Monday Morning

B&G

It’s not Monday Morning yet, but it will be, and when that time comes, I’ll probably be out to breakfast with my man of the house–no not my son and not our frogs.  My husband.  From 8:30am when school starts until 10:30 when he’s off to work, those are the two hours we’ve come to count on in the past as “our hours.”  We don’t have the same days off.  We don’t really see each other much.  But these two hours are ours.

Of all the things we could be doing with these precious moments, the last few months have found us exploring the various breakfast joints in Portland.  This guy is a lot of things–generous of spirit, helpful, loving, loyal, and kind–but there’s another thing about him that makes him the man he is.  This.  Guy.  Loves.  Buiscuits.  &.  Gravy.  Because of this, we’ve been on a Biscuits & Gravy adventure.  So far we’ve hit up a few different places, and while he narrows his search for biscuits worthy of being called his favorites, I’ve become a bit of a connoisseur of B&G myself.

Francis

There’s a place on NE Alberta called Francis that has the enlongated feel of an old fashioned diner with the white napkins and porcelain teapots that make you feel like you’re going to be paying a little more than you do at the Blue Moon Diner in your old hometown.  I was surprised by the eclectic dishes and when I was asked if I wanted coffee I took a chance and inquired about the possibility of their having Yerba.  Well, asking sometimes gets you what you want: they had it!  Every place starts out at Zero on a scale of One to Five.  After the yerba, it went up a notch in a big way.  The waiter was kind and informative and wasn’t in a hurry to rush us out.  We don’t generally have to worry about that, but on the of-chance it does happen on a Monday, it’s a deal-breaker for me.

The Biscuits and Gravy were good.  Better than those found at Cup & Saucer.  Yikes!  Those B&Gs don’t warrant a mention on this blog.  They were awful.  Granted we only tried them once, but it was too frightful to warrant the desire to find out if that was a one-time-sting.  Back to Francis.  Dense biscuits and gravy with a tad bit of spice.  It was good, but we had already tried ones that were better than these, so we both agreed that it was a close alternative.

Tin Shed

If you’re looking for Tin Shed, drive down NE Alberta on a Sunday (from early morn till early afternoon).  When you get to the spot that looks like Obama might be making a well-publicized stop in Portland, you know you’ve found it.  It’s so busy they have a tent structure permanently attached to the restaurant to house more tables, chairs and folks looking for good food.  People in Portland know good food, so I had high high hopes for this little spot.  We didn’t have to wait, but we noticed right away that it was busy–for a Monday.

They made a substitution to the menu for me, so service gets an A+.  Their gravy is made from bacon fat rather than sausage, so you’ve got to hand it them for trying something new.  Bacon gravy was smoky and new.  Good.  I enjoyed it, but this place still wasn’t our favorite.  Nope, and I’m gonna make you wait for it.

Ladybug Cafe

The best thing about Ladybug Cafe is that it’s in St. Johns.  This means it has few pretensions and the people are friendly: customers and staff.  Their were little “I Like to shop local at…..” signs in their window filled in by adults and children alike.  The Biscuits and Gravy are standard, but the quaint atmosphere is a-okay.

Gravy

The name of this establishment on N. Mississippi raised our hopes, and it was sweet to see such a child-friendly place (even though our two weren’t with us).  The neckties hanging in the window, the collection of gravy boats lining the walls is uniquely sweet.  Coffee and board games and blocks surround a manhole coffee table and the pulpit where the host stands is inviting for anyone who has ever wanted a turn to have their say.  The large chunks of sausage were delightful and the biscuits were fluffy, but it still didn’t make our favorite.  That belongs to another:

Pine State Biscuits

It sounds like something you’d find in the grocery aisles at Safeway, but it’s divine.  In Sellwood on Bellmont, there’s a shoebox sized house that houses three tiny tables and a bar with three stools.  Behind the counter is a kitchen full of bakers committed to making one great dish: Biscuits and Gravy, with or without eggs.  One egg is a Moneyball.  Two eggs is a Double-down.  No matter what you call it, the biscuits are crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside.  The gravy is sweet with sausage, flavored with great spices, and it’s got the Goldilocks consistency (not too thick, not too thin either).

The first time we arrived, there was a seat for us.  The second time we ordered to go, but by the time they served it, a tiny table had opened up.  The third time we ordered to go and ate it in the car.  Without the rustic old flooring, the happy chatter of people, and the fascinating show the bakers put on ignoring the customers and doing their biscuit and gravy thing I wondered if I’d still feel the same.  We sat facing Bellmont in my old car, chatting and taking mouthfuls of heaven.  So far, it’s the top spot on my list, but of course, we’re not finished with this adventure.  Unfortunately, there are hundreds of places in PDX that aren’t open on Monday, and to that I say, “for shame!  what’s a girl to do?”

Response to Lust

Virgin Lust

Inspired by Lust by Susan Minot

Working on Writing

Read the short story Lust by Susan Minot and am working on a short-story response. So fun, and it’s getting me ready for NaNoWriMo on November 1st! Wha-hoo!

My Story Workshops @ New Columbia

New Columbia in the Portsmouth neighborhood competed their second annual My Story summmer camp.  Telling a story is a powerful thing, and everyone knows a photo is often worth at least a thousand words!  Check it out here: New Columbia’s My Story Workshop.

Tourist in My City

As I rounded SW 6th from Burnside and moved up toward Pine, I looked at the modern monstrosity before me and thought, “This is the end?  This is the grand finale?  For this moment I schlepped nearly 100 blocks and climbed 1000 fountain stairs?  In the sprinkling rain?  With a backpack full of wet towels?  Carrying my oh-so-heavy-but oh-so-worth-it-long-lens-camera-that-could-capture-every-detail-of-a-Bugatti Veyron-doing-a-bank-job? Uphill…all the way?”  It was a slightly sore sight for my sad eyes.

But we trudged across the street anyway, too cold to stand under the trickling waterfall, but knowing we had to do it anyway–for posterity–for the digital reminder years from now that the tour was completed.  We raised our hands skyward, threw our heads back, smiled, and shouted, “Look, Ma!  I’m a tourist in my own city!”

This last weekend my children and I joined another mom and kids to do Portland’s Fountain Tour, a beautiful walk through the east and west sides of Portland where you get to see 13 or 14 of the glorious fountains (and some pretty amazing statues) throughout the city.  Being a tourist in my own city happens more often than you’d imagine, since my children and I are on a continual adventure, finding new spots and discovering new favorite places just past our front door, but this time I had the full-on attitude and costume a tourist would have.  I embraced the struggling bursts of sunshine like they were gifts from the god of happy travels and didn’t complain once when the cloud cover threatened thunder and let fly mist and sprinkles.  In fact, we all smiled up to where we imagined the weather gods would be as if it was all new to us, a just-what-we’d-expected-from-PDX treat that we could capture on my image imprinting tools and forward to our closest friends and loved ones.

I think I rather enjoy being a tourist.  For me it’s not only about the new and amazing sights you see.  It’s not merely the freedom of travel.  For me, it’s a way of life, a need I’ve been honing since my youth.  Growing up in Hawaii, I was the darkest white girl in my class, but I was the white girl nevertheless.  I didn’t speak da pidin like the other kids.  I didn’t know the definition of the terms mochi and seed and tita and da kine and bum-bai until I was in first grade, but I learned quickly, soaked it all up, tried desperately to show them how truly local I was.  I listed off the local words I knew, even if they didn’t make sense.

“I know she is pretty.  Just like Queen Liliokalani.”

“Hilo.  I live in Hilo Ha-VAH-EEE.  Where do you live?”  (We all attended Hilo Union Elementary).

“Ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono.” (This was the state motto, and I said it over and over on the playground, hoping the other students would think I was speaking in my native tongue.)

I didn’t know what Ohana was at first, but when I figured it out, I tried to explain to everyone that I had one too, and they were getting darker every day.  I finally tried to embrace my dual-existence, and I admitted the secret to my classmates:   “I’ll bet you didn’t know this about me, but I’m haole.”  They just looked at me with a stare that said so much.  When I realized they weren’t going to let me be local, I would sit at all the tourist hot spots with my older sister and stare relentlessly at all the tourists in thier sneakers and socks.  They wore sweaters and ponytails and sunscreen that didn’t disappear when they wiped it on their freckled noses.  The tourists always laughed when they were lost or argued about problems that started in the magical land where they’d come from: the Mainland.  In about the second grade, my older sister and I received a pair of white sneakers and real fold-over socks for Christmas.  They were so bright it almost hurt to look at them.  We immediately ran into our rooms and picked out the most touristy of outfits we could find.  We brushed our hair and wore chapstick and put barrettes on our bangs.  We ran outside and played Tourist all day, until we got tired of that and started to play in the hose, letting the hot, rubber-smelling water rain down all over us on December 25th.  That night, our brand new sneakers weren’t white any more.  They were dingy and worn and very un-Mainland.  But we still had the socks, and we both decided we were going to save them after they were washed and wear them when school started back up.  Then we’d be tourists at Hilo Union and no one would know who we really were!

Now I’m in my thirties, I live on the coveted Mainland, and I still play tourist.   What fun it was to go on the fountain tour in the city where I live.  We mingled with people in all sorts of appropriate costumes: men and women in suits, on thier lunchbreak from work; glossy-haired moms from the suburbs who came into the city to shop; teenagers who dressed as though they might have been homeless, but I wasn’t really sure; and tourists who wore their sneakers and socks.  Although it was cloudy and sprinkly for most of the day, we looked as though we had just been transplanted from the beach.  We wore sandals and sunglasses, swimsuits and sunscreen.  Five of the seven of us had maps, three had bulging backbacks, all of us looked lost, and none of us brought a purse.  It was sheer joy to wander the streets bedraggled, consulting our maps, splashing though the fountains, and taking pictures–just like the real tourists do.

I’m Digified

It’s official: the world moves too fast for me.  Ten years ago I was sitting on a stool; reading novel; writing with pens; and–let’s face it–thinking slow thoughts.  Sure, I’m teaching my children about Slow Food Nation, about walks and hikes with the word “adventure” rather than “destination” in mind.  Sure, I’m reciting phrases like, “smell the roses” and “life’s a journey,” and “the path less traveled.”  However, when I cannot quite remember what it was Thoreau said about simplification, we gather around the glowing light of the laptop, or–if we happen to be out-of-doors–I whip out my palm pre and look it up.

Today, I signed up to be a tester of Google Voice.  I don’t really know what it does or how it’s going to help me.  I know it transcribes my voice-mails into text, and for some of my regular callers, that’s going to be a real treat for me.  It will forward all of my calls though one number, but since I really only have one number, I’m not sure why this is a benefit.  I guess I could add Cairo’s and Ares’ phone number, and give them my access codes.  If their phone was on the computer, they just might get my messages.

My first Google Voicemail arrived today, different parts of it read in different accents, a true sign I’m in the future.  I’m gonna go now, though, so I can play around with it, and figure out what other cool things it can do.  To hear my first message, click here: Google Voicemail.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler. –Henry David Thoreau

Saint Johns Pub

This McMenamins just be the closest one to our house, and the single one we hadn’t tried!  The seating area was unbelievably tiny, but now that we’ve got warmer weather, they can offer the gift of outdoor seatingt.  My son said it was “dark and scary” on the inside, and it’s true.   Darkness seems to linger in the corners of the room, sheilding what can only be wizards or monsters sitting in the seats, and the middle of the room isn’t much better.  The bathrooms are so tiny, only Clark Kent could change his clothes in there, but they do have some pretty cool wall entertainment with old movie posters, magazine ads, and clipouts from cookbooks that your grandmother might have inherited.  We didn’t take advantage of one of the perks of the place: $3 movies, but we were able to have some of the standard fare and some of the standard service.  The folks at McMenamins are never unfriendly, but they’re not real friendly either.  Kinda like if you showed up at a friend’s house and they said in a polite way, “We were just going to sit down for dinner.  Umm…Do you want to join us?”  And you said, “sure.”  They’re probably going to be nice to you during the meal because they still want to be friends with you, but they aren’t overly enthused that you’re there.

The salad I had was named the Mrs. Burley Salad, in honor of a woman my son proably thinks is still hanging around the place, especially in the dark and scary parts.  It was a pretty good cob with a unique name, just the sort of thing you’d expect at a McMenamins.  I personally like the character and history they put into their establishments, though has anyone seen those strip-mall places they’ve got in a few of the burbs?  Yikes!  That’s WAY scarier than both the Edgefeild and this Pub combined.  I’m waiting for them to do something fabulous with the now unused Clarendon Elementary.

It started to drizzle near the end of our dinner, and while others took cover inside, we decided to stick with our garden table, along with two other hard-core Northwesterners.  As the watier handed us our bill, he said, ”Well, you folks are true Portland stock!”  It was just the compliment we needed.  We’d accomplished our objective, and we gathered up our things, paid, and quickly bee-lined it to the car, where we drove home with proud smiles.

Will we return?  You bet!  Next time, I want to catch a movie!

Food Inc.

I cannot wait to see Food, Inc., and I just had to share it with everyone out there. Looks like a real winner:

UPDATE: I’ve seen it, and it’s great!  Maybe it’s because I like thrillers that border on horror flicks, but movies about food politics get me every time!  I find myself on the edge of my seat, vowing that no matter how tasty they are, I’m NEVER eating another Cheeto again!  Of course, the scariest part of the movie was about fast food joints, so I got to sit back every now and again and breathe, relieved that–except for Burgerville–we don’t eat there.  (Now I feel like maybe I need to sit down and write them a letter to make sure they don’t add ammonia to their meat during prep.)

Over-all it’s a great movie that’ll scare the pants off you.  Just don’t get the popcorn or the soda, or you’ll leave feeling really sick and you might just hear a whisper: “sevennnn daaaays.”

Fishwife

Fishwife sounds like a story I want to be telling my children on a weekend, one that will entertain and teach at the same time, with beautiful pictures and thick pages and a textured book jacket.  Not that I’ve thought about it much.

But everyone in NoPo knows it’s a restaurant.  Well, I think restaurant is too fancy a word to use for this place.  But Cafe is too casual.  It’s like being invited to your Aunt and Uncle’s big church get-together at their house.  They’ve brought in tables and made their over-sized daylight basement look more like a restaurant than the place where you play the games that are only fun when you’re here: checkers and Sorry! and Monopoly.  But as hard as they tried to make it look like a restaurant, it still just kinda looks like Aunt __________’s and Uncle ______’s.

 

Looking over toward the kitchen and watching flames leap up toward the vents in the ceiling makes you happy you’ve got a table near the front door–even if it’s one you never use.  In fact, lets back up a little.  Finding the Fishwife is easy.  It’s right on Lombard, near the corner of Portsmouth, nestled between the F B C WO LD  and the place with the 31 flavors.  (The unintelligible storefront is Fabric World for those of you who don’t see it everyday-; they never spring for a new sign, but mostof  NoPo doesn’t seem to mind, and my children get a big kick out of seeing the sign and giggling when they try to read it.  The only entrance I’ve been able to locate is in the back, down some creepy looking driveway and through a bright blue door.  When we first visited, my son thought we were going to eat Greek food for dinner, and was somewhat disappointed that it was going to be fish (“Fish!  You know I don’t like fish!  Why are you doing this to me?  Was I bad?”)

 

That’s right: I said it: first time.  We’ve been back.  The service is good.  You’ll always see someone you know in there.  And the food is downright delicious.  I wasn’t very adventurous on my fist visit, sticking with the fish and chips.  They were fresh and crisp with tender and flaky fillets…heaven.  Since, I’ve tried to always order their specials as the creativity is much appreciated by me, and I’m always interested in what is freshest!  There’s only one Fishwife in Portland, and she’s right here in NoPo!

You haven’t really lived until you’ve…

Okay, so I splurged today while my children were in school and saw a movie with my mother.  We started the day at Costco, where we sat in their massage chairs for a 15 minute massage.  Those chairs are pure heaven, and if you haven’t sat in one, you really are missing out.  My mother lives in the Bethany area, so we stopped in at the Hillsboro Costco, and I’m not sure if they are available at every one or not, but it feels so great it might even be worth the drive west.  If I had the money (they’re about $3,500), they’d be worth every dime!

Slumdog Millionaire was playing at nearby Evergreen, and we decided to check it out.  As the credits rolled, we were both in tears, and as we exited the theater, we had to remark, “Well, no wonder it won Best Picture!”  Truly a wonderful movie. The type that leaves you feeling strange as you enter the sunshine-filled parking lot: altered, somehow changed.  You start looking at ordinary people chattering about pop-corn or the movies they’d like to see or about their new hairdo, and you just know: they haven’t yet seen this movie.  If they did, they’d be touched, moved, different.

It’s been one of those days you just want to share with everyone!