peevish mama

I never particularly thought I’d say this, but damn! my boy looks handsome in a mohawk! He reminds me of a British soccer hooligan, and I guess I have a thing for British soccer hooligans. Actually, any hooligans will do. We sprayed it hot pink and off to school he went for crazy hair day looking pretty rad, if you ask me. If my family tuned into this blog on a regular basis, you might hear eeking and gasping all the way from Florida right about now. My sister is getting married on Saturday and no, da hawk will not be in attendance. Saint James will be wearing searsucker and a hot pink bowtie (per his request), because he’s a bit of a dandy this one. Go figure. As unassuming as he is, he sure doesn’t mind being looked at. So we’re off to the airport now, freshly spiked and pinked, ready to freak out the grandmothers, get a little sun, meet our new bebe girl niece, kick it up with our families and hijack the DJ next Saturday night for some fresh dancin’. I’m one happy mama right about now. Catch you all on the flip side!

Once upon a time there lived a girl who had never been to Vegas. She considered herself lucky at life, but unlucky at games of chance and was therefor uninterested in what Vegas had to offer.

And then one day she went.

She knew that going anywhere (even Siberia or Peoria) with her posse of 8 maidens would be a good time, yet she was still surprised. And. Yet. Still.

She danced so much and laughed so hard that now she wants to move to Vegas, except for the fact that she’d be dead of exhaustion within the week.

Everywhere she went, day or night, she was wrapped up in the booming soundtrack of her favorite dance tunes, except for that one lounge by that one door where the Sinatra impersonator wooed them in with “My Way” and sent them off with “Free Bird”. Sinatra and Skynyrd? Is that even possible? Is that even legal?

Part Oz, part Disney World, part heaven, part Hades, the town pulsed like some kind of organism. From time to time, it revealed bits of darkness and melancholy that made the girl turn and pause for but a moment, and then run to catch up with her friends. She marveled that a place could be so tacky and yet so gorgeous. One second she was oggling the sad sacks at the slot machines with fluoresent drinks growing warm in oversized beakers, or the showgirls making eyes at the wolves, wondering where their mothers were and the next her hands were itching to touch the art, plunge into the fountains, caress the Jurassic palm fronds – to see if they were real.

Was any of it real? She was intrigued by the poetic madness, the collective understanding, the endless, feckless revelry. What a slice of life, she kept muttering, not sure anymore if she was even saying it out loud.

But mostly, and most wonderfully, the girl felt that she and her maidens had finally met their match. As long, hard, loud, and wild as they wanted to rollick – as much as they wanted to dance and drink and laugh and carouse, Vegas rose up like a chivalrous and indulgent knight  (or cowboy) to make it happen. In this oasis of over-the-top, nothing they could do was over-the-top. There was no question of turning in early. There were dragons to be slayed. And slayed they were.

Or at least she thinks so.

Did any of that happen? Does Vegas even exist?Only one way to find out.

I don’t really mean that, but I’ll be damned if Kingfield isn’t getting WAY more than its share of restaurant awesomeness lately. Meanwhile, we in Lynhurst limp along, starving, moaning and casting deflated glances at the giant hole in the ground that used to be Blackbird Cafe and Heidi’s before the fire, keeping fingers and toes crossed that the two restaurants slated to go into that space (who knows when?) are going to be good. On Thursday night, feeling springish and famished, we took a hot tip (LOVE a hot tip) from Red Vogue and Salt and Pepper Polymath and headed over to The LowBrow on 42nd and Nicollet. My burger loving brood gave it a resounding thumbs up. It’s cool, arty and retro with a giant paint by numbers mural on one wall and the food really is scratch-made comfort food using locally farmed sustainably grown ingredients. Kids are totally welcomed and entertained by the hustle and bustle, grown ups are quickly transported to a happy place: seventies basement inspired chic with great drinks and food. The burgers and fries were amazing and I kinda can’t get the bison chili at the next table out of my head. So, yes, we’ll be back. Probably many, many times. Damn!

As if that weren’t enough salt in our wounds, Doctor Dash and I ended up at Corner Table on Saturday night after some yummy saki at Moto-I. We opted for the 3 course tasting menu, which is basically Chef Scott Pampuch going all bananas and sending out brilliant off-the-menu riffs of deliciousness. I loved not knowing exactly what was heading our way and being shocked and delighted each time. I actually said to Dash, This guy is just like DJ Jake! He’s psychic!  He knows just what I want to eat next! Looking at our entree of pig insanity (pork belly AND pork sausage! with parsnip puree and some heavenly sweet moutarda of some sort and egads, were there capers?) I stage whispered, How does he know? How does he know? Seriously, it’s a little freaky. How did he know I am such a luvuh of the pig? If he spied us walking through the door, I’m not sure HUNGRY LIKE A WOLF FOR PORK BELLY is exactly stamped on my brow, but shit, it might as well be. I can’t believe it has taken us this long to get over there (it’s because normally we flee these parts for date night). Aside from the lights being way too bright at first (what can I say? It’s a THING, for us), our experience was perfection. Having had a little taste of the Kitchen Table experience, which Pampuch describes as “a gastronomic feast of gluttonous enjoyment”, I’m going to make it my business to go back for that sometime. We were blown away. Blown. Away.

Damn you, Kingfield!!!

Farmers Markets! Woo hoo! I’m all frothy for farmers markets, especially after going to the Spring Preview Party for the Mill City Farmers Market this past Monday with Creeper Bud. It was a delicious night and I must say, really inspiring. What can I say? Passionate people are inspiring. It’s just a fact of life. I wrote about it for Simple Good and Tasty, so check it out. Promise, it’ll make you all frothy too!

Oh, this made me chuckle, but, then again, I have a serious weak spot for Stuey. I might consider having another child if I were guaranteed that he would emerge with a British accent, football shaped head and red overalls. I’m thinking with proper placement during labor, that head might actually be quite easy on the cashoosha.

Incidentally, I found this over here, where I had gone out of green-eyed curiousity because this lady has written a book called Got Milf? The Modern Mom’s Guide to Feeling Fabulous, Looking Great and Rocking a Minivan. Of course the title alone killed me because WHY WHY WHY didn’t I think of that first? GAH!!! I would hate her if she weren’t so absolutely adorable. And funny. Grrr.