearest shopping center.


The trip back to my woodshed was mostly downhill, fortunately, since the wood was still pretty green, making for a heavy load.  The welds of the shopping cart squeaked and moaned, my hair and smile flew crazy with the wind.  Eventually I arrived victorious, bogging down the small wheels in the loose gravel driveway.

I unloaded and started savoring the sweet: winter fuel free of charge, bombing the last mile down smooth asphalt to return the cart, putting the cart back in the parking lot corral and imagining the story it was about to tell to all its metallic friends who were forced to spend the day under fluorescent lights and bar codes, a resourceful use of my body, sweet warmth to share with friends, food, and stories past and stories to be.  And a moment, when, a few weeks later, at the end of a day of mountain biking, I stand in the middle of my driveway, wielding the noble mountain man phallic known as a “splitting-maul”, taking a deep inhale between focused, zen-like chops, to observe the mountains’ rugged silhouette standing in front of a golden ember sunset glow.

Don’t tell Igor Tavella, but I’m preparing for a Despar shopping cart assault on Dolomite switchbacks.  Those Sud-Tirol folk are keen firewood stackers, and I imagine come summer there will be huts on the Sella ring in need of a few cords.


Feeding the beast, stoking the fire, fueling the flame, each adventure keeps the flame strong for the next.  The mountains have taught me many lessons, one of the most powerful being the truth of balance.  So with this, fellow bikers, hikers, skiers, and more, yodel loud and rejoice!  Whether it’s a wintry trip to the market or a full-on alpine escapade, the saltier your adventure, the more sweet the reward.

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Garmin’s Virtual Training Partner

Mar 9th, 2009
by dolomitesport.
No comments yet

Garmin Forerunner 405 Review

So I got my new Garmin Forerunner 405 the other day. A watch, a GPS, a training partner and tool, a little coach in a watch.

I used it for the first time today training ski rando. All worked perfectly until this little window kept rotating through telling me I was behind my virtual Garmin training partner. It even had a little guy running along, in front of my little guy.

Huh? I was livid, I went faster but no matter what I did, the little icon man stayed off the front. Soon I had sweat dripping off my hair, as I went higher an icicle formed and dangled in front of my eyes, irritating me that much more. I was afraid to slow to deal with my icicle for fear of little icon man disappearing off the screen. Thankfully I was reaping the rewards of an all new playlist, Forza, and rather than bluegrass twanging in my earbuds I had Tool taking root in my pscyhe. I was ready to fight.

And fight I did, by the time I got to the top I had closed in on my little virtual buddy. I thought I would take him on the descent so as if in a race, I stopped, ripped off my skins, threw the downhill lever on my boots, stashed the skins inside my chest pockets and was off. Down I flew on the hard pack ice, no longer able to look at the screen, I hoped for the best in my efforts and stubbornness.

10 minutes later I was finished and like a downhiller made my last turn to stop outside the Kronplatz bar, ever thumping with techno. With my quads screaming in protest of my ridiculous descent, I pulled back my shirtsleeve and with gloved finger hit the pause button. But wait, where is he? No, I had not just paused the little battle, I had stopped it altogether, he was gone, off to the showers. Unless I really read the manual, will I ever know the outcome? Does it really matter? And just what does this say about my personality?

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Cow Adventures part II

Aug 4th, 2008
by dolomitesport.
No comments yet


To stand witness to one’s demise and be able to offer absolutely no assistance is a strange feeling. One is left with the decision to either turn away, or to spectate the misfortune of others.

In my case, today, I was entertained at the highest level by three dairy cows. I opted for spectating.
While riding up one of my favorite passes, which traverses an impossibly steep hillside of forest and cow pastures, I happened to look through a gap in the trees at precisely the right moment to catch one of life’s little comedic scenes.
There, just 2 meters from the guard rail were three dairy cows, two laying down and one, staring into space, standing by. Something didn’t seem right, the look on one of the cows laying down was something other than peaceful. It was terror.
I stopped, casually propped my right foot on the guard rail, and took it all in. In less than 40 seconds, much would occur.
The problem became immediately apparent, what the two cows were laying on was not terra firma, it was a stack of small, cut branches between large pine trees, the branches provided zero support for the bulk that is a cow. I understood what was about to occur, I think even the first victim did as well. The cow’s choice of bedding for the chewing of the cud was caving in. A 60 degree, 400 meter, dirt slope through larches was all that awaited these cows. They struggled in vain.
And so for a moment we locked eyes. The look in hers was something I can only imagine would be similar to the Titanic, had it had eyes, as it rolled into the ocean and began it’s descent toward the depths and darkness. The look in my own was probably closer to those of a viewer of Reality TV, and the irony of the song playing at high volume from my iPod did not escape me, Rihanna’s “Good Girl Gone Bad”.
Grace is not a word often associated with cows and in this case it was no different, she began to roll. Her large, gangly legs paddled for all they were worth, but when 450kg of latte and bistecca get rolling, get out of the way. I only had to rise a bit out of my saddle to follow her as she cartwheeled down the hillside, I was able to track her for quite some time, but soon the distance grew too much and even the thundering, explosive sounds of her descent faded.
It was perfect timing as cow #2 now had a clear path to follow for her own trajectory down the hillside. Off she went.
All that remained was the third cow and myself. She had a bizarre, human like curiosity about what had just occured and much like myself, she was inching closer and closer to the drop to see what sort of devastation was below. It was almost as if she wanted to go get help for her friends, but sick curiosity had her sticking around at the scene.
I decided it was time to go tell the farmer, and so I clicked back into my pedals and rolled on, practicing in my head how to say in Italian that two of his cows just rolled down the mountain.
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“Adventure” Photography

Jul 19th, 2008
by dolomitesport.
1 comment

It may not appear like an adventure, but read on…
Being mountain sports photographers, we are often placed in somewhat dangerous situations; avalanche

conditions, bad weather climbing, etc… But never did we think real injury would come in the manner it did a few nights ago.

What so often begins as good fun can quickly turn ugly, at this point luck can play a role, followed by either a helicopter flight/foreign country emergency room visit, or in this case, a funny story. We prefer the “Funny Later” variety of close calls, of which we have many.

There is a small lake in the Austrian Alps we had been wanting to visit for some photos. Perfect weather arrived and we were in the area, so off we went up the 1000 meter, 2 hour approach. Arriving early, we laid out in the sun before the good evening light. Soon we were surrounded by dairy cows curious as to the taste of our salty backpacks. They hung around a bit then wandered off to complete the utopia-like Austrian Alp scene. It was both a perfect evening for our shoot and to just be in the mountains.

Cute…? okay, yes – but, sinister plans were being formulated

As the light began to improve we began shooting, Janine walked the shoreline of the lake and I shot what would surely be beautiful photos in this perfect landscape.

This is when things changed, our friendly cows moved into the scene, surrounded Janine, and jockeyed for position to be included in our photos. “Fine, they make a lovely addition”, I thought. Snapping a few more images with the cows accesorizing the stock seemed a great idea. Soon, we tired of having them about and Janine tried to lead them away. Where she went, they went and this is where things went terribly wrong.

Suddenly, the energy was turning from playful fun to bovine aggression. But these are cows! Furry eared, innocent eyes, gentle expression cows no less. Not this group. Like a feeding frenzy they moved in, I could hear Janine telling them to go away. As she was engulfed in their mass, she disappeared, then I saw she was on the ground, beneath them, getting drug about. Just as quickly her body flung up into the air above them all, and like a rag doll she dropped back into the herd.

Dropping everything, I ran towards the mob scene like a Samurai warrior, swinging my ultralight carbon fiber trekking poles for all I was worth. I entered the group at full speed, they rotated their giant heads a few centimeters in anticipation of battle, their fuzzy ears twitching to keep the flies away seemed anything but fearful of my wrath. I vaguely remember one’s tongue darting into her nostrils. Janine was screaming, again on the ground. I beat the cow atop her with my poles but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a baseball bat. Mooing, cow bells, and our screams could probably be heard for many kilometers. Had a shepherd been watching the whole scene it would have made a five star YouTube video.

The lead cow turned, left Janine behind, and charged me. It is amazing how fast such a gangly animal can move. All 132 lbs of me took her massive skull and 900 lb bulk square in the chest. To say I was knocked down is an understatement, I was driven into the earth like meteor, but like Janine was thankfully not stepped on. She continued to ram me, I was able to get away, rise and then back she came. Suddenly I was gaining elevation, floating in the air, and the thought, “When will I come down?” actually had time to enter my mind. OOomph, into the grass I fell.

I had had it. Janine was safely out of the scene now and yelling for me to just run. But this kid doesn’t run from a dairy cow, maybe a grizzly, or a wolf, but a cow? I decided the only option left was to go insane. And so I tapped into some deep rooted lunacy and became a madman, swinging my arms and swatting their asses – this seemed to do the trick, the cows began to think better of the situation. I may be small, but I am very, very loud. Their raisin sized brains responded to the mayhem by running, fortunately in the opposite direction.

Soon we were sitting in the grass in perfect evening light, shaking from the fight, but also laughing at the absurdity. An eery silence, splintered carbon fiber, lots of hoof marks, and more than a few cowpies were all that remained in the battlefied. From today on Adventure photography had a new meaning for us.

Now you know the real behind the scenes stories of our work…

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