As you may or may not know, I was in a bit of fender bender recently.  Actually it was more of a fender total removal.  Because of that I was in a rental for a little over two weeks.  It was a nice, small, efficient Mazda 3.  It served its purpose and helped me around town.  Then, Josh went out of town and was nice enough to lend me his Chrysler 300 as he skipped over the big pond for some tea and crumpets.  The 300 was an imposing vehicle on the road.  It was gigundasaurs, with massive leather seats and a wide frame, I felt even smaller than normal.  Finally, today I went to get my car back. I was psyched. I wanted my little car with the turbo engine.  I liked Josh’s land boat, but was ready to get behind my own wheel again.  Well, fate was not on my side.  As I walked up to the autobody shop, I saw the owner out front with a forelorn look on his face.  He greeted me and then said, “I’ll make a deal with you.”  Now, I was hoping that this deal involved me giving him my credit card and driving away with my vehicle.  Sadly, it didn’t.  Apparently they were waiting for some more bulbs for the car and it was to be delayed a few more hours.  He was pretty disappointed that he couldn’t turn the car over, as he knew I was going to be without another vehicle.  So his deal was that he was going to let me use his car for the day (he insisted that he didn’t need it) and I could swap it out tonight when it will surely be completed.  I thought that was a very generous offer and told his it wasn’t necessary as I could catch the bus, then the T then the commuter rail but he insisted.  I accepted the key from him and he said, it’s over there.  As he nodded over his should to “over there” I realized what I would be cruising in today.  It was an early 2000’s Dodge Minivan.  Yup.  Minivan.  I sighed, said thank you again and went to my chariot, keeping my utter disappointment to myself.  How did I go from a sporty little car to a greater than or equal to 4 year old minivan?  As I left I called E who was walking to work down the street I was driving.  She answered and excitedly asked, “Did you get the car?” No. “What?  What are you driving?” I told her to turn around and look at the passing green minivan.  This is where she burst into laughter and told me to pull over so she could hop in.  Once she stopped laughing she made the valid point that the closer I get to getting our car back, the larger our borrowed vehicles get.  She was right, and to illustrate that point, I made a graphic for you all.

Courtesy of Erin over at Bosblog with my addition at the end 

A few weeks ago I visited my first “community soaking tub” at a spa in Inman Square, Cambridge. [I've only recently recovered enough from this experience to be able to blog about it; though I may still be repressing a few key memories, I will relay the events that took place as best I can.] 

For my birthday, my good friend Hedre got me a 12-pack of passes to the aforementioned community soaking tub. (This was a very cool, very hip gift, the only kind Hedre gives. In fact, Hedre is the coolest, hippest person I know. She’s also the smartest person I know, and if I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.)

 Apparently, these soaking tubs are “the big thing” in San Francisco and “everybody does it.” Like recycling, or buying organic produce. Some of the San Franciscan soaking tubs are even clothing optional, a fun fact that, when relayed to me by Hedre, I blanched and opened my mouth in a silent scream until she reassured me that the Cambridge soaking tubs were not as progressive as California soaking tubs and do, in fact, require clothing. I breathed a sigh of relief.  

Another good friend of mine, Justin, lives in Inman Square, so I asked if he wanted to do brunch before I was to try out this new-fangled soaking tub. I stumbled over myself trying to explain the benefits of sitting in 104-degree water that I didn’t quite understand myself, but it turned out I needn’t have bothered: Justin is a soaker himself. He agrees to go with me. 

We have a tasty, hugely-portioned brunch at East Coast Grill (always a great idea right before putting on a bikini) and then walk over to the spa. I am nervous. The spa is nice enough, the people are friendly. I am less nervous. They take us to the community soaking tub room, point out the changing rooms and shower, and leave us. I take a deep breath and head into the changing room.  

Let me take this moment to point out one very important thing about community soaking tubs: you can’t choose your community. 

I walk out of the changing room, rinse off in the shower, and ascend the stairs to the tub. This is where things take a turn for the worse…  Already in the tub is a (ahem) large, older woman with really long, flowing gray hair. Flowing gray hair that is waving around her IN THE WATER as she floats on her back in the tub. I cringe, inwardly and outwardly (her eyes are closed, she doesn’t notice), but try to stay positive and stick a toe in the tub. The water is crazy hot, which I use as an excuse to get in slowly. Very, very slowly, in the hopes it will take me the entire 30 minutes of our time to get in past my ankles. Justin, the old pro, gets right in.  I (finally) ease myself into the water, sitting straight-backed against the side of the tub, all my muscles tensed in flight-ready status. I give a half-hearted smile to Justin, who, lounging with his arms outstretched, looking totally relaxed, obviously finds my discomfort hilarious. We try to make small talk. I stare at the clock, counting down the minutes. I do not relax.

The next thing I know, the woman in the tub with us floats her arms out from her sides, angelic-like, to reveal about a decade’s-growth of underarm hair. I start hyperventilating and the rest is a blur.  

Addendum from Me

Oh poor Erin.  Poor poor, full from brunch, hot tub loungin’ Erin.    Actually, her account is pretty much dead on, but I will fill in the blank spots. 

In a fruitless effort to help Erin relax I skirt around a number of topics and end up telling her about how the house hunt is going, and how far eRock and I are with our wedding plans.  Frankly, I would have told her just about anything to make make her relax.  I am pretty sure I could see every single muscle tensing up.  So saying that she resembled this would be an understatement. 

Anyway we had an amiable conversation as this other woman frolicked in her area of the hot tub.  After a while, she looks slightly less uncomfortable and I thought the remaining 20 min would be fine.  Well that was until our hot tubby friend needed a few minutes to cool off so she climed out and sprawled on the short deck.  I think I may have passed out briefly here too.  I came too and decided some cold water would be good for us and offered some up to Erin who took it but couldn’t seem to avert her eyes.  No matter how hard she stared at the clock, time just would NOT move faster and her eyes were drawn back to the giant purple bathing suit.   

With about 10 min left, our new friend became vocal, telling us how she was a psychotherapist and how this was great for relaxing.  I don’t know how good of a therapist she was to not see that Erin was basically in rigor mortis and would stay that way until well after she went home and cleansed herself repeatedly, but she was congenial.  We chatted a bit and finally with about 4 min to spare we called it a day.  Sadly, I had to bolt on outta there and catch a bus (which ended up being a cab) otherwise I would have taken Erin directly to the Irish pub for a pint of the cure. 

Poor Erin.   

I am sure that you all know who Franz Ferdinand is.  No, I don’t mean the Austrian indie-ish rock band of the early 2000’s, but rather the man the band was named after.  Franz Ferdinand was the Austrian royalty until he was murdered, which coincidentally is what triggered world war one.  Why am I telling you this?  Well I wanted to share just how wikipedia works for me.  I am listening to Franz Ferdinand (the band, not the man) and I got to thinking that they got their name from the man whose assasination started the First World War.  So I look it up to glean more knowledge about Franz Ferdinand (the man, not the band) only to find an even more intriguing bit of information, his full name: 

Franz Ferdinand Karl Giuermo Anikò Strezpek Belschwitz Mòric Pinche Bálint Szilveszter Gömpi Maurice Bzoch János Frajkor Ludwig van Haverbeke Josef von Habsburg-Lothringen. 

So the next time you want to complain to your parents about the name they chose for you (unless you are ok with the name and really have a problem with how it is ordered) I suggest you think of Mr. Franz Ferdinand Karl Giuermo Anikò Strezpek Belschwitz Mòric Pinche Bálint Szilveszter Gömpi Maurice Bzoch János Frajkor Ludwig van Haverbeke Josef von Habsburg-Lothringen and be thankful that your name doesn’t have accent agout’s, accent grav’s, hypens and even the penultimat umlaut.

Once upon a time (yesterday) in a land far, far away (Somerville) there was an experience that must be shared.  On the corner of Beacon and Washington in S’ville you will find EVOO.  Normally I would enjoy the name EVOO as it is clever and simple.  However, I fear that a certain gravely voiced, uber-cheerful, donut munchin, Dunkin’ whorin’ TV personality may have ruined it for me.  That aside, eRock and I took full advantage of Boston’s Restaurant week by making a 9 pm reservation.  Now, you may be thinking, 9p.m.?  How on earth did you wait that late to eat?  Relax my friends, as all was taken care of.  A few hours prior to our superb meal E and I had to stop at Costco for some prints and dined on a slice of pizza and some little thing called a chicken bake.  It should be noted that we are high class, though clearly not as high class as the octogenarian couple next to us.  They were dappered out in full-length fur coats with bright colorful silk kerchiefs for accent and funny hats.  The best part is that the coats probably weighed more than they did, giving them a big, bulky, furry exterior, not unlike a pair of bears.

ANYWAY, the point of the story is the wonderful dinner.  We arrived on time for our 9pm reservation and were seated immediately.  The place was a-buzz with conversation and there were wonderful smells coming from the corner kitchen.  I am gonna skip all the ambiance and get right to the good stuff.  I opted for the prix-fixe menu, while E went a la carte. 

Starters

Smoked salmon - warm potato salad with hard-boiled egg, sweet pickles and cilantro.  It was scooped in a little pile and wrapped with cucumber and topped with bean sprouts and light vinaigrette. 

Entrée

Erica - “Duck, Duck, Goose” - Duck Confit, Seared Duck Foie Gras, Slices of Goose Breast, Lentils, Haricot Vert, Escarole and Sherry - Ginger Sauce

Justin - beer braised lamb over roasted root veggies (turnips, carrots etc) and potato croquets with pickled green tomatoes and onions and some watercress leaves

 Dessert

We split a Vanilla Crème Brulee with Bay leaf.

All of the above was excellent and you can pick any superlative you like to describe any of the items above (especially the foie gras).  The best part of the night though (beyond the food above, and the company I was in) was a surprise.  As we were dining we heard two people at the table next to us discussing their desserts with their waitress.  The gentleman was smiling at this little dish that she had brought over to him.  As we often do, E and I started eavesdropping.  It seemed like he was thanking her for letting him try it…she was saying no problem, it’s an interesting item. He looked at his date and took a bite of his sample with a slightly confused look on his face.  By now E and I were practically leaning over on to them to see what he was eating.  The waitress came back and asked how he liked it and he muttered something about how it was “interesting” and could see how it could be good.  She said she could totally understand that and that Bacon ice cream is certainly a peculiar taste.  Record screeches to a halt.  Wait what?  I ask Erica if I heard that correctly, “Did she just say bacon ice cream?” Erica, acting on this as I am paralyzed by the concept, leans over to the couple, “I’m sorry….did you just say Bacon ice cream?”  The couple laughed and confirmed what I thought I heard.  I stated, “That sounds…MAGNIFICENT!”.  The guy agreed with me and said that’s exactly what he thought, though he didn’t seem impressed with it.  I laughed and tried to resume conversation with E.  She asked me a question, but I was clearly still on Planet Bacon Ice Cream so she gave me a few more minutes to work through the concept.  As it turns out, the bacon ice cream was intended as a topper to an apple crisp that they had that was apparently no longer available.  As E and I wrapped up our delicious evening, I just couldn’t shake the thought of bacon ice cream, so when our amiable waiter came with the check I inquired as to whether I could have just the smallest of tastes.  He laughed and said that would not be a problem and hurried off to the kitchen.   A few moments later he came back with roughly 2 tablespoons of this malty-white ice cream with little dark colored chunks.  Good lord man, BACON ICE CREAM!  As he left, I picked up my fork (as he had taken my spoon) and took about a teaspoons worth.  I was bursting with expectation.  Here is a step-by-step analysis of what I experienced:

1)       The ice cream was not too cold and was on the soft side with a heavy vanilla on the front of the tongue.

2)       As the ice cream started to dissipate and move to the back of the tongue there was a very appealing and distinct maple hickory flavor.

3)       With all of the ice cream melted, I was left with this tiny, chewy morsel of bacon that was perfectly cooked. It. Was. Magic.

Not something that you would eat on a cone, but definitely a must try should you ever be presented with the wonderful opportunity.

Think Bacon ice cream is gross?  Wrong.  In fact, it’s not all that different that breakfast.  How?  Well ice cream is really just cream and sugar (or coffee) with some egg yolks (scramble or sunny side up?) and bacon is just, well bacon.  Coffee with cream and sugar, 2 scrambled eggs and a side of bacon.  You wouldn’t eat that on a cone either, but it is tasty.

Consider yourself educated.

Recently, Roo and I ventured north of the border. No, I am not talking about Salisbury Ma, but rather the Canadian border. Why? Well, we figured that it was time to go back to America Jr. We made a fateful trip to the great white north a number of years ago on spring break. Actual conversation (not actual conversation):

Man, it’s march. Let’s go somewhere. 
Cancun?
No.
Back home?
No.
Canada?
CANADA!

We got up there and found 16 inches of snow. It was great. So we decided to give Canadia another shot as it has been five years or so and I think they knew we were coming.   We hit the road at the upper crack of dawn and made great time, arriving in Canada by 1130ish. On the way up, Roo told me about this restaurant, St. Hubert.  The reason he wanted to try it? His co-worker apparently told them that you could get chicken nuggets in a Lego-style chicken. Awesome. So, after checking in to the hotel, Roo asked the friendly desk folk where the nearest St. Hubert’s was. There was a pregnant pause where they looked at each other and then started laughing. “You want to go to St. Oobear? (typed with the French accent). Roo says, “Uh, yeah. A friend told me we should check it out.” “Oooh, no no no. Zare are ‘undreds of top restaurants in Mon’real, and you want to go to ST. OOOBEAR?” exclaimed our surprised check-ins. Roo, only slightly thrown off said, “But they have the Lego chicken things!” “Uh, yea, I sink that thoze are on zee keedz menu.” Roo, undaunted (though slightly flushed) said “But it is a LEGO chicken.”. Trying to make us understand, they said, “Eet is like us coming down  to Boston and asking where the nearest Friendly’s was.” Roo, done with this, says “Friendly’s is Good! Whatever. Where is it? Do you want anything?” So we left after being taunted by the desk staff in search of the closest St. Hubert. After about 20 min we finally found it. It was NOT a Friendly’s. It was even higher class than a Friday’s. It was nice, and respectable. Actually, I didn’t care if it was a dump, all I really wanted was poutine. Let me tell you, I was not disappointed. Perfect fries, tasty gravy and massive hunks of cheese curds . Spectacular. After stuffing our gobs with rotisserie chicken and poutine, we decided to walk it off. About 15 min later, we found ourselves in Montreal’s Chinatown, which was a lot of fun. About one block in we both stopped in our tracks, looked at each other and asked “What is that beautiful smell?!” Turns out it was the Chinese pastry shop which Roo was quickly dispatched too. He got us a sweet bun with cheese and almonds. I devoured it. Open mouth, stuff with pastry and repeat until it’s gone.

 We walked around Old Montreal and enjoyed all the sites including a Grill your own Sausage station complete with total stranger ok with you taking his photo, a Canadian tradition and spaceships, I mean old Olympic stadiums. In addition to that we got to brush up on our high school French, which really meant that anyone that spoke to us in French, we looked at and said “uh, Sorry, uh… parlez-vouz Anglais?” We were rock stars. On our way out of the country (after a nice breakfast, freezing our asses at the top of Mount Real and dropping some hard earned cash at the casino) we hit the road. On our way out, we decided that being good
US citizens we would declare our purchases.

Actual conversation (really, actual conversation):

Border Guard: Have you anything to declare?
Me: Yes. One Canada snow globe and a butter knife.
Border Guard: Globe and butter knife?
Me: Yes.
Border Guard: Purpose of visit?
Me: Pleasure. Clearly…. 

Bottom line? Go Canada.