Back to our Regularly Scheduled Program

So, I realize that sad, difficult post has been sitting out in the ether like a lead balloon. But now, I'm fine. Life has somehow leveled off, and I feel like I'm back at ground zero. While some days that feels depressing, and other days it feels just fine, mostly it reminds me how resilient we are as humans, that no matter how dark some days get, life makes it so that we almost always emerge back into some measure equilibrium. Perhaps a few scrapes tougher, but alive. Some photographic evidence that life is good:

The most beautiful baby in the world visited me for three glorious weeks. There are no words for the good she does for my soul. Before I get all goopy, we'll let this here do the talkin':

There were creme brulees and tomato salads. Both, and much much more, concocted at a job I adore. In these "trying times" that we never get a break from hearing about, I do not take for granted the joy I get from my work, my colleagues, and my industry. Yay, food:

There were popsicles. And my adoring man. Lots of popsicles, and lots of adoring:


And, like always, there were cocktails with friends. Without my friends, I wouldn't be here. It's as simple as that. Cocktails don't hurt either.

A little bit pregnant, indeed

(Great Big Disclaimer: If you're reading this now, I consider you a friend, and I've decided that it's time for me to open up about something. I don't mind telling you this now. If you're not a friend, then you're probably a stranger, and it won't matter anyway. What follows is a very personal moment in my life, one I'm choosing to share as a type of therapy. That is all.)

I suppose it's no coincidence that I was craving red meat. Judging by the quantities of blood settling into the crotch of my underpants, I was becoming iron deficient.

The fetus had probably been dead for a couple of days. I had exactly one week to enjoy the exalted feeling of being a mother-to-be. I was seven weeks, but only aware of my status for one.

After seven years of infertility (some actively trying to conceive, others pretending not to care, and lately trying to forget all about it) I randomly became pregnant, the old fashioned way. Like the stories you always hear. After ten years of trying, a couple gets pregnant when they least expect it. For one whole week, that was us.

And silly me, I allowed myself the luxury of believing that all would be well, even announcing the pregnancy to family and close friends (we had waited so long, we couldn't see keeping the news to ourselves). I had begun thinking about names-- well only one, as I was sure I was having a boy; clearing a few things out of the spare bedroom to make way for the hand-me-downs that were surely on their way, reading pregnancy books during every moment of my spare time.

The bright red stains appeared on the toilet paper during an afternoon of idyllic domestic bliss. I was making potato salad, preparing to move on to brownies, and then later, I'd hang some new window treatments. I was making mental notes of how great I felt; how healthy, alive, settling quite nicely into my newfound domesticity-- nesting, I believe they call it. There was a slight snap in the air, and for once, I wasn't dreading winter, but instead looking forward to hunkering down and preparing for our reward in the spring. Maybe I'd sign up for prenatal yoga at the Y.

Ha.

The first night wasn't so bad. Your mind has a way of playing tricks on you. The cramping was mild, the bleeding light, and maybe my dates were wrong after all. Maybe I was only 4 weeks, as the hormone levels indicated. It was probably too early to hear heartbeats anyway. Everything is possible. Hey, I was pregnant. Me. But then morning came, the cramping more severe, the bleeding heavy, sticky, icky. Tears came. Hot, fierce, cleansing. I pulled towels down from shelves. One for in between my legs, one to swaddle my naked body (breasts no longer tender,) one to bury my face and muffle the sobbing.

It became clear to me why I told my husband a couple of days prior that my breasts weren't sore anymore. Of course. Because the fetus had died.

I've known women who have had miscarriages. But no one prepares you for how awful it is. People don't talk about it. "Miscarriage." The word itself sounds efficient and clean. Like something that will take care of itself in one fell swoop. "Let me just pop over here and have this miscarriage, and then I think I'll fix a nice sandwich and go for a stroll." It doesn't evoke the days of barbaric cramping and bleeding that follow, the (thankfully?) unidentifiable chunks of matter that pass into your underpants and the toiletbowl. You literally flush your hopes and dreams down the toilet. Yellow, red, blackish. And the stench. Forgive my honest, but it stinks like death.

Like pregnancy, and I suppose like childbirth (I wouldn't know) you have to go through this alone. This is an altogether solitary path. You can have all the loving support in the world, but no one can absorb the pain for you. Not your good and true husband who waits in the wings, hoping to do something helpful, but an errand to the pharmacy for maxipads and Tylenol is about all the assistance he can offer. (Yes, Tylenol is the best the doctor had to offer. Something tells me that if it were men who went through this, there would be much stronger prescriptions. Still, I eat the Tylenol like candy. The less I feel, the less I have to think.) I try to keep reminding myself that this is happening to him too. I'm hurt that he seems detached, and I'm angry that he can't comfort me. By the third day, I realize there is no comfort to be had.

When we go for the steak, I begin to feel a bit like a person again, eating for the first time in two days, drinking a glass of wine that isn't as much salve as I had hoped. I ask him what is wrong with me, as a woman, when everyone else in the world seems to have effortless, carefree pregnancies resulting in beautiful babies. "I don't know," he says. I had perhaps expected a comforting response that there was nothing wrong with me as a woman. But, clearly, there is. It certainly feels that way. Your sense of feminine worth gets decimated. My womb is about as hospitable to life as a bowl of vinegar.

My grandmother had four children before she was thirty. My mom had two daughters, one when she was 36, the same age I would have been. My sister fell in love, and swiftly produced a child within the year. I'm replacing my pregnancy blog bookmarks with loss sites.

I say that I can't help how bitter I'm feeling. I can't stop the tears from falling in the restaurant, and I dab at my eyes with a cocktail napkin. I say that I don't think I can possibly abide one more pregnancy, one more birth that isn't mine, smiling stupidly with envious congratulations. To stand one more time in the baby isle of a boutique, trying to select another soft, pastel gift. A gift that once again isn't for me or for my baby. That as much as I love my beautiful niece, it's doubly hard each time I look at her and perhaps now it will be ten times so. "Life is cruel," my husband says, and concurs that he's feeling bitter. It feels good to have a consort; a partner in sorrow.

Before this, I thought it would be good to at least know that I could become pregnant, regardless of the outcome. That knowledge, short lived as it was, filled me with a smugness-- to know that I wasn't so nonhuman, so nonwoman after all. But now, I think I could have done without this. To be filled with so much hope; the wholesome, hormone-fueled happiness that so many others get to take for granted, only to have it snatched away like a trick tablecloth. I think I could have done without it. Yes, I could have done without a death in the family, which is what it will always be to me.

Everyone wants me to be okay, to feel better, to be strong. I want those things for me. But I'm so sad.

I was certain I was having a boy, and he had a name. His hair was curly and his skin was mocha. He had beautiful eyebrows and long arms and legs. He would have spoken so well for a little guy and he would have had the most amazing laugh. He would have been my son.

Be. Here. Now.

I've talked before about my good friend Vespa's two adorable offspring, we'll call them E & V. They're articulate, mild mannered, funny and good looking. All of the qualities you want to see in a child rolled up into two perfect blondeheaded bundles. (It's true, I don't have to put up with tantrums, backtalk or poop-- three of the benes of being the cool auntie and not the mommy). So, to me, they're perfect.

These are the kinds of kids you can bring to a grown-up party, and feel fairly confident that all will be well, which is exactly where we found them this past Saturday, in our very own backyard. While the grown ups swilled wine and made merry, E & V easily entertained themselves, and the rest of us, for hours.

As the night wore on, I found myself wedged between the two of them in the hammock. They're both at the age-- 2 1/2 and 4-- where the inquiry "why" is the question of the moment. As we rocked in the hammock, looking up at the massive tree we've been blessed with, E had many reasons to ask why. "Why is that tree so big?" "Why is the branch like that?" "Why is there a hole in the tree?" I told him a wee little harmless tale about Tree Gnomes, and watched his face light up in wonder. It was delightful. A few beats passed, and then he said: "Let's just be here."

It was one of the purest things I had ever heard anyone uttter. Of course, in a flash, he was up, off of the hammock, and in search of a misplaced toy; and the spell was broken. But that almost made it better. He said it, and meant it, minus any sort of pretend calm that would usually follow such an utterance had it come from the lips of an adult.

Let's just be here. And we were.

In case you've forgotten who your president is. . .

If you feel the need, fast forward to the 5 minute mark. If this two minutes doesn't give you the chills, you're probably dead.

Scent of a Woman

Unless you're the kind of guy who drinks "Flirtinis," wears thong underpants, or occasionally wears a little rouge "just for color," you can move on now. Really. There's nothing for you here. 

I finally bought myself this extravagant present. Outside of consumables (foie gras, champagne, cheesey goo, etc.) I generally don't spend much money, mostly because I don't have any. Also, I was born without that female shopping gene. I'd much rather drink margaritas at the crappy mall bar, then buy whatever dress looks like it would fit me in the window of some cheap store. But lately, I've been trying to class it up a tiny bit. I'm a grown ass woman, after all, and ill- fitting jeans with an attitude T don't really cut it anymore. And when I'm trying to get all glammed up, I've noticed that I feel naked without a fragrance. 

Most of my adult life, I've decided that natural scents are best, at least for me. However, I love how some people (usually it's a woman) have a signature scent. My grandmother and her friends knew about this. It seems feminine, classic, glamorous. My grandmother wore Chantilly, a fairly cheap brand you could buy at most drug stores, but on more special occasions she wore Chanel #5. Both of these are clean, classic, rather innocent. (My grandmother was a lot of things, but certainly not innocent.)  A friend of my grandmother's that's still living wears the same fragrance she did thirty years ago. Whenever I bump into her at a wedding or a funeral and she comes in for a hug and my nose brushes her cheek, I'm five years old again. A scent is a very powerful thing, unlocking long sealed doors in the brain. 

I wanted a signature scent. In my younger days, I loved vanilla. I walked around smelling like a chocolate chip cookie. I still like it. But I wanted something more sophisticated this time around. Marlene Dietrich wore this fragrance, as did a smattering of other screen sirens of the '40's and '50's. This was very expensive. At least for me. But I feel like I'm shrouded in my own personal veil of gardenia and mystery, and it makes me feel amazing. And so for that I think it's worth it. 

I wish I could say this story is a coincidence, but I really have no idea how that could be: 

Yesterday was the first day I wore my perfume, and I had recently applied it before heading to Target. On my way out of the store, I felt someone brush up against me. I turned around to find a cart corral guy (the ones with the yellow vests who collect the carts?) standing less than an inch from me. He was smelling my neck. When I looked at him like he had lost his fool mind, he just said, "I'm sorry," and then he walked away. I swear on the baby Jesbus, Allah, all the characters in Lord of the Rings including Frodo and Vishnu that this happened. He was close enough to kiss me. WTF? Is this even possible? And yes, it was creepy. 

What would Marlene Dietrich have done?

Everything Old is New Again

It's true that everything around me is new. Or at least, different. New place, new job, new friends, new hangouts, new hobbies, new kitty. I'm even tinkering around with my haircut and the way I dress. Logically, I suppose I could feel a little discombobulated, but I'm a chameleon by nature, and really, this ain't shit. In fact, I'm feeling strangely static. Grounded. Still. It's a good feeling. Or, at least satisfied. Or, at least accepting. My core, my center is the same. My man, my home (city,) my cooking.

I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, which grounds me as much as anything, so I thought I'd give you a peek.

I love this kitchen because it's big. Roughly the size of an average bedroom. It's what sold me on the apartment. As you wander through the vestibule, the living room and the dining room, you finally end in the kitchen, and you sort of never leave. I spend most of my time here. The center island is priceless and I don't know how I'll ever do without one again. It's like the starship enterprise of the house. The floors are hideous (I mean like elephant man and carrot top had babies ugly) so I try to keep them covered with runners which I have to vaccum after every dinner. It's a battle and the floors are winning:

The kitchen is also a little (a lot) outdated. I'm thinking mid-to-late '80's is when it got remodeled. I had some reservations about this, but it's working out surprisingly well. I used to think I couldn't live with electric burners, but these get incredibly hot. In fact, that frittata on the stove? Burned. I kept thinking as I was cooking that it "kinda smells like burning." So, a little cooking 101: If something smells like burning ITS PROBABLY FUCKING BURNING. I was just so reluctant to believe it, because I'm not a burner. I'm so accustomed to controlling my heat. So, there. Even "professionals" like us fuck up. Keep plugging away. You want to eat, dontcha? Also, the indoor grill? Love.

You can also spy my beloved 'puter-- the island is where I "work," my speakers I plug her into to get my daily Pandora groove on, my sexy peppermill which happens one of my prized posessions, courtesy of my amazing auntie Deb, and my vintage Pabst cocktail tray, also courtesy of Deb (think of a shorter, much funnier Martha Stewart with a thick, high pitched midwestern accent who also swears a lot but who still believes in Jesus and you're about 1/10th of the way there). Odds and ends live in that tray: paper towels, a kosher salt pot, stray fortune cookies, a sharpie for labeling food, condoms, toenail clippings, vials of meth, you know, the usual. I haven't put up curtains yet, hence the glare. When I get up in the night for a glug of agua I have to creep in with my boobies and lady parts strategically covered because the neighbors are often out having late night cigs. I'm sure by now they know more about me than they might like. Ah, city livin':
Yet more of the outdated glory. I love having an oven at eye level, but she's little. Like, too small for a 12 pound turkey little, and definitely too small for a Hansel & Gretel moment. But, surprise again, it works like a champ. In this case, it's the little thing that good things come out of. It gets hot, hot, hot, like Gloria Estefan hot, and shit gets done in a jiffy. She's just fine for the two of us. Above the fridge you'll find a beloved pizza oven, compliments of, you guessed it, aunt Deb, and on top of that, my knife roll which has been on hiatus lately. My Global goes wherever I go, but the rest of the collection seems rather superfluous right now. Maybe it will come in handy when I get my invite to Iron Chef. Heh. The dish pit. Some of my most beloved treasures hang to the right inside of a sideturned vintage wooden soda bottle crate, and mabye I'll write a seperate post about it, but suffice to say every little tchotchke you see there has sentimental value and it makes the daily dishin' just a little more enjoyable. I actually don't mind doing dishes by hand and I tend to wash as I go when I'm cooking (it actually makes me nuts when people don't clean as they go). However, that don't make me above no dishwasher, which I negotiated with the landlord to have put in. I get what I want.

Left to right:

a: Ruby the mixer whom I almost never use but she'll be coming with me when I pack up my car with things I simply can't live without and run away.

b: The Krups, which ditto, can't live without-- this one was a gift from the in-laws and I start my each and every day with him. I think his name is Miles. Black, sexy, essential. The coffee tray has all the other basics: beans, grinder (I always grind from bean because I'm a junkie like that,) and two varieties of sugar.

c: That drawing of my grams and a basket full of dish towels and rags. I like rags, not sponges. Sponges are for smelly people. I'm anal about clean rags and dishtowels and switch them out almost daily. However, they're nothing fancy-- I pilfer plain white ones from my restaurant jobs and the others are usually gifts. I'll use them 'til they're in tatters.

d: A little cheese cutting board that's perfect for small jobs, a gift from my BIL who's also an avid cook. Love that guy.

e: A fancy new convection toaster oven that I'm still getting accustomed to. I miss my $10 toaster with the "pop tarts" setting.

f: The Microwave that Will Not Quit. B had this microwave when I met him (10+ years ago,) and he had it for I don't know how long before that. It still works as well as it did that first day I warmed my first frozen dinner in it. See? They don't make things the way they used to. Keep yer newfangled gadgets, kids! My stuff is OLD, and I like it!

My Week in Revue

So, the staycation. It kinda, sorta happened. The first three days I spent in a sort of anxiety ridden distracted kind of funk, even though there was no real reason for it. I'm a freak like that. I come by it honestly. All my people (mothers and grandparents and the like) all had some sort of emotional "tilt" and my brand stays relatively stable. Relatively. I have my little bouts. I deal. The final two days were perfect though, and I slumped nicely into a lazy little summertime reverie, complete with all the things I love. You should know what they are by now, but if not, a quick review: wine/ whiskey, cheese, music, bikes, sleeping late, staring into the ether, friends, food, food, food, food, baths, noodles, cheese, yeah.

I also sorta kinda turned off the computer, which gave me time to read TWO! whole. books. One of which I enjoyed much more than the other.

My sister flew off to Mexico City to be with her man. I'm very happy that the two of them can be reunited, but she also took the small human, so needless to say, it's been emotional. Chela had just entered the stage where she's like a big pot of smiles for no reason at all, all the time. Like this:
(Sniff.) But evidently, she and her daddy are deeply in love with one another, so how can you begrudge that? You can't. Gotta get my passport renewed.

I cooked this. Local greens and broccoli over pasta with tomatoes, cream and parm. It was fine. Kinda meh. It could have used something. It was better the next day with a fried egg over it, my new favorite breakfast of all time. Pasta & eggs. Does it get any better? Oh yeah, with truffle oil. Gahhhhhhh (Homer Simpson Style).

Music continues to turn my crank. We inherited an old turntable (she ain't sexy but she can still work it) and a bunch of records, many of which used to be mine, but also the amassed collections of my mom and grandma (both avid music lovers as well, something else I come by honestly). I'll put up a seperate post about all the sweet fucking treasures I have, but here's a nugget. Jealous?:
Speaking of music, wait for it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I took an upright bass lesson. And I SUCK! But it was fun. I'm no natural, but it's nice to wrestle my brain into the practice of trying to learn something new, difficult and awesome. I decided to nix the lessons, I'm toooooo green, but B has been schooling me on the electric bass, and even though I SUCK (did I mention I suck???) he's been patient, and I can almost get my way through a basic blues pattern. I also have a cute little red callous on my middle finger that I'm pretty proud of.

This is how we do it on a Saturday night at the Bos-Williams household. This? This did not suck. Homemade guac, salsa, black beans & rice, and grilled pork. Oh, lord:
And last but certainly not least, meet Mochi. (Object not to scale.) She's actually much littler than she appears here (only 4 months). We've been planning that kitty adoption for awhile, and it finally happened about two hours ago. We're getting acquainted now. I actually had it bad for a charming 10-week-old solid white guy with blue eyes, but as these things tend to go, Mochi chose me. She just wouldn't take no for an answer. She's crashed on the window sill as I write this as though she's lived here all her life. She loves me. Anyway, it's nice to have some estrogen back in the house, as much as I love the fellas:
Otherwise, I did a bunch of procrastinating around my writing "career" (ha!), went to see my pretend boyfriend twice, bought four new outfits, two of which I fear were very bad decisions, stalked & coveted a rare, precious bottle of this, which will be mine someday very soon (mark my words,) and I'm gonna get a tattoo.

That's it.

Procrastination/ Staycation

It's been a strange week. I spent one entire day drunk, one hungover, and two dealing with a wretched kink in my neck. I've got two big deadlines hanging over my head, and if there's one thing I know how to do, its procrastinate. My apartment needs a wicked unleashing of about a hundred thousand cans of Comet, and I've been stuck in the house with cat whose neck I'd like to wring. (Our cat Baci is one of the cutest living animals, but we call him Adventure Cat. He was a stray before we adopted him, and it's pretty clear he'd really rather be an outdoor cat. He paces the house like a caged animal, whining, looking for trouble around every corner. I actually feel kind of guilty about it, rather than the sense of well-being you're supposed to get from your pets. I'm planning on adopting another kitten next week. I'm going to look for the wildest-eyed one they have, and I'm hoping she'll open a big old can of whoopass on Baci.) 

Yeah, a post about my cat. So, I've been stuck in a bit of a rut. Not a big one, but a shallow, meddling one that I need to acknowledge. With any luck, I'm going to take four whole days to myself next week to do whatever I like. Yes, a Staycation (stupid fucking word.) I had considered trying to skip town, but it was starting to feel like another thing for the to-do list, and that ain't a vacation at all. 

In addition to getting the new kitty kat, I have a few plans: 

1. Turn off the computer. I plan on sticking to this. One of the major things I adore about being away is ridding myself of the electronic tit. I never seem to miss it, and I find it astonishing how big a part of my life it is when I get back. I think I need to reconcile these two facts. 

2. Avoid restaurants. I'm yearning for the days when eating out marked a special occasion or at least a giddy splurge on an expensive steak. I'm feeling jaded about all this damn food, which means I need a break and probably a system flush. (I know, poor me.)

3. Tackle Project Memory Lane. This might be an emotional look back, but hopefully I'll find some gems which I'll scan and post here (after I attach myself back on the tit) for your perusal. It will be a nice sense of a accomplishment to get all those damn boxes out of our house too. 

4. See some live music every night. Music has been the one salve these days that hits me in all the right spots every time. I haven't been kind enough to myself when it comes to this great love of mine, and I need to indulge it far more often. 

5. Get outside and bike, bike, bike. I wanna get saddle sore, yes I do. 

That's it. Maybe something else will come along. If not, it's a vacation after all. And yes, I'm writing this out of sheer procrastination, so that's all for today. Sheesh. 

Totally unrelated sidenote: My sister and I hit the MOA yesterday. I hate the mall, but it was a cloudy day and I needed me some baby fix. My sister decided she needed a beer. It's slim pickins for watering holes at the mall these days, so we decided on. . . . wait for it. . . Hooters. Where my sister proceeded to lift her shirt and feed the baby, right at the bar. Hooters at Hooters. The businessman type seated next to us got a big hoot out of it. The end. 

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.)