When I first moved to Seattle 13 years ago, I took the bus everywhere. In fact, I didn't have a car the first four years that I lived here. This is to say that I was a huge proponent of public transportation (specifically, the bus). So earlier this year, when the local Metro had a green promotion going that offered ten free bus passes in return for a pledge to use public transportation more often, I jumped at it. In fact, I jumped at it twice, because a few months later I was offered ten more free passes in return for filling out a survey regarding my opinion about the bus (bus riding, bus routes, etc.).
Well, I am here to tell you that I am no longer the big fan that once was. It turns out I like the idea of riding the bus a lot more than I actually like riding the bus. A lot of this has to do with having children. They are not easily entertained when you miss a connection and have to wait 30 minutes outside in the cold at a bus stop with no seating. And when they're on the bus, they want to test out ALL the seats, and when the bus stops they like to lurch themselves forward with exagerrated full-body gestures (reminisant of some old SNL skits). They're also loud and they have no qualms about holding the handrails on the bus and then placing their fingers in their mouths moments later.
Take last weekend, for example. Last weekend was Thanksgiving weekend, and since we were in town with very few concrete plans, I thought it would be fun if we went downtown on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I thought if we went in the early evening we would miss most of the impassioned shoppers and parade-goers, and we'd be able to take in the tree lighting ceremony, the kids could ride the holiday carousel, we'd get a light dinner and then maybe tour the gingerbread house display at the Sheraton before heading home around 8:00. The rest of the family liked my imaginery evening and they were quick to commit. At this point I took things one step further and suggested we take the bus. "Hey, we won't have to hunt for parking," I say joyfully. So off we go at about 4:30. We miss our first bus because it actually comes to our stop three minutes early. The bus driver sees Randy flailing about as we all try to dash to our stop upon hearing the heavy bus wheels on the tarmac, but for some reason, she must have just thought he was consumed by the holiday spirit, because she just kept on going. We walk toward a more significant intersection/bus stop area, but when we get there we discover that we will still have to wait for the next bus--there are no other routes on this street. Fine. We wait, we freeze, we try to keep calm as our children start bouncing off each other in their overstuffed down coats (much like sumo wrestlers), and eventually we catch the bus. We get downtown. We quickly realize we've made a mistake, because while the tree was beautiful, the entire area is packed. We spent about ninety minutes wandering around checking the various wait times at venues and restaurants, but even the fast food hamburger joint in Pacific Place was boasting a line out and around the promonade on this evening. Eventually we abandon our efforts and catch a bus back out of town. We decide to salvage the evening with dinner in Fremont, and this was in fact a good call. We hop off in front of one of our favorite family-friendly restaurants (Norm's Eatery and Alehouse) where we have an excellent meal. We try to time it so that we leave close to when the bus schedule says the next bus will arrive at the stop just outside the restaurant, but we had another long wait. While waiting, our children started to play on a bike rack. They were laughing and having a good time, but soon enough Griffen (age 3) was in tears. He had hit his chin on the rack, but we didn't think much of it until he told us he couldn't talk. We asked him to open his mouth, and when he did, Randy and I were both horrified. His teeth were swimming in blood. It's hard to come up with an emergency plan when you don't have a car. You can't just call a cab or a friend, because in our case, you need a vehicle with two car seats designed for kids over 40 pounds. So there we sat...for what seemed like the longest eleven minutes of my life. And then there was the ride home and the bitterly cold uphill walk with two very tired (and one injured) children.
Lesson Learned
The value of having a car when you really need one: priceless.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
What Goes Around, Comes Around (and Around, and Around)
Despite having the worst possible marathon date for this climate, Seattle is full of runners...casual runners, distance runners, elite runners. We can run around outside here year-round, which is great, and the hills are good for training on, but if you don't like hills there are several paths that cater to those less inclined to hit the inclines.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and make the following claim: all runners have run around Greenlake--probably many, many times. I trained for my first half marathon by circumnavigating this lake again, and again and again and now I ask myself: WHY?! Greenlake has to be one of the worst places to run. It's crowded and full of coffee-swilling, dog-walking, cell-phone toting, and stroller-pushing folks. I love this scene, but only when I'm one of those folks, not when I'm trying to improve my time, or when I'm struggling to get around without stopping. They're in my way. The outer trail is certainly reserved for the more serious folks, but still, after two times around it quickly becomes monotonous.
There are many fabulous places to run in Seattle, whether you prefer parks or urban neighborhoods or expansive views, it's easy to create a course that best suits your needs. There is a great website called runningahead.com that allows you to create courses and track your progress pretty easily.
The truth is, you can easily cover a lot of this city on foot in a relatively short amount of time. Living north of Ballard, I'm only 1.5 miles from Golden Gardens Park, 1 mile from Carkeek Park, 3.5 miles from Fremont, 4 miles from Gas Works Park, 4 miles from the Ballard Locks, etc. Why not run through the Ballard or Fremont markets early on a Sunday morning while the vendors are just setting up? Or hit Golden Gardens and Shilshole early in the morning in the summer and you're apt to hear the sea lions calling to each other. In November, the Ballard Locks and Carkeek both offer fabulous views of the salmon runs; running through Ravenna and Cowen parks in the springtime puts you under a canopy of brilliant greens, and anyone can appreciate the varied architecture and views of downtown that the "Crown of Queen Anne" loop has to offer.
I understand why people run around and around Greenlake, I really do. It's for the same reason so many eat at McDonald's: it's safe and familiar, and (unlike McDonald's) it is beautiful. But trust me on this: it can be very rewarding to break out of a rut and explore the nooks and crannies of our lovely city.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and make the following claim: all runners have run around Greenlake--probably many, many times. I trained for my first half marathon by circumnavigating this lake again, and again and again and now I ask myself: WHY?! Greenlake has to be one of the worst places to run. It's crowded and full of coffee-swilling, dog-walking, cell-phone toting, and stroller-pushing folks. I love this scene, but only when I'm one of those folks, not when I'm trying to improve my time, or when I'm struggling to get around without stopping. They're in my way. The outer trail is certainly reserved for the more serious folks, but still, after two times around it quickly becomes monotonous.
There are many fabulous places to run in Seattle, whether you prefer parks or urban neighborhoods or expansive views, it's easy to create a course that best suits your needs. There is a great website called runningahead.com that allows you to create courses and track your progress pretty easily.
The truth is, you can easily cover a lot of this city on foot in a relatively short amount of time. Living north of Ballard, I'm only 1.5 miles from Golden Gardens Park, 1 mile from Carkeek Park, 3.5 miles from Fremont, 4 miles from Gas Works Park, 4 miles from the Ballard Locks, etc. Why not run through the Ballard or Fremont markets early on a Sunday morning while the vendors are just setting up? Or hit Golden Gardens and Shilshole early in the morning in the summer and you're apt to hear the sea lions calling to each other. In November, the Ballard Locks and Carkeek both offer fabulous views of the salmon runs; running through Ravenna and Cowen parks in the springtime puts you under a canopy of brilliant greens, and anyone can appreciate the varied architecture and views of downtown that the "Crown of Queen Anne" loop has to offer.
I understand why people run around and around Greenlake, I really do. It's for the same reason so many eat at McDonald's: it's safe and familiar, and (unlike McDonald's) it is beautiful. But trust me on this: it can be very rewarding to break out of a rut and explore the nooks and crannies of our lovely city.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
All You Can Stomach
I hate buffets. Always have. Always will. Be it at a wedding, a company dinner, or at a venue where I fork over (pun intended) my hard-earned money.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in the land of $1.99 all-you-can-eat buffets, but to put it eloquently, buffets gross me out.
It’s not just the copious amounts of food that strangers probe that turns my stomach. It’s those food-probing strangers that turn my stomach.
Last night I had the misfortune of being tricked into a dinner buffet. I say "tricked" because it was three days before Halloween and we had just come from a kids Halloween party with our adorable princess and our brave knight. I was all dressed up (as a "Fairy on the Edge," complete with a fishnet body stocking and Dr. Marteens, circa 1986) and ready to par-tay--party with the big people, not the little ones, so when my husband suggested sushi I thought that might be a good intro to the evening. Someone mentioned a new sushi restaurant at Northgate. OK. Why not? The kids love sushi, then maybe we could drop them off at Grandma's and make a night of it.
Let me also say that I am not a fan of chain restaurants, so the fact that the Blue Fin Sushi and Seafood restaurant is adjacent to JC Penney's at Northgate Mall should have been my first clue. Now, this is not a Blue Fin slam. It is what it is. Unfortunately, I didn't know what it was.
It looked decent from the outside, and Northgate Mall is in the midst of gentrification. It was upon walking in that my stomach sank--mobs of people poking at bountiful platters of raw fish. Without saying a word, but with sighing heavily, I glared at my husband, at this person who is supposed to know me, who at the very least is supposed to be aware of my buffet aversion. The "Fairy on the Edge" was teetering off the edge. And this is where it gets interesting...
My groom decided to turn it into a fight. "We always go where you want to go anyway, so just pick the restaurant." Had my fairy powers been working properly, fire would have shot from my eyes and he would have been a pile of ashes at my feet. I should have said, "Yes, we do. Let's go," and flew out the doors. Instead, I said nothing and simmered as we were shown to our table--in the back of the restaurant, either because of our two young children or because I had a flame-red wig and wings. On the way, I watched with digust as a man walked around the buffet with his plate piled high and popped sushi into his mouth.
I lost my appetite, and I didn't find it the rest of the evening.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #1
Do not eat directly from the buffet line. Wait, no matter how hard it may be, until you return to your table and take a seat.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #2
Do not take more than you are going to eat.
I took my little princess and got her a nice selection of her favorites--rice, miso soup, edamame, shrimp and tamago. Low and behold, we ran into the sushi-popper. He was at the tempura station--picking out all of the tempura shrimp.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #3
Do not pick through the food, dismantling as you go, in order to pick out exactly what you want.
At this point, I wanted a couple of shots of Patron to make it all go away. Unfortunately, for me, Blue Fin serves only beer and wine. I ordered a bottle of Nigori. Fresh out. OK. How about an Asahi? Nope. Sapporo? Bingo!
Long story short...I took a swig of beer, girded my fairy skirt, and headed into the food-probing throngs. I stood in line to get ahi poke, watching with disdain as the woman in front of me picked through the tuna to ensure she got only tuna--no onions or cilantro, thank you. I couldn't take any more.
In the end, I paid $25.99 for two pieces of sushi and bit of ahi. (That woman took most of it. I got the dregs.) The Sapporo was extra. As was the tip. (For what?!?! I got my own food!) Mind you, the kids' meals were a bargain at $5 each! They ate more than I did.
Buffets are lost on me. I don't eat nearly enough to get my money's worth--and no one should! In short, at a restaurant, I want my food brought to me. I want to be served. I do not want to witness the glutony of others.
And in the end, with my party mood down the drain, I went home, peeled off my wig and wings and put the kids and myself to bed.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in the land of $1.99 all-you-can-eat buffets, but to put it eloquently, buffets gross me out.
It’s not just the copious amounts of food that strangers probe that turns my stomach. It’s those food-probing strangers that turn my stomach.
Last night I had the misfortune of being tricked into a dinner buffet. I say "tricked" because it was three days before Halloween and we had just come from a kids Halloween party with our adorable princess and our brave knight. I was all dressed up (as a "Fairy on the Edge," complete with a fishnet body stocking and Dr. Marteens, circa 1986) and ready to par-tay--party with the big people, not the little ones, so when my husband suggested sushi I thought that might be a good intro to the evening. Someone mentioned a new sushi restaurant at Northgate. OK. Why not? The kids love sushi, then maybe we could drop them off at Grandma's and make a night of it.
Let me also say that I am not a fan of chain restaurants, so the fact that the Blue Fin Sushi and Seafood restaurant is adjacent to JC Penney's at Northgate Mall should have been my first clue. Now, this is not a Blue Fin slam. It is what it is. Unfortunately, I didn't know what it was.
It looked decent from the outside, and Northgate Mall is in the midst of gentrification. It was upon walking in that my stomach sank--mobs of people poking at bountiful platters of raw fish. Without saying a word, but with sighing heavily, I glared at my husband, at this person who is supposed to know me, who at the very least is supposed to be aware of my buffet aversion. The "Fairy on the Edge" was teetering off the edge. And this is where it gets interesting...
My groom decided to turn it into a fight. "We always go where you want to go anyway, so just pick the restaurant." Had my fairy powers been working properly, fire would have shot from my eyes and he would have been a pile of ashes at my feet. I should have said, "Yes, we do. Let's go," and flew out the doors. Instead, I said nothing and simmered as we were shown to our table--in the back of the restaurant, either because of our two young children or because I had a flame-red wig and wings. On the way, I watched with digust as a man walked around the buffet with his plate piled high and popped sushi into his mouth.
I lost my appetite, and I didn't find it the rest of the evening.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #1
Do not eat directly from the buffet line. Wait, no matter how hard it may be, until you return to your table and take a seat.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #2
Do not take more than you are going to eat.
I took my little princess and got her a nice selection of her favorites--rice, miso soup, edamame, shrimp and tamago. Low and behold, we ran into the sushi-popper. He was at the tempura station--picking out all of the tempura shrimp.
Buffet Etiquette: Rule #3
Do not pick through the food, dismantling as you go, in order to pick out exactly what you want.
At this point, I wanted a couple of shots of Patron to make it all go away. Unfortunately, for me, Blue Fin serves only beer and wine. I ordered a bottle of Nigori. Fresh out. OK. How about an Asahi? Nope. Sapporo? Bingo!
Long story short...I took a swig of beer, girded my fairy skirt, and headed into the food-probing throngs. I stood in line to get ahi poke, watching with disdain as the woman in front of me picked through the tuna to ensure she got only tuna--no onions or cilantro, thank you. I couldn't take any more.
In the end, I paid $25.99 for two pieces of sushi and bit of ahi. (That woman took most of it. I got the dregs.) The Sapporo was extra. As was the tip. (For what?!?! I got my own food!) Mind you, the kids' meals were a bargain at $5 each! They ate more than I did.
Buffets are lost on me. I don't eat nearly enough to get my money's worth--and no one should! In short, at a restaurant, I want my food brought to me. I want to be served. I do not want to witness the glutony of others.
And in the end, with my party mood down the drain, I went home, peeled off my wig and wings and put the kids and myself to bed.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Sink or Swim
A few years ago, I went to the Ballard pool to sign my son Emmett up for a Tots swimming lesson. Little did I know that the classes at the community center were apparently so popular it was going to be like signing up for swimming lessons in a third-world country.
There were about 150 people clambering about for 100 spots (at all various levels, tots through adults). Everything was done on a lottery basis, so you showed up, you were assigned a lottery number (we were told numbers ranged from 1-150) and then they ushered people into the formal registration area twenty at a time. Some classes only had two openings because once you are in the system you stay in the system as long as you keep taking lessons...so a lot of the grade school classes were nearly full before the lottery began.
Anyway, there I was in my shirt, sweater, and fleece being held captive in the 80-degree pool area (don't forget the humidity) and of course I got there twenty minutes early at 6:40 (after naively telling my husband I'd be back in thirty minutes to put the baby to bed). Well, then I drew my lottery number...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Number 156. HUH?!
"I thought they only went up to 150?!" I exclaimed to no one in particular.
"Oh, there are a few higher numbers in there, but don't worry, there are only about 150 folks here tonight," a lifeguard attempted to reassure me.
At this point my glasses were fogged up from the tropical climate and I was wet from the spray coming from the adult "HYDROFIT" class splashing around in the pool, and I was thinking about just how angry Randy was going to be when I showed up at midnight (most likely without a swimming lesson spot), and I considered leaving.
Of course, you never know. So instead of leaving I roped the poor woman next to me (lucky number 90) into a political conversation...focusing on the need for Seattle taxpayers to start voting to give the Parks Department (which runs the pools, I assume) more money and digressing into a tirade about George W.
Eventually it was just me and one other woman sitting on the pool bleachers...feeling as exhausted as the HYDROFIT class looked. At 9:35 I finally got called. I went into the registration area. I came out victorious having secured the last available tot spot. At the time I swore that Emmett would be taking swimming lessons for the rest of his life, because I was not going through that again.
Today, thank GOD, the Seattle Parks and Recreation Departments have adopted an online enrollment process (called SPARC), and I have to admit it's much more efficient, but it's still competitive and stressfull. In order to guarantee a spot in a popular class, you must log on the moment registration opens, and pray that your ISP doesn't fail at a critical moment.
Maybe this is just "city living" and I need to get over it, but it seems to me that with the abundance of community centers this city has, everyone's needs should be met. At the very least, it would be nice to have a guaranteed spot at the next session (for example, the winter session if you were trying to register for fall) if you didn't make the cut the first time around.
There were about 150 people clambering about for 100 spots (at all various levels, tots through adults). Everything was done on a lottery basis, so you showed up, you were assigned a lottery number (we were told numbers ranged from 1-150) and then they ushered people into the formal registration area twenty at a time. Some classes only had two openings because once you are in the system you stay in the system as long as you keep taking lessons...so a lot of the grade school classes were nearly full before the lottery began.
Anyway, there I was in my shirt, sweater, and fleece being held captive in the 80-degree pool area (don't forget the humidity) and of course I got there twenty minutes early at 6:40 (after naively telling my husband I'd be back in thirty minutes to put the baby to bed). Well, then I drew my lottery number...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Number 156. HUH?!
"I thought they only went up to 150?!" I exclaimed to no one in particular.
"Oh, there are a few higher numbers in there, but don't worry, there are only about 150 folks here tonight," a lifeguard attempted to reassure me.
At this point my glasses were fogged up from the tropical climate and I was wet from the spray coming from the adult "HYDROFIT" class splashing around in the pool, and I was thinking about just how angry Randy was going to be when I showed up at midnight (most likely without a swimming lesson spot), and I considered leaving.
Of course, you never know. So instead of leaving I roped the poor woman next to me (lucky number 90) into a political conversation...focusing on the need for Seattle taxpayers to start voting to give the Parks Department (which runs the pools, I assume) more money and digressing into a tirade about George W.
Eventually it was just me and one other woman sitting on the pool bleachers...feeling as exhausted as the HYDROFIT class looked. At 9:35 I finally got called. I went into the registration area. I came out victorious having secured the last available tot spot. At the time I swore that Emmett would be taking swimming lessons for the rest of his life, because I was not going through that again.
Today, thank GOD, the Seattle Parks and Recreation Departments have adopted an online enrollment process (called SPARC), and I have to admit it's much more efficient, but it's still competitive and stressfull. In order to guarantee a spot in a popular class, you must log on the moment registration opens, and pray that your ISP doesn't fail at a critical moment.
Maybe this is just "city living" and I need to get over it, but it seems to me that with the abundance of community centers this city has, everyone's needs should be met. At the very least, it would be nice to have a guaranteed spot at the next session (for example, the winter session if you were trying to register for fall) if you didn't make the cut the first time around.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Cupcake Showdown
In 2003, when word got out that a cupcake shop had opened in Madrona, I was both thrilled and shocked.
On the one hand, I thought it was brilliant--who doesn't like cupcakes? They are intertwined with so many happy childhood memories, that I find even though I'm not a cake lover, I am a cupcake lover.
On the other hand, I was pissed. My childhood dream had been to open a cupcake store--I spent hours alongside my secondhand EasyBake oven perfecting my original recipes (until an experimental concoction exploded and rendered the oven useless). And while I wasn't exactly sure of when I let this dream go, I now knew exactly where it ended up--in the hands of others.
So, early one wintry Saturday morning, Jen and I bundled up our kids and headed to Cupcake Royale. The interior was, uh....more rustic than expected--complete with a painted concrete floor strewn with chocolate and vanilla cake crumbs. While it couldn't have been much past 11:00 a.m., all the mini cupcakes were already sold out. We ordered some coffee (which was excellent) and perused the remaining offerings. There were only two cake flavors (although now they offer 2 or 3 seasonal selections in addition to the usual suspects), but I have to say the thing that disappointed me most was the presentation. To me, thier "signature swirl" looked like some creative spackle work. For $2.50 a cupcake, I wanted pretty. We ordered several flavors, and to be honest I couldn't tell the vanilla buttercream from the lavender or pink buttercreams (if there was any difference beyond the color).
Since missing my calling as a cupcake baker, I returned to Cupcake Royale several times, mainly because I still loved the very idea that a cupcake business could make a go of it. Bully to them! Yet I remained disenchanted by the cupcakes themselves, trying my best to enjoy my overpriced confection as I thought to myself, "I could have been a contender!" and dreamt of fanciful delicacies made with local touches (like Theo chocolate) and poetic names like those found at Top Pot doughnuts.
Fast forward four years later. On my 35th birthday, a coworker drops off a cupcake on my desk. This is the cupcake of my dreams! It is, as it's name decrees, a "Trophy Cupcake." This triple-chocolate wonder was as beautiful as it was delicious. This cupcake could easily make People magazine's "Best Dressed" list.
I never would have thought Seattle could support the influx of cupcake stores that have cropped up (Cupcake Royale now boasts three locations, and there are other cupcakiers, like New York Cupcake, that are opening in shopping malls). Local supermarkets and even Starbucks have hopped on the cupcake bandwagon, making me a little sad that I didn't do the same. Still, as long as I know where to go for the best cupcake, I'm happy.
On the one hand, I thought it was brilliant--who doesn't like cupcakes? They are intertwined with so many happy childhood memories, that I find even though I'm not a cake lover, I am a cupcake lover.
On the other hand, I was pissed. My childhood dream had been to open a cupcake store--I spent hours alongside my secondhand EasyBake oven perfecting my original recipes (until an experimental concoction exploded and rendered the oven useless). And while I wasn't exactly sure of when I let this dream go, I now knew exactly where it ended up--in the hands of others.
So, early one wintry Saturday morning, Jen and I bundled up our kids and headed to Cupcake Royale. The interior was, uh....more rustic than expected--complete with a painted concrete floor strewn with chocolate and vanilla cake crumbs. While it couldn't have been much past 11:00 a.m., all the mini cupcakes were already sold out. We ordered some coffee (which was excellent) and perused the remaining offerings. There were only two cake flavors (although now they offer 2 or 3 seasonal selections in addition to the usual suspects), but I have to say the thing that disappointed me most was the presentation. To me, thier "signature swirl" looked like some creative spackle work. For $2.50 a cupcake, I wanted pretty. We ordered several flavors, and to be honest I couldn't tell the vanilla buttercream from the lavender or pink buttercreams (if there was any difference beyond the color).
Since missing my calling as a cupcake baker, I returned to Cupcake Royale several times, mainly because I still loved the very idea that a cupcake business could make a go of it. Bully to them! Yet I remained disenchanted by the cupcakes themselves, trying my best to enjoy my overpriced confection as I thought to myself, "I could have been a contender!" and dreamt of fanciful delicacies made with local touches (like Theo chocolate) and poetic names like those found at Top Pot doughnuts.
Fast forward four years later. On my 35th birthday, a coworker drops off a cupcake on my desk. This is the cupcake of my dreams! It is, as it's name decrees, a "Trophy Cupcake." This triple-chocolate wonder was as beautiful as it was delicious. This cupcake could easily make People magazine's "Best Dressed" list.
I never would have thought Seattle could support the influx of cupcake stores that have cropped up (Cupcake Royale now boasts three locations, and there are other cupcakiers, like New York Cupcake, that are opening in shopping malls). Local supermarkets and even Starbucks have hopped on the cupcake bandwagon, making me a little sad that I didn't do the same. Still, as long as I know where to go for the best cupcake, I'm happy.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Drink + Eat + More? Yes, MORE!
In a city filled with so many incredible restaurants and bars, we have very high expectations, especially when the April 2007 edition of Seattle magazine lists the venue not once, but twice in "Best Restaurants 2007."
The venue? Oliver's Twist.
Their theme? "Drink + Eat + More."
We'll return to this theme.
I recently snuck away for a GNO with three of my friends. (That's Girls Night Out, for those who don't know, or for those for whom it's been too long.) We decided we would go to the much-hyped Oliver's Twist (http://www.oliverstwistseattle.com/). Afterall, we all enjoy a nice "grown-up bar," (quoted from Seattle) especially when said bar has Dickensian-named cocktails. (Did I mention that three out of four of us have Bachelor's in English?)
Drink
I had the Mr. Sowerberry. All three of them were quite tasty, thank you very much. I had three, not because I'm a lush, well, that's another story, but because the cocktails were...petite.
Eat
We made it in time for happy hour, which in the world of moms means that we were out for dinner. So we ordered some of the "Above-Par Bar Snacks" (again, from Seattle)--five plates from the menu to share. Having employed this eating technique in the past, we were certain we had over ordered.
The Garlic Truffled Popcorn arrived first, and was pretty good. $4 isn't a bad price, but we are talking about popcorn, which costs, oh, about a nickel. Maybe. We also ordered the Blue Cheese-Bacon Stuffed Dates & Marcona Almonds, with Warm Tomato Vinaigrette. All five dates (if there were that many) for $8, were delicious. Likewise, were all four inch-wide slices of Anchovy, Carmelized Onion, Reggiano Pizette. At $2/slice, not so much a bargain. The Mt. Townsend Camembert, Quince & Bacon Compote was one of my favorites of the evening--all three level tablespoons for $10. The final nibble was the Tomato Cappuccino with Mini Grilled Cheese Sandwich for $8. I'll give 'em 10 points for creativity there. The presentation was lovely. The tomato cappuccino was served in a demitasse cup. I never got to try it. When they say "mini," this place really means it.
More
Having eaten 1/2 cup popcorn, 1 date, 1 tablespoon of compote with a toast (forgot to mention the four mini toasts that accompanied the compote), and a "slice" of pizette, MORE is exactly what we all wanted.
I also feel the need to point out that none of us are big eaters. In fact, none of us are big at all, which is why I felt I needed to write about a venue where four women spent $100 and left hungry.
On the way home, I stopped and got a Dick's Deluxe.
The venue? Oliver's Twist.
Their theme? "Drink + Eat + More."
We'll return to this theme.
I recently snuck away for a GNO with three of my friends. (That's Girls Night Out, for those who don't know, or for those for whom it's been too long.) We decided we would go to the much-hyped Oliver's Twist (http://www.oliverstwistseattle.com/). Afterall, we all enjoy a nice "grown-up bar," (quoted from Seattle) especially when said bar has Dickensian-named cocktails. (Did I mention that three out of four of us have Bachelor's in English?)
Drink
I had the Mr. Sowerberry. All three of them were quite tasty, thank you very much. I had three, not because I'm a lush, well, that's another story, but because the cocktails were...petite.
Eat
We made it in time for happy hour, which in the world of moms means that we were out for dinner. So we ordered some of the "Above-Par Bar Snacks" (again, from Seattle)--five plates from the menu to share. Having employed this eating technique in the past, we were certain we had over ordered.
The Garlic Truffled Popcorn arrived first, and was pretty good. $4 isn't a bad price, but we are talking about popcorn, which costs, oh, about a nickel. Maybe. We also ordered the Blue Cheese-Bacon Stuffed Dates & Marcona Almonds, with Warm Tomato Vinaigrette. All five dates (if there were that many) for $8, were delicious. Likewise, were all four inch-wide slices of Anchovy, Carmelized Onion, Reggiano Pizette. At $2/slice, not so much a bargain. The Mt. Townsend Camembert, Quince & Bacon Compote was one of my favorites of the evening--all three level tablespoons for $10. The final nibble was the Tomato Cappuccino with Mini Grilled Cheese Sandwich for $8. I'll give 'em 10 points for creativity there. The presentation was lovely. The tomato cappuccino was served in a demitasse cup. I never got to try it. When they say "mini," this place really means it.
More
Having eaten 1/2 cup popcorn, 1 date, 1 tablespoon of compote with a toast (forgot to mention the four mini toasts that accompanied the compote), and a "slice" of pizette, MORE is exactly what we all wanted.
I also feel the need to point out that none of us are big eaters. In fact, none of us are big at all, which is why I felt I needed to write about a venue where four women spent $100 and left hungry.
On the way home, I stopped and got a Dick's Deluxe.
Chicken Frye-d
I want to begin by saying that I love the Frye Art Museum. It is a lovely little gem of a museum--for adults, or even for older children. It is not, however, a gem for young children.
In January of this year, I had the opportunity to entertain Emmett and Finnegan, Joanne and my two (at the time) four-year old sons. I pored over Parent Map for inspiration, and finally decided that the boys and I would head down to the Frye Art Museum to see "Trimpen: Klompen,” a sound sculpture made of 120 wooden clogs. Afterall, it got the Parent Map Editor's Pick star, so how could we go wrong?
Where do I start?
I was excited by the prospect of taking two adorable boys to an art museum, and I was filled with a sense that someone might nominate me for the "Cultural Mother of the Year" award. The three of us tromped up the stairs, opened the doors, and were immediately greeted by someone I now fondly refer to as the Museum Nazi.
"What are the rules of the museum?" the Museum Nazi asked, Colonel Klink-like, before the door closed behind us, his right arm at his side twitching to raise.
The boys and I exchanged sideways glances.
"No picking your nose." That's my boy!
"No hitting." That's her boy!
"No touching, no loud talking, no running, no walking fast, no dancing, no figdeting, no wiggling, no this, no that, no nothing, no anything, nein, nein, nein!" That's the Museum Nazi.
I should have taken the boys and walked out the door on the spot. Instead, determined that this was just par for the musuem course (Wasn't everyone greeted at a musuem in a similar fashion?) and armed with my knowledge that this was a Parent Map Editor's Pick for things to do with children, I grabbed the boys' hands, stared down the Museum Nazi, and headed off toward the elusive clogs. We didn't have far to go, and when the boys saw 120 shoes hanging from the ceiling, they broke free and started running toward the clogs.
The Museum Nazi was close at our heels. "NO RUNNING!"
Now, before you side with the Museum Nazi, let me say that these are two, beautiful little boys. And they are well-behaved. But, I'm not stupid. They are boys and when they are together, well, they love being together and they get silly. I did not need a chaperone. I had a handle on things, but the Museum Nazi was obviously suffering from Prison Guard Syndrome. I was not about to let any priceless works of art be harmed.
Back to the exhibit...
The boys stopped wiggling--as long as four-year old boys stop wiggling (approximately 3.7 seconds)--and we stared at the shoes. What the heck were they supposed to do? Wasn't this a sound sculpture? That's when I saw the coin deposit box. Yes, for a mere 25 cents, we could watch the show. I dig into my purse, while keeping the boys in check, and find three quarters. Great. Each boy gets one, and I get the final one.
The first quarter drops, the shoes start to dance...and so do the boys.
"NO DANCING!"
Now, two other adults are standing there with us (watching the show we were paying for in so many ways) and they had started doing little head- and shoulder-bob moves (for no apparent reason that I could see or hear, but I digress), but the Museum Nazi didn't care about them. He cared about my would-be clogging slam dancers. Fortunately, the show was short--maybe one minute.
We used the final two quarters and with the Museum Nazi following our every move, I once again took the boys' hands and marched right out the way we came, stopping only to give the evil eye to the Museum Nazi and to stop at the front desk and ask why, why, why would this exhibit be picked by the editor of Parent Map? He had no answer. I complained about the Museum Nazi. Again, blank stare.
What a thoroughly cultural five minutes that was.
In January of this year, I had the opportunity to entertain Emmett and Finnegan, Joanne and my two (at the time) four-year old sons. I pored over Parent Map for inspiration, and finally decided that the boys and I would head down to the Frye Art Museum to see "Trimpen: Klompen,” a sound sculpture made of 120 wooden clogs. Afterall, it got the Parent Map Editor's Pick star, so how could we go wrong?
Where do I start?
I was excited by the prospect of taking two adorable boys to an art museum, and I was filled with a sense that someone might nominate me for the "Cultural Mother of the Year" award. The three of us tromped up the stairs, opened the doors, and were immediately greeted by someone I now fondly refer to as the Museum Nazi.
"What are the rules of the museum?" the Museum Nazi asked, Colonel Klink-like, before the door closed behind us, his right arm at his side twitching to raise.
The boys and I exchanged sideways glances.
"No picking your nose." That's my boy!
"No hitting." That's her boy!
"No touching, no loud talking, no running, no walking fast, no dancing, no figdeting, no wiggling, no this, no that, no nothing, no anything, nein, nein, nein!" That's the Museum Nazi.
I should have taken the boys and walked out the door on the spot. Instead, determined that this was just par for the musuem course (Wasn't everyone greeted at a musuem in a similar fashion?) and armed with my knowledge that this was a Parent Map Editor's Pick for things to do with children, I grabbed the boys' hands, stared down the Museum Nazi, and headed off toward the elusive clogs. We didn't have far to go, and when the boys saw 120 shoes hanging from the ceiling, they broke free and started running toward the clogs.
The Museum Nazi was close at our heels. "NO RUNNING!"
Now, before you side with the Museum Nazi, let me say that these are two, beautiful little boys. And they are well-behaved. But, I'm not stupid. They are boys and when they are together, well, they love being together and they get silly. I did not need a chaperone. I had a handle on things, but the Museum Nazi was obviously suffering from Prison Guard Syndrome. I was not about to let any priceless works of art be harmed.
Back to the exhibit...
The boys stopped wiggling--as long as four-year old boys stop wiggling (approximately 3.7 seconds)--and we stared at the shoes. What the heck were they supposed to do? Wasn't this a sound sculpture? That's when I saw the coin deposit box. Yes, for a mere 25 cents, we could watch the show. I dig into my purse, while keeping the boys in check, and find three quarters. Great. Each boy gets one, and I get the final one.
The first quarter drops, the shoes start to dance...and so do the boys.
"NO DANCING!"
Now, two other adults are standing there with us (watching the show we were paying for in so many ways) and they had started doing little head- and shoulder-bob moves (for no apparent reason that I could see or hear, but I digress), but the Museum Nazi didn't care about them. He cared about my would-be clogging slam dancers. Fortunately, the show was short--maybe one minute.
We used the final two quarters and with the Museum Nazi following our every move, I once again took the boys' hands and marched right out the way we came, stopping only to give the evil eye to the Museum Nazi and to stop at the front desk and ask why, why, why would this exhibit be picked by the editor of Parent Map? He had no answer. I complained about the Museum Nazi. Again, blank stare.
What a thoroughly cultural five minutes that was.
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