sacre bleug!! the blog of a bonne vivante.

Blog: Fail

2010-09-21T12:39:00.001-07:00

It was recently brought to my attention that I've been failing to amuse my friends and readers. I'm hard pressed to believe that I haven't been offering my self-indulgent hi-jinx to the hoi polloi for almost one full month! You poor things.

It's not for wont of activity, I'll tell you that much. While I may not have been keeping up to speed on the restaurants (The Walrus and The Carpenter, Staple and Fancy and Moshi Moshi, to name a few), or the four year anniversary dinner at Canlis, or the weekend holiday in Cannon Beach — I've still been writing more than ever before. Have I talked about my job lately?

I often say that father time is not on my side, and as of late this has been more true than ever. I've been the same old whirling dervish of activity that I've always been, but now I took on a third job. I think I may be trying to drive myself insane — Brett is convinced that I need Ritalin. I have given up all my spare time so that I might dress fancily and hock wine. I say this without the tiniest hint of bitterness, because I do love what I'm doing....I just wish there were more hours in the day.

There are oodles of photographs I hope to post, and loads of stories I long to tell. But in the mean time, read a few of the juicy fruits of my labour:

Music From The Vampire Diaries Episode 2.2, "Brave New World"

OMG Quote: Chace Crawford Wants His Girlfriend to Touch Him Where?

First Look: The Cast of Glee Gets Simpsons-ized

That should be self-indulgent enough for the time being.

a mouse in our house!

2010-08-25T11:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, so there wasn't really a mouse IN our house per se, but the little guy was in our condo complex. Before you start thinking that we live in destitution, allow me to explain the situation.

The condo next to ours was recently turned into a model unit for prospective buyers to peruse. Upon returning home at 11pm the night before heading to Cannon Beach for our mini-break, we discovered that the door to this unit had been left ajar. Naturally, we wandered in to investigate the situation further. Music issued forth from surround speakers, the table was set for a fake dinner, and a cool breeze flowed in from the open windows and sliding glass door. Considering the fact that we are only on the second floor and there are a handful of drunken sailors wandering about Ballard, the open invitation to our building was not cool. After procuring a bottle of wine from the fridge (our fee for closing up shop for the agent), Brett closed all the windows and shut everything down.

The night resumed uneventfully. We drank the aforementioned pilfered wine and caught up on some DVR before I hit the hay around 2am. Since our place turns into a greenhouse during the day (what with our western exposure and requisite lack of air conditioning), Brett decided to open our doors and get some air circulating. As soon as he opened the front door, however, he noticed what he thought was a shoe. In actuality, it was the little guy above. He snapped this pic and then told me we had a rat in our hallway.

I immediately bounded out of bed and my first instinct was to show our kitties. Brett strongly advised against this because the probability that all hell would break loose was pretty high. Instead, in a surgeon-like tone I demanded he get me the yellow kitchen gloves as it was now my duty above all else to emancipate the poor critter. "What if one of our neighbor sees him and just kills him?" I cried to Brett.

A Benny Hill-style pursuit ensued in which I was bent over and scurrying up and down the hallway chasing after a mouse that was frantically trying to climb the walls. Brett played guard and energetically waved his arms and legs at the mouse in order to herd the frightened little guy my way.

Moments later I had an ahah moment and grabbed an empty box from which a new pair of earrings had arrived earlier that day. I was able to wrangle Senor Mouse into the box and insisted Brett follow me down the stairs so I could release the mouse in a processionary way.

He slid out of the box and began spinning in circles — obviously disoriented and horrified. I turned to Brett and beamed "Aren't you glad I shop?! Not sure what we would have done without that box." Sad to say, I don't think that he agreed.

wednesday's winning style

2010-08-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

*Please note: I recognize that there's a certain amount of vanity associated with this post. For that, I apologize.

Back in the day when my mind idled away in Issaquah, I used to amuse myself by naming my "looks" and giving myself an appropriately corresponding name. For instance, if I looked Swedish (wore a lot of colour and Marikmekko style prints) then I would call myself Lotta. It's a habit that I kind of miss and want to get back into.

I loved my outfit today. Honestly, I love my outfit every day...but this little number had me feeling like a princess: I paired a bronze sequin skirt with a mustard bejeweled wool tank, pretty Kate Spade baubles and handmade Quoddy boots. If I channel my aforementioned habits, I would say that I look like a bohemian glam art dealer who lives in Soho. My name would probably be Ariella or Luciella or something equally as fancy sounding.

Let it be known that while sequined skirts are absolutely darling, they itch like hell and should be avoided at all costs. Unless you're like me and insist on playing dress-up every single day. And really like sparkly accoutrement.

One of the things I love about fashion is that it tells a story. It says how I feel, how I want to portray myself, what I like and what I want to be. Even though today I didn't want to feel quite so itchy.

an evening with tristan und isolde

2010-08-13T22:29:00.001-07:00

As much as I adore opera, I can't subscribe to the complete and utter German-ness of Wagner. I guess as for as refined as I like to think I am, I'm just not that appreciative of discordant, post-modern, and painfully boring performances. Tristan UND Isolde is the third opera I've left before the show was through. (The first was another Wagner and the second was a ridiculously awful modern-day opera called Amelia. Really, "Finish your breakfast" should not be a line in an opera. Any opera. But I digress.)

Despite the general awfulness of Wagner, Jo and I had a fabulous time drinking wine, hob-nobbing and criticizing fashion faux-pas. We're in Seattle, remember. So there were quite a few.

pinot grigio at purple

2010-08-13T22:27:00.000-07:00

Lately co-workers have been whirring up pina coladas at around 5pm in my office. Either that or people crack open bottles of beer. The New York folks were in our office this week and brought a parting gift of Limoncello for us to enjoy, too. Have I mentioned how much I love my job? And also — how stressed we all are lately?

Feeling festive and over-worked, my friend (and co-worker) Jager and I sauntered up to Purple on Fourth to enjoy a bottle of wine and some apps. We gossiped the night away and behaved as though we were Gael Green and Gail Simmons. It was good fun.

A helpful hint: If you're looking for an inexpensive bottle of wine and the sommelier is standing over your shoulder — be sure to run your finger down the list of wine names, not prices. Even if you are a bonne vivante on a budget, it's better not to spell it out.

frontier cafe for lunch

2010-08-11T23:40:00.001-07:00

Vietnamese and BBQ fusion doesn't really make sense to me. But sure enough, those are the options available at 3rd and Cherry's Frontier Cafe. Well, Vietnamese sandwiches, BBQ, and odd ultra-greasy breakfast sandwiches. Nonetheless, my Bahn Mi was phenomenally delicious. For a mere $6, I had a hearty cup of red beans and rice (not necessarily what I would think to pair with my sammy) and an amazingly fresh tofu Bahn Mi (Vietnamese Sandwich). It was so healthy and tasty I actually think I'm going to go back right now.

il fornaio in the afternoon

2010-08-10T15:48:00.000-07:00

Since I had to work a whopping (cumulative, between two jobs) 13 hours yesterday, Brett met me for a drink (by which I naturally mean snack) before I went to fold clothing for a couple hours. I thought it was quite sweet that he wanted to see me for at least one waking hour. The breadsticks were a bit in the way, unfortch.

midnight at bastille

2010-08-09T11:57:00.000-07:00

The back bar at Bastille is beautiful: Dark, alluring and hip. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs above, giant paintings flank the back brick wall, and lacrosse games hum quietly on two bar-side televisions.

I shouldn't have ordered the absynthe. In retrospect, that was a bad choice. It tasted of good and plenties steeped in rubbing alcohol — but the French concoction was a gorgeous viridian green. At least it was nice to look at.

Shiku in Ballard

2010-08-08T16:18:00.000-07:00

One of the very first conversations I learned when studying Japanese was all about how sitting at the sushi bar is the most fun place to be in a restaurant. And it's true. Last night I watched legitimate Japanese sushi chefs construct elaborate platters that (as above) sometimes featured prawn's heads as decorations.

a self-indulgent piece

2010-08-05T21:59:00.000-07:00

Remember this girl? The sad, disenchanted me of yore who had all but given up hope? Toiling away in the bowels of Western Washington, waiting for her ship to come in when she was nowhere near a shore? I remember. I want to hold her, stroke her hair and tell her it's all going to be all right. Don't get me wrong: I wasn't completely miserable. I was only miserable for half my waking life. But I had Brett, the girls, and gallivanting aplenty. And there was always the shopping. Lots and LOTS of the shopping.

But I wanted to take a moment to bring you up to speed on my new life. Let's call it heidi v2.0. I really love and appreciate that all of you have been emailing and calling to check in. It means a lot. But back to my life. It's been, in a word (or two), freaking amazeballs. The glow is back in my complexion, my creativity has been rejuvenated, the twinkle has returned to my eye. I am doing what I love. With people I adore.

I'm writing. A lot. I spend my days scouring the web to cover the latest breaking news on celebrities and television. And gossip. And fashion. Really? It doesn't get any better. I am literally gorging myself on the wholesome goodness of the superficial. And I'm loving every second.

I know I've been about as flighty as a stairwell lately but stay tuned and I'll bring you up to speed with a new, improved version of a day in the life of a (working) bonne vivante.

my month in numbers

2010-07-21T22:06:00.001-07:00

I haven't kept that promise to document my Caligulan efforts of lunching in downtown Seattle. Actually, I haven't documented any efforts period. As many and most of you know, I began my new and improved life exactly one month ago today. So to bring everyone up to speed in the most efficient and thorough way, I've decided to present my life in numbers, which should be of particular interest to my analytical friends. Without further ado, please enjoy the fun facts of my life over the past 31 days.

Company BBQ's attended in Shoreline: 1
Times cried while watching the Eat, Pray, Love trailer: every single time (which is a lot)
Number of times I would have rather had a beer than go to yoga: 15 out of 15
Number of times I actually had a beer instead of going to yoga: 1 out of 15
Articles of clothing purchased: I cannot divulge this number at risk of being strangled
Number of movies seen about a crazy German doctor who wants to make a human centipede: 1. See also: too many
Baristas who know my name and beverage preference at Starbucks: 3 (Holla to Kuika, Chris and Erica!! Best baristas ever!!)
Revelations had: 1. Interview with a Vampire is overtly homoerotic
Number of times my jaw locked whilst I was trying to eat a cob of corn: 1. Specifically, right now
Number of new friends made: A bushel and a peck
Number of friends lost: one.
Number of tweets on twitter: 1. it was about cheese
Number of nights I've dreamed about work: Practically every single one
Number of times my brain was broken: 2. Once by a computer and once by Inception
Number of work parties attended: More in the past month than my entire four years at ADW. No joke
Number of times I've gone to karaoke: 3
Number of times I've worn the same outfit more than once: 0. Would you expect anything different?
Number of dressing rooms I've been in that smelled of unkempt vagina: 1. ew
Number of times I've missed the express bus heading home: Every single time I wanted to take it
Amount of money spent at Starbucks: It's a number that both horrifies and amazes me
Number of missed calls: 56. I'll call you all back, I promise
Number of times I turned off the alarm instead of hitting snooze: 1
Number of winery release parties for which I've volunteered: 1
Number of character assassination attempts on me: 1
Number of character assassination attempts on others: 0
Pairs of earrings purchased: 3
Bottles of apple juice consumed: 4 gallons
Bottles of wine consumed: 20. That number may or may not be higher or lower than it should be
Number of times Puffy peed on my pillow: 17 more times than she should have. I wish I were exaggerating
Number of times I've been out shopping at 7am: 1 in a store. Much more online
Number of concerts attended: 1
Number of roadhouses visited: See above
Number of books read: 2. Fine. 1. Better than 0, right?
Number of times the bus driver actually wouldn't let me on: 1. Rude
Number of cats given a bath: 1
Number of times I went back to Delicatus after blogging about it: 4
Number of girl's night parties: 1
Number of facials: 1
Number of times I've been back to Issaquah: 0
Number of times I've been sad about that: 0
% of occupational fulfillment I feel: 100

Please note that this is by no means a complete list. However, it will hopefully help you better understand where I've been, what I've been up to, and why I haven't been on here as often as I would like to be.

Thanks for popping by.

Delicatus!

2010-06-24T13:17:00.000-07:00

(friendly note: As those of you who read my blog know, I have a tendency to be all over the map (subjectively speaking). I appreciate your tolerance of this fact since I am, after all, wayward and full of whimsy...that's why you love me, right?)

I've been working downtown for just over one week and, having the proclivity for dining out that I do, am already discovering that this will prove to be problematic for both my waistline and my pocketbook. Minor details... If I AM going to the poorhouse (or Dress Barn as the case may be), I might as well document my Caligulan efforts along the way.

I got wind of Delicatus from my friend Brian-- He mentioned it was a new sandwich joint in Pioneer Square that was comparable to Salumi. Loving cured meats (and Salumi) as much as I do, I knew I needed to check out this restaurant forthwith. At 11am I perused the menu and called in my order so that I might avoid any lengthy lunchtime queues. (http://www.delicatusseattle.com/menu.aspx)

After reading the menu, I was obsessed. I thought to myself that I must go there for lunch. Every. Single. Day. (And for the rest of my life.)

Delicatus prides itself on quality, local and artisan ingredients. With that fact in mind, $8 for a sandwich seemed pretty reasonable to me. The menu ranges from traditional sandwiches to more Avant Garde selections (as they refer to the choices on their menu: "Traditionalists" and "Progressives"). On that particular day, I chose the Pavo Diablo, which consisted of hickory smoked turkey, sliced avocado, spinach, cilantro, havarti, spicy chipotle aioli and roasted poblano peppers on sourdough bread. Included with each sandwich is a side of home made potato chips (which could be switched up for cole slaw or potato salad for less than one dollar...).

Finally, the time had arrived for me to procure the aforementioned sandwich. I strolled a few blocks and arrived at my destination. Nestled next to the Rocky Mountain Candy Company, Delicatus blends in to its surroundings. It is totally charming and combines that elusively cool brand of historical meets timeless, yet careless, chic.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a friendly staff and welcoming space. Delicatus features seating both up and downstairs. Tucked away in the corner of the restaurant I noticed a cozy, unoccupied bar. I made a mental note to return with Brian as soon as possible.

Once I paid my bill and snapped a few pics, I all but ran back to the office. The smells issuing forth from my brown paper bag were dizzying and overwhelming. Unfortunately, due to my ravenous appetite, the sandwich didn't survive long enough for its mugshot. But trust me. I'll be back.

the journey begins...

2010-06-21T22:41:00.000-07:00

I just washed the city off of my feet-- spending a good five minutes scrubbing off the sediment from traversing downtown Seattle. Having comfortably ensconced myself in the bucolic commute to Issaquah, I had forgotten the grittiness of the city. But it was waiting for me: unchanged and unforgiving.

Today, I was born. I woke up kind of confused and numb- immediately realizing how familiar my life had become and how much we (at least I) appreciate that familiarity. I began my new job in a field that I've always hoped to be in, but I'm still scared senseless nonetheless. I thought for sure by now I ought to know who I am. And I do, I suppose- but when I cast myself into a situation where everything is completely foreign I start second guessing my every move. Am I still clever? Am I still sharp enough to learn new things?

I'd have been a perfect candidate for communism this morning: I was a complete and utter blank slate. I was outside of my wheelhouse and I felt every moment, every breath and every horn around me. As I stood waiting for the bus, a task which I've somehow managed to avoid my entire 29 years, I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. People just knew I was an interloper- I was sure of it. I blanked on the order of city streets, which I used to know so well. What if I miss my stop? What if I wind up in Fife, or something?

I didn't. The siren song of Starbucks sang out to me from the glorious corner of First and Yesler. I understood my purpose and my direction: a Grande Soy Misto with two raw sugars. I held it in front of myself like a security blanket. It legitimized me. It meant I was where I was supposed to be. Three blocks later, I arrived at my building. Without a moment's hesitation, I opened the door, walked through and strode to the elevator with purpose. If I look like I know the score, people will believe me. Right?

The world of my new company is the absolute antithesis of my previous place of employment. It is young, hip, intellectual, liberal, warm, and fun. There is Pabst in the fridge- it's like they knew I was coming.

The day was rife with learning and introductions-- and I had to constantly remind myself not to question my every move. For the time being I'm just going to sit tight, enjoy the ride and keep on looking straight ahead.

all the best

2010-06-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

I’m feeling moody and reflective—waves of emotion washing over me from one hundred different directions as I prepare to emancipate myself from the shackles of my quotidian woes.

I’ve been saying it for a while, but everything that is meant to happen will—and everything that is supposed to happen does. Take that thought with a spoonful of triteness if you’d like—but my life so far has proved that to be the case. Everything I do, and every person I encounter has lead me quite specifically to something or somewhere else. I won’t bore you with the details of how I arrived at point b from point a…but life is really all about the journey.

I’m grateful for the past (almost) four years I’ve been hunkered down in Issaquah because I’ve met people who will be indispensible to me for the rest of my life (certain adult children excluded). I have amassed memories that are good, bad, and embarrassing. It’s vain, I know—but I can’t help but wonder how and if I’ll be remembered. Will people miss me? Will my co-workers cast longing glances at my empty cube space and wonder what I’m up to? Will those familiar strangers with whom I’ve never spoke but always shared a friendly smile wonder what’s become of me? I was trying to work through these musings with my girlfriend Stephanie while we were out at coffee and she summed it up in the most brazen way- but I’m not sure that I agree: “If I left the office today no one would give a crap (edited for public consumption). And you know what? Neither would I.”

In life, I try to leave a positive impact wherever I go: whether it’s bringing levity to a situation, offering advice, or simply complimenting a friend’s outfit (I’m really good at this). As I move on to this next chapter I’m sure an entirely new cast of characters will unfurl before me in a rich tapestry but in the interim I wanted to note how appreciative I am of every foil thus far. To all those who I’ve known and may never know again—I wish them all the best.

keeping it classy

2010-06-11T14:23:00.000-07:00

It's not often we're lucky enough to catch a glimpse of our co-worker's true feelings for us. Today, that fortuitous moment came for me when a co-worker (a 37 year old adult child) inadvertently sent an email about me....to me. It could not have come at a more perfect time considering the fact that I'm on my way out the door in t minus three work days. I'll let the email correspondence speak for itself, for fear I'll say too much and might sour its brilliance.

And now, for your enjoyment....Take a peek at the glorious inner-workings of a corporate environment.

I chose not to respond to her last bit of correspondence. I know I'm not always successful in my endeavor, but I feel as though it's important to keep it classy as much as and whenever possible. To me, seeing this was on the one hand completely hysterical, and on the other- a little disheartening. I hope I don't sound bitter in talking about this strange little passing of events

because that's not at all the case.

Receiving the aforementioned unsolicited email was a great lesson for me. I've always been a people pleaser, have wanted people to like me and would always go to great lengths to ensure that that happened. It's taken me a long time to realize that you can't please everyone and not everyone is going to like you- no matter what you do. And you know what? I'm okay with that.

words of wisdom from the cube

2010-06-10T10:49:00.000-07:00

Leaving a post that I've been guarding for four years feels completely surreal and I still can't quite get my head around the fact that I will actually, literally be leaving. For the next installment of blog posts, I'll be dredging up the past to tell stories of my co-workers, my routines, and my life within these dilapidated cubicle walls.

I've spent much of my morning today going through drawers and packing up cube flair so that I might leave the office unfettered on my final day next week. Each picture brings up a memory, each note- a crestfallen laugh. Taped all around my computer are the below quotes, which have shepherded me through my journey here:

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
-Emily Bronte

Search others for their virtues, thyself for they vices.
-Benjamin Franklin

In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.
-Coco Chanel

The tragedy of life is not so much what men suffer, but rather what they miss.
-Thomas Carlyle

Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
-Jane Austen

Find something you're passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.
-Julia Child

*

It's funny how quotes I've accumulated from my Franklin-Covey planner through the years flow so seamlessly to one absolute truth: Live honest, live humble, live well- and lead a life with no regrets.

productivity levels are tanking....

2010-06-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

I'm exaggerating, obviously. Anyone who knows me knows that I come from hard-working Eastern European stock and will work my tail off to the bitter end. I think it's important to walk away from something knowing that I gave it my all and can leave with my head held high.

That being said, my attention started to fade during a meeting I had this morning. I blame it on six shots of espresso-- and no, this time I'm not exaggerating.

I started remembering what Brett said a few days ago about barbecuing chicken while I was at yoga. Puff and Pi were all over him like zombies- so delicious was the smell of the cooking flesh. Before I knew it, my notes turned into the below:

pluto got screwed

2010-06-04T15:46:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend Kristin and I were partaking of a celebratory lunch at Q'doba (more on the reasons for celebrating later...) and the discussion of starfish came up. I'm not sure how we start talking about the things we do, but that's not the point. Apparently starfish are no longer actually called starfish, but rather seastars? When did this happen and why did I not get the memo? Why are we renaming things? Is "starfish" really that confusing of an appellation?

This got me to thinking about Pluto. I know it's not breaking news that Pluto is no longer a planet, but this is in the same vein as changing something's name... Here we are giving Pluto this awesome "planet" badge, and then we rip it off his chest. Isn't that kind of like Jay Leno taking back The Tonight Show? Let's all take a moment for Pluto.

planning ahead to live in the moment

2010-06-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

I breeze through the days, sheltered in the eye of a hurricane. Life spinning around me so quickly that everything has blurred…nothing has clarity or weight but instead simply floats in and drifts by before it can actually resonate.

*

I'm definitely thinking I bit off more than I can chew in taking a second job-- my lack of updates only a testament to this fact. Obviously, I've always been a busy body. Now this busy bodiness has grown to epic proportions. With that being said, I think it's time to evolutionize the nature of my blog. As you all know, I have a proclivity to bloviate. Unfortunately for me, bloviating takes time (of which I have precious little.) So henceforth, I will modify my posts to be quips, observations, and Cliff's Notes on my day.

I wouldn't want you all to forget about me! More importantly, I don't want to forget about myself....

making lists on a rainy day

2010-05-05T10:21:00.001-07:00

I find that when I’m down, it sometimes helps to make a list of things to perk me up. I can’t say that this was something that I came up with on my own, however. I’ll never forget in AP World Literature my senior year in high school when we read “The Pillow Book” by Lady Sei Shonagon, a courtesan during the Heian era in Japan. Miss Shonagon’s book was a mostly personal endeavor (akin to a diary) comprised of lists and musings on court life and her counterparts. In any case, one of our assignments was to come up with our own lists…an activity I’ve embraced ever since.

The general mood of the office is one of thick malaise, hanging heavy on my shoulders like a burly winter coat. The air outside is also heavy—suffused with melancholy, pregnant with laziness, and ripe with rain—weighing on my soul like a sopping wet blanket.

While there is no doubt that happiness truly comes from within, there’s no harm in giving your mood a nudge in the right direction with a little homage to those simple creature comforts. My many thanks to Sei for her keen inspiration.

Things that make my heart beat faster

A cup of tea
A brand new outfit
Posy coloured blush
Quatchi
Humming La Vie En Rose
Reciting the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot
Curling up in my Snuggie
The last five minutes of my Bikram yoga practice
Penguins
Kumquat Dry Soda
A scalding hot bubble bath with a glass of wine and a trashy magazine to keep me company
Receiving packages in the mail
The smell of Spring
Eating candy from the bulk bins while grocery shopping
Puff and Pi
Earl Grey Soy Lattes with a dollop of caramel sauce
Red eye flights
Dateline murder mysteries
Listening to a thunderstorm from under the covers
Kind strangers

Please note this is by no means a complete or immutable list.

The Arrival

2010-05-04T15:16:00.001-07:00

She greets me like an old time-honored friend—quietly waiting, ever sweet in her immutability. Victoria is quite possibly my favorite accessible luxury. She heals me of my quotidian woes with her quaint meandering streets, majestic architecture and serene harbour. I always sense that I’m in a brighter, squeakier and happier reality when I visit.

The journey began with my alarm bleating at 5:30 in the morning. This time I didn’t groan and flop over indignantly but rather popped up cheerfully and set about preparing for our much anticipated min-break. A taxi arrived as the sun began peering tentatively through the clouds and we were on our way toward Pier 69 amongst the sleepy Friday commuters.

Much to my chagrin a large group of bleary eyed high schoolers stood loitering out in front of the Clipper entrance huddled in groups of twos and threes in fleece blankies. Fortunately, it was far too early for them to be chatting so they proved to be relatively innocuous when it came to upsetting the peaceful hum of my holiday morn.

Everyone patiently filed aboard the Clipper. A high-speed catamaran, the Clipper is a passenger ferry that whisks you away to the outer reaches of the Pacific Northwest (specifically for me: Victoria, BC). Once on board, Brett and I always scramble to the upper deck to procure a section of middle seats, settle in and then promptly order two little lunch-box sized bottles of Freixenet. This go around, our in-flight attendant was so thrilled that I had given her my newest issue of “Us Weekly” she bestowed upon us an extra two bottles, on the house. As we cruised at a speed of 30 knots through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I passed in and out of consciousness—painting my nails and reading my Nook during the conscious bits.

We arrived two and one half hours after our departure to a crisply cool, sun-soaked Canadian morning. Fortunately, we had no checked luggage so we were able to de-board immediately and breezed through customs. Ambling through those too familiar streets, winding kindly through the quaintness of Victoria, I felt home at last.

A Journey to The Silk Road

2010-04-26T13:03:00.001-07:00

Located on Government Street a 20 minute walk from the inner harbour, there stands a store called “Silk Road” on the cusp of Victoria’s China Town. Upon entry through the front door, one is greeted by a friendly employee cheerfully offering a small cup of tea to enjoy as you browse. Of all the shops I frequent whilst visiting Victoria, B.C, Silk Road ranks among my favorite. Not only does it offer a potpourri of teas and accoutrements, but tucked beneath the street level is a cozy cloistered spa.

After making a few perfunctory laps around the store and tossing deliciously scented bath salts, a random smattering of melamine plates, ceramic mugs, and tea into my mini shopper, Brett and I plunked down to enjoy an afternoon cup of tea before I would be whisked away for my spa treatments. Floor to ceiling windows accommodated the gentle sunshine filtering subtly onto our faces and we quietly sipped our “Sea Mist” tea, referred to also as Mermaid’s Potion—a heady blend of lemongrass, mint and seaweed that is at once calming and invigorating. Lining the dilapidated brick walls are a number of crisp white wooden shelves with a myriad of tins featuring every possible tea one might imagine from the traditional English Breakfast or Jasmine to the less common choices such as Pu-erh and Yerba Maté. The wall behind the tea bar where we sat is host to traditional tea ceremony appurtenances which are so treasured that no photography is allowed.

While partaking of our tea, we made small talk with the gentleman behind the counter who looked like Alan Cumming’s doppelganger. He told us about a new chocolate endeavor in which Silk Road partnered with Roger’s Chocolates to create tea infused organic chocolate bars in Matcha, Earl Grey and Chai flavors. Before he could even finish his sentence, I darted off to grab a handful of these bars and added them to my loot.

Shortly thereafter, Brett made his way back to our hotel and I ensconced myself on an overstuffed velvet couch at the periphery of the store, pretending to be profoundly captivated by a book on Mosques. I wasn’t waiting too long (time becomes irrelevant on holiday anyway…) before a lovely young girl approached me. With genuine warmth she smiled and said that once we passed through the door we should whisper so as not to disturb anyone enjoying a treatment and to promote an environment of relaxation. Behind the small antique-looking door, a narrow stairwell descended toward the inner sanctum of private rooms. Classical music quietly issued forth from the walls as Lindsay ushered me into my suite. I was taken at once by how quaint, rustic and simple the room was. A definitively French feel to the barren brick-walled chamber gave off the perception that I was privy to a very secret club.

As I prepared myself for the luxuriating that was to ensue, I noticed a pleasant lack of torture tools usually prominent in a spa (harsh lighting to inspect pores, extraction devices, whirring towel heaters etc.) Instead, I was guided through what I might expect during my facial and body wrap before Lindsay left me to get ready amidst nothing but my bed, a mirror, and a tiny little side table on which to place my jewelry. I had nearly drifted from consciousness by the time she returned to the room so I barely noticed that she had brought in bins of everything with her (oils, salts, hot towels etc).

Perhaps one of my favorite things about the experience was that Lindsay didn’t feel the need to inundate me with questions and chat me up while she administered my “treatments”. Too often I go to a spa only to have my esthetician make small talk while I’m supposed to meditating so it meant a lot that I was simply allowed to rest. As my body was buffed and moisturized, my face detoxified, and my pressure points massaged; I slowly drifted into a delicate oblivion wherein I most definitely lost track of time. My pampering lasted two hours before Lindsay agilely and quietly left the room.

Afterward I slowly readied myself in a bliss-induced haze before I was quietly guided upstairs to enjoy another cup of tea and offer my feedback on the experience. I emerged from the spa glistening and glowing as though I had been dipped into a bath of honey. I felt absolutely replenished and didn’t even mind the sheets of rain smattering against the sidewalk as I wandered back to the hotel.

For Retail?

2010-04-20T15:50:00.001-07:00

Being the devout donner of a certain brand of clothing that I am, I figured it would only make sense for me to partake of a part-time job with the company. Time is definitely of the essence as it stands, but if nothing else, I was hoping to defray some of my shopping costs by funneling the pay from this new position into my wardrobe and saving some of my regular income for things like…oh, I don’t know…say, food and sundries?

During my high school years I worked as a barista at Gloria Jean’s Coffee Bean, but never in the retail realm. Well, that’s not entirely true. I had a two week stint at the Gap—but my enamour rapidly fizzled after an experience I had spending four hours reorganizing the sale rack by size and colour only to discover it was in absolute shambles the following day. It seemed like far too Sisyphean a task for my tastes so under the arrogance of youth I simply stopped going. (In Gap’s defense they had about 50 employees and scarcely noticed my absence.)

My former retail experience was wrapped in the foggy gauze of delusion because all I could see were dollar signs and the positive impact an employee discount would have on my closet. This will be insanely fun, I thought to myself. Being such a proponent of the product, I’ll be able to sell wads of this stuff with my eyes closed! - My delusion continued on in this manner until my first shift last night.

A navy white Gingham-checked oxford arrived that very day from, let's call this store "Modern Chic," so I quickly ironed it, put on my capri pants, decked myself in bejeweled bracelets and necklaces, coiffed my hair, slipped on my Toms and went on my way to “work”. I looked the part, I think. At least, I hoped I did. Upon arriving I encountered a disaffected gentleman I will refer to as Thomas who, with his Sperry Topsiders, skinny corduroys and well-manicured mustache, looked like he walked off the set of a Wes Anderson movie. He explained how I should clock in and began leading me around speaking in a tone which indicated he could not have been more bored.

I don’t want to say that I was oblivious on my first day, but I was definitely confused (being completely new to the environment.) No one seemed to have any clear idea of what to do with me and I was shuffled off to three different people to shadow during the two hours the store was open. I padded along behind them closely like a lost puppy keeping a pleasant countenance and an open mind.

Finally, I landed on a girl we shall call Poppy and was to learn the cash register with her. The register was a foreign beast of which I was completely horrified because it meant that I was responsible for charging people for their goods. Poppy eyed me cautiously and I tried beaming at her, apologizing for the interminable length of time it was taking me to do things but she seemed disinterested and slightly annoyed. I like to think my wit can keep me afloat in new and uncomfortable situations—but her wall was impenetrable. It began with the slightest nuances of elitism: I told her that I worked in Issaquah in the Costco corporate offices and lived in Ballard and she couldn’t possibly fathom why on earth I would drive so much. But then things became increasingly, from my perception, more hostile. She would take control of the register because I was too slow; feign deafness when I complimented a skirt she was trying on; and she felt the need to share with everyone within earshot that she had to swoop up items quickly because her size (a size ZERO) was the first to go. I was hurt and slightly befuddled and began to wonder what I had done wrong to garner such dislike from this woman who was effectively a complete stranger. I felt marginal and sad. Realizing that my attempts at friendliness were rather fruitless, I turned inward and simply began reorganizing the sale rack of t-shirts.

Once the store closed, I began to fold, refold, straighten and straighten again every single item in sight. After sizing and straightening one rack, Poppy came over and lambasted my shoddy job of organizing. “It has to look NICE, like THIS…okay?” she oozed with such an air of superiority that I was smarting as though I had been smacked on the face. I smiled and said "Got it!" and then scampered away.

From that point on no one made any effort to chat with me. The college girls bounced around and made small talk. At one point I tried to insert myself into a conversation about yoga that failed so quickly it was as though I had farted on everyone’s face. I’ve never been so socially inept so I couldn’t help but wonder….was I being hazed?

My folding skills which I had thought were so immaculate were apparently not so much because everyone re-did what I had already done. The place was to be pristine-- almost as though a deft army of robots swept in to do the work. At quarter after ten, it seemed to be satisfactory. I quietly followed the group to the back room and collected my belongings.

I drove home in silence, wiping my mind of any thoughts. I felt numb and wasn't sure what to make of this new experience. But then again, I reconciled, I wasn't after making new friends...this is all about the discount, isn't it?

To All My Lovely Readers...

2010-04-15T11:19:00.000-07:00

I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for your individual emails inquiring as to what I’ve been up to lately. I heartily wish that I were able to devote more time to ruminating on my life as a Bonne Vivante but wanted to let you know that life in Seattle has been robust these past few weeks.

Most recently, I have been partaking of activities that Brett jokes are better left to senior citizens. A few weekends ago brought the immense pleasure of attending Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion at the Paramount Theatre. It was simple…a bit folksy… and it harkened to a much different and much simpler time. This past Sunday we went to see the Glenn Miller Orchestra perform at Benaroya Hall—a performance to which I was tapping my toes and bopping up and down the entire time.

In the coming weeks I will be volunteering at Baer Winery during Passport weekend in Woodinville, hosting my beloved dad-o for a long weekend, visiting as many restaurants as possible during Seattle’s Restaurant Week, and taking a much needed mini-break to Victoria, BC.

Please know that as soon as I find a way to squeeze a couple extra hours into the day, I will be back to blogging about my escapades. In the mean time, stay tuned and stay in touch!

Clicking my heels....

2010-04-07T11:10:00.001-07:00

The enchanting barns and silos drift further and further away as I bid farewell to that all too familiar terrain of Wisconsin. The older I become, the more endeared I feel toward the state in which I grew up. For many years I forsook Appleton for what it was: a burgeoning Midwestern city that’s only mildly hokey but certainly not continental. I was extremely fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel copiously in my youth as there was a considerable amount of horizon broadening that occurred as a result. Unfortunately though, it made me long for something bigger—a city of the world. I guess it boils down to never really appreciating what we have when we have it. Now that I’m ever so slightly more mature I relish the cultural idiosyncrasies of my hometown and am grateful that it had a hand in developing me into the person I’ve become.

I love traveling and especially loved my journey home over Easter weekend. There’s something so magical about boarding a plane in the middle of the night and waking up in the morning in a different part of the country. Time becomes irrelevant. I rocked back and forth like a metronome in my middle seat for the duration of my flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. Since I was wedged into place like a sardine in a tin, sleep eluded me. My neck was cramped, my back sore, my knees continually knocking the seat in front of me. Bleary eyed and happy that the larger portion of the journey was done, I transversed the entire airport to reach the satellite gates and stopped at Caribou Coffee along the way. With my earl gray caramel soy latte in hand, I perched myself next to two couples speaking with their thickly affected Midwestern accent on subjects such as Shopko. It felt good to be home…

Upon arriving “back at the ranch” as my dado always says, I crashed for a bit before mom and I headed out for lunch followed by a trip to the mall (as is customary.) The rest of the weekend was extraordinarily relaxing and fun. A large portion of my time was spent simply visiting. Visiting with family…visiting with friends. It felt so incredibly good to be back in my old familiar territory surrounded by people who love and miss having me around—people who I miss with every ounce of my being. Having moved away, I suppose that means too that I’ve “grown up” and branched out on my own but I still struggle with that concept—it’s a process of evolution, expansion, uncertainty and learning. Even now at 29, I wonder if I have grown up. I miss my mom. I miss my home. I miss being taken care of. But I suppose that’s a part of growth and life as well. The older I become, the more I appreciate things that I never thought were a very big deal.

Don’t get me wrong- I love the hustle and bustle of my life in Seattle: filling my schedule with after work drink dates, Bikram yoga classes, dinner parties, Opera, concerts and wine tasting. But no matter how far away I am…or how old I become…there’s simply no place like home.

Please note the above image is not representative of Appleton, Wisconsin but is simply an artistic rendering of the pastoral Wisconsin countryside. Appleton is a thriving mini-metropolis replete with many cultural and fine dining opportunities.

A Hankering for meat.

2010-03-25T12:25:00.001-07:00

Shortly after the completion of my 30 day challenge, Brett and I embarked on a new challenge together: 30 days of Vegetarian Living. Since I have a proclivity for following a diet low in animal protein anyway I did not think this would be much of a feat for me. With Brett, I was not so sure considering he does tend to enjoy steak a fair bit.

We are now on the 25th day and I am realizing that for the past two months I have treated myself as a human test tube. I went from a stringent yoga regimen to maintaining an extremely high level of activity but removing “the souls of deceased animals” from my diet. As I mentioned, I don’t eat much meat at all—but upon removing it completely I came to realize that chicken and fish prove to be quiet a necessary part of my diet and help facilitate my lifestyle and energy level.

I’m not political about vegetarianism at all, but I do subscribe to a belief that local sustainability and free range farming is important. Being the over-thinker that I am, I don’t condone large scale farming and think it can be inhumane, of dubious quality as well as unhealthy.

In an ideal world, I would be an herbivore. Of this, I am certain. Throughout Brett and my challenge I’ve had the opportunity to experience a whole pantheon of foods I’ve never eaten with any amount of regularity. Suddenly, my diet became rife with quinoa, kale, spelt, seitan and tempeh to name a few. The trouble I find is that to adequately devote oneself to this lifestyle, one must dedicate an extraordinary amount of time to educating themselves on alternative protein sources as well as have the drive to be creative in the kitchen.

I’ve had the good fortune of wandering over to PCC (a posh, marginally over-priced Seattle area co-op) during my lunch hour and loading up on the ultra-healthy goodies from their expansive deli but dinner isn’t quite as easy. After a long work day and 90 minutes of yoga, time is money (so to speak). We haven’t had the chance to study the vegan and vegetarian cookbooks I’ve procured over my formative years of being a macrobiote and vegan, so we stick to what we know: pasta dishes, stir-fry, veggie burgers, beans and rice, soups and salads. This is fine and dandy, but after having hit up some really cool vegetarian restaurants in the Seattle area over the past few weeks—I just wish there were more hours in the day.

I’m learning that everything we do in life is a challenge of sorts. I’ve told Brett that I would like this to be the year of “30 day challenges” because once you devote yourself so wholeheartedly to something for a month it gets you to thinking. I’ve become keenly aware not only of my strengths, but of my weaknesses as well. I feel like I’m building character, if only the slightest bit. I am continually forced to evaluate closely what’s important to me and what I can let slide. Ultimately, balance again comes to mind. And achieving that just might be the greatest challenge of all.

Too much of a good thing...

2010-03-15T15:53:00.000-07:00

To say that I lost my direction post-challenge would be an understatement. I sank into a mild depression—losing my focus and questioning my purpose. I couldn’t understand what had happened…I initially wouldn’t have thought that endeavoring to do something so good for me would have such a severe impact once I had finished.

There is definitely something to be said for a purpose driven life and I began to question exactly what that meant to me once I had completed my stringent 30 days of Bikram yoga. No matter whether I had been festooned with exhaustion or ready and rearing for my practice—I knew what had to be done. Every day I nourished and hydrated myself in preparation for the evening. Every morning I diligently recounted my experience through prose and illustration. Once that was over, I wasn’t sure what to do. I continued going to practice, but my life wasn’t the same. I deflated.

Even documentation of my shenanigans (of which there were plenty) seemed trivial and banal so I began to question whether I had achieved enlightenment or if I were just plain burned out. As I discovered last week, it was simply a matter of being exhausted beyond all comprehension. My yoga classes became arduous and though I came to recognize that not every day would hold a strong practice, each day my strength continued to wane until I thought perhaps the jig was up.

Being of firm resolve and ridiculous perseverance, I would not relent and therefore continued my daily routine and added some socializing into the mix. No longer was I serene and yogi but rather exhausted, maladjusted and irritated by the most minor of trivialities. Something had to give… so on Wednesday of last week I took a much needed mental health day in an effort to relax. I hoped to cease lambasting myself for not being stringent and fettered with activity every waking moment. Instead, I wanted to allow myself to enjoy the decompressing that ensued. To be honest, at first I had grandiose illusions of popping over to a neighborhood French bakery, cleaning the house, going to the market and running but my body had other plans in store. After 20 minutes of reading after breakfast, I drifted gently off to sleep for four glorious hours.

I slowly acquiesced to my body’s needs and realized what my new purpose must be: to strive for balance. I understand that I can’t always be all things to all people and that at some point after stuffing my social calendar to the gills I’m going to burst. Yes, I understand this clearly. But what I need to be able to do is accept and know that it’s okay to take some time for myself as well—to rest, to rejuvenate. Sometimes it would seem that my purpose would be to just simply to be.

30 Day Challenge! I'm a star!

2010-03-03T11:16:00.000-08:00

The Final Day- February 25th, 2009

I collapsed in tears after finally having made it to my car. I just wasn’t sure what to think or feel once it was over, but there it was: Mission Accomplished. The biggest box of them all was finally ticked off and time kept marching on.

I was an emotionally drained train wreck because class wasn’t what I had expected it to be on my final day—not that I should have expected fireworks to shoot out my bum or a lotus blossom to lift me up into the sky….as a matter of fact, I know I shouldn’t have expected anything. This was a challenge I set out to do upon my own volition for no other reason than to prove I could do it and see what happened as a result.

Every day was a new test, intercalary to the greater 30 day challenge to which I had subjected myself. Every day—a little lesson learned.

The most popular question that I have fielded throughout this experience is “So how do you feel?” Depending upon the day, my answer would change. The common current throughout has always been that I feel more centered, focused, calm and content. On some days my responses would be laced with annoyance, on others, exhaustion; but I always sensed that I was doing something “Good” even though I wasn’t always able to pinpoint exactly what or why that was.

There were a few days nearing the end of my challenge that seemed to be imbued with a severe case of senioritis, while on other days I would faithfully hold vigil to the quietly flickering candle of my energy and perseverance—lest they burn out. As a result of this, perhaps one of the greatest lessons I have come to appreciate is that every day is different and I should never hold any expectations about what it may or may not be. I must simply accept that fact and be grateful that I have the opportunity to experience what may come.

This is my journey. More so than anything else, I have learned to be humble both on my yoga mat and in life. Almost every day I fondly regard a proverb that hangs in my studio’s lobby: “Be humble, for you are made of dung. Be noble, for you are made of stars.” I am a tiny bleating constellation in a seemingly endless galaxy of stars. All I can do is put every ounce of myself into the universe and hope that I receive a little bit in return.

30 Day Challenge- The final day

2010-03-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

Stay tuned for a recapitulation of Thursday, February 25th....I know not yet whether it will be insightful, poetic, or a simple blow by blow.

In the mean time...please enjoy a photo of me and Quatchi- my dado's celebratory gift for having completed the challenge.

I made it!

30 Day Challenge! A few firsts....

2010-02-25T13:34:00.000-08:00

Day 29- February 24th

At this point, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I continue to experience a litany of “firsts” as I wend my way through this challenge. My sage dado always told me that I should notice or experience at least three new things per day, and on my 29th day I most certainly did.

Shortly after 3pm, my friend and instructor Jenn invited me to accompany her and a few of her co-workers to the 4:30 Bikram class in Redmond (a studio to which I’ve never been.) I immediately started making excuses for myself: I have no mat, no towel, no gear….but then I thought, “Why not?!” This is exactly the sort of thing I need to enliven my challenge. Truth be told, as much as I love Penni (a battle axe in a tiny little vixen’s body); I was in desperate need of a change.

I bolted from work ten minutes early and began my trek around Lake Sammamish with only my handbag and trusty Igloo water bottle (filled with ice from the dining hall) in tow. Upon arriving, I delighted in the natural light flooding this new studio which was at once classic and modern. A single rack stood humbly at the front window with a handful of designer duds, from which I chose a sports bra and hot shorts. This is worth mentioning because I have never, in my entire yogi career, bared my midsection during practice. I was nervous to do so but knew I had no choice.

Having acquainted myself with Glenn, who was to be my instructor that evening, I headed into the room to the space that Jenn had saved for me. En route, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the front mirror and considered for a moment. You know, I actually look pretty good. Jenn leaned over and nudged me to let me know that she instructed Glenn to give me an especially hard time.

The room was hot. Yes, this is hot yoga, but the room was BOILING. And arid. I’m accustomed to the humidity in my beloved Fremont studio so I immediately noticed a difference. Sunlight flooded into the space and during half moon pose, I bent toward a ray of light poking into the room as though I were a flower thirsty for the light. My postures were fluid and strong but my mind began to wobble as it attempted to balance on the precipice of Hades.

I started to panic. Glenn calmly intoned that if we aren’t at our edge, we are taking up too much space. “Oh, don’t worry” I thought to myself, “I’m at risk of tipping over into the depths of hell at any given moment...” At one point I reached for my water for a brief reprieve from the intensity but had barely even picked it up off the ground before Glenn told me I didn’t need it—leave it be. This was new for me. Not only was he guiding me through the practice, but he was keenly aware of my mental weaknesses and was quashing them at any opportunity.

Before the floor series began, Glenn cracked the door open, which was unfortunately on the far side of the room. I waited patiently for a gentle waft of cool air to roll over my body. When it finally arrived, I was near tears at the brevity of it and tried to ensconce myself in Glenn’s calm guidance: “The human attention span is only 52 minutes so your mind is probably beginning to wander.” He could not have been more right…Nevertheless, I battened down and instead focused on his recommendation that we breathe as though we had gills along the sides of our bodies.

Somehow I managed to endure the entire 90 minutes—even though at one point Glenn took my water away from me. I don’t need it, he insisted. This was practice in a way I had never experienced before. It was regimented and ridiculously hot with little reprieve. During one of the very last postures, I was wilting. I sank to my knees but felt Jenn staring directly at me. She shot me a look that intimated "Upsy Daisy Butter Cup," and I knew I had to power through. It's one thing to hold yourself accountable, but it's quite another when you have a friend there to goad you on. On day 29, I’m not sure I could have done it without her.

30 Day Challenge! 28 Days Later

2010-02-24T07:52:00.000-08:00

Day 28- February 23rd

Slowly and ever so subtly, I began to unravel. I grasped steadily at the string with my sweat-soaked fingers in an attempt to salvage the formidable yarn I’ve formed over the past four weeks. But there it was: The sweet siren song of savasana sang to me in dulceted tones and I sank…gently succumbing to the warm swath of her arms.

The tightly wound ball of fibers I’ve been knitting so studiously slowly deteriorated on the 28th day and it took every fabric of my being to keep this from happening. My practice is a blanket, it would seem: An ornate quilt which I am gradually stitching, quietly crafting, relentlessly refining. I delight in its flourish and intricacies on some days—but on others, struggle with its design. Today, I dropped a stitch. I turned my back on the project and set my knitting needles down for a moment wondering what I had gotten myself into.

Ultimately, as always, I persevered—my tenacity reaching new heights. I simply picked up where I’d left off and made the best of what I had to work with, delicately weaving in little accoutrements where I could—leaving lavish undertakings for another time.

And this is what I love about yoga. As Saiko always says: it’s a journey…this is a project to be undertaken throughout the course of my lifetime.

30 Day Challenge! So Not Yogi

2010-02-23T11:42:00.000-08:00

Day 27- February 22nd

I was wound up like a spring ready to rocket into outer space; such was my excitement for going to class tonight. I’ve been having some moments of clarity regarding certain tweaks in my postures, so I couldn’t wait to try them out!

Upon arriving to the studio I placed my mat next to one of my burgeoning yoga buddies Kent and began trumpeting my belief that I’d finally transcended the heat (which I was soon to discover was most definitely not the case.) Mid-sentence, I noticed that my mat was also kitty corner behind Kevin, and Kevin happens to be the studio owner.

I’ve always been a showboat….this can’t be helped. It seems my life’s purpose is to please others, impress them and make them smile. Kevin knows my volition to attend teacher training so I felt obligated to give it my one million per cent. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to impress Kent as well. I can’t help it…I fully recognize that my attention-seeking and pride are not at all in the spirit of a yogi. Though, at least I recognize this fact. Self-awareness is key to reaching the path of discovery and understanding…..or something like that, I think.

My breathing flourished and I felt the promise of a good class at bay. In the half moon posture I pushed my hips far to the left and reached up and over to the right so that I formed a lovely rounded 90* angle. My body glided effortlessly and I serenely focused on myself in the mirror even though I was pushing my body to the utmost maximum of each posture it could achieve.

Then something changed: the air became thick and laden with volcanic heat. I thrust into the triangle posture, deepening my squat so that my thigh, calf and shin felt as though they were being dipped into a vat of molten lava. I winced briefly and considered collapsing onto my mat, simply surrendering to the practice. Instead I buckled down and shifted my attention: breathe….just breathe. I bounced up and transitioned to the other side but felt wobbly. The volcano was rumbling and I wasn’t sure I would persevere. It took every ounce of tenacity and strength I’ve built over the past 27 days to not buckle and relent.

To make matters worse, I was stricken with pangs of hunger that were all but hooting for attention from the depths of my stomach. I felt hollow, ravenous and downright weak. “This is what you get for trying to be a showoff” I chided myself. Needless to say, class wasn’t what I expected. Just as I’ve learned over the course of the past month that things rarely are what you expect them to be. I can only observe, learn, and hopefully grow.

30 Day Challenge! The Final Countdown!!

2010-02-21T19:09:00.000-08:00

Day 26- February 21st.

"It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN!!!!" I sang to Jenn as I signed in for my 4pm yoga class. This is it.....I'm fairly certain if I've made it this far there's no slowing me down now.

For the first time since I can’t even remember when there were no lights turned on. The shades were up and the afternoon sun was filtering into the studio offering another layer of delicious organic warmth. I was excited today—I’ve called Jenn my good luck charm before and there’s just something about the way she teaches that makes practice so fun and lighthearted.

I’m experiencing my postures in a new and different way every day—they continue to evolve ever so slightly which I guess is why practice is called just that: practice. During locust post, in which you lay on your arms with your palms facing toward the ground and use your spine strength to hoist your legs (glued together from the thighs to the toes) toward the ceiling, Jenn came over and aided me in lifting my legs even higher. It just felt right. She helped me understand after class that I should be making a scooping motion with my legs as opposed to just attempting to jut them straight into the air.

As with life, I tend to get routinized and sometimes forget to step back and look at the bigger picture. When I take a moment to view things from a different perspective, there’s always something to be learned.

As I continue to blaze through these final days, I feel bright, insightful and calm. I am keenly aware of my self—no longer fraught with limitations or frustrations. The fatigue has dissipated…having perhaps evaporated in the heat of my yoga room. It’s the final countdown for my challenge- but I feel as though my journey’s just begun.

30 Day Challenge! Hitting a stride

2010-02-21T19:06:00.000-08:00

Day 25- February 20th

Light on my feet, my spine erect, I headed through the warmth of the waning Seattle sunlight with a skip in my step. Fresh grass wafted through the air and tickled my olfactories enlivening me with hope and excitement. It’s as though this challenge has shepherded me through the last remaining twilight of winter and I’m awakening on the other side—the dawn of spring.

I was surprised by the number of people present for 5pm yoga on Saturday when in all reality; they could have been at happy hour. BJ congenially guided and nurtured us through our 90 minutes and I felt my body hit its stride. I’ve stopped anticipating what’s next and learned to solely focus on the present.

Things are going pretty well. Five days remain!!

30 Day Challenge! A Good Friday

2010-02-20T13:26:00.000-08:00

Day 24- February 19th

At risk of sounding too hippy dippy and metaphysical, I'm recognizing a change within myself. It's as though all the ideas and revelations I've had over the course of the past 24 days have been baking in the warmth of the yoga room. I'm more aware of myself. More aware of the actions I take and thoughtful of the consequences they may have.

Friday nights continue to be my favorite night to go to yoga for a million little reasons--one of them being that it's emancipatory from the work week. On the island of my yoga mat, I drift away from the rigors of a two hour commute, the incessant ring of my phone, the steady stream of emails. I drift away from the banalities and land contentedly in my home away from home-- the yoga studio in which I've spent every single day for nearly the past month-- where everything comes so clearly into focus.

Going to yoga has become as much a part of my routine as brushing my teeth, combing my hair or putting on my mascara. It is as integral to my quotidian habits as going to sleep each night. No longer do I dread going to class or wish I could have my freedom instead-- as surely as I draw in breath, I go to my yoga with excitement, anticipation and ease.

30 Day Challenge! There is no heat?

2010-02-19T08:05:00.000-08:00

Day 23- February 18th

I felt lukewarm during practice and it’s difficult for me to determine whether or not I’ve reached some sort of higher state of being or if the room was in fact cooler than usual. I still stood dripping on my mat, but the heat was neither taxing nor oppressive.

For the first time since my challenge began I was taught by Frances, a darling girl I've seen practicing in the studio before but have never had the good fortune of being one of her students. I found myself hanging off her every word. She spoke frankly and without flourish, her words decorated by a smile I felt permeating the room. She had just come back from attending the Yoga Asana Championships in LA and took a class with Bikram whilst there. As a result of practicing with the genius himself, she was able to offer a few nuggets of inspiration that changed the way I considered my postures. It's interesting to think that even though all of my instructors so brilliantly and concisely explain each movement, having Frances say one particular thing differently was able to affect me so greatly.

30 Day Challenge! A fresh perspective

2010-02-18T14:04:00.000-08:00

Day 22- February 17th

“Oh my gosh, it’s so dark in here I’m going to pee my pants!” chirped Penni as she bounded into the blackness of the studio right before class was to begin. This quip had me burst into laughter and I began to look forward to practice with a giddy lightheartedness. As Penni stood on the podium, cheerfully explaining pranayama deep breathing to the three newbies, I happened to notice a long thread on her bum. Being the dedicated student that I am, once she had completed her instruction I delicately plucked the offending strand off her person and she erupted in a fit of giggles.

Her laughter was just what I needed for practice that night. I was surrounded by fellow yogis and friends (Lauren was there! Yay!) all with the same ultimate goal: health and happiness. Penni’s effervescent voice lifted me above the sea of everyone’s breath and I remembered at that moment what I had forgotten as a result of being entrenched in my routine: This is supposed to be FUN! Though I must complete my challenge I should not look at this as being obligatory or arduous because that’s a negative and exhausting perspective. As Jenn often says, “It’s yoga, people.” Sure, it’s never going to be easy, but going in with excitement and a positive attitude makes the 90 minutes much more fun.

Having said that, the similarities between the microcosm in which I live and the greater picture again come to mind. It continues to amaze me as I make my way through this journey how many lessons I’ve learned standing on my yoga mat for 90 minutes a day. I’m certainly not enlightened yet….but I feel like I’m getting there.

Day 21- The Microcosm and The Universe (explained through hair)

2010-02-17T14:02:00.000-08:00

Day 21- February 16th

I’m growing out my hair. For five years, I had a cute little pixie cut that changed colours with the seasons…platinum….midnight….chestnut. I finally stopped colouring my hair a year ago and decided it was time for a change. Historically, whenever I would attempt to let my hair grow I would become extremely annoyed and frustrated during the “awkward” period. Since I looked like I had an unfavorable encounter with a lawn mower, I would abandon my growth efforts and go back to being a pixie. Perhaps it’s a result of having a marvelous stylist in my life, but I believe my new found patience and ability to stay true to my goal of growing a long lustrous coiffure is likely a result of my time spent within the yoga studio.

Yesterday it became apparent that my yoga practice is similar to this growth endeavor. Hair grows….but the growth and change comes about in a painstakingly slow, subtle way. I can’t remember the facts but I want to say that we gain about a half inch per month. In order to prevent my coif from getting ratty, I find it necessary to have a trim every six or eight weeks in which probably a quarter to a half inch is removed. Basically, I’m right back where I started….Except slowly but surely, I’m getting there. I focus on keeping myself cute for now but dream of the bigger picture, the end game: long glistening auburn hair covering my chest so that I might prance around San Tropez in a bikini bottom and nothing else yet still be covered thanks to my Rapunzel-esque mane.

Is it too obvious to make the direct comparison to my postures? Lately, they’ve felt stagnant but on the 21st day I did a brief recap in my mind as I lay in Savasana at the end of class. I can lock my knee for 60 seconds and bend my elbows beneath my knee. I can touch the top of my head to my knee and keep my hands in prayer position at the top of my toes. When I bend backwards, I can almost see the floor. These changes have come about so subtly, yet so steadily. I realize that if I put in the effort, no matter how unnoticeable the immediate results, something is happening. I see where I’m going and it pushes me to continue….

30 Day Challenge- This is my life.

2010-02-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

Day 20- February 15th

I realized today that doing 30 continuous days of Bikram yoga is not that difficult—it’s the “obligation” aspect with which I’m grappling. After 20 days I long simply to slink into a warm bath, pour a big glass of wine, poke around the kitchen to create a lovely meal with my husband, play a game of scrabble…watch a movie….doze off on the couch. But instead, I’ve become a soldier of yoga—fiercely regimented and reliably predictable. The element of “option” has been removed from my vocabulary so that my freedoms are limited. I mustn’t be too indulgent or too profuse lest it negatively impact my yoga.

After work I became an ornery teenager—irritated and cantankerous. It wasn’t at all that I didn’t WANT to go to class; it’s just that I wanted what I couldn’t have. I wanted…freedom. What’s the point of being tied down to such a specific number, anyhow? In any case, I’ve committed to this challenge and so it must go. It all comes back down to discipline. If I can do this, I feel like maybe…just maybe….I can do anything.

Bless Brett’s little heart for putting up with me the past three weeks. He sent me off to practice with his ever-cheerful encouragements and away I went. As per usual, the moment I stepped into the studio, I felt wonderful. Practicing Bikram in the summer definitely has its compelling arguments, but there is nothing quite like practicing in the hollow months of winter. It offers solace from the bone-chilling cold and balances out the bitter chill to make these interminable months seem the slightest bit more tolerable.

I placed my mat next to Jenn, one of my instructors, who seems to act as a bit of a good luck charm for me. I always have a really strong practice whenever we’re next to one another. Her energy and positivity are so formidable it’s almost as though they waft over to me in a delicate, ever so subtle cool breeze. Sure enough, my postures were strong, my energy high. I was back. Sisyphus made it up to the top of the hill!

Saiko gently intoned “Be okay with who you are today,” as I lay belly up on my mat, relishing the tiny bits of cool air that tickled my forearms and calves. Today, that was an undemanding feat. Naturally, it’s much easier to accept yourself when you’re in a good place, but I took that bit of wisdom and held on to it for the future—to remember on the more challenging days. As long as I give it my all….as long as I do what I’m able—I will be okay...nay HAPPY with who I am.

30 Day Challenge...A Sisyphean Feat

2010-02-15T07:15:00.000-08:00

Day 19- Valentine's Day

Saiko always says that you can come into class with the best of intentions-- your mind is in the right place, you're ready and excited to go. But sometimes you don't always get what you expect and it's important to work with what you brought into class. Today was that day for me.

I've known my practice has been going too well for too long and I was waiting for the bomb to drop. This is not the right mentality to adopt, but I somehow knew that today was going to be the day for a bomb of weakness to blow my determination and strength to smithereens and leave me a sweat-soaked lump on my towel.

I arrived to the 4pm class with resignation, irritated by the repetition and annoyed with the prospect of zero reprieve from the temperatures that were boiling my skin. I simply went through the motions and consoled myself that no matter the outcome; class would be over in 90 minutes. 90 long….grueling….miserably uncomfortable minutes. Today was the day that I wanted so desperately to crawl out of the room. It literally took every ounce of discipline in my body to stay put and persevere.

Today, I was Sisyphus. I felt as though the previous 18 days were all for naught. All the wisdom, strength and fortitude I had built up rolled right back to the bottom of the hill. Just as Sisyphus knew his plight was to endlessly roll a boulder uphill only to have it come right back down to the bottom, I knew I had to continue my journey no matter where I ended up. By the time I had reached standing head to knee pose; I decided to give it my all—regardless of the results.

The floor series finally arrived, and I was defeated. My limbs and my torso were filled with wet concrete. In a strange role reversal, I had to become my body’s cheerleader, gently encouraging it through each move. While ultimately I moved at a slower pace, I did manage to plunge deeply into the temporary challenge. I started at the bottom and crested despite the multitudinous adversities with which I was faced.

When practice came to an end, I plopped down, sighed and closed my eyes. I suppose everyday can’t be cake. Without the struggle, success just won’t be as sweet. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

30 Day Challenge! Be Here Now

2010-02-14T14:11:00.001-08:00

Day 18- February 13th

My life has become a series of thoughts and feelings that are punctuated by yoga. It is the comma that corrects the run-on sentence of my quotidien chores...the exclamation point at the end of my day. It is the present tense.

Saturday was the perfect day. It consisted of a lazy brunch at Anita's Creperie, making Valentine cards for Brett and my parents, a mellow practice, and a late night trip to Whole Foods.

30 Day Challenge- You are my sunshine

2010-02-13T19:13:00.000-08:00

Day 17- February 12th

I suppose it only makes sense that since my yoga provides me with so much light that I consider it to be my sunshine as well. As I boldly make my way into the thick of this challenge, it strikes me that yoga IS my sun. Over the past 17 days, every little action, no matter how inconsequential, has begun to orbit around practice-- every plan I make is contingent on my ability to go. The questioning as to whether or not I should stay home and laze about or go to yoga has finally dissolved. As surely as the sun will rise, so too shall I be at my Friday night practice.

After the doldrums of the work week drew to a close, I rushed home to squeeze in a few viewings of my absolute favorite new program: Be Good Johnny Weir, a reality show on the Sundance Channel. I'm not terribly abreast of the goings-on in the ice skating world, but when I happened upon an irreverant advertisement of his show within the beloved pages of my Us Weekly, I was intrigued. The series kicked off with his documentary "Pop Star on Ice" and thanks to On Demand, I was able to watch the first three episodes of the season. Johnny is completely amazing and I am totally in love with him-- he is eloquent, refined, witty, controversial, fashion forward and passionate.

Before I knew it, it was time to prepare for my Friday night sweat session with Saiko. I chugged down my electrolyte cocktail, gathered my towels and outfit, kissed Brett on the cheek and then hopped into the car.

The heat was stifling. I curled up in a ball on my side and imagined that I was in a tropical locale--the sun beating down on me and filling me with warmth. Before too long, Saiko entered the room, raised the lights, and calmy guided me and 20 others through practice. She mentioned discipline toward the end, which really resonated with me. She praised us all with our fortitude to have made it into the studio on Friday night. We were there and we were committed.

With each moment that passes in this 30 day challenge, my discipline grows-- its roots deepening and leaves blossoming. I stand stronger, more focused, more centered and happy. I drifted home on a cloud that night to watch the Olympic ceremonies unfold- giddy with content, exhausted with accomplishment.

30 Day Challenge- Rays of light.

2010-02-12T14:07:00.000-08:00

Day 16- February 11th

NPR wafts gently throughout the confines of my car and I listen desolately to the weather report.

Today’s forecast: rain and clouds.

Tomorrow’s forecast:…..rain….and clouds.

Sunday’s forecast: More of the same.

It’s as though I’m driving through the moors of Scotland. A soft and thick fog, like that which precedes the arrival of a pirate ship, envelops my car and carries me gently to Issaquah. I’m ferried along, discouraged and disoriented by the darkness cast over me like a thick, woolen blanket.

So I search for my solace, my sunshine elsewhere: within me, within my friends, and within my studio, with much success. Day 16 offered a lemony burst of warmth that brightened my day more than any amount of sunshine could ever possibly hope to do.

During Padahastasana, in which you fold yourself in half like a grilled cheese sandwich, I pulled on my feet with such vim that I heard a dull, disconcerting POP in my hip bone, as though a giant, cardboard piece of bubble wrap was bursting. My body disjointedly responded by lurching forward and even though I was able to achieve the maximum expression of the posture, I felt like a rickety wagon wheel whilst doing so. Even still, I smiled to myself. My mind and body are becoming great buddies: communicating and agreeing on what they need to do. They’ve become a team. Sometimes disagreeing with each other, but ultimately working to achieve the same goal: happiness, health and wellness. And flexibility too.

Having read an article by Mary Jarvis earlier on in the day, in which she boasted the importance of not consuming water during practice, I decided to have my hand at this endeavor which was lofty considering I often rely on icy fluids as a source of solace and comfort. I managed to make it until the end of the standing series, by which point I was longing to embrace the glistening coolness of my frozen bottle. Since there was little melt-off to imbibe, I attempted to fill it up but as a result of the intense humidity hovering above us, the water queue was considerable. Lisa cautioned that we would miss savasana so instead of waiting I plopped back on my mat with resignation. Five minutes later, she passed by, swept up my bottle, and filled it to the brim. I certainly wasn’t expecting such a treat but felt luminous as a result of her kindness.

I was light at the end of practice: wrung out, sweat-soaked, exhausted and content. Once in the changing room, I checked my phone and saw an email from my yoga buddy Jen in which she was applauding my fortitude and telling me I was amazing, a rock star, a stud.

14 days remain, and I'm aglow with excitement- despite the rain and clouds.

30 Day Challenge- Half Way There!

2010-02-11T10:43:00.001-08:00

“Ohhhhhhhh we’re half way there. Ohhhhhhhhh-wo, we’re livin’ on a prayer!” I sang to myself as sweat pooled on my mat and towel, my arms locked out like a vice with my head in between and my right leg burning as it reached toward the back wall. This is Tulandasana (the balancing stick) and what Bikram refers to as a self-induced mini heart attack in order to avoid the big one.

As of late I’ve been trying to reconcile the mind-body disconnect, which I touched on briefly yesterday. My fatigue seems more mental than anything else so I decided last night to force my mind to listen to my body- and not the other way around. And you know what? It worked. I concentrated steadily on my calculated and even inhalations and exhalations and just let my body embrace the positions with which it had become so corporeally familiar without my ego getting in the way.

During Trikanasana (the triangle), known as the “Master Standing Posture” and the crescendo of the standing series, I became uncomfortable and told myself to lie down but after some struggle my body persevered. I deepened my squat and reached my arm up with complete physical ease despite my mind’s whiny protestations. Ever supportive, Penni piped in “You’ve got this, Heidi.” And she’s right: so far, I do.

15 down, 15 to go.

30 Day Challenge....2 weeks in and I'm waving, not drowning

2010-02-10T14:04:00.000-08:00

I have a heavy rotation of fluids littering my desk (Earl Grey, Matcha, an Americano, ice water, and energy water) but I feel like I would be better off with an IV. My arms hang heavily at my sides, my hands like bowling balls mashing against my key pad. A vapid fatigue flits over my body in dull pulsing waves. This has been the longest two weeks of my entire life, which I find strange considering this challenge only comprises 6.25% of every day or 9% of my waking hours.

Despite my current exhaustive state, day 14 was a great success. Many things were at play in making it so but the fluidity with which I practiced gave me the encouragement I needed so desperately to carry on.

My friend and co-worker Lauren accompanied me today, which also helped give me the motivation necessary to get to practice. We met at the front desk and I showed her around, securing two side by side spots in the middle row, adjacent to the instructor’s podium. She had done Bikram in LA, but was anxious to see how her body behaved since it had been a few years.

I felt so at home—so in my wheelhouse—and was incredibly grateful one of my co-workers had the chance to see that. Despite my whining and complaining, this is what I long to do. Suzanne, a gorgeous, limber and ever-so-sage instructor of mine noted that my eyes were glowing when I ran into her outside the changing room. I immediately boasted that it was the 30 day challenge and she wholeheartedly agreed.

Aside from seeing Lauren’s bright blue saucer eyes staring at herself in the front mirror with a laser beam focus, I had another little boost from my yoga bag of tricks that I’ve been using lately: my water bottle, but not in the way one might suspect. I freeze one of my two water bottles every night in order to have a nice glacial hunk of ice with which to hydrate during class. By the time I reach the floor series, this miniature glacier is adrift in a sea of crisp, divine, deliciously wet eau de vie. The bottle rests on its side next to me and as I am on my belly, staring straight at it, I begin to envision the tiniest version of myself, unfettered from reality, drifting in the water in a state of pure unadulterated bliss. This diminutive carefree pixie smiles calmly at me and gently coos “You’ll be fine. Take it easy. Life is peaches.” It sounds a little silly, but it helps.

My instructors often chant “Your body can do this. It’s your mind that needs the work,” and I’m finding that to be 100% true. The physical challenges have become easier and easier though my mind is becoming increasingly more adverse so I implement these little tricks and hope to float along.

30 Day Challenge! Yoga Zombie.

2010-02-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

Day 13- February 8th

I never believed 13 to be an ominous number, but was forced to reevaluate that idea today. I’m not even at the half way point and thoughts of ending my journey here and now began rolling heavily around my head. More than anything I want my evenings back. I want to loaf around with a glass of wine and read a book if I should feel so inclined. Who would even notice if I quit? The age old questions that I ask myself every couple of days began cropping up again.

A thick layer of fatigue covered my body like a blanket. I stretched my legs out over Brett’s lap on the couch and buried my head underneath my Snuggie. I don’t consider myself to be a quitter—but the prospect sounded ever more enticing as my mind became addled with sleep.

I’m not quite sure what prompted me to get off the couch and carry on aside from Brett all but shoving me out the front door. “Meditate on it during practice” he offered. “Decide today if you want to continue or not. You’ll likely feel better afterward.” I hung my head with resignation and padded down to the car.

Despite not wanting to be in class, the warmth was comforting. The familiar smell of soggy, sweat-soaked carpeting, a welcome perfume. Now that I was there, I had no choice but to stay and practice. Postures that are typically performed with effortless grace became arduous and uncomfortable. In an effort to stretch as deeply as is the norm I focused on my movement instead of my breath and often realized over half way through a posture that I had been forgetting to breathe. Yes, breath is what this whole endeavor is centered around. As one of my instructors once said, “This is a 90 minute breathing exercise. The postures are only here to try and distract you from that.” And today, they did.

I summoned the strength to complete the standing series despite sweat dripping up my nose during standing head to knee. I struggled and forced my way through although considering flopping down on the floor more times than I’d like to admit. Finally, the sweet release of corpse pose had arrived and the past hour washed over my body in an epic wave. I lay flat on my back for two full floor postures before rolling onto my belly and powering through the rest.

I leaned heavily against the front desk as I told Saiko of my intense struggles afterward. The fact that she noticed at once disappointed and comforted me. She asked if I was okay and noted that I had been doing a LOT of yoga lately, so this was only natural. “There are lots of peaks and valleys,” she sagely nodded. “It’s an interesting journey.”

Interesting journey, indeed. But today I had to wonder: Where am I going? And WHY? Not having the energy to ponder that question, I instead went home and let Calgon (read: Lush) take me away.

30 Day Challenge! Superbowl Sunday

2010-02-08T08:20:00.001-08:00

I halfheartedly considered going to the ten am practice on Sunday morning so I wouldn’t have to miss out on any of the Superbowl festivities that would be unfolding at our house later—but I realized when I woke up at quarter to ten that wouldn’t be happening. Instead, I spent the day cleaning and putting away the mountains of clothing that littered our bedroom.

As soon as our friends started to arrive, I stepped out to make my way to practice. I couldn’t help but feel rude and guilty for being such an awful host even though in the back of my mind I tried to reconcile my emotions. Brett did orchestrate this get together, so I suppose I shouldn’t feel TOO guilty about hopping out for a few hours. That put me in a funk, in any case.

The studio was delightfully quiet for an early evening practice on Sunday, which can only be a result of the football game. Approximately a baker’s dozen of ladies (peppered with one or two gentleman) spread out across the room in preparation for a thorough work through by Penni.

Since there was a vast amount of open space, I decided to practice in the second row so that I could get a different perspective on my form. It’s strange to think that simply moving my mat around the room could have such an intense impact—but it did. I had a clearer perspective on my alignment because I wasn’t mere inches away from my reflection in the front mirror. My funk fell away and I experienced my practice in an entirely new and different way which goes to show that sometimes I need to get out of my comfort zone in order to get a fresh perspective both in class...and in life.

30 Day Challenge! Weekend Recap

2010-02-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

Day 10- February 5th

Friday night practices, though arguably the most challenging for me, are my favorite nonetheless. Both my mind and body are fatigued from the events of the week, but Bikram is my favorite way to sweat it all away and start the weekend renewed and refreshed. Typically, you'll only find the die-hards holed up in a sweaty room at 6pm on a Friday night so it confused me when there were three rough and tumble looking folk in the back row right behind me. I'm certainly not judging the fact that they were there-- more power to them for hopping on the bandwagon. But I was about to discover that they would prove to be worthy adversaries against my powers of concentration.

Shortly after pranayama deep breathing began, the gentleman who was directly behind me started laughing. I know I shouldn't have been, but I was a little bit offended. As the warm-up progressed, I began giggling internally to myself because this guy was seriously like a fish out of water. But then I thought back to my first practice many years ago and some of the thoughts rolling around my head: Am I in a cult? How long does this breathing go on? I look like a spastic eagle...In any case, I tried to block him out to the best of my ability and pressed on.

Day ten. One third of the way there and everything is going swell. I felt strong and limber. The only thing bothering me was my big toe, which I stubbed terribly before practice began as I was unrolling my mat and searching the room for someone I knew. That aside, I performed well. I can feel some of my postures change and my body is getting stronger. I would say that could potentially be a placebo effect of me thinking I'm stronger simply because I'm going to practice more often- but I am. My heart isn't beating as rapidly during the crescendo of the standing series and I haven't been laying down at all.

I can't help but find it daunting that two thirds of this challenge remain-- even though I know that's not the right perspective. Moreso than what remains, it's what I've done. And of course, most importantly: it's not what I've done but where I am right now. Right now, I'm pretty good.

Day 11- February 6th

I wasn't sure how class would go today because I drank considerably more on Friday night than I had in...well...I'm not even sure. Don't get me wrong, I still wasn't as indulgent as in the days of yore; but two glasses of wine, a PBR and a tall boy of Kokanee was more than I had planned on.

My friend Jessica, Brett and I went out for a late night dinner at Ballard's dive bar Fat Albert's before heading over to my once beloved trendy saloon King's Hardware. Historically, I relished the excess and shenanigans of drunken college students thronging to King's of Leon whilst pounding back tall boys of Rainier Beer. I would even be among those vying for a turn at the derelict skee-ball machines (refer to my faceboook pictures for proof.) Somewhere along the line, something changed. I felt like an interloper and everyone around me knew it. This probably had something to do with the fact that I was painfully more sober than anyone surrounding me. After choking down my Kokanee, it was time for bed. Brett and I left Jessica with one of her buddies we had met at King's and made our way home in the wee hours of Friday night.

Sure enough, as a result of Friday night's unfavorable combination of fried chicken, cheap beer, and wine-- I was out of sorts on Saturday. Despite having slept a whopping thirteen hours, I was still terribly discombobulated. "Oh well," I thought to myself, "too bad for me." I put the crap in my body, now it was time to pay the piper and sweat it out, so to speak.

As the warm-up began, my arms felt leaden. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to raise and lower them 20 times when I was convinced they were replaced with the arms of an arthritic 80 year old. On top of that, I felt nauseous. I briefly wondered to myself if I should lay down at that moment, leave or press on. Naturally, I pressed on. Despite the initial discomfort, the remainder of my class was great. The weakness fell away the moment I stopped focusing on it.

My instructors often say "drop it off" after a posture has been completed. Always focus on the task at hand and forget about the one prior. So long, class eleven. I dropped it off, checked the box, and picked up Brett to wander toward Crown Hill in search of some Greek food.

30 Day Challenge- Hooky and Virgil

2010-02-05T14:10:00.000-08:00

Day Nine- February 4th

The pizza, in retrospect, was not a wise choice. Though temporarily satisfying, I awoke on Thursday with intense gastronomic discomfort. While it likely wouldn’t last the entire day, I had to make a game time decision- stay home or go to work. If Brett and I had two cars, I likely would have headed into the office for a half day but since we have just the one, I told Brett to go on ahead without me.

I checked my work email periodically, but fortunately for me and my co-worker it was a relatively quiet day at the office. The majority of my day was spent guarding the couch and drinking copious amounts of peppermint tea to quiet my tummy. Whilst loafing, I finished what is now included in my top ten list of best books ever: “The Women” by T.C Boyle. This literary masterpiece is a poignant story of the women in Frank Lloyd Wright’s life and is the sort of tome in which you learn a myriad of historical gems without even realizing it.
Feeling rested and operating at 85% capacity, I prepared myself for evening yoga. Of course I’m not going to miss class even if I missed a day at work! I arrived to the studio and didn’t see any of my regular chatting pals. The mood was completely mellow and extraordinarily quiet with only 30 or so students in the room—far fewer than in recent days.

I had the good fortune of practicing next to Virgil, who had just finished up his 4pm practice and was lined up for a double-header (I have yet to try that out…maybe if I’m feeling crazy on day 30 I’ll go out with a bang). Virgil is one of the most unique folks I have had the pleasure of meeting and that old phrase “You can’t judge a book by its cover” comes to mind whenever I think of him. He is of a medium build, with every muscle completely developed—but not in the beefcake “I am a human upside down triangle” sense—rather, he is a lean, mean yoga machine. He does both Bikram and the equally challenging Ashtanga yoga anywhere from six to 12 times per week depending on his schedule. He is an iron worker with full body tattoos and when he’s not building cranes or at the yoga studio, he loves going to the cinema and riding his motorcycle. As I said, super cool guy.

But I digress. Class number nine was phenomenal, which was likely the result of having a completely non-stressful day with ample amounts of rest. Yesterday I (ironically) forgot to mention something Penni said during class that stuck with me. It came back to me during my practice today and was extremely comforting in each posture: Let go. Don’t hang on to the discomfort and don’t let the struggle bother you. You will forget about the pain immediately and only the benefits will remain—which is another little nugget of wisdom to put to use inside the yoga studio and out. Funny how that works….

30 Day Challenge! 30 days of yoga...or laundry?

2010-02-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

Day Eight- February 3rd

I'm not going to lie: I was exhausted on Wednesday. There is no valid excuse for my fatigue unless being completely enthralled by "Jennifer's Body" the night prior counts. No, it was not a quality film, but it was compelling nonetheless. I lovingly absorbed every moment until I disappointingly realized it was 11pm and time for bed. On Wednesday morning, I hit snooze too many times and hustled to prepare for the day. Fortunately for me, a package had arrived from J. Crew on Tuesday so I wasn't forced to rack my brains about what I should wear. I slipped on a cute blue skirt (that I would be chastised was too short by a few younger co-workers to which I quipped "It's not my fault I have long legs"), a multi-dimensional coral coloured shell, and a grey t-shirt cardigan. Since I had a meeting with vendors, I put on my light grey patent shoes with thick wooden heels (over a pair of maroon trouser socks, to display my signature brand of quirkiness.)

Fortunately for me, the day was busy. I felt relevant and important as I strategized pre and post meeting with my vendors-- taking copious amounts of thorough notes throughout. As the work day waned, so did my energy level. Day Eight. I rolled around the idea of it in my mind. So what? Who cares? Why am I doing this? When Brett picked me up at 4 I began nodding off in the car to the gentle lilt of conversation on NPR.

Upon arriving home, I plopped myself on the SS Shilshole and begged that Brett allow me a 15 minute nap. (He's been enlisted as my sargeant general to make sure I report for yoga duty every day without fail.) Any more than that and I would be unforgiveably groggy. Nearing the end of my allotted snooze I felt my mouth become agape and those impossibly quirky thoughts with which one is stricken right before the onset of sleep begin to lap up against my consciousness. Alkaline with hunger, I trudged instead to the bedroom to find something cute to wear to practice. I find that cute outfits are another incentive for me to go to yoga: if I'm wearing something darling, then I too feel darling and am much more excited about the prospect of prancing around my studio.

I was apprehensive as to how my class would be because of my fatigue, but unnecessarily so-- I was stronger than ever before. The only hang up for me was my feet. They were terribly wonky throughout the entire standing series. I couldn't figure out what my problem was. The first thing I noticed is that they didn't want to line up. They were askew, and I couldn't place my balance flat across my foot. I was rocking as though on a boat from my heels to the knife ege of my foot to the ball and back- which proved a worthy adversary against my balance. Due to this nagging fault I couldn't stay in a balancing posture before begining to rock and tip over midway through. Then suddenly, I had a light bulb moment. Heels! Dang heels- shouldn't have worn them! I'm an overpronator with horifically flat feet to begin with so those shoes were the last thing I needed. Note to self: Stop wearing heels to work and only wear them to special occasions and nights out on the town. Foot issues aside, practice was a success. I didn't take one unscheduled savasana and pushed myself harder and harder wanting to impress not only Penni (the Hun) but to prove to myself that I can do this.

After class Brett and I picked up a pizza from Zayda Buddies (a Minnesotan-style pizza place that serves Lienenkugels on tap!) to enjoy whilst watching another movie (the title of which I am too embarrassed to mention). This is the unhealthiest I've eaten since my challenge began, but was also exactly what the doctor ordered. What's a little indulgence once in a while?

To conclude the evening I threw in a load of laundry which was to be the eighth day of laundry in a row. I looked at Brett and laughed. "Is this a 30 Day Bikram Challenge, or a 30 Day Laundry Challenge?" Either way- both are going full throttle. 22 days remain.

30 Day Challenge! Initiate Yoga-Bot Transformation Sequence

2010-02-03T08:20:00.000-08:00

Day Seven- Ground Hog's Day

It is days like today that make all the impossible practices worthwhile. I strolled into the studio with confidence on Tuesday as though I were the cock of the walk. Day seven- here I am. I’m going to rock you like a hurricane. But then, I looked at the broader picture and became giddy with nerves. So wait, after I complete today’s class I STILL have 23 days left?! That’s a bit daunting. I tried to narrow my focus again and remember the age old wisdom from the classic film “What About Bob”: Baby Steps. I can baby step this one day at a time.

I’ve been going to this studio for quite some time, so I have had the opportunity to get to know a few of the other diehard yogis like myself. This has had the added benefit of incentivizing me to show up to class because it becomes a sort of social hour before and afterward. (As I told Brett-I’m turning into a socialite cum yogi: a “yoga-lite.”) My friend Jen is a baker at the Flying Apron Bakery in Fremont and one of the gals who is very likely now going to participate in the 30 day challenge. She greeted me with a vegan cinnamon roll, at which I immediately began nibbling. The prospect of having companions with whom to tackle the challenge is extremely comforting and exciting because we can not only rely on each other’s strength but also cheer each other on with little treats (such as the aforementioned cinnamon roll). I caught up with Kate, one of my instructors who has not taught in a while because she has been traveling a lot for her work as a photographer. I bounced around the changing room like a ping pong ball and then landed on my friend Kim who just returned from a long weekend touring Alabama with one of her favorite bands. I feel so much love for all these people and was literally bursting with energy as a result of these wonderful relationships I’ve begun to develop.

As a result of being such a busy-body before class, I wasn’t burdened with over-thinking what my practice would be like. I spent the final moments before 6pm chatting with Kate and BJ before finally scurrying over to my mat. I was all but grinning as I began my pranayama deep breathing and was continually (dare I say) proud of my fortitude despite the intensifying, almost burning heat. I made it all the way through the standing postures with my energy level and spirits in tact.

But then, after sucking down a few sips of ice cold water, my fatigue caught up with me. It was as though my body had a chance to realize what exactly it had been enduring for the past hour. Right before the full locust pose- where you lie on your belly and lift up your entire body using your spine strength, I felt like I could close my eyes and fall asleep at that moment. Considering that I had such a strong practice thus far, I decided to utilize the mechanisms of my youth when I was in a swim meet or any other competitive environment: self-induced fear. In order to make myself swim faster and push myself harder, I would imagine that Freddie Kruger was chasing me. I can only conclude that this idea worked because I always won my events and beat my previous times. As I lay there with my arms sprawled to either side and my legs and feet glued together, I pretended that I was on the precipice of a volcano. I imagined that once the posture began, lava would flow up and burn me to pieces if I didn’t raise my arms and legs as high as absolutely possible. The higher I could lift myslf—the cooler the air would be. At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself. Much to my amazement- my little trick worked. I powered through the rest of class like a yoga-bot. I’m going to have to keep that tool in my back pocket for day 27…..

30 Day Challenge- 20% there!

2010-02-02T07:25:00.000-08:00

Day Six- February 1st

Though the cataclysmic shift in my life has not yet happened, I’m living with the modus operandi that it will indeed occur in T minus two months. There was an air of excitement after practice on Sunday and it felt like I was back in college—when every night the evening becomes a blank canvas to make of whatever you like. I decided not to subscribe to the stringent minutiae of my daily rigors (yoga, shower, dinner, movie, sleep) and instead went home and dolled myself up for a spectacular dinner at Ray’s Boathouse.

We toasted to a long happy future together and indulged in a Sake Kasu sablefish (for me) and Alaskan King crab legs (for Brett.) Having grown up under the profoundly wise tutelage of my father, I took the scissors from Brett’s hands and went about swiftly extracting meat from every crevice of crab in record time until there was a massive mound of thick, juicy deliciousness.

The crowd dwindled and there was scarcely anyone aside from us at the restaurant. I felt spectacularly en mode with our bay window seating. Though completely dark outside, I could see the waves gently lapping against the dock-- a heron perched above our window quietly observing the night unfold.

Feeling festive and a bit quirky when we returned home (likely a result of the Ketel One martini), I decided to inflate our Aero Bed, which I aptly named the S.S Shilshole (Ballard being located on Shilshole Bay.) We watched a fair bit of TV before I finally decided to hit the hay around 11—and yes, I most certainly was going to camp out in our living room on the S.S. Not that I want to place blame on our air mattress for my restless evening, but I’m fairly convinced our kitties have poked multiple holes on the raft which caused me to slowly and steadily sink toward the floor throughout the night.

I woke up exhausted on at 5:30 on Monday morning. My fitful sleep, combined with the fact that there were only about six hours of it made for a slow-moving start to the day. I somehow managed to power through the day and make it to class that evening. However, when attending practice no longer becomes a choice and is instead a pre-ordained necessity, even if I can’t “manage,” I know I will have to buck up and go.

After scurrying in from the rain, I curled up on my mat in the warmth of my familiar studio—happy and relieved to have made it. As all my instructors say: getting there is the hardest part, the rest is just cake. People continued to file in up until class began. A whopping 64 students squeezed into the room for their Monday night detox session which isn’t bad considering the room can accommodate up to 66.

Practice was difficult in an unusual way for me. I was fatigued to say the least, but most frustrating was that my mind and body were completely discombobulated. I couldn’t get them to cooperate with each other to save my life. If my posture was strong, my mind began to wander—when I had determination and focus my limbs were indignant and leaden.

As the floor series began, I remembered all those piano and viola lessons during my formative years and how I sometimes would skimp on practice, but had enough inherent skill to perform well for my teacher. I had them duped, so to speak. I had to laugh because if I adopted this same mentality in the yoga room, I would only be cheating myself. It was apparent to me at that moment that this room in which I spend so much time sweating and toiling is like a microcosm of my life. Things don’t always go as planned, I’m not always as prepared as I would like to be, and sometimes I just don’t feel like rising to the occasion. Regardless of that fact I have to take everything in stride, push myself to the best of my ability, and accept the results for what they are. Both inside the yoga room and out.

30 Day Challenge- 1/6th of the way through!

2010-02-01T15:26:00.000-08:00

Day Five- January 31st

I woke up feeling rejuvenated and ready to take on the world on Sunday morning so I busied myself with domestic duties which had been neglected during the week. After making Brett a modest breakfast of two eggs sunny side up, an English muffin and three pieces of turkey bacon, I prepared myself for an outing to Whole Foods, which Brett and I affectionately refer to as Whole Paycheck.

In hopes of maintaining and stabilizing my energy level for this endeavor, I procured a host of goodies including nut and seed bars, frozen berries, lots of fruit, whole grain bread, Tom Tom turkey sticks and any other protein laden snack I could get my hands on. I attempted to keep my purchases relatively modest since the store is only a few miles away. Even still, I managed to fork over just over a hundred bucks.

After my shopping was done I went about cleaning our fridge by disposing of dubious leftovers and frozen goods that were so overcome by freezer burn that I could no longer even tell what they were. Once everything was squared away it was time for me to get ready and go to class. I nervously asked Brett to look up who my instructor was and begged him that it please not be Penni—but sure enough, it was. Don’t get me wrong, I love her signature brand of butt-kicking, but considering the weakness of my class the day before I wasn’t sure I could handle another tough go. But alas, I had no choice.

I arrived to the studio and anxiously told Penni my intention of heading to teacher training to which she cheerily replied “You are?! Of COURSE you are!!!” I confided that if I can make it through her classes, I can definitely endure whatever Bikram will put me through. She was excited and supportive, which renewed my flagging confidence.

Practice ended up being phenomenal. I had a ton of energy and flexibility and I managed to stay strong and focused for the entire 90 minutes. Penni even noted that she couldn’t remember the last time a class had been as focused and determined as we all seemed to be. I was practically grinning by the end- thrilled that on my fifth day in, despite having a few extremely challenging classes; I was able to bust out a great one. I realized that if I take this one day at a time, I just might make it!

30 Day Challenge- Days three and four

2010-01-31T14:46:00.001-08:00

Day Three- January 29th

After discovering that my company did not support my proposal to retain my position whilst I attend teacher training from April 18th- June 16th, I was crushed and uncertain how my practice would be affected that evening. Fiscal and career-centric ramifications aside, I think my ego was bruised more than anything by this denial. Are the relationships I've built over the course of the past three and one half years worth that little? Has my loyalty to my job and my co-workers not been substantial enough to warrant a two month leave? Apparently not. So I shed my tears, sought support from Brett and my parents, and then prepared myself for the practice of that which has instigated my departure from the quotidian job. But more on that later....

I walked through the rainy streets with a sense of solace, excited for day three. Attempting to maintain a curiosity about what the next 90 minutes would bring, I prepared myself for the worst and kept my mind on the present. Saiko pleasantly greeted me as I signed in. I languorously slinked toward the front row to place my mat one spot away from the instructor podium before I headed to the changing room to check my phone and change. At that moment, there was no place else I would rather have been.

During class I felt more zen-like than I had in a long time. I was loose, warm, mentally and physically strong. Unfortunately, toward the end of the series my mind did begin to wander. I was suddenly struck with this horrifying reality that yes, I was indeed going to be leaving my job in just over two months to completely devote myself to Bikram and become a certified instructor. I dug in to each posture as I listened Saiko's quiet, firm and lilting instruction. I giggled through my exhaustion when she mentioned this was the juiciest part of our practice.

I skipped my savasana (rest) at the end of class to hop up, shower, and get ready for a night out with Brett.

Day Four- January 30th

As many of you know, hibernating on the weekend is what I do best. Noon is epically early to be physically active on a Saturday, let alone be awake. However, Verdi's Il Travatore was that evening so I had no choice but to attend the noon class. To make things even more challenging, not only would I be attending practice when I should still be sleeping, but this class was going to be taught by Penni. I knew right away I was in for a challenge.

I had to laugh as I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was flat as a pancake and suctioned to the side of my head like it had been painted on. There was a discomforting lack of makeup...without mascara I may as well be a ghost. I was wearing a darling Lulu combination which included a flowy lavender top that looks more like something that should be worn to a nightclub than an article of clothing in which to sweat for an extended period of time. I paired the aforementioned with a pair of calf length leggings that are in a pattern akin to TV fuzz- if the fuzz were purple, pink and turquoise. Needless to say, Brett thinks these are an abomination. I would, however, immediately regret my decision to wear these leggings....

I showed up to class and the warmth felt great. My hair was so clean (and as I mentioned previously, totally limp) that I could not get it to stay in a ponytail to save my life. I used a bobby pin to clip back my bangs and began to bend and stretch in preparation for class. Penni bounded in and her perma-smile had me hopeful. During the warm-up (pranayama deep breathing), I felt ominously weak. My shoulders ached, my left knee totally discombobulated, and a gross wave of nausea washed over me. During the second posture (the half moon), perhaps my signature, I felt as though I had never even experienced a day of yoga in my life. I may as well have had rigor mortis for all the flexibility I was lacking.

This, unfortunately, was to be the theme throughout practice. I finally understood the point of having a first and second set of each posture. Usually, I am ably to physically tolerate and mold myself like clay into a posture regardless of whether or not it's my first or second go at it. Today, I learned to simply accept what my body could do, embrace it, and move on. Though the most difficult class I have had in a long time, I finished nonetheless.

The 30 Day Challenge- Prelude and Catch-up

2010-01-29T15:09:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking for a while about endeavoring to complete the illustrious Bikram 30 Day Challenge (in which one practices 30 continuous days of yoga) for a while now. Initially, two of my friends from the Fremont studio were going to go at the challenge with me- but as our “start date” of February 1st approached, they began to waffle and were unsure as to whether or not they wanted to partake.

Needless to say, when they shared with me their uncertainties, I made up my mind to begin the challenge then and there. No need to wait if I’m undertaking this alone, right? It is not my intention to sound indifferent or apathetic to their needs, fears and desires, because that is most definitely not the case. Both girls have beautiful and dedicated practices and I feel that the onus should not be on me to convince people to do something they may not want to do.

As one might imagine, my life will be moving away from one of excess and indulgence and onto a more Spartan path over the course of the next month. I recognize that I have done an unfortunately poor job since the new year of documenting my merry-making; but I have found that between a full time job, a stringent yoga schedule and copious amounts of glorious revelry, one has painfully little time to recount and reflect.

In an effort to maintain what so many of you have come to enjoy reading, I will be documenting my progress daily as I work to achieve the goal I have set….

Day One (Wednesday, January 27th)

Penni the Hun, as I so endearingly call her, gave a shot over the bow as I signed in for class: “It’s going to be a tough one tonight!!” I can always count on (and look forward to) her classes being the most challenging so I wasn’t terribly surprised to hear that.

I walked into the room to put my mat and towel down and was immediately overwhelmed by a thick humidity. Once class actually began, I already had a pool of sweat gathered around my feet. I tried to focus on my postures, but had to lie down and skip half of a posture twice. People all around me were dropping like flies due to the almost oppressive heat.

I tried to ignore the pounding in my chest and focus instead on my breathing. I felt especially guilty falling to my knees to take a few sips of ice cold water because Penni is SO positive and SO encouraging. I evaluated if this was an issue of weakness or necessity and came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, wickedly hot and I should not be too hard on myself. Toward the end of the series, Penni relented and turned on the fans. Finally, my breathing calmed and I convinced myself that I could do it.

By the time the floor series came, I was exhausted (looking and feeling like a piece of overcooked spaghetti) and for the first time in ages my mind started to wander: How am I ever going to do 30 continuous days of this? I feel like I’m going to barf. I’m lying crooked. My pony tail is jabbing the back of my head. Maybe I’m not ready for teacher training at all. What happens if I go and then fail?

Ultimately, I made it. One day down, 29 to go. I dragged myself home, planted myself on the couch and sucked down a Dry Soda, coconut water, a half a glass of wine and picked at my brown rice and grilled tofu which Brett lovingly prepared. I barely had the energy to pick up my fork. I went to bed at 11- sleeping as though I were in a coma.

Day Two (Thursday, January 28th)

I had to wake up earlier than usual since my co-worker Lauren and I were going to a logistics training seminar down in Sumner. My alarm went off at 5am and I bounded right out of bed—full of vim and vigor. In my 29 years, I have come to heavily rely upon sleep. Sleep is my savior, my friend and one of my greatest loves. I always joke to Brett that I need a ridiculous amount of “Beauty Rest” because I am so incredibly beautiful. (Insert canned laughter here….) My point is, I only had six hours of “lights out” but awoke with such bright-eyed bushy-tailedness that it may as well have been for nine hours.

Despite enduring a frighteningly difficult class the night prior, I found myself looking forward to day two…or so I thought. Having arrived home around 3pm from the seminar, I decided to take a nap after doing a bit of reading and move-watching. Brett woke me up at quarter after five much to his chagrin—I was cranky, groggy, and disoriented. My Snuggie enveloped me in a sheath of warmth and I didn’t want to move. Fremont seemed epically far away and all I desired in the world was to relent myself to the siren song of snoozing. I stared resolutely at the clock and reconciled the conflicting emotions in my head.

Just go. It’s only 90 minutes. And really, how many hours of the day am I doing something I’m as passionate about as this anyway? (Sleeping aside….)

I whined and moaned, complaining like a toddler the entire time I was getting ready. But then I was off—my mat and Lulu yoga bag in tow—and I was excited. Lisa was prepping a few new students at the front desk so I quietly signed my name and headed in to class. I would say Lisa is my favorite instructor, but then so are Penni, Saiko, Jenn, Izzy, Melissa and everyone else who teaches me. What I love is that while the postures and dialogue never change, each individual has their own specific brand of teaching. I was looking forward to Lisa’s mellow, pragmatic, and encouraging style.

Class was phenomenal. My body felt lean and strong and I found myself, though exhausted, simply acquiescing to the postures. One thing Lisa always says which I have come to adopt as my new motto is “Don’t buy into the drama.” I simply just allowed myself to experience each posture to the best of my ability, let go, and moved on. Overall I gave it 98.9%. During the very last posture (a spine twist), I started to fade away until I heard Lisa say “that’s it Heidi, keep going!” and then I pushed harder.

Day two- success! Only 28 more to go........

Ode to Bikram

2010-01-22T07:39:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, it is my volition to attend Bikram Teacher training. To that end, provided that I am granted a sabbatical at my current position (please everyone send out some positive energy into the universe in hopes that it will be approved!), I have put together the following purpose statement…

I have always sensed that I am one small part of a greater whole, and that belief has been confirmed wholeheartedly through my dedication to Bikram yoga. At the end of my 90 minute practice, I quietly and internally thank the fellow yogis that flank my either side for sharing with me their energy.

For the past 29 years, I have been wandering through my life unsure of my purpose and unable to find my path. When I came into Bikram yoga two years ago, something instantly clicked. I became passionate about my practice and wanted to share the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced with everyone I knew. Above all else, I have always known that I want to make people happy. I love to take care of people, make them laugh and smile, instill in them a sense of lightheartedness. It has always been a gift of mine but I have never quite understood how to translate this skill and infuse it into every waking moment of my life. In teaching Bikram, I would be able to do just that.

Bikram yoga is one of the most challenging things I have ever done, and I do it almost every day. I am almost always immediately reminded once practice begins why I should never go to class with any expectations as to how I am going to perform. Occasionally, my fortitude and aloofness rapidly melt and give way to a feeling of weakness as though my entire body is lined with lead. Sometimes, I feel light, lithe, malleable and strong. The humidity of the room is sometimes oppressive and overwhelming—I can only stare at the reflection of my forehead for the entire 90 minutes focusing on nothing but my breath with an iron clad will. As I always do, no matter the struggle, I make it to the end of practice and wilt onto my mat—feeling tenderized, whisked, beaten, baked and flambéed.

I was an artichoke with layers upon layers of complexity: frustration, excitement, confusion, elation, concern, care, impatience, vanity, desire, indignance, and hyperactivity. Through my practice, those undesirable layers have been peeled back to expose a more centered, peaceful, content, and focused me. I feel more myself than I have ever felt in my entire life and want to share this incredibly important practice with the world so that we may all be more, humbled, contented, happier and more connected people. Bikram practice truly can, in my opinion, make the world a better place.

S'more Shenanigans

2010-01-14T15:25:00.000-08:00

I’ve begun to long for the verdant embrace of Spring and am starting to feel the winter torrents wash away my energy. Barren winds scatter each promising ounce of creativity everywhere but on my blog.

Please accept my apologies and this feeble art installation as I attempt to scour off the doldrums and resume my gallivanting.

*note: I have received multiple queries as to the nature of this post. Please understand this is not indicative of any type of sabbatical-- but is rather simply for your amusement, dear reader. The art installation above is something I created out of a forlorn fondue pot left over from the early '80's, a "wood" candle, a useless tool for stainless steel shelving, a toothpick, and a cut out of Ludwig von's head (all found items in my office).

Ninth!!

2010-01-06T08:18:00.000-08:00

Fierce emotion coursed through my veins and a wave of passion rushed over me as the iconic first measure of Beethoven’s Ninth issued throughout the auditorium. My face became warm and musical memories I had completely forgotten about flooded forth from the recesses of my mind: rummaging through Classical cassette tapes in the basement of Marshall Fields, rosining my bow in a small church in Dublin, picking out a piece of gum from the candy jar after a successful viola lesson. Music has always been an integral part of my life and whenever I attend the symphony—I am shaken and moved to my very core.

One of my Christmas gifts from Brett this year was a pair of tickets in the prestigious Orchestra section at Benaroya Hall for the December 30th symphony performance of Beethoven’s Ninth. We arrived 45 minutes before the affair was to begin and I was pleased and impressed by the vast number of patrons present. Having no desire to hoof it through the hill and dale of downtown Seattle in the rouge and windy December (in my five inch Marni heels no less!); we forked over $11 to use the parking garage. After waiting an interminable length of time for the elevator to take us to the mezzanine, we finally packed in like cattle and ascended to the main lobby (evocative of an airport food court replete with a Wolfgang Puck breeze-thru.)

Of particular interest to me that evening, having the proclivity for fashion that I do, was the general aesthetic of the audience—which was surprisingly more refined than the crowd I encounter when frequenting the opera. There were nary a pair of Levi’s to be found save for a gentleman who looked more like a member of the Audubon Society than a guest at the symphony. Other than that, the mood was festive and refined with only a small peppering of that distinctly Seattle flair.

We lingered with our cocktails in hand on a sweeping expanse of stairway to observe the pre-symphony hullabaloo. Holiday lights and garland tinkled and the joyous din of revelers echoed warmly throughout the reception area, which was cast in the city glow flowing in from the skylights above. People continued to flow in and head toward their seats so Brett and I did the same. The auditorium was filled to the absolute brim and by my estimation was a completely full house. Lights dimmed and I leaned forward, rapt.

Ninth would not be performed until after the intermission, so the first hour was comprised of Brahms’ Liebeslieder Waltzes which seemed to be a bit of unnecessary filler and the singing was drown beneath the tympani as a result of ill-amplification. I halfheartedly listened to the piece—anxious to get to the meat and potatoes. That being said, it was still a respectable performance. The Waltzes are meant to explore the many facets of love and life and are light, folksy and inherently Viennese.

I found my attention drifting to one of the side balconies for a good portion of time. Shortly after the Waltzes began, I heard a dull thud followed by whispered gasps so I naturally cocked my head heavenward to see what was progressing. To this day, I’m not quite sure what it was, but the entire balcony box slowly evacuated by a familial brood replete with grandparents, teens and toddlers. I can only assume that perhaps one of the young ones suffered from a seizure or fit of some sort. Many people glanced back and forth between the stage and the balcony until everyone had filtered out and there was no one left to see.

As the first part of the performance drew to a close I hopped to my feet and pressed myself and Brett through idlers toward the bar. We perched on a banquette with our libations in hand, and I happened to notice a fire truck and ambulance outside, red lights bleating, indicating that whatever transpired in the balcony held some degree of gravity. Brett popped up to run to the lavatory and handed me his martini to guard whilst he was away. Moments after having been abandoned, a dapper old gentleman approached me and asked the age old question: Do I come here often? I groaned internally, squeezed the glasses I was double fisting and took the bait. He pointed at a gentleman in a kilt and conspiratorially asked whether I thought this “man” was a woman. I gave him a conciliatory smile and quipped that he was obviously either Scottish or eccentric. To my surprise and delight, I had barely finished my sentence before he scurried off as though we never even spoke. Turning my head and following his course, I realized it was because his wife had emerged from the restroom and he likely didn’t want her to see the two of us dallying.

Upon Brett’s return, it was time for good old Ludwig van's iconic Ninth Symphony to begin so we scurried back to our seats in anticipation. Dim lights set the mood perfectly for the conductor- poised anxiously over his podium. The symphony that was about to be performed is considered as one of the best known works of the Western classical repertoire as well as Beethoven's greatest masterpiece. What I find to be particularly mind blowing about this cataclysmically evocative piece is that at the time of its composure, Beethoven was completely deaf. How he even managed this feat is beyond my comprehension.

The Ninth is the longest symphony in existence, running just over one hour whereas a typical symphony is approximately 30 minutes. During this time, there were four movements that ebbed and flowed like manic waves: at once gentle, calm, unsuspecting and quiet and then suddenly thundering powerfully, apocalypitically and angrily against the shore. The fourth movement, almost a symphony in and of itself and perhaps the most popular movement of Beethoven's magnum opus, includes a chorale performance of Schiller's "Ode to Joy."

The hour passed in what felt like mere minutes, the energy of the audience vibrating with excitement and anticipation. Finally, we all erupted in applause and bounded to our feet for a long and gracious ovation to a flawless performance of Beethoven's Ninth.

passages: a brief moment of introspection

2009-12-30T15:21:00.000-08:00

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.)

2009-12-21T08:12:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-13T19:30:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-08T18:55:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-01T11:32:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-11-23T13:29:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-12T15:57:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Halloween Festivities

2009-11-02T13:37:00.000-08:00

I tried to convince myself that it would be best to dig into the archives of my closet to find a frock for the Opera on Halloween evening, but knew when I awoke on Saturday morning that that simply would not do. Having previously admitted that I have notions about myself which are obviously not based in reality, it should be no surprise that I subscribe to the school of thought that one should never be seen out and about in the same outfit twice.

The first Opera of the season landed on Halloween evening, and while dressing up in a costume did not seem appropriate, I thought it might be fun to channel a flapper sort of vibe for the occasion. With that vision in place, I scurried to my car for an impromptu shopping trip at Pacific Place on Saturday afternoon.

I had envisioned finding the perfect drop-waist dress immediately upon entering the mall, which of course was not to be the case. After taking brief laps through the usual suspects (Ann Taylor, Barney’s, Club Monaco), I was rapidly becoming discouraged and fearful that I may be forced to go spelunking in my own closet. However, J. Crew, always and forever my wardrobe savior, had the closest thing to perfection: a black chiffon tiered camisole with three black rhinestone buttons on the left shoulder strap. The top was at once elegant and chic and its silhouette harkened early 20th century glamour. Having procured the top and a pair of rose gold hoop earrings, it was now my mission to find the perfect pairing to bring my ensemble together. Brett and I have been season ticket holders to the Opera for the past three years, and we historically treat the entire day as an event in and of itself. With the top portion of my outfit determined, I made a pit-stop at Whole Foods to pick up some canapés and wine to enjoy pre-Opera.

I arrived to our gloriously clean condo (having spent the better portion of the morning on my hands and knees thoroughly scrubbing every nook and cranny) shortly after 4:30pm and set about preparing our hors d’oeuvres—promptly pouring myself a glass of wine as well. Brett was busy decompressing with his PS3, so I turned on my beloved 40’s music as I cut up some Patisse de Beaujeolais (blue goat’s cheese), three-year aged Gouda, apricot Wensleydale and some Grand Pont L’eveque (a ridiculously awful smelling but wonderfully delicious cow’s milk cheese from the Normandy region of France.) To pair with the cheeses I sliced a Sour Ficelle baguette and put the slices in a bowl with sesame tarragon crackers. The mood was set perfectly for Halloween since a blue fog covered the sun as it began to set and our abode was delicately illuminated with a potpourri of candles. We sat for a moment and enjoyed “A Clockwork Orange” before beginning to prepare for the events of the evening.

As is standard, I dilly dallied while coiffing my hair and daintily applying my eyeliner with Geisha-like precision. With my visage complete, all that was left to determine was the lower half of my ensemble. I was gripped with fear as the first four skirts I had considered while at J. Crew did not pair well with my top at all. Finally, I decided upon a brilliant fuchsia wool skirt that landed just above the knee and finished the look with opera length pearls, rose gold hoops, embroidered Wolford tights and five inch rose gold heels. Brett opted for a casual chic look which included a dashing pair of dark denim jeans, a newly procured lavender Ted Baker oxford, and his trusty black pinstripe suit jacket.

McCaw Hall

All gussied up, we made haste to arrive at McCaw Hall early enough to enjoy some pre-performance libations. Aside from milling about with cocktails at theatre level (God forbid we be seen in the First Tier where our seats actually are), my favorite part of the evening is critiquing Opera-goers’ ensembles. As I suspected, there were indeed people who opted to dress up for the event. The most common theme seemed to be men wearing horns, which could potentially have been an endeavor in subtlety, but due to the high volume of people wearing them it only seemed trite. Masquerade masks were popular as well—and I also had the good fortune of spotting a gentleman dressed in a red velour smoking jacket, a mermaid donning a blue paillette dress (which was actually very striking) and, of course, a phantom of the opera.

Since tonight’s performance was Verdi’s La Traviata, the bar was serving appropriately themed cocktails. Brett had a Tanquerey-based libation entitled the Parisian, and I chose a Citron Vodka concoction called the Courtesan, which was served in a champagne flute.

We traipsed through the hall and slinked up the grand stairs toward our seats. With moments to spare, we sipped on our cocktails right outside the entrance until the last bells rang before slipping inside the theatre. Our seats were in an empty row, which I attributed to the fact that it was Halloween, but Brett seemed to think the less than full house was a result of the recession.

A hush washed over the audience as the conductor assumed his position in the orchestra pit and we were soon enveloped in a glorious symphony. Brett’s main gripe about the Opera is what I love the most: that a five minute story is drawn out over the course of three hours. La Traviata is centered on an ailing Parisian Courtesan named Violetta who has never felt true love until she is introduced to a gentleman named Alfredo at her dinner party. The two fall hopelessly and desperately in love and the first scene concludes with the two of them held in a tender embrace on her terrace.

In the second act, Violetta’s health is much improved and the happy couple now live together in the French countryside. Unbeknownst to Alfredo, Violetta is selling off all of her possessions in Paris in order to accommodate their lifestyle in the country. Alfredo is appalled when he makes this discovery by way of Violetta’s servant Annina and decides he must go to Paris and fix the situation. Whilst he is away, Alfredo’s father comes to visit and begs Violetta to leave his son. He claims that her reputation is jeopardizing his younger daughter’s promising engagement to a royal family. After much arguing, Violetta finally acquiesces but insists that Giorgio (Alfredo’s father) tell his daughter of this sacrifice.

Violetta leaves a note for Alfredo and heads off, disconsolate, to a friend’s party in Paris. Alfredo is convinced that his father was behind her departure and intends to confront Violetta at the gathering. The two meet, fight, and Alfredo flees the fete after he is reprimanded by his father for his brute display of challenging Violetta’s date and throwing money at Violetta’s feet.

The last act is laden with sadness as Violetta lies dying in her bed of the consumption. She is horrifically pale and woebegone until Alfredo finally arrives to her bedside. The two reconcile and embrace while her doctor and Annina look on. In the final moments, Giorgio arrives to bless their union but alas, Violetta has died in her lover’s arms.

As per usual, I was a basketcase throughout the performance. I found it to be touching and evocative. But let’s face it; I’m also just a sap. The set design was impeccable and the costumes were flawless (I was thrilled that my skirt matched the burgundies, purples, reds and pinks of other courtesan’s attire.) Our two intermissions were spent in the Bravo Lounge partaking of gratis red wine. I enjoyed that we had our own private room in which to pass the time and delighted to see the Space Needle looming over us just outside the windows. I received a message from my friend DeAnn letting me know that our presence was requested on Capital Hill and at that moment it was decided that Brett and I would not head home post-Opera for a quiet evening wind-down but rather we would face the insanity of Capital Hill on Halloween with the full moon on our tails.

Typically, I am one of those people that stands and applauds the cast until every single person has taken their bow, but since Brett and I had newly laid plans to paint the town red, I grabbed my binoculars and made a mad dash in my five inchers to our parked car. I was overcome with a fit of giggles as I noticed many others were making that same mad dash and what ensued was akin to something you might see in a video game. We barreled down the parking garage, swerving to avoid cars squealing out of their spaces and braking to avoid disoriented senior pedestrians. Finally, we escaped and were able to turn left right before a traffic guard closed the street down to siphon post-Opera traffic.

***
I had no idea what we were about to get ourselves into as we approached the Pike and Pine interchange on Capital Hill. Traffic was at a standstill as drunken hoards of costumed young adults wandered hither and thither. I pulled up along a blinged out Escalade and was greeted by a gentleman who called himself Luscious Lucifer. On that night, for all I knew, he very well could have been who he claimed. Discouraged that we likely wouldn’t find parking within a reasonable radius of Barca Lounge, I headed west down Madison when I happened upon a perfect spot that was within five blocks of our destination.

I felt horribly incongruous mingling amongst all these revelers in my prim Opera attire. I was instantly cheered up, however, when I asked Brett what we could say we were dressed up as and he deadpanned “Adults.” The chill of the evening was making its way through my bones and I was disheartened by the length of the queue to get into the bar. It was then that I noticed Vermillion, a tiny art gallery/ bar located right next to our destination. Having to go to the bathroom more than anything I figured it would behoove us to slip inside and order drinks. Besides which, the warmth was a welcome change to the craziness outside. Vermillion’s atmosphere inside the brick walled bungalow was sleepy and chill. Delighted with our find, I insisted that DeAnn and her husband Paul join us. Eventually, they found their way over and we all enjoyed a few glasses of wine and some hearty homemade mac and cheese. Since the night was still young-ish (1am?) and the intensity of Barca’s line was a bit more subdued, we headed in the direction of where we were to close out the evening.

Upon entering, I immediately wrangled my way to the front of the bar and ordered drinks for the group. The bar was a mess of drunken revelers dressed up as PeeWee Herman, Roger Federer, Hamburger Helper, Balloon Boy, and Saudi oil Sheiks. As I was standing and reveling with my wine in hand, a chap draped in a paper bag tumbled into me and my glass. Mustering my best attitude, I asked that he kindly go to the bar and procure me some club soda. Much to my dismay, he came scampering back with the soda moments later. (“I even got you a lime,” he whimpered.)

on the perch

Somehow, we managed to wrangle our way up to the second floor which was apparently where a private party was taking place. I was accosted by a bouncer on the stairwell who demanded I tell him the password. Shaking my head, I waited for the person behind me to state “Law” before I passed along the knowledge to my group. We pranced up the stairs and perched at a corner table overlooking the whole bar.

An hour or so passed while we commentated on everyone’s getup below. The lights began to flicker and we were booted from the second floor around 2am. Slowly making our way through the crowds, the four of us were washed out onto the streets where we said our heavy-lidded and giddy goodbyes.

je sais cuisiner!

2009-10-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

Meandering through Costco on a Friday afternoon, I happened upon an amazing looking book entitled "I Know How to Cook." The cover lured me in, featuring a vibrant 60's style drawing of a woman winking and biting into an olive. I stroked the cover and gazed longingly at the oversized four inch thick tome, wishing I could explore the wonders within when I noticed one open copy for perusal a few feet away. I curiously read the inside cover and discovered that this was the first English translation of a 75 year old French cookbook, which happens to have been the best- selling cookbook in France for the past three generations. Learning that "Je Sais Cuisiner" (the original French title) has been an essential fixture on the counters of French kitchens made this an indispensable item for me.

As I browsed through this gastronomy-centered masterpiece I found a chart indicating which meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables should be consumed during each month and a miraculous 1500 recipes that ranged from simple (Roquefort butter) to complex (Calves' Liver Loaf.) The wisdom it offered on seasonality, necessary tools for every kitchen and instructions for poaching, de-boning and braising were thrilling. Without further consideration, I hoisted the massive volume from its place and went about toting it to the cashier stand. Excited with my new discovery, I was even more pleased that this $45 gem was a mere $26 at Costco. Then again, would I expect anything less from this genius warehouse?

Since Friday was comprised of seeing The September Issue and dining at Via Tribunali with my companion Sam, I offered that Brett choose something from our new kitchen centerpiece so that I may prepare him dinner on Saturday night. He opted for Paprika Chicken and Green Beans a la Niçoise.

After my 5pm Bikram class I set forth to meet Brett at Ballard Market in order to procure the necessary ingredients for our French feast which included chicken stock, a whole chicken, crème fraiche, fresh green beans, and tomato sauce (the rest of the supplies were already on hand.) I was thrilled to make such a lovely dinner and wished my schedule were such that I could cook (and gallivant, of course) all the time.

With everything purchased, we returned home and I set to work in my favorite room of the house. Cooking is a production in theatrics, an effort akin to conducting a symphony. I wrapped my apron around my waist and poured a glass of wine—a libation indispensable during the formation of culinary creations.

My first order of business was to deconstruct Fernando, the name I gave to our two pound chicken. Cooking chicken breasts is one thing—I’m easily able to disassociate myself from the fact that this was once an animal. But cutting up a whole chicken is another moral dilemma altogether, especially when you can see where its feet were supposed to be, and when you rub your hands over his dimpled skin that is so obviously where his feathers once were. In order to pay respects to this bird that would be providing us nourishment for the evening, I thought it only appropriate that I should give him a name. Taking a deep swig of wine and lobotomizing myself the best I could, I set about putting on my surgeon’s cap and grabbed the sharpest knife in the kitchen. Another handy thing about “I Know How to Cook” is that it provided a step by step breakdown of how one cuts apart a whole chicken, though the process itself is actually pretty instinctual. I tugged on Fernando’s left leg, and began sawing away until I hit the bone, at which point I had to bend and snap the joint. I harkened back to my days in eighth grade biology when we performed autopsies on pig fetuses. At least this didn’t smell like formaldehyde, I consoled myself. Continuing in the same manner as with the first leg, the second leg and two wings were chopped off in mere minutes and Fernando was now a limbless carcass, resting in my sink. At this point, I called Brett over to the kitchen to have him assist in removing the breasts. While he acted as my sous-chef, I began browning the meat in a generous hunk of butter on the stovetop.

While the usable parts were browning, I cleaned the countertops to make sure any residual Fernando juice was gone. Once the pallor had disappeared and a warm chestnut colour took its place, I turned off the flame and began transferring each piece to an oversized Le Crueset baking dish. Snugly arranged, I poured the remaining butter along with a cup of chicken stock over the top, covered the dish with aluminum foil and baked it in the oven at 350* for one hour.

Now that the chicken was underway, it was time to prepare the green beans a la Niçoise. While the pot of water set to achieve a rolling boil, I busied myself by snipping off the ends of each bean and then slowly added them a handful at a time so that the water returned to a boil each time before I added anymore (this, according to my cookbook, keeps the beans a bright green.) After 12 minutes, I drained the beans, returned them to the pot and mixed in a cup of tomato sauce, allowing them to simmer for the next half hour.

Once the chicken was complete, it was time to prepare our meal for presentation. I arranged the chicken on a bright yellow platter that had belonged to my grandma and then went about to complete the sauce. The final part of the recipe requires that you whisk in a cup of crème fraiche with the cooking juices and add two pinches of paprika, which I’m fairly certain is only for colouring purpouses and has no actual impact on the palette of the meal. (Either that, or my paprika is broken.) It was pleasing to see that the juices and crème fraiche mixed together perfectly rather than coddle. After drizzling the concoction atop the chicken, the main course was ready to go. I spooned the beans onto our plates and sprinkled fresh parsley on top.

A hearty, wholesome aroma enveloped our home and evoked a sort of cozy snowed-in vibe. Candles bathed the room in a soft, warm glow and we prepared to dine at our not oft used pub table. After settling in and pouring hearty glasses of wine, Brett chose a wing and a leg, and I went unadventurously for a breast (knowing Fernando as intimately as I had—I couldn’t bring myself to eat his limbs.) We both dipped each bite into the sauce on the platter and enjoyed the creamy juiciness of the chicken. The beans were tasty as well: simple and wholesome. Though easy to make, they had this sort of chicness about them which likely stems from the fact that they came from my French cookbook.

We dined casually and continentally, both thoroughly enjoying the meal- and so I was inspired to undertake a new endeavor the following day...

eins vei bier!

2009-10-20T21:46:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy Friday afternoon, and the mood was set to pass the evening in Prost!, a true German-style pub located in Seattle’s sleepy Greenwood neighborhood.

Sheets of rain obscured my view as I weaved through thick traffic in an effort to meet my girlfriend (who I hadn’t seen in two years) at the aforementioned tavern. At 4:30 I received a text letting me know she would not be there for another hour and was faced with the query as to whether or not I should detour back to Ballard. However, it had been a long arduous week and a beer sounded like just the thing to drown the undesirables.

In true Deutsch form, burly men were already singing and toasting the moment I walked in to Prost!. I was immediately pleased with my decision to head straight here since all but one of the battered picnic-style tables were occupied. Setting up shop near the back, I marveled at the Friday five o’clock crowd: a random smattering of the aforementioned crooners who were brutish and rogue with the odd mangy hipster thrown into the mix for good measure.

The tavern is small, but not claustrophobic. It offers a lodge-y sort of feel with its paneled wood walls and mounted deer head hanging from the wall. German paraphernalia covers these walls—so if you had any doubt as to where you were whetting your whistle, let that serve as a reminder that you are truly in a German-style pub.

Feeling the effects of my half litre brew, I decided to partake of a Belgian soft pretzel served with two mustards (spicy and stone ground) and a little pile of course kosher salt. The pretzel was piping hot, and far too toasty to consume, so I tore it apart into bite-sized pieces and fashioned some sculptures. Menu options are limited and extraordinarily German: you can choose from a multitude of different wursts, pork loin, pretzels, or a potato leek soup. The beer list is quite another story, though. Prost boasts a whole host of various German ales and lagers at extraordinarily reasonable prices (the proliferation of tap and bottled options was terribly impressive.) For $4.50, my half litre of Kostristzer Oktoberfest cost less than Bud at most other bars.

bavarian pretzel.

Having successfully devoured my pretzel after an ample cooling off period, I drank the drink called loneliness until Jessica arrived at 6pm. In our two years apart, I had completely forgotten that one of my pal’s endearing character flaws was that she suffered from chronic tardiness. No matter, I sent texts and made phone calls while diverting strange glances. Why, in this intimate neighborhood watering hole would I be alone on a Friday evening? My server sympathetically checked on me every so often and at one point I promised her that I was awaiting a friend.

Jessica came in out of the rain and our fun was about to begin. Always the trooper, she caught up in no time and we were brew for brew- an impressive feat considering she’s about the size of my right arm. She regaled me with stories of what had transpired during her absence—my favorite being an episode in which she was thrown 15 feet from a four wheeler but managed to keep her beer in hand, despite suffering from a concussion.

jessica .

The past two years had been spent soul-searching, and my life seemed painfully dull by comparison. We relished the days of yore, remembering vividly how tightly interwoven our lives had been: commuting to Issaquah, getting beer almost daily after work, eating sandwiches at the Honey Hole. It was not quite the same, sitting here with her now—eerily familiar, yet strange at the same time. I felt as though she had spent the past two years exploring and discovering whilst I had simply been chugging along.

After consuming a litre of beer each, we decided to partake of the smoked meat offerings before drinking any more. By this point, the bar was swelling with clientele of all varieties- and our picnic bench was in jeopardy of being pilfered. We even stepped outside for a breath of fresh air at one point and nearly had to beat people off with sticks to defend the honor of our table. For dinner, Jessica decided upon the curry wurst and I chose the ham hock that was stewed in sauerkraut for untold hours and featured sides of pumpernickel rye bread, more sauerkraut and a dill pickle. There was nothing gastronomically genius about the food and I don’t believe there was supposed to be, either. It is simply good, hearty German food that helps to successfully absorb the consumption of excess alcohol. What I did find a bit mystifying was that there doesn’t seem to be a kitchen anywhere in the place so I’m not exactly sure how the food is prepared. I decided to not rack my brains too terribly and instead carefully carved around the multitude of pork fat in my meal.

pork fat.

curry wurst.

Hours upon litres later, Prost was in full swing. Such was the reveling that heavy duty steins were shattered and I began wishing that I had an ear cone. Two plasmas were locked on ESPN football causing waves of whoops and jeers. This tiny bar had shifted its gears from boisterous German pub to a plain old sports bar. The weight of the week unloaded all at once and no longer did I feel pleasantly addled but exhausted. Despite Jessica’s attempts to lure me toward the Tractor in Ballard, I knew my night was over.

shattered stein

I managed to catch the attention of a server and requested my bill. She asked that I recount my order since no one seemed to be tracking what we had been ingesting throughout the evening. Lo and behold, I could have dined and dashed! My eyes grew wide with horror as I listed off the 2.5 litres of beer I had consumed (imbibed piecemeal via a half litre here, and a half litre there), the pretzel, and the ham. The server’s eyes widened as well as she asked where on earth I put it all. I groaned internally, and then reminded myself that a Bikram session the following day would cure what was currently “ale-ing” me.

I settled my tab and promised Jessica that on our next outing I would be less of a wet blanket. With that, I headed toward home in the rainy, quiet night.

Maximus Wait. Minimus Enjoyment.

2009-10-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

I am not terribly abreast on the street vendor movement in Seattle, so when Brett proposed to me that we check out the “Mobile Chowdown” on Friday, my interest was peaked. “Mobile Chowdown” was to be a convention of the most popular street vendors in the Seattle area including Marination, Skillet and Maximus Minimus (to name a few). These vendors would be convening on Saturday in a random Interbay parking lot between 11:30 and 3:30. Unbeknownst to me, this event was going to be quite the extravaganza.

Rousing at a whopping noon on Saturday, I was latently excited to partake of this experience and had absolutely no idea what to expect. Since we would effectively be eating lunch within what I was assuming to be 30 minutes, I skipped my indispensable morning coffee and set straight to primping for the public.

We lazily strolled to the car, piled in and made our way down 15th Avenue toward Interbay—a burgeoning neighborhood which is still predominantly industrial. A few blocks before the main turnoff, traffic came to a standstill and I was in denial that this could have anything to do with our plans. I was sorely mistaken. With traffic moving at a snail’s pace, Brett and I stared transfixed at the hullabaloo of what looked to be a throng of one thousand hungry people milling around a concrete parking lot. Interlopers sidled to their cars and sat on their hoods whilst eating procured street fare, dashing my hopes that perhaps a convenient spot would make itself available. Five blocks later, I turned into a derelict mill’s parking lot which was cut into the side of a hill. Having no alternative and my stomach beginning to growl, I parked the car at a perilous 45 degree angle sideways.

The prospect of a BBQ pork slider became increasingly more enticing to me as Brett and I began our pilgrimage toward the event. What I saw as I approached the Airstreams at once befuddled, confounded, and intrigued me: Children sat on the pavement mashing ice cream into their mouths; senior citizens sat in portable stadium seats and considered their hot dogs; and hipsters bartered their Kalbi Beef Tacos for a friend’s gourmet burger dressed with bacon jam. For being a dreary Seattle afternoon, this shoddy lot was surprisingly engulfed in positive energy.

Ready to begin the journey toward deliciousness, I wove in and out of the crowd, trying to find the end of the queue for Maximus Minimus. Instead, each vendor’s queue bled into the others, resulting in a convoluted mosh pit of humanity. The event turned out to be a guessing game and we all relied upon each other to fall into the proper (hopefully) place. In this instance, the blind were definitely leading the blind. Brett and I eventually assumed our position about a football field’s distance away from the endgame.

Twenty minutes passed and our headway was nominal. What was relatively comforting was that the line did continue to grow behind us, including people who were also hoping to partake of BBQ from the famed Maximus Minimus. For working stiffs like me, swinging by random downtown spots where these vendors perch themselves during my lunch hour is an unattainable luxury… so I had no choice but to wait.

Another fifteen minutes passed and I became the fork in our queue. Confused Russians wandered in behind me, dashing the hopes of the 50 or so potential patrons behind Brett, who was determined to remain in his spot. Brett proposed that perhaps we forfeit and leave to enjoy a pleasant brunch at Anita’s Creperie—but I was indignant. My mind toiled with thoughts that I could be at my Bikram practice right now or I could conquer the massive mound of ironing which awaited me. However, I refused to allow the past 35 minutes to be for naught.

Our wait became excruciating. As we slowly approached the Mecca, people would stroll by with their spoils in hand, the bouquet of delicious aromas wafting toward me. Those smug jerks, I thought to myself, no longer enjoying the adventure of this wait and the allure of what I was about to eat. Earlier on, I had scoffed at people who would procure hot dogs to munch on whilst they waited for their desired food. At this point, I was jealous and wished I had considered the same.

Jeers issued forth from the front of the Marination queue as the hoi polloi was told that the Kalbi beef tacos were no more. I had to laugh to myself that this was such a big deal. On the other side of the coin, if I were to reach my destination after 90 minutes only to be told that what I was intending to have was no longer available…no one would be safe. I was increasingly ornery and famished (the two go hand in hand) and felt like stomping my feet around like a toddler in protest.

As we neared the epicenter, we were accosted by hiply bespectacled politicians who were using this event as their election platform. When asked if we were Seattle voters by one of the aforementioned folks, I, too dismal to speak, allowed Brett to cleverly respond: we’re from out of town. Dodging this bullet I quickly caught another one in my chest….

I happened to overhear and then saw with my own eyes that the generously portioned buns encasing Maximus Minimus BBQ had visibly shrunk from a five inch diameter to two inches. No matter, we would simply order two a piece instead of one. There must be some sort of discount, right? Sadly, there was not.

Eighty minutes passed and there were three people in front of us. I was inconsolably starving by this point. Finally, our time had come and I practically spat out my order: two Maximus sliders (Maximus is spicy, Minimus is sweet and tangy) with heat (to make it even spicier) and Beecher’s cheese on top, Minimus coleslaw, and a large side of fryer-fresh veggie chips. Pondering which home-made beverage to quaff, I was hoping for their Ginger Lemonade of which they were, of course, out. Instead, I settled for Hibiscus Nectar, which looked suspiciously sanguine. Brett ordered two Maximus sliders sans heat and cheese, with small sides of coleslaw and chips.

I realized quickly that just because we had placed our order did not mean we would be receiving our food straight away. We were handed cups with ice to procure our libations, which came from a tap sticking right out of the porcine shaped Airstream. Despite my initial reservations, the Hibiscus nectar was actually delicious! I may have found sewer water to be tasty at that point as well, such was my thirst. It was tart, wholesome and not too terribly sweet. Nursing my beverage as though it were a bottle, I practically ripped our food out of the vendor’s hands when he called our number. Unfortunately, napkins were not to be found anywhere, so after bundling up our bounty; we all but sprinted to the car.

Too dazed to tolerate the ten minute drive home, I suggested we enjoy lunch in our parked car. I was concerned as we approached the dubious lot that the vehicle would have either been towed or have tipped over and rolled to the bottom. Fortunately, it was safe. We negotiated our way cautiously inside, cracked the windows and dug in.

I truly believe at this point Daniel Boulud could have cooked a five course meal expressly for me and I would have been underwhelmed. I ravenously chewed the fibrous meat as pork oil dripped down my chin. The sandwich was tasty, this I cannot argue. But did it warrant waiting for an hour and a half? I'm not sure. The pork was juicy and delightful-- the bun rustic and hearty. What I was particularly fond of was the coleslaw, which contained cranberries and black sesame seeds. Most importantly, it wasn’t drowning in mayonnaise but rather was briskly tossed with a tangy (healthy) sauce. The veggie chips were delicious—obviously home-made because they were still a bit warm and soggy (in a good way). After being removed from the fryer, these potato, carrot, beet, and bean chips were seasoned to perfection with what could have only been shichimi.

I inhaled my food, barely stopping for a breath while Brett, ever immutable, considered each bite before declaring himself full half way through his first sandwich. By this time it was 2:30, and we had to head home to prepare for dinner at How to Cook a Wolf with his parents a few hours later. At this rate, it was going to be a long day of hedonism.

chez la buche qui rouler.

2009-10-12T16:49:00.001-07:00

I always say that in order to appreciate the finer things in life, one must have some sort of basis for comparison. For this very reason I strolled over to Issaquah’s “Rolling Log” tavern Friday after work with a few of my co-workers to delight in cheap beer and (vagrant) people watching.

This dubious establishment is one of those places where upon exiting, no matter if you’ve touched nothing during your brief tenure there, you always feel filthy. But then again, there is an even better chance that you’ll find a foreign sticky substance on your seat (as I did) or reach in to a plastic container holding shuffleboard pucks only to find the pucks slathered with mucousy saliva (as my friend Kristin did.) The three cretins monopolizing the Log’s shuffleboard until moments prior had left their lingering essence not only by way of the Gwar and Winger music selections on the juke box, but also by way of their DNA.

I made my way over to the juke box with the hope that these vile death metal selections could not last much longer and so loaded the machine with a few of my favorite dive bar anthems: "Everybody’s Working for the Weekend” and “I Can’t Go for That” to name a few. As I pondered over my selection, I began waving wildly to garner the attention of my crew since I could not for the life of me remember which group performed “Everybody’s Working for the Weekend.” Whilst gesturing, an unkempt bearded chap took this to be a sign that I wanted to talk to him and came up to me. Not feeling as social as is usually the case, I smiled and nodded, paying no attention to his babbling and focused on selecting my remaining three songs. Please do not misunderstand, I had no notions that I was better than this gentleman—I simply wanted to listen to my tunes, enjoy the company of my friends, and partake of my Stella.

Guitar riffs continued to assault my eardrums and I found myself saying “huh” and “what” every few moments, such was the din. The Log clientele was one of my group’s “mane” topics of discussion due to the fact that every man looked either like Simba, Michael Bolton, or some horrific combination thereof. Since no one could hear too terribly well, we spent most of our time smiling, pointing, toasting, and enjoying some light snacks.

Particularly thrilling to me about the Log is their “Nut Bar.” For one buck, the trusty barmaid Jamie will fill a tiny cup with lukewarm mixed nuts. Also available, and preferable only after one has indulged in a couple of beers, is free popcorn. We threw caution to the wind and loaded up on this gratis snack, despite the fact that it appeared to have been made hours, if not days, before.

I ever so slowly nursed my second beer, indignant that I would not leave until my songs had been heard. The bar continued to throng even as wayward regulars shuffled in and out to smoke by the back door. I easily lost track of time considering how dimly lit it was inside. The darkness did not embrace that ever present “unaffected cool” vibe, but instead was instrumental in disguising layers of grime in which the Log is eternally encrusted. I attempted to distract myself as Kristin regaled me with debaucherous tales of the regulars.

noteworthy patron and a partial of jamie (barmaid)

Having passed a good two hours idly gripping my handbag and taking photos of the more noteworthy patrons, it was time to again delight in the finer things. Kissing my companions’ cheeks and bidding them all adieu, I washed my hands a few times and hit the road.

idly gripping my handbags

A Caprice Kitchen

2009-10-09T14:33:00.000-07:00

I rang A Caprice Kitchen promptly at 9am on Wednesday morning from my work phone and expected that perhaps I would be connected to voicemail. Much to my delight, Anne Catherine actually answered the phone! She sounded a bit confused as to why I would be requesting reservations for 6pm on a Wednesday night, but nevertheless took my particulars and said she would look forward to seeing me that evening. I was extremely excited to partake in this small local restaurant found perusing the internet. Particularly exciting about the portent of the evening was that I would be passing it with Brett and my dear friend DeAnn.

When she picked us up at a quarter of six, I wedged myself into her back seat amidst boxes occupying most of the space and allowed Brett to sit in the comfort of the front. Guiding her north, we arrived moments later and were able to procure a parking spot directly in front of our destination. Tucked away on a sleepy Ballard street just north of Ballard High School, A Caprice Kitchen is quaint, unassuming and homey. Relatively new, Anne Catherine (both owner and chef) opened Caprice back in November of 2008 and builds all of her menus around seasonal harvests of local Washington farmers.

this week's list of local suppliers

We walked in and were to be the first guests of the evening. Despite this fact, I still notified the server of my reservations. She smiled graciously and led us to the front window table where adjacent to our seating was a 50's era record player. Our table was adorned with mismatched silverware, a vintage milk jug housing three dahlias and tiny copper salt and pepper shakers. I was beginning to feel as though we weren't in a restaurant, but rather a young eccentric woman's home.

Our server guided our sights toward the large chalkboard at the front of the restaurant, which featured the starters, mains and desserts for the week. Choices are limited due to the fact that Anne Catherine procures her ingredients on a near daily basis, but her offerings are varied and delightful.

The three of us decided to indulge in all three starters: spinach salad with a warm bacon-tomato vinaigrette, wild watercress salad with a pickled farm fresh egg, and a trio of artisan cheeses served with house-made crackers and fig compote.

pickled egg atop watercress salad

My favorite starter by far was the wild watercress salad. The watercress was delicately bathed in a tarragon aioli dressing and had Valentina cheese crumbled in as well. The concoction served as a lovely sort of nest for the pickled egg, which was absolutely superb. The combination was at once tart, bitter and creamy. After a few bites of each, we passed our dishes clockwise. I found the spinach salad to be slightly on the bland side-- but perhaps subtle would be a more apt descriptor. The feta tasted like more of a chevre and I was hard-pressed to find a bacon essence in the vinaigrette. The trio of cheeses, featuring Seastack, Wynochee blue and Brewleggio was enjoyable, but the house-made crackers were the real star of that show being crispy, thin and flaky.

We shared a delicious bottle of Petit Syrah from a small vintner in Yakima (only 70 cases of this particular wine were produced.) Our original selection, a wine entitled "Animale" was not yet available due to the fact that the gentleman who makes the wine swings by to make his delivery after he's completed his work day. Sure enough, he wandered in around 6:30pm. Whilst we dined, Anne Catherine popped in and out to attend to the local vendors delivering their wares before heading back to the kitchen to cook our meals, I can only assume, from scratch.

enjoying the wine and good company

Three entrees were offered that evening and Brett, DeAnn and myself each ordered something different: I chose the chicken and chantrelle pot pie, Brett decided upon the lamb shank, and DeAnn opted for the lobster mushroom farro risotto with smoked salmon. Accompanying each of our meals was a side of braised kale, which was smoky and crisp. My pot pie was unlike any pot pie that I have ever experienced since it was not creamy, but rather broth-based. I giggled to myself when the server described this dish as "chicken-y" but really had to hand it to her once I had indulged in my first bite since that is the most accurate adjective I could come up with as well. In my estimation, we were all pleased with our choices. The lively conversation had ceased and we began focusing our attention on the task at hand. All of us ultimately becoming members of the clean plate club.

lobster mushroom farro risotto with smoked salmon

lamb shank

chicken-y roasted chicken and chantrelle pot pie

As the evening progressed, A Caprice Kitchen filled up pleasantly. Despite this fact, the quality of our service never wavered. Attention was paid to ensure we had everything we needed, but we were never hounded, ignored, or rushed. I no longer felt like I was at someone's home, but as though I was in a bustling french bistro (a sensation that was likely intensified by the fact that Edith Piaf was crooning in the background.)

What I found to be most memorable about our time here was the feeling of wholesome satiety we all enjoyed after the meal. Not only was our experience at A Caprice Kitchen a culinary delight, but a tour of what our indigenous farmers have to sustain us.

whiz bang two f. spur

2009-10-09T08:32:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning I awoke at a shockingly early 9am and was inspired to cook a nice breakfast. I often think if I had the luxury of determining my own schedule, I would cook a multitude of extravagant meals and often.

In the laziness of weekend mornings, every menial task takes on the greatest significance for me: I carefully remove coffee from the freezer, as though transporting a Faberge egg, and thoughtfully slice red onion so that it’s mere millimeters thick—paying extra attention to maintaining the integrity of the translucent rings. I perform my routine to the soundtrack of 40’s music. Wrapping on an apron patterned with tiny colorful elephants, I slink to the fridge and remove all necessary items for the omelet idea which awoke me (marginally concerned that the reality of this endeavor may fail miserably.)

After slicing the red onion, I heated up a dollop of olive oil in order to caramelize the living daylights out of the delicate rings. While they simmered away, I meticulously whisked four eggs with a dash of milk, salt, pepper and a heavy dose of cayenne pepper and set them aside. After adding a few teaspoons of sugar to the onion, I then crumbled a healthy dose of vintage three year Gouda, becoming increasingly nervous as my procession unfolded—so daunting was the task of keeping the egg in one perfect unbroken “pancake.” Nevertheless I continued on, bathing the onions in balsamic and turning up the heat. Once they were completed, I set them aside, rinsed my trusty Le Creuset pan and proceeded to make the omelet. Much to my dismay, after cooking the egg on low heat for a few minutes, I was able to successfully keep the mass in tact. Perching the Gouda and onions atop, I then folded the omelet like a taco and presented my masterpiece to Brett complete with coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice (fine- Simply Orange high pulp juice), turkey bacon and blueberries.

Though filled with trepidation regarding this unlikely combination, Brett took a tiny bite and was shockingly pleased. We quietly enjoyed our breakfast and as is Saturday morning tradition, read “Us Weekly” and “The Economist” (need I elaborate on who was reading which?)

The day was looking to be robust and ripe with indulgence. After a light tidying session and a few loads of laundry, we left our abode to poke around University Village for some much needed retail therapy. Brett’s recent acquirement of full time work was definitely a reason to celebrate as I had been feeling deprived for quite some time. Our bounty included: a glassybaby (a sturdy glass votive that costs entirely too much—for good reason, and comes in every color imaginable,) Lululemon gear for Bikram practice, and quintessential fall items from J. Crew (a salmon coloured mohair cardigan that is wafer thin but warm and toasty, and two ultra chic headbands.) Brett was hoping to procure some grilling items so that we might better take advantage of our rooftop grill, but his attempts proved unsuccessful due to the fact that it was so late in the season. After tucking our (my) spoils away and venturing home, I scurried off to Bikram to enjoy my 90 minute ritual.

We had plans that evening to go to the “gastropub” Spur located in Belltown on Blanchard. I use the term “gastropub” hesitantly because, in my humble opinion, to call Spur this style of restaurant would be a misnomer. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Spur is a hip, intimate bar known for its fresh and intriguing shared plates, inventive and delicious cocktails, and avant-garde environs. The farm-to-table bandwagon is one that I’m riding, so it delights me to partake of restaurants that share this similar mentality. The ingredients are always fresh and more often than not local, which lends to a feeling of conscientious dining.

Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was a giant screen onto which pastoral scenes and Dali-esque stills were projected. The lighting is extremely dim, and I’ve come to believe in my dining experiences that the dimmer the lighting, the more in vogue the restaurant. Speaking of, the fixtures were gorgeous —rustic wrought iron chandeliers evocative of those found in mill or barn. Spur was opulent in that minimalist chic way…I can think of no other way to describe it than a post-modern meat-packing district factory cum hotspot.

Our dinner companions for the evening were two lovely people whom we met in the most unconventional of ways. Approximately two months ago, Brett and I were dining at Bastille, one of our favorite haunts in the Ballard neighborhood, when a cute couple was seated next to us. Unintentionally overhearing the gentleman waffling on which dish in which to indulge, I noticed these two were foodies like us. Before departing, I struck up a conversation about the unbelievably delicious falafel. Realizing after ten minutes that we were likely impeding upon their date, I proposed that perhaps the four of us become Facebook friends. Simon and Justine obliged. After a considerable amount of back and forthing, the four of us finally convened.

Conversation was easy and intriguing. Simon and J, having been to Spur recently, shepherded us through the menu and offered their insight as to what was delicious. I felt the need to partake of some social lubricant, on the off chance my charms should fail me and decided upon the Empress, a fitting name for one such as myself (who has notions which obviously aren't based in reality.) The Empress was a light (and not sweet, most importantly) combination of Jamaican rum, grapefruit and St. Germain elderflower liqueur featuring a tangy citrus foam atop the libation. It was delicate, refreshing and dangerously non-alcoholic tasting. Brett ordered his standard Tanquerey martini, up and with a twist but received olives instead, as is the usual occurrence.

The four of us ordered most of the menu since the plates are smaller and meant to be shared. Almost everything was completely delicious, if not a bit high on the sodium side. I was particularly disappointed in the tomato dish as I found the tomatoes to be mushy and the flavors to be bland and uninteresting. I also secretly thought it was annoying that they referred to arugula as “rocket”—a term that apparently the entire world has adopted for this green. The salmon crostini with mascarpone was delightful but my favorite of all our dishes were two in particular: pork belly sliders with plum, tangy mustard and bourbon served on tiny brioche-like buns, and the chicken confit served with mustard, garlic chips, and scallion. The chicken was amazing! Tiny drumettes stacked on a plate like Lincoln logs; they were juicy, crispy, and the meat literally dropped off the bone and into my mouth. We also shared parmesan gnocchi, tagliatelle with duck egg, and a flat iron steak paired with fried potato. I did try the fried potato, which was supremely creamy inside and crispy like a croquette on the outside. Most pleasing to me was the presentation of the dishes which was artistic, thoughtful and minimalist. (As a side, I was hesitant to take too many photos in the company of our new friends but was pleased to discover toward the end of the meal that Simon enjoys taking pictures just as much as I do. The next time we partake of Spur, there will be photographic evidence.)

Since we all had room to spare, we decided to split a dessert item and resoundingly agreed upon the chocolate covered pretzel, served two ways. My feeble mind was expecting Rold Gold pretzels enrobed in Hershey’s milk chocolate, but we had quite another thing coming. The dessert featured a pretzel cake with a strip of chocolate fondant resting atop as well as pretzel ice cream being stabbed by wedges of dehydrated dark chocolate. Though not what I was expecting, the result was subtle, unique and not too filling.

My main qualm about the experience was that afterward I was still hungry. However, this is most likely because the dishes would be better shared between two people instead of four. More so than satiation, the ultimate goal of Spur’s chefs (in my humble opinion) is to showcase local ingredients in an innovative way and make the occurrence comparable to visiting a gallery in order to appreciate local, indigenous art.

After our pleasant evening, we all parted ways promising to go to Lark on Capital Hill within the next few weekends. I’m hoping we have new companions with whom to experience the bevy of wonderful restaurants in Seattle.

whiz bang weekend (part one of two)

2009-10-05T14:39:00.000-07:00

The cold wind whips my cheeks as I make my way down the avenue toward home after my touch up trim. I feel slightly like I've been chewed up and spat out by the enviable man known as freedom who then places me in a hankie and begins to pass me over to his frenemy known as work. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed with a sense of sadness as I arrive at the dark end of my lovely whiz bang weekend.

I decided last Tuesday that for my own sanity I needed to truncate my work week and with that, drew from my pitiable PTO bank for a much needed Friday off. I commenced the festivities forthwith by heading to Sip in Issaquah with my dearly beloved coworker Kristin on Thursday. Working far earlier hours than most people in my office, I was the first to arrive at Sip (even after lallygagging around the newly opened Bartell’s for some necessities such as mousse and toothpaste.) Apparently, I finished my day earlier than everyone in Issaquah since I was the first to arrive period.

Sip is a classically northwest wine bar featuring dark wood decor and expansive floor to ceiling windows. The bar is a massive kidney-bean shape and also where I decided to perch myself for the remainder of the evening. I was surprised that even though I was the only patron present it took a good five minutes for someone to pay me any attention. Finally, a distantly pleasant girl made her way over and shared with me that tonight would be “Ladies Night,” which meant the wine flights were half off. This seemed like a fair deal so I naturally chose the most expensive offering on the list: “Call me a Cab.” At a full-priced $22, I would have been hard pressed to partake, but considering the fact that I was receiving three decent wines for the bargain basement price of $11 I had no complaints… until I received the flight. I felt as though the pours were painfully paltry. But then again, I’m the type of girl who usually orders an eight ounce pour if it should happen to be available. Regardless, I began sipping my wine and enjoying the quiet before the storm. To accompany my flight, I ordered the Sip Selection off of their menu which featured a sun-dried tomato goat cheese dip, tzatziki, sheep’s milk cheese and grilled shrimp ceviche served with multi-coloured tortilla chips. They offer a whopping $2 off the appetizer menu during happy hour so this little spread was knocked down to $10.

Ever so slowly, guests began to trickle in shortly after 5pm—by which point I could already feel the effects of the red wine making its way through my system. By the time my mate had arrived an hour or so later, I had made my way through my flight (and was nearing my destination, so to speak). I had the best of intentions to return home by a prim 8pm, but my early solo indulgences combined with the fact that Kristin abides by the old adage “Once you pop, you can’t stop” concerning alcohol, meant that the evening would turn out to be a late one. Shortly after her arrival I ordered a glass of Sip’s $5 red. Obviously, I can’t recall the winery, let alone the vintage, but their cheapie du jour was palatable. Then again, that could also be because I truly believe the more you drink, the better something will taste.

Before I knew what was happening, Sip was in full swing. The former ghost town was thronging with mostly middle-aged suburban toilers who were likely there on business and seeking reprieve from the rapidly worsening weather. The sky opened up and thrust a chilly October rain upon the highlands whilst Kristin and I continued to enjoy our libations. Seeing as how she is close with one of the bartenders, we each partook of a champagne flight and rambled on for an unbelievable four hours after my intended departure.

Friday I awoke with a discomfort akin to having one thousand rubber bands wrapped around my brain. I stumbled toward the kitchen and shot gunned some ibuprofen and water before falling asleep for a few more hours, ever grateful that I had taken the day off. When I did finally rouse at 11am, I began to ponder what to make of the day. I munched on a bagel and vapidly stared at my newest Us Weekly for a while before I realized that now might be a great opportunity to make the apple crisp that I had been putting off for the past four days.

After tying on my apron, I plucked five Granny Smiths from their Costco clamshell pack and began to peel each one with a potato peeler. I've always loved making crisps but find it to be an endeavor in which I rarely partake (mainly because a proclivity for sweets is lacking). Enjoying the quiet of my liberated Friday after-morn, I haphazardly tossed oats, flour, brown sugar and butter into a bowl and used my hands to toss all of the ingredients together. I can't even convey the simple joys and the intoxicating aromas that baking this crisp provided. Though small and inconsequential, the fruits of my labor pleased me. I felt that even if I were to do nothing for the rest of the day, I had achieved something at that moment.

Following my baking pursuits, Brett and I ventured forth to Swedish Hospital. Having received a job offer after nine months of unemployment, Brett had spent his morning faxing new hire paperwork to his office and had one final hurdle of a drug test to cross. The hurdle was a brief task which we considered to be a momentary pit stop before we headed off to lunch at Monkey Bridge, a quaint Vietnamese restaurant placed perfectly between our home and the aforementioned stop. I always enjoy Monkey Bridge whenever we happen to visit. It is, however, more like one of those restaurants you happen to pop into if you’re hungry—not someplace you where you would go out of your way to dine. The hour for lunch had passed and we sat down at an unconventional 2:30pm to partake of our afternoon meal. One or two idle guests wandered in and out whilst we were there, but for the most part the restaurant was quiet. Brett and I seem to have a knack for going to restaurants during off hours, a habit of which I am quite fond. We shared some fresh shrimp salad rolls to start. I decided upon the vegetarian egg roll rice noodle bowl and Brett had the lemongrass chicken entree. Since we were dining at a rather nebulous time, our server decided that our meal must have been closer to dinner and therefore brought Brett a massive mound of food. We plowed our way through the fresh, delicious grub and washed it all down with green tea and a diet coke. I had not intentionally asked for the latter, rather I had asked for extra pickled daikon, and received a diet coke instead. In any case, we enjoyed a delightful lunch and crossed the street to arrive back at the ranch.

I completed my indispensable detox session at Bikram yoga then came home to prepare myself for the evening: a late viewing of “Zombieland” followed by merry making at Palace Kitchen with Brett and our friend Jason. Since we tend to not frequent the movies too terribly often (due to an exorbitant cable bill and Netflix), we typically go to the Cinerama to partake of a big screen release.

Located in the heart of downtown on Fourth and Stewart, the Cinerama has not only been a long time tradition for all Seattleites, but has especially been one for me and Brett. I first experienced the hundred foot screen when I came out to visit during winter break our sophomore year at Carleton nearly one decade ago. I distinctly remember queueing up outside the theatre on a dark and chilly night to see Pirates of the Caribbean.

On this particular evening, much to my surprise, there was no queue. We walked right into the theatre to discover all the employees festively made up like zombies. Brett climbed to the very top balcony (where we always sit) to meet Jason while I dropped 20 bucks on candy and snacks.

The movie was absolutely hysterical. I have a penchant for horror, so I immediately knew that "Zombieland" would be up my alley, but I couldn't have understood to what degree. It was the perfect combination of gore, wit, humor, and the absurd that had me laughing for the entirely too short 80 minutes. Narrated by a young college boy (Jesse Eisenberg) who hopes to find his parents safe and sound back in Ohio, the movie centers around his survival tactics in this crazy world and the relationships he develops with Woody Harrelson (a zombie-killing maniac with a penchant for twinkies,) Emma Stone (a pretty and no-nonsense con-girl) and Abigail Breslin (the jaded younger sister and partner in crime to Emma's character.) All four go by the city names where they are headed in an effort to not become close to one another. Without getting all nit-picky, I will say that the majority of the production cost was gobbled up by an incredibly cool slo-mo opening credits sequence which left the rest of the film less ostentatious and more simple. But the special effects were not what was key. Rather, the interesting perspective of how to survive in a world that has been destroyed and overrun by zombies is what was interesting. It brought levity to an affliction that I (naively and ridiculously, I know) still fear. The actors all held their own. I would say that they were brilliant, but I suppose killing zombies whilst driving cross country does not a great actor make. Bill Murray's cameo performance was funny, far too fleeting, and created a nearly impossible act to follow. Somehow, Woody Harrelson managed to stay atop this raised bar by using an amusement park as his own personal jungle gym whilst exterminating an obscene number of zombies. The movie ended a bit too abruptly for my tastes, but all in all I left the theatre laughing and smiling as we traversed Fourth Avenue to hit up Palace Kitchen.

Palace Kitchen is our post-Cinerama haunt, without a doubt. No matter what time of day we visit, the din is always overwhelming. However, it would be a pretty safe bet to assume that is the case with all Tom Douglas joints. I walked with trepidation through the entrance, concerned that there was a group of 15 college hipsters in front of us. I was completely paranoid that we would not be able to secure seating, so when we were immediately guided to a front window table, a wave of relief washed over me. Having had a sandwich before the movie as well as nachos and popcorn during, I wasn't really in the mood for a feast.

The boys ordered their burgers, as is tradition, and I stuck with a giant crouton with romaine salad and an order of my beloved olive poppers. The burgers never disappoint, I am told. Our convivial and mildly flamboyant server shared with us that the ground chuck used in these wonders was a whopping 70/30 in fat content-- a fact that neither Jason nor Brett could believe until they tasted their burgers again for the first time. My salad was disappointing, but that's not what the Kitchen is about anyway. The crouton was a giant square of dry burnt toast and the dressing was watery and tasteless. The olive poppers, however, were a different story altogether: they featured Kalamata olives swathed in a thick, chewy, and mildly flaky breading-- encircling a dollop of delicious herbed sour cream.

Upon receiving my second glass of wine, I began gesticulating wildly as I recounted some story or another and slapped the glass onto the table. It spilled all over, but managed to avoid the most critical items such as our food and clothing. Moments later, our attentive server noticed the tragedy and proceeded to ferry over another glass of wine almost immediately. We passed three hours chatting and making obscure cinematic references only the three of us would understand. During our stay the party of 15 came and went as did an enormous and expensive-looking wedding party (likely from Bellevue, Jason quipped.) Shortly after 2am, we settled up and headed into the chilly autumn night to cart Jason home before we returned to Ballard.

monday night at the counter

2009-09-29T15:31:00.000-07:00

On any given day, Brett and I can be found volleying emails back and forth regarding the age old question of what to have for dinner, but yesterday did not follow that typical path. Brett’s friend Andrew had just shared his knowledge of a new restaurant in the Ballard neighborhood: a California-based chain entitled “The Counter.” Founded in 2003, the “custom built burger joint” has grown to a whopping 12 locations in California, nine others smattered randomly around the country, and two international stops (Ireland and Australia.) Their concept is simple: They offer an extensive list of fresh and unique ingredients allowing the customer to design their own unique gourmet burger.

After logging on the trusty interwebs to further review this establishment and their offerings, the decision was clear: Brett and I would be venturing forth to this establishment, located in the new Ballard Blocks building, that evening.

With our plans in place, the entire day took on a brilliant new hue—previously bathed in a dismal grey, it now seemed a bit sunnier and it was almost as though my perspective had been dipped in a candy glaze. When the work whistle finally blew seven hours later, I scooted home and prepared for my Bikram yoga practice armed with the knowledge that if I was going to indulge in the splendor that is “The Counter,” I should certainly earn it. My 90 minute practice came and went. Forsaking my post-practice savasana, I hopped off my mat and dodged toward the shower (such was my excitement to partake of deep-fried dill pickles!!!)

I picked Brett up and we made our way to dinner at 8pm. As to be expected, I stopped outside the venue for a couple of external photos as we made our way toward the building. My outdoor distraction was brief due to the fact that (if there had previously been any point of contention regarding the subject, let it now be known) it is officially fall. The evening was crisp, clear and as dark as what two weeks ago would have been 10pm.

Upon entering, I felt as though I was in a 26th century diner. The front two facings are entirely windows, and one side even features a windowed roll-up garage door. Adorned with minimal artwork, the focus of aesthetic appreciation is directed toward the bar. First of all, let me broach the subject of a gourmet burger facility that features a bar. This is absolutely brilliant! Aside from the tidy appearance of the built-in shelves (and the fair sized flat screens that flank them), there are five large black and white photographs hanging from the back walls.

the bar.

the art.

the "garage door."

Seating is ample. There is a divider between the bar and restaurant area: the bar offers a handful of bar height tables and stools along with the actual bar seating and the restaurant features 15 or so tables and booth seating along the divider with tables and chairs across from that. The space is vast and was perhaps one third occupied…a fact that I did not find concerning considering it was 40 minutes before they closed on a Monday night.

Our server was friendly and allowed me to select where I’d like for us to sit. After letting us know that he would be helping the four of us that night (I know I have a larger than average ego, but really?!) he confided that it had been a long day and hunkered down at our table with us. He was knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the menu, a fact that I found excited me even more about the prospect of things to come. All of their ingredients are fresh, and the meat is the healthiest you can hope to come by. I’m not sure who exactly does the tracking, but apparently at any given moment someone at The Counter knows where their cows are be it at the farm, on a truck, or maybe even in your mouth.

We knew straight away that we would be starting with the deep fried dill pickles as well as the “50/50” (your choice of half regular fries and half sweet potato fries, half regular fries and half onion strings, and so on and so forth.) No sooner had we placed this order than a gentleman came out of the kitchen carrying our appetizers. Instead of the “50/50” he had brought us a six inch mound of onion strings. Upon pointing this out he asked that we please consider keeping the onion strings and he would rush an order of fries as well. Though we certainly didn’t require this abundance of fried food, who are we to deny such generosity?

Upon receipt of the greasy goodies I found myself distracted from the task at hand: creating my own tasty burger! The Counter does feature a potpourri of tried and true burger options on the menu for anyone who is not inclined to be creative, but Brett and I were both excited by the prospect of invention. So enthused was I that I had actually been preparing for this endeavor earlier in the day. I ticked the boxes without hesitation: 1/3 lb turkey burger on a toasted honey whole wheat bun with horseradish cheddar, tomato, dill pickle chips (not fried), spicy pepperoncinis, Bermuda red onion, and red relish.

Brett’s choice included a 1/3 lb hamburger on a regular bun with horseradish cheddar, dill pickle chips, grilled onions, lettuce and tomatoes and was finished with a roasted garlic aioli sauce. Brett theorized that before he made any edgier combinations he needed a “control” by which to compare everything he selects henceforth. With that, this burger was declared “The Gold Standard.”

I felt a tinge of guilt as I tucked into our fried delights—this was the first sustenance to hit my system since I had spent a good 90 minutes detoxifying my body. Regardless, I pressed on and took my first panko encrusted dill pickle chip. We were cautioned by the chap who delivered them to our table that they were extremely hot, so I carefully dipped it into the accompanying sweet and sour sauce, gave it a good cooling, and popped the whole thing into my mouth. Never before had I even considered the idea of a fried pickle remotely interesting, but this experience proved my consideration incorrect. The panko breading glistened delicately and encased a warm yet crisp quarter inch dill pickle round. In summation, it was delicious.

The onion strings were amazing as well. Brett inquired as to the nature of their breading (I was too sheepish to ask since I had already aroused curiosity with my copious photo taking) and we were told that the onions are soaked in buttermilk overnight, then breaded and fried. The result was phenomenal. These strings tasted completely home made and melted in my mouth. I am always disheartened to bite into an onion ring, only to have the onion slither out of its shell and slap my chin with disdain, so I was overwhelmed with joy that the onion and batter shared an inseparable union.

We had barely even put a dent in our starters when our burgers arrived. The presentation was minimalist chic: the bun top was slightly askew to display the treasures lying within. A stainless sauce cup lounged on the side of the rectangular white plate so we could sauce at our own discretion. Other than that, a knife and a fork rested on either side of the plate.

I daintily spread my red relish on the top portion of my bun. The red relish, as it turns out, is a combination of ketchup and relish (my instinct proved correct in this instance)—but it was certainly not any ordinary relish! Nay, it was a delicious and subtle bread and butter pickle-style relish. My honey whole wheat bun was solid and nutritious and acted as a perfect vessel for the goodies within. The turkey burger was subtly juicy and obviously hand-formed. While the pickles were great, I was disappointed with the Bermuda red onions and spicy pepperoncinis. I was expecting a fancy pants marinated red onion, but instead found the garden variety. I picked off the offending veggie and proceeded to devour the rest (dipping every last crumb in my red relish.) All in all, I was very pleased and decided the appellation for my burger would be “The Erudite Gobbler”. Brett was also satisfied and found his burger to be very simple and wholesome. I seem to remember him saying it was like something his dad would grill at home.

usually non-expressive Brett quips, "we should come here all the time!"

Our pace slowed as our plaque thickened and we sipped our libations to decompress. I failed to mention that The Counter’s wine and beer list is decent and a full bar is offered as well. Brett was thrilled that his Tanqueray and tonic cost a mere five dollars. My Snoqualmie Naked Cabernet Sauvignon was liberally poured and perfectly tannic. Since there were still copious amounts of our starters left, we asked for a few containers so as not to let this deliciousness go to waste.

With our bellies full and our hearts content, we made our way home—the neon oasis glowing behind us in the sleepy Ballard night.

falling for fall

2009-09-28T13:24:00.000-07:00

There is a distinct feeling in the air more so than any other time of the year when autumn is upon us. A crisp smell invades the olfactories, the sun goes to sleep increasingly earlier, and my muscles and joints stiffen with the frigid still of early mornings. With the onslaught of any season, I am always overwhelmed with a desire to change. I feel this sensation ten-fold when September rolls around. By Sunday afternoon, it was in full swing.

Having shirked my domestic responsibilities the week prior due to a robust social calendar, I took advantage of my weekend to cease neglecting the laundry, litter box, dust bunnies and powder room. What happened, however, was more than a brisk tidying of our abode. Instead, I found myself digging through closets, dumping my makeup on the bathroom floor (I have about as many cosmetics as four Hollywood makeup artists and eight transvestites put together—it’s bad), and moving furniture to vacuum. It’s curious to me that these feelings are so involuntarily roused based upon a simple alteration of the earth’s tilt on her axis.

With that simple change, I want to hunker down and for lack of a better word, “nest.” I began to light candles, turn up the forties music, and clutter my mind with quandaries of which cozy autumn tasks I should undertake. I’ve decided that I intend to get back into canning and baking so I should be able to sprinkle my blog with some Martha Stewart-esque inspiration in the coming months.

In the mean time (until more jet-setting can be recounted), I have written the below as an ode to fall and included a picture I drew which may allude to my more mellowed feelings of home-bodiness as of late.

Autumn leaves
No sense of dread
Despite the raindrops on my head
Despite the darkness
Chilled and strong
Autumn makes me sing a song
Instills a feeling
Full of hope
Its whistling winds help me cope
Cope with loss
Of plants, of greens
And of the changing of the scenes
The chipmunks quiet
The leaves, they fall
But still I quite enjoy it all.

wineaux

2009-09-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

After weeks of supreme indulgence, I felt a bit like below...

John Howie, Hoo-ahh!

2009-09-25T12:41:00.000-07:00

I can feel the plaque congealing in my arteries and I am concerned that at any moment I may grab my left arm and proceed to have a heart attack. I probably shouldn’t say this, but even if my cholesterol did go up 30 points it would be completely and utterly worth it.

Last night I had the pleasure of having my life changed the tiniest bit by going to John Howie Steak in Bellevue’s deluxe new complex the Bravern. John Howie’s first joint, Seastar, is a beloved seafood restaurant in Bellevue (his second one opened in Seattle this past December). Unfortunately, I’ve never had the pleasure of going. It’s not that I’m an east side snob- but if I do venture forth to that neck of the woods I tend to stay within the “Bellevue Collection.”

Lighting in John Howie Steak

Knowing nothing about the restaurant aside from the fact that the menu would logically be predominantly steak, I decided it would be a great place to take one of my vendors for dinner and help him branch out beyond the confines of the Hilton Garden Inn in Issaquah.

Donnie rolled up outside my office shortly after four in a cherry red H3 and we cruised over to Bellevue. I knew two things: this restaurant is new and it’s kind of a big deal. Due to my marginal flightiness as of late I failed to make a reservation and was momentarily concerned that we may be relegated to PF Chang’s, where it is surprisingly difficult to obtain immediate seating. Fortunately for me, Donnie is a seven foot tall black man. When we entered John Howie’s, he simply put his hands on the hostess stand and towered above the diminutive woman working the front desk. Whether his unintentional “scare tactics” worked or not is beyond me, but we were able to successfully reserve a table for three. Brett would be joining us an hour or so later after he finished having the car serviced chez the Acura dealership.

The intimidating Donnie.

With the promise of a table waiting in the wings, we rounded the corner to head to happy hour. The first thing I noticed was the long opulent marble bar which was so white and exquisite that it seemed to be glowing from within. Bellying up to this immaculate slab, I was pleased to see that the drink list was of biblical proportions. Donnie, being a gin chap, ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini with blue cheese olives. Seeing these olives was inspirational (they were gargantuan and stuffed to the brim with a tasty Roquefort-esque blue) so I naturally ordered a super dirty Ketel One martini with a couple of those puppies tossed in for good measure.

After I placed my order, something strange caught my eye. At the other end of the bar, a couple was enjoying something from a glass vase. My first thought was that the tasty looking morsels of which they were partaking must be some sort of flattened grissini made with parmesan or asiago, it could not possibly be bacon….that would just be ridiculous. Imagine my profuse delight when I discovered that my eyes had not deceived me. They were actually serving tempura fried bacon with a maple-soy dipping sauce. I have to say it tasted like absolute heaven and I swore to Donnie that, if I could, this is what I would consume for breakfast every day for the rest of my life. And probably die at a very young age if that were indeed the case.

Because one tempura fried appetizer is not enough, we also ordered the tempura fried king crab served with tempura green beans. The green beans were totally extraneous and acted as a filler, I’m sure, since the appetizer only came with four (although they were huge) juicy delectable chunks of king crab. John Howie’s sauce pairing was a sweet chili-type concoction with slivered zucchini thrown in.

Brett joined us midway through these appetizers, and, having no idea that we fully intended to stay for dinner as well, ordered the happy hour BLT’s. Three perfectly round sandwiches made with a cookie cutter were ferried out to us moments later. As if I could ever consume too much bacon, I tucked into one of these beautiful creations: the bread softly toasted but pale, slathered lightly with an herbed mayonnaise and finished with a crisp piece of iceberg and a perfectly red and juicy tomato (and thick, sweet, chewy bacon.) Beside the three little treats was a pile of home made potato chips that had a hint of garlic and freshly shredded asiago atop the mound.

I failed to mention not long after the martini slipped down my throat, I ordered what was perhaps the best mojito I have ever had in my life. When I first eyed the bartender making one, I scoffed to myself. Why, two days after the official first day of fall, is this man making an obviously summer cocktail? Friendly and attentive, he noticed my watchful eye and poured me a little sample of the drink he had just prepared. Let me just say that I would drink this concoction any time of the year. I have had many mojitos, and many BAD mojitos at that—but this one was beyond impressive. He used loads of fresh mint and muddled the life out of it, mixing it with fresh lime, Sailor Jerry’s spiced rum and then the tiniest bit of powdered sugar, then he topped it off with club soda. The result was superb.

Realizing it was well past our original reservation time, Donnie walked to the hostess stand and again leaned over the counter. To be honest, we weren’t sure why a reservation was even necessary. It didn’t seem too terribly crowded. However, we were only looking at the expansive bar at that point. (Which also features a glass topped baby grand piano, where people can enjoy their drinks whilst listening to the pianist.) Our congenial and petite host, almost obscured behind the large black menus she held, led us to the main restaurant area.

We rounded the corner and began to walk down the first hallway of seating. At this point, I confirmed my belief unwaveringly that this place was kind of a big deal. Dimly lit and romantic, the first hall features those half moon banquettes surrounding large ovular tables. Behind the tables were luscious velvet curtains, obviously there to add to the ambiance. On the other side of the large tables, smaller two person tables line the wall. The hall opens into the main dining room. Along the back wall, there are floor to ceiling windows displaying the rolling green of Bellevue (oh, as well as all the gas stations and Best Buy, but who cares.) To the right, there are two private dining rooms, and to the left there is a hall closet-sized walk-in wine room.

We were seated at our booth, which featured a licorice red Glassy Baby, hammered flatware and luxurious Frette napkins. Our server was channeling a hybrid of Jamie Kennedy and Bradley Cooper and was congenial, amenable and just a really fun guy.

We dilly dallied to choose our libations but I finally decided upon an eight ounce pour of a smoky Malbec, while the gentlemen stuck to their gin. During our waffling, Jamie/Bradley brought us a tower of salts including coarse grain, Australian pink, and Hawaiian black charcoal varieties. I photographed the display for posterity, but truth be told everything was salty enough on its own.

No sooner had we been seated than two celebrities arrived. Lofa Tatupu (linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks) and his entourage headed to the opposite end of the dining room and Steve Poole (meteorologist on KOMO) was seated with his wife and child right across from us. I tried my hardest to convince Brett and Donnie that I should go snap my picture with each of the gentlemen- but they were indignant that I stay put. I was able to snap the below, which is mostly my finger, and a little Steve Poole.

John Howie, however, was unable to avoid my celebrity death grip. Before either of my dining companions could protest, I hopped out of our booth and scurried over to him, accosting him with my feminine whimsy. I schmoozed and smiled and confided with him that I was just at Jean-Georges’ restaurant in Vancouver and that John (present company) was giving that French chef a good run for his money. This pleased him so he stepped in close, and the dapper man who made our magic Caesar captured our moment in history.

The tableside Caesar was a delight. Since they have a two person minimum for the salad preparation (I would assume to make the show a worthwhile endeavor), Brett switched his choice in order to accommodate Donnie’s desire to partake. The two of them engaged in conversation while I engaged in the procession of Caesar-making. Our dapper performer elegantly whisked together garlic, ground anchovies, egg and lemon before tossing crisp romaine, croutons and freshly shaved parmesan in a beautiful asymmetric wooden bowl.

The season for Heirloom tomatoes is drawing to a close, a fact that was instrumental in my decision to enjoy this salad for my first course. It featured crisp and colourful heirlooms bathed in a sea of Russian dressing and topped with caramelized red onions and a very dry blue cheese. The result was a phantasmagoric combination in my mouth: sweet, soft, crisp, tart, chewy and tangy all at once. My server tried taking this masterpiece away from me at least three times and I threatened to take him on if he didn’t leave me alone. Savoring every single morsel, I all but licked the plate clean.

Following the salad course, we were provided with a tiny croquette intended to act as a pallet cleanser. It was creamy, delicious, and beautifully displayed.

Throughout the course of our experience, the service remained attentive without being overbearing. Please note the bus boy cautiously held a napkin in front of the water pitcher whilst pouring to avoid victimizing his patron with an unintentional splash. My recollection of the remainder of the evening may be slightly less detailed than heretofore since, as you might be able to guess, my brain became ever so slightly addled with alcohol and my body became thick with a luxurious layer of wine.

For the main course, I ever so daintily ordered the French Onion soup. While I do not eat beef—the menu does feature many marvelous seafood choices. Unfortunately, with all the libation and appetizer consumption, I simply did not have the room for more than a “light” (comparatively speaking) soup. It was tasty, don’t get me wrong, but I certainly wasn’t swooning. I probably wouldn’t write home about it either. (I felt myself bloat even further, such was the amount of sodium present in this potage.)

My male companions ordered what Brett jokingly refers to as “the Ladies cut”—a tiny (read: regular) 8oz cut of filet mignon. Brett had his bare (To truly judge the quality of the meat. It tasted like butter, I am told), and Donnie chose a peppercorn sauce to add a little something extra.

The sun set and the din of the restaurant rose throughout the course of our Wednesday evening. We drew our own festivities to a close with after dinner cocktails. Brett chose his classic “Makers Rocks,” while Donnie and I went for the more dessert-like “Baileys on the Rocks.” Much to my chagrin, the restaurant only had enough Baileys remaining for one pour. However, if I could find it in my heart to forgive them, they would provide me with a delectable surprise. Acquiescing (since I really didn’t need another beverage anyway), I patiently awaited what they had in store while Donnie wondered if he shouldn’t have been the one to give up his Baileys in order to partake of the surprise. What they brought me was something I never would have chosen for myself, but it was absolutely delicious. Presented on its own tray, my blueberry tea came in a Bodum teapot with a bulbous Brandy snifter for consumption after the concoction had adequately steeped. The “Blueberry Tea” did not contain blueberries at all…Instead it was a mix of earl grey tea, Grand Marnier and Amaretto. A combination that was cozy and perfect for the onset of autumn.

After a decadent five hours of consumption, we bid farewell to the pleasant staff and made our way into the night.