Ye gods
After Grandma’s funeral mass we drove to the cemetery in Winsted, MN, a farming community where she spent summers in her youth and met and married Grandpa.
On the way we stopped to say a little prayer for her to the Great Chicken in the Sky.
Y’know.
Just in case.
My dad’s okonomiyaki at Obento-Ya in Minneapolis last night. The paper-thin strips of bacon were gently moving as they cooled, like a plateful of dying moths.
Creepy — but delicious. A winning combination.
Empire State Building Celebrates Gay Marriage (via buzzfeed)
My driver’s license still says I’m a Minnesotan. It’s been 11 years since I left the state and nearly five since I moved to New York but I’ve never bothered to change it (two words: flattering photograph).*
It expires on this year’s birthday. I’ve long known that by September 24th, I’m going to have to face the queue at the DMV and part with the only state license I’ve ever known. But I’ve been putting it off, off, off.
After Friday’s landmark, bipartisan ruling I am in a big rush to declare myself, officially, a New Yorker: today! tomorrow! as soon as I can get the perfect combination of two hours to spare and decent hair!
Talk about pride.
* I’ve never changed my voting registration, either, mostly because it was fun voting for Al Franken and against Norm Coleman.
(via dazzlingdelta)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Bon Iver, “Towers”
Midwest love via carry-onbaggage:
“I’m barely at home enough to enjoy the simple lifestyle that I want to live,” Vernon said on the ride back from the meat market. Taking a detour on the way to his apartment, he crossed the Chippewa River and made for Putnam Drive, a dirt road that slices through the mountains near the University of Wisconsin [Eau Claire] campus; at the beginning of it, you could just make out the dorms Vernon sings about in “Towers,” where, he pointed out, he first had sex. He stopped in at the Joynt, a dive bar where his parents met more than three decades ago; nowadays, Vernon sometimes bumps into kids he used to supervise as a guitar-playing summer-camp counselor. Earlier he pointed out with amusement various houses he’s lived in, partied in, played music in. But he also noted the places yet unexplored, the music venue he never got around to opening, the crooks of the city he still didn’t have a grip on. “I want to get to know every inch of this city,” he said, “rather than getting to know a bunch of inches of any other city.”
from the New York Times magazine interview
Lanesboro is five miles away by the bike path. Just far enough to work up an appetite for pie and coffee at the Pedal Pushers Cafe.
Nothing like an old-school diner. We were there around 5, watching all the early birds shuffle in for Friday’s all-you-can eat fish fry.
The farmhouse has a tree house to rival its wraparound porch.
Just looking at this photo relaxes me.
Thursday night was our night to cook at the farmhouse (the same one that we went to for Dad’s 60th). For dessert, we served ice cream with two very special toppings: grilled peaches in a warm honey liqueur sauce and a crunchy combination of Pop Rocks with ground hazelnuts and chocolate. The mixture was leftover from a Pop Rocks birthday cake that M. made for a friend. (Why yes, I did demand he bring it all the way to Minnesota for this very purpose.)
Snap, crackle, pop! Such a delightful treat, and much easier than making the whole cake. Highly recommended for all your summertime snackin’.
M. flew in on Wednesday five hours late, which meant we delayed our drive out to the farmhouse to join the rest of the extended family until Thursday morning, which meant we got to go on our first date in my hometown, which meant I was very happy.
First we stopped by the bar at the St. Paul Hotel where I was once a hostess and Norm Coleman, then mayor of St. Paul, was once a lech. Nothing has changed. Same desserts — creme brulee, apple crisp, flourless chocolate cake — in the dessert cart. Same head hostess, same head bartender. I got us out of there after just one glass of champagne. Sometimes going back just makes you want to go away again.
After wandering around Rice Park — where I hugged my birthday-and-hometown-twin, F. Scott, and pointed out the castle-like building where I once starred in SteppingStone Theater musicals (yes, I sang! why is that so hard for everyone to believe?) — we crossed the river to Minneapolis for dinner at Sea Salt, a newish seafood shack in Hiawatha Park. We went at my dad’s urging and boy, are we glad we did. The line rivals Shake Shack (which I refuse to stand in on principle) but you can drink while you’re in it and the setting is beautiful, with the roar of Hiawatha Falls and the jingle of bike bells providing the soundtrack.
As usual, he ordered everything, and everything — the food, the company, the evening — was excellent.
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The Great American Cooking Project