peevish mama

Cafe Ena – a couple weeks ago Nanook and Crackerjack rescued me from myself and swept me away to this Kingfield Neighborhood gem for a little Monday night love. I’ve always loved Cafe Ena for lunch with the kids because it’s never too crowded, has awesome grown up food but a totally kids are welcome here vibe. It’s the holy grail for foodies with chitlins. This was my first time for dinner and, lucky us, bottles of wine are half off on Monday nights. So we indulged in some beautiful South American whites while chatting and tucking into our toothsome dinners. Were I a real food critic, I would have made a point of trying everyone’s food, but alas I was too distracted by my jambalaya because it ROCKED! I pretty much hovered over my own plate until every last snappy, succulent grain of rice had disappeared. I ordered it spicy and it was perfect – although I was most definitely on the verge in the best way – high color in the cheeks, slightly glassy eyes, fiery buzz. Mark my words. I will be back for that jambalaya. 

Birchbark Books – The other day when I was going for my post preschool drop off sanity drive, my minivan somehow ended up parked in front of this adorable Kenwood Neighborhood bookstore. I have always loved Birchbark Books, but since it’s not on my flight path, I don’t often make it over there. Pity, because stepping in, you feel like you are trespassing in the hidden away cabin of an earthy and magical book witch. It really is enchanting. My heart quickens in any bookstore, but more so here. Something about how the books are displayed, the soulful Native American presence, the carefully edited choices, make me feel like a kid in a candy store – like anything I pluck off a shelf will be a treat and a treasure. Maybe the book witch touch comes from its owner, an author I love, Louise Erdrich, who writes many of the handwritten reviews taped up on little cards in the stacks, drawing your eye to the really special books – the ones that really are words spun into magic. I cannot possibly improve upon their mission statement, so here it is: Boozhoo! Welcome! Birchbark Books is operated by a spirited collection of people who believe in the power of good writing, the beauty of hand made art, the strength of Native culture, and the importance of small and intimate bookstores. Our books are lovingly chosen. Our store is tended with care.

Liberty Custard – Apparently frozen custard is a big Wisconsin thing – not surprising that the folks who thought to batter and deep fry cheese curds should think it a fine idea to add more cream to ice cream. But I’m glad they did. On both counts. Liberty is housed in a cleverly converted gas station and manages to be retro, industrial and homey at the same time. Aside from the amazing custard, they serve really fresh sandwiches, (including a new Scott Ja-Mamas‘ pulled pork sandwich that has my name written on it), soups, hotdogs, pizza, and fancy coffee. They have vintage pinball and other games to occupy the kids, as well as a little red car that bumps along for 25 cents worth of minutes and has made each of my children grin and imagine wild rides in their toddler years. Best of all they sell toy guns and candy cigarettes. How’s that for refreshingly un-pc? Independent, indeed!

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

Today I stumbled upon this very cool grass roots movement to preserve independent local businesses and am feeling halleluia grateful that there are people out there who are thinking what I’m thinking, but actually get off their fat asses to do something about it. I think this is a beautiful, inspired idea and although it’s something a lot of us feel on an amorphous, gut level, it’s helpful to have it all boiled down to the nitty gritty.

In Minneapolis, we are blessed with countless galleries, clothing boutiques, restaurants, book stores, coffee shops, ice cream shops, hardware stores and garden stores tucked away into our neighborhoods like aces and queens in a deck of cards. That’s why we Minneapolitans are all still here – paying more money for less house and putting up with the airplane noise. We stay so we can see more blue signs than red during election season, for the privilege of having the lakes belong to all of us, not just the lucky few with houses around them, and because of our neighborhood businesses. We’re here because we have sidewalks, which means there’s a designated spot for chatting with neighbors and, um, walking and hey, we actually have somewhere to walk to!

Within walking distance of my house I could purchase a pair of antlers, a bat skeleton or a dried Manzanita branch at Leuhmann, a card, a Laguiole wine opener, a diary or a baby gift at Patina, a chocolate shake and a burger at the Malt Shop, a glass of Prosecco and a Walleye Po’Boy at Blackbird Cafe, or sauteed Australian sea bass, parsley puree, parsnips and creamy mussel foam with a side of pappardelle with black truffles at Heidi’s.  And that’s just one corner! Also at that intersection are an eco-luxe home design and furnishings store called Casa Verde, an upholstery shop, a bird supplies store, and the very sweet dry cleaner we go to. If I walk the other direction I can get to the library, my supermarket, a massage and acupuncture place called Praxis, and a cute new yoga place called Sigh.  

We’re all busy and trying like nobody’s business to multitask – to crank out those errands in the two and a half hours the kid is at preschool. If I’m at Target and I need thank you notes, I’ll probably save myself the trip to the neighborhood card shop and just pick them up. The 3/50 Project is a good reminder to stop and think about where else I could be spending my dollars. Where will they do more good, be more enriching for our community, and sustain the kind of diverse and colorful businesses I want within walking distance of my house? 

It’s not about spending more money – it’s about being smart about where we spend our money. It’s about not taking our little businesses for granted.

Here are the three businesses where I plan to show a little love this month. And please, oh please, tell me yours. We all love a hot tip.

Grand Cafe – my friend Lady Doctah K swept me and my knee away for a little lunchy on Friday and I have been kicking myself ever since that I don’t go Grand Cafe every single damn day. It’s been far too long and how, but how could I have forgotten how charming and perfect this little place is? Here is an example of a place that I love which could die for lack of attention – like a plant – and then I would spend the rest of my days moaning about how much I miss Grand Cafe while secretly (and rightfully) feeling wretchedly guilty. But it’s not too late! It’s still cool and unfussy inside, in that Parisian, worn wood, tiny booth, big kitchen stuffed in the back that turns out miracles on white plates kind of way. I had the polenta with a spinach, caramelized onion and artichoke sauté in a beautiful pool of Romesco sauce and it was heavenly. The polenta looked like two huge scallops and was light, nutty and the perfect sponge for the sweet, peppery, almond-crunchy Romesco. Lady Doctah K had a beautiful potato parsnip soup with a swirl of smoked almond picata and a delicious looking Caesar salad which came with a crispy piece of pancetta sitting on top of it like a jaunty hat. I tried the pancetta and it was like a succulent pig and a crispy potato chip shattered all taboos, defied their families, fell in love and had a beautiful saltydelicious baby.

Cliché - my friend Lady Canada (I’ve decided everyone from book club will be a lady), who also happens to be a personal style consultant, told me about Cliché and although I hate to give away my secret gems, I must and will for the greater good. I love this store. It’s totally quirky, hip and edgy yet lady-like. Husband and wife team Joshua and Delayna Sundberg feature lots of local talent and manage to make the store seem casual and almost homey. Cliché’s selection perfectly dovetails with my mix it up, high low, frilly butch, fashion ethos. Doctor Dash bought me a really cool bag there for Christmas by a local designer named NIKI – it was reasonably priced, beautifully made and cooler than any IT bag out there for quadruple the price. Lovey. Love. Love.

Uncommon Gardens - There are a number of lovely garden stores around here, so it’s hard to pick one, but I like Uncommon Gardens because the owner, Peggy Poore, and all of her staff are very nice women who know their stuff. They’re willing to help but equally good at backing off when you need a little space to screw up your face trying to get a mental image of your side yard. There are a couple of cats roaming around, which amuse Devil Baby, and it’s compact enough that I can let the kids wander while I shop. She specializes in hard to find plant varietals and cool, out-of-the-ordinary garden decor, so you could go nuts if you were a real garden geek. I am not, but I’ve always found everything I need and more. I happen to love this garden maven’s beautiful space and I would like her business to thrive like a robust (insert appropriate geeky plant simile here).

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

This morning Supergirl awoke glassy-eyed, groggy, and harboring a hacking cough. I could tell the cloud would lift and she would be fine if I sent her to school, but I thought I’d give the kid a break. Everyone deserves a mental health day from time to time and plus, if she stayed home, we’d have a little time to ourselves while Angel Baby was at pre-school. I stood over her at breakfast and decided to feel her out. Do you think you need to stay home from school today? Do you feel that sick? She nodded as she arranged her features into her best impersonation of a baleful street urchin and coughed feebly but incessantly into the crook of her elbow. Oh she’s good. Not over played. Nothing cartoonish about her portrayal of a sick girl. Workin’ those enormous eyes. Yep, she nailed it.

I felt her forehead for show, as I already had a plan for her little day of rest. If Supergirl stayed home, we could go to Galoony’s for steak and cheese subs before picking up Angel Baby from school. Hurrah for me – I love a partner in crime. My only stipulation was no TV for her – no computer for me. She nodded solemnly.

Lunch – what can I say about lunch? It was the best. I can’t remember the last time Supergirl and I had a meal by ourselves. Sitting in a two person booth enjoying our sodas, our conversation meandered in unexpected fits and starts – like a kid dizzy after spinning around in circles. Galoony’s has huge grafitti-inspired wall murals and that got us talking about grafitti. Why it can be bad, why it can be beautiful.

We talked about grafitti artists having to work in the dark, on the fly, with eyes in the back of their heads, always on the look out for the cops. So if it turns out really pretty, it’s worth it, she said. Not a girl who needs to be fed lines in black and white, I stepped into the gray with her. Absolutely. I happen to think so, anyway.

Then we played a couple rounds of build-a-man (incidentally, they no longer call it hang-man. Also banished from the playground of political correctness are sitting Indian-style and giving Chinese-cuts).

Our subs came and we talked about our mutual love of meat sandwiches. There is totally no way you are happier eating this sandwich than me, she murmured. I will remind her of this meal when she goes through her vegetarian phase someday, God forbid.

And then, because Supergirl is obsessed with albinos we talked about albinism – which led to a creaky discussion of genetics as I stumbled around the dusty boxes of my mind trying to remember and explain how dominant and recessive genes work. There is a small colony of albino squirrels on our side of the creek and when we saw that one had been hit by a car last summer, our family let out a collective moan as we drove by the small white splotch on side of the road. She wanted to hear all about the albino boy I saw in Florida when I was a young girl. How his skin was as pale as paper. How he only came out at sunset and waded into the ocean, bending his lanky frame into a question mark to dip the tips of the his fingers into the water. How he wore sunglasses even at sunset because his eyes were so fragile, so susceptible to the light we take for granted. She wanted to know if he was scary. She wanted to know if he was friendly.

I don’t know, I said. He was older than me. I didn’t try to be his friend. 

Maybe you should have.

Maybe I should have.

Here’s a well kept secret. There is no better lunch partner than a kindergartner. They are as pure hearted, honorable, and wise as they will ever be – the kind of wisdom that comes from having no pre-conceived notions, no biases – only the ability to question, to reason, to see that next step in a logical sequence and jump to it with enviable agility. They are aware of gender differences, but as of yet completely unaffected and they inhabit their bodies with absolute joy and freedom. They are curious and unjaded. They are learning to read – to decode the ultimate mystery – the key to everything. They see beauty and humor in places we don’t even bother to look anymore. Kindergartners are magic. Pure magic.

I am so sad this year is almost over. I am so glad I let her stay home today.

I’m in the dog house for having stayed out too late last night celebrating Nanook of the North’s birthday. It was supposed to be a delicious celebratory feast at 112 Eatery with a dozen and change of her BFFs – a lovely evening dinner strategically timed for all of us to miss having to put our respective offspring to bed, but not meant to extend beyond what would otherwise be considered prudent or proper for a Sunday night.

If intention counts for anything, and I would argue that it should, it was not my intent when I got picked up at 5:30 in my new spring coat, to come rolling in the door at two thirty in the morning. Not at all. If it had been, I wouldn’t have taken my gigantic purse and no lipstick. And no cell phone.

Our dinner was delicious and loud and funny and when it was time to go, Nanook, Crackerjack, Pretty Young Thing and I looked at our watches and made a snip snap decision to stay downtown. It was only eight thirty, after all, the night but a fresh faced choir boy. Some of the other ladies were tempted, but begged off in an enviable display of good judgment. We four miscreants finished our drinks and traipsed to the elevator where Crackerjack did a standing splits for whatever reason sending us into peals of laughter and a trip to nowhere. When the doors opened we spilled out onto the same floor, giggling and completely befuddled by how our waiter had managed to beat us downstairs, that sneaky fleet-footed bastard. And so it began.

Downtown is pretty dead on a Sunday night, but it turns out there is plenty of mischief to be gotten into when all you need to be completely entertained is some drinks, some tunes, and some really funny lady friends. At about eleven I called Doctor Dash to let him know I would be staying out after dinner for a few drinks. I patted myself on the back. Responsible. Considerate. Later that phone message came back to haunt me.

But I called you – I left a message, she said.

You sounded like you were only going to stay out a little longer, he said.  

And you believed me? she did not say.

Here’s the thing. Asking me to peel myself away from the forcefield of hilarity that we manage to conjure up any time we go out is like asking Pepe Le Pew to keep his stinky paws off the cute petite fille skunk. I simply cannot tear myself away because there has not been nearly enough crazy laughing and unfettered shenanigans in my life since college. And I miss it terribly. Back then my college girlfriends set the baseline for female friendship and good times – there was no recapturing that once we scattered around the country after graduation. Then came many years of babies and young children and the attendant exhaustion and general inability to take on anything else. But now I’ve made some new girlfriends and we’re all coming out of that bleary-eyed time, trying to figure out who we are again, what we’re going to do with our lives. In many ways, it feels like we are revisiting those uncertain times of our youth. There’s a lot to talk about and break down, there’s a lot laugh about and now, more than ever, we need to laugh. Age-appropriateness, situation-appropriateness be damned. What kind of a person can tap her watch and say, ok, that’s enough fun for me. I am powerless. Utterly powerless to walk away from a good time. And these girls are nothing, if not a good time.

Doctor Dash totally knows this about me. He knows I can’t say when. He knows I always want just a few more minutes, one more song, one more drink, one more laugh, one more long goodbye.

But just because he knows he married a party barnacle, it fails to mitigate how annoying it must be for him to be woken up as I try to eat girl scout cookies and balance a flashlight in bed so I can read myself to sleep at three o’clock in the morning. Crinkle crinkle. Or having to get up to let me in because I forgot my key. Or being blanketed by a vague sense of worry until he hears me clunking around the kitchen scavenging for food. He can go through all the motions of going to sleep, but poor Doctor Dash can’t really sleep until I’m back home safe. When I was sixteen I wouldn’t have understood. Now I understand. And I am deeply thankful that I happen to matter this much to someone. 

Chastened and hungover, so much of this little scenario sent me shooting right back to my youth – I stayed out too late, I was unreachable by phone, I screwed up, my dad er husband was mad because he couldn’t go to sleep and he had a tough day at work ahead of him. When you’re young and you mess up, you skulk around trying to avoid your parents. You suffer the consequences. Maybe there’s a shouting match. But in the end, what can you do? When you screw up at this age, you fix it. There is no other choice. And the beauty of it is, you have the wisdom to acknowledge when you need to apologize, when you need to own up. And now, unlike then, you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve.

So what did I do? I started cooking like a motherfucker. I decided I’d do an asian-style pulled pork and with coffee and Advil in one hand and ginger, soy, fish sauce, onion, garlic, and thai chilis in the other, I concocted a beautiful bath for a succulent pork shoulder to spend the day slow cooking. The smell that filled the house by ten a.m. was amazing, and if that didn’t say I’m sorry – then at least my text message would. Actually, I get a bit of the clam hands when I try to text and after the third try, the best I could do was spqqxy. I pressed send, hoping Dash would know what I meant.

I am really really spqqxy.

I was picking through the wreckage of boots, school papers, backpacks, lone socks, disemboweled lunch boxes and half-way inside-out snow pants strewn across the floor of the mud room when I stumbled upon something. I found some crumpled up candy wrappers stuffed into one of the cubbies.Laffy Taffy. I’m no candy Nazi. I don’t particularly like candy for the most part, so I don’t carry around a lot of angst about it. There’s no love/hate, forbidden fruitness to it for me. Which is a round about way of saying that I let my kids eat candy in moderation pretty much whenever it happens to be around, which is not always, but sometimes. I don’t know. I just don’t think about it that much.  As long as we have no cavities, I’m cool.

What I do know is that the lime green Laffy Taffy wrapper signaled the dawn of a new era in our house: the secret life of candy. 

For a long time, I knew exactly what candy my kids were eating because it all came from me, or at least, through me. I either bought it, doled it out, saw it as we read through Valentines, or knew it came out of their Halloween pillow cases. As I turned the crinkly wrapper over in my hand I realized I couldn’t answer the simplest of questions: whose was this and how did they get it? When did they eat it and why didn’t they ask me? As sure as the wrapper was peeled off that candy, my kids are peeling off of me.

My older guys are out in the world. They’re gone at school all day, leading entire lives I know very little about. They’re on the bus, on the playground, in the halls - working it. Navigating, negotiating, hustling, trading, bluffing, posturing, lying, stealing.* Do you remember being a kid? You work hard for your money! It’s not easy. It’s not pretty. It’s a dog eat dog world, even for kids. Especially for kids, who are very early on in the journey of evolving from rude and selfish little brutes into compassionate and complete human beings. Kids are mean, man. 

Whose candy was this and how did they get it? A bet? A dare? How?

On the other hand, childhood isn’t necessarily something that unfolds with the Rocky soundtrack soaring in the background. It isn’t necessarily an after-school special from the seventies. It’s not all fisticuffs and pecking order – jeering and bullies. There is also plenty of sweetness and light and maybe some kid simply pulled the Laffy Taffy out of his coat pocket and gave it to Supergirl because they’re friends or he wants to be her friend. Maybe Saint James got it from his teacher for good behavior. Maybe he traded his Granola Bites at lunch. Who knows? The point is, I don’t. 

The secret life of candy. The candy is beside the point (at least until the candy becomes something really naughty like cigarettes or booze). The point is the secret life – countless glances, exchanges, high fives, jokes, giggles, stories, shoulder buts, rivalries, embarrassments and slights to which I have not been privy. Saint James and Supergirl are out there fending for themselves, figuring out who they are and how they want to walk through this world and not only am I not helping them with it, I’m not even seeing it. Could it be true that I have given them most of what I will need to give them by the age of five? 

So Saint James and Supergirl eat a little candy I don’t know about from time to time. No biggie. But soon they will be those high school kids at Dairy Queen, eating whole meals I won’t know about. And there will be mothers with little kids eating nearby, sneaking shy peeks at them while they jostle and flirt and refill their Cokes and text and twirl their hair and drum their fingers on the tables and laugh and share ear buds and go about their lives – quite apart from their mothers.  

Soon, that will be them. I’ve got the proof stuffed in my jeans pocket.

*I sincerely hope not lying and stealing and I sincerely believe not lying and stealing, but I would not bet my favorite pair of boots on not lying and stealing because, well, if you see a roll of Smarties fall out of a seventh grader’s pocket and you pick it up, is it really stealing?

If you make sure my McDonalds’ fries are piping hot and as salty as the brow of the devil’s wife, then you, my friend, have gone a long way to toward making my day.

What kind of a person eats a fried chicken breast whilst driving her minivan down 50th?  Not a leg, mind you – a breast - which is a greasy two handed affair under the best of circumstances.  I can understand breaking into a bag of chips or sneaking a Christmas cookie after a trip to the supermarket, but I actually got out of the car and went to the back, rifled around in the bags until I located the chicken, liberated a piece from its plastic clamshell, and scurried back to the driver’s seat, steam pouring off my chicken breast as it cooled precipitously in our 6 degrees below zero day.  I can’t even begin to imagine what the fancy woman parked in the Range Rover next to me thought of my unsavory on the fly fried chicken consumption.  I caught eyes with her, a distasteful moue plastered on her face, after my first bite. You know, the bite that leaves you with half the skin hanging down your chin.  Mmmmm . . . Of course, the fact that I even bought a four-piece pack of fried chicken at Lunds this morning is proof positive of the fact that I broke the cardinal rule of supermarket shopping:  DON’T GO ON AN EMPTY STOMACH OR YOU WILL END UP WITH A CART FULL OF NONSENSE. 

I was famished, as I tend to get when I don’t have a chance to eat breakfast in the mad rush to get everyone out the door . . . and when I get this hungry, WATCH OUT!  I turn into a salivating, carnivorous She-wolf and there exists no earthly muffin that will do the trick.  I need fatty protein and I need it fast. 10:30 a.m. minivan fried chicken was a first for me I’ll admit . . . but see a gray blue Honda Odyssey driving erratically and chances are I’m at the wheel tucking into some variety of a delicious meat sandwich.  This felt particularly barbaric, however, and I half expected myself to throw the carcass out the window after I grunted and wiped my greasy mouth with my sleeve.  Instead, the tiny ribcage of this unfortunate fowl is sitting in my car garbage, acting as my very own chicken-scented Glade Plug-in Airfreshener every time I crank the heat.  I keep checking my rearview mirror to make sure it’s Devil Baby, not Colonel Sanders, strapped into the carseat behind me.

Is it any wonder my children are a tad rough around the edges with a mother like theirs?  Why should I be surprised that they stand on their chairs at dinner, proudly announce when they’ve farted or burped, shimmy up the woodwork, moon each other every chance they get, pick their noses, make up songs about diarrhea and generally act like a pack of wild juvenile chimps?  Supergirl is especially unruly and it has taken much browbeating to get her to stop trying to pick up food, silverware etc. with her toes.  I wonder if my Bonnie Consuelo obsession is something I might have passed on in utero . . . The other day I caught her full on spitting at Saint James.  Now I’ll admit spitting is quite a cinematic way to convey extreme disdain and hatred, crueler and more loaded than a good solid slap across the face, but I’m sorry, spitting is non-negotiable.  We do not spit in our family.  (Unless it’s watermelon seeds and we’re outside and no one else is around). So I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that spitting is rude and gross and unladylike and forbidden – to which she replied, her words laced with fiery vengeance: “Fine! Next time I’ll wipe my butt on his pillow!”  

Nice.

This year for Thanksgiving, the eastern jetstream kindly brought us our dear friends Kate and Paul and their adorable, slightly elusive, salami-loving daughter, Lainey.  Kate is one of my college roommates, a tequila-loving, hilariously cynical, bon vivant who just happens to be one of my favorite people to cook and feast with.  She married a fellow Wisconsinite named Paul, whose genial, sweet nature, unassuming brilliance and funny stories have endeared him to us in degrees far surpassing the amount of time we’ve actually spent with him.  Doctor Dash and I have made it our life’s mission to convince these guys to move to Minneapolis where they would not only have the pleasure of seeing us daily, but more opportunities for ice skating and hockey than they would know what to do with . . . not to mention superior dairy and pork products than those found in chichi-foodie-organic-everything Seattle.  

We kicked off our visit with empanadas, salad and lots of delicious red wine.  For an Argentine like myself, empanadas are a Pavlovian bell signaling good times.  No one ever eats empanadas when they’re sad . . . or maybe no one can be sad when eating empanadas.  Regardless, on Tuesday afternoon, I took great anticipatory pleasure in whipping them up with the ground beef from this year’s grass fed bovine.  The empanadas did their job of shaking their booties and singing: Welcome friends!  We’re so glad you’re here!  Paaaahtay!

Wednesday was a sunny, comfortable blur of meal plotting, shopping, some prep work and hanging out with the kids.  Inevitably, the conversation would circle around to our other housemates and we tuned into Heather’s hubby’s kick-ass community radio show, Hip City out of Saint Louis, for some bodacious r&b, soul, funk, and hip-hop to entertain and edify us while we hung out in the kitchen.  Devil Baby took quite a shine to Paul, drawing on all her feminine wiles to usurp Lainey, and he spent his day gracefully negotiating the vying, coy attention-seeking of two two year old girls.  God bless him.  Supergirl was big sisterish with Lainey, taking her under her wing to spy, play, and hide from her mother – eventually marking her with the ultimate badge of acceptance by coloring her nipples with a green marker.  Oy.  Saint James took every opportunity to lure Paul outside to kick a soccer ball around or show him cool soccer moves on YouTube.  The day slid by in happy chaos and when Dash returned from work, we piled into the minivan and went to Yum for a tasty, kid-friendly, easy-peasy dinner.  It was our first time there and a bit of a gamble for us to try a new place with our friends – especially given our mission to convert them to the idea of a MPLS relocation – but we were all pleased with our dinners and I, for one, will be back for the tuna melt.

On Thursday, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of sizzling, chopping, music and chatter.  We were expecting our friends Martin and Betty, their two sons, Martin’s mom and their nanny at around four.  We had an unexpected but lovely pop-in from our friends Big and his foxy wife on their way to another Thanksgiving celebration, so we cracked a bottle of wine at three o’clock with them and were deliciously sandwiched when they came back by for desert.  

Our dinner was a knock-out, a true group effort, and honestly, not something I think I could have pulled off without my girl, Kate, by my side.  Or it certainly wouldn’t have been as fun and relaxing.  Here’s the blow by blow:

We started with an array of cheeses:  Humbolt Fog, a delicious weedy tasting goat with two textures and a line of ash in the middle, an aged Mahon, a creamy, nutty tasting hard cow’s milk cheese from Spain specked with intriguing flavor explosion crystals, Fromage D’ Affinois, a pungent, oozy and decadent double cream, and St. Agur Blue - always love a blue and this one is especially creamy.  We also had my not-yet-famous-but-worthy-of-being-famous smokey, spicy, carmelized almonds for snacking.  I’m trying to come up with a better name, and so far the frontrunner is Deez Nutz- crooned à la Snoop Dog.

The curtain opened on dinner with a light and savory white bean soup made by Martin, who year after year, has proven himself to be the kind of cook who always manages to make it look effortless.  The rest of the luscious ditties were as follows: a beautiful 20 lb organic bird named Tom in honor of the nut pecker we’ve all grown to love and admire.  Creamy horseradish mashed potatoes.  Cornbread and chorizo stuffing made by Doctor Dash and unanimously agreed to be a worthwhile and delectable departure from traditional stuffing.  Bourbon yams brought by Martin and Betty – as happy as yams could possibly be, bathed as they are in a silky sauce of bourbon, butter and brown sugar – to die for.  Brussel sprouts topped in pancetta – also delicious with the salty pork playing nicely with the slightly bitter sprouts.  And last but not least, cranberry chutney – again, a departure from the standard, but the shallot and ginger manage to work the berries into a frenzy, their tart little voices singing with joy in your mouth.  For desert, we had apple pie, pumpkin mousse pie made by Kate and Supergirl, and regular pumpkin pie brought by Big and his foxy wife.  The latter became a victim to my late night snacking on multiple nights thereafter . . . the perils of being delicious and in my path when I’m up past two o’clock in the morning for four nights in a row.

We set up our Who table in our as-of-yet empty living room and this is the first time we fully used our wedding china – gravy boat and all.  I felt quite grown up, to tell you the truth.  The kids made place cards and napkin rings, giving the whole table a quirky, casual vibe.  And let’s face it – throw enough votives at anything and it looks pretty.  The food, wine, and company were as lovely as I could have hoped for and went a long way toward warming our house into home.  I like to believe that with each visit, each echo of laughter, each spilt glass of wine, each candle lit that melts down on its own, each story told and meal shared, our house shivers a little with pleasure, holding all of that warmth into itself, remembering and preparing for the next time.   

And Friday – well, on Friday Dash and I pulled out the big guns.  After an afternoon poking around the Lake Harriet Peace Garden and Bird Sanctuary, topped off with a trolley ride with Santa, we happily left the brood with a couple young sitters and busted a move for downtown.  A little nighttime driving tour by Dash ended up at the Guthrie, where we grabbed some beers and ogled the sleek beauty that is the theater and the stellar views throughout.  Aren’t we lucky to have such a pantheon to theatre in our city?  I love the Guthrie – we go there during the day with the kids after eating our way through the Mill City Market – we stretch our imaginations and intellects when we get the chance to take in a wonderful play – and now, we’ve discovered a great place for cocktails before a night out.  Just cool.

At nine o’clock we slid into a booth at 112 Eatery, my absolute faaaaaavorite restaurant . . . Cheshire cat grins and ready for a feast.  And 112, of course, did not disappoint.  Plate after plate of mouthwatering, unfussy, inspired vittles kept us contentedly eating and drinking and chattering for nearly three hours.  Dash and I lost our steak tartare virginity . . . andloved it.  Everything from the lamb scottadito in basil goat yogurt sauce, to the maple gorgonzola squash, to the spicy broccolini, to the prosciutto bread, to the crab salad, to the pan fried parmesan reggiano covered gnocchi, to the scallops on oyster mushrooms . . . was swoon-worthy.  We topped it all off with the banana cream tart, which Dash and I always get, and the chocolate pot de creme.  The four of us rolled out of there, licking our chops and rubbing our bellies. 

After dropping off the sitters and making sure the kids were snug bugs, we reconvened in the basement for a little Rock Band, and the Bradleys proved to be quite the dynamic duo on drums.  Paul brought an uncharacteristic rock n’ roll swagger to every instrument he tried and with these two virtuosos in our corner, we were able to unlock a bunch of new songs and fully rock the house.  Really, we were really really good.  And no band fights!

And now, after days and days of relishing our friends and feasting on salty foods and drinking delicious wines and beers and laughing and reminiscing and concocting all manner of new inventions and jobs for ourselves, I need to depuff  and detox . . . before the next round of parties . . . 

I did it.  I joined the dark side.  I am now a card carrying Costco member and I feel as if I have sold my soul to the devil.  Not a red, spitting, pointy tailed, trident-wielding kind of a devil. More of a mushy, overweight, Dockers clad, slightly balding, bargain shopper kind of a devil.  Sigh.  I feel so dirty.  In my defense, there was a reason – isn’t there always a reason?  I went to Costco because I needed a folding table to set up a bar for the kindergarten parent party we are hosting this weekend.  Doth I protest too much?  And, believe me, I tried Target, and I tried Home Depot (it’s pathetic that those are my valiant attempts at avoiding big box consumerism), but only the dreaded Costco had the exact table I wanted.  It happens to be the same width as my dining room table, so on Thanksgiving, I can put them end-to-end to make one looooong table, stretching into the foyer . . . and all the children of all our friends will eat with us . . . just like the Whos in Whoville.  That is my vision for the holidays.   And fuck me if I didn’t have to go to Costco to fulfill it.  They don’t even sell roast beast at Costco.

If you were there yesterday morning and you heard feeble groaning in the aisles, that was me.  Every time I turned a corner with my wonky cart that would only go diagonally, I saw some food that my family eats, but that was so grotesquely engorged and magnified as to be all but completely unrecognizable.  Have you seen the size of the log of goat cheese?  It’s like the penis of a horse.  No, it’s bigger than the penis of a horse.  How could one family possibly eat that much goat cheese?  This store should be for Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Saints families only.  No one else needs mayonnaise jars that weigh more than my two year old.  No one else needs forty-eight packs of donuts, cheesecakes the size of semi-truck steering wheels, Aveeno sunscreen in gigantic twin packs. Who has that much face?  The size of the box of Frosted Mini Wheats made me blanche.  The paper goods aisle made me weep.  So much plastic.  So. Much. Plastic.  The last thing fat, lazy Americans need is the message that it is acceptable to eat all their shit food on disposable plates that they don’t even have to wash.  The last thing fat, lazy Americans need is the message that all of their hydration needs should be satisfied from a plastic bottle.  The last thing fat, lazy Americans need is the message that they need bigger fridges, pantries, garages and houses in which to fit all this cheap supersized abundance.  

Eating should be a bit more cerebral and contemplative of an act. There should be some aspect of our human consciousness and conscientiousness engaged.  What we are eating, how much and where it comes from are basic, simple questions that bear some attention.  Eating should not simply be the fastest, cheapest way to get’er done.  We shouldn’t just be shoveling stuff into our carts and our mouths.  We aren’t pigs.  Eating should be more work, not less work.  Oh, I’m sounding preachy.  I really don’t want to sound preachy.  I’ll say this about Costco – the wine is divine.  The frozen edamame is great.  I also bought a bag of the potstickers which Nanook of the North swears are a magic bullet for PMS and hangovers.  

So now I’ve got my card, and I know I’ll go back.  And each time, I’ll be slightly more inured to the gigantism afflicting everything in there and I may even start to buy more stuff. I know I won’t always make it out of there with only three things in my cart and my air of superiority intact.  I just wish the card checkers were trained to say “Welcome to Costco. Remember, don’t buy anything you wouldn’t have bought somewhere else anyway.”  I know I’ll need reminding.  Or maybe I don’t take a cart – I only buy what I can carry in my arms.  Whatever – I’m screwed.  We’re all screwed. 

Cream puff filled with fresh whipped dairy cream, anyone?  

Manny’s Tortas!  These are probably my favorite meat sandwich.  Go to the far back of the Midtown Global Market and there, to your right, you will find an unassuming stand dishing out Mexican sandwiches so satisfying and transporting you will hear the angels playing mariachis after your first bite.  The tortas are basically your choice of meat (go with the steak or pork) and all sorts of inspired, slippery and savory toppings (jalapeños, chipotle mayo, tomatoes, lettuce, avocado, melted swiss cheese, onion, sauteed mushrooms) in a soft french roll.  Grab extra napkins mis amigos.  Ay Dios mio!

*My thanks to Nanook of the North who reminded me of my past ravings about Manny’s.  As it happens, Nanook is often the innocent bystander to my salacious and exaggerated displays of meat sandwich love.  Apparently she is able to look past my drool and wild gesticulations and actually remembers what I say. I love a girl who makes a good mental note . . . it’s all about mental notes in life, isn’t it?

Today I discovered that, to my great delight, a small niche has been filled here in Minneapolis: the niche of a pizza/sub shop owned by a swarthy man.  In Boston, there’s a pizza/sub shop owned by a swarthy man every ten feet, so you are never too far from a meatball sub or a gyros or a slice of pepperoni handed to you on a red plastic tray held aloft by a pair of hairy arms.  There are many things I love about this city, but the pizza is not one of them.  Apologies, but, honestly, there aren’t enough Italian immigrants or surly small business owners with Nona’s secret sauce recipe for there to be outstanding pizza here.  Which is fine by me, because I’m more of a sandwich girl anyway.

I make it my business to know where I can find the closest and most toothsome meat sandwich at all times.  I have a handful of favorites throughout the city.  I’m like a sailor and my sandwich spots are my favorite whores in every port.  I may not visit often, but when I do I’m hungry and ready for action.  At the top of my list: a Goloony’s steak and cheese sub with everything on it.  Don’t ask questions – order it just like that – 6 inch or 12 inch is your choice.  I’m usually the only one in the place who is neither a United States postal worker nor a twenty-two year old hungover slacker.  The tatooed guys behind the counter are super attentive to me and my brood, always offering to slice the pizza into long witch fingers (my term, not theirs).  One caveat:  apparently the pizza is not that great, but I could care less.  It’s all about the steak and cheese baby!  (23rd and Hennepin)

Next on my list is the Longhorn sandwich at Blackbird Cafe.  If you’ve got the hungah and want a quiet lunch in a funky neighborhood restaurant aside all the old betties in their sensible shoes, this is where you need to go.  I can’t vouch for everything on the menu, but I would bet my incisors (note: critical for sandwich eating) on the fact that the Longhorn will leave you humming and smiling and rubbing your belly and maybe burping a little bit, but in a good way.  It’s a beautiful beef brisket sandwich in focaccia, drunkenly slathered with caramelized onions, tomatoes, provolone and horseradish mayo.  Die.  (50th and Bryant)

I have to give a shout out to the Reuben at Brother’s Deli downtown.  I had the good fortune of working in a rarefied glass rat cage high above this place and honestly, the Reuben, which I always wolfed down at my desk, was my staple and my standby and my savior.  When I was feeling healthy, I’d opt for the creamy, cheesy tuna melt, but don’t even go there.  These guys source all their meat and bread and God knows what else from New York, and if this isn’t the best grilled Reuben you’ve ever had in Minneapolis, I’ll give you my molars.  (50 South Sixth Street)

Next comes the bahn mi sandwich at Jasmine Deli on Eat Street.  I don’t speak Vietnamese, so it’s entirely possible thatbahn mi sandwich is redundant . . . like Club Sandwich sandwich.  In any event, this little gem is comprised of marinated pork or beef with onion, grated carrots, cilantro, jalapeño and a little mayo carefully tucked between two halves of a crisp baguette.  It’s fresh and colorful, spicy and sweet, crunchy and chewy, tidy and satisfying – overall, one very tasty byproduct of French imperialism.  (25th and Nicollet)

Of course you can’t talk about meat sandwiches without talking about burgers.  I love and adore the Kobe beef burger at The Bulldog and the Shaw Burger at Shaws Bar and Grill – both in Northeast.  (respectively, 401 East Hennepin Ave. and 16th and University Ave.)  The Shaw Burger is my favorite – thin patty, lettuce, tomato, bacon, cheese, fried onions and a “special” saucy saucaliciousness deliciousness sauce.  Oof!  Ridiculously good.  It’s a quality dive burger in a quality dive bar.  I also intend to try the Juicy Lucy at Matt’s Bar post haste.  And I have Wagner’s Drive-in in St. Louis Park in my crosshairs.  

Drop me a line if there’s a meat sandwich out there that would make me happy.  I need a good pulled-pork sandwich, some kind of sausage (hold the perverted messages please), and something Mexican – like a carnitas taco – to round out my list.  Share the wealth people!

Back to the pizza/sub shop I discovered.  It is called Ramy’s which is, coincidentally, the name of a very dear friend* of ours from medical school and a huge part of why I stepped into this dingy little hole-in-the-wall to begin with.  My new friend Ramy comes from the Boston area (go figure) and presides over his little shop with the fluttery energy of an anxious, well-intentioned new beau.  I ordered the lamb gyros and Ramy made it so carefully and lovingly that I was five minutes late to pick up Devil Baby from preschool.  I literally watched him pick out the best pieces of lamb from the sizzling pan he pulled out of the pizza oven and arrange them just so with a pair of tongs.  It was delicious and fresh and bore no resemblance to the monstrous football-size sandwiches that often pass for gyros.  The place is completely bare bones and the menu is simply taped to the counter.  As far as I can tell, the only patrons are some straggly kids from Southwest High School.  But I’ll be back because if we don’t support people like Ramy, who has everything staked in this little sub shop and is trying to make a go of it, then shame on us.  Who are we to complain as our options continue to dwindle leaving us with nothing but dreadfully insipid chains whose food is not real food . . . not love food, but money food? It’s hard to feel sated with money.  I’ll be back because I learned a few things about Morocco as I sat on the stool waiting for my gyros.  I’ll be back because Ramy’s sidekick, a bespectacled guy in a v-neck sweater whose only job was to ring me up, tried valiantly to keep the conversation going as I waited.  I’ll be back because there’s a chicken parm sub I need to try.  I’ll be back because it’s only a matter of time before I get a hankering for another gyros . . . (just east of 50th and France)

* Our friend Ramy lives in Boston and has been petulantly demanding that I provide him with a monicker that pops him some serious street cred but also highlights what a lovable fellow he is.  I am holding his monicker hostage until he comes to visit – out-of-towners do not typically get monickers on this blog because the chances of getting them into trouble with anything I write are slimmish.

While I’ve always got a bee in my bonnet about something or other, it is rare that I get a bee in my bonnet and actually DO something about it.  On my internet meanderings, I came upon a recipe for slow roasted tomatoes – so slow, in fact, that they roast for twelve hours – overnight.  The idea appealed to me immensely because I love tomatoes and a lot of my cooking, especially as the weather cools, happens to be tomato-based (chili, stews, sauces, etc.)  Furthermore, I love the idea of killing as many birds as possible with one stone and with this recipe, I would be able to sleep and cook at the same time.  Multitasking whore that I am, what could be better?  And finally, you’ve undoubtedly heard me bemoaning my non-summer and with it, my less than satisfactory farmers market attendance.  Not enough summer = not enough farmers markets = not enough tomato consumption.  

I adore farmers markets.  I love that you can show up with a cool double in your pocket and walk away with bags and bags of shiny and riotously colorful loot. I always feel like Lindsay Lohan after a shopping spree in Beverly Hills – giddy and loving all the bags cutting off the circulation to my wrists, anxious to get home and spill my booty out all over the counters.  

So last week, after having dropped off all three children at school, I find myself in Target to buy an alarm clock for Saint James.  As I’m staring at the dismal produce feeling depressed and ineffectual, I hear a voice in my head . . . it sounds like Yoda, but it’s not Yoda . . . it’s my wise friend Gigi and she is saying: Don’t go to Target when you finally have some time to yourself.  I stand up a little straighter, release the wretched cucumber clutched in my hand and make a beeline for the door.  I had two hours before I needed to pick up Devil Baby.  Plenty of time to jet down to the Minneapolis Farmers Market and back. And I could get some tomatoes. 

And so I did.  

The Farmers Market on a cool, overcast Wednesday morning is so different than on a hot summer weekend.  Less vendors, less crowded, but more authentic somehow.  Gone are the sausages and lemonade – the hippy dippy dresses and scented candles.  It was down to the skeleton crew: a few ruddy faced Hmong farmers and a handful of local growers selling honey, apples, squash, and other late season bounty.  I shuffled along behind old couples who whispered conspiratorially as they shook bunches of spinach and squeezed glistening peppers with gnarled fingers.  I bought some amazing looking heirloom tomatoes:  some blood red streaked with purple, a goth tomato if ever there was one . . . some small and yellow like ampules of honey . . . some chartreuse green, as tart and sinful as Scott Weiland’s genius pants . . . the last sparkling gems of the season.  I bought two big buckets of bruised roma tomatoes for my project.  I even bought some beans from a polite Eastern European young man who began his sentence with “I must say . . .” and then told me he liked my “look.”  I don’t know what he was talking about, as I was in a puffy vest and Chucks, but hell, I’ll take my compliments where ever I can scrounge them, thank you very much, including Jacques and his beanstalk.  

As for the roasted tomatoes, you slice them in half, putting them face down on a rimmed cookie sheet drizzled in olive oil, sea salt, pepper, basil, crushed red pepper flakes, or whatever you fancy.  Drizzle more olive oil and seasonings on top and throw the whole lovely mess in the oven for twelve hours at 200 degrees.  Oh, and don’t forget to tuck some whole, unpeeled garlic cloves between the babies.  I made one batch with basil, oregano, garlic and crushed red pepper flakes and one batch with just the garlic, in case I want to use it for salsa or chili.  

The results are pictured above and are, quite literally, to die for.  The wrinkly peels slip right off leaving the sweetest most concentrated tomato goodness you can imagine.  If Mother Nature laughed until she cried and her tears fell on some tomatoes which ripened and sweetened in the sun and then you took all of that and concentrated it one hundred fold, this is what it tastes like.  Smear some on a slice of baguette with goat cheese and you’ll be running with the bulls of Pamplona.  I tossed a few of the tomatoes with pasta, olive oil, goat cheese, pine nuts and basil and feasted formidably with Doctor Dash.  I’ve got the rest tucked in my freezer waiting for a snowy Sunday afternoon.  

You want summer distilled to its warmest, sweetest, earthiest essence?  Do this.

This was supposed to be dinner last week, but then the dominos happened.  Worth the wait.  For my foody friends, no, I didn’t make the crust.  I cannot bring myself to bust out the flour when I need to keep the kitchen cleanish.  I also have a bit of a dough-phobia which, I think, stems from my inability to measure with any precision, which in turn stems from my general state of haste and impatience.  I don’t do dough.  But I will.  I want to.  I want to be one of those annoying people who smugly acts like making a pie crust is the easiest thing in the world.   

An unexpected by-product of this blog is that I find myself doing odd things like carrying a cooked pizza around my yard until I find a sunny spot in which to photograph it.

One thing leads to another.  On Wednesday night, I was planning on throwing some pizzas on the grill topped with nothing more than a little olive oil, fresh tomato, mozzarella and kalamata olives . . . maybe a little torn basil from the pot of it that’s growing gangbusters on my front step . . . cheese and pepperoni for the kids.  I also pulled some boneless pork ribs from the freezer with the intention of marinating them on Thursday morning to grill Thursday night.  When Saint James found out we were having pizza, he uncharacteristically squeak-groaned that he felt like steak instead.  I cannot say no to this boy.  And, moreover, I really cannot say no to someone who is jonesing for meat.  I’m like the kindly, weathered nurse at  a methadone clinic, but instead of rubber gloves and little plastic cups, I deal in oven mitts and barbeque tongs.  Maybe it’s the Argentine in me, but I firmly believe that if someone is craving beef, it’s because their body is in need of iron, protein, fat – whatever.  When you need a steak, you need a steak.  My mother flew to Boston after Saint James was born and what was the first thing she cooked for me when I got home from the hospital?  You guessed it.  It’s our comfort food.  So off to Kowalski’s I went, to purchase the prettiest ribeyes I could find, so that my little guy could get a belly full of beef.

So then on Thursday, I remembered the pork patiently defrosting in the fridge . . .  sigh . . .  I  wasn’t in the mood for  more grilled meat.  Plus, Saint James claims that pork makes him throw up.  Too bad for him.  Pig is neck and neck with cow in my book. If I had to pick one to join me on a deserted island, I would be utterly stymied.  I actually think I’d pick a pig.  A pig is smart and would probably be much better company up until the time I turned him into bacon and sausage.  He might even help me find some truffles before I ate him.  

In any event, I decided I’d cut the pork up and make a stew.  I sauteed some onions and shallots and garlic, browned the cubed pork, added some white wine and a few bay leaves, remembered some Spanish chorizo I had in the fridge and added some thin slices of that too.  Since it was turning out to be a Spanish-ish stew, I added some smoked pimentón and chickpeas.  And then I added some reconstituted dried porcini mushrooms for no other reason than they add a dark and dusky undertaste that I love.  So this big pot of toothsome stew is bubbling away, and I can tell it’s going to be good and way too much for us, so I decide to see if our next door neighbors, Red Vogue and Salt and Pepper Polymath, are free for dinner.  I know they would be cool with a last minute invite.  I also happen to know they like chickpeas.  Happily, they accepted and I inadvertently found myself tying my metaphorical apron strings and taking up the role of hostess again.  We haven’t had people over in eons because of this whole house situation, and truth be told, I miss it.  

Supergirl and Saint James went on a hunt for centerpiece fixings and came back with some pretty leaves and pine cones.  I had a bouquet that was half dead  from our last showing, so I threw it on the lawn with a couple scissors and told them to have at it.  They filled two tiny cups and a vase with their booty and the brilliant results are pictured above.  They helped me set the table and I, for one, ended up with a butter knife and a tiny coffee spoon, but no matter.  Doctor Dash picked up some olives and Manchego cheese on his way home.  I threw together a little salad with strawberries, gorgonzola and toasted pepitas.  Red and Salt and Pepper brought over a crusty baguette and a beautiful little chocolate torte from Rustica (man, do we have an abundance of good bakeries here in Minneapolis).

It felt good to set the table, to pull out my little bread plates and votives, the tiny ice bucket my mother brought me from Italy.  What a treat to eat in the dining room again “en famille.”  Dinner was its typical happy chaos, with the kids in full show-off performance mode.  They’re like the Van Traps, but instead of singing for our guests in pretty dresses and lederhosen, they climb the molding, jump off the furniture, wrestle with each other and otherwise cause a ruckus.  We were even treated to a school uniform fashion show.  Dinner parties at our house are never very relaxing and I imagine Salt and Pepper and Red went home and put icepacks on their heads, but they were fun, mellow, gracious and sweetly attentive to our wild children – good sports, as always.  

I suppose this is how our kids will learn to behave at a dinner party.  More importantly, I’m hoping this is how our kids will learn to treasure breaking bread with friends and family.  The ritual and comfort of planning and cooking a meal, of preparing the table, and of luxuriating over conversation, crumbs and sputtering candles will hopefully work itself into their little psyches.  If somehow this can become part of who they are, the simple act of sharing food will become almost reflexive, in times of celebration, in times of strife.  It will become a way of finding home, regardless of where their lives take them.  

And if anyone needed a reminder, it was me.  Sitting down to dinner is so essential to our sense of well being.  When I think about it, every dinner party we have ever been to or hosted has always, always filled us with a sense of bonheur and grace, of feeling part of something special and important.  

Here’s to feasts with loved ones.  Chin chin!