“Fish meat is practically a vegetable.”

In the interest of saving some money and hopefully losing some weight, I am having a big leafy salad for lunch.  Because of this, all I can think of is how much better just about anything else in the world sounds right now.  When I was young and new to working downtown and still had a (bleep)ing metabolism, I'd venture out into the skyway and eat anything I wanted.  Hello Jamba Juice, yes I would like a Peanut Butter Moo'd the size of a pony keg!  Ciao bella, Andrea Pizza, two New York style slices are just what the doctor ordered (man, I need to go back to THAT doctor)!  Good God that sounds good right now.  (Bleep)ing salad.  Now that I no longer have one hour paid lunch and am pretty much chained to my desk all day (let's not forget old and lazy), skyway lunching is no longer the best option for me, which is a pity because there are these new contraptions out there called "food trucks" that are all the rage amongst downtowners.  Thankfully, I have a wonderful husband who brings me lunch on occasion, and in the summertime, that lunch is from the Sushi Fix truck.

Before I go on, I want to know what's so damn scary about sushi.  Every time I'm presented with a mouth watering array of fish, at least one of my fellow cubicle dwellers (hi Scott!) freaks out like this is Fear Factor hosted by Joe Rogan (his last name is not Garrelli) and I've just been served a plate of slugs.  It is an acquired taste, I'll admit that.  We took my wonderful in-laws to Masu in Northeast last year, because a good sushi and robata restaurant is fairly hard to come by in Williams, MN (they're basically in Canada.  If you stood in their backyard and threw your passport you'd hit a Mountie) (which I don't recommend).  We have a picture of Maripat taking her first bite of sushi, and bless her heart she ate it like a champ, but I'm fairly certain that wasn't her favorite part of the meal.  Hence why we took them to a place with robata as well, because after she had the eggplant all was forgiven and I was accepted back into the family.  Which is good, because then I was able to enjoy some amazing short ribs.  Mmm, short ribs.  (Bleep)ing salad.

Don't get me wrong, I love Masu dearly, even if it seems to always be packed and the majority of the clientele is so pretentious you'll feel like you're at one of those damn hippie music festivals (Hullabalooza '96!).  There's just something a little extra special about Sushi Fix.  When the truck is out, they Tweet a picture with their location and the daily special, which is usually something spicy and we've established that's something I generally cannot handle.  (The last roll I got there was spicy and I loved it.  It was also wrapped in soy paper so you better think twice before calling me a pansy, you horse's ass.)  Instead, I stick with what I know, and what I know is that their sashimi is phenomenal and I insist that you sushi fanatics must try it.  On a hot summer day, when the sun is causing me to melt in my blast furnace of a cubicle, it's the best lunch ever.  If you're a nigiri person, I can dig that too, for it is delectable (no hate on this blog.  Food is love).  I've had sushi where they don't use enough vinegar in the rice, resulting in a maximum amount of blandness.  No me gusta.  Grab some chopsticks, dip the fish into the soy sauce, and kampai!  And if you need me, I'll be here eating jellybeans and hoping I remembered to put on deodorant this morning.

"I'd eat that off a flip flop!"

Imagine that, I went on vacation for a few days, came home, and suddenly my damn pants don't fit!  I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I ate like a champion for four days.  Not that I don't eat well in Minnesota - I wouldn't have a food blog or a potbelly if I didn't - but something about being out of my element just made everything taste better.  I tend to get stuck in a food rut on occasion, so  taking a road trip to Kansas City was a great way to experience something new with the same old guy.  I already told you about our amazing experience at Alba in Des Moines, so let's pick up where we left off.

The hotel didn't provide a free continental breakfast (cheap bastards), so we set off on our journey, hoping to find a sweet little dive bar, because dive bars have the best greasy food, and that's what we wanted.  Well folks, our dumb asses should have consulted Google Maps, because after an hour of driving we'd found nothing except Casey's General Store and roadkill, and I'm not a fan of either.  Thankfully Casey's did sell Snickers, which was a relief because I have no idea how to cook a skunk carcass on the hood of a car, nor do I want to find out.  We did happen upon a family restaurant whimsically dubbed "The Toot Toot" (no, seriously) (Iowa, am I right?), but family restaurants in general kind of give me the heebs.  Also, as funny as I think farts are (on a scale of one to ten they are HILARIOUS), I just couldn't deal with that;

We pressed on and eventually stopped in Kearney, MO, birthplace of Jesse James (please be aware this will be the only time you learn something in this blog).  Kearney is a lovely town with twee shops and you can park your car in a spot right on the street.  We stopped in at Fatboyz, because anyplace with a Z instead of S has to be good, right?  Hell yeah that's right!  It was everything a good dive should be - strong drinks, a hint of secondhand smoke in the air, and deep fried goodness.  This is how I was introduced to the corn nugget.  I mean, hello, cornbread made with whole kernels of corn, fried to a crisp?  Don't get me wrong, I love cheese curds and all their melty fabulousness, but these were just stupid good.

Speaking of stupid, three hours in the car and three cocktails later left me wiped out.  I'm not much of a nightlife gal as it is, so I was perfectly happy to park my kiester on the bed and watch TV while Noah picked up dinner.  And what was for dinner, you ask?  Jack Stack Barbecue.  My brother-in-law John wanted me to blog about how the barbecue was down there compared to Spitfire in Fargo, and for the love of God I hope they don't ban me for life for saying this, but there's just no comparison.  My baby back ribs were perfect, and I've enjoyed myself some good ribs in my day courtesy of Noah (Famous Dave's is ass) (RIP Famous Dave).  It's been a while since I had ribs at Spitfire, but it wouldn't change my opinion because Jack Stack was AMAZING.  The meat was incredibly tender, the sauce was sweet without being cloying, and WHOA NELLIE I can't believe I haven't mentioned the beans yet!  Bush's can come up with all the new varieties they want and try to use that ridiculous talking dog to sell them, but no.  I honestly can't tell you what made them so good.  All I know is if I exclaimed, "Oh my God!  The BEANS!" one more time I likely would have been smothered with a downy hotel pillow.

Part of me feels like I should have a sign off line a la Guy Fieri.  Part of me also thinks nobody should imitate someone who looks like they have an albino porcupine on their head.  Winner winner chicken dinner!

"You might want to explain your side job in Ankeny so they don't think you're working the pole."

Greetings from the Sheraton in Des Moines (French for "beats Iowa City")!  Hope the evening finds you well.  If you're like 75% of my readers, you're probably thinking, "I'm doing a lot better than you because I'm not in Iowa!"  Honestly, I'm really digging Des Moines.  Well, other than the fact that there's no Food Network in this room, which is why I'm blogging rather than trying to force conversation with Noah (10 years together.  Four hours in the car.  Don't judge).  Not only is it a sweet little town with a metric crap-ton of bars, but it's also home to a fantastic foodie restaurant called Alba (French for "stretchy pants encouraged").

Our friends Shannon (also known as "Cute Shannon" to some) and Ellie picked out this place to take us specifically so I'd have a great new spot to write about.  To say they chose wisely would be a staggering understatement.  I can't remember the last time I ate that well, and that's not entirely due to meth induced memory loss.  The shining star for all of us was the plate of morels we shared as an appetizer. Apparently they're kind of a big deal.  Even bigger than Ron Burgundy (but not Baxter.  That dog went through some real shit).  Shannon told us a story about being a young boy in North Pitlicker (may not be a real city) Iowa, how they would go out and pick morels for funsies, because there was no mall in which to loiter aimlessly and shoplift.  Now, that sounds like a lot of work to me, for I am astonishingly lazy, but even my fat ass might put forth that kind of effort for another plate of those.

After some hemming and hawing about the beef cheeks (are they really cheeks?  Do they have dimples?) (I had no interest, prawns FTW), we placed our orders, enjoyed cocktails and conversation, and then proceeded to stuff ourselves silly.  My gnocchi was so rich I can still hardly move for I am stupid full.  So when Ellie told the waitress it was my birthday and hence I should receive a piece of chocolate lava cake, I almost punched her (I waited until she started singing Happy Birthday.  Broke the poor girl's nose) (OMG totes joking). It was velvety exquisiteness.  I would have licked the plate clean but I had already done that with the mushrooms so I didn't want to make a total ass of myself.

Next stop is Kansas City.  We might be crazy and stop in both Missouri and Kansas!  Stay tuned!

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!