Something even worse than going smell blind

The cold rain took my health, but these berries
 lost everything.

Last Thursday, I accidentally left myself out in the rain and caught a cold, which augmented the ferocity of my allergies, cost me a couple days of work and has left my most prized senses debilitated. I'm no blood hound, but if there's a lingering smell left on you from yesterday, I'll usually able to track it. A voracious taster, spicy foods burn me easily, upsetting the delicate palate I rely on to taste the deep, hidden flavors I stay hungry for. I have always had a talent for tasting, but for the last week, I have nearly given up eating, as my taste buds have only been able to detect sweet, salty, and sad, save for a few strange days. I've traded dining out for driving thru, and even then for sustenance only. I was weak and dizzy this morning, and had to take a hard look at what I've been chewing on these past few dismal days.

Since nothing in my kitchen has made sense, I've been skipping my usual balanced nourishment and opting for Ikea breakfasts, fish sandwiches from McDonald's and Jack in the Box, small servings of leftovers, and light handfuls of nuts and oranges. I've been playing the hunger games solo, but without my tasting tools, I've got no fight left. We had a friend stay over the weekend, and finally visited Buddha Ruska, something I've been looking forward to since we moved to West Seattle, but I only sensed far-away flavors and promising textures while the rest of the table cooed and chewed.

Vegetarian field roast pile, w/ grilled biscuits at
Luna Park Cafe. Thank you, Universe.

 The next morning we hit up Luna Park Cafe, where I foreswore my usual Espresso milkshake for water and split a Vegetarian Field Roast Pile. This was not in vain, my 'buds were back, (for a limited time), and were awake and transmitting long enough for me to enjoy the feta, mushroom, tomato, spinach and vegetarian field roast sausage on a bed of hashbrowns topped with two fried eggs. I've mentioned this before, here, but go get their biscuits. Ask for them grilled, wait patiently, and when they arrive,  go get 'em. Forget about that old "America's bread basket needs more roughage" adage*, and fill yourself with starch, carbs and lingering grill marks.

*DO NOT forget this. America is stupid for bread. Put the hoagie down, get dressed, and go fill up your basket at the farmer's market. And wear something trendy - you'll shop with more dignity and adventure.

I've been blowing my nose overtime, trying to purge this curse, and I think I'm finally coming around. Today I cleaned out the fridge on a quest to nourish myself, and I did a bang up job. Veggie burger with hummus, bell pepper and spinach, beans and rice, hearty cereal and a garbage pale smoothie. Wait, how do you get one of those?
Gather all the fruits and veggies in your kitchen that have that not-so-fresh pallor, and combine with milk, yogurt and that protein powder you can't seem to work into your diet. I like (to gag on) Designer Whey's Double Chocolate. Alone, it tastes like cardboard made out of wood chips, crushed aspirin and generic hot chocolate mix. I learned that when added to strawberries and spinach, the taste is muted by the overpowering earthiness of the greens, but the smooth creaminess can shine through, gathering mild sweetness from the fruit. I always throw in a frozen banana - one that grew too many spots on the counter (xtra sweet) - and some barely still alive berries. What? Of course throw in some flax seeds! Avoid melon, which tends to sour even the trashiest garbage pale smoothie. I blend until well mixed, then add more spinach. Because it can't hurt.

Do not microwave this.

Too Disgruntled to Dine Out

Disgruntled means many things on this blog, and today we'll let it sub for "under house arrest."

These last weeks I've spent some time mourning meals like the one you see here. In Texas, you end up eating a lot of Tex Mex because a.) it's the reason you're there or b.) wherever you go you're never more than five minutes from a lovable taqueria or cantina. We've tried a few different "Tex Mex" eateries here in Washington, and they just seem to be missing something. The Tex, maybe?

When the weather turns, then turns again, and you can't take your summer spirits outside lest they get broken by the clouds, take your woes to the store and buy ingredients for an indoor fiesta. These party favors are quick, fresh, healthy and require minimum clean up.

First, set your oven to broil.

What you'll need for quesadillas:

1 can black beans, rinsed & drained
1/2 cup fresh shredded cheddar
1 small mango, chopped
1 avocado, chopped
tortillas
cooking spray or butter
salt

plus 

1 poblano pepper,

1 T dried oregano and 

about a cup of chopped onion. Sweat those together over medium high heat until onion is transparent. Combine with mango/avocado.

Plant some cheddar on half of the tortillas, top with mix and then more cheese, for adhesion & prosperity & extra fat. For love, really. Fold in half, spray lightly with cooking spray and give it up to the broiler til' melty.

 If you can't bring yourself to turn on your oven, crisp them up on the stove on medium high.

Look what's left! It's just you and the pan, now. Don't be shy. Grab a spoon and get in there. Or...

Focus, think about what you can make without cheese, since you so cavalierly ate the rest of it while cooking, and create a cool, refreshing Tex-Mex salad.

What you'll need:

Red Bell pepper, chopped

4 radishes, sliced thin

3 scallions, chopped

1 can black beans, rinsed & drained

for the dressing:

1/4 c chopped cilantro

2 t coarse grain mustard (brown deli mustard will do)

1 t red wine vinegar

1 T lime juice

3 t olive oil

Whisk together your dressing and combine with chopped veggies & beans. Marvel briefly at the colors, grab a Modelo and eat. 

Canlis: A Masterpiece in Three Acts

Last Tuesday got real fancy real fast. Since you weren't there, I invite you to grab your opera glasses for flavor, sit back in your seat, and allow me to regale you with my decadent tale. 


I spent all day prepping for an audition, and as soon as I finished I raced across town to grab Bill, only to race home, pull on some evening wear and dash out to dinner. I made a conscious choice to let my frantic momentum run itself into a $20 cocktail as the hostess took my coat and we were led into the beyond.

The best $1 dining
bible around

Tuesday, February 21st, we left this earthly plane, all its noises, plastic clutter and crude banalities to ascend the gently sloping path to a dinner I'll not soon forget. In William Speidel's You Can't Eat Mount Rainier!, Canlis is described as having reached the "pinnacle in decor, service, and taste." This book is adorable. Published in '55, it called to me from a clearance rack after Christmas, and upon flipping through it I found an entry for the mysterious restaurant we'd just received a gift certificate for. I brought the book with us, handed it to the hostess and invited her to pass it around so the staff could enjoy a glimpse into their mighty empire's past.

Oh, help me, John Mason.

We gave our name to the valet, let our car drive off with all our cares and woes, and headed in. We were early, and so took a seat in the lounge where a piano played gilded versions of today's hits. Brittany, Whitney, Celine, Radiohead - a likely overture to foreshadow the evening ahead; modern in places, but smacking of your favorite traditions. We perused the cocktail list, but I knew right away what to order. My 'Prince In Disguise' and Bill's Old Fashioned arrived just as our table was ready, so we followed our drinks to a table facing the dining room. It was pulled out so we might sit easily beside each other in the booth, and I was lucky enough to find my orientation offered a view of the kitchen window, fully done in copper paneling, casting off soft visions of kitchen business without clearly reflecting any distractions. We took in the other diners as we sipped our drinks. Mine a bourbon fantasy with a slice of apple dusted in cinnamon and Bill's a cold, refreshing toddy. If nothing else, please, take yourself and $50 to Canlis and get a couple cocktails. Really fine work.

That star anise came home with me. What were they going
to use it for? These things don't just grow on trees.
(Do they?)

Act One began shortly after Bill learned he would be feasting on his very own plate of oysters, our amuse bouche arrived; a warm, creamy leek soup in sweet little cups that were perfect with nibbles of their house milk & honey rolls. For those of you with private shame about gorging on King's Hawaiian Sweet Rolls in a dark pantry, the soft and supple crumb of Canlis rolls will upgrade your addiction. And you can have as many as you want. And they're always warm, because they bring them to you one by one out of a hot, covered basket. Ok. The bread was good. What about the food?

Let's coddle an egg together.

Voted one of the 100 best dishes in America, the Canlis salad has barely evolved since 1950, but continues to dazzle diners, $18 at a time. A crisp foundation of romaine, green onion, grape tomatoes, mint, oregano, bacon, romano cheese and croutons, what really sells this salad is its fresh simplicity, but it might be the coddled egg--which is exactly what it sounds like. I think you pay for that one careful moment where the sous chef pauses, ignoring whatever chaos is going on around them, (does Canlis know chaos?), and delicately places the whole egg into water that was ever-so-recently boiling. Kind of a high-risk job for anybody. Or maybe they have an egg coddler on staff for just this sort of thing.

Humming along with Gangster's Paradise on the piano, we sighed as our plates left, empty, but lit up as our main course arrived. Act Two opened with Muscovy duck, sliced parsnip and pear in a creamy reduction, a dollop of sticky golden raisins and a duck croquette. The duck was delicious, aged 14 days and prepared admirably, but the croquette, which maybe took minutes to form and fry, sang the song I still can't get out of my mind. As a fan of fried treasures, this one goes straight to the top of my list, and that's all I'm prepared to say.

In between bites of duck, I moved in on Bill's king salmon. On a bed of shitake mushrooms and pearl onions dripping with something fabulous I'll never know the secret to, the salmon was fresh, thick, and gently grilled. A substantial meal in itself, I ate about half the fillet and left thinking I'd never need another bite of protein. That's value.






Not pictured are the twice-baked potato - a sixty year tradition that keeps on giving - and a mound of herbed truffle fries, which we were advised to take home and broil the next morning with eggs for breakfast, (encore!) An unexpected intermezzo arrived as I was agonizing over ever standing up again: two dips of goat's milk sorbet. Bravo.

Happy Birthday Forever!!!!

Just as I'd lost hope that we'd receive a visit from the distinguished owner, Act Three began: a Grand Marnier soufflé, cracked and drizzled with creme anglaise by Mr. Canlis himself.  Personable and younger than you'd guess, he returned my book and we chatted about more refined dining techniques. The Morenos were climbing the social ladder a little too fast, so we ordered two boozy coffees and slowly prepared for our humble return home. The bill came and went, our serenity unbroken as we handed over our gift card.

I bow to you, sweet somethings.

For all there was to love, the one thing that didn't succeed was Bill's Spanish coffee - a mix of armagnac, cointreau, rum, you see where I'm going with this? Not really a "perk up before you drive home" kind of beverage, which we were duly warned about, but it was so sweet and alcoholic I couldn't really enjoy it. Maybe set it on fire? My Irish coffee was just what I wanted, and effectively brought me back to life for the curtain call:


Rosewater macarons and dark chocolate nibbles filled with peanut butter ganache.



Clap louder, you swine, they can't hear you in the back.





Dine of My Life

Still struggling to pull myself together

But wait, where was the climax? Who died?

It was me, I died, and as Vanessa Williams once cooed, I've gone and saved the best for last. The gun shot happened early, in the first act, making expert use of the charcoal broiler Canlis is famous for, and adding star power to huckleberry jus, coriander, and a smashing pickled rutabaga coin. The star in question is pork belly, the softest, fattiest, most breath-taking cut of meat ever to be dusted in pastrami shavings and disappear, between sobs, off my plate. And the rutabaga - (I promised myself I wouldn't cry again, but) - so crisp and commanding, I tried to pace myself but... Before I knew it the feathers were drifting to the floor and my mascara had betrayed me. This dish was so, so good, I'm having trouble getting out of bed in the morning, knowing there's nothing in my kitchen worth getting up for.

As a diner, I'm not quick to award an establishment simply based on its reputation for excellence, and having read a few reviews slandering Canlis as an over-priced, over-staffed exercise in stuffy tradition, I kept an eye out for missteps. I am easily disturbed by overly-attentive servers, and while the staff was indeed extensive, and we never wanted for anything, the calm at our table never felt threatened. As this particular outing was a gift, I wanted to see the good, but was ultimately and unexpectedly charmed, thrilled, to find that even a diner as disgruntled as I could be healed by a truly fine dine out.

Special thanks to our investors, Bill & Cecilia, for believing in us and sending us to the moon for one beautiful evening.

San Francisco: Money's just food you haven't eaten yet

Last week around this time, I was looking back on my fantastic trip to San Francisco, hosted generously by Aaron & Genevieve Saenz.

A: "What did you pay for that?"
G: "Like, an eighth of  what it's really worth."

 We made a fair effort to sample the best coffee in the area, which took us to Blue Bottle Coffee, and after an appropriate waiting period, we were handed two ceramic-dripped cups of organic black magic. At home, I use a plastic Melitta dripper for one cup days, the jumbo French press for three cups and beyond. I have to say, the ceramic dripper combined with the organic micro-roasted grounds made my home methods and coffee skills seem inferior in every way, but I think my snooty poseur points are now way up just for mentioning it.

Take off that seat belt, girl. 

As we sipped, we grooved in the sun to a nearby boombox playing all the hits of the 90s while waiting for our table at the highly-trafficked Stacks. Beyond popular, a Saturday morning here is harrowing to behold. Hoards of people waiting inside, outside, and jammed in corners, all in the frantic paths of servers and bussers struggling to get to tables. Space is not the issue here. With decor inspired by a Parisian silk flower fever dream, brunchers flock to Stacks for their comfortable food. We enjoyed a short stack of blueberry wheat germ pancakes and a fresh veggie egg skillet, but I was so immersed in our victory at finally getting a table in the center of the action that the food took a backseat. But in a "let's make out in the backseat" kind of way. Really good.



Snack time took me and Genevieve to Isobune Sushi, the "original" sushi boat restaurant in Japan Town. I have had sushi mechanically pass me by on conveyor belts, but I've never been able to reach out and pluck it from a floating vessel.  I always though sushi boat meant something a little less exciting than actual sushi on actual boats. Isobune's adorable wooden dinghies float along a clear blue canal encircling the sushi kitchen. We were seated quickly, handed hot hand towels to freshen up, served hot tea and took our time choosing our fare. Everything's very compact, and seating is tight, but the bar provides ample privacy for two. Though we tried to linger, we sailed in and out in under 20 minutes.

Rapid fire vanity photos. We very nearly did it right.

 With just enough time to spare before our walking tour, we slipped into Pika Pika, a highly-confusing Japanese photo circus. The art of purikura was one unknown to me until now, and I'm not really sure I actually get it. Here's what we left with.

One of our favorite afternoons was spent at The Franciscan. Overlooking Alcatraz off Fisherman's Wharf, the dining room is flawless. Built in the 50's and recently remodeled, it's a beautiful place to spend an afternoon gazing at the bay while enjoying some fresh antipasti and cocktails. The smoked trout crostini arrived with toy box tomatoes, capers, avocado and a dish of dreamy, creamy, housemade burrata. No idea what burrata is? Mozzarella blended with cream blended with whatever makes life worth while. We were going to stop there, but it seemed absurd to leave without trying their Italian sundae: frozen custard drizzled with olive oil and garnished with flaked sea salt. Woof. And I would have stopped there, but before I knew it I was ordering espresso and sambuca. Genevieve and I get along so famously, it's easy to get a little grandiose.

 Bottomless thanks to Bill for sending me away for my birthday, San Francisco, Imperial Spa, Tom Brown, Aaron, Genevieve, and their whole rompous, good-time gang for a great weekend.


Dine of the Week

Hey handsome.

The first stop off the train was to Straw, one of the first places I ever reviewed on this here blog. Maybe you recall?  While in town, I think I measured every meal against the resounding triumph of this one, simple salad. The Aunt Sally. Mixed greens, beets, strawberries, goat cheese & pecans tossed with a sensible balsamic vinaigrette. Nobody's handing out awards here, you could make this at home and play it off as your own reasonably-gourmet invention. The true cause celebre here was the addition of, oh yes, precious bacon.  Maple-glazed and shining with emulsified meat-shame and fatty pride, two strips were laid briefly to rest atop my salad to conserve space at our table, and for that I thank our waiter. Fresh, smokey, nutty, I don't want to get too graphic, but this salad has stayed with me, haunting my every trip to the kitchen, and my every dining dream.
I'll be back for you, Aunt Sally.

Winter Bites

Oh, hi! I know it's been a spell, but I've just finished a solid month of power yoga and it seemed to have relieved that pesky urge to blog. Not that I haven't been dining and whining, but it's become more of a dine, whine/yawn/stretch/breathe through it approach.
It seems like ages ago that we danced, begrudged and sloshed our way through the snow that covered our fair city, but toward the slippery end of that storm I remember enjoying a fine hot dog. My buddy Jeff and I fought our way through rain and slush to the Pacific Inn Pub to savor their local brews and divey charms. Their menu is really quite inviting, somehow making you believe that your booth was put there just for you and a basket of fish and chips to take it to the next level. Obscured by darkness and fueled by the joint's "whatever" factor, a bartender came by our table and talked me through my indecision, and in short order we were served dogs with slaw and pickles, a likely pairing with our frosty pints. Go for the atmosphere, the tv, or, whatever.

On a cold Saturday morning when the wind was up and the tide was high, Bill and I made our way to Heartland Cafe, the local everyman of diners. We walked in, took a booth and ordered their highly celebrated cheese curds. With a mustard/beer/cheese/dream dip it's easy to say ...hmm, Valentine's Day.... What a great day to devour a box of cheese curds in bed!



When Sunday comes, there's always a little part of me that wants to stay in bed, dreaming of breakfast feasts and lazing away the hours of precious daylight. Then something snaps and my brain cries "you're a phototropic animal with dwindling stores of vitamins and you're sculpting heinous bed sores!" So I take a moment to gently panic and gingerly convince myself that I'll have a lovely time strolling through the farmers' market if only I'd get up and get dressed.

Bring your own crumbs, or buy some
new ones at the Junction Farmers' Market

On a really good Sunday, I can even get Bill to go. This time, before I knew it I'd blown $5 on a really spectacular pop tart by Hot Cakes Confections, filled with dark sweet cherries, figs and fennel, thinking somehow I was investing in something savory. Hot Cakes is sporting take & bake gluten free, vegan & molten chocolate cake pots right now, which are a little wet for my palate, but seem to be garnering some positive attention.We couldn't eat much more than half of our pocket pie, as things were getting a little too sweet by that point, and lunch seemed to be a much more sensible idea.

Making beautiful music together at Taqueria Guaymas

We were wandering through an alley when we decided tacos would be rad, and found ourselves serendipitously facing the back door to Taqueria Guaymas. This spot reeled me in with their festive decor, painted tables & benches and an accomplished salsa bar with spicy pickled carrots, fresh radish and plenty of salsas to choose from. Take a gander at my fish taco (meh on fish strength but muah for fresh flavors) and my asada taco with beans and fresh fresh pico (muah, muah muah! mas musicas!)

Dine of the week


A haphazard walk through the Pike Place Market got me hungry for more than the usual bag of sweet, playful Daily Dozen Doughnuts (more on those much later). I had a few bucks in my pocket and gave them all to the Saffron Spice counter for a vegetable samosa. Simple in its execution and fierce in its tasty elegance, samosas are hard to complain about anywhere you go. Dreamy masalas and soft, steamy vegetables, basically the most sturdy combinations in Indian cuisine. It was the perfect snack to walk around with, but I took a moment to find a little sun to sit in and enjoy my pocket of warmth. It's not fancy, but should definitely be included in your circuit of finger foods while perusing the market.

Snowy days, meringue nights

Go ahead, but use your spoon.
 This is a community park.

Seattle, you are my own personal, high-risk snow cone today. It's been raining ice since before dawn, and the view out my window couldn't be better. Last night I went outside for the first time to check things out, and came upon a snow fort that had been built, defended, and stormed all before I'd happened upon it. It was there, around 10pm that I fortified the walls and took up residence in my first ever snow shack. Just four walls and one big sky light. Bill joined me and off we went exploring in the dark. Whatever tracks left in the landscape were easy to ignore, as the rest was dolloped with extra smooth whipped dream.

Last week I had a special adventure with strangers. In preparation for joining a food tour team, I was treated to dinner by way of a three hour fermentation tour in Capitol Hill. To begin, we sampled ten different brews at Elysian Brewing Co., starting with their palest pale, The Slight Return, and finally rewarding ourselves with the deep, dark Dragon's Teat Milk Stout, a splendid milk chocolatey, roasted coffee dessert brewed with milk thistle - almost health food really. Out of the ten, the Poison Dwarf Scottish-Style Ale was my favorite, taking the seat I usually save for a nice, crisp bottle of Newcastle and replacing it with a decaying folding chair. Then it put that chair outside. In the rain.

Tavern Law's Lusty Lady, photo thanks to MJ A

Having tried a fine array of brews, we picked up and headed out for our next stop, Tavern Law. This place is handsome. Unpretentious, dimly-lit and smartly decorated, the revolving menu is chalked up each day by servers in waist coats and watch fobs, (tethered, no doubt, to a USB drive containing their thesis.) We were quickly served two cocktails: the Tittsnascot - a bright and fresh gin and elderflower concoction with a soaked cucumber coin, and the Lusty Lady - a gin and lavender infusion with the creamiest egg white froth you could possibly imagine. Having trouble? Ok, I'll help you. Close your eyes and go to your happy place, fill it with the makings of the finest lavender meringue, dress yourself in full petticoats and replace your feet with balloon whisks. Now hit frappe.

Our imbibing was politely interrupted by buttery fois gras on warm toasts, a warm beet salad with hazelnuts and ox tail ragout over potato gnocchi. It's really an injustice to squeeze all that into one sentence, so please, let me gush further. Fois gras, for all it's worth, is best kept to a few rich bites anywhere you go. Tavern Law adds an Angostura Bitters gelee, which serves as an extra flavor worth detecting while chewing the fat enjoying this dish, but I found it overly rich, per usual. The warm beets had me at first bite, the textures, the tang, the vinaigrette, but were nearly forgotten when I tried the ox tail. If you've ever had roast beast with gravy and liked it, you owe it to yourself to explore what savory glory they're selling over here. Shards of pecorino take the plate over the finish line uncontested, adding a little something you didn't know you wanted.

"I'll take that one, with the beard and moon eyes."

Days later, having barely recovered from my night in Capitol Hill, (those flavors linger still,) Bill and I walked down the beach to Bamboo Bar & Grill, a Miami Vice-flavored former smoking section of a Red Lobster-themed "beach tavern" - the beta version. It's Moon Doggie meets Gidget's drunk stepmom with a brown-bagged beverage after sunset in an ally. I know,  but somehow, this place calls to me even now, from 5 blocks away. They have first-rate french fries, a full bar with sensible happy hour pricing, (which you'll have to remind your waitress about), and draw a pretty rowdy crowd on game days. We always sit in a booth with a built-in aquarium housing three fish and a mini crab who has a crush on Bill. We tested this theory by switching seats and watched the crab follow Bill to the other end of the tank. Hey, I totally get it. 

    Faux fire-resistant parrots!

A poor vehicle for some sad rye

We like the mozzarella sticks, (thick, sturdy fried cheese logs with a chunky marinara) and the wings (regular or Caribbean cooked to order with optional nitro sauce), (nitro!), but when we stray from the happy hour menu, things get dicey. For some reason, I ordered the Reuben, which our waitress admitted to never trying, but did recommend West 5's version. The waitstaff here is made up of girls no taller than 5'5", in short skirts and indefatigable stores of good cheer. They're sweet, helpful and busy, just like I like 'em. It's really been a toss up on customer service here in Washington; sometimes you get a super helpful, bubbly assist from a gas station attendant but a dour, begrudged pass from a manager behind the counter somewhere else. Bamboo Bar & Grill is nothing but helpful, unless you're trying to enjoy the perfect reuben sandwich. Too much thousand island and forgettable rye barely deserve to be on the same plate with their slammin fries. They might be double fried and breaded, but they've got their siren song down, putting them in first place for beach front french fries. And we've got three fish & chip joints. 

For breakfast, it was finally time to patronize Alki Cafe, and what a job we did. We waltzed in around 2:35 on a Saturday, sat down and started perusing the menu. Our waitress materialized out of nowhere to let us know the kitchen had just officially closed and the quicker we could order, the better luck we'd have getting served. I was thrown into panic mode. Flashes of images assaulted me - I saw the business hours sign, kitchen staff facepalming in unison, grill flames flickering out across the range, doors closing, waitstaff sneering as their afternoon plans were pushed back even further... As an Empathic Diner, I knew at once the roles we'd unknowingly walked into. Bill and I had "last table" syndrome. 

Last Table Syndrome:

"The group or party who walks in shortly before, during or just past closing time, making them the last table after what the establishment had already considered to be the last table of the day. Effectively, heartless/oblivious assholes with nothing better to do than to go out to eat. Dicks."

Remarkably, I was able to choose quickly and just five minutes later, our server was back with our order. As though the kitchen through it together extra quick to express their feelings of "get the f*** out we're trying to clean in here." I should add that there were no obvious displays of animosity from the staff, and maybe there were no hard feelings, but I felt the weight of a hundred grudges before us for every minute that we lingered. Bill ordered a Mr. Pibb, which needed it's syrup levels adjusted but I kept my trap shut, content to be allowed to enjoy my late breakfast. Luckily, there was a real table of lollygaggers camping out a few tables away, so that eased my tensions a little. And the food was a welcome distraction. I ordered the salmon omelet with russet potatoes sliced thick on the bias, fried crisp and dusted with an appropriate amount of Lawry's. Yelp is pretty good about bragging on these potatoes, and rightly so.

But wait, something's missing!

The Dine of the Week

Halfway through my omelet, my rye toast arrived. The toaster had to warm up, (which I deserved) then some kind soul in the kitchen buttered that deep dark bread until it reached perfect coverage and dropped it on some flashy Fiesta ware. Rye has made a big come back for me, and I'm proud to say that my very own Alki Cafe, a mere two minute walk from my home, has the best damn rye toast in town. Thick, high fiber, perfectly-carawayed rye. I'll be back for you. At a reasonable hour. And yes, the best thing I ate all week was a slice of buttered rye toast. 

Unless you count the mouthful of free snowflakes. Which were phenomenal.

One last Christmas story for the road

New Years Eve on Alki Beach
The destination to burn your tree.

Oh shit, Christmas. Every year. I hate to say it, but I collapsed during the "move on with your life" dance. Yea, I redecorated my Christmas tree this week. It just needed a little more jazz in the right places, and a little industrial rock in others.

Probably time to take this one down.

 I've chanced to walk by a few trees being callously dismantled by shopkeepers, witnessed a tree burning on New Years Eve, and then realized my uncle had given me some of my grandmother's antique ornaments, and knew they needed a little airing out. So, I wrenched my tree from its swampy stand and lay it gently on its side on the balcony. I was short a chainsaw, so for the next 20 minutes I hacked at the trunk (humming a lil' Ænema) with a hatchet to free it from its moisture seal. It had ceased to absorb the strict regiment of liquid vitamin supplements I administer weekly to keep it looking perky and was starting to smell a little too fragrant, if not a little dank. Back on its feet and newly adorned, my tree has the second chance it deserves, and I can listen to Ella's Swinging Christmas all over again.

With a little Christmas revival, it's got me thinking of all the gifts I've received, not only this Christmas, but all throughout the years. The best Christmas gift I ever received was a 2-step process, somewhere around my sixth or seventh year. Step one: As I approached the tree Christmas morning I found only a note, explaining that there had been a glitch the night before and some elf was getting suspended, (I hoped tortured), for the mix-up. Due to the alarming frequency of this problem, my gift would soon be in transit and should arrive shortly by some new, "special" unorthodox delivery method. My parents, while sympathetic, offered no advice as to how this may be avoided next year so I spent the few days retracing my steps and figuring out how I might be less-noticeably naughty in the coming year. Step two: Mere days before New Years, I received the call. My dad had received a large, bulbous parcel at work, which was across town and I'd have to wait the rest of the day to get it.

Oh God, the waiting. Unparalleled to this day, I still experience the taste every Christmas, something I squelch and cover with good cheer and concentrated sessions of deep breathing. During the rest of the year, this is probably identified as clinical anxiety.

When the time came, I emerged from my room, a study in calm, and approached a towering, butcher paper-wrapped pile. I'd waited so long, where to begin? Tear at the seams? Stab through an air pocket and rip from there? There was a measured amount of Gonzo-like apprehension and appraisal before I made my first move.

Dad. 1935-1999.

I really don't remember how it went down. I think I may have blacked out and woke up wheezing on a bed of hot wheels race track, Disney's Robin Hood, various toys and movies, and one of those race car vhs rewinders that pops up its hood to reveal a kindly rewound tape. Despite the snafu, it remains one of my most memorable Christmases, and Santa's letter, a tome curiously scripted in familiar handwriting, is still in a box somewhere, inviting me to relive it all again. Miss you, Dad.
                                  *                                *                              *

This week, in effort to curb my holiday-inspired dependency on sugar and other bad words, I've taken this party bus back to the kitchen. Surrounded by homey comforts of dish towels, cutting boards and reality, I'm trying to get back in the swing of eating with some self control. So I have taken to averting my eyes when I open the pantry and glimpse the last of our Harry & David supply, and remember fondly the day I made the decision to eat as much of the pies as I dared, and fed the rest to the compost bin. It was gross. But I'm on the other side and on the road to recovery now, making wholesome meals by day but still dreaming of sugarplums by night. One day at a time. I'm hitting some jelly beans pretty hard right now. (-) In my tracksuit. (+!)

We had some leftover smoked salmon, which almost got devoured on its own but I saved the last precious flakes for an omelet. Do try this at home, I'd love to offer a photo, but there really was no time between leaving the pan and setting my fork down. More on omelets, later, as they're my specialitee.

There's a vegetarian tikka masala I've been resurrecting a lot, both for its quick prep time and spectacular flavor (even without the cardamom, cabbage & peas), a sweet potato and apple puree I've been snacking on, banana & flaxseed smoothies here and there and of course the latest craze, Butternut Squash and potato gnocchi. Though I sub veg stock for the chicken, and ignore the chestnuts, (Tyler Florence gets a little bourgeois sometimes) (please feel free to read that as boo-zhee) this dish comes out winning every time. Oh, check it out! Doing the work of at least 3 bulky appliances, is my highly coveted Cuisinart Immersion Blender. Easy to use, easy to clean, and a whiz at slicing up your tongue when you try to lick the dregs out of it's blade well. A housewarming gift (THANK YOU BILL & CECILIA) from last year, not a day goes by that I don't wonder what I'll blend next.

So, if you have:

You can have:

And that's good to have.

The Dine of the Week: 

Thanks to Noms.in/seattle for your pic

We traveled north Friday night to Naked City, a taphouse serving a rotating selection of house beers and regional shining stars. I started with a Lips of Passion Prickly Passion Saison, an 8.5% New Belgium creation I wouldn't expect to see bottled too soon, though during the summer months I think it could enjoy fleeting stardom in stores, as long as it's competitively priced alongside Kona's Wailua Wheat Ale. Next I ordered Snipes' Christmas Creep, a 6% brown ale heightened with spices and a quiet winter night's hops, not too sweet. An all-American, balanced taste with deep Christmas tones, like me. Check out their website if you're local, it'll lure you in. Matt Norton, you'll love this place.