The first step in designing the perfect day after Thanksgiving is to make sure there are no leftovers, or to come as close to that goal as possible. With all the television news magazine shows and feature sections of newspapers and even THE DAILY BEAST offering tips on what to do with leftover turkey and stuffing for the weeks after the big day, it seems almost sacreligious not to do something clever with the remains. One year we were really into cracking eggs into little pockets of dressing and baking them. The first few bites are terrific and you feel proud of yourself for being so clever, but the dressing inevitably gets too dry and you end up just scooping egg out of pockets of day old stuffing when what you really want is a breakfast burrito at Snooze. The whole point is that if your turkey is so good and moist that it flies off the carcus and onto guests' plates, you won't have to feel guilty about spending the next day hanging out at your favorite restaurants.
Thanks to my wife's "We-don't-need-no-stinking-brine" turkey mastery, at most we have enough white meat for a couple of sandwiches, a few dollops of dressing, a handful of asparagus spears and a tub of gravy.
After some preliminary cleaning late Thanksgiving night after the guests have left, my perfect follow-up day starts in the kitchen at about 6 in the morning before anyone else has gotten out of bed. The kitchen, mess and all, is all mine and I can sneak bites of left over pecan pie as I winnow out the detritus. By the time the rest of the house is up, the kitchen looks like new, the table has been rearranged for normal non-Thanksgiving day life, and I am at the table drinking coffee and working the crosswords.
On this latest post-Thanksgiving lark, we all pile into the car and drive down to Snooze for pineapple upside down pancakes, monstrous breakfast burritoes, and eggs benedicts to die for.
To our way of thinking, Snooze is the Mizuna of breakfast joints (more on Mizuna later). When we told the owner that a few visits ago he almost got on his knees to give obeisance to our praise. But it is true.
Let's face it, breakfast is pretty much the same wherever you end up. Two eggs over easy with two strips of bacon and hashbrowns at Denny's isn't all that different than the same at the Brown Palace. The difference is in the details and that's why people are lined up all morning long outside Snooze's door at Park Avenue and Larimer. There is a newer Snooze on Colorado Boulevard somewhere around
8th Avenue. I'm sure the food is equally wonderful, but from the outside the place looks too much like a Denny's for hipsters. The place downtown looks like what it is, a converted whore house with great food and service.
We don't get our names on the list until 11:30 and we finally sit at a quarter past noon. I like the fact that Snooze steadfastly refuses to play favorites when it comes to seating. They don't take reservations and they aren't even interested in you calling in your name from the car on the way down. On the other hand 45 minutes does push my patience a little even though the food is worth it.
After they call our name, we work our way through the awkward corner-front door with a post placed in such a way as to make a quick entry or exit impossible. I always like being led through the mobs of hopeful diners and to a table. The four of us (daughter and son-in-law were with us) score a circular vinyl upholstered booth, one of a string of booths lined up and down the middle of the room. A few former waiters stop by to say hi as we wait for bloody marys and coffee. Both are wonderful, especially the coffee. One of the main draws of Snooze for me is that I like to bring home bags of coarsely ground Snooze coffee (They come in colorful cloth bags that make great gift bags for the holiday season.).
It takes a while to order at Snooze. I, for one, carry on a running debate with myself on the way downtown. Will it be the Spuds Deluxe this time, or Pork Benny? Why not just get a flight of pancakes? The burrito was amazing last time, maybe I should order it again? It is a tough decision but someone has to make it.
The four of us end up ordering one breakfast burrito, two benedicts and one Spuds Deluxe. Mine comes with pulled pork and great green chili with two eggs over easy. And then the same thing happens that always happens during great meals. The conversation slows down and turns to the food and when we take bites we all variously look up and glance heavenward with a knowing look that says this is the best thing I've ever tasted. And then you keep saying that with the next bite and the next.
The meal over and as much as we want to camp out we don't. That would be tacky. So we get up and out of the way so the next happy foursome can rotate in. That's the way it goes at Snooze.
But the day has just begun. On the way home we stop at St. Nicks on South Santa Fe and spend two hours looking at every kind of Christmas ornamentation possible. As a added bonus, we spot a group of three coyotes standing out by the Platte looking for some lap dog to munch on. I can't guarantee the coyotes at every visit, but you might get lucky and have a lap dog nearby as well. I keep leading my wife and daughter down to see the artificial trees every time we go to the joint. My subtle hints have not panned out so far, but I'm still hoping.
Since this perfect day is going to end with dinner at Mizuna, the rest of the afternoon has to be devoted to hanging out. Watching football. Catching up on Facebook. Reading. But under no circumstances should there be any eating or drinking. You can only consume so much in a day.
Walking into Mizuna is always like going to a family reunion only without any irritating cousins. Everyone just seems happy to see us. Even the car valet seems pleased, like he's been looking forward to our arrival. We get one of our two most cherished tables over in the corner by the entrance to the back dining room and almost simultaneously Chris, Ryan, Greg and Steve come by to welcome us back and ask our daughter how life is in the White House and congratulate her husband on his new job. These people are good!
I love seeing the food I order at Mizuna being brought to the table. The servers act like they are excited to see your reaction to the presentation and when they walk away from the table they sneak glances over their shoulders to catch, for instance, my look of sheer bliss when I took my first bite of the sweet and sour pork, or Franny's amazed reaction to the fois gras.
I also love, after I get settled and have a sip of wine, to just look around the room at Mizuna. Every table is full. The sandstone colored walls (maybe they are yellower than sandstone) punctuated with Quang Ho's wonderful oils wrap around Denver's classiest and cosiest dining room. The most important thing is that you almost never see any sad faces at Mizuna. Just lots of toasts and smiles.
This time the four of us order salmon, a veal porterhouse and two tenderloin preparations. I figure this combination will give Ryan a nice wine challenge and he comes back with a ruby red syrah from California that is so good we order a second bottle.
Every main course was exceptional, but I have to pay special attention to the perogis that accompany the tenderloin. I make perogis at home as a kind of new Christmas day tradition and they are quite good. In fact they are made from the Mizuna cookbook, but eating the real thing helps show me the difference between a restaurant cook and a home cook. Mine are delicious and the family keeps coming back for more, but Mizuna's are more carmelized than mine (easily fixed) and I think the olive oil they use and finish with is infinitely better. Mostly, I fear, it is all in the touch, the technique.
We have some coffee and dessert, pay the check (GASP) and drive the long way back up Santa Fe to our home in Littleton. Whenever I make that drive (which is quite often) I always kinda wish that Mizuna would open up a Mizuna II in downtown Littleton, or some such place. When I come to my senses, I realize that if that actually happened I would gain 50 pounds and be bankrupt in six months. Be careful what you wish for. . .
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Bones: a noodle bar
Bones
701 Grant
Tucked in a tiny corner between Luca d'Italia and Lancer's Lounge at 7th and Grant and right across the street from Benny's sits Bones. This Asian-fusion noodle bar is the brain child of Frank Bonanno and his partner on this venture, Chris Gregory. And you can tell, because it has the same feel that all of Bonanno's restaurants have: casual elegance and the aroma of killer food.
As opposed to Luca next door, Bones offers a relatively affordable dining experience. The small menu has approximately nine appetizers and two salads as starters and five varieties of noodle bowls. Dessert offerings all spring from the soft serve ice cream maker behind the bar. And just to add to the charm of the place, if you order one of their inventive cocktails or some Sake or beer, you will spot your waiter edging his way up the backstairs to the tiny bar located at the top. The place is just too small to wedge a bar into the main floor.
The place might have 25 seats if you don't count the tables on the outside patios flanking either side. But even though the place is small it doesn't feel crowded. That is probably due to the ample chairs and the equally ample table spacing. I can think of some other restaurants around town that might try to crowd forty bodies into this same space. And the art work by Quang Ho helps to turn this potentially pedestrian location into a sophisticated foody spot.
But we should talk about the food. Call ahead for reservations to be safe and ask to sit at the bar so you can check out the preparations. And since Bonanno scurries between Mizuna, Luca, and Bones, you might be treated to a view of him whipping up steamed buns or roasted bone marrow appetizers.
I can only think of one other place in Denver serving bone marrow, but the marrow at Bones is creamier and easier to get at than the buffalo marrow at The Fort. Ask your server to suggest a Sake to complement your order and settle back and start spreading the marrow over the toast points. I can't think of a more luxurious way to start a meal.
Actually that is not true. An order of the steamed buns--particularly the ones with pork belly--is about as decadent as it gets. If you are with a companion, whatever you do play it safe and get two orders. Don't share the buns. They come three to an order and the fight over the last bun could do serious damage to any relationship.
There are other apps and they are all delicious. The beef short-rib eggrolls are perfect with crispy skins and juicy melt-in-your mouth chunks of beef inside. Don't forget the potato three-ways for a lesson in spud management. Did I mention the salads, crisp and beautiful and fresh.
Please don't stop there. The Udon noodle bowl with slow cooked pork shoulder topped with with a poached egg is unlike anything I've had before. The dish gives testament to Bonanno's mastery of the pig that has been on display next door at Luca for years. They even have nifty little plastic containers that will easily allow you to bring home the inevitable left overs. There is a poached lobster ramen, an egg noodle bowl with chicken quarters, but my favorite is the Soba noodle bowl. It is served cold like a salad with rare Ahi tuna and a variety of vegetables of the season all set off with a grapefruit ponzu. Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!
A soft serve twist cone is a nice way to end if you feel the need for something sweet. The sweetest thing of all is just the place itself, the way all the servers act so happy and proud, the bustle behind the bar, Chris Gregory touching tables like the best front man in Denver that he is. Go to Bones for lunch (an abbreviated menu) or dinner, but go by all means.
701 Grant
Tucked in a tiny corner between Luca d'Italia and Lancer's Lounge at 7th and Grant and right across the street from Benny's sits Bones. This Asian-fusion noodle bar is the brain child of Frank Bonanno and his partner on this venture, Chris Gregory. And you can tell, because it has the same feel that all of Bonanno's restaurants have: casual elegance and the aroma of killer food.
As opposed to Luca next door, Bones offers a relatively affordable dining experience. The small menu has approximately nine appetizers and two salads as starters and five varieties of noodle bowls. Dessert offerings all spring from the soft serve ice cream maker behind the bar. And just to add to the charm of the place, if you order one of their inventive cocktails or some Sake or beer, you will spot your waiter edging his way up the backstairs to the tiny bar located at the top. The place is just too small to wedge a bar into the main floor.
The place might have 25 seats if you don't count the tables on the outside patios flanking either side. But even though the place is small it doesn't feel crowded. That is probably due to the ample chairs and the equally ample table spacing. I can think of some other restaurants around town that might try to crowd forty bodies into this same space. And the art work by Quang Ho helps to turn this potentially pedestrian location into a sophisticated foody spot.
But we should talk about the food. Call ahead for reservations to be safe and ask to sit at the bar so you can check out the preparations. And since Bonanno scurries between Mizuna, Luca, and Bones, you might be treated to a view of him whipping up steamed buns or roasted bone marrow appetizers.
I can only think of one other place in Denver serving bone marrow, but the marrow at Bones is creamier and easier to get at than the buffalo marrow at The Fort. Ask your server to suggest a Sake to complement your order and settle back and start spreading the marrow over the toast points. I can't think of a more luxurious way to start a meal.
Actually that is not true. An order of the steamed buns--particularly the ones with pork belly--is about as decadent as it gets. If you are with a companion, whatever you do play it safe and get two orders. Don't share the buns. They come three to an order and the fight over the last bun could do serious damage to any relationship.
There are other apps and they are all delicious. The beef short-rib eggrolls are perfect with crispy skins and juicy melt-in-your mouth chunks of beef inside. Don't forget the potato three-ways for a lesson in spud management. Did I mention the salads, crisp and beautiful and fresh.
Please don't stop there. The Udon noodle bowl with slow cooked pork shoulder topped with with a poached egg is unlike anything I've had before. The dish gives testament to Bonanno's mastery of the pig that has been on display next door at Luca for years. They even have nifty little plastic containers that will easily allow you to bring home the inevitable left overs. There is a poached lobster ramen, an egg noodle bowl with chicken quarters, but my favorite is the Soba noodle bowl. It is served cold like a salad with rare Ahi tuna and a variety of vegetables of the season all set off with a grapefruit ponzu. Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!
A soft serve twist cone is a nice way to end if you feel the need for something sweet. The sweetest thing of all is just the place itself, the way all the servers act so happy and proud, the bustle behind the bar, Chris Gregory touching tables like the best front man in Denver that he is. Go to Bones for lunch (an abbreviated menu) or dinner, but go by all means.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
FLOTUS
Under normal circumstances just following Ali through Hangar 909 and past the half dozen fighter planes parked there might have been the visual highlight of our day. There was more to come. We waited on the tarmac (I've always wanted to be able to use the word tarmac in a sentence involving me.) for the First Lady's plane to arrive. Our assignment was to sit in the straggler van and wait for Franny to climb in so we could surprise her. Then we would ride in the motorcade from Buckley Air Force Base to the Governor's Mansion for the first event of the day.
We got a small glimpse of the First Lady alighting from the plane, but the biggest treat was watching Franny bustle around in her business clothes with her cell phone in permanent text position directing people--important people--to go this way and that. She looked busy and in control the way Holly Hunter looked in "Broadcast News." It is important to note that, as opposed to Holly Hunter, she also looked happy--that Franny smile.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Originally we were to meet Franny at South High School where the First Lady was scheduled to talk to/with a group of selected girls about their futures, their nows, their questions, etc. It was all part of a successful female mentoring program Mrs. Obama is launching--and Franny is organizing--to give promising young women a head start. After the kickoff event in D.C., Denver was her first stop on the "Mentoring Tour". Other stops to be announced.
Those plans changed when Ryan, one of Franny's advance team, emailed us that they wanted us to surprise her and spend the day with them instead. We thought it was a potentially good idea and that is why we ended up at Buckley at ten on Monday morning. The happy look on F.'s face told us it was a good idea.
If I were president, getting to ride in a motorcade with sirens blaring, running through red lights with impunity, and shutting down whole portions of interstate highways just so I could transit rapidly from one spot to another would be reason enough to seek a second term. Right now, I can't think of another.
We motorcaded out of Buckley, waving at people lining portions of the streets, and proceeded to commandeer I-225, I-25, and finally Logan on the way to the Governor's Mansion, the site for a luncheon with dozens of girls chosen from local school populations and a handful of famously successful, or successfully famous women. Janet Neopolitano was there, and Katherine Sibelius. Susan Sarandon was the only lady there not power dressed in black or shades of gray with pointy toed and spikey heeled black footwear. She came in a sweater, cords and running shoes, and I'm sure she was the envy of every lady there. Mrs. Ritter and Mrs. Hickenlooper were in attendance, of course. One of the Desperate Housewives made the gathering, but I couldn't make her out. I thought a severely dressed black tressed lady with the spikiest boots I ever saw might be the desperate type, until I was otherwise informed by a van driver.
With the exception of those named above, it was a lot like watching "Dancing with the Stars." I can never tell which is the star and which is the dancer.
After the lunch and some Broadway entertainment (It seems that Mrs. Obama's young life was changed when she saw her first musical and she wanted to share that experience with the gathered kids.), we took the motorcade to South, closing up more streets and avenues en route. I loved the way kids filled South's windows to get a glimpse of the First Lady and other famous types. Getting out of the van I suppressed an urge to give one of those hand rotating waves that famous people give. I wish I would have because I think I might have disappointed a few of them. Oh well.
We finally met the First Lady after the event at South finished around 3:30. As I expected, Michelle Obama is a hugger. Not one of those polite little half-assed hugs, but a full-fledged bear hug that makes the recipient feel like the First Lady had been waiting all day for this reunion-like moment. I was more than a little impressed.
After it was all over we took Franny away (she decided to spend the night in Denver and catch a commercial flight back to D.C. in the morning). We had a great dinner at Bones and went home to talk and go to bed.
A great day.
We got a small glimpse of the First Lady alighting from the plane, but the biggest treat was watching Franny bustle around in her business clothes with her cell phone in permanent text position directing people--important people--to go this way and that. She looked busy and in control the way Holly Hunter looked in "Broadcast News." It is important to note that, as opposed to Holly Hunter, she also looked happy--that Franny smile.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Originally we were to meet Franny at South High School where the First Lady was scheduled to talk to/with a group of selected girls about their futures, their nows, their questions, etc. It was all part of a successful female mentoring program Mrs. Obama is launching--and Franny is organizing--to give promising young women a head start. After the kickoff event in D.C., Denver was her first stop on the "Mentoring Tour". Other stops to be announced.
Those plans changed when Ryan, one of Franny's advance team, emailed us that they wanted us to surprise her and spend the day with them instead. We thought it was a potentially good idea and that is why we ended up at Buckley at ten on Monday morning. The happy look on F.'s face told us it was a good idea.
If I were president, getting to ride in a motorcade with sirens blaring, running through red lights with impunity, and shutting down whole portions of interstate highways just so I could transit rapidly from one spot to another would be reason enough to seek a second term. Right now, I can't think of another.
We motorcaded out of Buckley, waving at people lining portions of the streets, and proceeded to commandeer I-225, I-25, and finally Logan on the way to the Governor's Mansion, the site for a luncheon with dozens of girls chosen from local school populations and a handful of famously successful, or successfully famous women. Janet Neopolitano was there, and Katherine Sibelius. Susan Sarandon was the only lady there not power dressed in black or shades of gray with pointy toed and spikey heeled black footwear. She came in a sweater, cords and running shoes, and I'm sure she was the envy of every lady there. Mrs. Ritter and Mrs. Hickenlooper were in attendance, of course. One of the Desperate Housewives made the gathering, but I couldn't make her out. I thought a severely dressed black tressed lady with the spikiest boots I ever saw might be the desperate type, until I was otherwise informed by a van driver.
With the exception of those named above, it was a lot like watching "Dancing with the Stars." I can never tell which is the star and which is the dancer.
After the lunch and some Broadway entertainment (It seems that Mrs. Obama's young life was changed when she saw her first musical and she wanted to share that experience with the gathered kids.), we took the motorcade to South, closing up more streets and avenues en route. I loved the way kids filled South's windows to get a glimpse of the First Lady and other famous types. Getting out of the van I suppressed an urge to give one of those hand rotating waves that famous people give. I wish I would have because I think I might have disappointed a few of them. Oh well.
We finally met the First Lady after the event at South finished around 3:30. As I expected, Michelle Obama is a hugger. Not one of those polite little half-assed hugs, but a full-fledged bear hug that makes the recipient feel like the First Lady had been waiting all day for this reunion-like moment. I was more than a little impressed.
After it was all over we took Franny away (she decided to spend the night in Denver and catch a commercial flight back to D.C. in the morning). We had a great dinner at Bones and went home to talk and go to bed.
A great day.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Knitting, Allende and Twelve Year Old Boys
Katherine here.
I feel like I'm living in triangles upon triangles. There's a job triangle that puts together 21 teachers, 17 school cultures and a driving and scheduling puzzle that would take a Zen master to do with lightness and efficiency. There is a home triangle composed of my friend Jim, my colleague Jim, and my lover Jim. There's a health triangle of doctors, and vitamins, and ghost boobs. Another health triangle is put together with running, bathing in the woods, and playing tennis. Lots of triangles.
There are numbers of triangles that live in my head when I wake up early in the morning. Sometimes the moon makes nifty shadows on the wall at 3:00 in the morning. There's kind of a Plato-in-the-cave effect caused by the railings of our bed that adds to my thoughtfulness at times as well.
Of late, the middle-of-the-night triangle marks a battle between my right and left brain. On the side of the triangle that keeps my right brain rattling are my recent knitting struggles and breakthroughs which go round and round in a daily vicious circle. They make me agonize over lace patterns in sleeves knit on the bias where each round has a different pattern. They may be too short.
There are similar problems with the lower body of the sweater. I've become a really fine knitter, I think. It's just really hard to make things fit. I thought losing the boobs after the last round of cancer would help make everything fit me. Hasn't worked that way.
The thought of un-doing and re-doing the sleeves is unbearable. The thought of losing the Lambspun turquoise yarn is unbearable. Stopping is unbearable. I'm only sane because I'm knitting a basic seed stitch scarf as a Christmas present for a friend.
The other two sides of the current nightly triangle are book-based and very left brained. I'm reading The Infinite Plan by Isabel Allende and The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet by Reif Larsen. Both are wonderful. Both have done a good job of making my brain whirl over what I am and what I am not.
I love Allende fiction. The men are almost always lovable monsters and the women who love them put up with so much and then the men finally learn mercy of some kind by the end of the book. She writes sexy stuff too.
Last night, while debating which knitting approach to take (to undo or not), I measured my life against Allende heroines. It's a hard thing to do when I only feel physically complete when Jim is holding me.
When I'm tired of playing ping pong with Allende and knitting, it's the book about T.S. Spivet that keeps me awake. T.S. is a gifted 12 year old who draws maps of everything in his life. He wins a Smithsonian Award and ends up hopping a freight train back east and then hitching a ride to DC to accept the award. It's a beautiful book. It could only be about a twelve year old boy. Stand By Me would never have worked if three girls went looking for a body. There is something magical about being a twelve year old boy.
I don't lay awake at night trying to be a twelve year old boy, but I try to figure out what the perfect, quintessential age is for a girl. I have gone through the stages of my life over and over and no memory triggers an emotion that is as pure as what the boys in Stand By Me feel or as pure as what T.S. Spivet sees. If I figure it out, I'll let you know.
Mostly, I like my triangles.
I feel like I'm living in triangles upon triangles. There's a job triangle that puts together 21 teachers, 17 school cultures and a driving and scheduling puzzle that would take a Zen master to do with lightness and efficiency. There is a home triangle composed of my friend Jim, my colleague Jim, and my lover Jim. There's a health triangle of doctors, and vitamins, and ghost boobs. Another health triangle is put together with running, bathing in the woods, and playing tennis. Lots of triangles.
There are numbers of triangles that live in my head when I wake up early in the morning. Sometimes the moon makes nifty shadows on the wall at 3:00 in the morning. There's kind of a Plato-in-the-cave effect caused by the railings of our bed that adds to my thoughtfulness at times as well.
Of late, the middle-of-the-night triangle marks a battle between my right and left brain. On the side of the triangle that keeps my right brain rattling are my recent knitting struggles and breakthroughs which go round and round in a daily vicious circle. They make me agonize over lace patterns in sleeves knit on the bias where each round has a different pattern. They may be too short.
There are similar problems with the lower body of the sweater. I've become a really fine knitter, I think. It's just really hard to make things fit. I thought losing the boobs after the last round of cancer would help make everything fit me. Hasn't worked that way.
The thought of un-doing and re-doing the sleeves is unbearable. The thought of losing the Lambspun turquoise yarn is unbearable. Stopping is unbearable. I'm only sane because I'm knitting a basic seed stitch scarf as a Christmas present for a friend.
The other two sides of the current nightly triangle are book-based and very left brained. I'm reading The Infinite Plan by Isabel Allende and The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet by Reif Larsen. Both are wonderful. Both have done a good job of making my brain whirl over what I am and what I am not.
I love Allende fiction. The men are almost always lovable monsters and the women who love them put up with so much and then the men finally learn mercy of some kind by the end of the book. She writes sexy stuff too.
Last night, while debating which knitting approach to take (to undo or not), I measured my life against Allende heroines. It's a hard thing to do when I only feel physically complete when Jim is holding me.
When I'm tired of playing ping pong with Allende and knitting, it's the book about T.S. Spivet that keeps me awake. T.S. is a gifted 12 year old who draws maps of everything in his life. He wins a Smithsonian Award and ends up hopping a freight train back east and then hitching a ride to DC to accept the award. It's a beautiful book. It could only be about a twelve year old boy. Stand By Me would never have worked if three girls went looking for a body. There is something magical about being a twelve year old boy.
I don't lay awake at night trying to be a twelve year old boy, but I try to figure out what the perfect, quintessential age is for a girl. I have gone through the stages of my life over and over and no memory triggers an emotion that is as pure as what the boys in Stand By Me feel or as pure as what T.S. Spivet sees. If I figure it out, I'll let you know.
Mostly, I like my triangles.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Mancaves and Aeries
My son Chris just finished installing what will be stage one in the formulation of his mancave. I'm sure Chris has been dreaming about the necessary components for the ideal mancave even before such a horrible term was coined, undoubtedly by some specialty sports network. In any event, he has put a large flat-screen plasma television with surround sound in his basement and arranged it in front of and around a large leather couch with enormous coffee table. According to Christine (my daughter-in-law), he gets up Sunday morning, heats up some wings, puts them in a bucket, opens the basement door and says "I'll see you tonight." As soon as his children grow up he is putting in a pool table. That will be nice because I will undoubtedly visit them more often. I used to be pretty good with a cue stick in my hand.
I've never felt the need for a mancave. If I had one I would be upstairs constantly to see what Kathie was doing. I would eventually either have to stay upstairs and watch the games, or Kathie would have to come down to my mancave in which case it wouldn't be a mancave anymore. This is a quandary I am putting off by the clever ploy of not putting one in.
If one of the definers of a mancave is a flatscreen television than we have one of sorts upstairs. I spend a lot of time up there watching sports or movies because our purchase of a 60 inch Panasonic plasma television has in fact ruined my life. When we had a 15 inch RCA that served us for at least the first half of our marriage we used to read and talk to each other, or take extended hikes in the Colorado mountains. Now we just sit in front of our high def screen and comment to each other about how clear the picture is. On winter nights it takes the place of the fireplace we never use. Those HD tvs put out a lot of heat.
But this room is more of an aerie than a mancave. It is in a loft for one thing. It is also Kathie's knitting room.
One might think a man would feel uncomfortable in such environs. In addition to our television which dominates the south wall, there are (time out while I go count) sixteen hooks on the west wall, each holding at least one thingee (skien?) of yarn. The different colored and textured yarns on the wall make an impressive pattern, but it isn't like having one of those plasticized slap up action enlargements of John Elway throwing a pass on the wall. The wall opposite holds two prints by Ray Knaub and one by R.C. Gorman. There are two other pieces over the television, one a stylized etching of the sun by Carol Vanous (Bartkus) and another an oil painting of a raw onion by Jeff Reeser. I remember crying (no irony intended) when Jeff gave me the painting the day before he graduated. It meant a lot.
We have a ridiculously heavy sofa sleeper in the room that no one has ever used after the first night. The floor is more luxurious. We also have Tetonish arm chair with pine trees and elks parading across the fabric. The chair is even more uncomfortable than the couch. There is a pine bench with drawers for yet more of Kathie's yarn that is actually quite comfortable. And there is a table in the middle of the room covered in knitting needles, stray pieces of yarn, cook books, novels, political rants, empty wine glasses and the like.
You can find us there most nights. Katherine will be in the elk chair puzzling over her latest knitting project. I will be on the couch watching tv while reading a book, more than likely nodding off.
I've never felt the need for a mancave. If I had one I would be upstairs constantly to see what Kathie was doing. I would eventually either have to stay upstairs and watch the games, or Kathie would have to come down to my mancave in which case it wouldn't be a mancave anymore. This is a quandary I am putting off by the clever ploy of not putting one in.
If one of the definers of a mancave is a flatscreen television than we have one of sorts upstairs. I spend a lot of time up there watching sports or movies because our purchase of a 60 inch Panasonic plasma television has in fact ruined my life. When we had a 15 inch RCA that served us for at least the first half of our marriage we used to read and talk to each other, or take extended hikes in the Colorado mountains. Now we just sit in front of our high def screen and comment to each other about how clear the picture is. On winter nights it takes the place of the fireplace we never use. Those HD tvs put out a lot of heat.
But this room is more of an aerie than a mancave. It is in a loft for one thing. It is also Kathie's knitting room.
One might think a man would feel uncomfortable in such environs. In addition to our television which dominates the south wall, there are (time out while I go count) sixteen hooks on the west wall, each holding at least one thingee (skien?) of yarn. The different colored and textured yarns on the wall make an impressive pattern, but it isn't like having one of those plasticized slap up action enlargements of John Elway throwing a pass on the wall. The wall opposite holds two prints by Ray Knaub and one by R.C. Gorman. There are two other pieces over the television, one a stylized etching of the sun by Carol Vanous (Bartkus) and another an oil painting of a raw onion by Jeff Reeser. I remember crying (no irony intended) when Jeff gave me the painting the day before he graduated. It meant a lot.
We have a ridiculously heavy sofa sleeper in the room that no one has ever used after the first night. The floor is more luxurious. We also have Tetonish arm chair with pine trees and elks parading across the fabric. The chair is even more uncomfortable than the couch. There is a pine bench with drawers for yet more of Kathie's yarn that is actually quite comfortable. And there is a table in the middle of the room covered in knitting needles, stray pieces of yarn, cook books, novels, political rants, empty wine glasses and the like.
You can find us there most nights. Katherine will be in the elk chair puzzling over her latest knitting project. I will be on the couch watching tv while reading a book, more than likely nodding off.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Shifting Gears
My daughter set up this blog for me as a Christmas present the same year she and her mother bought me a very expensive classical guitar as a joint present. I was thrilled and that first year was characterized. Strike that. That first month was characterized by diligent poetry postings and daily practice sessions on my guitar. I was getting particularly good at C scales in all their variations.
But then things changed. I started working more regularly as a handyman. It was hard to tile floors and frame basements and still keep my nails long enough to play. It least that was and is the rationalization I used back then to explain away my diminished interest in both this blog and that guitar.
Isn't it interesting how things change again and again. I'm not "handymanning" as much and even though I am having a hard time of thinking of things to write poetry about--I guess I am too happy and complacent to feel compelled to SAY something--I have been working on my guitar recently. I consider that a good sign.
All this rambling is complicated or created or spurred on--I'm not sure which--by the Julie and Julia movie. If you haven't seen it here is a quick recap. It is about a young, married, frustrated writer in NYC who is looking for something worthy of her talents, for something to accomplish on her own. She decides to make every recipe in MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING, Child's masterwork, and write about it every day in a blog. Recipe leads to recipe which leads to one posting and then another. Pretty soon she is getting hits on her blog. She is getting an audience. Publishers find out about it and the rest is pretty much history.
So I'm going to start posting on this thing again, but my wife is going to join in. We are going to talk about what we enjoy the most: Knitting, Cooking, and Dining Out. There will also be some poetry. A short story or two. Some political rants. Time will tell.
But then things changed. I started working more regularly as a handyman. It was hard to tile floors and frame basements and still keep my nails long enough to play. It least that was and is the rationalization I used back then to explain away my diminished interest in both this blog and that guitar.
Isn't it interesting how things change again and again. I'm not "handymanning" as much and even though I am having a hard time of thinking of things to write poetry about--I guess I am too happy and complacent to feel compelled to SAY something--I have been working on my guitar recently. I consider that a good sign.
All this rambling is complicated or created or spurred on--I'm not sure which--by the Julie and Julia movie. If you haven't seen it here is a quick recap. It is about a young, married, frustrated writer in NYC who is looking for something worthy of her talents, for something to accomplish on her own. She decides to make every recipe in MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING, Child's masterwork, and write about it every day in a blog. Recipe leads to recipe which leads to one posting and then another. Pretty soon she is getting hits on her blog. She is getting an audience. Publishers find out about it and the rest is pretty much history.
So I'm going to start posting on this thing again, but my wife is going to join in. We are going to talk about what we enjoy the most: Knitting, Cooking, and Dining Out. There will also be some poetry. A short story or two. Some political rants. Time will tell.
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