passages: a brief moment of introspection

A lull drapes itself over the office and I feel choked by an ominous quiet. The entire working world seems to have drawn its curtains for the holiday season leaving me with nothing but time to quietly reflect upon the past year.

As it drew to a close, the year became one of passages. Many people left my life, but left permanent imprints on my character. My co-worker Frank decided to retire; my favorite yoga teacher is leaving the studio to open his own in New Zealand; another co-worker in the Canadian branch of my company is going back to school. While it’s true none of these people are integral in my life and the loss I feel is nowhere near the grief I would endure were they family members or close friends, these passages got me thinking about the mutability of relationships and how each person, no matter how near and dear, impacts our lives in a way we cannot even fathom. Sometimes this realization doesn’t even occur until they are gone—but I now know that you can learn something from everyone with whom you cross paths.

I thank Frank for his crisp, no-nonsense business savvy and his hardened, sometimes crass perspective on things. I will miss his uncouth remarks (often muttered under his breath so that he thinks no one can hear). It’s hard to believe that I have shared a cubicle with this man for over three years and learned more during the final three days of his tenure than I did over the cumulative period during which we worked side by side. What will truly stick with me, though, is that someone is always watching, listening and judging you regardless of what you might think. As an example, whilst Brett was unemployed, my shopping habits continued unabated. I lamented to my friend Lauren that I had no lunch money resultant from a recent shopping spree when Frank began to quietly lambaste my behavior. It was not his intent for me to hear what he said, but I did nonetheless. As a result, I have learned to be more conscientious of my actions and more mindful of my opinions and expulsive nature. Sometimes, when observing yourself through other’s eyes—you realize how ridiculous you may in fact be.

Before having Robert as my Bikram instructor, I never fully understood nor embraced the concept of a “student-teacher” relationship. Even my relationships with college professors have never been of such a deep and honorable origin. Were it not for his wisdom, passion, and gentle corrections, my love for Bikram would not be what it is today. He has instilled within me a desire to share the practice and its life-changing benefits. For Robert- I wrote the below:

Each class with you has been a gift
Your teachings are so kind
Gently aiding in my postures
Helping center and calm my mind

Mindful of the temperatures
You never let us roast
You encourage us for 90 minutes
At the end- I feel like toast

I thank you for the past 12 months
For everything you’ve done
I know you are quite humble
But I still think you’re number one

May your journey be life changing
Your experiences be great
I’ll hope our paths will cross again
For that I shall rely on fate


I am grateful for Somkeat’s eternal optimism, energy and positivity. Our relationship began with a weekly email from her in which she requested a report that I generate at the corporate office. She was always cheery and always chatty. We became Facebook friends yet I still never paid all that much attention to developing our friendship. It’s easy for me to become wrapped up in the quotidian and to be honest; I have a hard enough time maintaining the relationships that I already have. When I found out that she was going to be leaving my company to pursue her dream of becoming an esthetician I was suddenly sad. I had taken for granted that this girl had been open with me and so I finally took the time to open up back. It turns out that we had a TON in common, and we promised to stay in touch and visit in Las Vegas and L.A. in the next year. Thanks to Som, I have learned to always be open to the opportunity for friendship….everyone around you has so much love to give and so much wisdom to offer.

I suppose with the eve of New Year’s being just around the corner, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic and am ready to break out in “Auld Lang Syne.” But let this serve as a thank you to all those in my life, no matter how close in proximity or far in closeness, for everything you’ve given me: the love, the infinite pearls of wisdom, the attention. I hope that 2010 will be your best year yet!!!

Poppy Birthday to me!! (a thali good time was had by all.)

Quarter after nine on a rainy Seattle night, I jumped into a sidewalk puddle with abandon in my brand new fuchsia Hunter boots and bounded into Poppy on Capitol Hill for my much anticipated Birthday dinner. Since it was a dark and stormy night, Brett dropped me off curbside while he began what would turn out to be a thirty minute treasure hunt for the ever elusive weekend parking spot.

I entered a brightly lit Poppy and looked curiously around for someone to seat me. Feeling spectacularly on display, I was relieved to see a lovely woman approach me with a welcoming smile on her face. She complimented my boots and we made small talk about the holidays as she guided me to a window seat for two and set about explaining the idea behind Poppy’s “Thali” menu. Moments later, our bubbly server descended upon me with water. I quickly chose a glass of champagne so that I had something to which I might pay my attentions whilst waiting for Brett to arrive. As I sat there, I soaked in the environs: the space seemed to schism off in two separate directions—I was nestled behind the entrance that jutted out between my side of the restaurant and the other side that hosted the bar and a random smattering of booths and tables. A high ceiling featured exposed cedar beams and offered a deconstructionist sensibility amidst the modern accoutrements.

In true “grass is greener” form I began to feel as though I wasn’t seated in the “cool” area of the restaurant. Throngs of merry-makers were clustered near the rear of the restaurant—laughing and clinking glasses as I sat quietly next to the emergency exit door and reflected upon the beginning of my 29th year. As if sensing my disconsolate thoughts, Alisha approached and asked if there was anything I needed. Deciding it might be a nice treat for Brett to arrive out of the cold, wet night and be greeted by a dry martini, I ordered his usual and picked a couple of starters off the menu: spice crispies and salt cod fritters with smoked paprika aioli.

After what seemed like hours of twiddling my thumbs and daintily sipping my libation, Brett arrived in concert with his drink and our starters. A server opened the emergency door for Brett to slink right into his seat. Making no haste, I began nibbling on the spice crispies and uncouthly forgot to toast my birthday. After I noticed Brett sternly observing me licking my fingers as I began to raise the glass to my lips, I stopped in mid-air and we clinked our glasses jovially.

The spice crispies were a festive mixture of puffed rice, golden raisins, almonds and other such doodads mixed in Moroccan spices. They almost seemed like a bowl of ethnic Chex Mix. Our salt cod fritters were perfectly fluffy little pillows resting on one another and ending in a bath of the smoked paprika aioli which, while delicious, completely overwhelmed the flavor of the fritters.

Poppy’s signature is “Thali,” a showcase of multitudinous flavors that all match harmoniously and are of Northwest tradition (at the restaurant anyway). Traditionally, thali are of Indian origin, and it was when the head chef, Jerry Traunfield, was in India that he became inspired with this idea for his newest gastronomic endeavor. Having previously been at the helm of Woodinville’s Herb Farm, the opportunity arose for Jerry and his partner to open Poppy—a much more fiscally conservative yet still extraordinarily unique and delicious culinary experience. Accommodating to vegetarian tastes, both vegetarian thali and regular thali are offered. Aside from side dishes and the two thali, “smallies” are also available, which are basically a selection of five offerings from the thali menu- one being the highlight and having a larger portion than the others.

The menu is mixed up as frequently as twice a week depending upon what is fresh and inspirational. Brett and I happened to partake in a particularly delicious evening—the breakdown listed below. Having a proclivity for the selections on the non-vegetarian thali, I asked if it would be possible to make a substitution for the cumin-braised short ribs which Alisha accommodated without a second thought. I momentarily considered trying the delicata squash blintzes but couldn’t get over my aversion. So, at the behest of my lovely server, the blintzes were substituted with Qualicum scallops. Moments after settling upon our dinner choices, the meals were brought out to us in short order.

I know I sometimes speak in a manner that would indicate that I just fell off the back end of a turnip truck, but what was presented before me was absolutely gorgeous. I was immediately reminded of the innumerable Bento Box meals I consumed whilst in Japan; such was the meticulous care with which our platters were put together. Each bite had its own unique vessel: The herbed buffalo-ricotta dumplings were nestled among leeks and porcini mushrooms—snug in a covered Le Creuset soup terrine, the celery root soup with chestnut was presented in a small sake-style cup, and the scallops were in an elongated clear green glass boat.

Not only was the presentation a striking palate of robust autumnal colour but the flavors were flawlessly compatible as well, which I had not necessarily expected. Though each portion was relatively small, the richness and complexity was completely satisfying and before too long I began to feel incredibly full. Brett carefully considered his plan of attack on the thali and decided to enjoy one offering at a time while I chose to make my way around the platter like a merry-go-round. The creamy earthiness of the celery root soup was divine; the scallops were only marginally sweet and overwhelmingly plump and juicy. I loved the cauliflower and pine nut salad—at once healthy and indulgent. The naan was studded with sesame seeds, cumin and other heady spices and was perhaps the tastiest naan I have ever had. None of the dishes were overwhelmingly salty—instead they all displayed unique, nuanced flavors.

We were in for a marathon, not a race. As we slowly sipped on our bottle of Nebbiolo, I noticed that the restaurant had gone from being a thriving epicenter of hip to a quiet restaurant wrapping up its evening. Never were we rushed, and never did Alisha subtly suggest that we leave. Instead she would occasionally check in, fill our glasses and evaluate our progress. Around 11, when it was apparent that we were unable to pack in any more food we were shown the dessert menu. While we considered the bevy of options (ranging from hot date cake with banana and butterscotch to herbed apple deep dish with bay leaf ice cream), she took our plates back to the kitchen where our leftovers were meticulously wrapped.

Not wanting to miss out on one of the sweets, even though the Satsuma with mustard seed pickle served as a nice palate cleanser, I chose the obvious Birthday option: dark chocolate terrine with ginger, pistachio and sesame to take home and enjoy a bit later. While Alisha put in the order, I admired the seamless waltz of the employees winding down: One group huddled quietly at the bar to enjoy a nightcap; another sat chatting whilst folding napkins. Moments later, she presented us with my boxed cake, replete with a candle, before we began the long trek through the icy night.

Art of the Table- A Masterpiece!

Brett and I have a long standing tradition of taking each other out for our birthdays, and he mentioned to me that he would like to go to Art of the Table for his. I knew nothing about the place, but according to Brett there are a litany of laudatory reviews and hype that it’s one of the best restaurants in Seattle. With that in mind, I realized it would behoove me to make reservations there forthwith. On a random Saturday night a few weeks back, I looked up their number on my handy dandy Google phone and proceeded to give them a call. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what to expect, so I was a bit disarmed when a lovely woman who sounded very “salt of the earth” answered the phone. I figured I would give her my name and the date that I required and be done with it, but I ended up talking to her for at least five minutes.

Art of the Table is a tiny little restaurant in Fremont that has one seating in the evening. They open their doors at 6:30, and the dinner begins at 7. The reason for the lengthy duration of our conversation was due to the fact that at this one seating, one four course meal is served. In other words, you don’t choose what you’ll be consuming from a menu—the menu is determined for you. I have a laundry list of foods that I don’t eat: I have an aversion to nightshade vegetables (eggplant and squash weird me out) and I am a cute-atarian, which means that I don’t consume animals that I find darling (this includes cows, ducks, bunnies, goats, lambs, frogs, etc.) I was concerned that as I mentioned all of my restrictions the woman would tell me to beat it, but she was intrigued and accommodating. After taking my credit card number to hold our spot, we said our goodbyes and she mentioned she would look forward to meeting us soon.

The day before our dinner, I received a call from Laurie(the aforementioned woman’s name) to confirm whether or not some of their offerings on Saturday would be acceptable. There would be a dish containing Japanese pumpkin- was this okay? Not wanting to be too particular, I agreed that this was fine. The worst thing to happen would be that I didn’t like the dish and simply would not eat it. They were serving a rabbit ragout for one of the courses and she promised that they would have a (likely) fish alternative for me. I was struck by how considerate the call was and was excited to see what this place was all about. Aside from this tiny little window into what our meal would contain, I hadn't a clue what to expect.

On the evening of the event I began to primp and preen (par for the course no matter where I go) but Brett insisted that I should keep it casual-- this is a jeans and oxford kind of place. It is my belief, however, that most Seattleites consider this uniform to be appropriate no matter what the occasion so I continued to curl and coif. Brett decided upon a simple yet chic outfit of dark denim and a black James Bond-esque Merino zipped sweater whilst I chose a new Ted Baker sheath and paired it with freshwater pearls, pink Wolford tights, and a pair of black Avant-Garde ankle strapped heels.

Dressed to the hilt, we were on our way. After a short drive to the northern end of Fremont, we had already descended upon the restaurant and were able to procure a parking space right in front of the entrance. Upon arrival, I was struck by how cozy and homey the place seemed- it had an air of 70's modernity. Laurie greeted us with a warm, friendly smile and asked for our coats. She allowed us to choose our table in the small triangular dining area. A party of four already occupied the corner table leaving the option of two window tables, or a space at a long dining table with seating for eight. I chose the window seat closest to the kitchen so we could see what was going on throughout the night.

Though I had brought a bottle of Gorman's Syrah for the occasion, we each decided to start with a glass of wine. It was Brett's birthday after all, and as far as I could tell we were in for a long evening of indulgence. The only drawback (and really, is it?) to Art of the Table is that they serve beer and wine-- no spirits. So instead of Brett's classic Tanquerey up with a twist, he chose a glass of Stephen Vincent Zinfandel. Fully embracing the festive milestone, I went with a glass of Organic Can Vandrell Brut Cava. The dinner begins at seven, so in the interim I soaked in the environs and relished with Brett.

Laurie's photography adorns the walls-- the images taken from her travels with chef/owner (and in my estimation, lover) Dustin Ronspies. Aside from these black and white pictures, there are only sheer floor length curtains decorating the space. A service window allows diners to see into the kitchen, as well as an open door that invites you to walk right in and watch Dustin prepare each course along with his sous chef Phil Lehmann. At the entrance, a chalkboard lists the farmers and vendors from which the meals ingredients were procured.


At 7pm, Dustin came out, banged a small gong and proceeded to share the story of his restaurant with us. Whilst he told the story, Laurie and Phil passed around a soup to start the "Weekend Supper Club." I all but licked my bowl clean of this glorious carrot soup which contained a heady autumnal mixture of cumin, coriander, fried parsnips and was topped with a chili-cilantro creme. As he spoke, I was overwhelmed with the sense of being a guest in his home such was the vibe from this intimate dinner party- style atmosphere. For many years, Dustin was a private chef for families on their yachts, so it's my belief that this is why he began the style of restaurant he did. Furthermore, the simple four course style is a great way to showcase the fresh, seasonal and local ingredients he uses (sustainable agriculture being a specific passion of his). At once mellow and excited about every facet of each meal and its ingredients, his stories are laced with history and a unique brand of wit. Brett and I smiled at each other as we realized we were in for not only a thrillingly delicious meal, but a sort of theatrical performance as well.


After his introduction and welcome, Dustin mosied back to the kitchen and began to prepare our official first course: a leek and goat cheese tart topped with chanterelles and pancetta served with a frisee salad mixed with shallot vinaigrette. Upon completing each dish for the 17 guests present that evening, he again came out to ring the gong and tell us the story of the first course. This would prove to be the theme of the evening: our three hosts had a flawless waltz in which Dustin would begin to tell his story while Laurie and Phil wove between each other and graced us with our plates. The crust of this tart was a recipe from Dustin's great grandmother, a recipe which fulfilled all his tart and crust making needs. I immediately became lost in this dish-- the flavors exploded in my mouth harmoniously and I almost began to sing in happiness from the tartness of the shallot vinaigrette. The portions were pleasingly balanced being neither overwhelmingly large or obnoxiously small. I ate every last bite before Laurie took away the dish and we awaited our next course.


While waiting, Brett and I took our glasses of wine and walked up to the service window. Dustin smiled and began chatting with us as he spooned some sort of delicious looking sauce over plump prawns on a baking sheet. Earlier in the evening he had mentioned that he used to promise himself that he would never open a restaurant and I asked why this was. Having been a private chef for so many years, it was a transition he hadn't thought he would want to make. To be honest, he initially thought he would become an architect before dropping out and going to culinary school instead. Not wanting to distract him too terribly, we sat back down and made small talk with Laurie before Dustin made his way over to the gong again.

The second course featured Alaskan Spot Prawns which were apparently the last of the season. They rested on a celeraic remoulade, roasted cauliflower puree, and pumpernickel toast and were served with a side of pickled rhubarb slaw. The din of chatter ceased as everyone dug in to this delicious little sandwich that harkened a classic Po' Boy feel. Each course has a recommended wine flight, and the one with this course sounded too unique to pass up: a 2006 Domaine Capitain Gagnerot "Les Gueulottes" Bourgongne Hautes Cotes de Beaune. Simply put, this white Burgundy was comparable to an un-oaked chardonnay. It was the slightest bit sweet, but still smooth and delicious.


Before presenting the third course, a mystery palate cleanser was distributed and presented in small cordial glasses. I detected the presence of fennel and tapioca so being the impatient type I began to ask Laurie of what this palate cleanser was comprised. Much to my surprise, the main ingredients were spaghetti squash and dill pollen! Everyone oohed and aahed with delight and I again, licked the glass.

Finally, the third course was upon us, which was to be the rabbit ragout. Dustin was particularly proud of this dish because the rabbits used were grown expressly for Art of the Table down on a small farm near Olympia. The ragout was served atop red wheat pasta -- the dish laced with a parsley pesto and topped with thick curls of shaved Parmesan. I was struck by the nuttiness and chewiness of the pasta, which had been handmade by Phil with red wheat procured from the Ballard Farmer's Market. My ragout was comprised of diced Ahi in lieu of rabbit and was juicy, tender, and sublime. Throughout the evening I couldn't get over how seamlessly and creatively Dustin wove each ingredient together to orchestrate a perfectly harmonious dish. His presentations truly were the manifestation of art and I was revelling in every moment. Since I had insisted that Laurie enjoy a small glass of my Gorman wine, she presented me with a taste of the wine pairing for this course: a 2003 Batasiolo Arsiga Dolcetto d'Alba which was an absolute perfect match to this dish.


At this point in the evening, Brett and I were heavy-lidded and contentedly full but one more course remained: the dessert course.This offering was quintessentially autumn and featured a spiced pumpkin crepe topped with vanilla apples, hazelnuts, and rosemary ice cream. There happened to be three other birthdays that evening so I asked Dustin if we could all sing a round of Happy Birthday. He agreed and told me to ring the gong (apparently a first at Art of the Table) and make my announcement. Giddy with wine, I stood before the guests and conducted a cheery and relatively in tune rendition of the birthday tune before each birthday guest blew out their candle. With that, we dug in and gulped down a glass of Blandy's 10 year Madeira Port before leaning back and soaking in the past three hours of our night.


Our hosts had retreated to the kitchen and the quiet whir of a dishwasher could be heard issuing forth from the room. As the lights continued to dim, the evening's entertainment had drawn to a close, it would seem. I linked arms with Brett and we made our way into the crisp night, looking forward to our next visit to Art of the Table's Weekend Supper Club.

the cult of gorman

After a frenzy of holiday shopping on Friday afternoon, I began the slow trek from Bellevue Square to Woodinville in order to spend my night on the other side of the table (pouring wine for others...as opposed to drinking it).

My friend Chris Gorman, owner and winemaker at Gorman Winery, decided to have an impromptu VIP party on Friday night for customers picking up their pre-orders. Having volunteered for his previous events, Mr. Gorman asked if I would be free to pour for a few hours that evening. Naturally, I obliged since the only thing more entertaining than going wine tasting is being the one who pours those tastes.

I arrived to the winery at quarter after 5 to discover that there were already a few guests relishing. Chris, who opens his winery doors about as frequently as Willy Wonka opens his chocolate factory, is a very amenable and considerate bloke who would never deprive anyone of his wine and force them to stand in the blustery cold to wait until 6 sharp. I relieved him of his wine pouring post so that he could prepare for the evening and proceeded to make small talk with the early birds. My favorite thing about volunteering is the mood. There is a definite sense of cheer lingering in the air. Really, how can you be anything but merry when ambling about and partaking of delicious wine for hours on end?

It was at that moment that I was struck by a previously elusive holiday spirit. I stood behind an over-sized table with my arms wrapped around myself and soaked in the surrounding environs: through the winery window I could see the dark and crisp night sky and pavement delicately iced with frost. Within the winery, Winger Christmas music alternated with John Lennon and Frank Sinatra varieties issued forth from speakers. Poinsettia centerpieces lined a side table and a cozy mirth hung in the emptiness of the front room as I patiently waited alone for the evening to begin.

Individuals and groups began trickling in in full force the moment the clock struck six. Before I met him a year and a half ago, one of my friends in the industry was giving me the breakdown on many of the Woodinville winemakers and mentioned that Chris Gorman had achieved an almost cult-like status. His infrequent openings coupled with the fact that he is almost always out of his wine only solidify this fact. Due to the aforementioned, when he does finally open his doors, he can turn a party out.

Droves of people descended upon me with their glasses outstretched and I cheerily poured them their first tasting—Gorman’s 2008 Big Sissy. This Chardonnay is clean, smooth and balanced, made of grapes from Connor Lee Vineyard and is aged in 100% new oak. The room rapidly went from vacant to thronging and I instructed the guests that my friend Kim and I were pouring three other wines. Mr. Gorman was tucked away within the bowels of his winery (in the back corner of his barrel room) pouring his 2007 Bully and reserve 2007 Albatross, both of which will be released in March, 2010.

Chris is nothing if not a perfectionist. He presents himself as low-key and laid back, but holds himself to the highest possible standards of winemaking—his ultimate goal being to create a 100 point wine. And he’s getting there: he has already received respectably high marks on all of his recent wine releases. Wine Spectator gave The Evil Twin (Syrah-Cab blend) 95 points and the Pixie (Syrah) 92 points. Wine Enthusiast awarded Zachary’s Ladder (a Bordeaux-style table wine) 91 points. Needless to say, his winemaking skills are not going unnoticed. I do believe in hype, but feel strongly that Gorman’s wines speak for themselves: they are all robust, complex, heady and delicious.

Don and Sandy (the parents) were holed up throughout the evening in the winery’s small side kitchen. These two darling folks can be found slaving away at nearly every party their son hosts. Every so often, Sandy shuffled back and forth between the glass washer and the front room and Don tended to the oven—replenishing canapés and cheese. They worked quietly and constantly until the last revelers left before they finally allowed themselves to relax and partake in a glass of wine.

As the evening progressed, guests became increasingly livelier. One entertaining and handsome gentleman brought a bottle of his brother-in-law’s acclaimed Kosta Browne Pinot Noir to share with Mr. Gorman and a select few other revelers. He even ferried me a taste of the Albatross since I was too busy to make it to the back room myself. Other guests included Stanley Tucci’s doppelganger, a warm couple from up North with whom I spoke about various stand-up comedians, and a lively and amiable man I quickly began referring to as Uncle Tom.

8 o’clock came and went and still there were a handful of merrymakers enjoying the extravaganza. Despite my aching legs, I didn’t mind their lingering. I love that sense of camaraderie amongst fellow wine tasters: People who came alone were immersed in conversation with other couples and it seemed as though everyone already knew everyone else. Shortly before 9, the last of the crowd had dissipated and I was finally able to decompress. My friend Renee stopped by after finishing up at Darby down the way. She, Don, Sandy, Kim and I gathered around the table to enjoy some wine, appetizers and stories with Mr. Gorman. He even shared with us what he considered to be his worst wine: a 2003 Pixie which, while no where near as amazing as his current wines, was considerably better than the Carlo Rossi I may or may not have consumed in my early and pecuniary college years. Not wanting to prevent him from resting before Woodinville's rowdy St. Nick's weekend, I made my rounds and gave everyone hugs before finally making my way into the foggy, quiet night.

a birthday ode!

he's sometimes very quiet

his quips are laced with wit
he observes the world through pensive eyes

his brilliance does not quit

his patience is un-ending

his care for me is great

he treats me like a princess

so i heap more on his plate

more of my shenanigans

more of my unrest

more of my downright foolishness

but still he loves me best

so on this day i celebrate

i harken mirth and joy

i wish a happy birthday to

my lovely birthday boy

A Day in the (Work) Life of a Bonne Vivante

Please note that the following piece of prose is not intended to be insinuating of any great unhappiness. Rather, it is simply intended to elicit a certain mood and offer a juxtaposition between my usual cheerful gallivanting. That being said, please enjoy....and note that any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I am greeted with a haunting sense of familiarity every morning as I pull into the parking lot, anticipating each inconsequential action moments before performing them: This is when I turn off my headlights; This is when I finagle my water bottle off the floor and juggle it with my coffee mug that I wrangle out of its ill-fitting cup holder; This is when I bundle my two handbags and fumble to lock my door; This is when I begin trudging slowly and desolately to work.

I dodge motorists turning this way and that and pad carefully through the crosswalk glistening with rain—mindful not to slip on the white paint which seems particularly perilous. Arnie greets me with a huge smile on his face, bellows “good morning” and flips the switch so I need not negotiate my wares to flip my access badge against the wall. It’s the time of year when the walls, stairwell, and any other fixture that can facilitate accoutrements are plastered with holiday decorations. A three foot tall Nutcracker eyes me as I make my way up the stairs, the reflection of garland twinkling in his glossy wooden eyes. Crossing the walkway to my building, I longingly stare out the windows at the early morning. There’s promise in the dawn: it is crisp, fresh, hopeful and elusive. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and feel terribly incongruous with my stark surroundings. My blue and white striped cable knit Uggs appear as woolen mukluks; my sparkly multi-coloured headband alludes to a girl who thinks she’s a princess; my makeup shows too much effort for being someplace where no one either cares or notices.

Pushing through the office door, I am blinded by the neon lighting as I slink toward my desk. Unfettering myself of all my loot, I plunk down in my overstuffed La-Z-Boy office chair and turn on the glowing god at whom I must stare for the next nine hours. As he whirs and purrs, I situate my vitamins, my pens, and my calendar across my desk. After what seems like hours, I finally open Outlook Express and begin deleting all my unnecessary emails. I ensure all outstanding issues are addressed and mosey downstairs for my daily breakfast, which rarely varies: Tropical Mango Vitamin Water, multi-grain English muffin, a slice of cheddar cheese and two pieces of crispy almost burned bacon. While waiting for my muffin to toast in the decades old old-school toaster, I eyeball executives strategizing over coffee and employees milling about—wasting as much time as possible socializing around the espresso machine and condiment tables. I assemble my sandwich and head back to my desk.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of indecipherable vendor issues and inquiries. I slap on a smile and respond forthwith, pressing send-receive compulsively in anticipation of the next task presenting itself. Trips to the bathroom and water cooler are more frequent than any other employee’s since I am focused on preparing myself for the evening’s Bikram class. The monotony is no longer enchanting and begins to whittle away at my patience.

I subtly check my phone in hopes of some sort of emancipatory message from an unknown benefactor. These messages sadly do not arrive so I instead conspire with my cohorts to plan for weekend escapes and distractions.

From 2pm to 4pm I am faced with the witching hour of the day. Time slows to a halt and sits heavily and expansively on my throat as I idly shuffle papers and investigate the latest news and gossip of the day.

At long last, 4pm arrives and I hurriedly gather up my earthly wares—all but running from my desk. The computer is asleep, my desktop is clear, and my chair is carefully tucked back in. I bid farewell to my co-workers and wish them a pleasant evening, then depart and sink into the warmth of my leather car seat. I am heavy with resignation and fatigue, and shall wait for the remainder of the evening before I may truly come to life and be a Bonne Vivante once more.

Woodinville Part Deux: Cabin Fever!

We pulled into Willows Lodge as the sun began to set. The grounds were delicately illuminated lending a quaint mood to the small village which caused a holiday glow to spark within me as we wove throughout the lot. I decided to pull up front while we checked in and a well-suited doorman greeted us with a grandiose gesture, guiding us toward the front desk.

The lobby was located beneath an expansive vaulted ceiling and featured large over-stuffed chairs and couches in front of a granite slab fireplace that rose heavenward. Flames licked the glass walls on either side of the fireplace, which acted as a divider between the back wine lounge and the lobby. Brett and I checked in in a matter of minutes and were pointed in the direction of a large wooden stairwell, which wound around the exterior of the space. We made our way up the flight of stairs and found our room located just past the end of the balcony.

When Brett pushed open the door, my eyes glistened with excitement and a luxuriant wave washed over me. We’ve had the good fortune of staying in some pretty luxe hotels in our time together, but this one rose rapidly to the top of the heap. The feel was quintessentially Northwest due to the outdoorsy (yet subtle) accoutrements and wood detailing, yet terribly chic and refined. Amenities included Bang & Olufsen sound systems, a 52” flat screen television implanted in the wall above a cozy fireplace, an enormous whirlpool, a martini bar in the foyer, and a heated towel rack to name a few. We oohed and aahed as we explored our home for the evening which happened to be at least twice the size of our condo in Ballard.

I wandered over to our living and dining area and ensconced myself on the sofa—kicking up my feet and enjoying the sheer refinement of our surroundings. Brett made himself a martini as opera music issued soothingly from our high-end sound system. The fire roared, offering sanctuary from the bitter wind whipping about outside and I wanted to stay there forever. I momentarily poked through the cabinets and found unique snack items which were far too costly to bother partaking in. After a short decompression period, we headed down to the lounge so that we might enjoy some fireside wine flights.


We plopped down in two leather chaises and wondered how enjoyable this experience would be given the fact that a gaggle of 40-something women were boisterously celebrating and cracked open their fifth bottle of bubbly shortly after we arrived. (The hand-painted bottles were lined up in front of the fire like little soldiers.) We smiled conspiratorially and left them to their devices—instead focusing on the potpourri of wine options with which we were faced. I decided upon a Cremant d’Alsace Rosé and Baer Ursa (both of which were divine.) Ruthie, the unofficial mascot of Willows Lodge, who looks like the Hush Puppy dog, sidled over to us for an approving sniff before ambling back to be lavished at her perch by the entryway.


I had reached that point in the evening where my dipsomania leveled off and my entire mind and body felt as though they had been coated in a warm, thick layer of syrup.

With that feeling in place, I decided it would behoove us to partake of something that was not comprised predominately of fermented grapes so I ordered garlic fries knowing that dinner would not be too far off in the horizon. The fries arrived in a miniature stainless steel fryer basket lined with parchment paper and we immediately dug in. Garlic overwhelmed my olfactories and I’m convinced these fries were marinated in at least 50 cloves of garlic. Needless to say, they were sublime.



It was time for us to head over to Barking Frog for dinner, so I scurried up to the room for a quick wardrobe change before we made our way across the parking lot passing through a fractured, dilapidated tree en route.

Upon entry, I announced our reservations and we were led to a table for two. The mood was prim, if that makes any sense, and the lighting was far too bright. Other patrons seemed the slightest bit stuffy and there seemed to be a high concentration of old money.

Our server was pretty, kind, and predominately attentive except for the fact that every surrounding guest received a bread basket but us. This is a common occurrence, however, and a misfortune that seems to haunt us wherever we go. I have yet to figure out why that is….In any case, we ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and the house recommended “value” wine: Haystack Needle’s The Eye. The wine was jammy with an herbal essence and a berry bouquet—by far my most favorite selection of everything we had that evening.


I say this because the food we ordered was extraordinarily sweet. We shared Grand Marnier shrimp to start, which were four small butterflied shrimp in a candied glaze that tasted similar to high quality Chinese food.

For our first course, I chose the Apple Chestnut soup, which seemed like an apt choice considering the rouge weather outside. I was presented with a tiny column of pureed chestnut in an empty bowl and the server proceeded to pour the soup with extreme deliberation, swirling as he went until the column all but disappeared—leaving a tiny garnish on top. It was apparent that extreme attention was paid to painstakingly pristine presentation. The soup was only slightly sweet with a bitter and tart body.


Brett chose the Caesar salad to start. Though not sweet, it was an unfortunate culinary failure nonetheless. The dressing was gloppy and mayonnaisey, making the overall effect rather bland. Rather than blend the anchovies into the dressing, a lone carcass lay atop a single crostini (which was a paltry substitute for croutons).

I don’t mean to sound too critical, dear reader; I’m simply noting that while these culinary creations may be suited to some palates—they were not terribly pleasing to mine. Again, this isn’t to say the whole endeavor was not enjoyable. My main course was comprised of everything that was right up my alley including ahi, jalapeño, and macadamia nuts. I was served a seared loin of ahi resting atop macadamia jasmine rice and bathed in a white chocolate jalapeño roux. The result was not subtle—I felt as though I was eating a tuna cake covered in white chocolate frosting. It was not unsavory per se, but unsettling considering I was expecting a simple dish with subtle flavor infusions and was instead hit over the head by a whopping dose of sucrose.


We opted out of dessert --already dizzy with astronomical glucose levels. After bidding adieu to our server, we headed back across the way to our suite where we would lavishly ride out the rest of our evening.


Having soaked long enough in the whirlpool to properly prune myself, I wrapped up in an oversized bathrobe and plopped myself sideways on the bed to watch SNL. Moments later, I was ensconced in a deep, restful sleep. I slept sideways and like a starfish until 9am the following morning and rolled happily out of bed to make my way to the spa for a facial.

The Spa at Willows was quaint and simple. I seemed to be the only person indulging in a service that morning, so I was immediately led back to my room and instructed to disrobe. After crawling into the heated bed, I almost drifted back to Sleepytown as my esthetician pampered my visage. One blissful hour later, I went to collect Brett and we headed back to the Barking Frog for brunch, which was a far cry better than dinner the night before—we lazily drank coffee and juice, having had our fill of alcohol the day prior.

Before heading back to Ballard, we took one final sweep of the grounds. Willows Lodge’s surrounding area was heavily wooded and laced with horse trails. Faintly peering through the trees was Redhook, one of Seattle area’s most famous micro-breweries.

Since the wind was coarse and chilly, we cut our tour short and scurried back to the front desk. While waiting to check out, Brett stood behind a woman who was uncharacteristically bronzed for being in Seattle. She was decked out with an Hermès Birkin Bag, Manolo Blahnik shoes, and a fur vest (I know not from which critter it came)—she was obviously a big deal. Her hair was piled voluminously atop her head and layers of makeup caked her countenance. She continued to ask whether or not she had the best room in the Lodge before finally teetering off to the yellow Hummer awaiting her out front. I smiled to myself because as far as I’m concerned, Brett and I came out on top.

wonders of woodinville part wine (1)

To properly celebrate Brett’s re-entry into the world of working stiffs, we decided upon an indulgent weekend in Woodinville wine country where we would visit multiple wineries and partake of the luxuriant wonders of Woodinville’s Willows Lodge.

There is nothing quite like having a mini-break on the horizon when it comes to changing up the quotidian doldrums of employment. In the past, I have had the opportunity to volunteer for a handful of my winemaker friends so the prospect of enjoying Woodinville as a relishing Bonne Vivante was exciting.

Woodinville, a small town located 30 miles to the Northeast of Seattle, is host to over 50 wineries and for laymen’s purpouses is kind of like WesternWashington’s Napa Valley. The drive from Ballard is easy enough to do as a day trip, but to properly enjoy everything the area has to offer, it’s nice to stroll over with the intention of spending the night. That way, one might indulge in wine until their heart’s content without having to worry about weaving back across the bridge.

After ensuring our condo was spic and span, I hopped in the shower and began gussying up for our getaway. I packed my Orla Kiely wheeled carry-on with a change of clothing, a Vera Wang shift for dinner and practically my entire bathroom vanity. Ironically, I consider myself to be low maintenance but given the time and opportunity I love lavishing myself with powders, creams and other such fineries.

We topped off the girl’s dishes, left them plenty of fresh ice water (yes, our cats are terribly persnickety), gave them big kisses and we were off. The weather gave off an ominous portent: rough winds billowed and shrieked while angry clouds shuddered. The sun was nowhere to be seen and we wondered what type of precipitation would be over our shoulders for the duration of the weekend. While initially discouraged by the possibility of rain hampering our fun, Brett pointed out that we would be inside most of the time anyway. I also thought to myself that wine does have a way of casting an enchanting glow over what might otherwise be perceived as anything less than perfection.

It was shortly before 3pm when we rolled in to Woodinville. Considering most tasting rooms close right around 5, we made no haste and instead got right down to business. Our first stop was Mark Ryan’s Dead Horse Winery located a mere stone’s throw away from the widely known Chateau St. Michelle. Though his winery is still comparatively small, Mark Ryan is a force to be reckoned with among vintners worldwide. He began wine-making as a hobby ten years ago and has since godfathered a number of burgeoning wine makers in the area and increased his presence well beyond Washington’s borders. Mark Ryan’s popularity has generated an almost cult-like following and you can guarantee that on any given weekend his tasting room will be filled to the brim with wine loving folk—which is exactly what we encountered upon our arrival there. Previously located in an industrial park in Woodinville’s North end (more on that later), Mark’s tasting room now occupies a pleasant and brightly lit space right in the thick of the action. Upon entering, we were greeted by Joan, a lovely and enchanting pixie-like woman. I’ve had the honor of volunteering with her before so we began chatting as she poured us the Viognier. Historically, I have never been a proponent of white wines but that philosophy was turned on its ear the moment I was introduced to some of the whites of Woodinville. Mark Ryan’s Viognier is delicious: smooth, crisp and fragrant with a clean finish. I’m hesitant to bloviate too much on the descriptions of any given wine simply because I find that everyone’s palate is so different. Wine tasting, to me, is a very personal experience but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terribly amused by the pomposity with which many people speak about a wine’s character.


The atmosphere at Mark Ryan’s was laid back and groovy: framed Ween and Pearl Jam posters adorn the walls, a picture of John Waters’ mustachioed mouth hangs behind the cash register, antique cupboards house some of the wines, a Hillman long board leans against the wall and a vintage bike rests in front of an expansive floor length mirror.

Mark Ryan, despite his intimidating stature is extremely warm, friendly and down to earth. We chatted briefly with another reveler about Converse sneakers before he let Brett snap a photo of the two of us.


After lingering by a barrel and tasting the six different wines being offered, Brett and I procured a bottle of the aforementioned Viognier and a bottle of the Dissident (Mark’s predominantly Merlot red table wine.) I declined a bag and instead boasted “Your wines are like a Gucci label- they should be worn with pride and for the world to see!” Even though this was only our first stop, I could still feel the warmth of wine beginning to swill around my mind and thus spoke with little reservation and a dash of the nonsensical.

Our next visit was the aforementioned industrial park which is host to a slew of “Garagiste” winemakers amidst dance studios and auto body shops. The “Garagiste” movement in winemaking includes procuring grapes predominantly from Eastern Washington AVAs, the Red Mountain AVA being a particularly favorite appellation amongst the winemakers because it yields high quality, robust grapes. Once the grapes are harvested and trucked back across the state, they are crushed and aged in the wineries which are akin to large, spartan concrete cubicles. Each winery features a barrel room in the back, and a tasting room in the front. Darby Winery was our first stop in the complex.

Darby’s space is very rustic and offers a completely different vibe from the crisp and clean environs of Mark Ryan’s. I can only describe the place as being pastoral and folksy. A large chandelier hangs in the center of the ceiling and is surrounded by antique-y glass fixtures that have succumbed to the wrath of Darby’s wine-making tools which only adds character to the place, in my opinion.


My friend Renee was volunteering alongside Darby English (owner and winemaker) with whom I have been loosely acquainted before. Since I was on the inside, Brett and I were able to dash the five dollar tasting fee to enjoy Mr. English’s four wines. I have a few of his wines cellared (read: nestled among 50 or so other wines in our storage unit) so I decided to get a bottle of his ’07 Purple Haze for immediate consumption. Purple Haze is a predominantly Cabernet Sauvignon blend with Cab Franc and Malbec to round it out. Since I drank this wine the day after we returned from our trip, I actually did take notes for recounting purpouses. Yes, I know it would have behooved me to whip out a pen and pad whilst wine tasting, but that would have felt far too pretentious. Instead, I just tossed back each wine, enjoying the bouquets and flavors as I went. Purple Haze had a sharp, acidic and floral nose and a silky full-fruit mouth with a clean alkaline finish. It was definitely easy to drink, considering I consumed nearly the whole bottle myself.


The day was late and we made haste to stop at a few more wineries before heading into the lodge. Adjacent to Darby is Guardian Cellars, Jerry Riener and Jennifer Sullivan’s winery. Jerry is an officer of the law, hence the name of his winery, and got his start helping Mark Ryan. In 2003, Jerry introduced two barrels of Cabernet Sauvignon with Mark Ryan and in 2004 broke out on his own. The names of each wine are cleverly associated with his day job: Angel (Guardian Angel…get it? It took me about a month of having a bottle of this wine in my fridge before I finally connected the dots with an “ahah!” moment), Gun Metal and Chalk Line.

Guardian’s spot is barren chic: featuring clean lines, a long stainless table and eggplant coloured fleur de lis wallpaper. The crowd was dwindling as 5pm approached so I chatted up Jennifer and reminisced about the folks I had seen tasting around the area thus far. Woodinville wine tasters include all walks of life ranging from the tacky hoi polloi (a dowdy woman wearing a ribbon made out of fake pearls in her hair) to the faux Aristocrat (a snooty looking gal donning a terribly haute Burberry Porsum coat.) Jennifer nodded and sagely quipped that there is a lot of variety (so to speak) in the area.

Neither Brett nor I wanted to be those annoying people that linger obliviously after a place of business is hoping to close, so we requested a photo with the couple, bought a bottle each of the ’06 Gun Metal (flagship blend of Cabernet, Merlot, Cab Franc and Malbec with a full plummy body and savory bouquet) and ’07 Chalk Line (a kitchen sink blend of grapes from all over the state considered to be Guardian's declassified table wine), and went on about our merry way.


Since it was still open, we popped into Sparkman Cellars right down the way. They seemed to be welcoming onlookers as today was the release of their latest Syrah, Merlot and Chardonnay. Sparkman is a family winery through and through (husband, wife, their two little girls and both sets of grandparents), and also one that got its start with help from the gracious Mark Ryan back in 2004. By this point in the evening, having predominantly consumed fermented grapes throughout the course of the day, I was thrilled to spot crostini with a shrimp ceviche on display. I swiftly grabbed a few and munched on them whilst trying the various wines. I felt like I was in a Fitzgeraldian vignette such was the dark, moody and swank ambience. Bistro tables lined the walls, and the lights were off in the back—a great Speakeasy-esque barrel room.

After fumbling around and chatting with the employees for a bit, it was time to set off for Willows Lodge and commence our night of indulgence...

H1Noodle1

A wave of nausea washed over me at 5am on Thursday and I was instantly concerned. Had I been struck with H1N1? Or could my fabulous dinner last night possibly have turned against me? Despite lacking sick leave, which is parsimoniously combined with my holiday leave, I knew that hopping on the work train would be out of the question so I crawled back into bed and tried to shove my queasiness aside.

I seem to have a proclivity for becoming ill after ramen consumption, which is devastating considering the fact that it’s one of my favorite winter meals. Having lived in Japan for a year, delicious and authentic ramen is difficult to come by so I was terribly anxious to head to Boom Noodle in Bellevue on Thursday after work. Little did I know my indulgences would later be regrets…

Instead of forcing Brett to take the bus home due to a meeting that ran late that day, I decided that we should make an affair out of the occasion. I would shop whilst he was otherwise occupied since my work whistle blows at 4. After that, the two of us could head to Boom in Bellevue, which is conveniently en route back to Ballard. For those less savvy on Japanese culture, a boom is something of which one is incredibly fond. Noodles are naturally this restaurant’s particular boom.

We arrived at 5:30pm to a sparsely occupied space. The aesthetic of Boom Noodle is intrinsically Japanese, though the space is considerably larger. Images from FRUiTS, a Tokyo magazine focused on Japanese street style adorn the walls.

What I enjoy most is that even though the ventilation and piping systems are exposed on the ceilings, all seating is nested underneath cozy wooden lofts offering an inviting feeling despite the vast interior. Since it was thus far unoccupied, our host allowed me to select a regal half moon booth large enough to accommodate ten guests. Brett and I perched ourselves on our throne and perused the drink menu. I requested their kiddie drink “Yuzu Lemonade” with vodka and Brett ordered his gold standard. Yuzu Lemonade is a delicious combination of the Japanese citrus fruit yuzu (tart and comparable to grapefruit), lemonade, Calpico (a Japanese soft drink which is milky in colour and very sweet) and an umeboshi float (sour plum). I found the addition of vodka to be just what the doctor ordered to cut the overly sweet finish of Calpico.


Since the drink ordering was settled, I decided to poke through the upstairs izakaya in order to make my way to the loo (hidden in the bowels of the Bellevue Square mall.) The first time Brett and I frequented Boom, when it opened back in March, I became disoriented and subsequently lost in the veritable crazy straw of hallways. This time I eschewed the crazy straw and bounded up a stairwell that separates Boom Noodle from Blue C Sushi and leads to the izakaya above, which is a small bungalow-style bar offering small plates from the adjoining restaurants and cocktails aplenty. En route, I happened upon a hidden back room complete with Guitar Hero and various other X-Box 360 and Wii games. As a server slinked past me, I inquired about the particulars of this room and she sagely informed me that for a minimum order of one thousand dollars worth of grub, the room could be mine. I lingered and gazed longingly at the elite quarters, intensely wishing that someone would throw my birthday there.


Heading back downstairs, it was time for the hedonism to commence. We began with salt and pepper tofu that were waiting on the table upon my return. The chewy tofu was encapsulated in a crispy deep-fried shell and served with a side of sautéed green onion and jalapeño, with an accompanying mound of grilled seasoning in which to dip the tasty cubes. Having an affinity for tsukemono (Japanese pickles), I asked our affable server if the restaurant had any available. Fortunately for me they did, though it was not listed on the menu. He presented me with a geometric display of pickled green beans, radishes, and carrots surrounding a tiny mound of white rice. Because one starter is obviously not enough, I also chose the miso rice cakes for us to enjoy. These starters were pan-seared, which resulted in chewy little pillars of mixed grain rice topped with a caramelized miso glaze and Asian-style slaw peppered with black sesame seeds. Everything thus far was delicious and we began to bloat contentedly after the hors d’oeuvres—our noodle feast still on the horizon.


Everything arrived to our table at a very steady pace, barely affording us time to properly relish one thing before we were forced to move along to the next. Our piping hot noodles were ferried over in asymmetrical bowls and harkened a Tampopo-esque perfection in their presentation. Tampopo is an iconic Japanese “Noodle Western” and also happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time. The movie explores the relevance of food in Japanese culture as a means to not only provide life, but also happiness, desire, and self-expression. The scene I was reminded of in particular was one in which an older gentleman waxes philosophical on the importance of perfect ramen: a clear, gently cloudy broth (mine was Shio- a soy/chicken/pork mixture- check), three tenderly fatty soft pieces of pork that melt in your mouth (check), two floral kamaboko (spongy fish cake- check), green onion (check), a piece of nori (seaweed-check), and bamboo shoots (check). All these elements combine with firm yet soft ramen noodles to create a perfectly balanced, harmonious meal. The aforementioned ideal is exactly what we received for our dinner. Conversation ceased and we both properly slurped (blowing whilst sucking to cool them down) our noodles, every so often setting down our chopsticks to embrace the bowl with both hands and drink the deliciously salty and robust broth.


We barely came up for air, such was the quality of our food. Either that or we were both starving. In any case, the evening continued to darken and I couldn’t help but feel über-chic being one of the very few couples dining. So dark was the night that I pretended we were guests of a private event at a Japanese noodle bar in Tokyo around midnight.

That enchanting feeling slowly dissipated into what I can only describe as a sodium coma. Brett drove us home and I reclined my seat to alleviate the discomfort of over-indulgence. Having been rendered useless for the remainder of the evening, I padded my way to the bedroom and acquiesced to the overwhelming feeling of gluttony. When I awoke the next morning, I felt even more dire. Despite the deliciousness and enjoyment our noodles were able to provide on Wednesday night, they left me askew on Thursday morning which only confirms that one can, in fact, enjoy too much of a good thing. Regardless of this fact, I’m most certain we’ll return in the near future.