Rock (well, roll) Lobster

I’ve claimed to be done with blogging, or at least with blogging about food and beverages. I was feeling uninspired, there were too many people doing the same thing, my writing was getting repetitive and stale, my phone camera (which I rely on for food photos when out and about) is super-crappy (yes, I’m still toiling along with that BlackBerry, AKA the VCR of cell phones)…my handful of excuses all amounted to pretty much the same thing: boredom. My food blogging days were done.

Done until I tasted the Frita Batidos version of a lobster roll, that is.

I could wax poetic about both lobster rolls and Frita Batidos at length – in fact, I’ve done so here and here. The idea of combining the two was almost unfathomable. It was either going to be the most wonderful or most horrible thing on the planet. I knew it would be – there could not possibly be any middle ground with this one.

To recap for those not inclined to click backlinks and read my old posts: a traditional New England lobster roll is served one of two ways: A) hot, meaning the only condiment is lots and lots of clarified butter or B) cold, meaning the lobster chunks are combined with mayo/other ingredients into a lobster salad. Both versions are served on a hot dog roll. This is not the same thing as a hot dog bun. The hot dog roll is split open on the top rather than on one side. The exposed bread on the sides toasts up splendidly. It’s genius, really, and I’m not entirely sure why we don’t get rid of the stupid bun all together.

As usual, I digress.

I have an aversion to mayonnaise that generally makes a cold lobster roll a less-appealing option. I like the sweet meat dripping in butter and not much else. But here in landlocked (or at least freshwater-locked) land of the Mitten, I was willing to take what I could get.

Hot lobster roll at Captain Scott’s during 2011’s CT Labor Day visit.

I really knew nothing about Frita’s version going in other than the fact that it existed (thank you, Facebook – finally, “liking” a bar or restaurant has actually paid off). I placed my order and then immediately placed an order for a mojito to calm my nerves as I waited. (That proved to be an excellent idea in itself. Frita Batidos makes a mean mojito – just enough sugar to take the edge off the rum and tasting more of fresh lime and mint than anything. I highly recommend it.)

The Frita Mojito

I was approximately halfway through my mojito when my meal arrived. After intense visual scrutinizing, I came to the following conclusions:

• This was not so much a “roll” as a sandwich. It was served on the soft egg brioche bun that Frita’s serves its Fritas on. The interior of the bun was toasted.
• We were looking at a “cold” roll; AKA a lobster salad situation. However, the goop of the salad was an orange-ish color, which I deduced was most likely the sweet chili mayo that comes on many a Frita and as a dipping sauce for the fried plantains. (Have I mentioned Frita Batidos plantains? The delicious, garlic-y, cilantro-y double-fried plantains? These are a MUST try.)
• The lobster salad was topped with Frita’s tropical coleslaw, which I knew from experience to be very crunchy with fruity, fresh flavors.
• The bun was overflowing with chunks of lobster meat – a great sign.

Once the visual inspection was complete, I smelled it (my 201o holiday stint at Zingerman’s Mail Order left me with what some consider the rather peculiar habit of smelling all my food before I eat it). I smelled the chili mayo and a sweet; subtle seafood-y smell (not too strong or fishy – a good indicator that the meat was pretty fresh); and a very slightly fruity smell, most likely from the tropical slaw.

Lobster Frita

It was finally time to take a bite. There would be no going back. Was I setting myself up for an incredible taste experience or the biggest disappointment of my life?* (*That might be a bit of an exaggeration.)

My teeth sank through the soft bun and before hitting the pleasant crunch of the toasted interior followed by the slaw,  immediately contrasted by the slightly chewy meat held together by the not-quite-goopy mayo mixture. I crunched through the bottom layer of bun and pondered the flavor combination as I chewed through the pleasant variety of textures. I noticed that the salad was not quite cold – almost room temperature, possibly warmed from the heat of the bun. It was actually a great temperature and really let the flavors shine through.

And what flavors they were.

Lobster meat has a bit of natural sweetness to it, so adding a little heat from the chili mayo and the fruitier elements of the slaw were actually quite complimentary. It had a kick from the mayo without being “hot” – just flavorful. The bun itself had sort of an egg-y, buttery flavor – extremely subtle and mild, but more discernible than regular processed white bread/buns. There was nothing abrasive in the taste of the sandwich – just very harmonious elements combining for a fresh, slightly sweet mouth explosion.

The lobster Frita – I’m not sure I should call it a lobster roll – is on the messy side – but then again, so are most of the sandwiches at Frita Batidos. They are literally bursting out of the buns. As long as you aren’t particular about things like licking fingers or picking up chunks of food with your hands, this is NOT a problem – just something to note.

I asked our server about the availability of the lobster Frita. She told me it was originally something that the chef (Eve, I’m assuming) wanted to try out for a limited time, but that the reception has been excellent. In fact, it sells  out most nights. Our server indicated that the restaurant might be toying with the idea of keeping it around, but she wasn’t sure.

I hope they do. In the meantime, call, check Facebook, do whatever you need to do to find out if the lobster Frita is being served – and if you find that it, go get it immediately. It’s not a New England lobster roll, but it might just be the most delicious sandwich in Ann Arbor.

Everything’s up-to-date in Traverse City

After gorging on Spicy Bob’s pizza and desserts (thanks again, Rob and CJ) on Friday night, it was probably something of a miracle that we were able to get out of bed at all on Saturday, the second day of Spring 2012 Cabin Weekend. But get up we did, and, fueled by bagels and cream cheese (Thanks, Kristen!) we made our way to Traverse City.

I mentioned in the previous post that this spring’s Cabin Weekend differed a bit from our usual pattern. Not only did we have Roz and Sandi with us (and no Rikster) but our favorite restaurant, The Cooks House, was closed for the weekend, meaning we had to change up our dinner plans. Since we were already changing so many things anyway, we decided to hit some new (and new-to-us) wineries along with a couple of our favorite hot spots.

We started the day at Brengman Brothers, a family-owned winery operated by brothers with a legitimate interest and background in farming and hospitality. Their tasting room had a clean, modern feel, avoiding the hokey “barrel and grapevine” decor found in so many tasting rooms. The space was light and airy and open, a perfect place to taste Brengman’s lineup of whites. The standout here was the Black 65 blend, a refreshing mix of Pinot Gris, Voigner and Sauvignon Blanc (I know, I know – how surprising that I like something with a Sauvignon Blanc component). This wine had a hint of spice to it, along with refreshing citrus flavors. We also enjoyed the Runaway Hen Syrah, made from grapes grown in Washington State (no way can your grow Syrah like that with a growing season like Michigan’s) – this hit a lot of earthy, chocolatey notes at a relatively low price.

Girls at Brengman's - we actually took pictures of US and not just wine and food this time.

Our second stop was at Mawby, another usual suspect on our list of wineries. Mawby does amazing sparklers and visiting their tasting room is always fun. They even dug up some non-alcoholic sparkler for Miss Mietzel while the rest of us tasted the current vintages. Though most Mawby wines are available widely downstate, we always stock up on Sandpiper – a very friendly, accessible, and – at $11 a bottle – affordable sparkler only sold on the premises.

Why the ugly label?

(Note to Mawby: I love you guys. Really, I do. But these new labels are awful! I can handle the groovy design, but why is it paired with the “I’m trying to learn medieval calligraphy” font?)

From Mawby, it was on to another favorite, hidden treasure Willow Vineyard. Tucked away but offering the best views around, Willow is one of the friendliest tasting rooms we visit. They only produce four or five things, but they do them well, and we ALWAYS leave with multiple bottles of their Baci Rose.

At Willow

Post-Willow (and post lunch at a pub in Suttons Bay), we tried out Forty-Five North. Melissa alone had been there before. Good experience, and a very strawberry rose. Sandi, Diane and I managed to share three tastings between us and try more or less the entire menu.

Great pic by Diane

At the Forty-Five North tasting room

From 45 North, we headed to Circa Estate, which was supposed to be open…but disappointingly, was not. Maybe next time?

The last stop on the wine tour was at Black Star Farms, not so much for wine but to stock up on Leelanau Cheese aged Raclette. The Raclette is a Swiss-style cow’s milk cheese that pairs well with just about anything. While we prefer the stronger, more flavorful aged variety, the mild “newer” Raclette will not offend anyone’s palate.

With the wineries all closing up shop for the day, we headed back to downtown Traverse City for our traditional stop at American Spoon. The preserves, salsas, sauces and spreads here are all made in small batches with the best ingredients. American Spoon relies on good farm product to supply the necessary flavor – not adding disgusting amounts of sugar or weird preservatives. They also have the world’s most amazing gelato (sorry, Zingerman’s) and Diane and I could not help but spoil our dinners.

SO MANY CHOICES!!!

I went for a pistachio/hazelnut combo

We wound up our TC trip with dinner at Amical, a French-style bistro downtown. We ordered an assortment of entrees and small plates. I had a braised short rib that was literally falling apart on the plate. It had a wondrous melt-in-your-mouth texture. While we mourned our usual seven course tasting menu at the Cooks House, we were not at all disappointed with our choice.

The BlackBerry is terrible for food pics. I should get an iPhone.

Stay tuned for part three, when we stop at Dingman’s Bar in Kalkaska…where the REAL adventure begins!

Spring awakening

I’m currently suffering from my annual seasonal depression, so I haven’t posted much lately. (And yes, I realize that most seasonally depressed people get depressed in the winter, not the spring. However, spring to me is like being trapped in somebody’s gross basement – it’s damp and moldy and not that warm and you know what? I kind of hate it.)

In Connecticut, I could combat my depression with the opening of Captain Scott’s, new wine releases at JE, and my aquarium friends. However, in Michigan, the one and only thing that can (at least temporarily) snap me out of my spring funk is Cabin Weekend.

This year’s spring weekend was a little different – no Rikster, for one (horror of horrors!). On the bright side, we added Roz and Sandi and Kristen to the mix, meaning we had six instead of our usual four, and also added some great new experiences.

Diane and I actually took Friday off and headed up on Thursday night. We decided to low-brow it for dinner and stopped at Tony’s I-75 Restaurant in Birch Run, where Diane was served a pound of bacon with a club sandwich on the side.

Club sandwich from Tony's

Upon arriving at the cabin, we immediately changed into pajamas, opened a couple bottles of sparkling wine, and turned on a Golden Girls marathon. Relaxation at its finest.

I am literally (in) the cat(s) pajamas.

How did this hipster get up north?

I should add here that the cabin is the best place ever to get a good night’s sleep. Grandma put shutters on the windows of the bedrooms, so you can sleep in complete darkness and sleep in successfully (take that, morning sun!). In addition, all the beds have electric blankets. That’s right – you can crawl into your warm, dark burrito and sleep to your heart’s content. Even I can sleep well and sleep in at the cabin – and that’s saying something.

Fully refreshed on Friday morning, Diane and I headed off to Traverse City – we didn’t let a little snow and sleet deter us. At the recommendation of Andy from the Produce Station, we sought out Patisserie Amie, where we enjoyed amazing crepes and celebratory bellinis.

Great suggestion, Andy!

Ham, bleu cheese and walnut crepe

Our waiter, Luc (well, we’re pretty sure it was actually “Luke” but we were eating crepes in a “patisserie” so he became “Luc”) was fantastic. We also picked out an assortment of pastries from the case to share with the other girls by means of apology for enjoying this treat before their arrival.

Treats for the girls

Fueled by crepes, Diane and I headed up the Old Mission to our perennial favorite, 2 Lads Winery. I’ve enjoyed a well-documented relationship with 2 Lads and their wines since moving back to Michigan in 2010.  This trip was extra-special, as I FINALLY got to meet Caryn, the 2 Lads marketing guru who does all their blogging and social media. Caryn and I have spoken so many times through channels such as Facebook and Twitter that I sometimes forgot that we’d never met in person. Diane and I spent a delightful hour or two with Caryn, trying the newly-bottled releases (oh man, that Cab Franc/Merlot is going to be AMAZING) and talking wine and food and Michigan in general. And even though the new releases weren’t yet available for purchase, we still left with a number of current faves:

I save up for this.

Post-2 Lads, we still had time to kill before the other girls arrived. We headed back down the peninsula, popping into Brys Estate for their new release party, and then headed over to the Village at Grand Traverse Commons. The Village was known in its former life as the Traverse City State Hospital, and before THAT, the Northern Michigan Asylum.

Maybe a BIT creepy.

That’s right – the former mental asylum has been transformed into upscale shops, condos, and restaurants. There’s a slight aura of creepiness when walking amongst the lower levels, but it’s quickly forgotten upon entering Trattoria Stella.

Stella was our destination for a mid-afternoon snack and cocktail before heading back toward Frederic. Nestled in the catacombs of the Village, Stella is dark and intimate and very, very cool. Diane and I sat at the bar and ordered cocktails to offset all the wine we’d been drinking. Mine, the Stella Five Year Itch, was crafted from rye, Campari, and caramelized orange oil. It smelled like citrus and tasted bitter, bitter, bitter. I loved it. Don’t be fooled by its deceptively pink appearance: like all Campari-based drinks, it is not for the faint of heart or the sweet of tastebuds.

NOT a cosmopolitan.

For our snack, we ordered the Tavola, an assortment of ham, cheese, marinated veggies, crusty bread and greens served on a wooden board. Delish.

A light snack before dinner.

We arrived back at the cabin just in time for the arrival of Kristen – and our resident pitbull, Faygo. Several hours later, Melissa arrived with Roz and Sandi – and pizza and silly sticks from our northern favorite Spicy Bob’s – in tow. Like all good cabin girls, they put on their pajamas before doing anything else (even opening the pizza boxes). Once we were all properly attired and had pizza in hand, we inspected the goods the gals had hauled up – including a mystery bag from Roz’s husband, CJ, and a box from Sandi’s boyfriend, Rob.

Well. This was something new. Normally at cabin weekend, we have an abundance of savory snacks and next to no sweets – which was why Diane and I chose to purchase pastries for the group on our Friday outing. Rob and CJ had somehow sensed this lack of sugar and loaded us up with the most mammoth carrot cake cupcakes, an assortment of mini cannolis, eclairs and fruit tarts, chocolate of all varieties, and more. In addition, CJ had added several containers of guacamole, a variety of cheese, and other goodies.

The dessert buffet

We had a FEAST. We may have been more buzzed from sugar than wine – a definite first for cabin weekend.

On that note, we end night one. Stay tuned for Saturday’s Traverse City – and Dingman’s Bar! – adventures.

I can dance if I want to, even if I AM running on a treadmill at the time.

Dear Important People Who Work Out on the Treadmill Next to Me,

First of all, congrats for on getting in to the gym! It’s hard, right? I know. The gym is literally, like, 30 feet from my desk and I still have a hard time getting my butt in there after work. So for those of you who are at the other end of the building, it must be way harder. I mean, you could park near the other entrances and not even have to pass the gym to exit the building. I know this because I’ve thought about parking over there so I wouldn’t get stricken with “gym guilt” on those days that I just don’t feel like working out.

I then realized that it would be weird for me to do that because I’d have to walk about five times as far to get to and from my car and it would add at least fifteen minutes to my coming and going since I’d have to talk to all the people I know on the other side of the building on my way in and out. And  if I don’t have time to run two miles, do I REALLY have time for that?!

(The answer is YES because I like talking to people much more than I like going to the gym.)

Perhaps you’re getting the idea of how hard it is for me to motivate myself to go to the gym. But I digress.

I’d like to apologize for my weird treadmill behavior.

See, I loathe running on the treadmill. To be honest, I kind of hate running in general. If it isn’t in the context of a sport – like soccer or tennis – it just seems pointless (because maneuvering a ball up and down a field in a scoreless game for 90 minutes and a point system that goes from 15 to 30 to 40 to DONE makes complete sense).

However, I’ve come to terms with the fact that running is one of the few activities that actually provides me with any satisfaction when I’m finished (Matt – I’m giving you that one…and no, I don’t “do it in heels”).  And since I’m terrified to run in the dark, the treadmill will have to do until we “spring forward.” (FYI, daylight savings time is stupid.)

Where was I? Oh, right, my treadmill behavior.

See, the only way I can force my way through a 30-minute treadmill run is with the assistance of my iPod. Or more accurately, the music on my iPod. I’m sure any device that played music would do, though running with a discman would be a bit awkward (ooh, do hipsters do that? It would be sort of ironic, in that “I want to support the artists and not the man” sort of way…)

ANYWAY. I’ve loaded my device up with super-motivating tunes*. The problem with these super-motivating tunes is that they kind of make me want to dance more than they make me want to run. And dancing is WAYYYY more fun that running.

My inherent fear of falling off the treadmill keeps me from getting TOO involved in my moves. (Seriously, on my list of fears, falling off the treadmill ranks a close third behind tornadoes and being buried alive.) But I can not keep the occasional pointing at bay.

(This is probably a good time to explain to those who may not have realized that I am A) white and B) completely lacking in rhythm and C) only capable of dancing while pointing.)

I try to confine myself to the allotted treadmill space, but I realize that every now and then an arm might flail into your area. For this I do apologize. And please realize that I am not pointing AT you. (I was going to say I’m pointing with you; however, I have yet to see anyone else dance-pointing on the treadmill.)

As for the facial expressions – well, those can’t be helped either. Just know that I’m probably NOT in agonizing physical pain; rather, I’m just listening to a really emotional (but peppy and motivating!) song.

Also, I want to acknowledge the fact that I do sometimes mouth the words along with the song I am listening to, and may have accidentally sung them out loud on one or more occasions. This happens as a result of A) my white girl dance routine (singing expressively goes hand-in- hand with pointing) and B) being occasionally song-repressed by Captain Buzzkill (see the panties conversation for an example).

In short, I understand that my treadmill behavior is a little…odd. I also understand that it may be hard to take me seriously after witnessing such odd behavior. But please don’t let my bad dancing, overly-animated facial expressions and occasionally tendency toward wheezing overshadow the fact that outside the gym I am quite professional and very good at my job.

Perhaps you’ll take me more seriously when you hear that I am considering abandoning running for Jazzercise.

Sincerely,

Amy

The world is my oyster (when I can afford them)

“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”

-Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

The quote above represents two things I love: oysters and Ernest Hemingway…and wine. Make that three things I love.

(FYI, I do not quote Hemingway while eating oysters – that would just be pretentious. )

Lest you assume I hail from some sophisticated coastal upbringing that influenced my palate, let me assure you that I most certainly do NOT. I hail from the landlocked, blue-collar, Midwestern town of Ypsilanti, Michigan, and am the offspring of a man who eats well-done hamburgers with no cheese or condiments.

My interest in oysters admittedly was sparked during a three-year stint of living in Connecticut. I was fortunate enough to attend a farm-to-table dinner at a local restaurant – the “farm” portion being an oyster farm. The oyster farmer was in attendance, and the talented James Wayman prepared oysters in a variety of ways (both cooked and raw) that I never even fathomed to be possible.

Though all the preparations were delicious, my favorite way to enjoy oysters remains on the half-shell. I unabashedly proclaim my love for east coast oysters over west – some may say I’m biased from living on the CT/RI coast; however, I honestly do prefer their saltier, more minerally taste.

I order fresh oysters whenever I get the chance. In Michigan, those chances are harder to come by – though I’ve found a few reliable sources. Whenever I’m on vacation or a work trip and I get the opportunity to dine at a good restaurant, I order a plate of oysters (usually on someone else’s tab – those babies aren’t cheap).

When I eat oysters, I don’t use cocktail sauce – I prefer them plain and salty, though I occasionally squeeze some fresh lemon (and the Common Grill in Chelsea serves theirs up with a little garlic-y concoction that is absolutely divine on a Connecticut Blue Point).

I also usually (though not always) take a photo, because apparently the novel of eating something raw that comes in a seashell never wears off). Here are some (but most definitely not all!) of the oysters that I enjoyed in 2011 – pour yourself a glass of Champagne or Sauvignon Blanc (my two faves with these shellfish) and take a gander:

Black Pearl - Ann Arbor, MI

Comme Ça - The Cosmopolitan, Las Vegas, NV

The Oyster Club - Mystic, CT

Common Grill - Chelsea, MI

Liv's Oyster Bar - Old Saybrook, CT

Where’s your favorite place to get oysters? Anywhere – you never know where I’ll end up!

The Super Experience

I bring you this – my first blog post in months – live from Indianapolis.

Yes, it is Super Bowl Sunday. No, I am not at the Super Bowl, although yesterday I did have what  is apparently considered the “NFL Experience.”

Most people here don't know how to read this number.

 

Because NFL players always play in a convention center.

If the NFL Experience is to be believed (and OF COURSE it is!), here is what happens in the NFL: you wait in line and a ball machine rapid-fires a perfect spiral directly into your arms. You then run past several slightly-less-than-lifesize cardboard cutouts of football players and dive on to an air mattress. You then need to vacate the air mattress as quickly as possible because there is a serious risk that the person who was in line behind you is about to dive on top of you.

Someone having an "NFL Experience."

And they make it look so hard on TV.

You can also pose for photos with…more cardboard cutouts. Apparently the NFL is full of them.

"Hey, Peyton Manning. Come here often?"

Should you choose to represent a particular player or team at the NFL Experience, it does NOT have to be one of the two teams actually playing in the current game.  And stopping at simply donning a jersey is pretty half-assed. You’re supposed to put some effort into these outfits. Bengals superfan? Own stock in the Green Bay Packers? No problem. Not only do people NOT think your outfit is weird; they high-five you when you walk by. Or line up to get a photo with you.

I didn't say I was above getting a pic with these guys.

Now, you may or may not be aware that the Detroit Lions are not playing in the Super Bowl. I know this comes as a great shock to some people. Personally, I didn’t expect them to get there this year – but I sought out their helmet on the wall of helmets to pay my respects.

The Bears fan next to me rolled his eyes at me the entire time. He could have simply MOVED HIS ASS.

(Side note: I learned that Indianapolis Colts fans do not find it interesting or ironic when you point out that you as a Lions fan can actually feel superior to them for once. In fact, I almost got divorced and disowned for this comment.)

The Super Bowl itself attracts celebrities and high rollers. Super Bowl Village attracts this guy:

I'm sure the Giants are very proud.

Super Bowl Village also attracts a large configuration of religious fanatics with apocalyptic predictions. Every corner boasts a dude with a microphone trying to convince people that they should be going to church on Sunday instead of watching the game. Some try to be clever about it (“Wouldn’t you rather score touchdowns with Jesus?”) while some are quite stark in their predictions (“You DO know you’re about to burn in hell, don’t you?”) and some, rather ironically, wear hats or sweatshirts or gloves bearing NFL logos. (Fail!)

According to the local news outlets, celebrities currently in town include Snoop Dogg, Katy Perry, Pauly D, Pit Bull, Coolio (seriously?), Ice Cube (once again, seriously?), Carrie Underwood, Adam Sandler, and…wait for it…at Hoosier Park Casino in Anderson…KC and The Sunshine Band. I’m sure people jumped all over that one. (In their defense, it was the cheapest ticket anywhere near town.)

The only celebrity I actually saw was Stuart Scott from ESPN, and I didn’t so much “see” him as I was “pushed into” him. He was on a cell phone at the time, and nodded at me. Very polite. Still, maybe not the flashiest of celebrities, though preferable to Coolio, I suppose.

He can, indeed.

Anyway, being only mildly interested in the Super Bowl itself, I spent most of the drive to Indy thinking up puns that would be fun to write on signs. I thought “A Good Manning is NOT Hard to Find” was fairly clever, though some thought perhaps the Flannery O’Connor reference was a bit high-minded. I was getting frustrated that I couldn’t come up with anything better until someone in the car with me (whom we shall refer to as “Captain Buzzkill”) pointed out that thinking up sign puns was sort of a waste of time as I would not be attending the event itself. (I tuned out Captain Buzzkill by turning up the radio and singing “Goodbye Brady” to the tune of “Goodbye Stranger.”)

So here we are. I’ve experienced the NFL, literally ran into a celebrity, and taken pictures with people in weird clothes. I’m approximately half an hour away from Lucas Oil Stadium, watching the game on television and not holding a clever sign. And I’m obviously not too invested in the game since I’m blogging while it’s on. And this is hardly the best blog post I’ve ever written (as I’m sure Captain Buzzkill will point out later).

Anyway, stay tuned for better posts than this one and some major changes to this blog. Until then, have a “super” night. (I couldn’t resist.)

Duck, Duck, Goose (the Market – plus fresh pork burgers!)

It’s a cold, rainy day in suburban Indianapolis – probably just as well we’ll spend a large chunk of it in the car driving back to Michigan. Luckily for us, yesterday was sunny and gorgeous – the perfect fall day – making our trips to the Noblesville Farmers Market and downtown Indy pretty much perfect.

Fall at the Farmers Market

We hit the farmers market toward the end of the morning with the goal of getting lunch rather than shopping. Grandpa Jay’s was more than happy to help us to that end. A purveyor of fresh pork products, Grandpa Jay not only comes to the farmers market to sell the various sausages and patties he produces, but also offers grilled sandwiches on site. I enjoyed a brat burger – basically bratwurst-seasoned pork in patty form. Spread with some stoneground mustard from Local Folks Foods – plus a little relish and some red onions – it was the perfect lunch to eat outdoors on a sunny October afternoon. (Freshly popped, still-warm kettle corn made for an excellent side dish.)

Grandpa Jay's brat burger

Fresh kettle corn

After lunch, we split from the group. I finally convinced Noe to take me to downtown Indianapolis to visit Goose the Market. I am not sure how Goose got on my radar – I think it may have been from Bon Apetit magazine – but I’ve wanted to visit since reading about it.

Goose exterior from funcityfinder.com

Goose has been in business on Delaware Street since 2007 and specializes in “phenomenal food, the people who passionately produce it, and the rest of us who can’t wait to get our hands on it.” I was hooked the minute we walked in the door. The first thing I spied was the gelato case, with flavors such as blueberry crumble and – gasp! – Mackinac Island Fudge.

Gelato case

Traveling back through the narrow space, I came upon the cheese counter – where I was sorely tempted but resisted. Right next to the cheese counter was one of the most amazing meat cases I have ever seen – all the usual cuts, plus a giant bowl of stone crab claws, an overflowing bowl of duck legs and more. If I had ANY way to transport duck legs (and any extra cash – my buying binge at the Produce Station holiday tasting left me a little cash-poor this month) I may have purchased the entire bowl.

Cheese counter

Meat...

...and more meat.

We went down a narrow staircase and found the cellar where Goose stocks their extensive selection of wines and beers. A number of hard-to-find and local beers were represented, as well as an eclectic wine selection (it reminded me of Thames River in New London, CT). In the very back of the cellar was the Goose Enoteca, where one can purchase wine or beer by the glass as well as small plates of meat and cheese for VERY reasonable prices. Once glass of Crios Malbec Rose (only $4!) – perfect for a fall day, with it’s heavy-for-a-rose flavors but still maintaining  a light crispness – and a couple snacks later, we left Goose appropriately full and happy.

Enoteca menu

Very unattractive photo of me at Goose

All in all, a very good eating day in suburban Indy and Indianapolis. However, I am looking forward to getting home and getting back into a major workout routine…I need to work off all this food and wine!

Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Glove Compartment Panties

The problem with being called upon to explain something that you never intended to explain in the first place is that the explanation can sound contrived, made-up, or, in most cases, just plain stupid. Case in point: a recent conversation from my life:

SCENE: The interior of a Ford Taurus, on a lovely drive through the country, past Saline en route to Clinton. I am driving and obnoxiously singing along with Top 40 radio hits. For some inexplicable reason, my husband has opened my glove compartment.

Husband: “What. Is. This.”

Me: (Singing) “TONIGHT – GIVE ME EVERYTHING TONIGHT…”

Husband: (Clearing throat) “WHAT. IS. THIS???”

(I glance over and see my an open glove compartment and my husband holding up a pair of underwear. He is not actually holding the underwear with his fingers; rather, they are being dangled on the end of a pen and held a fair distance away from his body.)

Me: “Um, that’s a pair of underwear. Obviously. (Singing) GRAB SOMEBODY SEXY, TELL THEM HEY!”

Husband: “That’s it?”

Me: “Yes, those are the words to the song.”

Husband: “I am talking about the panties.”

Me: “Oh, those. What about them?”

Husband: (Incredulous look) “Why are there panties in your glove compartment?”

Me: “Oh, it’s all right – they’re mine.”

Husband: (Even more incredulous look) “What? Why does that make it all right?”

Me: “Well, obviously you would be concerned about a random pair of underwear in the glove box. I get that. But these aren’t random. They’re mine. So it all makes sense. Actually, I’m glad you found them. I forgot they were in there. Hey, what do you think of this song? It’s on my running mix.”

Husband: “I am even more confused than before. Why are YOUR underwear in your glove compartment?”

Me: “You don’t have to hold them like that. They’re clean. I only had them on for, like, three hours.”

Husband: (Even MORE disbelieving) “What?!?! Why did you take them off in the car?”

Me: “I didn’t take them off in the car. I wasn’t driving or anything.”

Husband: “So where did you take them off?”

(At this point I realize the conversation has veered wildly off-course.)

Me: “There’s a very simple explanation for this.”

Husband: (Still, I might add, holding the panties out far away from his body) “Really. Do tell.*”

(*Note: He probably didn’t say “do tell” but in my memory he said that and I can’t think of anything better that he would have said instead, so we’re running with it. I guess I now have to classify this whole account as fictionalized although it is very, very real.)

Me: “Well, about two weeks ago I took that pair of underwear out of the dryer before work. But when I got to work, I felt like they were riding up and were uncomfortable and then I started thinking I didn’t want to be underwear-fidgeting all day at the office, and then I started thinking maybe you could see the panty lines through my skirt, and then it REALLY started to bother me, so at lunch I went to Target and bought a new pair of underwear and put that pair in the glove compartment. Then I forgot about them until now.”

Husband: (Looking confused) “So you changed underwear in the Target parking lot?”

Me: “Don’t be ridiculous. I changed in the Target bathroom. Then I brought the offensive pair back to the car and stuck them in the glove compartment.”

Husband: “But why didn’t you put them in your purse?”

(Now it is my turn to look incredulous.)

Me: “I can’t carry panties around in my purse! What if I was talking to someone or needed to get out my wallet or something and accidentally pulled out a pair of panties? That would be totally weird.”

Husband: (Getting louder) “THAT would be weird? How is it not weird to find panties in your glove compartment?!”

Me: “Well, no one is supposed to be looking in my glove compartment. And I wasn’t going to KEEP them in there; I just forgot about them.”

Husband: (Shaking head disapprovingly) “I don’t know what it is with you and panties lately. Keeping them in the glove compartment, singing songs about them…”

Me: “What?! I do not sing songs about panties.”

Husband: “Yes you do. You just sang it this morning to your iPod.”

Me: (Realizing what he is referencing and once again, realizing there is a very simple explanation) “Oh, THAT. That was Nicki Minaj. The song is not about panties; it just references panties.”

Husband: “And it is the only line in the whole song that you sing.”

Me: “That is a lie. I also sing the part about flying coach. I don’t know the rest of the words yet. But that is not the same as singing songs about panties. By the way, you can put those back in the glove compartment.”

Husband: “So you can forget about them again?”

Me: “This conversation is over.” (Turn up radio) “OMG*, it’s Super Bass! We were just talking about this song!”

(*Yes, I spoke the letters “O,” “M,” and “G.”)

Me: (Singing) “He just gotta give me that look; when he give me that look the panties comin’ off, off.”

(Husband gives me a VERY irritated look.)

Me: “I don’t think that is the look the song is referring to.”

(Husband changes radio station.)

THE END

Identity crisis

I just read a fantastic article in the online edition of the New York Times (I wish I subscribed to the print edition, but that’s one of those things Noe drew the line on that I really couldn’t make a great case for). The article, part of their “Modern Love” series, is titled “Would Hemingway Cry?” and is a young man’s reflection on trying to reconnect with one of his first serious girlfriends, who he has – after years of no contact with her whatsoever – romanticized into a totally different person than she actually turned out to be.

Blah, blah, blah. I could care less about the girlfriend part. The piece of this article that got me was the beginning, when the writer describes how he and his girlfriend read The Sun Also Rises and forged a ridiculous sort of identification with the main characters, even though the writer and girlfriend were relatively affluent New Yorkers as opposed to globe-trotting, heavily-boozing bohemians.

I LOVED this. Because I think every single person who reads (or watches movies, or listens to music) does this very same thing. We convince ourselves that we are just like Jake Barnes or Nick Carraway or (in the case of almost every architect I’ve ever known) Howard Roark. Or if we are smart enough to realize that we may not be like them, we attempt to be like them.

This doesn’t stop with classic literature. I once read a completely trashy novel called Outer Banks and convinced myself that I wanted to be like the main character. I started wearing preppy button downs and reading Dorothy Parker. On the plus side, I really loved Dorothy Parker. On the con side, did I mention the main character of this book was a tall southern blonde with a completely forged identity? And also that this novel was set in the sixties? Still, she drank coffee at midnight and watched Italian movies and read T.S. Eliot poems and it all seemed very glamorous at the time, and I picked up several of these habits without even realizing it.

Reading Dorothy Parker probably didn’t help me out at all, either. I loved her sarcasm and her self-deprecation. Her poems were downright mean at times. I wanted to be mean and witty and drink martinis with literary geniuses. I was a writer, after all (sort of). I was pretty sure I had witty and slightly mean down. But I never quite made it to the multiple husbands/multiple suicide attempts, which I’m going to call a good thing. And I was never much of a poet – and by “much of” I mean “wasn’t at all.” Even “Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses” would have been a real stretch for me on the poetry front.

And while we’re doing true confessions here, I’m super-guilty of my own Hemingway affectation: as a 19-year old Midwesterner with very limited food and travel experience, I read this quote in A  Moveable Feast and decided that I was just going to have to suck it up and try oysters – which I now adore:

“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”

I’m not sure what my point is with this post. I don’t think that misidentifying with or picking up the habits of authors, characters and the like is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it probably adds some good things to one’s personality – and in my case, at least, a true love of a new food. I think really I was just delighted that the “Modern Love” article captured it so well – reading those telegram-style emails I thought about how I would have been positively swoon-y over them when I was younger, fancying myself Lady Brett.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to track down some oysters.

Tennis Time

What a week!  In my continued pursuit of athletic excellence (see: Mini Achievement) I entered the Ann Arbor City Tennis Tournament. Noe has played in this tournament multiple times; Noe, however, has also played tennis for years. I started playing a few years ago and got hooked, but have never played competitively until now.

My handsome husband working hard on the court

I got solidly beat in the first round, which I more or less expected. While normally I am very much in the “I don’t want to play if I can’t win” school of thought, I really did have a blast playing in the tournament. First of all, I was able to actually win some games, which was a goal of mine. I also ran my opponent a fairly good amount, and held a couple games at 40-40 for a long time. My backhand looked terrible, quite frankly, but my serves were pretty consistent, so I considered it an equal trade.

I tried!

I have been going to watch Noe play in tourneys for years, and let me tell you, it is WAY more fun to be part of the action. Not only did I get to play on a beautiful court at a nice facility, but when I was watching Noe the next day, people who had seen me play complimented me on things, or said hello, and in general made me feel a lot more like I was part of the tournament in a way that you just don’t feel as a spectator.

So – long story short, because there isn’t really a point here other than I had a blast – I can’t wait to play in another tournament, even if I lose in the first round again. If you are considering entering one of these events and something is holding you back, I highly encourage you to reconsider. It’s a great experience all around.