Cafe Campagne tonight ...

and it was delicious.

I'm happy to have had a dinner that fit within a clear cuisine, rather than more "new American." While I love the high brow comfort food trend of saffron mashed potatoes and lobster mac-and-cheese, the clear theme of Cafe Campagne was delicious before the food even arrive. And the prix fixe menu of -- I imagine -- authentically French dishes was a treat. Brian and I traded soups, but it was exciting to order three courses I'd not normally have picked.

And sparkling Rose! If there's anything I love more than pink wine, it is bubbly wine. It is happiness in a chilled bottle.

I don't normally enjoy the type of older men who think they're charming -- those who flirt with waitresses and dominate the dinner table with scripted jokes and slouch a little bit to show their nonchalance -- but I enjoyed the man sitting next to us. He asked Brian about his duck confit and then asked the waitress for peanut butter to go with the french bread. I'd be happy to have him as an uncle.

After a walk to campus with Buster and half hour or so with A Tree Grown In Brooklyn (which is amazing), found myself three cookies deep into a freshly-baked batch of fantastic chocolate chip cookies. I added walnuts to half the batch, which probably adds some flavor but mostly gives them a fabulous "rustic" texture. After purchasing an array of cookie scoops in various sizes, I've decided I don't actually want them all perfect circles. I miss the organic, lumpy, made-from-dough look.

Brian's insistance I try Crisco paid off, though. The cookies are super soft with a mysteriously airbrushed-looking yellow creaminess. Am still disturbed to have a vat of solid white fat sitting warm in the cupboard, but I can overlook the greatest weirdness for a good cookie.

It was a happy, leisurey Friday evening, after leaving work a little early and discovering the sun even hotter than it had been at noon when I met Caitie for lunch on the Ave. She talked about the GRE and getting her nipples pierced; I talked about professional pet portraits for Buster. If we hadn't come to our standard conclusion that mom is a crazy lady, we'd have been very unlikely to appear sisters at all.

My weekend calendar filled quickly with food-oriented social plans: Cafe Campagne, birthday barbecue, dim sum, and Brouwer's. Sarah also hopes I stop by the Fremont parade where she'll be standing enthusiastically at a Cease Fire table. I hope the weather hold so I can wear new summer clothes instead of the same four sweaters I've been wearing since October.

Meat

I get excited just seeing Mark Bittman's name on the Times' front page -- it means some new and exciting commentary of food and how to eat it. Today, eating less meat.

I love that he discusses how less can be good rather than why it is. The recommendations are practical and interesting. I think I will precook those beans that have been in the pantry since Januaryish.

But reading, I must wonder who's eating so much meat. I've certainly never made an effort to eat less meat (aside from that vegan month freshman year), and I definitely don't feel deprived eating meat at dinner only. I could go days without meat and not notice. But meat for breakfast and lunch and dinner, too? Do people really eat breakfast meat on a daily basis? OK, maybe people in Texas, but do people I know do this? Are there people in my office eating meat three times per day? I never even considered this a possibility. I do love a good piece of meatiness, am no more grossed out by it than by dairy or eggs. So what is so different in my life, my upbringing or values or health or cravings, that my habit would be the aim of others' efforts?

Likely, I am just a carb and fruit addict. It's killing me not having gone to Costco for bushels of apples and spinach last weekend. I eagerly await the weekend, not for sleeping in or early summer barbecue, but in the hopes that asparagus will be on sale.

Though they were within walking distance of work, I first heard of Fran's salted caramels on NPR - where else? I wasn't sure if they sounded gimmicky or legitimately gourmet, but who really cares if they're delicious? I eventually bought a small package as a present for who-remembers-anymore, and ate them half-at-a-time over the course of a week or so. Supreme deliciousness confirmed.

And now, I think, vague gimmickiness has given way to full Seattle food trend. New ice cream shop Molly Moon's in Wallingford: salted caramel ice cream. New Belltown seafood restaurant Banzino: salted caramel semifreddo (which apparently means semi-frozen, as in half-frozen custard or ice-cream cake).

It could be wonderful to experience this combination as a river of sugary decadence running through the city -- salted caramel barbecue sauce, salted caramel frappuccino -- but my inkling is this flavor is best in moderation. Though the basic pairing of sugar and salt is no shock (hello Chex mix and honey-roasted nuts), this particular execution is almost overwhelming-- hence the rare experience of those four candies lasting a full week.

Weekend.

Lost on Friday with Nate and Melissa. The show has recaptured some of its early quality, with the cabin, the black smoke, and a tightening-up of plot lines. Things are muddled with time changes and mysterious characters, and there are still too many plotlines to cover everything in any one episode, but at least I can recall week-to-week what's going on.

Saturday -- Gym, Costco, long walk with Buster to campus (was as big a fan of the Quad as any sun-bathing sophomore), dinner, The Wire. The first season was striking, but in hindsight a good reiteration of familiar social dynamics. The second is more complex, more original, more gritty. It's really exciting and unsettling to see blue collar culture and organized crime contrasted with inner-city drug trade. A group of primarily white cops chasing primarily black dealers does not make one think in the same was as this mix of Greeks, eastern europeans, and african americans. And one irish american played by a brit, or maybe Australian. I forget.

Today, crepes and thick-creamed coffee at the Rusty Pelican. Along with breakfast cocktails (mimosas), they're pushing the concept of breakfast appetizers -- who needs a cinnamon roll while they wait for french toast?

Then, what I secretly want to do 90% of the time (when not baking cookies): Nordstrom Rack. I was in an unparalleled mood for trying on out-of-season designer clothing, and felt incomparably lucky to wander in just after 10 am and see that the store was unusually neat an tidy. This is what retail looks like before the shoppers arrive. I dove in and started disheveling things.

I small rack of Missoni scarves drew me over at least twice, but though I'm sure it would have been a decent investment, I couldn't part with $50+ for a square of silk. Shoes were iffy -- many so-so summer styles, but instead I left with my first pair of Chuck Taylor's. (A girl at work recently bought her first pair, too, and Friday we shared ambivalence at a style so over-done in high school, and yet so inevitable.)

And then, after standing in the slow slow lines once, I saw one lonely pair of very attractive Marc Jacobs' sunglasses on a sad rack of very unattractive styles (who's really shocked that that weird plastic unibrow style didn't sell well?). Tried on and looked very exciting, and was in line as soon as I saw the price was half normal Rack discount. Unfortunately got the same register girl the second time around -- she didn't seem so surprised to see me again, though.

Much traipsing around downtown, and found a good denim skirt at Urban. Not cheap. But it felt very right when I tried it on.

Yesterday, over a fancy cheese plate, Melissa asked me to be a bridesmaid! According to the fun little bridesmade guidebook she presented me with, this involves many responsibilities. Primary among them: keeping things fun and fabulous. The book actually talks about being fabulous, specifically. I will try my best. Brian will be a groomsman for Nate; I'm not sure if fabulous is an explicit part of the deal or not.

If they go with their current pick for venue -- The Edgewater -- I think fabulousness is inevitable. It looks gorgeous and (according to Brian, via Nate) has an outrageous minimum charge: easily more than my salary, pre-taxes.

I'm very excited to get to help with colors and dresses and flowers and whatever Melissa wants second opinions on. With her and Nate's good taste (and her parent's apparent resources), it sounds like it will be an amazing time.

Weekend: theater, flowers, chocolate, beer

Friday: Cabaret with Jill. I wasn't quite in the bawdy/reflective mood for near-nudity and dancing turned holocaust memorial, but the play and the performance were solid, and it made me miss Berlin thoroughly temporarily. Though written to capture a very specific moment in the city's history, I think this paradox of playful debauchery juxtaposed with a pensive kind of horror still permeates the city, and probably has the region since it was Prussian.

Saturday: Went into the Home Depot, post-Costco, to find little flowers for our patch of dirt outside the apartment. We left with a trunkfull of potted flowers, seeds, small tools, and soil. My history with plants does not make me confident (the basil in my office is stalled at some flimsy almost-dead state), but the potted things look very nice in the ground right now. Let's hope these plants will be more fortunate left to nature than my houseplants.

Also a very lovely day for a summer dress and two long dog walks to Gasworks and then through campus.

Today: wandered through the Fremont Sunday market and found a very beautiful semi-frilly dresser for $140. Have to pick up tomorrow, and hopefully will be able to get it into and out of the Zipcar. But, I'm very excited, and happy to have found an Ikea-alternative.

$5 tour of Theo Chocolates, with Nate and Melissa, Trevor and Whitney. Interesting information, interesting flavors -- my favorites were a coconut curry dark chocolate and a "bread and chocolate" bar with teensy crumbles of salty, buttery baguette. Oooh, tasty.

$24 for a ribbon-tied stack of the mini factory's eight interesting 3400 Phinney flavored bars. Also, wore hairnets.

Then, Brouwer's for exotic beer and classy comfort food. Had a traditional Belgian (?) stew and a framboise. Looks like beer, tastes like jam.

Matt joined us (and I was a bit jealous of his croque monsieur), and said something about Radiohead coming to Whiteriver this summer. Not sure if I want to sit on the lawn for cheaper tickets, or pay more for a seat a bit closer. Or if I really need to see them again, at my present exaggeratedly-elderly 24 -- nothing will ever beat the greatest condert and the Gorge ever, and I don't know if I can thoroughly appreciate the band except in my own private nostalgic moments. But maybe.

I joined Jill and a few of her friends for dinner at Purple. She was turning 22. At some point between discoveries that one friend was "one of our undergrads" at work, and that most of the table was closer to my sister's age, I felt old to be approaching 25.

(This was nullified today when a woman sat down in my office and said, "You look like a young adviser." How do I reply? "You look like a young mom for a college freshman." No, no. I'll assume it's a compliment of some sort.)

My approval is not hard to win, but Purple impressively managed to be packed and upscale while still being cozy, not too noisy, and reasonably priced ($20 risotto; $11 pizzas, $3-5 cheese selection). Interesting ingredients spicing up common food (braised wild boar on orecchiette, lobster and gruyere mac and cheese). Service had it's lulls, but the guy was really friendly, and he knew his cheese.

I skipped the afterparty. Being old, you know.

Vancouver is excellent. I was quite tired of work by the end of last week, and I think the fancy times up here with Brian this weekend, plus the work-related medium-fancy times of the conference the next couple days will be a perfect little break.

Lots of walking around and eating out with Brian. A very disjointed drive up Saturday (stops for UPS, coffee, gas, bagels, lunch with Caitie, waiting at the boarder), then we explored a little, then had excellent tasty dinner + drinks at some bistro between on the cusp of the sketchy neighborhood.

Sunday: breakfast of perfectly almost-over-toasted French toast, then a shoe-buying expedition, then the newly-remodeled aquarium and a drive through the park.

It was chilly, but stayed dry until we found the craft commune of Granville Island -- drizzly is not good for tourism. We forced ourselves to walk through the little village of arts and nicknacks until early dinner. Excellent bread and Canadian peach cider, good crab cake to start, but some kind of weird bits in one of my scallops that I may never get over. If this city has ruined scallops for me, I firmly take back my "Vancouver is excellent."

Today, Pookie left at 8ish, so I got ready for a big day of no plans. Realized I left accidentally sent my umbrella home in the car, so went out and bought a new (and better) one at some drug store. Certainly, in Canada I've heard more sales rep and cashier people with clear recently-immigrated accents than I've ever heard ever in the states.

Tried shopping, but nothing peaked my interest until ... Zara. What a mecca! Everything beautiful! How have I spent years shopping and never seen this place? Everything gorgeous but reasonably priced, trendy but not cheapo, good quality, decent fit. Had to visit the fitting room twice to try everything on. And, wonderfully, went out today thinking of a trench coat, and came back with a perfect one. Love a belted waist and a big collar. Somehow, though, managed moderation and only bought three things: that coat, dark work pants, and a little black casual dress. Has bows at the waist. Possibly I'll be drawn back in for some shoes before I leave -- there were some amazing ones, if only they have my size ...

The Vancouver Art Gallery coat check lady was one of the rudest service people I've ever encountered, and we barely spoke. I can only guess she was jealous of my fabulous hair. The building is lovely -- very nice to see how a piece of classical architecture fits seamlessly in a very modern-architecture city. Some video installation, some tree stuff, much pictorialism that I looked through diligently without being moved. Was worth $15 because I had nothing better to do and it could be considered a donation toward Art.

Finally it was time for some work-related mingling. Flatironed my hair, then went cashless to the foyer on the third floor, where I clinged to the first group of approachable ladies I saw, until I heard the bar was accepting debit cards. Got me a G+T, then clumped with UW advisers till someone suggested we head to the hotel bar. Had another couple rounds and talked about college-related stuff there till someone suggested we go to bed. Now here I am. Typing way past my bedtime.

Oscars and weather

Somehow, the Oscars were enjoyable to watch even though I didn't particularly care about any of the awards except that Marion Cotillard won best actress. Her teary, gibbrishy acceptance "speech" was, aside from Delice de Bourgogne, the highlight of the evening.

Daniel Day-Lewis' win also made me happy, though not as happy as if he had been as striking in reality as his character was in There Will Be Blood. I was equally disappointed to see Johnny Depp looking completely goofy -- his lack of excellent movies this year plus his Where's Waldo glasses and hair make me wonder what was so exciting about him a year or so ago.

Also, I think the high stance on Javier Bardem's jacket makes his already-large head look enormous. Not that the most attractive man at the event can't pull off a giant head.

Was at first very turned off by Tilda Swinton wearing apparently no make-up. Then I decided this plus simple hair and a garbage-sack dress were possibly a feminist statement against female objectification, and found it all quite appealing.

Am very happy to not need multiple layers, gloves, umbrella everywhere I go. Today I wore just a thin hoody over gym clothed to meet the 6:30 bus, and was not chilly at all! With pink blossoms outside my window, spring has appeared very suddenly after what seems like a long delay. May dig up floral print cardigan soon.

Weekend: Part 2 -

Saturday evening, Brouwer's was crowded, so we met Nate + Melissa on the sidewalk and decided on Ballroom, across the street. We should have ran when clearly the music was loud for conversation, the plastic cups they brought with a pitcher were shipped and wet, and the menu offered only Costco frozen fried food.

Alas, we stayed. We stayed through the first pitcher, we stayed when the tube tops and sequins paraded through, and we stayed when the music became even louder remixes that made bad songs worse. Our waitress was impossible to find, and our second pitcher was impossible to finish. We left.

Sunday, I woke up late, organized my makeup drawer, and moved a laundry basket around the living room without actually folding the clothes. We went to breakfast at the Rusty Pelican around 2 -- strawberry and yogurt crepes, sans whipped creme and "tropical" sauce, were delicious, though the waiter was overly goofy and a grown woman made a face at Brian over the top of the booth.

Last time we went, we sat in the same booth, Brian talked about jobs, and I was a little distressed about his search. It's been about a month, and suddenly he's starting at Microsoft in less than a week. Excitement! Fanciness!! Crepes!

U Village, home, then more tastiness at McCormick and Schmick's. I really wish it was either not a big chain or at least had a more palatable name -- I've loved it both times we've been, but something just doesn't feel perfect to me. Fortunately the food (except our unfortunate mass of lumpy calamari last time) pretty much is.

Then, da da da dum! Lost!!! We've waited so long! So much stress! Could it reclaim it's creepy sci-fi pseudo-philosophical place in our hearts after so much time, and with only seven episodes for a season? It was pretty excellent, the hour-long reminder episode was helpful, and I almost threw the popcorn bowl at Buster in more than one scary moment.

For lazy bakers, no knead

Apparently I missed the revolution a year ago, when the NY Times published a NY bakery's top-secret recipe for no-knead bread. Raised as a bread lover on mom's home-made loaves, I've been dissapointed by my own few efforts: the heavy, soggy pain of an amature. So while the manual labor of kneading appeals to me, the idea of not kneading was even better -- one less variable for me to screw up.

You can find variations of Jim Lahey's original recipe all over: YouTube, blogs, and the May issue of Vogue (where I first found the bread in the ironically-exceptional food column of the fashion magazine -- I doubt carbs have much place in the preceeding pages).

As I type, my bread rests in its second-to-last state (before consumption, pray it turns out edible): swaddled in a bran-dusted dishtowel atop the stove, napping for two hours before entering a 500-degree oven in a shiny red le Cruset-esque enamel-clad iron casserole. Expect a full report if everything goes well. Expect a second attempt if not.

Darrington today. Left around 11:30, arrived around 1:30, with a slight delay for Starbucks.


The weather was nice and the visit was short. Caitie arrived just after Brian, Buster, and me.
Said hello to everyone, spent a little time inside talking to mom, looking at a box of cookbooks she was sending home with me, and the quilt she finished for us -- pinks and purples and blacks and creams, with lots of hearts and words quilted in. Across the bottom, she wrote, "Small quilts help keep you close."

My mom and stepdad have 10 acres, a log house built by a logger who was a pretty big name in the early days of the town. Flower and herb and vegetable gardens, a river a few minutes through the woods, wild bunnies and birds and porcipines, occasional bear. The driveway overlooks Whitehorse mountain.



Buster's rarely off-leash -- I like to hope apartment puppies don't know what they're missing. He didn't go outside until I led him to the back, to introduce him to the chickens. We found them retreating behind a tree, but Buster drove them out in a flurry of flapping wings and squalking -- I've never seen him run so fast. Like the crafty hyena on Planet Earth, he seperated one from the pack chased it across the lawn, where it brilliantly cornered itself behind a potted plant an a shovel. They had a bit of a stand off, until Buster was distracted and the chicken ran home.



Dinner, acorn squash from mom's garden, pie from Caitie's restaurant, then the drive back. With one more stop at Starbucks.

Went to Phinney's Oliver Twist tonight with Sarah, Erin, and Sarah's friend Sarah.

Everything was fabulous -- creative mixed drinks, nice ambiance, a nice cowded mumble loud enough to feel social but not overwhelming, flatteringly dim lights, a Seattle-typical waitress who's minimal enthuisiasm was more conversation piece than annoyance, flavor combinations very Top Chef, predictable prices -- except the menu's awkward liminal state: not quite bar food, nor appetizers, nor dinner. Absolutely tasty. I wasn't hungry when I left. Was I satisfied? I'm not sure. How do four excellent dates stuffed with cheese and bacon in tomatey sauce really compage to a hefty burrito or bowl of green curry?

In conclusion: Americans don't do tapas. We want a steak and four pounds of mashed potatoes, so we can leave half our meal on the table. Wasteful indeed, but at least we leave stuffed instead of confused.

Brian and I went to the South Lake Grill today, for fabulously-half-priced Sunday victuals. He was disappointed by the jalapeno "mac" (actually penne) & cheese -- I think he regretted foregoing the roast beef dip, which he said, "holds a special place in my heart."

Though oversauced in vat of something between tarter sauce and aioli (I forget what the menu called it), the crab cakes were decent, good if I really thought about the flavors, with excellent mashed potatoes and giant hunks of just-tender broccoli and carrot. This is pretty typical of the food overall -- everything on the menu is just what you expect, nothing really thrills. Thoroughly satisfying (though again overdressed) have been the salads, Ahi and chicken with field greens, the blackened fish wrap (maybe talapia?), and Brian's beloved dip.

The staff is always nice, the place is clean and well-decorated. Some sport is always on TV, but it doesn't feel like a bar -- the level of fancy is somewhere between Red Robin and Palomino: Jeans and a teeshirt are just fine, but I wouldn't be overdressed in a skirt.

But would still we stop by if it wasn't half-priced all day Sunday? Brian says, "Definitely not as much." And, the looking at the real (reasonable) prices on the menu and having got used to half-off, I'd feel like we were paying too much any other day of the week.

French weekend, parts 1 and 2

Part 1: the mussels

We bought the mussels at Costco. The blue mesh bag didn't look so big nestled in our cart with giant jars of artichoke hearts, a flat of coke, and half a garden of spinach. Not until it was time to cook did I realize my regular big pot wasn't big enough -- I needed the extra large pot from the top of the pantry, normally reserved for ... well, I can't remember actually using it before.

The other issue: I knew from my Provence class that Mussels are alive until they're cooked, that's why they're fresh, that's how they open up when cooked, and why you have to rinse them well and rip off their "beards." But I didn't actually participate in the debearding in class, and didn't grasp that alive meant actually living -- closing and opening in the fridge, and closing again when I took them out, making little squeaking and gasping noises. I dropped the bag in the sink, drew away in fear, approached it hesitantly, heard noises, ran away again, called Brian for help, Brian took pictures or my terrified attempts to tackle the little monsters, and eventually he took over while I went for the bottle of wine for cooking.

Eventually, many, many debearded mussels later, after sauteing and simmering, et cetera, Brian and I had 5 pounds of mussles between us, plus most of the Costco-size bottle of chardonnay left over. I definitely will invite friends next time.

Part 2: la Vie en Rose

Edith Piaf came to me via iTunes -- a cursory discovery, but the drama and emotion of her music was riveting despite my nonexistent knowledge of French.

I remembered a sophomore-year class on east German culture post- 1989, in which we discussed the attraction of music in languages we didn't understand. Beyond basic orientalism, we wore foreign lyrics like chameleon skin, interpreted them like all-purpose code for our own ideas. Edith Piaf, to me, was an articulate cacophony of feminism and revolution, history and culture, ruined romance. The trials of my own little affairs and college stresses magnified, via headphones on bus rides through the rain, to some operatic life where I got to wear fancier dresses and red lipstick.

The film was very different from my vicarious interest in Piaf. Her life spilled over two and a half hours, tragedy after tragedy, a hyperbole of hardship. It's an unbelievable story, and the film shows many events very quickly, sans chronology.

Although Marion Cotillard carries the film with a great performance, I don't feel particularly close to the Piaf. She comes across as both excessively emotional (good for her music) and selfishly heartless (bad for her friends). And despite her unparalleled success, she's also completely self-destructive. It's not the fame that's unbelievable -- we see an excess of celebrity every day -- but her fame, in the context of a personality and a life that should have made even minor success impossible.

Fortunately, I did not make the connection to our contemporary addict-celebrities until after the film. The thought of Lindsey Lohan stumbling toward rehab is not nearly as romantic as Piaf collapsing mid-gala.

Beyond Ratatouille

Tuesday night I dined in Provence via U-Village, at the first of two French cooking classes I'm taking through the Experimental College. I and 12ish other 20-somethings (give or take a couple years) chopped and sauteed alongside a center-of-attention instructor, pouring tiny glasses of wine from giant bottles, scribbling notes and dribbling sauces over our photocopied recipes.

The menu:

Salad a la Maroc
(Moroccan Salad with lentils, cous cous, herbs, vegetables)
Gratin aux Courgettes
(baked zucchini and tomato with onions and parmesan)
Mouclade aux Moules
(Mussles with curried cream and fennel)
Sorbet a la Framboise
(Raspberry Sorbet)


I think more than anything French cuisine seemed daunting in its subtlety. Not like spicey Mexican or garlicy Italian, where flavor excess is intentional. Butter and cream should be easy, but a pinch to much or too little pepper and the whole flavor's askew. I imagine this is expecially true with the seafood-oriented Provence, where heavy cream sauces are not entirely ubiquiteous.

Another surprising element, and an intentional motif for the class, was the diversity of foreign influences: Moroccan salad, Italian-esque gratin, muscles with Indian curry. Next week, with a bouillabaisse and souffle, may be more French standard.

This weekend, I plan to try the mussels for Brian, so I can take any questions to class next week. With La Vie en Rose at the Guild 45th, it could be a very French weekend.