More "and such" this time around

I can't claim I fell in love at first sight, because such a sentiment might be bullshit, but the first time I set my eyes on Noah Oberg, I definitely felt something I'd never felt before.  I know, total cliche.  Shut up.  All I know is, as he was walking away from my desk  after learning I was going to be the processor on his new project (I promise this will get interesting), we locked eyes, and I was hooked.

Unfortunately, I never caught a glimpse of his left hand.  One of the triggers of my quarter life crisis (John Mayer nailed it shut with that lyric) was knowing I'd have to check if a cute guy was married before I pathetically threw myself at him, and yet I forgot.  So instead of just being all cool and casual, hoping he'd stop over and I could subtly check out the wife situation...I work stalked him.  Not only that, I made my cubicle mate Melanie do the same.  I mean, why bother asking around if he was single when I could parade by him in a skirt on one of a dozen trips to the bathroom in a day?  Cher Horowitz and her pen dropping style of flirting got nothing on me!

Eventually I worked up the nerve to kind of ask Noah out (over work email, sadly), and a night at Williams in Uptown on my birthday lead to not only our first kiss, but (finally getting to the food part here) our first date at the now closed Tiburon.  I've been sad about the demise of a few restaurants in my day, but I'll always be a little upset that I can't ever go back to the place of the best first date ever.

It's not so much that we miss the food.  We both got lamb chops and sweet potatoes, and they were certainly delightful, but obviously anyone who has been reading this blog (mad props to all four of you) knows Noah can pretty much do anything, especially make a lamb chop.  It's more the memory of the place.  It was remembering me having a smoke at the bar(!) (best habit I ever kicked) and Noah pointing out that the neon lights changed color, which became our first inside joke.  It was going there for our first anniversary.  It was watching the sharks in the fish tank, wondering if this was It (capitalization intentional).

It was It.  I love you, darling, and I always have.

Seafood - a love story

Like most Minnesotan kids with access to a lake cabin (so - most Minnesotan kids), my first exposure to fresh fish was the sunnies my dad would catch off the dock.  In the 1980s, when I was a wee bespectacled lass who spent many a weekend at (in) the lake with my brother and cousins, scenic Pipe Lake in Wisconsin was rife with the little buggers!  Dad would catch a bunch, gut them, and take them home to Mom who lovingly dredged them in seasoned flour and pan fried the shit out of them.  Lip smacking good!  She'd serve the tasty filets up with homemade American fries, which I cannot stand to this day.  The only thing about them that reflects America is that we like to eat greasy crap.  But I digress.

When I was older and living on my own, my mom taught me the easiest "grown up" dish ever - broiled salmon with butter and dill.  It's so simple that even I've never screwed it up, and I'm the girl who once smoked out her apartment when an unattended nacho platter decided to burst into flames.  The only improvements I've made on it over the years are grilling it (duuuuuuuh) and more recently, adding some fresh lemon.  It's so good that the only time I've ever ordered it in a restaurant was at Three Fish, because I just can't replicate the portobello salsa on top.  Blast!

Something ridiculous I also won't get at a restaurant is shrimp cocktail.  For years at family gatherings, Mom has provided, amongst other things (EVERYthing), a big bag of shrimp from Cub and generic cocktail sauce, which I deem inedible until I doctor it up with a searing dollop of fresh horseradish.  I'm not generally a fan of spicy food (ha ha oh you wimpy Minnesotans and your ketchup LOLZ CRAM IT), but cocktail sauce needs a good zing.  My father claimed I made it so hot one time it singed his nostril hair, and that man can take the heat.  He eats jalapenos for fun.  He once had some chili that was so hot he went on a spiritual journey with a coyote that sounded like Johnny Cash.  Or was that Homer Simpson?

One fun thing we have been doing when eating out is ordering food we never thought we'd want to try.  We went to Meritage recently with my brother and sister-in-law and demolished a plate of oysters.  I'd never wanted to sample them before because I didn't understand the point of ordering something you just swallow.  How do you taste it, unless you have taste buds in the back of your throat and are a freak of nature?  Once Cara informed us that it was now acceptable to chew them?  Gamechanger.  They were briny and delicious and I just now realized I sat down to a platter of supposed aphrodisiacs with my little brother and I feel like that's wrong somehow.

Apparently my bivalve craving has stuck with me, as recently Noah treated me to a night at our favorite Northeast restaurant, Erte, so that I could have the bouillabaisse.  Normally when we go there after work, it's because I had a bad day and am craving comfort food, by which I mean a nice French martini.  Lately, more due to the rainy weather leaving us unable to grill, we've been having dinner there as well.  The bouillabaisse is a cavernous bowl of mussels, clams, giant shrimp (oxymoron alert!), and fish.  I didn't think I liked clams, but it turns out the clams in the chowder at Red Lobster are not so much a high of quality as the little beauties still in their shells, soaking up a delectable saffron and tomato broth.  Word to the wise, this is not a dish if you're a messy eater who still has their dignity intact.  Being that mine is long gone, I counted no fewer than four broth stains on my person after that meal and wore them like badges of honor all the way home.

My first guest post

I love grilling. The smell of the charcoal, the searing meat, caramelizing barbecue sauce…you really can’t beat it.  Some people think it’s just a social activity, and talk, talk, talk, without paying attention while their food turns into a platter of hockey pucks.  Not cool.

I still remember the first time in my cognizant years when my dad grilled a steak.  The smell was something I’d never experienced (Dad was a preacher and we were very poor), but I knew immediately I wanted to taste that!  Of course he used charcoal, because as a (literally) former rocket scientist, this guy is a smart dude.  When Kay and I bought our first house, we bought a $400 gas grill and I think we have used it twice in the past 24 months.  We use our Weber religiously.

I love grilling (did I mention that?). It takes me back to some of my favorite points of my life.  1) Dad grilling said steak 2) Outside our college house grilling burgers, brats and dogs 3) Outside Kay’s apartment in St. Louis Park having a couple of cold beers and making kabobs, 4) Weekend outings on Satellite Lane grilling up all sorts of good stuff (prime rib, brisket, etc.) with the good neighbors from 231 and 233.  Miss those guys.

Ranking my favorite things to grill, at the behest of my beautiful bride, I bring you the following:

10. Bbq quarter chicken – this has been my go-to grilling option for over a decade.  People who think chicken is a dried out disaster have never had the pleasure of a juicy slow-roasted thigh and leg, coated in caramelized Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce. Mmmmm!

9. Prime rib – covered in a blanket of salt and herbs, so easy and so magnificent.  Would rank higher on this list if it weren’t nearly as easy to perfect in the oven.

8. Beer can chicken – another easy achievement on the grill, but so worth it. Cover the bird in herbs and stuff a head of garlic in its neck and a can of pilsner up its tailpipe, and you have an amazingly delectable dinner!

7. Herbs de provence burgers – thank you, Steven Raichlen, for this one.  Make a burger with a chunk of butter and a generous amount of herbs de provence smuggled in the interior, and you won’t believe you’re not in a fancy-schmancy restaurant.

6. Wings – thank you Peter/Kristen Hall for this one.  I cut my culinary teeth at a Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant (after a quick summer at Duane’s House of Pizza in Moorhead), but as soon as I discovered how much was added to wings by grilling them, I was in love.  Has now become one of my favorite parts of summer.

5. Fajitas – Kay came up with an amazing recipe, and I was lucky enough to be there to make it a reality.  Take a package of McCormick’s taco seasoning, put half of it on a nice sliced New York strip and the other on a sliced up green pepper, and the rest is easy and delicious. 

4. Tuna tataki – went to Lunds looking for Ponzu and they were out.  Talked to the kitchen manager and he basically gave me the house recipe.  I could tell you, but, it’s too easy and awesome so don’t want to.  Hopefully I can make it for you sometime.  If you’re lucky.

3. Jucy Lucys – Matt’s are better, I don’t dare to try to improve on perfection.  But I guarantee mine are better than those at the 5-8 Club, which are crap.  I make them with 80-20 beef, and Carr Valley cheddar in the middle, and it melts perfectly every time.  They make Phyllis smile, which is enough for me.

2. Lemon chicken – feels like summer from March until November, when you marinate chicken thighs in lemon juice and cram nearly half a lemon under the skin of each one…the smoke of the grill melds wonderfully with the lemon, and you wish you had two more hands so you could eat more quickly.  It’s still only April, right?

1. Ribeye – the best thing anyone could hope for in life.  I once hoped I’d play football for the Gophers.  Then I figured out how to grill a ribeye, with smoking chips of hickory, mesquite and cherry wood, and realized I’d found my true calling.  Throw on some grilled potatoes and I am a happy man.  Should you ever choose to come visit, I would be happy to make you my favorite grilled dish.

Cheers!

Noah

"I'd eat that aioli with a spoon if it was socially acceptable!"

Last Friday, Noah and I checked out of work early and made the trek up to West Fargo. We hadn't been up there since the fantasy football draft over Labor Day weekend, so to say we were anxious to get up there would be a staggering understatement. Thankfully, we've seen John and Kasey quite frequently since then, thanks to Julie's awesome wedding, the last Vikings game in the Dome, and of course our fabulous week in Cozumel. Now that I think about it, I'm amazed we're not all sick of each other. Perhaps I'm speaking for myself here. Maybe they're all sick of ME and my sarcasm and stupid half-assed jokes! Aw crap, there goes my paranoia again. Time for another shock treatment.

There are certain things that happen when we're in Fargo for a weekend. The first thing that inevitably happens is Noah's voice changes to sound exactly like his brother's. I kid you not, it is the weirdest thing ever known to man, and that includes the popularity of David Hasselhoff in Germany. The first time Jaybird experienced the phenomenon, he said "One of you two assholes needs to shut the (fudge) (but he didn't say fudge) up, I CAN'T TELL WHO'S TALKING!" Hilarious. The second thing is, we go hang out in the garage and the gang from the hood and the Murphy clan and their ilk show up, and it's super awesome. We have drinks, listen to music and have a million different loud conversations. I'd be amazed the cops haven't been called on them but John runs West Fargo and is best friends with one (hi Rhonda). Inevitably, somebody finally realizes, hey, it's like 10 and while Doritos are snacktastic and packed with real cheese flavor, most nutritionists would probably not consider them a "meal" per se. (Although I bet they've been used as an ingredient for dessert on Chopped. God I hate that show. Ted Allen talks like he's storing a large stick in a very uncomfortable place, like the back of a Volkswagen.) That's when Pizza Patrol comes to the rescue.

Pizza Patrol has good pizza. It gets the job done, ya know? It's not Pizza Luce caliber, but then again what is? However, not even Pizza Luce can top Pizza Patrol's cheesebread. It is a feat of engineering (okay it's not, I just dig that phrase). It is a riddle wrapped in an enigma stuffed with an entire log of mozzarella. A good slice of sausage and one of those and you will be good to go for round two, my friend! And you never want to miss round two in Johnny Twopickups' (long story behind that nickname) (not really - John has two pickup trucks and hence is a certified badass) garage. If you do, you risk not being there when a friend of a friend decides, at midnight, that it's an appropriate time to start playing his bagpipes in the driveway. My mother-in-law is still kicking herself for not bearing witness to that, as she should be.

Unfortunately, Sunday happened, as it tends to do on occasion, and it was time to head home. However, a trip to Fargo just isn't complete without having at least one meal at Spitfire. If you've been to Fargo recently and haven't eaten at Spitfire, please do me a favor and slap yourself as hard as you can across the face. Congratulations, you jackass, you have just deprived yourself of the best slow-cooked meat on the planet. Everything is cooked on a rotisserie over a...spitfire...and it is amazing. I got the walleye yesterday because it's Lent and I'm a non-practicing Catholic who got married in a Lutheran church. Or maybe fish just sounded good. And it was, thank you and you're welcome. Normally, I'm all about the prime rib sandwich. I always get it without cheese and I don't eat the bread, because the real appeal is the perfectly seasoned beef inside. And the skinless mashed potatoes? Changed my life. The first taste I had of the cheesy, bacony, creamy delight brought me to my knees in tears of joy (I'm assuming the rest of the patrons thought I was just drunk) (they were wrong) (that time). I can't wait to go back!

Talkin' baseball

Two things: one, happy baseball opener my fellow Twins fans! Two, somewhat related...the Metrodome, she is no more. And I for one could not be happier! I mean, don't get me wrong, I have a lot of memories there. Remember the Blaine vs. Eden Prarie Prep Bowl in 1996? Since I was in flagline (yeah I was and still am a nerd, cram it) I got to march during halftime! I learned very quickly that marching on squishy Astroturf is incredibly awkward. Later on I learned the hard way what a two point conversion was! Eden Prairie won, all thanks to Johnny Moxon. Or was that Varsity Blues?

I could wax nostalgic about all the Twins, Gophers, and Vikings games I attended over the years in that big inflatable bounce house. The highs (Blair Walsh kicks a field goal to beat the Packers and move on to the playoffs)! The lows (remember when the Hawkeyes beat the Gophers 55-0? Yeah, we drank a LOT that afternoon)! The middles (a work outing when I was at Piper wherein I tried to keep up drinking with my male colleagues, failed, and wound up drunkenly slapping a co-worker on the ass right in front of our boss) (might be more of a low) (sorry Mom and Dad)! And while I will fondly remember having cocktails and smokes in the Maroon Saloon, I will remember the food with a small amount of disgust.

Maybe it's because Target Field's food is so magnificent, it makes a Dome dog seem like a redheaded stepchild. Let me go on a bit of a sidebar here - Target Field in and of itself is simply magnificent. The first time I brought my mom there I thought she'd died and gone to heaven. And that was before she learned she could eat her way around the park! We went to Hrbek's first for some good old fashioned fried food. (Fun fact - Herbie and I share a birthday! He was celebrating at Tiger Sushi of all places when the fam and I went there for my 30th. Did not picture him to be a sashimi kind of fella.) We got the walleye bites, and honest to blog they were the best I've ever had! I have dreams about them sometimes (not really). They use an aioli instead of a traditional dipping sauce and I would drink it if they gave me a straw (again, not really).

The other massive improvement is the nachos. First of all, you can get them in a helmet! Isn't that so much cooler than a sad little bag of tortilla chips and that radioactive looking cheese sauce? Not to mention, there are actual toppings! I don't expect to get authentic Mexican cuisine with my $8 beer or anything, but jalapenos and chips are not nachos in my opinion. Gimme beans and cheese and beef and an ice cream scoop sized dollop of good old sour cream on top. Then when you're done, you can be a dork like my friend Rick who once washed out the helmet and wore it over his hat on the way out of the game (sorry ladies, he's taken and she can beat you up). Whimsy!

One more win for Target Field - the Vincent Burger. I'd write more about that but I risk drooling into my keyboard so much it shorts out and I don't feel like being electrocuted today.

"Hey Ma! Get off the dang roof!"

A few months ago, Noah and I went over to my parents' house to help them with their new computer. They're getting up there in age (read: REAL friggin' senile) (...and now I'm out of the will), so understandably, electronics are kind of a new thing for them. So the menfolk set off to do manly computer things in Dad's man cave, and Mom and I sat in the kitchen like the good little wifeys we are. Mom, still the mom even though her little girl is almost 35 and her baby boy has a mountain man beard and can bend a nine iron in half with the best of them, insisted on making me lunch. Rather than setting her to work making waffles and Neuske's bacon, I asked for PB&J on an English muffin, and I kid you not, it was the best I've ever had. I don't know what kind of magic that woman learned helping raise her 10 siblings in that tiny kitchen, but it's good stuff.

When we have a big group up at the cabin, Mom always makes sure there's a spread at cocktail time. Cocktail time at the Goin cabin is when we set up the rickety old table, make some drinks, and ruin our dinners. It's amazing I ever belonged to the Clean Plate Club, We're talking the Last Supper, but with more vodka. Cheese, summer sausage, like three kinds of crackers (Triscuits for the win), veggies, dip, and Phyllis Goin's famous hamburger dip. I have personally witnessed my aunt Barb consume an entire Crockette of the cheesy deliciousness in one sitting (I may have dreamt that). It's so simple, just spicy Velveeta and taco meat, but Barb swears Mom's is the best.

If any of you are still friends (pleeeeeeeeease don't unfriend me) with me come the holidays, hit me up for some of Mom's fudge. If you're a big fan of fudge in general and tell me it's NOT the best you've ever had, I will stick a big red and green bow on my hand and give you the gift of a black eye. Because you are not only wrong but insulting my darling mother in saying that. Again, it's a simple recipe (which I will not divulge, mainly because I don't remember it, but there is condensed milk involved which is kind of gross in my opinion). However, unlike the hamburger dip, the fudge is a pain in the ass to make. You literally have to stir it for seven days straight or the granulated sugar absolutely refuses to dissolve. I don't know how she has the upper body strength for it; I tried making it one year and I'm not gonna lie, calling it "subpar" would be complementary.

Let me be cheesy for a moment here about Phyllis. In May 2010, she was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. After months of treatment, she beat the crap out of it, and as of this writing is still cancer free! And do you know what she did in December 2010? You bet your ass she made fudge. Every time I have a piece, I thank God my tiny moms is still around, because I'd be a wreck without her.

Ahem. Anyhow. The one other thing my mom makes over the holidays, her true signature dish, her bon appetit (go with it), is her egg rolls. I kid you not. I don't remember when it started, but the woman picked up a Leeann Chin's cookbook and decided, yes, a white woman from Northfield, MN should make egg rolls for the Benjamin Christmas Eve Extravaganza (too many people to just call it a party). I have to say, other than giving birth to the two most amazing people to ever walk the earth (Nick and me), it was the best idea she's ever had. They are legendary. Fisticuffs have broken out over who got the last one (may have dreamt that as well). And they are a labor of love. She spends an entire week browning pork and sauteeing vegetables and stuffing the delicate wrappers with the five spice scented mixture. I'm fairly certain she does this out of love because I'm not sure I've ever seen her eat one. She considered bailing and just buying some Target brand ones last year, and when my cousin Pete caught wind of that he put his fist through the wall (now that might have actually happened, I can't confirm). So maybe that's why Mom's food always tastes the best. Love.

And yet nobody ordered steak

Last night, Noah and I made the trip out to Little Canada to dine at Porterhouse with our besties Chad and Sarah. The boys are on their way to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the good land") for the annual fantasy baseball draft, and being the gentlemen that they are (chortle), they decided to take us out to a nice meal before abandoning us for a weekend of debauchery. The four of us hadn't hung out in some time, which royally sucks because when we lived next door to each other we were practically attached at the hip. We spent many hours grilling, Wii bowling, or playing pull tabs at our local watering hole. Alas, Northeast was calling them, so they moved to Chad's old house, and we get together as often as we can now, which still isn't enough, but I digress.

But as we all know, absence makes the heart grow fonder. We had a lovely time talkin' baseball and kittens over a few drinks and an absolutely insane amount of food. You see, if you have not been to Porterhouse, here's the deal: it's not like other steakhouses. You don't have to pay $17.95 for a side of asparagus large enough to build a small log cabin with (I don't care if it "serves two," MANNY'S, that's highway robbery for something that makes you have stinky pee). It's all included - and it's cheaper than any place downtown by far! So you get the bread, your choice of Caesar or spinach salad, and then, right when you think another piece of bread sounds like a good idea, your meal comes out. And your side dish should serve two, but it's all yours. Sarah got a baked potato with her scallops, and the thing was the size of a regulation football. She could have kicked it to Cordarrelle Patterson for a 109 yard return, but then she would have got sour cream all over her shoes. (Waooooo!)

Clearly, my readership, we were all stuffed after the meal. I had every intent of bringing my mashed potatoes home for Mom and I to have on Saturday, but the clarified butter I had dunked every ounce of my lobster tails into went straight to my brain (certainly wasn't the cosmopolitans) and I forgot them. The waiter asked if we wanted dessert, and creme brulee did sound tempting, but I feared that one more bite of food would leave me unable to walk, requiring Noah to roll me out of the building, much like they had to do with Violet Beauregarde in the book version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. (I refuse to see either movie version. I have my reasons.) I realized I'd be so much comfortable in my track pants.

Track pants should be appropriate attire to wear to nice restaurants. I am not a crackpot.

Hear me out. Remember that last big meal you had, where you stood up to leave and you were so full you worried that the button was going to shoot off your pants and shatter the wine glass of an innocent patron? The only two ways to wash away those concerns are eschewing pants altogether (not recommended) or track pants! Better yet, wouldn't it be fun to get a big group together and all show up in Zubaz? Maybe it's because I come from Anoka County, where just last month a woman found it acceptable to walk into the Northown Best Buy, drop trou, and take a tinkle, but I think Zubaz are kind of fun in a white trashy way! They're not flattering, and they're practically synonymous with the mullet, but gosh darn it they're comfortable! Just think about it.