Shake it Baby

Ever since I was a wee baby gal, I've had it bad for rockabilly. When I was a kid, it manifested as a crush on Elvis Presley. At least, that's what my family thought. In truth, it was an auditory addiction to the heavy handed basslines and piano only found in the boogie woogie, deep blues and rockabilly. I wish to hell my family had recognized it for what it was, and indulged my interest as more than just a silly crush. Ah, well, they did their best. To be fair, I acquired quite a nice little collection of Elvis vinyl, some of which I still have. I wore them out, spending hours on end plugged into a serious pair of headphones larger than my head when all the other kiddies were out doing things with sticks and balls and such. To this day, I know all the lyrics to most Elivs tunes, and when I hear something by him that I hadn't before, I'm truly surprised. But sadly, all those years ago, I knew nothing of Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins or Chuck Berry, let alone Muddy Waters or Etta James. I wish I had, it might have changed my life. 

Lately, I've been going down to Palmer's Bar to check out Cadillac Kolstad, who all but channels a young Jerry Lee Lewis. These performances have touched a place in me that's been dormant for awhile, that smitten little girl discovering what an elixir for the soul music is. If I weren't already married (I love you honey) I think I might propose to this dude. 

If you're an avid lover of music, I don't need to explain the feeling of watching a live performance by a favorite performer, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. When I'm immersed in the murky depths of an intimate blues bar, standup basslines reaching down into my guts, connecting to my musicians on what is as close to a spiritual level as I could ever hope to be. . . Well. It's transcendent. 

To me, music is the most pristine of all the arts. It's the only human endeavor outside of food and sex that is truly universal. I have the utmost respect for people with musical talent, and not learning an instrument or how to perform music is probably the only real regret of my life. 

Last week, the standup bass player at Palmer's had bandages wrapped around all of his fingers. As he played, the bandages began to unravel, and then ultimately they all fell off. I imagined how painful his fingertips must have been for him to wrap them that way to begin with, but then as they unraveled, of course he just played faster and harder. He played through that song and lots of others, until, I have to imagine, his fingers bled. It reminded me of working through a bad burn on the line, being in the zen state, knowing that the show must go on, maybe even reveling in the pain a little bit.

When I look into the eyes of those musicians, a feel another thing. Envy. While I might be able to dance my way through a busy Saturday night in a swampy kitchen, putting up plates for a hundred hungry diners, reveling in the high of hard work, I'm not sure I'll ever feel the ascendent pleasure of creating the kind of beauty that is the emotional equivalent of a drug. I'll always only be an observer and an accomplice, and that makes me sad.  

YAY! CSA!

It's that time of year again in the Bos/ Wms household: farm share season. Yesterday was our first pickup. I've been pretty gushy about this CSA thing, something I can only describe as life changing. I could say tons about it, but simply put, there's nothing like eating what's in season, in its time, grown the way nature intended by a guy you can talk to in person. It's a feeling of knowing you're putting exactly the thing in your body that you are supposed to be at that moment in time, and the taste is the sugar on top. The box:


Greens (kale, spinach, chard) are heavily in season right now. This is a smoked greens recipe I found, calling for smoked sea salt. I didn't have any so I put in some liquid smoke (sue me). It was fantastic, slow braised in chicken stock, vinegar, green onions and shallot. I finished it with fresh Parm. Most people think of tomato when they think MN summer bounty, but I think of radish. Not because I love them-- I don't-- but because they were always prominently featured on my grandparent's table. They sprinkled them with salt and ate them from hand, put them in sandwiches and salads. They were everywhere. I still haven't learned to love them, but I think I might. My grandparents had impeccable taste. I trust their judgement.

My indoor grill rulez. I'm still getting accustomed to her, and I damn near overcooked the steaks, but it all worked out in the end. The beef is marinated in one of the few good recipes I pilfered from the coop. Since I stole it, I got no problem passing it on to you.

3 cups roasted garlic (you would be smart to get a jar of pre-peeled stuff, cover it in EVOO and roast until toasty)
1 cup of the oil from the roasted garlic
1/4 cup chipotle in adobo
2 T cumin (toast and grind yo'self)
1/2 cup lime juice

2 T brown sugar
2 T salt
2 t. black pepper
Puree all of this and use as a marinade, sauce, or toss with veggies and roast 'em.

The meat:

Now you've seen our box and our meat. That's all for today, dirty birds.

Another One Down

I just put in resignation at my most recent part time job. I've had so many jobs in my life, I suppose I should be somewhat embarrassed. But I'm not. Quite the contrary. I look back at the portfolio of experiences I've had, the numbers of quirky characters I've met, the dozens of odd skills I've acquired, and I'm actually kinda proud. I've never been fired from a job, and with the exception of about three of these jobs, I've left on good terms and all of my bosses said they'd hire me back. I'm also very employable and usually get whatever job I go after. (This marks the end of the tooting my own horn portion of the post.) 

I have been with the magazine for over three years, so I am capable of hanging onto a gig when I feel it's a worthwhile endeavor. Most of the food related jobs I have had end because I'm weary of some kind of politics, or a better opportunity comes my way. I decided not so very long ago that I wasn't going to dedicate my life to working in kitchens. I didn't find this business until I was well into my twenties (late twenties, actually) and as such, kids very much my junior already had a jump start on me. I caught up a bit, and I'm a pretty solid cook, but spreading my eggs around in lots of baskets means I don't have quite the abilities lots of other cooks, people who dedicate 60 hours and more to the business have. And I have too much respect for those people to call myself a chef, or to think that I'm capable of running the show. I'm a good cook, a great right had lady, and if shit ever hit the fan, (if I ever wake up from this crazy food writer dream) I could get myself up to speed enough to run a small place, hopefully my own someday. 

This past job was working in the kitchen at a coop. It had it's merits, but I thought it would be different. It was easy and low stress, but the food pretty much sucked and it was boring. There was no challenge in it, and the people weren't the kinds I've come to think of as my kindred (coop people are a different breed entirely from restaurant folks, and while I'd rather hang with coop people than investment bankers, I'd still rather be around restaurant folk). So, I'm saying a fond farewell to this place, and looking forward to spending the summer working for some of my favorite guys. They're also in the process of acquiring a cafe, which may or may not have some opportunity for me. 

I consider myself very lucky to regularly be embarking on new adventures, which is thanks in no small part to my ever supportive man, who brings home the bacon right on time, every two weeks like clockwork. I fried that bacon up in a pan for him last night. You can check out that outstanding meal right here, next time on the all me all the time channel. 

Blog It Up

I put a moratorium on reading blogs from people I don't know. I don't have time, and I don't care that much. However, this means I'm only reading about three blogs these days, and those are only semi-regularly updated. I'm busy, you're busy, and I want to keep up with y'all. I want to know what you had for breakfast, what brand of hairspray you're currently using and how much booty you're not getting. So, if you're reading this now, if you're really my friend, start a blog. (Jo, this means you). 

The end.

PS: I know I need to keep up my end of the bargain, but I've just been working recently, which isn't even as interesting as a new brand of cereal. Next week I'll check in with bullet points and photographs for your viewing pleasure. 

The Jackson 5 "All I Do Is Think Of You" in 1975

I've been sitting and watching J5 footage for hours, and this is amongst the best I've found. Despite the cheesy talent show background and poor production value, the brothers never miss a step, and MJ's melodies are goosebump inducing. Awesome.

Michael Jackson,James Brown,and Prince on stage

Prince steals the show, replete with riding up on his bodyguard's back, but RIP, Michael. You will be so missed.

Food Orgasm

If you know me, you know I eat food for a living. And for fun. And for sustenance. In fact, if you don't like food, we probably have nothing to talk about. I've eaten so many meals, so many good to amazing meals in my life, I almost feel guilty about it. Almost. Last night I had a meal so good, I keep on peeking at the photos as though it were a piece of porno. I'm not exaggerating, as I tend to do. Behold. Keep a wetnap nearby. Seriously. On the menu, it was called "Fresh Sheets," but I'd be more likely to call them dirty. Two sheets of handmade pasta, topped with tartare, but more importantly, it was what lay between the sheets. (If you know me, you know a properly cooked egg is my golden egg):

All in a Week's Work

I've been catering. Two trips to Costco, one to Ikea, one to Paper Warehouse, one to Bill's Imported, three to Kowalski's, two to Target, about 947 trips back and forth to the car, several awkward exchanges with unhappy rich people, a disaster of a kitchen, one near fire, $80 worth of melted truffles, and one deep cut to the nailbed with a dull serrated knife later, I'm finished. There might be easier ways to make a few hundred bucks, but I don't know how to do those. This, I do:

Absence and the Heart (If I ain't got you)

I've always been good with solitude. For all intents, I was an only child. My baby sister didn't come around until I was 14, and by that time, my childhood was all but over. I spent said childhood not only as the only kid, but the only niece, nephew and grandchild. I had the whole proverbial fucking village to call my own. So, while I didn't have siblings to chase around the yard, or whatever siblings do together, I had all of the adult love I could possibly absorb, and then I had my solitude. I had a rich imaginary world, and was content to entertain myself for hours on end in a bedroom or living room. It was fine with me, and it still is. 

Usually, I need about an evening or so of solitude per week, at minimum, to feel sane. It's like vitamins, or sunshine, or food. It's imperative. 

And then, being married for as long as we have, you also tend to count on your spouse for inherent companionship; another vital element I'm beginning to realize I need like water. 

Like water, when something is always present, you don't miss it until it's gone. And this weekend, my man is gone. Over the entirety of our relationship, we've had the kind of marriage where it's okay to take separate vacations, to have separate sets of friends, to essentially have our own lives. I think it's good on many levels. So when it's time for one or the other of us to pursue an out of town endeavor, it's NBD (no big deal). And, I think, we both respectively appreciate the chance to stretch out on our own, wander around the apartment on our own time, drink during the day (in my case) and snore louder than usual. Or whatever.Perhaps he spends more of the bow chicka time on the computer, and I test the limits with how much whiskey and cheese one girl can put away. (It's frightening.) 

But, tonight, I'm missing my man. I'm a sucker for love songs, uncannily definitive as they can often be when it comes to life and love. This is one that gets me every time, and of course it came on randomly tonight as I was alone in my kitchen, and it got me once again. 

Minneapolis Moment Addendum

I realize how potentially douchebaggy this post makes me sound. Relatively financially sound yuppie type feels all glowy in the fact that she got to gift the down and out guy a couple of bucks. But that's not it at all. That's not the gist of the post. I meant to say that I appreciate this little town for the opportunity to have small connections like this one, not only once in awhile, but all the time. The end. 

Minneapolis Moment

I've lived here all my life. There have been a few odd months where I've attempted to escape, but really those were just glorified vacations, and I can't really say I've lived anywhere else. This is my home. And over the course of my 35 years in this place, I've spent a good deal of them bitching about how incestuous it can be. How you can't leave the house without running into at least one person you know, and usually several. But lately, I've been gradually getting accustomed to this, and secretly, I might even find it a bit charming. Unlike a small town, you're not exactly guaranteed to bump into anyone at all, even though you probably will, but it's kind of a fun to surprise to see who it might turn out to be today. 

Today I was having lunch alone on the patio of a new restaurant I haven't tried before. (It was great, by the way, and I'd highly recommend it.) I have lunch, and dinner, on patios several times a week, an exercise I very much enjoy as a DINK. And even though I've begun spending a day at a time with my baby niece, I still want to dine on patios. I like it, okay? I love it. And as it turns out, the baby doesn't mind if I have a glass of wine or two. Really, she doesn't. 

So anyway, I was having this lunch, and down the sidewalk came zipping a guy on a hoveround style wheelchair. The same guy, it turns out, who came zipping down the sidewalk on that riding wheelchair just last week when I was dining with my niece. He had approached our table, and I brushed him off with much ablomb. Even though I have a pretty high tolerance for strangers and eccentric types on an average day, I don't like it when they approach when the baby is near. I think this is reasonable. 

After he drove off that day, I figured out that he was only asking for a bit of spare change for his family (he had a pretty severe speech impediment,) and then I felt badly. 

Today, when he came zipping down the sidewalk, I had my money at the ready. This is not some self-congratulatory pat on the back (I gave him a whopping $2 as I enjoyed my $30 lunch). It is, however, a moment of gratitude towards my tiny, charming city, where it's easy to enjoy second chances. 

Out With the Old

Lately, my life has been nothing if not transitional. People who were once a huge part of my world are now all but absent. And there are new-- literally new-- humans around to fill the void. Like this one, for instance:
Now, I understand that getting a brand new, perfect baby niece is nothing akin to having your own child. I haven't been up in the middle of the night a single time (except when my sis went into labor, which I subsequently supported her through, along with the birth-- one of the single most beautiful things I have ever witnessed,) I change about one diaper per week, and doctor visits aren't my jurisdiction. However, there's nothing like the presence of a perfect new person to affirm life. Just burying my nose into her vanilla scented skin for five seconds makes my entire day. She's a dream. So, there's that.

There's also the new place, and soon enough I'll be beginning yet another new job.

I've always been more than comfortable with change. It's stagnation that makes me nervous. Twenty four hours in a new locale, and I'm content to call it home. A couple of hours with a friend of a friend, and they're my new BFF. I live rather well out of a suitcase. And so, I'm feeling excitedly content about the future.

Fortuitously, I still have two constants in my life. My husband, and my city. My city, which I am terribly hard on during the inclement weather months. But it's June, I'm living in the best neighborhood in the city, and Minneapolis has never been lovelier. And my husband, who knows me and for some reason insists on loving me anyway. From our recent 9 year wedding anniversary, which we celebrated at Psycho Suzi's, which I thought was delightfully apropos:




Gratitude fills my heart tonight. Gross, I know. Deal with it.

Best Line From Yesterday:

During our 3.5 hour phone conversation, interrupting me: 

"Can I just say that I'm wearing Koolats? Yeah, I just thought that should be known." 

-Rocket, New Orleans, Louisiana, June 2009 

Road to Hell/ Memory Lane

One of the final projects in the new abode is to organize a lifetime worth of photographs. Four giant boxes, to be exact. Care to come along for the ride? Could be a wild one.

Dem Pots n Pans

One of the (many, many) goals I've recently set for myself is to use my cookbook collection more frequently. One thing about cooking professionally is that you have a tendency to not want to bother with recipes. If you know cooking fundamentals, it's easy enough to throw things together. But this also results in a rut, and you don't learn anything new.

One of the things about being a professional eater is that there's always an excuse to eat out. And one of the things about living in Uptown, is that there is always somewhere to eat. But, nothing beats a homecooked meal, and the man is about to start penning blues tunes about my evil ways.

And anyhow, it really is high time to christian the new kitchen.

It's a modest collection, but most of them are gems:

I weeded out the junk during the move, and this is what I'm left with. Many of these were gifts, and I know the story behind each one. Today, I'm cooking from Jacques Pepin's Fast Food My Way, which was in fact a gift from the man, a not at all subtle hint for more homecooked meals. The other is Mollie Katzen's Vegetable Heaven, which I think I bought for myself when we decided to get our first farm share. Subsequently, I didn't use the book much at all, because the veg were so beautiful I elected to keep them as simple as possible.

Tonight I made tamales, Kantzen's Firecracker Red Beans as well as her Smoky Hot Sauce, and Pepin's Soupy Rice with Peas, which he says is a version of arroz asopao, a Puerto Rican dish.

The beans were rather fussy, but I think they were worth it. It called for almond butter, which I was tempted to substitute with peanut butter, but it was such a specific ingredient, I decided to go with it. A small jar cost me nine bucks. Yep, American dollars. But yes, I think it was worth the coin as well as the fuss. Rich, complex, and spicy, its the kind of thing that's going to be even better tomorrow:

Spring onions and snap peas are in season now, and Pepin's recipe was a great vehicle for both. I don't have a visual, cuz my pic didn't do it justice, but it was very nice indeed, the sweet little peas popping like sugar pillows between my teeth. In reality, it was just a basic risotto, but I used Cojita instead of Parm in order to Latin it up. It was a nice substitute for regular old Mexican rice. Here are the pretty onions:

The Smoky Tomato Sauce may have been the winner of the evening, just a simple puree of smoked tomatoes, chipotle, salt and a little lime. I grilled the 'mater on the downdraft indoor grill that came with our new place. I'm kind of deeply in love with it, as it does things like this in no time flat:

I confess, I bought the tamales, because as cool as it would be, I do not have a Mexican grandmother to teach me this dish-- a pain in the ass even for the most experienced Mexican cooks, usually reserved for holidays and special occasions. La Loma does a bang up job of these, and if you can dial up 5 mins on your microondas, they're yours. They don't quite compare to the street tamales we get in Mexico-- the texture of the masa is a little off-- but the heavily spiced filling was stunning, and they're wrapped in real banana leaves: 

Overall, this was a nice Tuesday night dinner, and my husband won't have to shoot me like they do in all the blues tunes, at least not this week. 

Ode to a Rocket

One of the big life changers that took place during the month of May (there were three) was that my BFF moved away. My girl Rocket and I were tight back in our early twenties, and then had a stupid falling out that kept us apart for nearly ten years. We reunited a couple years back, and my, did we make up for lost time. If I told you we had our fun, that would be a sorry understatement. And yes, alcohol consumption might have been involved. I'm fairly certain we've wiped medium sized countries out of their wine supplies. We ate our way through this city, and back again. Another post will feature some highlights from our hundreds of meals together.

Rocket and I are two peas in a pod. Never in my life have I been so at ease with another woman. In some ways, we are uncannily alike. Both of our mothers are nuttier than squirrel poo, both of our grandmothers died of brain cancer, and if it is possible, she likes her food and wine even more than I do. But then, we are also puzzle pieces: where I think of myself as slow and steady, she is a spitfire, a spinning top-- hence her nickname. When she goes to bed at night, she sleeps the second her head hits the pillow. She never stops. She's wildly talented, funny, and her quirks are numberless. When she's loud and sassy, I sit back and enjoy the show. The room lights up when she's around (hell, the whole neighborhood does) and Mpls. has been pretty dull indeed without her around.

These are just a few random pics I grabbed from our last couple of months together. Since I've forbidden her from taking my picture (her camera is like an appendage, and she's captured me in a variety of less than flattering poses over the years-- also a vast understatement) these all happen to be of her only. Which is fine. This post is dedicated to her, after all.

She can turn grey skies blue. Or at least a dirty dive bar into a danceteria:
One of her most charming qualities is that she can take the most ridiculous outfit and make it look cute. Her BF calls this "four year old wants to dress herself" behavior, but hey, if she can make it work. My favorite outfit was the recent pink longjohns with bunny rabbit print, cowboy boots, and the giant glasses that are becoming her trademark. Yes, she wears them even at night. Here she is with a flavor flav purse and green nail polish on Patty Day. See? Adoreable:
Here we are building a snowman in our matching monkey suits. No, it was not Holoween, and yes, we have matching monkey suits. I think I'll leave it at that:
Like I said, she can turn any mundane event into a party. Outside the Science Museum: Did I mention she's totally gorgeous? This is just after she stole that plaid hat. I reprimanded her, but she looked so damn cute in it, I had to give her props. Before this gets all syrupy, let me simply say I miss my girl. Yes, both of our livers are better off for it, and like a mutual friend recently said, the entire city is also a lot safer.

But yeah, I miss my BFF.

But First, A Look Back

We just moved. Moving has been a theme in our lives over the past few years. We had that house we just loved for five years, but the ghetto it was located in, not so much. When we finally sold it, we were ecstatic, and moving into Uptown was like a whole new life. Finally there were opportunities to bike, and places to bike to!

This here new place is our third apartment in Uptown, and we love it. I spent a lot of time bitching about the last place-- the second one-- but now that we're out of there, I can look at it with a certain amount of optimism. First, the place was a steal. Only eight hundred bucks with utilities included. This allowed me to flit off to exotic locales more often than anyone should be allowed, and that was a beautiful thing.

And, you know, it had it's charms. It's "garden level" charms. So here they are/were in technicolor for your viewing pleasures:

This was a 10 unit building, but ours was unique in that it had a private entrance. When the building was original, our place was a pharmacy. I often wished it were still a pharmacy for those moments when the Xani was getting low. Outside, there was a little patio that wasn't practical for much at all, but we could grill and hang out a bit. I'd take my coffee on the steps most mornings, but I was always being accosted by the wierdos from the coffee shop next door. But there I go being negative again. The little private entrance was nice:

Where the bow-chicka went down. But seriously, the walls were thick here, and we barely ever saw our neighbors, so, you know.

The breakfast nook I took over for an office. The butcher block was a gift from the man, and I don't think I've ever used it for any butchering. Still, it was perfect for the space and I've tap-tap-tapped away quite nicely on it for many months. For those of you in the know, that is a Scott Pampuch mask that Rocket made with her own two hands. If you don't know the story about the Puch, ask about it sometime. Funny stuff. The other "art" is menus either from places I've worked or notable meals I've had. I'm not much for buying art; instead I like found items and objects that come spontaneously into my life.

The kitchen is what sold me on the place. As you can see, it was big. I pimped it out in high style, as you can also see. Please note Ruby the Mixer. I HAD TO HAVE her. And, I use her never. Still, something about her makes me feel like a grown up lady. The albums on the wall are Elvis and Marvin Gaye. The little Mexican on the microwave was also a found item. The tapestry you can see through the doorway? I've always kind of hated it. I got it as a gift from a dear, departed friend, and for this reason I can't part with it. Still, it was more his taste than mine, so there you go. At the new place, I've yet to hang it. But, I will. My sister did the drawing of my Grandma. I love keeping it in the kitchen because the photo she used as a model was taken in the spot gramma liked to sit in at the cabin's kitchen. It's a lovely memory of my lovely grandmother. I miss her more every day.

My big, walk in closet where I could keep all my shit "organized". Please note the Hanes Her Way panties from Target that come five to a pack. Sexxxy. The red satin V.S. robe was also an item I just had to have, and I always hated it. It would slide around and you could never keep the belt on. Useless. I put it out on the curb during the move. Hope it found a better home/ body. The white fuzzy hat? Same deal. What is wrong with me?

When the dust settles, pics of the new place.

What I Know Today

Hey. I stopped blogging with any real regularity a few months back. Partly because I have a dwindling interest in blogs in general. But then I realized that it was also partly because I don't feel comfortable anymore with that old blog. I heard some statistic that humans regenerate every cell in their body each year. (Maybe that's not entirely accurate, but whatever, stay with me.) The point is that girl isn't me anymore. Looking back, lots of it seems comical (hell, lots of it was comical, but you know what I mean.) I'm 35 now. I'm a grown ass woman. Yes, I still act like a kid much of the time, and I'm going to stick with that plan. But another phase of my life has begun. Feel free to peek in on my ramblings here. I probably won't be religious about posting, but as my BFF likes to say, "If you don't document it, it didn't happen." So here we go. 

(Side note: I am not a "blogger." I'm just a busy girl with a journal, trying to keep up with her peeps. Feel free to comment, but please, no critiques on whether this "blog" is "good" or "bad," whatever that means. Thank you.)