While we look for our next round of housing in west (the best!) Seattle, let's take a moment to appreciate what we have right now. A master bedroom, in a many-roomed, much-loved, well proportioned home. While Bill's at work I've been keeping busy by exploring the neighborhood, fraternizing with locals, stretching, cooking and sitting quietly, happily, often dumbfounded, on the structure you see here.
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| Balconies. Great job! |
It looks down over our forgotten dirt road, and a sweet little gurgling, babbling this:
When I wake up, after Bill's gone off to the factory, I stumble out and stretch my bones while gazing distractedly to the east at this:
It's no big deal. Nothing more than lovely, really. Thought it might help actualize your sense of my experience.
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| Too prêt à manger for you? There's a full menu besides. |
Just down the strip is Cherry de Pon, a self serve soft serve frozen yogurt dispensary offering sugar free, nonfat and notfat varieties in regularly rotating fantasy flavors. It's like piling a take-out container full of salad that ends up weighing in at 7lbs, without the self gratifying notion of eating fiber and chloraphyl. Rest assured, there were live active cultures living in your dessert before they were frozen and deactivated with "not fat" and sorta natural flavors like cake batter and snickerdoodle. A+ for letting me pump my own gradual undoing!
Last night, Bill and I went to Sun Liquor Distillery to celebrate one of his buddy's birthday, and I was schooled on some new dining destinations. The place is small inside, smaller outside, but everywhere you look someone's enjoying a freshly muddled/squeezed/throttled/imagined cocktail. It's one of those places you favor instantly for its choice of font and clever motif. Personally, it made me want to design my wedding invitations all over again, but that's a compulsion I'm dearly trying to put to rest. The food offering is simple, but all-American, and in interest of not spending all our party money in one place, we said goodnight and wandered a few blocks over to Hot Mama's Pizza for the last stop of the night par excellence: the late night slice. I ordered their famous pesto, Bill their tomato basil, and we fought through the hoards to the red pepper and out into the night to sample our prizes.
Pizza is a sensitive issue for me.
Not so sensitive that I won't eat bad pizza; sloppy, floppy TMNT style pizza has its cartoon allure, and as I've already admitted there's a shameful corner of my heart where I keep the number for the local Pizza Hut. My first-ever job introduced me to NY style pizza in Houston. A few years and pay raises later as assistant manager of this joint, (which shall remain nameless, as it was brow beaten into bankruptcy in the end) I had a fully-toned bullshit detector embedded in my taste buds. I came to know crust, to know cheese, to know the handling and celestial conditions that form a palatable pizza. Years later, in NY proper, I tried pies of all kinds, worked in another pizzeria, and stand before you today a wizened and fleshy result. Now, here in Seattle, Bill and I have so far found Big Mario's to be our NY style champion. We've only been once, but going up against Hot Mama's, they win outright. Hot Mama's. How to defend you? Your dough, if nothing else, lacked salt last night. One slice was baked perfectly, crisping and crunching in the right fashion but lacking that tell-tale flavor of a dough mixed with purpose and pride. The pesto slice, so inviting from behind the glass, was tough and undercooked, and low on the pesto ladder. You know what it said to me? A feeble, muted "...not having a good night...sorry.....Rosebud..." Pathetic. B-, Hot Mama's.
I'm glad that pizza speech is out, next time we can jump right in. See you then!
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