Bacon Caramel: Boozy Dessert Style

Boy oh boy.

While I may have been more lax and lazy last week with cooking, I think I more than made up for it over the weekend with baking.

The weekend, for those of you who didn't know, Sunday was National Pie Day which coupled oh-so-nicely with Baker and Spice bakery's sixth anniversary (And I apologize for not actually informing everyone before hand; in retrospect, telling you after the fact seems a bit cruel considering you've got to wait 364 more days until the next National Pie Day). They held a pie baking contest which, after I casually dropped that factoid during trivia, Jason immediately averred that I should enter it.

Which I so totally did.

Apple Pie with Oat Streusel and
Bourbon Bacon Caramel Drizzle

I recreated Thanksgiving's apple pie: Apple Pie with Oat Streusel (Thanks Bon Appetit) but topped it off with lavish drizzle of bourbon bacon caramel.

The pie looked...oh, fantastic. And smelled like comfort food heaven, sweet with cinnamon sugar warmth that played harmoniously with the melody of apples which...oh baby, oh baby mingled with the smoky kick of the bourbon and bacon grease. Poor Jason. (Well I say 'poor' but don't really mean it -- let's remember that entering the pie contest WAS HIS idea after all)  I've never seen a grown man so unbelievably distraught while maintaining such iron-willed resistance than Jason, holding the still-warm, unbelievably aromatic apple pie for the entire 18 minute drive up to Hillsdale.

Without eating it.

Sure, his nose was never less than half an inch away from its crumbly, caramely top and, if I recall correctly, he verbalized no fewer than five scenarios that inadvertently put that pie into his mouth, without requiring him to take blame.

Unfortunately, my little pie didn't win. However, I do get to pick up a Thanks-for-playing $10 gift card to Sweet Wares (Which I think I'm going to drop on a pastry cutter I keep always wishing I had). And, while I didn't have crust to make a second pie, I did make a crumble-crust, using flour, sugar, brown sugar, oats, cinnamon and...of course, bacon grease in lieu of butter, for a crumbly, crispy apple pie that really, regardless of what the professionals think, is a winner in my book.

Butter. Nice, fatty cold creamy butter.

And for your viewing pleasure: I also made (For my friend Meghann who FREAKISHLY, at least in my eyes, doesn't like pork) a dark chocolate caramel, SANS bacon grease, which apparently made one the best caramel latte/mochas ever.

Yes Megs, it's officially in the mail and on its way to you.

Dark Chocolate Caramel Sauce

Culinary Concoctions Week Three: Candied Radish Chips with Vanilla Ice Cream and (You guessed it) Bacon Caramel

I knooooooooow. It's WEDNESDAY and I haven't blogged all freaking week.

It's killing me (Or doing much worse things to me according to my work pal Johnathon -- yeah, you know what I'm talking about mate).

So finally, while the boy cooks up an amazing dinner for me, I'm sitting and blogging about the recipe I'm finally getting around to making.

While they're not black radishes, I am using the lovely red and purple bunches I got from the farmer's market nearly two weeks ago to make a dessert.

Or, to hopefully make a dessert. I know you can bake radishes but can you make them candied and sweet?

Only the following story (ie; tomorrow or Friday's blog) will tell. For now, the recipe.

Candied Radish Chips (With Vanilla [soy] Ice Cream and Bacony Caramel)


Ingredients
2 bunches of red, purple or black radishes
3 TBSP cinnamon
1/2 cup sugar
Pinch of nutmeg
Pinch or two of cocoa powder

Directions
Mix dry ingredients together. Wash and pat dry radishes. Remove stalk and root ends. Using a mandolin, thinly and evenly slice radishes. Coat with sugar mixture. Bake at 375 degrees for 10 minutes on foiled or parchment-covered cookie sheet. Flip, bake for another 5 to 10 minutes, or until crispy.

Serve warm, like mini biscotti or wafer cookies, with vanilla ice cream and warmed bacon caramel.

PS If it doesn't work or I alter it, I'll of course, let you all know. Wish me luck!

Week Two: The Story

I have to preface this blog entry with the big whiny complain that I ruined my favorite pair of pants last night. So here goes:

(Imagine me, face scrunched up into a pursed-lip, eyebrow-furrowed scowl, perhaps with a quivering chin that's fighting oh-so-hard to combat the onslaught of tears that rest behind my watery, pained eyes)

"I caaaaaaaaan't beeeeeliiiiiiiiiieve I ruuuuuuuined my cords last night. They're gooooooood pants. Uuuuuuuuugh. My faaaaaaaaaavorite and I juuuuuuuuuuuuuust bought them like twoooooooo months ago."

(Imagine me, red faced, streaming tears, pouting like a spoiled 15-year-old brat who is sooooo toooootally bummed that daddy didn't buy her a 2011 whatever-car-teens-are-hot-for-these-days)

Ahem. That's out of the way.

Yes; this buttery broth now
 speckles my favorite cords.

Aside from the pant-ruining snafu -- which, I'd like to put out there, didn't actually occur until after the meal was sitting happily inside of our stomachs and we were cleaning up and I idiotically believed I could pour liquid from a 12 inch skillet into a container three inches wide without spilling it all over the counter, the floor and myself -- last night's cooking frenzy was a big hit. Which I so totally needed. Unsurprisingly, I had finished a crazy day at AngelVision, full of clients who can't make up their mind and/or think that I'm twelve years old, and was exhausted, worn down and feeling a bit down in the dumps.

After a quick four mile run in freakishly warm weather (Warm being high 40's, a far distant cry from Tuesday night's freezing temperatures and freezing rain), I rinsed off then headed over to Jason and Co's to begin the orchestration of a very wintery-ingredient meal.

Ahhhhh. Being in the kitchen rinsed off all the stress and self doubts I had just experienced two hours prior, replacing those Negative Nancy worries with culinary confidence and might.

Colorful, even for chicken.

Of course, I hadn't braised chicken before but I think it turned out pretty fantastic. While I could have crisped up the skin for another couple of minutes, the flavor of the bacon, sage and butter really shined. That said, the extra butter in between the skin and the meat isn't necessary to keep the meat moist (And if you want a truer chicken flavor, omit the bacon and sage of course) but it adds an incredibly creamy and full-body bite to the celeriac pieces, which fried up in oil with the garlic before simmering in the buttery chicken broth.

Winter in a pan. 

Admittedly, I overcooked the squash a bit while leaving the beets a bit too al dente but to Jason, who had never before had butternut squash, roasted beets, parsnips, celeriac or rutabaga (I also had never had rutabaga or celeriac), was surprisingly pleased to find out how much he liked them.

His exact quotation? "The chicken was fucking fantastic but I really dug the veggies."

Music to an amateur chef's ears (Regardless that it came from my doting boyfriend).

My new favorite veggie.

My favorite piece of the meal was actually the celeriac. Raw, it really emits an aroma of parsley and earthiness...an odd olfactory pleasure of fresh, clean dirt. Being so starchy, like a potato, the celeriac really took the flavor of the chicken-butter-garlic-bacon broth, transforming it into a melt-in-your-mouth, rich yet clean delicacy. I think I found my new favorite vegetable.

Then again, anything that takes on bacony-garlicky-chickeny-butter with so much gusto is a favorite in my book.

Just missing the crab...

I just wish my pants didn't take it on so well.

Until next week.

Oh PS: My favorite salad, though not chock full of super seasonal ingredients: Avocado (duh) and grapefruit.

Yes....the bacon caramel latte happened

Warning: This blog post contains adult-language which, undeniably so, is the only way to really, truly describe what you're about to see and what you'll so so so SO want to taste.

While I have yet to be able to try it (Dairy and everything), these are the words I've heard thus far about the bacon-caramel latte:

"Man it's good. Like so fucking good."

"It's sweet, but not too sweet and the bacon so comes through."

"It's a good ass latte."

Okay...so that's all Jason saying that. Whatever. We've got another victim...oh, I can't believe victim is the right word...trying one later on today. Will report after that.

Back to the grind (And no...sadly, not the coffee grind)...

And here's the bacony-caramel macchiato:

Bacon Caramel

I'll admit -- and if you know me and are familiar with most of the cooking I do these days -- using bacon grease in my sweet culinary concoctions isn't unfamiliar territory.

It's far, far from.

What started with smoky molasses cookies quickly morphed into bacon cornbread, bacon pumpkin muffins, bacony no-bake cookies and, as of recently, bacon caramel.

Yes, that's caramel made with bacon grease in lieu of butter.

I know, I know; it's not what one would call healthy.

Blame Christmas. Or rather, blame Jason and Clara for shoving Christmas spirit so far down my throat that I went on a baking and holiday cooking frenzy, whipping up my regular batch of cookies plus recipes for hot cocoa, chai tea and caramel.

Now, the caramel didn't begin as bacon caramel. Considering the popular coffee-caramel duo (Not a personal favorite of mine, but I get how the flavor profile works, not to mention the fact that having caramel, thanks to the hefty amount of whipping cream it requires, would make my stomach flip flop like my dad's on a ferris wheel.), I first thought up of coffee flavored caramel, using instant coffee (Real espresso would have been so much better but a girl without an espresso machine has to compromise).

That first batch didn't work out...not so much because of the flavors, but because, when it comes to making caramel (Actually when it comes to making most things), I was too impatient with the sugar (1 1/3 cup sugar and 6 TSBPs water). When making caramel, you've got to really let the sugar (derrrr) caramelize; it takes about 8 or 9 minutes of constant boiling, while occasionally brushing the sides with a wet pastry brush to really get the sugar where you want it.


Not only will its golden color be indicative of its readiness, but when you pour in the cream (2/3 cup) and fat (1/3 cup), it'll bubble up and release lots of steam (My poor right hand is currently ailing from a hefty bout of bacony-caramel steam).

Unfortunately, with that first batch of coffee caramel, I didn't get that bubbling steam. All I got was a little bit of melting...which meant that the caramel didn't thicken up, leaving me with a syrupy coffee-flavored syrup.

Hands on my hips, I realized my mistake and began again...

Yes, that's a 2 cup pyrex of bacon grease

...and that's when I saw it, sitting so complacently and innocently on my counter. Beckoning with its halo of smoky, saturated fat deliciousness...one of three coffee cup containers of bacon grease that Jason had been saving for me.

Cue light bulb in my mind.

Thus bacon caramel was born. Unfortunately, nobody got to actually enjoy that batch, save for a mere finger lick, thanks to a gang of TSA bullies who used their jerk-headed might and big muscles and weapons and super scary threats to confiscate the jar of bacon caramel I made for Jason's parents, wrapped in a nice Christmas ribbon and all, from Jason's death grip vice (He offered to eat it to prove that his girlfriend's Christmas gift to his parents wasn't actually a homemade bomb). All 16 ounces of bacony sweetness into the trash.

Bastards.

The batch that didn't work out. 

But today friends, today was a glooooorious day. As anyone might expect after reading the above prologue, today was bacon caramel-making day. Much like the coffee caramel, I lacked patience with my sugar and ended up with more of a bacon caramel simple syrup that didn't thicken up. Rest assured, it won't go to waste; Jason's taking it to the coffee shop tomorrow with him to experiment with lattes and macchiatos...so for any Portlanders who read my blog and are curious in this concoction, maybe juuuuuuuust maybe you can con him into whipping up a bacon caramel latte.

Okay sidebar: Speaking of new latte flavors, we went to Baker and Spice today after the farmer's market and had a maple latte. They make their own maple, in barrels and everything. Oh man aliiiiiiiive it was delicious. End sidebar.

The batch that did. 

Luckily, rounds two and three of bacon caramel worked out perfectly. Thick, luscious, golden brown caramel. Two batches with a little honey and two batches with a little dark molasses; the latter which is the apex, thus far, of bacony caramel goodness.

My mind's already racking up tweaked recipes....paprika and chili pepper for a smoky spice, the oh-so-loved sea salt, maple sugar, bourbon...

The possibilities are endless. Unfortunately my bacon grease supply is not. And that only means one thing.

Bring on the bacon!

Culinary Concoctions Week Two: The Ingredient

Since I want to write more than just once or twice a week, I'm going to begin blogging three times a week during  this year-long cooking project of mine:

1. To introduce next week's ingredient (You know, for educational purposes)
2. To share the recipe (Also for educational and sharing purposes)
3. To lay out the play-by-play of cooking, with photos taken by Jason (For sharing and narrative purposes)

So next week's ingredient, as long as I'm able to find it at the farmer's market this weekend, is going to be black radishes.

Allow me to geek out:

Part of the brassicaceae or cruciferae family -- which takes its name from the New Latin word Cruciferae which, as my UP alumnus might have guessed, means cross-bearing for their criss-crossing leaves -- black radishes typically come in two varieties; the Black Spanish Long and the Noir Gros de Paris. Go figure I'm using a root plant native to Spain and France.  They grow best in winter, after sowing during June through September, because their white, firm and compact flesh will keep fresh most of the winter without entering a state of vegetation (Ha -- vegetables vegetating; seems like some kind of Buddhist practice, huh?) or becoming hollow.

I mean, who really likes a hollow radish, right?

Exactly.

The black radish is rich in vitamin c, which is why they're fantastic for winter time consumption, especially when you're living in the Pacific Northwest where the common head cold is just lurking around the corner of your favorite non-Starbucks coffee shop, waiting to latch onto you. They're also high in vitamin B and sulfur, which is the culprit for it's strong flavor. Furthermore, black radishes carry a serious punch of fiber and water which aids in digestion (Which, after three weeks of Vicodin and OTC cold head meds, could be of use).

To eat them,  you have to peel the skin because that's the most pungent part of it all; I'm assuming the strength of the sulfur would be akin to eating the skin of ginger root...not the same flavor profile but packing the same, "WOAH MAN!" reaction.

Not that I've eaten ginger root peel out of sheer curiosity or anything.

Okay fine. I'll give you a full Amie-palate review of black radish skin (By the way if that doesn't sound like a solid emo band name, I don't know what does.)

That said, let's hope Sunday's venture finds me buying black radish from the farmer's market.

Wish me luck in the Portland January rain! (Caveat: Even if my black radish pursuit IS a total wash, at least I get to A) Drag the boyfriend along with me after a two day hiatus and B) Savor my favorite treat at my favorite Portland bakery: The garden bread at Baker and Spice. As my mother would say, yum-a-dum-dum.)

PS -- On a side note, I never really thought I'd get to tag a blog with 'Vicodin' more than once. Shows how much I know.

Culinary Concoctions Week One: Grilled Halibut with Spinach and Thai Chiles over Maitake Mushroom Quinoa

1 1/2 pounds of fresh, Alaskan halibut. What else to do but grill it with a Japanese twist?

Recipe:

Ingredients
5 TBSP sugar
5 TBSP fish sauce
1/4 cup water
3 TBSP fresh lime juice
2 TBSP minced peeled ginger
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 Thai bird chiles or 1/2 large jalapeño, diced

1 small carrot, peeled and matchsticked
1 1/2 pound halibut filleted, quartered
3 TBSP vegetable oil, divided

1 shallot, thinly sliced
3/4 pound fresh spinach (About 12 cups packed)

1 cup quinoa
2 cups vegetable stock
3 TSPN soy sauce
1/2 white onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
Juice from 1/2 lemon
1/3 pound maitake mushroom

Directions
Mix first 7 ingredients in medium glass bowl. Season sauce to taste with salt and pepper (It can be made 2 days ahead; just cover and refrigerate).

Mix quinoa and vegetable stock in medium sauce pan over high heat. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered until all liquid is absorbed; about 20 minutes.

In medium skillet, heat 2 TBSP vegetable oil.  Add onion, garlic. Saute until translucent and fragrant; about 6 minutes. Add soy sauce, lemon juice and diced maitake mushrooms. Saute until mushrooms are soft, but still with some buoyancy and tooth; about 8 minutes. Add to quinoa, with 'juice' when done.

Prepare barbecue (or broiler) on medium high heat.

Place carrot in medium bowl, cover with ice water. Let stand 15 minutes, then drain well.

Brush fish on all sides with 2 TBSP oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill until opaque in the center; about 4 minutes per side.

Meanwhile, heat 1 TBSP oil in large nonstick skillet over medium heat (You really do want a large one because, even though the spinach will wilt, it'll take up a lot of room at the beginning). Add shallot. Stir 1 minute. Add spinach. Sprinkle with salt. Toss until wilted but still bright green; about 2 minutes.

Plating 

Divide spinach onto four plates. Mold 1/4 cup mushroom quinoa into loose patty and place on top of spinach bed. Carefully place fish on top of the spinach. Sprinkle each fillet with carrot and drizzle with 2 TBSP sauce and a swirl onto the plate. Serve with a  rich and fruity wine, like a dry rose or Gewurztraminer. If, like me, you prefer something less fruity and sweet, a clean, crisp beer -- like Sapporo, to stick with the theme -- will go nicely, too.

Pictures and the story to follow...

Confession of a One-time Smoker

I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.

I smoked a cigarette.

Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.

I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."

Allow me to explain.

It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.

Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.

I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.

I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.

And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.

Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.

Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.

Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.

And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.

I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.

And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.

Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"

And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.

It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"

More creativity

I've got a lot of extra time these days...okay...that's a lie; my 70-hour work weeks are not giving me a lot of free time these days (A little distraction goes a long ways)...but nevertheless, I'm finding that I'm gravitating toward more creative writing. I'm not sure where it's coming from or why, now, all of a sudden I think that I might, maybe, perchance be a creative but for some reason, my mind is thinking more lyrically these days.

That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.

Yes. Judge away.

Berry                              Kiss

A taste like                    Once...
Never...before.                I came across a
Perfectly                         Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life.               I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful,                      Juicy,
And then --                     Tart and
Almost                             Puckery --
With a pop,                     Like a berry,
It stained my                 Ripe
Red lips.                          With passion.


So yes. There it is. Gah.

Aunthood

So holy cow I'm an Aunt. That's right; my brother and his wife Amber gave birth --

Wait.

Scratch that. Try again.

My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.

That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.

Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.

As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.

It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.

Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.

See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.

Congrats again to my brother and Amber.

Creativity

Remember last week when I was all...hey...look I'm way too much of a pansy to really prove how creative I am?

Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.

Fuck all that. Here it goes:

The Beat

And now for my solo.

Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.

For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.

Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.

Silence.

Cue spotlight.

Our measured steps are stopped.

But my solo still walks on.

Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.

I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.

Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.

Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.

I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.

The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.

Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?

Yes I am.


Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].

PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?

Fin.

The Nymph

I think it's time I finally write about The Nymph.

I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.

Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.

But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.

She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.

Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.

For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.

I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.

Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).

Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.

In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.

No, not that kind of banging.

I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).

When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.

And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...

...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.

It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.

Adieu Pottery Barn...I think...maybe?

So. No need to soften the blow but...

I finally put in my two weeks at Pottery Barn. Last Sunday, on my one-year anniversary at the Barn, I wrote a sad little note, left it on the desk in the managers' office and left for home.

I thought that today and tomorrow was my last weekend. Turns out, as I learned an hour into today's 7 (which turned out to be 6 and some change) hour shift that today, due to the fact that the store was way the hell over in payroll dollars, was my last day.

Walker shot me a text on Thursday morning around 10 to say that (per my request in my two weeks notice notes) I wasn't on the schedule for next week. An odd shock of emotions jolted my body; I was finally going to get my weekends back. But I was also sad knowing that, after just 12 hours (ahem, 6 and some change), I was going to be done at Pottery Barn. It seemed so informally final. So weird.

I shouldn't be sad, really. I shouldn't even care: I'm leaving a barely-above-minimum-wage, part-time job that requires me to cater to the sometimes-uppity and always-rich people who patron our store (when I'm still laid-back, realistic and not-quite-rich) for a new full-time, salaried career. Everything about my life is about to better itself (I'm ignoring the Notorious B.I.G's wane of 'Mo Money, Mo Problems') now that I'm making more money:

Better apartment (Ahem, bigger!) Better healthcare (Actual healthcare...meaning I don't have to keep telling Kaiser Permanente that I'm a visiting member and still don't have a member records number...). Better peace of mind knowing that for the first time in my life I'm going to be able to independently thrive (PS for an example of the type of writing I do at AngelVision, the last paragraph -- sans parenthetical asides -- is a damn good example of my mad marcom skills).

But you know what?

I'm actually a little uneasy about leaving Pottery Barn.

It's hard to leave a place that's been so flexible and unbelievably supportive over the twelve months...a place where I've met great friends, a wonderful boyfriend who I'm apartment searching with and a basketful (we'll go with an XXL Beachcomber's size basket) of people who genuinely care for me.

I've had a lot of people pushing me to finally put my two weeks in at Pottery Barn after landing the job at AngelVision a month ago. And finally, I decided it was time. AngelVision is, as promised, a very demanding job: I've already got projects and scripts up the wazoo (Fun etymology fact of the day: Wazoo is indeed slang for...uh...you know...originally derived from the Pama-Nyungan languages -- the family of Australian languages -- and thought to refer to the uh...you know...of animals, especially the kangaroo) so much to the point that I'm taking my laptop home after 8 1/2 solid hours of clickity-clack typing.

It's so much work that it just taxes my mind to the point that I'm simply pooped on the weeknights and worthless on the weekends. Today for example, I slept in until 8:20, drank lots of coffee, ran 4 miles, ate breakfast then slept for another 45 minutes after moping around worthlessly for 2 hours. The thought of working retail when I'm so exhausted just exhausts my exhaustion. It makes me moody and, as Walker can attest to, less than desirable and fun to be around, let alone live with.

And that's not good because, really, I am a happy and cheery person.

Nevertheless, after shutting off the main lights after closing for the final time (maybe?!), I can't help but feel a wee bit sad. After so much bitching about the job...I just don't get this feeling that I'm going to be missing out on something.

Weird. Very weird indeed.

Movin' On Up!

I hate moving. The whole idea of packing up every little piece of my property, whether it's my black pub style table and corresponding wobbly stools (We're talking Target here, not Pottery Barn) or one of 12 dinner plates (This time we're talking IKEA) is just exhausting. I loathe getting boxes together and filling them in an organized fashion with trinkets and dishes and books and toiletries only to have to unpack them within the following days. 

Then there's the cleaning. It's not as though I keep a dirty apartment (My mother would be so ashamed) or anything but I just have this nagging guilty conscious that forces me to perform the deepest scrub on any place I leave behind (Save for the last place I live that is, but hey--I was jipped out of my Eight Pound Oreck in that deal so I don't feel much remorse). I'll wipe down walls and scrub corners with a toothbrush until I've inhaled so many cleansing fumes that I'll start scrubbing spots that are more a figment of my intoxicated imagination (It's also at that point that I usually get distracted and think it'd be a good idea to go on some kind of Gonzo crusade).

I personally blame my three years living in UP dorms for my inane moving-out cleansing ritual. At the end of the school year, RAs would scrutinize our dorm rooms like a grandma scrutinizes fingernails, pointing out with horror and dismay the teeniest, tiniest, most minute speck of dirt. Unlike grandma though (hopefully!), UP charged a bleeping dollar for every one thing left in the dorm room. I once had to pay for a dried leaf the size of my pinkie nail.

And of course, along with the packing and cleaning, there's the whole finding a new place to live process and the accompanying stress that hides in its back pocket. I always get bullet-sweating nervous that I won't be able to find a place to live, despite the fact that Craigslist touts an average of 90 new listings at my price range in Multnomah County alone each day. Obviously I'm going to be able to find a new place to live but that still doesn't stop me from embarking on my search for a new abode weeks before its even sensible to start the application process.

Nevertheless, despite loathing the actual moving process, I can't help but be totally and completely stoked that I'm moving at the end of this month. Thanks to a 100 percent increase in my monthly budget, I'm able to afford a bigger apartment so that Walker -- bless his heart for putting up with being squished in a studio for three months -- and I can live more like adults in a real, live, well-put-together apartment and less like close-quartered college roommates.

Where we're going to live yet...well, we haven't figured that part out yet. But anywhere than where we are now will be better. It's not that The Plato is all that bad...there are worse places out there (Gresham, Tigard and Hillsboro to name a few). It's just become a bit inconvenient as of late, what with my apartment manager threatening to kick me out because Walker has a set of keys and The Nympho's Johns confusing my apartment for hers (I had a guy on Monday who, honestly -- looked 14 at best, knock on my door, push his body partially into our studio in search for her). My early mornings sometimes conflict with Walker's late night so the fact that he can legally have a set of keys would make our daily routines a bit smoother. My early morning runs and stretching routines won't bother his beauty sleep and his late night post-QO meeting drinkfests won't bother mine.

Now that I've put my (our) 30 days into the landlord, I'm starting to get antsy about finding a place, even though I'm still 9 days away from being able to make any kind of deposit. And there's the fact that we'll be headed to Spokane for Hoopfest (No, not to play 3-on-3 basketball...we're going to watch my brother and his friend play hungover) the last weekend of June, possibly leaving us with just weekdays, probably more realistically weeknights to move all of our stuff...

...which we have a lot of. Combined, we have enough place settings to throw a killer three-course meal dinner party for two dozen people -- predinner drinks and postdinner coffee included -- without washing a single dish. I have as many books (Helloooo English major!) as he does movies (Hellooooo Film major!) and the sheer quantity of appliance we have probably require more than one packed-to-the-brim car trip to our yet-to-exist new place.

We've yet to nail down where we want to live...though the lure of Northwest living is a luxury I've definitely gotten used to. Forest Park? Shopping? Close to work? Coffee every three feet? Yeah...leaving this area would definitely force me to make a change in my daily routine that I'm not quite sure I'm ready or willing to make.

I can only handle so much change at one time, after all.

41 Days Later...

As if my infrequent blog posts haven't been evidential proof of my lack of free time and extra energy, the facts that I worked every day for the past six weeks, logging in an average of 53 hours between Pottery Barn and Whole Family Wellness Center while producing three articles for Neighborhood Notes (which involves interviewing, taking pictures, writing and eating a LOT of food) and four food articles/reviews for The Examiner should add up to a sum of me having barely enough time to sleep let alone write blogs for fun.

But that changed on Saturday when I had my
very
first
day
off.

And it was amazing. Simply amazing. Here's a lovely breakdown of how I spent my (I like to think) hard earned day off:

8:35 am -- Wake up, without an alarm, slightly confused like I fell asleep at some place other than where I usually sleep and forgot that I fell asleep there and expected to wake up in my regular bed in my regular studio (I always experience that slightly confusing and panicky feeling whenever I go home to Spokane and forget, upon waking up, that I'm going to be in my old bright yellow bedroom in my parent's house and not in my cushy queen sized bed in my freezing studio). I didn't recognize my own room upon opening my eyes because it just seemed eerily different. After uncurling myself from my burrito-wrap of blankets I realized the difference: My room was light...from the sun...which rose...before I did.

8:45 am -- Happy that I have a day off while the sun still had to rouse itself bright and early, I remain in bed, watching The Office and texting with Rachel and Walker.

9:20 am -- Think about getting out of bed but decide that the warmth of my electric blanket is just too good to leave and I know that, despite the sun's presence shining through my curtainless window, my 60-year-old hardwood floor is going to be cold on my sockless feet.

9:45 am -- Still in bed, I begin to hear unnerving stirring from up above where The Nympho in my building lives. Seriously, she's a nympho...and a very loud and crazy one at that fact.

Sidebar: My very first weekend in my apartment my friend Matt was in town for the marathon so he stayed with me. Matt and I hadn't seen each other for a solid 10 months and of course, while talking and playing catch up in my studio, we heard the nympho going at it. He asked me if I moved into a brothel. I couldn't give him an answer. End Sidebar.

I can't help but pray that perhaps she is just waking up and getting ready to make one of her crazed mad dashes out of the building. While she is just waking up, she's, unfortunately for me, waking up with one of her many Johns. Her bloodcurdling screams of ecstasy are enough to get me out of my and into pajama pants and blue and yellow polka dot galloshes and over to Fat Straw for a Stumptown-made soy mocha. Taking the mocha back home, I snag my Saturday Oregonian and crawl back into bed, happy to know that The Nymph's John is the short-winded one, if you catch my drift.

11:00 am -- Crossword puzzle complete and newspaper read (There was this super crazy article about a PSU professor who accused a student of being an FBI informant and murderer. I still don't understand it), I finally get out of bed and throw on half spandex pants, the generic watch my sister gave me, sports bra and my Nikes and proceed to push my body through seven miles.

Noon -- Shower and head to New Seasons for lunch. I finally talk with my mom for the first time since last Sunday which is nice because, let's face it, I'm a huge Mama's girl and feel as though I'm without my right arm when I don't speak daily with her. I love New Seasons on the weekends; sure, they're always busy but there is always a mountain of samples. This Saturday's sample platter was all in preparation for today's Super Bowl (Which I did not watch, thanks to a solid PB shift). While waiting for my sandwich I feast on Pirate's Booty, kettle corn, gluten-free pretzels and stone ground corn tortilla chips and guacamole.

1:45 pm -- Arrive back home and, upon being unable to see much of my hardwood floor, decide to clean up a little bit.

1:55 pm -- Bored and sick of cleaning (productivity just wasn't suiting me), I opt to finish a blog post that I began on Wednesday (I told you I've been busy) and, feeling a little rebellious, crack open a beer, just because I can.

3:15 pm -- Itching to get out again and armed with a $50 gift card, I head to Powell's. Hopping in my car I know that the crowds will be out in masses but find a parking spot on the corner of 10th and Everett anyway. An afternoon at Powell's, teeming with people or not, is definitely my ideal activity. I have a route that I typically follow: Enter into the Orange Room, peruse (And I actually mean the real, original definition of the word which means to search intently and deeply, not to scan or skim) through the cooking section before making the rounds in the middle of the room, looking at the islands of sale books. I next enter the Pink Room, rummaging my way through the running books in hopes that something will ignite the kindling of my once ravenous passion. Up the stairs, I head to the Blue Room where novels live. My favorite aisle? The M/S aisle where David Sedaris lives across and down the aisle from Christopher Moore. Checking the $5 sale shelf, I grab Atonement before heading to "B" for the chance that there's a new T.C. Boyle. Finding there is, I grab it and add it to the four other books I've already selected. Next stop is the Green Room where I search through the best seller shelves before heading past the greeting cards and wrapping paper and into the Purple Room where Journalism lives.

4:45 Walker meets me in the Purple Room as I'm drooling over Ralph Steadman's biography/autobiography about Hunter S. Thompson and his experience with working with the founder of Gonzo Journalism. We walk around, checking out the history and Astrology sections (There's nothing like bonding with your boyfriend over an astrology book that explains, by the signs, how much and what type of a bastard your boyfriend is) before heading out the store.

5:32 pm -- Walk swiftly to my car -- it's beginning to rain -- only to find that I got a ticket three minutes ago for having expired tabs. I didn't even know my tabs expired and now I'm slapped with a $60 ticket for not having something that costs $30. As Walker said, the least that the parking police could do is give me tabs, considering I now have to pay $90 for something that I wasn't even aware I had to take care of. I mean really, how's a girl supposed to know about expired tabs?

6:00 pm -- Bundling up for a night out in the neighborhood, Walker and I decide to try Pope House Bourbon Lounge on NW Glisan, just east of NW 21st. I wish the little house-turned-lounge was more happening but, as the music suggested (We walked into the dark lounge to hear Johnny Cash be followed up by Jack Johnson's Bubbly Toes. I like both singers but to who is the restaurant trying to appeal?), the lounge seemed a little of whack. Nevertheless, the pub had Terminal Gravity ESG on tap and one of the stiffest Manhattan's in the neighborhood.

7 ish -- Being a person who loves being around more people, Walker suggests we blow the Pope Bourbon Lounge popsicle stand and trek to New Old Lompoc before it closes (Which is rumored to happen).

And here's where I lose track of time a bit. Two IPAs and a couple sips of harsh well whisky later, I know  we eventually leave Lompoc so I can try Walker's and the Jesses' favorite NW 23rd hangout, Nob Hill Grille. I finally get to savor two sliders and a whiskey neat over simultaneously coyish and sarcastic conversation. I can't help but feel totally spoiled and giddy over one of the most relaxing and happy dates I've had in a long time.

After an attempt to watch 28 Days Later, the combination of happy inebriation and sleep took me to dream land for the night.

A solid day off, even if I did wake up with a headache this morning.

But then again, what's a day off if you aren't going to pay for it a little bit the next day?

Amie Dahnke: Food Critic

So I now understand why food critics get fat. I mean, sure, anyone who critiques food for his or her profession is bound to be curvy regardless of how much he or she works out; it's just part of the profession. Frank Bruni, the writer and food critic who I admire most (He used to be the restaurant reviewer for the New York Times, was a guest judge on the Food Network's Iron Chef America, wrote a memoir that helped me acknowledge that I'm not insane for wanting to be a food critic despite my history, and is now a writer for T Magazine, producing lofty and wonderfully-structured profiles that are worth more than any photograph...but I digress in admiration), always struggled with his weight and Jeffrey Steingarten, most familiar to Food Network viewers as the robust white-haired judge on Iron Chef America (Can you tell which cable channel I miss the most?) used to be a svelte, fit man.

But now he's kind of big.

And this morning, my size two Gap jeans are fitting a little bit tighter (You could call me, as my sister and I so immaturely coined when I was in high school, a jumbo shrimp: A woman who is wearing clothes that are way too tight for her and is thus bulging out. Jumbo = woman; shrimp = clothes) than they did last night thanks to a seven course meal I had at Santa Fe Taqueria last night.

I sampled two burritos, three tacos and more chips, salsa and guacamole than really one person should probably handle. I tasted beef, pork, chicken and fish. I ate cheese and sour cream (No, my body is not  happy today). I lushed on a margarita (After a glass of wine from Umpqua Bank ala Elephant's Deli) and lots of water (I'm thinking that water is the key to preventing me from eating too much).

I was surprised I could waddle the 1 1/2 blocks home. I mean, it's not like I ate both burritos and all the tacos (Okay, okay, I ate all of the fish and carnitas tacos. I can't help it; I love me some grilled fish and spicy pulled pork); but I definitely ate more than I usually do in one sitting.

Perhaps, as of late (ahem; since I became impoverished in November), last night's meal was one of the largest I've had (Save Thanksgiving and my three days home during Christmas when I gained three pounds in 72 hours). And it was so good.

And I got to write about it...which is the best part about a dining experience for me. I simply love being able to express how food tastes and smells and what the atmosphere of a place is like. In our society, dining out has such a bad rap: It's either too high of a financial burden or too much of a health cost.

I say 'patooey' to that. People; dining out is such a joy. As humans, we're pretty unique in the animal kingdom because eating is actually a social activity. It's not often in the wild you'll find animals digging in together unless, perhaps you run across a venue of vultures (There's a fun fact of the day. Another one: A group of vultures circling around in the air is called a kettle. Don't say you never learned a thing from reading my blog) ripping apart an innocent carcass. For humans, dining is a sensory experience that brings out memories and emotions that simply have to be shared with other people.

Why? Because sharing a bite of anything bridges gaps between strangers and makes connections. It's the first step in kinship, friendship and relationships.

And that's why I like dining out and why I like writing about food...which apparently, I can do rather well. I just got an email from the Santa Fe Taqueria's GM inviting me to chit chat with her.

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

The Status Update

I just very recently updated my Facebook profile for no reason other than the fact that I felt like it and, like most 20-somethings who grew into almost-adulthood with Facebook (I was a freshman in college when Facebook first came to be the social phenomenon that rules the world of college students, post-college students, pre-college students, siblings of college students, parents of college students and even parents of parents of college students), part of my identity is tied into what my Facebook profile states about me.

Just this week, for example, I've let people know that I'm simultaneously living like a preschooler, taking mid-morning naps, while toiling away like an adult workaholic who puts in 52 hours within five days. I've also posted three fairly-well written and exciting blog posts (Okay, so I know that my tax blog was haphazardly thrown together and is more of a rant than anything else, but what are you going to do?). And I've also, as mentioned in the previous graf (Ooooh look at me using journalism lingo like I'm a real, live journalist),  updated my profile: I added my receptionist position at Whole Family Wellness under my jobs, updated my favorite TV shows, added Neighborhood Notes into my web sites box and, without much hesitation or thought, changed my relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship."

All I can say is holy cow. As someone who produces reading content for other people, I like to think that I have some grasp on what people find enjoyable to read. I mean, a person can fundamentally be a great writer -- he can have such beautiful sentence structure that it makes you weak at the knees (That person for me, by the way, is T.C. Boyle) or she can be such a master of grammar and punctuation that any deviation from the technical rules of writing is unbelievably powerful (I know I'm a parentheses  and dash abuser, thus making my favorite punctuations almost annoying at times) -- and produce boring content that people still read. Other writers can have really interesting subjects but have such awful writing abilites that attempting to get through a sentence makes your ears and eyes bleed (Ahhh memories of editing articles at the Beacon and during my stint at the Writing Center). I think that I'm somewhere in between those polarities; I think I produce flowing sentences with enough wit and interesting content but still struggle with organization and, as this blog post is evidence for, random rambling.

Or so I thought. For all of the articles I find in the New York Times or Oregonian or OPB, all of the blog posts, all of the status updates about both wonderful and awful things that have happened to me, I have never, EVER received as much feedback as I did when I changed my relationship status. Who knew that my love life was so interesting to others? I most certaintly didn't; in fact, my status hadn't been changed for 30 minutes before I had three comments and a friend Facebook chatting with me about my new beau. The response befuddled me, to be honest.

But then I slept on it and thought about this so-called phenomenon a bit more. People like romance and love and happy endings. As humans, we crave companionship and enjoy watching or reading about others going through strife, whether it's serious or comical (Yes, I'm differentiating between your typical chick flick and romcom) and still finding each other in the end. Heck, most of my favorite novels are about two people falling in love: Pride and Prejudice, The English Patient (Okay so they don't end up together; whatever) and Walk Two Moons, to name a few. I think that we enjoy being a part of romance because it makes us forget about the less-than-great things in life (death and clowns in my case) because we know that somewhere out there, two people are happy.

I'm figuring that's what the 14 people who have since commented on my relationship status update are feeling anyway. And that's okay.

Just don't expect gushy details any time soon. A girl doesn't kiss and tell, after all.

The Best Things in Life

The best things in life really are free. I mean sure, you could give them to the birds and the bees and give me money (I can't help that I'm a sucker for cheesy but catchy song lyrics), but for now, while I'm in this phase of survival, I'll take all the free stuff I can get.

Of course, free stuff doesn't typically just fall into my lap. Thanks to some karma god who ensures that I have the worst of luck (There's a solid reason my old cross country coach nicknamed me after Elliot, the blond pseudo-ditsy, incredibly unlucky -- yet ever persevering -- character from the TV show Scrubs), I am on the receiving end of good and free fortune less than the average citizen. I can in fact catalog the most recent instances when unearned SWAG has found its way into my pocket:

1. Sophomore year of high school, homecoming dance. My then-boyfriend and two cross country teammates went bowling after the dance. While exchanging my heels for the oh-so-fashionable bowling loafers, I found a $20 bill hiding underneath the bench.

2. Freshman year of college (That's right; three whole years between freebies), San Francisco's China Town. I was in SF for a journalism conference with three of my colleagues. We went to lunch in Chinatown, stuffing ourselves with dim sum. As we were pulling our debit cards out, a man and his wife who were sitting at the table next to us stopped us and asked to pay for our meal, citing the fact that his daughter was in college on the East Coast and he could only imagine her delight if someone had done the same for her. I only count this freebie as 1/3 of one, considering that two others got in on the action too.

3. Last summer of college; dinner at Murata's. Enough lovey-dovey giggling and schmoozing with a Japanese Intel higher up earned my now-ex boyfriend and I one of the most filling, delicious and expensive meals of raw fish and sake imaginable. It helped that, with my short hair and fair skin, he thought I looked like Princess Di (I still don't see it but if it gets me free toro, I'll put on a crown and practice my white-gloved wave). Kampai!

And honestly, I think that might be it, aside from the occasional "We messed up your drink so the next one's on us" coupon from Starbucks and the once-every-blue-moon free beer from some nice guy I'll decide to strike up a conversation with. What I've learned is that, to really reap the benefits of the freebies, you have to search it out yourself...

...which brings me to yesterday when I went cupping at Stumptown's Annex location on SE Belmont and 34th. Cupping, or coffee tasting, at the Annex is totally free and a super great opportunity to try new coffees AND learn about the drink that makes the world run. Although I have been twice before, yesterday's experience was especially welcoming and enjoyable (perhaps because it was also a date, which is always, always enjoyable). During a cupping at the Annex, tasters get to try six different varietals, ranging in smooth to bold. Each varietal comes from a farm from different regions of the world that Stumptown has direct trade relationships with. The cupping ritual is vital to ensuring that a coffee is not only delicious, but consistent in its taste as well. It's a soothing process, filled with bold aromas (Tasters are to put their noses just centimeters away from the coffee multiple times, including while slowly breaking the oily crust that forms while the coffee is stewing) and bolder tastes that are so damn wonderful they make their way through your entire body and curl your toes (And who doesn't like a good toe-curling experience?).

We got to try coffee from Costa Rica, Kenya, Colombia, Ethiopia and Indonesia. My favorite was the Ethiopian coffee, which carried aromas and flavors of wild berries and cider -- not a spicy cider, but a thick, almost syrupy and molasses cider. If little wood nymph creatures had just tried to make wine by squashing berries with their feet and then decided to stomp out a tribal dance on my palate, that's how the Ethiopian varietal tasted.

The best part, as I mentioned before, is that the cupping was totally, one hundred percent gratis. AND the Annex does it twice a day, at 11 am and 3 pm, every day.

I'm on the lookout for more free stuff this wonderful, unemployed city has to offer.

Fatherly Advice

I'm home in Spokane for my 'weekend' off, taking a much needed and long overdue break from trying to be a real, live and responsible adult. After a short five hours, I got home and just finally felt...relaxed. I've been so stressed out (see my last blog entry) as of late that I realized, upon entering the familiar warmth and comfort of my parents' house, I haven't taken a good, long breather.

After tucking into a good dinner, the family sat around the TV watching (God forbid) the CMAs (I know one person of all my Portland people who listens to country. I love her to death but I just can't do country). During one of about a million commercial breaks, my dad turned to me and asked me about my writing jobs.

"I've only got one, dad."

"Oh."

"But I'm looking. Always looking."

And here's where my dad, who usually offers such sage and logical advice, suggested to me something that I never thought I'd hear come out of his mouth.

"Well, why don't you get a job as a cocktail waitress?"

Granted, trying to get a job as a cocktail waitress isn't a bad idea. After all, I have my Oregon food handler's card even though I've never worked in a restaurant. Waitresses can make pretty decent money and I would definitely love the influx of cash tips (as would my baristas who I have been tipping less). I could work evenings as a waitress while keeping my day job at Pottery Barn and still continue to write for the Regence Group (and any other writing job that I stumble upon). My father's next comment is where the sage and wisdom and all-around fatherly protection falls away:

"It'd be perfect. You'd make good money and you can meet a guy."

Job recommendations and love life advice. Apparently, they go hand in hand for my father. And what's more, my father thinks it's a good idea for me to get a job where possibly intoxicated men can (and apparently to my father, hopefully will) hit on me.

Perfect.