Mother F-ER It's Snowing AGAIN

This is Mike Vogel parodying local Portland anchors.   The last 25 seconds almost made me pee my pants.   I'm posting it tonight because. IT. IS. SNOWING. AGAIN! WTF Portland?! Our newscasters tend to give the same panicked reviews of snow that SSG would if she read the news.  In light of wanting to keep you all as readers, I didn't mention that we got TWO more inches of snow the other morning.   And SSG DROVE.   You are welcome.

OHMAIGAHIWENTOUTSIDE!

(Disclaimer:  Sorry for the photo suckage.  All I had was mah celly.)

After you've been stuck indoors for an entire month due to the flu and an unexpected change from a Northwest winter to an Arctic winter, you kind of forget what the outside is like.  

I woke up Sunday to my requisite combo of coffee and political shows.  This IS Sunday morning after all and my round table discussions have been preempted for the last TWO weeks due to the weather.  Perhaps you've heard it's been snowing here?  Fisher and I eventually headed out to check and make sure our neighborhood still existed.

Actually, that's a lie.  I KNEW it was still here because thankfully my neighbors and Predo have chains and 4 wheel drives.  And technically I HAVE been out of the house.  But last time I saw my 'hood it looked like we were in Aspen or the Swiss Alps but with 100% less skiing.  

A few days ago you couldn't see any of the roads, the trees were covered in snow and  all of the cars were SUV's.  People were in snow gear from head to toe.  At the GROCERY STORE. With the exception of one poor dad I saw at the store last week.  He, or his wife, must have NEEDED to either get out of the house or get the kids out of the house.  Because the guy was in flip flops, had four kids trailing behind him in various summer outfits and he was carrying a shoeless baby practically upside down while pushing a shopping cart full of Mac 'n Cheese.

Where was I again?

Oh YEAH.  

Fish and I went on a LONG walk.  We were gone for a couple of hours taking our time past babbling brooks like this one ...

We walked up hills where buses had been stuck just a few days ago and down hills where SSG slid backwards in her car just over a week ago.  Aside from a few piles of slush here and there, you'd never know a storm hit this place.  It's amazing how something so transient can JACK up your daily life so much.

I ran into my neighbors as I headed out in my car a bit later that afternoon.  "OhmahgahI'minmycar!"  I yelled at them.  They had just bought an 802 inch TV and were so  NOT interested.  Until I mentioned the San Diego Chargers were playing in a big game last night.  They're not from San Diego, but you wouldn't have known because FOOTBALL! + New TV! = "What time are you coming over?!"

Football would have to wait though, I took my little sister (through Big Brothers & Big Sisters) to Peacock Lane, a street in Portland that has lit its houses for Christmas since 1929.  Obviously this picture doesn't do it justice.

But trust SSG when she tells you it was the sweetest evening.

My year with BB&BS is almost up.  It's crazy to think that virtually every weekend this year I've spent time with this munchkin.  In a couple of weeks I won't need to think of someplace to take an 11 year old that she'll like ... that's not the mall.  I will miss spending time with her, but I look forward to having my weekends back. 

This storm gave me a lot of time to reflect on the past year and the blank canvas that is 2009.  I literally have no plans for next year.  No expectations.  No "to do" lists.  No volunteer work.  No classes.  No schedule.  No commitments.  

I CAN'T BELIEVE that's true.  

Just typing it makes me think ... that's not?  No?  It can't be?  Wait ... really?

Yep it's true.

Dreams?  Yes.  Wishes?  Absolutely.  

Perhaps 2009 will be the year they serendipitously come true.  Perhaps not.  But I know for damn sure, I'll have a TON of fun finding out.  

Happy (Almost!) New Year!

SSG

(And P.S. the Chargers WON!)

Mayberry

I grew up on the beaches of San Diego.  My back is a map of freckles--an autobiography of summers spent between Torrey Pines, La Jolla Shores and 15th Street in Del Mar.   You'd think a beach girl couldn't also be a country girl, but I knew no boundaries.  I'd happily top my bathing suit with riding gear and trade my flip flops for boots just in time for my sister to drop me off at the stable.

My horse would whinny from her stall, recognizing the convertible VW from the road.  Smart?  Yes.  She knew it brought carrots, apples and a sunburned 12 year old.   Days at the beach were followed by evenings spent on moonlit trail rides and slumber parties in the hay barn with fierce amounts of giggling over the barn owner's blonde sons.  These memories flood my mind any time I see a horse.

Life is different now.  I have a career that makes me wear professional clothes.  I love Grey Goose Lemon Drops and high heels.  I love Pink Martini and Frank Sinatra and 7 course wine paired dinners.   But I've still got a hefty dose of Mayberry in me.   And I wouldn't trade it for the world, even if it does make my friends scratch their heads when I talk about wanting to move to a small farming community.

But I have a feeling these horses, who happened to be wandering through Chinatown this afternoon, would understand.  They've got careers, an appreciation for cultures other than their own and I'm sure they would love a little summer afternoon spent on the beach.  I wonder if I could find flip flops that would fit them ...

Weekend ABC's - F is for Friends & French Girls

This is my girl crush, Clotilde.  She writes Chocolate & Zucchini, the food blog and her new book Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris was just released last month.  She epitomizes my phrase "I'd hate her if I didn't love her so much."  And she was at Powell's on Friday night.  (Please note the ease with which I overrode the question:  Is cell phone picture taking stalkerish and slightly creepy?)

If you haven't read C & Z, I'll give you the following recap:  Clotilde is 28.  She was born in Paris.  She moved to the Silicon Valley in 2000 because she is a genius computer engineer and that's where all the geniuses were in 2000.  She was inspired by California's fresh produce and spent a lot of her free time cooking and shopping for food.  She recognizes the irony of growing up in Paris but falling in love with food in California.  She moved back to Paris and started C & Z in 2003 when there were only about a dozen food blogs.  Now there are about 3 trillion.  She lives in Montmarte.  She cooks.  She shops at the Parisian markets.  She writes.  She wears cute clothes and gets to travel around the world doing book signings and readings.  I haaaaate.  But I also loooove.  

I was worried I'd make a complete ass out of myself.  Especially since the Bobs and I are staying in her neighborhood, Montmarte, when we go to Paris in September.  Would I come off as crazy groupie girl if I told her?  Should I pretend I was cool and act like I just happened upon her book signing and "oh, what a pleasant surprise!  No, I haven't read your archives one by one, tearing up during many of them."  I even asked Ems at work if my outfit was cute enough for Clotilde to think I could be her new best friend.  "Maybe if I tell her I'm staying in her neighborhood she'll say 'Oh good!  I'd really like to hang out with you more, here's my number I can tell we're going to be BFFs!  Let me show you where to get the best lemon curd tart."  And yes, Ems looked at me like you're looking at your screen right now.

Mrs. Bob, also a big fan of C & Z but way more chill about it, asked a nice question that Clotilde could answer.  And what did I do?  I told her that we were going to be renting an apartment in her neighborhood when we visited in September.  And then I waited.  I waited for her to tell me how much she can't wait to take us for lemon curd tarts when we visit.  But she just smiled and quickly signed my books with her Sharpie.  And then I waited some more.  And then she quickly signed Mrs. Bob's books with her Sharpie.  And then I waited some more.  And then Clotilde said "Bon voyage!"  And I'm sure she meant it as "have a great trip!" and not at all like "ok, stalkerazzi, get away from me you're creeping me out and yes, I will show you where you can get the best lemon curd tart, it's in my new book, which is precisely the reason I wrote it!  Now bye bye!"   

The Bobs and I had a great visit.  There was wine, there was brie, there were yummy cocktails at Henry's.  There was a chick flick while Mr. Bob went to go geocache with Baby Bob (Made of Honor.  Cute, but note to McDreamy, please do not ever try physical comedy again.  You may mess up your perfect hair and we just wouldn't be able to take it.)  There was a pass through Bridgeport's pretty stores and thus many feelings of home decorating inadequacy by Mrs. Bob and me which we promptly remedied by double scoops of Haagen Das ice cream in waffle cones.  There were revisits to favorite stores on Alberta St and burgers at Pause before I had to bid them adieu with a plea to Baby Bob to tell her parents that every weekend she wants to come down to Camp Portland.

And then SSG had to rally, because Friday night and Saturday were FULL.  And SSG is usually cross eyed by Friday night and goes to bed at 8:30 p.m. and then recovers from the week by staying in her p.j.'s all morning on Saturday and watching her cooking shows until Wade tells her to come over for drinks and yes she can wear her p.j's.  So she was tired and so was her little mutt.  But Dan and Co. were waiting to meet SSG at Papa Haydn at 10:30 p.m. (!).  At some point in the not so distant past, that used to be SSG's going out time.  When did it become waaaay past her bed time?

So I rallied, because I am young, hot, single woman and not tired, early bird special wanting retiree in Florida.  I met up with Dan, his new girlfriend Celia, Wes and Wes' wife--the cutest pregnant woman ever, Michelle.  And poor Celia, because she had to listen to the stories that poor Michelle has heard a million times before.  Stories about sardine cans and nuns out on country roads in the middle of the night and how I think Dan and Wes are feminists even though they don't think they are.  And that was before I even cracked open Papa Haydn's dessert menu.

But when I shut my mouth for a second and actually opened the dessert menu, there it was.  A Meyer Lemon Curd Tart.  

And I smiled to myself.  I may not live in Paris or have Clotilde as my BFF.  But my little corner of the world with these people as friends?   Sweet and filling, just like that lemon curd tart.

Hope you guys had a lovely weekend too, I missed you!

SSG

History Buffs & Secret Crushes

Break ups are HARD people.  You catch yourself thinking about your former love at the most inconvenient times.  Like today, when talking about the Marilyn Monroe porn tape and J asked who would buy such a thing and I replied "the real question is how many heads does he have in his freezer and does he dress up like Marilyn or his mommy?"  And then Em got all witty and said "A history buff that likes historical figures in the buff."  Yeah, that was the type of conversation I used to have with you Starbucks.  I'll miss those chats and so will my coworkers.  Because you don't get their funny, witty banter anymore. I get custody of them and you get the bitches that order their lattes to 180 degrees (what does that even MEAN?!).

So this morning I set out to go to Stumptown.  Now, I've been to Stumptown many times before, but this time it felt more serious.  Like we might be starting a relationship.  And I don't want to freak Stumptown out by laying all of my expectations out on its cool exposed brick walls and gay friendly literature for fear that the girls with tattoos behind the counter will tell me what's up by kicking my ass back to 7th grade when my Esprit bag was attached as if it were an appendage.  No, no.  Trust me Stumpy-Stumps ... I already know I'm not cool enough for you.  

But readers, Stumptown is my secret crush.  Stumptown is the popular boy at school who you go completely out of your way to see between classes knowing full well you'll be late to Econ, but you don't give a rat's ASS because he is YUMMY.  And just the mere sight of him makes you get all giggly.  And today?  Well today was the day that I was going to try and talk to my crush.  I put on lipstick and everything.  And then I did the only thing I could do.   I brought reinforcements.  

"Ems, " I said.  "Come on, we're going on a field trip."  We accosted Andrew just as he was getting out of the elevator and forced him to come along.  This is hard for me, readers.  I had to TALK about it.   And so I did.  In detail.  All the way to Stumptown.  I'm sure Ems and Andrew were wondering if they should associate with me publicly.  Andrew even pretended not to hear me for an entire block.  But I kept going.  Until Ems finally looked at him and said "she broke up with Starbucks."  To which he replied "how many bad lattes did you have to get before kicking them to the curb?"  I didn't quite know how to answer that question.  Do I look like a douche bag if I say too many?  Or a bitch if I don't say enough?  Perhaps I've been too harsh?  No, no!  I must forge on.

And so all nervous like, I stepped up to the counter at Stumps and ordered my latte all the while trying not to stare at the hot guy in the black wool coat that was behind me (Side note to the hot guy in the black wool coat:  Well done, sexily dressed, good haired cutie!).  But back to my chat with the popular peeps ... 

The girls were NICE to me!  I could HEAR them!  I got my drink and didn't burn my hand!  It even had a pretty little picture on it!  I promptly dove in and there was FOAM!  I couldn't stop myself!  I was many sips in before remembering to capture it with my oh so professional camera (read:  Motorola Cell Phone).  Because when a girl starts a scrapbook of a new relationship, um ... date ... um ... future ex coffee shop ... whatever, it's important to have memorabilia so you can leave something behind for your ancestors.  Things must be left for the history buffs/serial killers/cross dressers so they can pay $1.5 million to look back at history and say ... so THIS is how it all began ... and I will NOT be the one to deprive them.

P.S.  Speaking of new beginnings, special shout out to all of you new fun peeps who have stopped by to say hi!  I love you and your comments and hello?  Two mentions that I was YOUNG today?  YOU'RE on MY favorites.  No you are.  No you.  No.  You. 

And also, many, many crush worthy thanks to Jack for sending you lovely people my way. 

I really appreciate it. 

 

Karam Lebanese Cuisine

This is my phone.  The label?  Courtesy of the jerks that I work with.  And this phone of mine?  Rang WAY too much today.  So when I got a little e-mail that said only "What's for lunch?" I promptly replied:  "Anything, as long as it's NOW."  Ironically we ended up at a restaurant I only knew of because of an occasion where my phone DIDN'T ring. 

Last summer I decided I needed an overhaul.  Long story short, I was sick of working for a guy we had deemed the Seagull.  The Seagull would fly in, squawk at us, shit all over our projects and then fly back to his hometown leaving in his wake a big fat mess.   Long story short, I found a new job, cut and colored my hair, got a new wardrobe and went out with anyone who asked.  

The first guy up to bat had potential.  He was from Chicago.  He loved baseball too.  He had a professional job.  He laughed at my jokes.  He needed new hair, but nothing that a good stylist couldn't solve.  And BONUS--he even suggested the place.  There was none of this "Where do you want to go? I don't know, where do you want to go?" bullshit.  

We ... correction, I had a great time and as we were leaving the restaurant, he mentioned a little Lebanese place downtown that he wanted to take me to.  "That sounds great," I said.  To which he replied: "Perfect, I'll call you."  

And that was all he needed to say to make me know I'd have to find the little Lebanese place on my own.   Those words "I'll call you?" Translation:  "I have absolutely NO plans of ever calling you again."

My interest in Lebanese cuisine was piqued.  Enter Karam, a delicious Lebanese place on Stark Street in downtown Portland.  I love Karam.  I don't know what I did before.  How did I ever survive without their puffed pita that is so hot and fresh from the oven that steam pours out of it when you tear off a small piece? How did I live without their Fatte--a mix of chicken, eggplant, garbanzo beans and a fresh yogurt layered together and baked in homemade bread.   The fragrance when it arrived at the table made everyone let out a breath--smoky with just a hint of cinnamon ... um, that is the fatte, not the squad's breath.  

I don't know EXACTLY if this was where "Chicago-a-go-go," as my friends deemed him, had intended to take me.  There is some debate that it could also be Habibi's (spelling?) which I've heard is really good too.  But for now I'm stuck on Karam's ... although, on second thought, there's nothing wrong with playing the field now, is there?

Karam

316 SW Stark St.

Portland, OR

503.223.0830

March Madness

Men of Portland, I love you.

The college basketball tournament started today and March Madness is in full swing. The squad headed over to The City, a sports bar in downtown Portland, to grab some lunch and catch one of the games. The place was crawling with men and I was reminded of how much I love guys when they're doing "guy stuff" and how much I especially love the men of Portland.

A couple of years ago I had the chance to be on the market floor of the New York Stock Exchange. It was amazing, and probably one of my all time great life experiences. A group of traders spent a few hours with us, letting us watch as they made trades and taking us around on a tour. By "us," I mean 5 girls. By "tour" I mean showing us that the NYSE is made up of 99.9% men. I don't know if we were on display or if they were, but I suspect it was a bit of both. It was a complete high seeing guys hang up the phone, shove aside their fellow traders and come out of their respective places in "the garage" to check us out as we walked by. But after a while it got old and started to feel a bit like we were New York Strip Steaks about to be devoured. (That's actually a complete lie, it never got old. I just like to tell the story whenever possible). What is it about guys being guys that's so incredibly sexy? All of that testosterone, the focus and energy of men being assertive and doing what they're passionnate about whether its working, watching a game, driving a fire truck, shaving, whatever ... is it getting warm in here?

I had to leave The City before the rest of the squad to get back to the office in time for a conference call (damn you work!) and wound my way through tables and chairs and groups of guys all by myself. I was afraid one of two things would happen. That said men would either a) be irritated that a chick was on their turf or b) be all pervy due to the many beers consumed in the middle of the afternoon. And that's when it hit me how great our Portland men are. Everyone chivalrously allowed me to pass, smiled and gave me an appreciative (not icky) checkout--like "that's kind of cool that a girl is watching sports on her lunch hour" or it could have been "wow, that chick has a massive piece of spinach in her teeth" but I prefer to think it was the former.

Men of Portland, I'm sorry if I sometimes forget how incredibly cool you are. Thanks for letting me enter and exit the elevators first, for opening my doors, for keeping an eye out when strange men in Starbuck's are standing too close while holding large stuffed penguins. Thanks for watching sports and not caring if a girl invaded your space. Forget the Sweet 16, you guys are the real champs.

St. Patrick? No, Saint Cupcake!

I never was a fan of Catholicism. A lot of my friends throughout school were Catholic and always got into trouble for "sinning", they couldn't play on Sundays and had to go to classes AFTER SCHOOL to learn more about Catholicism. As far as I was concerned, that was a bunch of B.S. Everyone knew after school and weekends meant play time. God wouldn't want kids locked up in a classroom for any longer than we already were, would she/he? I didn't think so either, so on the weekends I prayed where every good little teenage girl should--at the Church of Malls and Horse Stables ... and occasionally at the Aquarius Roller Skating Rink.

I have warmed up a bit more to the Catholic Church. My sister married a good Catholic boy and my niece and nephew were baptized in the church, so I pick stuff up by osmosis--usually around Christmastime. I love midnight mass (especially when it takes place at 5 p.m. and is preceded by dim sum) and the gorgeous churches that are lit by candlelight. I like that the priests aren't preaching hellfire and damnation and I especially love the stories of the Saints. So when I came upon a place called St. Cupcake in downtown Portland, I just about said 10 Hail Mary's. Was there such a person as a St. Cupcake? And why hadn't my Catholic friends told me about her?

Not literally a saint (but the owners should be at least considered for sainthood), Saint Cupcake is a bakery located in downtown Portland on the corner of NW 17th & Flanders. I pop in there a few times a month for the best cupcakes in town. My friends were visiting one weekend and we had eaten at St. Cupcake so many times that by the time they left on Sunday afternoon the woman working behind the counter said "oh, are you guys heading back to Seattle?"

The first time I set foot into St. Cupcake and took a look at their cheery pink, brown and cream decor I wanted to sit down and write out Valentine's Day cards or wrap presents for my friends in the colorful Sunday comics. I was literally walking back into my childhood when cupcakes meant parties, sugar highs and all of your friends gathered in the same place. I almost started jumping up and down asking if we could have a slumber party. But I refrained, and asked instead if I could have a chocolate cupcake ... and a coconut one ... and a red velvet one too. "To eat at home," I told the girl behind the counter. I admired her ability not to roll her eyes and say "yeah right."

Just as I was about to take a bite, I hesitated. As cute as cupcakes are, they were very often dry. I remember, when I was younger, specifically licking the frosting off their tops for that very reason. The cake, of course, would go to my dad. I tentitively took a lick of the chocolate buttercream frosting. I didn't want to be disappointed by something so cute. Luckily St. Cupcakes are as good as they look--I think a stick of butter goes into each cupcake. So the frosting was delicious, what about the rest of the cake? I closed my eyes and dug in. Moist, delicious and gone in a matter of seconds. Oh, and the one I was supposed to take home? Never made it.

Go now. Or rather, tomorrow. St. Cupcake is closed on Mondays, for even saints get their rest. The service is ummm ... usually lacking in personality. (Sorry St. Cupcake! But lying is a sin, or something, isn't it?) But you won't miss it once you take a taste. The owners, who are lovely, put their personality into where it matters most--a cute, lively place and cupcakes that taste like they've been sent down straight from heaven. Amen.

East India Co.

When I was younger I used to watch I Dream of Jeannie when I would stay home sick. I loved Jeannie's ponytail, the 60's music and the Major's uniform but I especially loved Jeannie's bottle. It was so girly, so pink and full of pillows and glamour. I could imagine myself in that bottle, lounging around on the couches all day and pretending to file my nails while giving "Major" the silent treatment. Oh how I wanted to be an adult, if I was an adult I'd sleep in until noon and eat cookies for dinner.

So not surprisingly, I've spent the past couple of nights eating Girl Scout Thin Mints for dinner (who says dreams don't come true?). You can probably imagine my stomach's reaction when the mere mention of lunch came up. "Lunch? Indian? What do we need to do to make this happen? Do I need to pay? Hire a sherpa? Get a camel? What, I'll do anything, I'm STARVING." Luckily all I had to do was walk up to 11th Avenue.

East India Co. just opened a couple of months ago and is located between Yamhill and Taylor. We (the geek squad) sat in a booth surrounded by a filmy curtain with gorgeous pillows strewn about and a lit star hovering above us on the ceiling. It was just like Jeannie's bottle and I half expected to disappear into a poof of pink smoke before coming face to face with Larry Hagman. But that thought quickly left when I was presented with the menu.

East India Co. offers three prix fixe menus for lunch. I had The Viceroy's Lunch and for $12.95 had a lovely salad of bell peppers, carrots, tomatoes and herbs in a light vinegrette to start. The salad was followed by Samosa Chaat--perfectly cooked potatoes in a crispy shell over garbanzo beans with a spicy chutney. Then the kebabs had to jump in and make me ooh and aah over their moist, charred flavor. By that time I was stuffed. But when our server rolled arond with Naan and the day's curry with basmati rice thoughts of fullness left my mind as quickly as Larry Hagman had earlier. I dove in with 1960's spirit and almost said "yeah baby" aloud before stopping myself (actually my mouth was too full). Could I really have room for one more course?

Now is probably a good time to talk about my philosophy on the human stomach. I believe that our stomachs are made up of buckets and that each bucket is reserved for one type of food. So in this case, after polishing off salad, samosas, kebabs, Naan and almost all of my curry most of my buckets were stuffed. But then dessert came around and who wants dessert? "Oh yes! I'll have some please." See, dessert bucket, completely empty. Doesn't it explain so much? I know!

So dessert was a soft blend of carrots that had been cooked in a saffron butter with golden raisins. It made the table actually go quiet, that's how good it was. Well, either that or the food coma was kicking in. Regardless, we don't get quiet very often.

It's probably not the place you'd want to go to lunch at every day (if anything just for sheer volume's sake) we were in there for over an hour. Our waitress apologized profusely and said they were a bit short staffed. But we didn't mind, it was actually nice to be tucked away in East India for a while. If you're looking for something a little quicker try their happy hour, the drinks sounded delicious and they run specials on food Monday through Saturday from 4 p.m. - 7 p.m.

And keep your eye out for Jeannie, I swear she's around there somewhere.

Grand Central Bowl

So the squad and I stepped out of work a little early and headed over to Grand Central Bowl for a few games, beers and lots of jokes involving balls. I bowled a 160 ... in three games. I have the athletic prowess of Elton John. The skills I have on Wii obviously don't translate to real life.

You can tell by my score, I'm not a serious bowler. But for the record, I do love serious bowlers. I love the stance, the focus, the little leg kick out at the end, the way the ball (can't even type it without laughing) shoots down the lane instead of bouncing down like when I throw it. I'm all about the shoes (and once even ... um "borrowed" a pair when I was in high school) and the shirts and the funny league names. But then I go to a local bowling alley and it's smokey, and there is music playing that I don't like, and the beer is flat and nothing matters aside from bowling and I'm way too A.D.D for that. So Grand Central was right up my alley (ba dum bum) the music was fun--little '80's mixed with some Led Zep and ACDC, I had cocktails instead of beer, could shoot some pool and have some dinner all in the same place and bonus, I left without smelling like an ash tray.

But hands down, the best part of the night was hearing my boss put on his bowling shoes, step out onto the lane and say "I've got to test the wood."

In the words of Michael Scott, "that's what she said."

Happy Friday Everyone!
SSG

The Park Bistro

So the geek squad and I headed out for lunch today. Usually we go on Fridays (us geeks like our routine) but today I felt like getting out and threw out an e-mail to the crew (despite the fact that we all sit no more than 10 feet from each other). Everyone was in, but where oh where to go? We've hit up most of the downtown lunch spots--Red Coach, Blue Plate, Bijou Cafe, Ford's On 5th, Fong Chong's for Dim Sum, Portland City Grill, I could go on and on. But today called for something new ... something different ... something slightly, oh I don't know, Parisian (it's getting annyoing, isn't it?)

I've said before that I'm down with any restaurant that has the word "bistro" in the title. Chuck E. Cheese could be called Chuck E. Cheese Bistro and I'd be first in line. So you can imagine that a little place called "The Park Bistro" located on SW Park in downtown Portland didn't escape my notice. I checked out their website and discovered they had a nice little breakfast and lunch menu complete with soups, paninis, salads and the like and the bonus is that they're oh so very Porltand and all about the sustainable agriculture. I love anyone who makes me feel like I'm helping the planet by doing what I'd normally be doing ... and if it includes eating, uh yes please!

We were welcomed into The Park Bistro by a really nice guy with stylish eye glasses and a chill but attentive demeanor. He was my favorite kind of server--giving us enough space but not too much and seemed genuinely glad we were there. We dove into the menu with gusto--everone ordered something different. I got a turkey, brie and spinach pesto sandwich with a tomato basil soup. There was a frittata on deck, a curried chicken sandwich and an egg scramble and some other chicken sandwich business. I was so busy stuffing my face that it took me a few minutes to look up and see if everyone liked what they had. Happy faces all around. (Whew, the squad can be a judgemental group sometimes!)

I finally stopped eating (so what if it was after my empty plate had been cleared) and noticed what a cheery little place we were in--pale yellow and tangerine walls, a gorgeous bar in the corner directly across from a couch that has my name written all over it and the art on the walls is tasteful. Turns out they have tapas and beer and wine for happy hour too. We were all figuring out when we'd be back for happy hour when with the check, we were brought two pieces of chocolate cheesecake--gratis. Ummmm ... could this place be any better?

So where admitedly yes, I would do almost anything for dessert ... especially chocolate desserts ... especially free chocolate desserts, I promise I was going to write about this place anyway. They're not open for dinner quite yet, but hurry up and get down there and give them enough business so they can. I can't promise the free chessecake, but I can promise you good food and the chance of seeing me there sipping a glass of vino on that couch ...

Laurelhurst Park

I stumbled upon Laurelhurst Park one night after leaving Noble Rot, a great little wine bar, just off of Burnside & 28th. I had met some friends for a glass of wine and their heirloom tomato panzanella salad and was driving home, already reminiscing about the glass of Justice Pinot Noir that had fast worked its way into my ongoing "new favorite wine" contest. It finally occurred to me after passing the same house again, that I was quite happily lost in the beautiful neighborhood of Laurelhurst.

I love neighborhoods like Laurelhurst--where the homes are set back off the street and their owners have lovingly restored their early 20th century charm. I picture spouses inside pouring over copies of Gourmet magazine deciding what to have alongside their dinner of roasted duck while their kids conjugate french verbs at the kitchen table. In 3 seconds flat I decided that when I grow up and become an adult, I will live in Laurelhurst.

Laurelhurst Park sits in the middle of my future neighborhood and I had wanted to go back but unfortunately my car goes on auto pilot any time I get close and insists upon parking right in front of Noble Rot. So what else can I do but run inside for a lingering glass of my new favorite wine? Inevitably it ends up too late and while I like to consider myself a strong kick ass kind of gal, I am actually quite terrified of being outside alone at night. I'm sure it stems from reading books about Ted Bundy when I was a teenager. No, no Laurelhurst Park at night would just not do. I would have to wait for a day just like today.

The Mutt and I woke up early and both ran outside--her to sniff and do her business and me to see if the promised sun had made it out. It had! We jumped in the car and headed over to the park and spent an hour wandering around the pond, looking at the ducks and meeting other dog walkers. I love parks right in the middle of the city--Balboa Park in San Diego, Central Park in Manhattan, Discovery Park in Seattle, Washington Park in Portland. But Laurelhurst Park you get my vote for a new contest ... my new favorite park. I feel it's just as important to "love locally" as it is important to "eat locally" ... even if you do have to drive to get there.

I reluctantly pulled away from Laurelhurst (with a swing by Noble Rot juuuust to see if they were open, which they weren't damn it) to head back to my own 'hood for the inevitable weekend errand running when I popped into the grocery store. Just as the clerk was ringing up my last item, I grabbed a Gourmet magazine and threw it in for good measure.

Search for the Perfect Pizza

There are a few things I am constantly on the lookout for--the perfect pizza, the perfect burger, the perfect guy ... you know, the usual. Some may call the quest for "perfection" futile, or some kind of Type A indicator but what I've found out about "perfection" is that all it means is what is perfect for you--so what is perfect for one probably isn't going to be what is perfect for another. Which is WAY less intimidating ... and probably something that would have been helpful to know growing up a fair skinned brown eyed, brown haired girl in Southern California. But I digress ...

So I had moved to Portland. Check. Had a job. Check. Found an apartment. Check. Had moved in. Semi-check. It was now time to get down to business. An old friend had road tripped up with me and was hanging out for a few days to see the Portland sites. So we cracked open the guidebook looking for a place to go to dinner and were pointed in the direction of a great pizza place--Bridgeport Brew Pub. It was in the "up and coming" Pearl District, had hops growing on the outside of the building and cool old picnic tables inside. You could get a pint and a decent slice of pizza. But best of all, when we walked in it reminded us of Pizza Port, a local San Diego pizza joint where we used to congregate with friends for pitchers, pizza and a few rounds of Crazy Taxi. Finding Bridgeport Brew Pub was warm and encouraging--eventually I'd meet Portland peeps and when I did, we would have a place to congregate.

Some time later, I'd take some friends there. The outside of the building looked the same, but the inside was all different. I was VERY confused and asked the hostess if I had walked into the wrong place. Nope, turned out Bridgeport had gone through a major remodel--it now had an open loft feel with high ceilings, black railings and the picnic tables were long gone. Unfortunately their their menu was gone as well--and it was no longer the place I remembered. The quest was back on. (Side Note: A friend of mine actually does eat here quite regularly and swears by their burger, I'm sure I'll go back once I recover from the shell shock.)

So the quest was back on ...

Yesterday a group of us ordered in Hot Lips Pizza and I've got to say, I was pleasantly surprised. The crust was thin, but still doughy, the sauce was sweet but fresh and the pie had a good blend of cheese that was crisped in all the right places. The slices of pepperoni and mushroom were generous. I have no idea what the ambience in this place looks like, or if you can get a beer. Even if you can't, I will definitely try it again ... especially if they have Crazy Taxi. A girl can always hope ...

105.1 Made Me Do It

Every afternoon I listen to 105.1 "The Buzz" as I'm driving home (and simultaneously ruining the environment). I love Daria, Mitch and Producer Ted. So much so that when my old college roommates were visiting they asked if they had been replaced as every time we got in the car I promptly turned the radio up and listened to my "new" friends rather than my old ones.

So today D, M & PT were discussing song lyrics and which songs you butchered as a kid and didn't realize until adulthood. I don't really remember any of my own, but the aforementioned former college roommates had a couple. I'll use their nicknames to protect the guilty:

Spleen: Beastie Boy's lyric "my mom threw away my best pair of cords." Actual lyric? "My mom threw away my best porno mag."

Digs: Elton John lyric "hold me close I'm trying to daaance ... nah." Actual lyric? "Hold me close now tiny dancer."

I think part of the reason I never butchered the lyrics was because I had this pre-teen habit of listening to music OVER and OVER again for hours while lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling and imagining a life full of love and romance and being swept off my feet. I remembered this swooning period in my life when 105.1 queued up "Glory of Love" from the Karate Kid.

"Glory of Love" by Peter Setera melted my 12 year old little heart. I would press rewind and play repeatedly on my tape deck to get it to the very beginning of the song ... the song I recorded off the radio, of course. Then I would fall back on my bed, dream of a Jake Ryan clone picking me up from school in his red Porsche (when I was old enough, of course) and taking me back to his house where he had made me a birthday cake (I obviously had seen 16 Candles a few times). And so I decided to put together a little play list of what made me swoon when I was 12. Don't blame me, blame my new friends Daria, Mitch and Ted.

1) "Glory of Love" by Peter Setera.
2) "Always" by Atlantic Star.
3) "Somebody" Depeche Mode
4) John Reeves (a little skater punk at my school)
5) Eden & Cruise Castillo from Santa Barbara.
6) Anne of Green Gables falling in love with Gilbert Blythe
7) Any book that starred a girl, a horse and a popular boy who discovered he loved the horsebackriding girl.
8) Any movie starring Molly Ringwald.
9) Duran Duran
10) 15th Street in Del Mar
11 - infinity (even still) Jake Ryan

It's okay to sigh ... I just did too.

XOXO,
SSG

Blue Plate

I am currently dreaming of spring.

Last April I walked under a perfect canopy of cherry blossoms on the trees that line the road to my house. I photographed them with my cell phone camera, trying anything not to let that moment of early April go. I long for spring to burst forth with her bright yellow daffodils and pale pink tulips. She may come slowly to Portland but Spring never disappoints--strawberries are picked at their peak, minor league baseball begins and weekly festivals at the waterfront start to queue up. More importantly, spring holds the promise of warmth after a long Portland winter.

But for now, it is early February and not only does it feel like it's going to rain every day from now until April, it probably will ... and no, I'm not kidding. Warmth needs to be found elsewhere and not just any kind of warmth, but the kind that gives you the cozy feeling of sipping hot cocoa in front of the fire when you're curled up with a good book. When I just can't take the rainy day grays any more and my boss looks at me strangely for suggesting a hot cocoa/reading hour, I head over to Blue Plate for lunch.

Blue Plate is a teeny little place tucked away on Washington St. in downtown Portland. Blink and you may miss it, come back and they might be closed. Open from 11:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Monday thru Friday Blue Plate caters to the downtown lunch crowd and serves up diner favorites like meatloaf and pot roast. My favorite? The grilled cheese sandwich and cream of tomato soup--a rainy day classic. I don't know if it's the Dum Dum suckers on the tables, the old wood bar or the homemade milkshakes that make this place a bright spot during the dark Northwest winters. Whatever it is, I don't care. Just hand over the chocolate and peanut butter milkshake ... no wait, make that strawberry--sweet, pale pink and perhaps ... a new kind of bliss while I wait for spring to bloom.