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.
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.
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