Monday Night Done Right

Michael took a bite and closed his eyes. "Mmmm," he groaned.

"You like it?"

"This is possibly the best burger ever," he enthused. Weighing in at half a pound of ground sirloin topped with bacon and English cheddar, this was, apparently, no ordinary burger. Michael does enjoy the occasional ground beef patty, but I'd never seen him react to a burger like this.

Not that I didn't appreciate the "wicked linguine" I'd ordered. Spicy and sassy, with just the right touch of creaminess without being over the top, I was more than pleased with my selection. Across from me, Lewissa reveled in a dish of penne n' cheese. Creamy and sharp with more of that English cheddar, it couldn't be beat - except, perhaps, by the mac n' cheese at the Frontier Room, which Lewissa assured me was even better.

We were enjoying a luxurious night out, complete with cocktails and chocolate ganache for dessert, but what made it even better was the price. Sunday and Monday evenings, the Seattle steakhouse El Gaucho, well known as restaurant where one can easily drop some serious cash, offers happy hour all night in the bar. With bar food that is definitely priced above the average joint, yet still a good deal more economical than the dinner menu, happy hour give you the opportunity to try it out for half price, along with $6 cocktails, $5 glasses of wine, or $3 beers.

And despite the fact that we were fine dining on the cheap, our waitress still treated us with a smile, always there when we needed her. What more could you ask of a Monday night? I can't think of a better way to start the week.

Fair Food and Fainting Goats

"I wish we lived in Wallingford," Michael mused.

"Yeah, but if we lived here we'd probably get fat," was my response.

Case in point: We had just bought a chocolate mint cupcake at Trophy - for later, naturally, because we'd just shared three scoops of gelato from the Fainting Goat, a new gelateria that has joined the conspiracy to make Wallingford a center for sweetness. The verdict on the Fainting Goat: the mango sorbetto is excellent, the peanut butter (yes, peanut butter gelato) and the coconut very good, but perhaps not the best we'd ever had.

"It's hard," said Michael. "I really judge a gelato place by their coconut; it's my favorite."

"Yes, but you can't beat that mango!"

"True, that was amazing."

At least we'd been responsible adults and eaten our lunch before our dessert. Joule was having the last of their "urban barbecue" Sundays for the summer, so we stopped in to try their take on fair food. As always, food at Joule comes with a twist. Michael tried a homemade hot dog topped artfully with shoestrings of pickled white cabbage, while I went the healthy route with "Farmers Market in a Cone", which turned out to be a paper cone stuffed with a variety of heirloom veggies served alongside a tasty dipping sauce. Maybe it seems silly, but I don't know when I've had so much fun eating a salad. Pulling out mustard greens, a skinny radish, an albino carrot, and an Anaheim pepper and dipping them in the mystery sauce allowed me to snack on my salad the way I always secretly want to - with my hands rather than a fork. Actually, in the privacy of my own home I will often roll up salad leaves and pop them straight into my mouth; it seems much less fussy than stabbing them with a utensil, only to find that half of what you wanted didn't even end up on the fork.

We also split an order of cheese curds, a collection of precious cubes of fluffy farm cheese lightly battered and appetizingly golden, scented with truffle oil. Rather than the heavy, tastes-so-good-but-you-know-they've-got-to-be-so-bad cheese curds I've had before, these ones tasted suspiciously... healthful. OK, healthful would be an exaggeration, but they had none of the oozy melting qualities of the typical fried curd. I can't say I really minded once I dug in, however. Cheese is cheese, after all, and I am a fan of all kinds.

And yet, I am already feeling a little hungry again. And that cupcake is just sitting upstairs.... so lonely. Yes, I think a little snack may be in order. We may not live there, but at least we can bring a little Wallingford home when we want it.

New Tricks

Y'all are gonna be so proud - I went to another birthday party in Tacoma Saturday night. And this time - drum roll, please - I actually read the invitation in its entirety. And found out exactly where the party was BEFORE driving down. And even took the cell phone just in case. See, in a mere two weeks time, I have stretched and grown beyond my former limitations. And if you are reading at this point and haven't the faintest idea what I'm talking about, just go back to the post titled "Where's the Party" from January 11th, and you'll know. Oh yes, you'll know.

This time the party was for my dear friend Jackie who should be properly embarrassed when I announce to the world (because there are so many of you out there reading this blog, I'm sure) that she has turned 30! Woohoo! We celebrated by taking in a dance performance that was a little more avant garde than expected (although, to be honest, it was about what I had expected, given the synopsis, and I rather enjoyed it, except for the poor visibility from our seats) and followed that up with pizza and drinks at The Rock. I was reminded of how much I like Tacoma; it always feels like such a close-knit community when compared with Seattle.

And today, I am pleased to report, I made yet another leap forward in rational behavior and made pasta using a pasta machine. Yes, this goes waaay back to my post from September 11th ("Pasta, Basta!"), wherein I describe the pitfalls of attempting to make ravioli by rolling the pasta dough by hand. It was not a pretty sight. But tonight's tortellini were gorgeous! Lewissa came over with her pasta roller (I have yet to get my own, but am now convinced that I absolutely need one) and together we created a fabulous meal of the aforementioned tortellini, filled with lemon juice, ricotta, Parmesan, and pecorino, topped with browned butter and sage, a polenta crusted chicken with a balsamic reduction and capers, broccoli rabe with seasoned oil, rosemary bread, and, of course, a nice Italian red wine.

The only thing regretful was the fact while Lewissa, Michael, and I were all exclaiming rapturously over the tortellini (isn't it nice to surround yourself with people who truly enjoy food?), Amy V was left with her plain capellini. Due to an egg allergy, the tortellini were off limits, but she did get to mix a little of the extra filling in with her noodles, hopefully to good effect.

As for me, I have leftover homemade pasta in the fridge, and believe me, this time I'm not afraid to use it.

Big John's

One of Seattle's best kept secrets (in my humble opinion, of course) is hidden at the back of an old brick warehouse on Airport Way, only a few blocks south of Uwajimaya, yet a world apart. The location, to say the least, does not inspire confidence in the uninitiated.

"Why are you driving down here?" Michael asked me as I pulled into what appeared to be a merely a parking lot down a gravelly hill by a decrepit building.

"This is it," I told him. "This is PFI!"

PFI, or, if you want to get technical, Big John's Pacific Food Importers, is a small shop crammed with all manner of Italian and other European, Mediterranean, and Middle Eastern imported foods, most sold at lower prices than can be found elsewhere in town - if, that is, you can even find some of these items elsewhere. Of course, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and Italian pasta are sold everywhere nowadays, but is your local grocery mart going to offer frantoia olive oil or spaghetti noodles that are three feet long? No, I didn't think so.

And the cheese counter at PFI will make any lover of the curds salivate. Cheeses that sell for $25 a pound at Central Market of Whole Foods might be $15 per pound here. And if you, like Michael and I, are a kalamata olive snob and only like the unpitted kind (believe me - pitting the olives before selling them noticeably decreases their flavor; we know, we've tested this theory), this is one place you can always reliably find them. The catch: with bulk chesses and olives, you must buy at least one pound, making PFI a kind of Costco of the specialty food world.

I regret to say that this was the first time I had made it back to PFI in more than a year. Its location, coupled with the fact that I don't technically need most of the things they sell here, inadvertnatly led to a PFI dry spell. Now, finally, I was going to get that good bottle of balsamic vinegar again, after having subsisted on the cheaper Trader Joe's version for at least a year. Life has been hard, what can I say?

Today I was also in luck because the other item I really needed - fresh mozerella - was on sale, and I snagged a three pound tub for five dollars. Unheard of!

"This is still OK?" I questioned the woman at the cash register. I was going to use it on the pizzas I was making for our neighbors who came over for dinner tonight. The dinner was, in part, a way of thanking them for the help they'd given in patching up our broken window while we were gone at Christmas (see the blog post, "When Winter Trees Begin to Fall"), and passing on the gift of food poisoning wasn't really what I had in mind.

"It's fine, it's just that they were dated for yesterday, so you should eat it soon," she told me.

No problem. For five bucks, that didn't even register as a risk, in my opinion.

Michael and I headed to the car with our purchases, and I pulled out the can of San Pellegrino Limonata soda I'd found for him. We traded sips as we drove home.

"It's such a strange place," Michael told me. "It's kind of run down, and there were some weird smells in the back."

I reminded him of the not-so-distant past when one had to use a ten gallon bucket as a shopping basket; that, along with four ramshackle shopping carts in various stages of falling apart, were all they had on hand.

"If they fixed it up too much, they'd probably charge more," I countered. Then maybe Big John's would be secret no longer. And really, feeling like you're one of the ones in the know is half the fun.

Sweet & Savory

"I don't like sweet and savory." -Michael Rouse, amateur food critic

I'm not sure how many times I've heard the quote above. If I had a dollar for every time, well, I could buy a tank of gas - at last month's prices! Tonight, Michael brought out this familiar protest once again, his explanation as to why he does not like a particular dish, in this case a salad of raw beets and Asian pears cut into matchsticks dressed with lemon vinaigrette and topped with feta, mint, and sunflower seeds. And yes, I do realize that someone out there reading this has probably just thought, "What the @$&!? That's a salad!?" Yes, it is a salad - and a darn good one, at that. Don't judge it until you've tried it.

Many are the times I've puzzled over what Michael defines as sweet and savory, and why this partnership is, in his opinion, a dining taboo. The fact is, he has raved about mango chutney (a mix of mango, peppers, and onions) and sweet and sour eggplant relish that I've made in the past. If that's not sweet and savory, what is?

As it turns out, there is a simple answer to this conundrum: cheese. As with many things in life, cheese is the answer. In this case, it refers specifically Michael's aversion to cheese paired with anything hinting at sweetness. This distaste extends to cheesecake (possibly Michael's least favorite dessert), cheddar paired with apples, and Pagliacci's seasonal pear pizza. Although I have seen him make an exception to this rule for baked brie with figs. Hmm...

In this case, Michael did admit that the salad was not terrible, but the combination of feta and tossed with crunchy beet strips cleverly hiding slivers of pear was just not quite his thing. Since we had enough salad left to feed about six more people, however, he valiantly offered to eat some of the leftovers at work tonight. Aw, what a trooper!

And for those of you more adventurous eaters, how about making a little seasonally appropriate beet salad of your own?

The following recipe is courtesy of Jamie Oliver's Cook with Jamie book:
Cut about four medium large beets (a mix of colors is best - I used chioggia and golden beets, which have the advantage of not staining anything) and two or three pears into matchsticks. Toss with lemon dressing (10 T. olive oil shaken with 3 1/2 T. fresh lemon juice, seasoned with salt and pepper - use what you need and save the rest for other dishes). Top with 7 oz. feta cheese, a handful of sunflower seeds, and a scattering of small mint leaves. Season to taste. Enjoy!

Road Trip Day 3, October 4: I Remember Redwood Trees

Our day got off to a good start with breakfast in Bandon at the Minute Cafe. I got the giant cinnamon roll I'd been craving and proceeded to slather it with butter (hey, I was on vacation - time to go all out, right?), while Michael enjoyed a plate of corned beef hash, hashbrowns, and a buttermilk biscuit. I took the fall and ate the eggs that came with his meal - incomprehensibly, that boy just doesn't like eggs.

Our ultimate goal for the day was to reach Redwood city, about 30 miles south of San Francisco, where we would spend the next two nights with Michael's godparents. In the meantime, we had a lot of driving to do and some real redwoods to explore. The coast was still shrouded in fog, but I was thrilled to see my first glimpses of the southern Oregon shore and northern California. Having grown up firmly ensconced in the northwest corner of our state, I'd actually never made it to this part of the country before. The 101 offered sweeping views of rugged sea stacks fighting a slowly losing battle with the elements around Cape Sebastian and the gorge-like drive around thickly forested Humbug Mountain offered just a glimpse of this incredible region.

Before long we were at the state border.

"Crap!" I exclaimed. "We have Oregon fruit in car, and I hear they ask if you have fruit when coming into California."

Sure enough, they really do ask if you have fruit. We lied. Actually, what Michael said, upon being asked, "Do you have any fruit?" by the border guard was, "Uh, not really, no." The guard looked momentarily confused but let us pass.

So there we were in California, winding through forests of massive redwoods, snacking on peanut butter pretzels and illegal Oregonian plums. We made a detour in Crescent City to pick up some hickory smoked dry jack cheese at the Rumiano Cheese Company store. We then stopped to say hello to my old childhood hero, Paul Bunyan. As a four-year-old, I was enamored of Paul and his blue ox, Babe. I was also under the mistaken impression that the logger's name was really Tall Bunyan, and when I discovered it was Paul my heart broke a little. Tall was the perfect name for this giant! What kind of a wimpy name was Paul, anyway?

I'm not sure what my four-year-old self would have thought of the enormous talking Paul Bunyan that guards the entrance to the Trees of Mystery. Thrilled, probably. I think this Paul was a bit disappointed that we didn't actually stay and pay the $14 per person entry fee to visit these mysterious trees. Maybe another time, Paul.

Determined to squeeze a short hike in, I scoured the little Best Short Hikes in Redwood National and State Parks book I had borrowed from the library. We chose to visit Fern Canyon in the Prairie Creek region of Redwoods State Park.

Perhaps the small lake that covered the road after we turned off the 101 should have been a warning. Turn back, before it's too late! But, inspired by the SUVs and pick-ups ahead of our little Pontiac Vibe, we took the plunge - quite literally - and waded through this small pond of a mud puddle. Oh, what the heck, we're in the land of tall tales, after all! This was a body of water so wide, we had to roll down the windows, grab hold of a passing branch and row ourselves across. And would you believe it, a fish jumped right into Michael's lap! But since he's only a fan of the kind that come battered and fried with tartar sauce on the side, he threw it right back.

After a few miles of winding through pristine redwoods, we reached a pay station for the Fern Canyon area. And although my little guidebook had been published in 2005 and claimed that the day use fee was a measly $2, it had evidently increased to a whopping six bucks! Whopping to us, that is, because we only had $3 in our posession. A thorough search of all pockets, wallets, backpacks, and car crevasses turned up an additional $2.91 in change, as well as a Canadian penny and 4 Croatian kunas. I thought about throwing these last two coins in to make up for our missing nine cents, but thought better of it when I saw that the little envelope stated "no foreign currency". Having already broken California law once that day we were trying to stay on the straight and narrow. "Sorry! This is all we had," I wrote in tiny letters at the bottom of the tiny envelope.

Our trials had only just begun, however. It was at this time that the grey skies decided to let loose and rain. We attempted to drive to the trailhead, but were blocked by another enormous puddle. This time we took the hint from other cars parked on our side of the pond, parked our car, and swam across on our own. After what felt like miles, we made it to the actual trailhead. The rain was pounding down like bowling balls, and this is the reason I took no photos on this hike. By the time we got back we were soaked to the bone through three layers of clothing and mushrooms were already sprouting from our shoulders.

Fern Canyon is gorgeous, though. If you can go on a day when the rain isn't strong enough to send knock over a herd of elk and if you can scrounge up six bucks ahead of time (although by the time you go it may well cost ten), I highly recommend it. The site of a former mining operation, the steep walls that were once scars of the mining industry are now covered with a thick, emerald green carpet of maiden hair ferns. Nearby is a windswept beach and meadows where you can frequently spot elk (we saw a couple of impressive bucks and a doe with her calf).

The rain stopped about the time we got back to the car and forded the lake in our path once more. Soon we were on the road again, winding our way back to 101 and crossing the majestic mud puddle to reach the highway. And although I can't be sure, I think I caught a glimpse of Babe the Blue Ox peering over the tops of the redwoods to see if the rain had really stopped.

If You Go:
For a hearty breakfast in Bandon with great service, go to the Minute Cafe:
145 2nd St.
Bandon, OR 97411

When in Crescent City and in need of some tasty cheese, try the Rumiano Cheese Comapny (unfortunately they don't sell their own cheese pre-sliced for picnicking, and the only bread they had were frozen loaves of La Brea to be baked at home): www.rumiano-cheese.com
511 9th Street
Crescent City, CA 95531

You, too, can visit Paul Bunyan (and even have a conversstion with the big guy) and other sights both tacky and awe-inspiring at the Trees of Mystery: www.treesofmystery.net

Find more information about Prairie Creek Redwood State Park online at: www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=415

In the Beginning: The Great Road Trip of 2008: Day 1, October 2: Oregon, I Am Coming Home

To be honest, I can't say our road trip started with a bang. There were no trips to the airport, eager with anticipation for a city never before seen at the end of a too-long flight, no champagne bottles smashed off the bow of a ship while excited passengers wave streamers as they pull out of port. It started like any other weekend trip to my family's place in northwestern Oregon; Michael picked me up early from work while Lucy wiggled frantically in the back seat before anxiously settling in for a long ride as I took the wheel.

And off we were like a speeding bullet! We made good time, in fact, until we hit Portland at 5:30, still in plenty of time to participate in the evening's rush hour crush. We were all glad to finally make it to my parents' for dinner, an unusual mix of leftovers to which both my mom and I contributed, with a couple choice cheese selections thrown in for good measure.

The real trip, of course, would begin the following morning. Over the next week (or two - however long it takes) I'll be reliving the memories and offering reviews of where we visited and what we ate (and, oh baby, did we eat!). Enjoy the armchair view!

The Mac 'N' Cheesiest

I have never understood the draw of macaroni and cheese from a box. I mean, sure, it's convenient, but while there may be macaroni, can you really call that florescent powder cheese? Really? Even Velveeta falls closer to actual cheese on the spectrum of "Foods That Are Cheese" versus "Foods (or should I say substances?) That Are Not Cheese".

I am, however, very partial to the Real Thing. Comfort food doesn't get much better than a mound of noodles bound together by lovely, melting cheddar. Michael heartily agreed when I made it for dinner tonight.

"But I can see how some people may not like this so much," he said while tucking in.

"What?!" I countered.

"Well, some people don't like sharp cheese."

"But sharp cheese is what makes it taste so cheesy! Otherwise it's just creamy with too much filler," I paused, mulling over what Michael had said. I guess that not everyone does like sharp cheese, so maybe my version of mac 'n' cheese, made with white Tillamook cheddar that was aged for three years, might be a bit much. After all, it's not even yellow, much less radioactive orange.

Oh, well. That just leaves more for me.

A Day in the Life

You know, there just hasn't been much happening these past couple of days. It's just the same old routine, but hey, why not write about that? Some day I will probably look back fondly on these carefree, low energy times. Well, maybe.

So what do I do each day? I wake up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head... OK, so those may not be my own words, but that's pretty much the way it starts. What's that? Too much detail? Yeah, yeah, I get it. Here's my day in a nutshell:

Lucy, our mini-lab mutt, jumps to attention as soon as I make a move to get up. She's rearing to go - encouraged, no doubt, by the fact that breakfast is nigh and, as a lab mix, she is truly all about the food. By the time I leave the house, she's already settled into her "pad" on the basement sofa; the little princess likes to lounge.

I'm running out the door to my first bus. It's about a ten minute ride, then I'm off the bus and running again, this time for about two miles, at which point I'll stop to wait for my second bus of the morning. What's that, you say? You run two miles between buses? Why, yes, I do this nearly EVERY week day morning. Without getting into the boring details, let's just say this is the one way I've found to get between buses without the possibility of a missed connection. Thank you, King County Metro! I do have to admit, though, I'm thankful for the exercise. Not too many people get to run a couple miles as part of their regular morning commute. Total commute time: one hour 15 minutes. Total commute time if I were to drive: half an hour maximum, door to door.

Bus number two takes me directly to bus number three, which takes me directly to downtown Edmonds and Europe Through the Back Door. In other words, my job. I sit at my cubicle, except on days like today when I work the public desk in front, and spend my eight hour work day talking tours, booking tours, checking on tours, updating tours, and laughing at the funny things my coworkers say. This is what tour divas do when they're not, well, touring.

Off work, it's now time for the three bus commute back home (no running this time, as it's a different route). An hour later I'm home, and Lucy greets me at the door, her tail wagging so hard it looks like she might just actually wag her bottom right off. Of course, she knows this means it's almost dinner time; I can't pretend that the mere sight of me is so exciting.

I'm hungry, so I slice off some pecorino cheese from the huge wedge I bought at Costco. Michael's left a note on the message board saying to wake him at 7:45 - he worked an hour and a half of overtime this morning on top of his night shift. Since we're eating leftover chili for dinner and all I need to make are biscuits and salad, this leaves me with time to, well, what else? I'm writing this as we speak, aren't I? It leaves me with time to blog about my uneventful day! Happy Wednesday!