The End

Well this day was bound to come. After nearly six years, 170 posts and a series of highly amusing life experiences, this will be my last and final post on The Yapper.

A lot has changed in the two years since my most recent post: I have moved to Washington (the city on the swamp), managed to be gainfully employed for this whole period, I’ve met and become friends with some really entertaining people, and I actually bought that Vitamix!  This whole time, I maintained that I would one day return to blogging, just as soon as my kitchen table arrived. Well, it’s been two years and the damn thing is still sitting in Florida.

There was another reason I stopped writing: I honestly didn’t have anything going on in my life.  Moving to a new city with just a random assortment of people I’ve known from different parts of my life combined with a work environment in which the colleague nearest in age to me is in his early 40s didn’t make it easy to meet new people.  So there were a LOT of boring weekends and week nights.

 

While yes, all good things must come to an end, it hasn’t been all bad.  I started this exclusively as a joke; I never tried to make money from it.  It was just for fun, and yet I somehow managed to get two paid, editorial internships in New York because of it.  Plus, I have a permanent journal of my life in college so I can remember the good times again when my memory starts to fail in a few years.

I’d like to thank all ten of my regular readers for actually reading everything I have written over the years, and I’d like to dedicate this final post to my favorite reader, Grace’s mother Isabelle, a wonderful person whose vibrant life ended far too soon earlier this year.  Isabelle left a solid 70% of the comments on my blog and I’ll forever be grateful to her for never-ending words of encouragement.

This morning, I saw a quote on Instagram that read “And suddenly you know…it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”  I personally can’t wait to see where this new beginning takes me…

-JD

Fin

Like the Name Implies: Ta-Boo

Last week, I was down in Palm Beach and while there I had dinner at the island’s longtime dining institution, Ta-boo. The restaurant’s location on Worth Avenue ensures great people-watching will occur during lunch, but come dinnertime, it seems that only habit and tourist guide books are they only things keeping people coming through the door.

I’ve been eating at Ta-boo for as long as I can remember, but in recent years, I’ve gone instead to The Palm Beach Grill, Michael R. McCarty’s-a restaurant I love so much that I think I want them to cater my shiva simply because I want to be near the fried green tomatoes and macaroni & cheese one last time-Būccan, or any of the other incredible restaurants on the island. It wasn’t that I had a bad meal the last time I ate there; I just stopped considering it when making my dining selections these past few years. However, Grace was in town and it’s always been her favorite place to eat on the island so I called and got us reservations.

When one calls the restaurant’s phone number to make a reservation, a voice recording tells you that “It’s been said that if you were not seen at Ta-boo, you were not seen in town.” Well, that would be true if the other patrons could still see, let alone breathe. The average age of the non-tourists sent from the Breakers had to have been 79. There they sat, facelifts, tummy tucks, breast-lifts, botox-injections, hip replacements, cataracts and all in their St. John knits and Maus & Hoffman finery looking like they had all decided to take a night off from being dead to go to dinner.

Let’s start with the wine. For a restaurant that charges an average of $30 for an entrée, the wine by the glass list is akin to something one might find at a upscale chain restaurant with such excellent options as Santa Margherita pinot grigio and other sub-quality, yet overpriced wines that are all so equally bad that it’s just better to stick with water.

And so with the soothing sounds of Big Willie’s “Just the Two of Us” playing overhead at a volume louder than mood music should be played, we ordered.

It’s not easy to mess up a salad so I will say that the pear and walnut salad is fine. Years ago, though, Grace and I went wild and got a baked brie, which was scrumptious. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it on the menu this time around so perhaps they don’t offer it anymore; that, or it was a special for that evening.

As for the main courses, they were just okay. Grace, who wasn’t very hungry, only had the classic pizza, which I could have done a better job making myself. In fact, I have made a better pizza than theirs. It was far too greasy and looked as though it was in the oven for too long. My thinner Kim Jung-Un ordered that evening’s grilled salmon special, which he said way too dry to enjoy. Mother and I both ordered the dover sole and while the sides that come with the sole were fine as always, the sole itself was awful! It was so bad that it tasted three times better cold the next morning when I ate mother’s leftovers for breakfast! And that was AFTER I spritzed a whole lemon over it! It had no flavor at all. For a piece of fish that costs nearly $40, one would assume it would taste perfect.

Dessert didn’t do a whole lot to impress us either. Of the pathetic options available, I settled on the ice cream sunday because I thought “how can you mess this up?” Turns out, you can. The vanilla ice cream wasn’t very good and kind of tasted like Edy’s, which only tastes half decent when they serve it at 35,000 ft. for dessert on United, and that’s after you get chocolate sauce, carmel sauce, whipped cream, walnuts, and the cherry on top.

The problem is that Ta-boo sold out. The ultimate sign of this is when they sell brand hats and golf shirts on their website, which Ta-boo does. It can happen to any once incredible restaurant; in Williamsburg, the Trellis used to be this extremely elegant restaurant where you made sure you looked nice when you ate there. I remember eating there for brunch one morning back in the beginning of Clinton’s first term and everyone had on suits and pearls with scarves. The space was beautiful and the food was critically-aclaimed for years, especially the dessert, which was thanks in large part to the restaurant’s co-owner and former pastry chef, Marcel Desaulniers, whose desserts were so critically acclaimed that he wrote a 1992 book, Death By Chocolate.

But then this amazing new restaurant called the Fat Canary opened up across the street in 2003 and the food was delicious, the staff was so friendly and courteous, the wine list was extensive, and it was a threat. So, to try and stay relevant, the Trellis tried to reinvent itself. The problem was that their plan backfired. Except for the height of summer when tourists will eat anything and anywhere, it’s easier to get into the Trellis than it is to get into North Korea! Grace and I went there because the Fat Canary was full back in the summer of 2008 and it was AWFUL! I’m still haunted by that meal it was so bad.

Ta-boo used to be a great restaurant and maybe it can be again, but right now it’s downright horrible. The kitschy decor is showing its age, the fish tank at the bar looks like something out of an episode of “Cribs,” the menu is in desperate need of being pared-down and updated. Even then, it will still have a a problem dragging people away from newer, more exciting restaurants that have swept in and captured the market once dominated by Ta-boo. Such legendary mainstays like Chez Jean-Pierre and Café L’Europe have managed to endure because they’re the Palm Beach equivalents of Le Cirque; they’re timeless and not going anywhere anytime soon because they’re special restaurants for special occasions.

If Ta-boo wants to matter again, it needs to fix itself and fast because its core patrons are dropping like flies and their children and grandchildren are quickly moving on to better restaurants that have better food and patrons who don’t belong in wax museums that have been decorated to look a bad 1980s relic.

Polo: A Spectator Sport That Suits My Lifestyle

A few weeks ago, as I waited for my valise at baggage claim in Palm Beach, I saw the ad for the weekly polo matches that take place in Wellington and thought that maybe, after all these years, it was time to see what Grace has been talking about for so long.

So that Sunday, I left Palm Beach after being there four days and ventured to the land-side Palm Beach offshoot, Wellington.  This little gem about thirty minutes from the Breakers between the hellish nightmare of those gated communities and strip malls filled with bad chain restaurants and an awful TJ Maxx in West Palm Beach and the swamp-filled fun fest that is the Everglades is the self-proclaimed horse capital of the world.  The distance (and exposure to really grotesque architecture) aside, Wellington is a perfectly wonderful place.

The planners of its gated communities decided that golf courses were too Boca for such an equine area, so they replaced the fairways and sand traps with polo fields and stables.  And you thought a precocious twelve year-old at golf camp on summer whacking a golf ball going into your living room window was bad; imagine the mess that a polo ball makes when that same  kid sends one through the window after hitting it with that mallet!  All I can say about that is, well… you’re the idiot who volunteered to live on a polo field.

Anyway, aside from these gated polo communities, Wellington is home to the world-famous Palm Beach International Equestrian Festival, which is so much nicer than the dumps Grace used to go for horse shows. But I wasn’t there to view faux-Italian architecture or to find a horseback-riding wife.  No, I was there for polo.

It’s been called the sport of kings, and rightfully so.  It’s expensive beyond belief (those horses don’t come cheap, you know), potentially dangerous, can only be played in spectacular settings like the Great Windsor Park at Windsor Castle or on snow in St. Moritz.  Oh yeah, and did I mention that it’s actually played by some members of royalty?  That and one of the few loves of Grace’s life, Nacho Figueras.  Polo is so much more than the logo on the shirt that made Ralph Lipchitz Ralph Lauren.  It’s given us the chukka, the most outrageous hat since Oddjob’s bowler hat and well, the polo shirt.  To put it quite simply, polo is a lifestyle, and it’s a lifestyle I very much enjoy.

Now I went to my first polo match at the International Polo Club of Palm Beach thinking that it would be just like that scene in the original Thomas Crown Affair with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway.  Aside from the addition of a “grandstand” that makes the Rollins grandstand on the soccer field look big and more corporate sponsorship, it kind of was just like the movie:

The few tailgaters at the match were clearly doing something right with their bottles of champagne (which I quickly discovered was the unofficial official drink of polo), real linens and actual cutlery, china and crystal while the rest of us non-members were seated on benches literally two feet from the field.  Members were seated behind us mere mortals in the small, more luxurious viewing stand that offers them a much better view of the playing field.  But so what it wasn’t that easy to watch what was happening throughout the match.  It’s so much more about the experience of being there.

So there I was in my Stubbs and while the match was taking place, I began looking around the field and there were the most tasteful corporate sponsor signs I’ve ever seen.  Instead of the Home Depot, Bud Light and Dodge ads, there were tasteful signs for Aston Martin, Piaget (who also sponsors the home team), the Four Seasons of Palm Beach, and Veuve Clicquot.  It was like a dream come true, only it kept getting better.

After the first three of the six chukkers, it was time for the time-honored polo tradition called divot stomping.  As an incentive to get us all out on the field, though, the wonderful folks at the International Polo Club lured us all out there with champagne!  That’s right, THEY GIVE YOU FREE CHAMPAGNE JSUT FOR WALKING OUT ON A FIELD.  Just make sure to mind the horse manure, though.

It’s clear that the level of “enthusiasm,” which is a word I use very loosely as this is the same crowd that does the golf clap, dips a little during the final three chukkers but it was nonetheless entertaining.  The announcers reminded me of those local news sports anchors with the random jokes that make sense to only them.  That said, they made the whole game lively.

What was most surprising was that for a sport that on the outside seem so pretentious, it didn’t really seem that way at all.  In fact, it was very relaxed and fun and something I think everyone should give a shot.  Heart-racing it is not.  It will not have y’all screaming and crying during the last 30 seconds (college football) because it does move at a slower pace as there are men on horses with sticks and things stay in the same little area for long periods of time.  But there are moments when you wonder if he’s gonna get that ball into the goal and they can get Muffy to put her G&T down and watch with some intensity to see if the home team Piaget will score that goal.

If y’all would like to see what all the WASPy excitement is about, then head out to the International Polo Club of Palm Beach in Wellington.

For the 2013 season, matches open to the public will be played every Sunday through April 21st.  Matches start at 15h0 and it’s $5 to park and $30 for a seat on a wooden bench down in front of the “grandstand,” just a few steps from the action on the field.  And if y’all choose to go, just remember that this is the satellite branch of Palm Beach so casual dressing is really an oxford and colored shorts.  Now if you want to get a  better view, you have to either be a member of the club or you can try and get invited to join the club.  If anyone who belongs is reading this, please feel free to contact me in the comments section below because I would LOVE to join!

In conclusion, Grace, I’m so sorry I waited so long to finally go to a polo match because it was a life-changing event.  I may not entierly understand how it’s played yet, but I’ll get it, eventually.

Until next time…

JD

The Season Three Premiere of ‘Downton Abbey’ Lasted Two Hours Therefore It Took Me Five Days To Finally Write This

On Sunday, Lindsay and I joined the roughly 7.9 million people in the former colonies in welcoming the return of Downton Abbey and the fact that no one still likes Lady Edith, even the 90-year-old Sir Anthony Strallan because he too knows that he is WAY TOO DAMN OLD FOR HER, and I’m one of those people who fully endorses the 70-year age gap marriage for money idea.

Lady Edith’s existence aside, there’s something about this British export that has completely captivated us here on this side of the pond.  It’s almost ironic to think that so many people in this country are fascinated with a show that celebrates the idea of good manners, being proper and social order despite us living in a world that has increasingly rejected all of these things.

More interesting, though, is the fact that in a world in which the Kardashians have become global superstars because their oldest daughter made a sex tape with a rapper and her family mother chose to celebrate it, we’re captivated by a show that has had, until this past Sunday, only THREE romance scenes in two seasons (and two don’t really count because Anna & Bates are only shown the morning after and then Ethel & Major Bryant get caught, ending anything inappropriate immediately).

That said, I’m so glad it’s back.  Nothing makes me happier than seeing the Dowager Countess and Mr. Carson fighting back the ever-changing world outside of Downton.  The only thing better than Mr. Carson comparing Mrs. Levinson’s idea of having an indoor picnic to the “chaos of Gomorrah” was Lindsay’s reaction to every scene of the two-hour season premiere; she even cried just watching Laura Linney introduce the episode!  Here now, just some of Lindsay’s comments from last Sunday’s premiere:

Sybil is stinking up my screen.

MATTHEW AND MARY JUST STOP IT I AM THROWING MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE MY LIFE WILL NEVER MATCH UP

“I’m looking forward to all sorts of things.”-Matthew Crawley, God’s gift to me that I merely have to share with Mary.

“Can I kiss you, because I need to.”-Matthew Crawley, as I scream into my pillow out of sheer need to be with this engaged fictional character.

“I’m so happy, so very happy, I feel my chest will explode.” I. AM. DYING.

Shirley MacLaine serenading the Dowager Countess. I cackled.

Lindsay, please know that I’m looking forward to another six weeks of this.

Now can we please talk about how annoying Lady Edith and Branson are?  Lindsay and I hate them; we have hated them since Season One.  We know you don’t like the aristocracy and “British oppression” over the people of Ireland and all that fun stuff, Branson, but just SHUT UP!  Also, you’re the son-in-law of an Earl so even though you don’t believe in any of their traditions, but you need to get over all of that and wear a set of tails to dinner!

Speaking of appropriate attire in certain settings, there was an article in last Friday’s Wall Street Journal about how in Silicon Valley, the same place that gave us that awful movement we call Casual Friday (or Casual Everyday in most places now), the youngest members of the tech set are swapping their hoodies and dungarees for suits and bow ties on Fridays because they want to be different.

It makes sense to be honest.  I read somewhere last week that men are trying to dress more like their grandfathers and less like their father who are to blame for all of this casual work clothing and the book I received for Hanukkah, The Gentry Man: A Guide For The Civilized Male, came out just in time for this to occur.

This collection of articles from what had to have been the greatest magazine you’ve never heard of, because it only lasted from 1951-1957, is the new inspiration for my life.  In addition to being told that ascots were very much so “in” during the magazine’s six-year run, I learned how to build my own golf course (because we all have eight acres of cleared land just lying around) and how to carve a turkey in eleven easy steps, which should be very useful when I recreate that Norman Rockwell painting of Thanksgiving.

Also, believe it or not, English country homes owned by bachelors have the best-run houses  and “have no trouble getting servants.  Probably it is because a man does not chivvy the servants in the same way a woman does.”  This is an actual sentence.  If any magazine published a sentence like that today, it would be deemed extremely sexist.  We lived in much simpler times back then.

There is, sadly, one thing I can’t follow according to Gentry and that is what they suggest for a round-the-world trip.  They claim I can do it with only 88lbs of stuff.    I can’t even travel for a week and a half without nearly 50lbs of luggage.  The philosophy that one should be packed for any situation is the same regardless of the decade.

It does have some surprisingly useful information, though, like proper times for grilling and broiling every type of food imaginable, even mutton chops.  There’s also an eleven-page guide to drinking; did y’all know there are four different types of Scotch whiskey?  Neither did I.  And apparently, if you drink coffee, tea or tomato juice before a meal, you can prevent yourself from scarfing down all the food on the table, including the food on the plates of other people, because one should never go hungry to the table.

I even learned how to play “new tennis” in proper tennis whites, of course, and watch a football game, which could have been useful when I was still at school because Grace and I had NO damn clue what we were watching.  But most important, I read a full page article by Robert Paul Smith entitled “In Praise of Booze.”  It’s probably the epitome of the 1950s stereotype of the three-hour, six-martini lunch that will only come back in movies and at the homes of WASPS who still summer in Newport, but it’s still wonderful to read, specifically the line:

It [booze] has made me friend, it has made me brave, it has made me gentle and comic and kind of loose-lipped and maudlin.  It is a product of civilization, and it civilizes me.

This book is probably the best $20 anyone ever spent on me and I highly recommend it to anyone who longs for the 1950s.

Well until next time, when I will have hopefully left 1953 and entered this still “new” year…

JD

But Santa, I Actually Wanted Jury Duty!

I think I’m one of the only people who actually wanted to attend jury duty.  So of course I wouldn’t get it.  Now would I have wanted some boring tax evasion or other white collar crime case?  HELL NO!  I want what everyone wants: an OJ Simpson-style murder case!  Why?  Because they’re just so darn entertaining.  I mean, Casey Anthony and that girl in Italy were such fascinating cases that went on and on (and you get like $30 a day for going so if it’s a long trial, you can buy a pencil at Hermès in no time!  Side note: the fact that Hermès sells pencils for $95 is beyond outrageous, even if it is covered in leather, which is ridiculous in and of itself).  Plus, there was OJ and nothing will ever beat that trial.  The only thing that could top OJ would be… you know, I can’t even think of anything that might be able to top that case.  Even Michael Jackson’s freak trial didn’t come close to topping the glove-fitting moment.

The only downside to jury duty  is what you can’t bring with you.  No BlackBerry, no iPhone, iPad, iPod Touch, Kindle, or anything else entertaining.  They do have newspapers and magazines, but y’all know they get read pretty quickly.  And I get why you can’t bring things, but really, no iPad?  Yes, I’ve officially become one of THOSE people who can’t be more than 10ft from their iPad.

Meanwhile, don’t y’all just miss the good old days when people traveled with steamer trunks? I know I do.  So I wasn’t exactly around for this grand old era of traveling, but mentally I was there.  The fact of the matter is that it’s just easier to bring everything you own with you on a trip than it is to just put a few things in your carry-on and hope for the best.  My motto has always been you never know when you’ll be invited to a black-tie affair at the last minute!

Grace and Justin fully support this idea, especially Justin, who packs just as much, if not more, than I do when traveling.  Andrew, on the other hand, thinks I’m crazy and insisted I take roughly a third of what I had planned to take with me this week to Florida.  And for some horrible reason, I listened.  Justin is horrified.  I guess it’s just part of getting wiser with age.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to travel for Thanksgiving.  Instead, however, I was once again locked inside Hell’s Kitchen (I bought a shirt years ago from Scoop that has “Hell’s Kitchen” written on it and I wear it every Thanksgiving while helping Mother in the kitchen.  I don’t know what I’ll do when it finally falls apart).  I love referring to mother’s kitchen as “Hell’s Kitchen” because there always ends up being some overly dramatic problem at some point on Thanksgiving.

Well this year’s hellish ordeal involved dessert, which of course I would be making.  So the vanilla bean ice cream was done the day before Thanksgiving as was the almond pastry dough, but the rest of the Apple Bretonne Tartlets from the incredible Sarabeth’s cookbook had to be prepped, assembled and baked on Thanksgiving itself.  So the recipe was only designed for eight people, which is all we were planning on having as of Noon on Thanksgiving because they are made in individual tartlet pans and everyone gets their own.

At 13h30, with just four hours until show time, we were informed that a ninth person would be joining us.  Fortunately, I ordered twelve of those tartlet dishes.  The problem was that I only had enough dough for eight and so at the last minute, there I was scrambling to get another apple from the grocery store, marinate it in the sugar, flour, vanilla bean, and lemon juice.  But of course, because few things done at the last minute, that failed (is anyone surprised?).

Sadly, Grace had to leave early, so thankfully, we had eight perfect tartlets.  I don’t often brag overtly about the desserts I make (I only do a normal amount of bragging), but HOLY HECK this thing was perfect!  I mean, it looked just like the photo, only better because instead of some baking sheet, I placed it on a beautiful silver tray covered in powdered sugar.  If you could have tasted the one in the photo and then compared it to the one I made, it would taste the same!  It was that amazing!

(And yes, I’m aware that I’m using an asparagus-serving fork; Edith Wharton is not rolling over in her grave because of this because she and I had a seance and she said that it’s fine)

Alas, it’s now December of 2012 and if my uncle’s right, we’ve got sixteen days left to live so I’m sorry goyish people, but if shit hits the fan, I still get all eight nights of Hanukkah!  Speaking of the holiday season, I have a bone to pick with the folks at MoMA.  As usual, I ordered my religiously ambiguous holiday cards (the Hanukkah ones are so bad it’s not even funny), but unfortunately, THEY ARE COATED IN GLITTER, which was not how they appeared in the catalog or online!

Now, I hate glitter.  I hope the grave of Henry Ruschmann, the horrible man who created that hellish product in 1934 in New Jersey (of course), has been vandalized on a regular basis because there are no benefits to glitter.  It stays on your hands for hours, even days; it gets all over EVERYTHING and it’s just a nuisance.

All of that said these are some great religiously ambiguous holiday cards that I’m sending out.

Finally today, proof that Grace is a great friend: only a really great friend tells you it’s okay to buy something at 3h0 (that’s AM for those of you who don’t understand the fact that I don’t believe in America’s decision to ignore the fact that we’re the only country that doesn’t run on a 24-hour clock).  So a few nights ago, I stumbled upon this site called One Kings Lane, which is basically Gilt, but without the huge debt issues/massive layoffs and just for furniture/home stuff.

Next thing you know, I’m in one of the three Ralph Lauren sales buying the Ralph Lauren Cable-Knit Cashmere Travel Set in navy because “You travel a lot and I try to wrap as much of myself as possible in cashmere whenever traveling on any kind of public anything.”

Don’t you love it when a friend convinces you to buy something you want?  I know my credit card company does.

Well, I’m headed to Palm Beach (aka: Heaven) tomorrow on the rails of Amtrak’s Auto Train so until next time…

JD

If You Go to San Francisco, Skip the Flower in Your Hair

Lesson One: I’m so East Coast.

Upon landing on the coast the Thursday after taking my last final of my undergraduate student roughly four weeks ago, I was greeted by a sea of dungarees, v-neck tee shirts and people who were just… friendly in a way no one is in New York.  My BlackBerry’s battery died somewhere over Oklahoma because it found a way to turn itself back on (my BlackBerry has a mind of its own; this shouldn’t surprise me because every device I own has a mind of its own) and then proceeded to drain its battery before we landed.  When I landed in San Francisco, I had no way of calling Kevin, my younger cousin who I was visiting, because I left my calling card (don’t judge) home and didn’t have any coins.  Fortunately, the silver lining in my bag not making it on my flight since I didn’t think I would actually make it on my connecting flight in Atlanta was that the nice lady at the Delta luggage counter let me use her phone to call Kevin.

Lesson Two: They Have Wine on Tap

After getting to Kevin’s apartment, located just off the Embarcadero, we went straight to dinner at the Hillstone Restaurant located a block from where he lived.  Hillstone is a chain of restaurants located across the country; they also own Houston Steakhouses and one of my favorite places, The Palm Beach Grill.  Plus, all their restaurants seem to all have the the Roast Beef Au Jus on their menus, and it is the only thing I ever order at the Grill.

Following the hellish flights I took just to get to California, I was in desperate need of some wine (y’all would be as well if you had unruly children making too much noise and kicking your seat from Norfolk to Atlanta and then, SURPRISE, Atlanta to San Francisco while their parents failed miserably at the “I am your friend, not your parent” method popular with parents these days) and when I looked down at my menu, I was surprised to see that in addition to beer on tap, there was wine on tap.  I couldn’t believe and had to investigate so naturally I ordered a glass.

To my astonishment, the Saintsbury Pinot Noir was delicious!  As for dinner, it was great, though they had regular fries instead of the usual shoestring fries that are simply divine, which is not a word I throw around often.

I must say that people in San Francisco take casual dining to a whole new level.  The dozens of young people in the restaurant were dressed in just like the same people in the airport.  My khakis and oxford shirt that I consider casual was apparently too formal.  They also act like Middle School girls, texting everyone they’ve ever met while seated at dinner.  When I asked Kevin if anyone still has manners, he told me to relax because “this is how it’s done out here.”

Lesson Three: People Arrive to Work Whenever They Feel Like It

On Friday morning, Kevin took me to his internship for “the day.”  Kevin was interning this summer for his soul mate, Richard Thalheimer, the founder of The Sharper Image, at his new business, RichardSolo.com.  Not only were Kevin and Richard meant for each other, but this business was meant for Kevin.  He’s loves gadgets and other assorted chazerai.  He was so obsessed with The Sharper Image that he still has the catalogs in their plastic wrappings and bought Richard’s autobiography, which he had autographed just before I arrived.

When we arrived at the office, which is also where the warehouse is located, we were the first people to show up.  We arrived at 10h30.  No one else would show up until 12h15.  Unfortunately, Richard himself was unable to come in due to a summer cold, but after meeting the rest of the RichardSolo team that included Richard’s assistant and the guy who runs the warehouse side of the operation, we sat down to try Richard’s obsession: Domino’s Artisan Pizza.

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkUIGDSx0Dw&feature=results_video%5D

Now the last time I ate Domino’s was in the 12th Grade because once a month we had pizza for lunch and it was nothing more than grease-coated cheese and bread.  That summer, I figured out how to make it myself or found really delicious pizza in Italy.  As for the Domino’s Artisan Pizza, it wasn’t the best pizza I’ve ever had, but for a multi-national brand that is desperately trying to change its public persona, it was surprisingly good.  Of the four varieties available, I found the Tuscan Salami and Roasted Veggie pizza to be the best.

Following lunch, a tour around the office/warehouse and watching Kevin get some work done, we took off for the day just after 13h30.  Not bad for a workday.  Plus, we beat all the traffic going back into San Francisco.  His commute isn’t the worst either.

That afternoon, I did a little post-end of school retail therapy in Union Square, which was so nice, especially when they had to take the mannequin hanging from the ceiling at Barney’s to get the pants I wanted in my size.  I also managed to get mother one of her birthday presents before we headed back to change for dinner in China Town.

Lesson Four: When It Says “Hot & Sour” Next to the Soup, It Should Say Fire-Breathing Dragon Hot

It was this night that Kevin realized the purpose of this visit (other than to see him): food!  For dinner, we went to what is quite possibly the most well-rated Chinese restaurants in the city: Oriental Pearl, which I actually ate at eight years ago when I was in San Francisco with Mother and little Mao.  It’s always those restaurants that put no money into the decor, have overflowing dumpsters next to the entrance and waiters who don’t care about providing customer service that always seem to have the best food!

It was rather chilly that night so Kevin wanted to get soup so he ordered the Hot & Sour Vegetarian Soup.  It was so hot, the two of us were schvitzing after the third bite.  It was like a fireball had exploded in my mouth and I’m not exaggerating at all!  I downed that plum wine, which I had recently discovered while dinnering with Grace at Mizuno in Virginia Beach, so quickly and then downed the water glass and ate all the ice cubes!

Dinner itself was much less dramatic and not spicy at all.  The Almond Chicken with Cashew Nuts was better than any of the Chinese food we get in Baltimore and P.F. Chang’s can’t even lift a fork to this place.  Kevin’s Sweet and Sour Chicken was equally delicious.  The food is so fantastic that one seems completely oblivious to the lousy service and the 80s Chinese restaurant decor complete with ubiquitous fish tank.

Lesson Five: If You Want Really Good Ice Cream, Get in Line!

We left China Town and headed toward the Mission District for dessert.  The Mission District is the Williamsburg of San Francisco, but without the “Brooklyn is better” attitude (Speaking of the outer borough, how is Brooklyn the second most expensive place to live in America?  I mean, isn’t it’s appeal the fact that it’s New York, but without the Manhattan price tag?).  We were heading to Bi-Rite Creamery, a San Francisco sensation that was started in 2006.  Now I didn’t really realize that nearly all of the restaurants/food destinations I wanted to visit were in the Mission District, nor did I know that Kevin lived nowhere near it so we had to drive out there and then find a parking space.  It took twenty minutes of going around the block over and over again.  I swear, the people we passed five times must have thought we were casing the block!

Finally, though, we found a spot that no one else thought was a spot because people don’t bother to read signs, thankfully.  As we walked up to the creamery, my mouth salivating at just the thought of ice cream, we noticed a line, well part of a line.  Turns out that this place is so popular, the line was extending around the corner from the entrance!  For the next thirty minutes, the New Yorker in front of us tried hitting on these two girls who were beyond not interested in his “charm” and nonstop talking about himself.  Worse, he thought he was getting somewhere with the one who was polite enough to talk back.  It was so sad.  Then we made it to the door and like someone who hasn’t eaten in days, I went wild and got four scoops  of ice cream:

1. Malted Vanilla with Peanut Brittle and Milk Chocolate Pieces.
2. Honey Lavender (the version I made earlier in the summer was almost as good, if I may say so myself).
3. Olive Oil (all I needed was a little bread and I could have easily been at an Italian restaurant).
4. Balsamic Strawberry (only available on Fridays and without-a-doubt the best of the four!  If they hadn’t closed right after we left, I would have probably gone back and gotten more of it!)

They just came out with a recipe book containing 90 recipes for ice cream and other frozen treats, as they put it, and I was just so excited about it (given that I just finished a summer of love with my ice cream maker) that I didn’t even hesitate and bought it!

Kevin, meanwhile, was less insane and only got two scoops: Salted Caramel and Cookies & Cream.  The Salted Caramel put the one Talenti makes to utter shame while Kevin declared that the Cookies and Cream was out of this world not only was it definitely worth the wait, but that he might go back before leaving San Francisco! (sadly, he didn’t make back before leaving)

Lesson Six: Food, Glorious Food (and Foodies)

Saturday morning and it was off to the market we went!  Despite being nowhere near where he worked, Kevin’s location meant that we were just five minutes from the legendary Ferry Building Marketplace.  If you don’t know what the Ferry Building Marketplace is, you should feel ashamed because even little Benitio knows what it is; in fact, he wanted to go the last time he was in San Francisco and this is someone who thinks that a pickle on rye bread with mustard is the greatest thing he has ever consumed.  If you don’t feel ashamed and want to know, let’s have a little history lesson:

The building was first opened 1898 and enabled people to reach San Francisco from all over the West.  It served this purpose marvelously until this little thing called the Golden Gate Bridge was completed in 1937.  After that, it was considered an afterthought until the 1989 earthquake that rocked San Francisco in honor of new of my birth reaching California.  When this happened, the highway that ran directly in front of the building was torn down and a revitalization began, culminating with a renovation of the building in the early 2000s .  When it reopened in 2003, the foodies that have invaded/emerged from this city created an elegant, yet useful, space that plays host to local farmers, butchers, fishermen, florists, and activists (this is San Francisco after all) each Sunday from 10h0-14h0 and it’s incredible!

We got nectarines, plums, these grapes that were so sweet I swear they were coated in sugar while they were on the vines.  I was basically in heaven and Kevin didn’t know what hit him.  Grace and Justin would probably replace “heaven” with some perverted sexual something (which I believe one of them did in a text), but I’m trying to be more mature now that I’m a college graduate.

The fruit was so fresh and juicy and those yellow plums… I’m salivating just thinking about them!  After my tastes buds and I returned to my body, Kevin took me to see the nut guy.  The way he went on about this guy, you would have thought he found a cure for cancer or something.  The nut guy, a man whose name I never got, worked at the outdoor stand for G.L. Alfieri Fruits & Nuts (there’s also a permanent stand inside).  I instantly figured out why Kevin loved this guy: free samples on steroids.  It was like Costco, but for nuts and brittle, and without the hairnets.

Next thing I know, my “diet” has turned into me trying everything he offered us.  I ended up leaving with dark chocolate brittle (which is shocking for me even a month later because I despise dark chocolate; milk chocolate for life) and a bag of trail mix that was later devoured in about five minutes.  Kevin bought some brittle and chocolate-covered raisins (whoever thought of covering raisins in chocolate deserves a monument of some kind) for “his friends” before we headed inside to face a mob of people that resembled Penn Station on a Friday afternoon, but nicer.

On the advice of my aunt, we made our way through the herd to Miette, this charming little bakery that has several locations throughout the San Francisco area.  We were there to get mother their gingersnaps, but that turned into me getting a breakfast of a buttermilk panna cotta topped in fresh strawberries served in what appeared to be glass containers about the size of a baby food jar.  Once again, so much for the “diet.”  It was so good I ate it in about 30 seconds!  Even the girls behind the counter were shocked at how fast I devoured it.  If it weren’t for those pants I had just purchased the day before, I would have probably gotten a second.

The woman who started this bakery has the most amazing story about having such poor vision when she was little that the first thing she ever saw when she finally got glasses was the glass counter in a bakery and you just can feel her warm personality everywhere in this little pink and light green (not Lily green) explosion; there was even a 1950s refrigerator!  All of the staff were beyond friendly and couldn’t have been nicer when I asked if they could wrap the things we had purchased.

Lesson Seven: Grilled Cheese Should Be Its Own Food Group

After dropping off all our edible treats, Kevin and I began a very long walk to lunch.  Apparently, I’m not capable of finding places to eat near his apartment and though that “very long” walk turned out to be a measly two miles, we were starving by the time we got to our destination, The American Grilled Cheese Kitchen.  Now I love a grilled cheese sandwich, but I’ve never been one to enjoy Kraft Singles on Wonder Bread so when I learned that there were people crazy enough to open a restaurant that “lifted” this most delicious of foods to new standards, I couldn’t say no to going!

First of all, they have fences made out of metal spatulas that cordon off their outdoor eating area so naturally we give them 100 points for creativity before walking in the front door.

However, before we go on, I should note that the beer I had was revolting, but the beers being ordered by every other patron seemed to be good enough to finish.  This shouldn’t come as a shock since beer and I don’t exactly get along.  Now that we’ve cleared that up, onto the food.

Like the name suggests, the restaurant, which is located just three blocks from Giants’s home at the AT&T Park, is all about that classic American food staple, grilled cheese.  Though there are salad options, Kevin and I decided that wouldn’t feel right and spent the next two minutes staring at the menu board displaying the seven sandwich options.

If you think Kevin’s choice of the Mac n Cheese Grilled Cheese sounds like a 5-year old’s dream come true, then you’d be right.  The only thing it’s missing is a carton of ice cream.  Frankly, I was expecting some heart attack-enducing platter one might get at a Cracker Barrel.  However immature and disgusting it might sound, even I was shocked at how good it tasted, let alone how appetizing it looked!

I opted for the Mushroom Gruyère and devoured it before I could manage to take a photo.  The mushrooms tasted so fresh and when mixed with the nutty flavor of the gruyère, they gave off the most amazing aroma.  Because we opted for the Red, White and Blue Plate special, a good-sized bowl of smoky tomato soup accompanied our sandwiches.

Lesson Eight: You Simply Cannot Resist the Temptation of a Cream Puff

Stuffed like a turkey on Thanksgiving, we slowly made our way toward Union Street, a 3.5 mile hike through the city, which is home to dozens of little boutiques and “quaint” restaurants.  The highlight of these places was Pacific Puffs, a charming little bakery that specializes in one thing: cream puffs.

Now I love a cream puff.  The ones that they sell at Costco in that plastic tub are simply delicious, but as good as they are, there’s something about eating cream puffs that come out of a tub that can be reused for way too many things that doesn’t seem right.  Thankfully, the folks at Pacific Puffs have created an alternative to the Costco option (favored by the same people who also love the tub of éclairs sold in the same freezer door).

Though they run between $2.00 for a mini and $3.25 for a regular-sized one, these little bundles of butter are worth every penny.  The cream filling puts anything the folks behind the Kirkland brand (why am I even comparing these to ones that can be purchased at Costco?) to shame and you could tell that everything was freshly made that day.  Because we arrived later in the afternoon, I missed the Fruit Whip option, and was forced to settle for a classic mini, but I don’t know why I’m making it seem like it wasn’t good because it was scrumptious.  Plus, it’s so small and adorable like a puppy that you can’t say no.

Lesson Nine: I Finally Found a City in America That Embraces My Love of Pimm’s

Following a leisurely stroll that took us to the beyond touristy, and dare I say tacky, Ghirardelli Square and the first of our two failed attempts and getting decent photos at the Golden Gate Bridge (beware the raccoons that live beneath the storage unit adjacent to the payment kiosk for the auxiliary parking lot), it was time for dinner.

We ate at Absinthe, a French restaurant located in Hayes Valley, and though it ended up being more expensive than I had hoped, as the rapper Drake says, YOLO.  It was here at Absinthe where I first realized that the people of San Francisco actually like Pimm’s.

Few restaurants and bars have the English drink in stock and so it was a complete shock to see cocktails on the menu that were made with my beloved Pimm’s.  I couldn’t resist and ordered a 21 Hayes, a shaken drink consisting of Damrak gin, Pimm’s No. 1, cucumber, and lemon juice.  Now I had a bad experience once in my youth with gin and have since refused to drink anything with gin, but that ban was done away with at first sip.  The lemon juice and cucumber overpowered any bitter taste I might have otherwise noticed and made a drink so delicious that I quickly began to re-enact the scene from Something’s Gotta Give when Diane Keaton’s character is drinking martinis with the same pace at which frat boys drink when racing one another to chug cheap beer.  Needless to say, I couldn’t resist ordering a second.

For dinner, Kevin had the French Onion Soup Gratinee (he was nice enough to share half a spoonful) and the 7oz. Bistro Filet.  He claimed it was the best meal he had had in San Francisco.  I, realizing that a dinner consisting of booze wasn’t the smartest idea, chose the Mixed Local Greens salad and the Coq au Vin.  The orange-almond vinaigrette on the salad was topped only by the use of grapes from nearby wine country.  As for the coq au vin, I could never say anything negative about chicken that has been soaked in a bath of red wine and vegetables. Despite being a very heavy meal (there’s nothing light about coq au vin), dessert was a non-negotiable.  Chocolate Pot de Crème is something I absolutely love.  I’ve even made it once myself and devoured four of the individual ramekins myself.  Unfortunately, it was the first thing on the menu so I didn’t even give the other items on the menu a chance!

After dinner, we walked up Hayes Street for a few blocks until we came across this bar called Marlena’s and it was definitely not something either of us had ever experienced.  Peering through the windows and doorway of the bar, we saw a “larger” drag queen wearing a bright sequined mini skirt belting away to the stylings of Ke$ha on a stage with plenty of other drag queens in the wings waiting for their chance to perform.  It was a spectacle just watching and I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened had we entered the bar!

Lesson Ten: Fog and the Golden Gate Bridge Are Almost Always Inseparable

Sunday morning saw me waking up way too early for anyone on vacation because we had to go schlep all the way back to the Golden Gate Bridge and make our second attempt at visiting the landmark.  While it rather quiet when we went Saturday afternoon, it was busier than a Wal Mart on Black Friday when we pulled into the parking lot on Sunday morning.  There we were, stuck between the boats that can go in the water (they scare me) and the double-decker tourist buses.  I have nightmares about moments like that.  Fortunately, a nice police officer took pity on us and helped us navigate our way into a free parking space right in front of the entrance to the Visitor’s Center.  I was just glad we didn’t have to go anywhere near those raccoons again.

For the next two hours, we walked through the fog as we traveled from one end of the Golden Gate Bridge to the other and back.  I could say how beautiful and spiritual (this is California after all) the whole thing was, but I really spent the whole time terrified that I might lose my camera.  That said, I got some lovely shots of the bridge and by the time we made it back to visitor’s center, the fog was beginning to disappear.

Lesson Eleven: Brunch is a lifestyle No Matter Where You Go

After violating at least four traffic laws in order to get out of the parking lot, we headed to brunch at Zuni Café, a San Francisco destination since 1979.  Seated at a copper bar for two with a spectator’s view of the main dining room, brunching began with mimosas before Kevin’s pizza and my baked egg with tomato sauce decided to join our little party.  The pizza was whatever, but that baked egg with tomato sauce was sinfully good!  The only thing that made the whole experience better was the mountain of shoestring fries we ordered.  Our waiter said they were highly addictive and I am truly embarrassed at how I refused to stop eating them.  I couldn’t stop!  For the next twenty minutes, I felt like a junkie.  I highly recommend them.

Lesson Twelve: They’ll Make Ice Cream Out of Anything Now

Remember when ice cream came in three flavors?  Well I don’t and thanks to my ice cream maker, I’m now 5lbs heavier than I was at the beginning of the summer. Once we paid the bill and I finally finished listening to five different conversations taking place in our vicinity, we returned to the Mission District once again to try another ice cream vendor, Humphry Slocombe.  Though not nearly as long a line as the one at Bi-Rite Creamery, this was still a very popular place.  That said, I wasn’t impressed.  Of the three flavors I got (Brown Butter, Cinnamon Brittle and a third not worth remembering), only the Brown Butter was actually good.  Kevin said his two flavors weren’t even worth mentioning.  The problem was really the fact that they were making ice cream out of things that should never be turned into ice cream.  In my pre-trip research, I learned that they make Prociutto ice cream four times a year and that they also have Government Cheese and Bacon listed as seasonal flavors.  If I could have done this over, I would have just gone back to Bi-Rite Creamery.

Lesson Thirteen: Napa is Not a Place.  Napa is a Lifestyle!

There’s something about Napa that just makes everyone who visits want to move here and start growing vines of their own.  I don’t blame them.  Despite not having any tours arranged (even though I called four wineries for a week and never heard back from one) because the winery I had wanted to visit the most, Dominus, didn’t have some permit that allowed them to do tastings/tours, we burned rubber up to America’s Bordeaux for what turned out to be a very relaxing and very hot afternoon.  We headed to St. Helena, a small town located at the northern tip of Napa Valley where I rediscovered Woodhouse Chocolates and Olivier before we turned around and found some wineries still open after 16h0 for tastings.

Opening the door to Woodhouse Chocolates is like entering a completely different atmosphere.  The air is filled with the scent of chocolate and naturally all worries immediately disappear.  In the center of the ivory-painted interior is a display of a chocolate fish that just looks so luscious and heavenly.  Behind glass sit hundreds of little pieces of chocolate just begging to be eaten by you, the nice person with an American Express card in your wallet.  The next thing you know, the chocolate aroma in the air has taken control of your motor functions and you’re buying a box of twelve little pieces of heaven even though it’s nearly 100°F outside and you’ve got two wineries to visit before heading back to the much more comfortable weather in San Francisco.

I’m sorry, just writing about Woodhouse Chocolates put me into that same trance.

A few doors down is Olivier, an olive oil store that uses local olives to produce six equally incredible extra-virgin olive oils.  They also sell a myriad of sauces and a few home goods, but the olive oil is undoubtedly the center of attention in this store.  They stay resting in massive copper vats and it’s up to you to try them all and then bottle the olive oil you want.

We both bought our mothers a bottle of the Manzanillo olive oil before braving the heat and returning to the car for our trek back down the St. Helena Highway in search of open wineries.  We ended up stopping at two wineries that were still open along the highway.  The first was so bad I don’t even remember its name.  All I remember was me chugging through the four wines so we could get the hell out of there!  The second winery we visited, Alpha Omega, was much better than the first, but I feel they spent so much on the tasting room because they knew their wine wasn’t THAT great!  It was fare.  Of the four wines I tried, the Proprietary Red was the best/the only one I could actually see myself buying a bottle of sometime.  The rosé was not good at all and the chardonnay was so-so.  As for the Cabernet, I didn’t finish it.  However, that Proprietary Red was actually good.

I will say that the very nice server at Alpha Omega did have a very heavy pour so I was definitely buzzed by the time we pulled out of Napa, which I feel is required by all over the age of 21 who visit.  I wasn’t too sad about not going to some of the better wineries largely because I toured the Opus One winery before it was treated like Cristal by mass society.  I did feel bad for Kevin, though, because we didn’t go on any tours and since he was still 20 at the time of our visit, he couldn’t have any wine.  But, I made up for it by getting him some Jamba Juice on the way back so everything was fine.

Lesson Fourteen: The Most Interesting Conversations Occur in Restaurants

Sunday night, my last in San Francisco, was not spent watching the Closing Ceremony of the London Olympics, but instead dinnering at Locanda, an Italian restaurant I read about in the Times in July of 2011 and had wanted to visit ever since.  Once again in the Mission District, we were seated at a table next to these two guys who were explaining how each one came out to their families, so not exactly light dinner chat, and it was riveting!  Oh My God!  One has a mother who is super religious and though his father was okay with it, his mother has only now just begun to accept him and other one came out on a family camping trip and his mother broke down crying!  I couldn’t believe they were talking about this when we were sitting six inches from their table!  Worse, when they left and I turned to Kevin to analyze that entire conversation, he looks at me and goes “What conversation?”  I couldn’t believe he didn’t hear a word they said!

Kevin redeemed himself that night by leaving his comfort zone and ordering a duck egg for an appetizer.  Kevin has a “limited” palate that hasn’t changed much over the years and so for him to go out on a limb like this and try a duck egg was very impressive.  It was hysterical though, because before eating it, he remarked that the egg on his plate “could have been a little duck if I hadn’t ordered it.”  Turns out, Donald was delicious and Kevin ate the whole thing so I’m very proud of him for that!  I decided to not be as adventurous and instead started with the Jewish-Style Artichokes.  As far as I’m concerned, you can’t ever go wrong with artichokes, except for that one time when I tried steaming them at home and burned the bottom of the pot so badly that I had to throw it out.  Oops!

For our main courses, Kevin thinks he had the Linguine while I ordered the Rabbit Sugo Pasta.  He thought the dinner the night before was better, but I was blown away by my dinner and thought that Bugs tasted excellent!  We split the Ricotta Fritta for dessert and I highly recommend it, if I may say so myself.  Everyone there was so accommodating and friendly and just made it great way to end the trip.

Lesson Fifteen: Apparently People Don’t Wake Up Early Out West

While driving me to the airport Monday morning, Kevin claimed that he didn’t realize people actually got up before 9.  With that comment lingering in the air, I boarded my flight home to begin my Summer Hiatus, which, as y’all can see, has ended today.  It’s been nice.  I’ve learned about this wonderful thing called sleeping; I’ve emptied rooms filled with chotchkies; I baked something from “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” in honor of Julia Child’s 100th Birthday; I finally made marshmallows (they’re out of this world!).

I visited Charlottesville to attend the UVa-Penn State game with Lindsay (I’m told they lost and we didn’t win, but  a win’s a win as far as I’m concerned) and then drove to DC the next day with her to see Julia Child’s Kitchen (there was more square-footage in the gift shop devoted to her than there was exhibit space); and most importantly, I graduated!

That’s right, after four years, two states, two schools, one second-world country, lots of new friends, countless papers, a few sleepless nights, and five pounds, I’m DONE!  As for the future, we’ll see what happens, but until next time…

-JD

If Manhattan is Gotham, Then Maybe Brooklyn Isn’t So Bad After All

I came to this rather disturbing conclusion after being reminded by my friend Hannah that if all those people in Gotham had lived on the other side of the bridge, in Gotham’s equivalent of Brooklyn, then their lives wouldn’t have been in as much danger.  She said this because it’s very obvious that The Dark Knight Rises, the final chapter of the Chris Nolan trilogy, turns the island of Manhattan into Gotham and I’ve been giving her grief about Brooklyn all summer because I feel it’s just not the same as actually living in Manhattan itself.  She loves it and can’t get enough of it.  Yet, for a brief moment Friday night after we left the theater, Brooklyn’s geographic location on the other side of the East River was looking like such a positive.  I stress that this was a very brief lapse of judgement.

As for the movie itself, here’s all y’all need to know: for the first time in at least five years, I went the entire two hour, forty-five minute long movie without looking at my BlackBerry at all!  I didn’t even make it through The Dark Knight four years ago without looking at the Berry, but I also snuck a three-course dinner with ice cream into that movie with another friend, also named Hannah (Yes, it’s not hard to do this.  You do take out from a great restaurant and then you go to a movie theatre in a shopping mall and put the food inside a bag from a store in the mall.  Then you place a jacket or some other article of clothing over the food so that they don’t assume you’re doing this.).  Come to think of it, I saw all three of these Batman movies with three different people all named Hannah.

Speaking of that first Batman movie, it’s kind of ironic that in the time it took for this trilogy to be completed, Katie Holmes, who starred in the first movie, Batman Begins, as Rachel Dawson, dated Tom Cruise, saw him go crazy on Oprah, decided he wasn’t crazy enough to marry, converted to Scientology, had a silent birth in order to bring a kid into the world who spends more a year on shoes than my mother and aunt combined , and then divorced Tom Cruise because she realized that HOLY BOBBY BROWN!  This Scientology business is more than a little meshuge!

Oh how times flies by quickly, and not just for Katie Holmes.  At the time of writing this, I have less than two weeks before moving out of Charlottesville, which, though I’m thrilled to finally get a break, is really sad because that means I’ve enjoyed being here so much and am going to miss this city more so than I’ve ever missed Winter Park.  But alas, we’ll save the melodramatic, tear-jerker for once I’m back home because for the last few months, it’s been well over 100° and as I love to say, we are no where near the Carribean Seas and there are no hot mommies screaming “Ay, Papi.”  (That song is Will Smith’s greatest contribution to society)

So it’s been a few weeks since we last spoke and while not a lot has happened, it hasn’t been all work and no play!  Hannah, my official taste tester of Summer 2012, and I have been spending the last few weeks getting to know ice cream’s less popular and “healthier” sibling: sorbet.  I love sorbets, especially homemade ones because you can actually taste the freshness of the fruit.  Plus, there’s no heavy cream or egg yolk that can lead to you having a horrible swimsuit season if you’re not careful.  I choose to ignore one step in nearly all the recipes I’ve used that insist I pour the mixture through a sieve before placing it in the refrigerator to chill before it can go into the machine.  I let skin and seeds stay in the mixture not just because I prefer the texture that they add to the sorbet, but mostly because my strainer and I have a no love, all hate relationship with each other and cleaning it makes torture seem tolerable.

The first sorbet, made as June drew to a close, was an obvious choice: strawberry.  As I ate it at the same feverish pace a person desperately in need of water consumes a bottle of water.  As Hannah and I celebrated the anniversary of our nation’s birth and Mr. Jefferson’s death by visiting Monticello (more on that later), frutti di bosco sorbet was to be found in my freezer.  The recipe, courtesy of my Sarabeth’s Bakery cookbook, created a sorbet so heavenly that I felt as though I had been transported to Lake Como with each bite.  It was so good, I took a photo of it:

Now y’all know that looks so good!  Well, because it was so hard to resist, that weekend brought about the only one Hannah didn’t get to try because someone just had to go to New York for the weekend.  She missed watermelon, which I ate at a pace the Roadrunner would approve of and was gone before the Federer-Murrary final match at Wimbledon was over.

Another week, another flavor.  The scorching temperatures in Charlottesville saw  raspberry rose sorbet, a recipe I actually found in the Fitness and Nutrition section of the Times, believe it or not.  That one might have been my second favorite, mostly because I wasn’t expecting it to taste the way it did.  Initially, I thought the rose water would completely over-power the raspberries, which it did at least in terms of scent (mostly because embraced my heavy pour mentality and doubled the amount of rose water I was supposed to add), but in terms of taste, I feel that the rose water only enhanced the taste of the raspberries.  It wasn’t decadent or overtly sophisticated at all, but instead surprisingly simple and comforting, much like chocolate mousse has that pretentiousness surrounding it despite remaining very simple at heart.

The fifth and final sorbet to be made in Charlottesville as the ice cream maker, mixer and 90% of my kitchen utensils were taken home this weekend, was rustic apricot.  It’s the most unusual one I’ve made and since I’d never had anything remotely like it before, I was actually almost afraid to try it when it was ready.  Yet, it tastes and smells like the freshest, ripest apricot you’ve ever had in your life.  With each bite, it’s like you’re taking another bite out of the fruit.  Each time I open the container in which I keep it, I feel like I’m standing on a ladder picking the fruit individually off the tree.  I’m truly at a loss of words that I can use to possibly convey how amazing this sorbet is!

I guess the only way to describe it is really to answer the question Andrew always poses each time I tell him I’ve made a new ice cream/sorbet.  The question he asks is simply, “Is it better than Grom?”  Grom, as y’all should know by now, is the upscale, insanely expensive Italian gelateria chain that has three fixed locations in New York, plus a new gelato cart on Fifth Avenue.  Usually, I respond to this question with an overly-egotistical yes, but this time, it’s not ego that’s driving my response, it actually is better than anything Grom has to offer!

While we’re on the subject of Andrew, a lot has happened to him in the last few weeks.  After realizing that it wasn’t worth working an eighteen hour day for five, sometimes seven days a week, Andrew quit his job and is taking a well deserved and much needed break.  He’s been rejoining the world after a brief hiatus and I must say that it’s nice to have him back.

Grace, meanwhile, celebrated her birthday many weeks ago, and even though she despises the idea of growing older and celebrating in any grand sort of way, she knew that wasn’t going to stop me from giving her yet another useless gift for her birthday.  So, I went home two weeks after her actual birthday to assemble what has to be the craziest gift I’ve ever purchased anyone.  I had found these wonderful red lighted carousel letters at the store Maison 140 in Chelsea, about two blocks from the Chelsea Market and after months of wondering whether I should get one for Grace, I came to the decision that this was perfect for her because Grace loves burlesque.  She thinks there’s something romantic and artistic about it.  It’s not stripping, but almost performance art.  Anyway, this carousal letter to me screamed Le Moulin Rouge and so with her sister Annie agreeing that she would absolutely love this, it was ordered.

The four hours I spent stringing the lights onto it in a way so well done that no one will even see a cord, save for the one that plugs into the wall itself taught me that no matter how nice it must be to have a Christmas tree and all the decorations, you couldn’t pay me to do anything that painful again!  I broke two lightbulbs and half came dead.  Once I’m home, I’m going to call and see if they can send me a new set of lightbulbs because none of the hardware stores have the required bulbs.  This gift proved that there are very few people for whom I would waste four hours of my life so I could assemble a gift!  Fortunately, she knows that if she doesn’t use this gift, my back, which was in pain from bending over for all that time, will kill her!

This is the back, which I think is even more impressive than the front:

A week after this extravaganza in Virginia Beach, we entered July, a month of pure insanity, packing, extreme heat, and one of only three, maybe five (if you include President’s Day and Veteran’s Day), days of the entire year in which you can wear red together with white and blue.

Naturally, I’m talking about the Fourth of July, which also happens to be the anniversary of Mr. Jefferson’s passing.  This year, instead of watching the entire eight-part HBO John Adams miniseries in order without bathroom breaks (I’ve done that more than once, unfortunately), Hannah and I decided to get all decked out in our most patriotic outfits (sadly, she doesn’t have one of those American flag shirts, but if she did, we probably wouldn’t be friends, so it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t) and headed up to Monticello for the day.  Though we spent most of the tour standing behind a man who had more hair on his back than on his head, it was kind of neat to be at the home of the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence on the day he died.

In addition to posing for photos next to a wasp nest, waiting way too long for small children to finally leave the little pavilion along the garden so we could take a photo and braving triple-digit heat, Hannah pointed out that there’s this narrow line in between the trees so that you can actually see the Rotunda from Monticello because as he got older, it wasn’t as easy for Mr. Jefferson to get down to his university as he got older.  I’m told everyone already knew this fact, but apparently that wasn’t true since I didn’t.

Please note that I did not zoom in on myself in this photo because if I had done so, y’all would have been able to see the power plant currently operating inside my hair!  I swear, NASA should study me to see if they can capture the heat my hair produces and convert it to something useful!

The following Monday, Justin, someone not prone to do making incredibly stupid decisions because they sound like good ones at the time, left Winter Park to drive by car up to visit his bubbie in New Jersey (he’s well aware of my views on New Jersey) because, like the time he thought it was a good idea to take a Greyhound bus from Richmond to Manhattan, he wanted to see America.  Having done the drive more than once, I tried to use my experience to explain to him that aside from South of the Border, there’s nothing to see at all until you hit the DC beltway and can sort of see the Washington Monument in the distance and even the Rotunda of the Capital if you get close enough.

Justin, being Justin, didn’t heed my warning and spent the first night in Charleston, which is a great city where I almost went to school (the actual incentive for attending school there, aside from the food and the countless historical buildings saved by the city that set the standard for historical preservation in America (presumably after Fort Sumter was lost to the Union in the War of North Aggression) being that had I attend the College of Charleston, I could have gotten a part-time job at the Charleston Chew factory and therefore gotten free Charleston Chews for the entire time I would have worked there.  The saddest part is I still think about that).  Having had his fix of Southern hospitality in Charleston, Justin proceeded inland a bit as he made his way to Grandma’s by making a detour to Charlottesville!

This, in my opinion, was the only smart decision he made on this trip, especially since he didn’t even get me a Charleston Chew (fact: I haven’t had a Charleston Chew since I bought one in Charleston when I toured the College of Charleston in the Spring of 2008, yet for some reason, they remind me of summer camp, so I keep thinking about them).  He pulled into Charlottesville just in time for him to join Hannah and me for dinner at Whiskey Jar where he tried fried chicken for the first time in his life!

Frankly I’m appalled that it took him nearly 23 years to eat something so delicious and affordable that a man named Colonel Sanders managed to start a business that today is the second largest “restaurant” chain in the world after McDonald’s!  I know he’s from Cape Cod and everything, but don’t they  eat fried chicken up there?

As I try to figure out how Justin never ate fried chicken until he was nearly 23, I’m also quickly realizing that my time in Charlottesville is quickly coming to an end.  At the time of writing this, there are only nine days left until I leave this wonderful place for the last time as a student.  With that in mind, I’ve also realized in the last few days just how many things I have yet to do (I’m sorry, Grace, but streaking the lawn, or what’s left of it since it’s being resowed at the moment, is not on that list).  I guess I’ll have to move quickly to fit it all in!

Until next time…

-JD

PS: Last night, it was announced that Sherman Hemsley, the actor best known for playing the other Mr. Jefferson, passed away and so in his honor, I thought I’d include what is quite possibly one of the best theme songs to any television show.

Grace and I Revisited Our Youth Last Weekend

It was better in the 90s.

Grace and I realized that it was more fun to be a child in the 90s than today when we decided to return to a place where we spent much of our summers: Busch Gardens.  Well apparently, they decided to make some changes that we didn’t like, specifically regarding nostalgic rides that were probably too dangerous anyway.  They’ve also added some Sesame World something that just… it’s not the same.  Plus, because people kept taking photos of their ride photos with their mobiles, it appears that Busch Gardens is retaliating by eliminating the photos entirely.

That said, the magic was still there in New France where the Trapper’s Smokehouse, despite being enlarged from its original size, still has the best ribs on earth!  Yes, I know that I just said that the ribs at a theme park are the best I’ve ever had, but it’s kind of true.  I don’t know what they do to those ribs, but they rock my world and I spent two days salivating over just the thought of them.  Grace, being the team player that she is, joined me in polishing off a few spare ribs which is a big deal because I’m the only guy with whom Grace will eat ribs.  Seeing as we each grabbed about four moist towelettes, there is no photographic evidence that we were there.  The $23.39 charge on my credit card is the only proof I was there, and that’s the way it should be!

In addition to avoiding a Fabio moment on Apollo’s Chariot, the most enjoyable moment of the evening (yes, we were smart and went at 18h0 on the Friday before Memorial Day because people with little children had already left to go home and people who had been there since the park opened at 10 were exhausted and not riding the major attractions (aka: the roller coasters) so it was just us and Middle School bands) was by far as we were on the Griffon, the tallest, most enjoyable roller coaster at the park.  before dropping you 205 ft at a 90° angle while going 75mph, you’re treated to this most serene view of the park, the adjacent Anheuser Busch brewery, Williamsburg, and the James River.  It was during this ten-second little pause that gave Grace way too much pleasure because I went from talking about how peaceful it was up there and asking what a certain ride was that I had never before seen to screaming my little tuchus off like it’s no one’s business without missing a beat.  She just loved the transition from serenity to insanity.  I was more highly entertained when we went on the 3D attraction Curse of DarKastle, a ride which had graphics and special effects that were SO pre-Avatar, Grace was actually terrified and holding on to me as if this was real!  It was just one of the many reasons why I’m so glad I went to the “Most Beautiful Theme Park in America” with Grace!  Plus, we got to judge the poor decisions made by families who came in matching teeshirts they had made specifically for their trip.

Meanwhile, these past few weeks have been interesting.  Andrew and Justin have graduated from college and Andrew is already gainfully employed.  Unlike Justin, who did the full graduation bit, Andrew skipped the Duke graduation, which I can say from first-hand experience is a a full on spectacle.  On the football field, they build miniature Duke buildings with scaffolding and large printed images that creates this:

I’m so glad I attend a school that doesn’t have to do that.

Justin’s graduation was more… normal, taking place in the gymnasium at Rollins that Justin and I got class credit for learning how to fence.  Justin’s parents came down for the ceremony and nearly drove him insane after four days, so it basically all went according to plan.  Though I must say, the male graduates from Rollins are the most well-dressed graduates.

The female graduates always try to look perfect regardless of where you go, but at every other school, the majority of the male graduates either look okay, drunk, or drunk and high (hence they’re wearing shorts, tee-shirts and sandals) with only a few exceptions.  At Rollins, however, the daily fashion show that the students unintentionally put on as they appear to be heading to or from classes seems to be elevated to new heights with guys dressed sharper than ever and sporting the most entertaining Stubbs & Wootton shoes.  I’d be lying right now if I said I didn’t miss the sheer entertainment value of that school.

Back to Justin, his laziness is “studying” for the LSATs while still trying to perfect that perfect George Hamilton orange glow, which is different from Snooki orange because, among countless reasons, it can hold its liquor.  Unfortunately, Justin now has to drive to the pool/beach area at Rollins since he’s moved further into the bowels of Winter Park.  But it’s not all bad news because finally, after years of holding out, Justin bought a television.  However, back to the bad news, he refuses to get cable/satellite.  It’s for watching movies because apparently, television is too lowbrow for him.

At the sam time, digital images are no longer good enough for Justin, who, in the last six months, has purchased three old-fashioned film cameras.  Interestingly, The New York Times today wrote about the resurgence of the old-fashioned medium over the last few years, which unfortunately didn’t come soon enough to save Kodak from bankruptcy earlier this year.

Justin, meanwhile, is determined to do his part to help this grass roots movement by starting a website to showcase his work while also documenting his entry into medium format photography.  For those of you as confused as I am, medium format photography is some fancy form of photography that thanks to Photoshop and Instagram, is no longer necessary.  He claims that this is wrong because the image quality is better than even the most expensive Hasselblad camera.  All I know is that is my Leica takes a great image, even if it decides whether or not it wants to take the photo I want.

That said, the site, which he is keen to point out is still in beta, does have one of my favorite images that Justin has taken since we met.  It’s of a headless mannequin in a store window in Winter Park that makes the headless horseman look so boring.  I normally don’t like paisley, but in the black and white image, it just looks so glamorous and so effortless.  It’s also SO something Justin would buy, which is really why I like the photo!  The photos are all very Justin in that they require one to really think about each image which shows the seriousness of Justin’s love for photography that I’ll never have because I simply see them as a way to capture an image for when I’m old and can’t remember a damn thing!  I just hope he doesn’t put those bad photos of me on there.

Meanwhile, back in the land of Jefferson, it’s been a painful month with finals, papers and little rest for the weary.  Unfortunately, the University of Virginia won’t let me graduate until August after I finish two final courses so I’ll get to walk next May, which is fine because most of the people with whom I’ve become friends here in Charlottesville will be graduating next year anyway.  The week leading up to graduation weekend, my friends Hannah and Lindsay came over and we celebrated the end of the semester in style by making pizzas and then sabering a bottle Veuve!  It was so much fun and we just had the best time.

Forgive me, but it’s been a really long time since I’ve made pizza dough from scratch so they didn’t turn out as well as they should have.  As for the Veuve, well Hannah got the bottle, as is the case with all but the first bottle I sabered.  I think it makes for a fun party gift.

The fun continued that Friday when I began my drive up to Baltimore for the Preakness.  Unlike Mother, who along with my grandfather, spent six hours in traffic on the Beltway and other DC metro area highways, I had the most relaxing drive to Baltimore I’ve ever had in my entire life!  I took Route 29 from Charlottesville up to the DC area, making a stop in Lindsay’s hometown of Haymarket where I unexpectedly visited one of Lindsay’s favorite places, Pickle Bob’s, an ice cream place whose specialty is called a Pickle Bob which is half soft serve milkshake and half soft serve sunday in cup topped with a mountain of whipped cream and the necessary maraschino cherry.  It was my idea of nirvana because in addition to loving soft serve in ways that shouldn’t be possible (at Rollins, I spent a ton of the money on my meal plan on soft serve) and I live for a good milkshake so the fact that they were able to combine both in the same cup is absolutely brilliant!  And here I thought I would only want to visit Haymarket to see Lindsay.

Following this most enjoyable break in the drive, I then ended up deciding not to take the Beltway, but instead to take a ferry from Leesburg across the Potomac to the actual Maryland countryside.  It was amazing!  The historic White’s Ferry is actually the last ferry still crossing the Potomac River and though it looks rather rickety and ready to take on water if the waves get even a tad bit rough, it was fine and so well organized.  They take your money once you’ve been directed onto the ferry and then within a flash, you’re on the move and before you blink, it’s over and you’re in Maryland, a state that takes much better care of its roads than Virginia.

The highlight of the weekend, though, was the Preakness.  Now, I’ve been to enough Preakness races to know the difference between just a normal race when the winner wins by a long shot and then a race like that Saturday when it’s neck and neck right up to the very last second.  I mean that was an absolutely stunning race!  But let’s be honest, how could you not want a horse named “I’ll Have Another” to win?  That is such a fantastic name and, according to the drunk seated next to me at the race, this horse performs better the longer distances it has to go and with the Belmont next weekend being the longest track of the three races in the Triple Crown, we really might have a chance at having the first winner since Affirmed in 1978.

Alas, Summer is here and though much has happened already, we’ve got thirteen weeks until Labor Day, which means I’ve got thirteen weeks to wear my off-white, white pants without staining them!  Until next time…

JD

I Want To Visit That Lone BlackBerry Store

Did anyone else read that sad story yesterday in The Wall Street Journal about that lone BlackBerry store in Farmington Hills, Michigan?  I read that and immediately looked on Delta‘s website to see how much it would cost to take a pilgrimage to what was supposed to be the first of many BlackBerry stores all across America (excluding their seven airport stores).  That won’t be happening any time soon, however, because I’d have to drive to Richmond in order to fly to Detroit.  That, and I don’t have time right now to do that.  Maybe I’ll go later this year, but I already know I’ll be going alone since I only know ten people at most, including myself, who still have use a Blackberry.

Personally, I don’t like the iPhone because I want a real keyboard, hence I’m still stickin’ with the Berry.  But, only because little Debbie from Season One of SNL nagged so much, I finally caved and agreed to let him buy me an iPad, partly because he offered and I wanted to call his bluff and partly because I’ve been told I’m not getting a new Mac for a few years so this will hopefully take some of the load off of my aging workhorse.  Plus, it’ll be great for traveling since I won’t have to take a computer anymore on trips.  I’m not really sure what I’m going to use this iPad for when I’m not traveling other than to read the newspapers I already read on my iPod because I’m still keeping my Kindle because I don’t want any distractions when I’m reading.  We shall see how this goes once it and I meet one another in May.

All that said about the iPhone, I did love that new ads they made with Zooey Deschanel and Samuel L. Jackson:

Movin’ right along, I hate April.  It’s starts with a day that makes gullible people like myself seem beyond dumb, it gives us awkward weather for which we can’t dress (it’s not too cold to wear a jacket, but not too hot to wear shorts), pollen, and if you’re a university student, April means papers; lots and lots of unnecessary papers.  Oh yeah, and income tax day, which I don’t think anyone other than the employees of the IRS look forward to each year.

Yeah, I’ll admit it.  These massive papers I’m currently avoiding like the plague are such a waste of time and energy.  But, I need good grades on them so unfortunately, I have to write them.  Besides, Justin tells me that my problems are trivial and I shouldn’t complain.

Speaking of His Royal Unemployed, Justin is getting ready to move to his new apartment this weekend.  This is going to be hard for Justin because he has some stuff and an extremely small car.  I’m going to enjoy hearing how he does it, especially since he has actual furniture.  I’d say I wish Justin well with this “endeavor,” but I’m really dying to hear some story about how something fell out of the back of his car while on the two mile drive to his new apartment and reeks havoc on the brick-paved streets of Winter Park.  I know it’s mean and how can I think something like that, but in reality, y’all were thinkin’ it too!

Grace, on the other hand, had a most amusing last week.  And by amusing, I mean she’ll look back on it and laugh in a few months.  So Grace had this horse show in Spotsylvania, VA, a city adjacent to Fredericksburg made of two sides: there’s this very beautiful country side that is part of Virginia horse territory; the other side is filled with cheap motels, bad fast food and chain restaurants, gas stations galore, and that’s about it.  We stop there on our way to and from Maryland when we go to the Preakness and Mother and I were the 100,000th customers at the Friendly’s there in Spotsylvania; we get two milkshakes and use the bathroom before heading to the nearest gas station.

So Grace goes up there and makes her hotel reservation by calling hotels.com (don’t even get me started on that little detail) and arrives at whatever hotel where she was supposed to stay only to find out that they don’t have her in their computer system, but perhaps it’s at the other one not too far away.  When she arrives at the other location, they only have her staying there one night and it had a unique scent that was not tolerable.  Obviously, this was not going to work, so Grace gets back in her truck to start searching for any streamlined chain hotel and even though there are literally thousands upon thousands of usually empty hotel/motel rooms in Spotsylvania thanks to its location just off of I-95, they were all sold out!  Even the Ramada Inn that has the most terrifying, 80s kind of Vergas-style swimming pool in the middle of the hotel and therefore reeks of chlorine was booked solid.

Apparently, there were three reunions/meetings in town that night and so Grace has to drive almost to Richmond, which is a good 30-45 minutes away, and mind you, she’s just spent the whole day taking care of a very spoiled horse sans a militia of helpers so she was exhausted to say the least.  Princess ends up staying at a Quality Inn outside of Richmond in a “smoking room with a bloodstain on the carpet.”  She and I both agreed that it would have probably been a safer and smarter idea to just sleep in the backseat of the truck.

Back here in the land of all things Jefferson (where today, the only professor I’ve had while attending UVa who had yet to mention his class’s connection to Mr. Jefferson finally made the connection.  I swear, there must be something in the contracts of every professor at the university that requires them to make a connection of some kind to him because every single class has managed to somehow.), this past Friday was Founder’s Day, which celebrates Mr. Jefferson’s birthday.

Mother, who was here for two days with friends, and I went up to Monticello, which was a lot of fun and we just walked around and enjoyed the perfect weather and views.  Unfortunately, this was a somewhat spontaneous decision so I didn’t have my camera along with me.  We’re going to go back and take photos this time.  On the upside, UVa students can visit Monticello for free, which is nice since it costs $24 to see the house and grounds, which is kind of steep if you ask me.

Alas, I have to go because I have to compile a five-seven page annotated bibliography that’s due tomorrow, so until next time…

-JD

Well It’s Not Quite Spring Fever, But It’s Close

Welcome to April, quite possibly the most stressful month of the year.  Amazingly, I got off to a good start this week and I’m somehow ahead of schedule for this week in terms of work.  I’m convinced it’s because Katie Couric is back on TV in the morning.  That’s not a joke either.  In case y’all don’t know, Katie is co-hosting Good Morning America this week while Robin Roberts is on vacation and I have to say that it was such a breath of fresh air to have the bubbly personality back to wake me up!  The last nearly ten months of Ann Curry has just been painful and I think we can all agree that she belongs back at Dateline because the stories reported on by Dateline work better with her facial expressions and over-caring.

Meanwhile, a few things have happened in the last few weeks, most notably being that Justin was told by the law firm he was working at that his services were no longer required, even though they just gave him a promotion of some sort.  Naturally, nothing else has changed because he’s still continuing to remind me daily that I’m still in school and how he doesn’t have to take finals and write papers.  The only difference is that now he can remind me all day long, when he’s not working on his tan, that is.

Moving up the East Coast to North Carolina, Andrew actually saw The Hunger Games, this year’s Twilight and while every girl I know who has seen it-Andrew is also the only guy I know who has seen it-loved every minute of the seemingly pointless movie, Andrew wasn’t impressed.  He’s more excited about today’s re-release of Titanic, which is being brought back to the big screen in time for the 100^th anniversary of the ocean liner’s sinking.  Now I understand why it seems like such a big deal being in 3D and whatnot, but I just…  I don’t really see the point in having to wear special glasses just so I can see a movie.  Furthermore, I don’t get why I need to have things come off the screen.  If I had wanted to be apart of the scene, I would have tried out for a role in the movie.

Yet, I’m apparently in the minority on this because every movie is now being made in 3D.  The biggest reason for why I probably won’t be seeing Titanic, though, is not about it being in 3D, or even because I don’t think James Cameron needs any more money.  Instead, it’s because I don’t know how many more times I can handle hearing that damn “My Heart Will Go On” being played.  But, again, I’m in the minority on this one since the Caesar’s Palace Colosseum (which is actually how they spell it) is sold out night after night so people can see Céline Dion do this:

Justin is so excited about seeing Titanic (and hearing Céline belt it out) that he’s going tonight, because he has some free time.  Maybe after, he’ll enjoy a nice piña colada, which I’m slightly embarrassed to say was the first alcoholic beverage Justin told me he ever ordered.  Mine was a glass of white Spanish wine when I was in Lugano, Switzerland with Mother and my Aunt Wendy.  I’m still mad at myself for never finding out the name of it.  Also, I’m waiting for ABC to air the Titanic two-night miniseries written by Julian Fellowes that airs on the 14th and 15th of April.

Back here in Virginia, it’s been a busy couple of weeks and my mind has finally consented to the idea that we have to go back to school after kind of refusing for a while after Spring Break.  Two weekends ago, however, work was swept aside for something far more important.  It started Friday night when I went with my dear friend and hall mate, Lindsay, to try the Whiskey Jar on the Downtown Mall.  Now I have been trying to get into the Whiskey Jar for weeks because it just looks like a cool place, but it is always overflowing with people.  Yet that night, the stars were aligned and even though we were seated up against a hideous concrete retaining wall, at least we were seated outside on a perfectly gorgeous evening.  The location did get a bit better once I realized that the couple at the table behind Lindsay was on that beyond awkward first date based on the nervous conversation that was taking place.  And yes, that means I was eavesdropping the entire time.  I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it; I just love knowing other peoples’s business.

Now, as for the food, it was Southern food euphoria.  We started with the hush puppies & sweet potato biscuits, which were served with apple & sorghum butters.  Now I’m not a huge biscuit eater, but the sweet potato gave it this flavor that made it so welcoming and when combined with that apple butter, it makes one wonder why people would rather spend their money on cheap liquor when they could be eating these little bundles of joy!  The hush puppies, equally scrumptious (yes, I feel it’s time to bring that word back), took me right back to when I went to summer camp in North Carolina and they would take us to Moorhead City for a weekend and the Sanitary Restaurant, where they would take us for dinner the first night, gave us these amazing hush puppies and I rarely if ever see them anywhere so it was so a real treat to have them.  We also split the fried quail & homemade coleslaw because it was so nice outside that it felt like it was time to start eating summer foods and I feel that coleslaw is one of those ultimate summer foods on the beach or by the pool.  The quail was crispy and just…one almost wants to join Dick Cheney on his next quail hunt to get some more.

For our entrees, Lindsay and I are like-minded eaters who both chose the ultimate Southern food, fried chicken.  Aside from being something that will kill you if you eat it too often, in all honesty, the only eatable fried chicken comes from the South.  It doesn’t matter if you take a black, Southern grandmother up North, the fried chicken won’t taste the way it does in the South.  It was so crispy on the outside, tender on the inside; melt in your mouth, can you taste the butter, my mouth is watering right now at the very thought of them, and the accompanying collards, which are not and have never been a staple of my diet, were like eating healthy candy.  Initially, I told Lindsay that I was definitely going to have some leftovers to take home because the portion was so good, but by the time the waiter cleared our plates, very little remained aside from the chicken bones, which I don’t recommend eating.  The next time I go back, I’m trying the side of macaroni & cheese I didn’t see this first visit.  Also, it was surprisingly inexpensive; the fried chicken was only $12, so it’s very college budget-friendly, even though I know some people who would argue that it’s better to spend that $12 on three beers at the Corner instead.  I don’t eat with them.

From an affordable dinner on Friday night, Saturday night was a little different.  That night was the 49^th annual Restoration Ball, an event Grace and I have been talking about attending together for three years.  The black tie ball raises money for the restoration of the Rotunda here at UVa.  The night, regardless of the amount of fun we had, was not without its problems.  First of all, it didn’t just drizzle as expected.  Oh no, it poured the way it pours in a rain forest!  Did I mention this took place under a tent?  Also, while Grace and I actually tried to look good, some people thought this was a perfectly good time to dust off the old prom dresses, which was not a good idea!  To make things worse, those of us over the age of 21 were treated to sparkling wine, but it was inside a nearby building that we had to run to in the downpour, and they ran out very early in the evening!

But it was a lot of fun, especially the part where they made us perform the Virginia reel, which Grace claims we learned how to do in the Third Grade.  Do y’all remember what you learned in the Third Grade because I sure as hell don’t!  Thankfully, I wasn’t the only person who didn’t know it because we got a crash course before beginning.  After what was probably the highlight of the night, Grace decided it was time for us to move on, and by move on, I mean sprint to the Corner to bars before going back to her apartment to order copious amounts of borderline uneatable food I would never normally eat because I don’t want to die at 30 and eat it while watching Eat Pray Love, the movie that made me decide to study abroad in Italy (not much has changed; that bowl of pasta still looks so happy!).  It was a truly memorable night and I’m so glad Grace, who looked radiant in her vintage Badgley Mischka gown, and I finally got to go!

Flash-forward five days to last Friday and I did something I never thought I’d do, I went to a jazz concert at a fraternity house.  Lindsay schlepped me over to the Delta Upsilon fraternity house, which is most civilized one I’ve been in because it’s also the newest house at UVa.  My other experiences at fraternity houses here at UVa have seen me standing in puddles of alcohol, being dragged by Grace halfway down a flight of stairs to a basement filled with “water” that I refused to get near (I didn’t want to risk having to get my legs amputated), painfully loud music, and how could I ever forget the stench of cheap beer mixed with grain alcohol and throw-up.  This was about as far from any of that as one can imagine, save for the beer and grain alcohol, well it was bourbon.

Now this place was actually clean, no doubt thanks to pledges who did such a lovely job of wiping up the floors the second someone spilled something; if any of you would like to make extra money, I’d pay for my apartment to be cleaned because I despise doing it.  Unfortunately, in what must be a cost-cutting measure to pay for this beautiful frat house, the DU men served up Keystone Light Beer.  Y’all, I thought it couldn’t get worse than Fratty Natty.  Oh no, it turns out I was wrong.  Imagine drinking water that’s been infused with hops; it’s like cucumber water, only absolutely revolting!  Now I know why people carry flasks with them!

Anyway, the next day, Miss Lindsay and I met at the very civilized hour of 11 to head over to the Pigeon Hole to partake in the best meal ever invented, brunch.  Who doesn’t love brunching?  It’s not just the food that makes brunch the perfect meal because when one brunches, it’s always done with friends/relatives if we must and it’s the only time when one is no longer in college for it to be perfectly acceptable to drink before noon without being labeled an alcoholic.  Granted, these alcoholic beverages are limited to either a mimosa or a bloody mary, but you can’t really go wrong with either.

Unfortunately, most of my friends look down on things like brunch.  Andrew needs to do the three meals a day in order to “survive;” Justin is now on some nut workout that means he is eating five small meals and nothing on a brunch menu is designed for that; and Grace sleeps until well after brunch time.  Lindsay is a diamond in this rough of boring so she and I decided that since we could have a mimosa whenever, we’d go for the less conventional “cranmosa,” which is champagne with cranberry juice, and they were quite good, if I may say so myself.  Lindsay went all out Southern for her selection of the biscuits & red eye gravy, accompanied with lots of hash browns.  I stayed with the more conventional French toast option, which came with sliced apples that were glazed in cinnamon and just so yummy!  I also got hash browns, but didn’t pay much attention to them.

Following brunch, we decided that since it was such a beautiful day, we would take our homework outside and do the cliché UVa student studying on the lawn thing.  However, too many other people beat us to the lawn so we ditched that plan and headed to the fine arts school’s courtyard.  On the way, we noticed that the UVa club rugby team was playing UNC and of course we got distracted and watched.  Fortunately, I had my camera with me; this is the only photo I liked:

After about an hour of watching rugby, a sport neither of us understands (don’t even get me started on the location of hands), it started to rain and we quickly took shelter in the fine arts school’s library and actually got work done before heading to a wine and cheese tasting at Feast, the amazing specialty foods store not far from grounds.  I absolutely love their charcuterie department because they have such a great variety of local and out of the ordinary meats from which to choose.  Plus, they sell something called chocolate goat cheese, which I have yet to try but plan to very soon.

All of this talk about food is the perfect segway for me to mention an article I read in the April 2^nd issue of New York about my generation’s desire to actually care about food.  In case y’all haven’t noticed, I live for food.  I decided to start this blog after watching movie about Julia Child (food), I picked my study abroad country after seeing a bowl of pasta, I have spent the equivalent of a paycheck on a meal more than ten times in the last year without any remorse, and to be perfectly honest, I just love eating.

Unfortunately, the majority of my generation feels that it is perfectly acceptable to eat what can only be described as garbage; y’all might know them as frozen and other assorted pre-packaged foods.  They would rather spend their money going out to get drunk, sometimes to the point that they blackout.  Now I’m not saying that blacking out is a bad thing (on the contrary, as a shareholder of Anheuser-Busch InBev, the more you drink, the better the profit they’ll have for the next quarter, which means the more the street will like the stock, therefore meaning that the stock price will climb and I’ll make money off of your weekend you can’t remember), I just wish that there were more food lovers in my life, not that I’m saying I’m a foodie in any way whatsoever.

I actually have serious issues with people who feel the incessant need to photograph everything they eat in order to share the meal with others as opposed to enjoying it in the moment.  At the same time, if one is too busy photographing the food, think of all the things being missed during this time: the incredible aroma that is rising off the plate and into the camera instead of the nostrils or just the overall atmosphere of the restaurant itself; many people don’t realize it, but the atmosphere of a restaurant does have an impact on the overall dining experience.  Most of all, if you’re spending all your time photographing your food, then you could be missing out on the couple breaking up at the table just inches from yours at the Serafina on 61^st between Park & Madison; and then she leaves and he’s sitting there for what seems like an eternity before realizing that she has his wallet!  That whole mini-drama didn’t necessarily make the food taste any better, but it made the meal unforgettable. Y’all need to remember that the consumption of any meal, whether it is eating a bagel while walking to class or the tasting menu at Jean-Georges, is an experience that should be worth remembering.  That’s all.

Until next time…