The day in yard project: Garden pathway
May 30, 2011
So for five years I’ve had these round pavers, languishing in stacks in front of my place, waiting for the whim to overtake me to make them into a path. My new upstairs neighbor bugged me all last summer to do it and I coyly demured. The last thing I want is to be told when to do something, or for it to seem like I’m doing something because somebody suggested it. Today, I finally got in the mood naturally and, thankfully, without any helpers.
Our section of yard was the only one without some sort of little path. Five summers ago I lugged home nine round stones from Home Depot. I wasn’t ready to actually labor that day so I set them aside and there they stayed. I originally measured taking into account having space in between each one. Soon after I decided I didn’t want space between them. I never went back to buy the two or three extra stones. But in the intervening years, I’ve found two flat, square pieces of concrete or something that will do.
Yesterday, the bug nudged its way into my pants and I laid the stones out. At work I’m doing a book about gardening and one of the tips for making pathways is to lay the stones down and let them kill whatever’s underneath so you’ll know how much space to clear. I put them down, pretty sure that I was just going to dig everything up. I don’t want grass in between.
Today, I grabbed the hoe and went to it. I was quite pleased indeed that it didn’t take long at all to dig up the grass, less than an hour. However, a little while later, my thumbs of all things got tired from the impact of all the hoeing. Even now, they’re feeling pretty weak. Nevertheless, the speed with which I cleared the grass kept me enthusiastic about the project.
I had a supervisor (Dasie).
After I started embedding the stones in the dirt and it became apparent that the rest of the job would not go as quickly, I broke out the beer.
After about three hours, the stones were fairly snugly set with dirt repacked around them. The trouble with the project that you can’t see is that the stones kind of rise and fall due to unhackable large roots of the maple tree in the yard. There were two. I straddled one, but a stone had to sit on the other one to maintain the spacing. Oh well.
Then I decide that another phase of the project needed to be moving the little rock border forward. So I did that. Then I decided, after four hours, that I was done for the day. Or rather, my body decided for me. I think I’ll get some impatiens to put in the newly-vacated space.
I had planned to wait to grill until tomorrow, but it suddenly seemed like a good idea. I had package of pork country style ribs thawed and ready to go.
It was a good decision. It was a delicious meal with which to reward all my hard work. I was, however, a little concerned that I wouldn’t be able to move again once I sat down.
I took some ibuprofen eventually and that really helped. But then I got the best comfort (CJ)!
Come on baby, cover me
May 28, 2011
Tonight my friend Lauren asked about cover songs that are better than the original. The first one that came to mind was the Smiths “How Soon Is Now” covered by ????????. I know there will be those who question whether the cover is better than the original. Maybe not. But it’s at least as good. ???????? is my guilty pleasure act.
Then after a few minutes, I remembered a cover that I’m in love with because it actually does blow the original away, like a summer breeze. Oh wait. The Isley Brothers’ version of Seals and Crofts’ “Summer Breeze” is amazing. The original takes me back to my childhood, in a good way. But the cover makes me feel all funky and groovy and mellow. It’s out of this world.
I present them both below for your listening pleasure.
???????? “How Soon Is Now”—buy it here
Isley Brothers “Summer Breeze”—buy it here
Chillin???, er, chilly
May 27, 2011
It is May 26 and I have just turned my heat on. Why, you ask? Is it because I live in the southern hemisphere and it’s winter? Is it because I forgot to shut the refrigerator door? No, it’s because my place is old and drafty.
I live in a rowhouse which was built in the 1890s. It’s very solid and heavy, but I have a feeling that the ground it occupies is not all that solid. Consequently, the building must be constantly shifting as it settles its 115-year-old self. I’m on the ground level and my cement floor has become more and more uneven as my five and a half years of residence have passed.
We are in the northern hemisphere, and spring has been a little stingy about having consistently seasonally temperatures. The sun is high and warm if you’re basking in it, but the air temperature has mostly on the cool side of the average. But I was still running the heat regularly until two weeks ago. And it was just five days ago that I allowed myself to be publicly excited about not having had it on for a whole week! Then, a couple of chilly evenings and tonight I’m reaching for the On switch.
My place takes its time warming up in the spring. I suppose that’s mostly because of all the tiny cracks that must exist in the walls and door and window frame from its age and unsteady footing. Sometimes I wonder if the floorplan has a little to do with it, too, although I can’t imagine that would really be relevant.
Being a rowhouse, the space is long, narrow, and open, with no full interior walls. The floorplan was one of the things that attracted me to it. Of course the bathroom is enclosed, and there are a couple of nice walk-in closets with walls. Three half walls help with the rest of the load-bearing duties. But I have no rooms and no doors. Privacy is tricky when I have visitors.
I drew the diagram above when I bought the place so that I could plan things. You’re seeing the paint color layer. The sitting room and living room have since become known more basically as the front room and the middle room. I’m nothing if not practical.
Practicality is probably part of causes me to whine about turning the heat on tonight. By the end of May, you’d sure think you wouldn’t have to any more. It’s a psychological thing. But I sure will take this kind of weather any time over the inevitable temperature destination that will have me turning the air conditioning on.
I myself step up in tornado relief
May 26, 2011
I’m not trying to make it sound overly grandiose, I was just going for parallel construction with the title from Monday night’s entry because this is a related story. As the big scheme goes, it was only a baby step.
Tonight, I joined the Smack Shack food truck crew in north Minneapolis and helped dish up free food for tornado survivors for three and a half hours. It was nothing fancy—hotdogs with or without chili, some Hamburger Helper pasta, and ice cream. Chicken nuggets and chicken wings also made brief appearances. But for the neighborhood people, many of whom literally have no roof over their heads, or who asked for extra to take back to the people who had stayed at the house to safeguard it, it was plenty alright.
The important thing here for me is that this was the first volunteering of any kind I’ve ever done in my entire life. For some background on how out of character this is for me, please take a minute to read this recent post, the theme of which was a fortune cookie fortune which read “conscience is a man’s compass” and which involved some self-examination on the topic.
I can’t claim that it was some bolt of lightning striking that got me out there tonight. It’s true that when I see accounts of disasters on the news, I sometimes wish I was in a position to be able to jet off to the location and give some man-hours to clean-up, recovery, whatever. My thinking is usually in terms of physical labor versus interacting with people. I am uncomfortable around people a lot of the time.
My reason was much more mundane and self-serving. Smack Shack is one of my favorites of the food trucks that began appearing in the Twins Cities last summer. As a loyal customer both to the truck and to the bar in whose kitchen they wintered, I have established an acquaintance with the proprietor and chef, Josh Thoma. The trucks fascinate me because all of the chef-proprietors turn out amazing food from a kitchen that fits in the back of a UPS van.
When the tornados hit last Sunday and I watched the live feed from one of the news helicopters, I again had the stirrings of the feeling of wanting to help, and wished I didn’t have a really big project at work that was due yesterday (and which I’ll finally finish tomorrow morning) so that I could take a couple days off for this local disaster. But I did have to go to work, so all I did on Monday was make a donation to the org GiveMN.org.
Then in the afternoon, the tweets started to come through. Several food trucks, including my three favorites, were going to make their ways to the tornado zone to hand out free food. I instinctively thought that offering my labor to one of them would be an easy way to help for a few hours and give me a little brush with food truck fame and allow me to importantly note that I worked side-by-side with Chef in tornado relief. Unfortunately, I was busy Monday night.
Due to not finishing my work project on time I didn’t feel I could go out Tuesday evening either, which I found particularly bothersome after Chef Thoma tweeted for helpers at Smack Shack. Finally tonight, Wednesday, I was available and got myself to the truck right after work.
So that brings me back to what I wondered about at the end of the “conscience” post. My reasons for being this evening’s hotdog bun stager extraordinaire were at least seventy-five percent selfish. But would the people who got some free food and could watch their kids being delighted by a small bowl of ice cream with sprinkles have cared if they knew why I was really there? Isn’t it okay that whatever my motivation, everybody got something out of it?
I can’t say explicitly that it was a life-changing experience and that I’m going to run off and join the Peace Corps or even that I’ll start volunteering at some local soup kitchen. What I can say is that at the moment, I seem to be overcome with an unusual peaceful, semi-fulfilled, extremely mellow feeling.
Photo by Smack Shack
Liquid love: now a 3-way
May 25, 2011
Over the course of various posts, you have learned how much how much I love Bell’s Oberon beer. I’ve extolled its virtues and touted it as a favorite sign of spring. Well, as of a year ago, Oberon has had to share the spotlight. It’s like Cate Blanchett’s character in the movie “Bandits” said—”What if I don’t want to choose? What if, together, you make the perfect man?” Well, Oberon and, now, Odell Brewing’s St. Lupulin extra pale ale make it impossible for me to choose my favorite spring seasonal and both have me anxiously awaiting spring.
I was first introduced to St. Lupulin a year ago during an enjoyable outing to a Minnesota Twins game with a good friend. We stopped at another of my favorites, Pizza Lucé (downtown), for solid and liquid refreshments before the game. Pizza Lucé has a decent beer list and they have a couple of spots that they rotate with seasonals and limited/special editions. I chose the Odell St. Lupulin because theretofore I had never had an EPA other than Summit’s completely delicious one.
Well, one sip in and I was in love.
I learned that Odell was new in town a year ago, and as new varieties appeared in various places, I made sure I tried every one of them. And as with the other five of my favorite breweries*, I have yet to meet one I didn’t like even if, generally, I don’t like that variety. I love all Odell beers, it seems.
As such, I’ve made it a point to follow their happenings around town. And in doing so, I’ve been getting to know the people associated with bringing this fine product to me, including Doug Odell himself.
Okay, so it was more a brush with fame with Mr. Odell than “getting to know.” In the last couple of years, I have made it my mission to get a photo of myself with the owners of each of my favorite breweries. Thus far, I have four and a half out of six. I am missing Sierra Nevada, and for Surly, I have Mr. Ansari, Omar’s dad. Guilt by association.
A week or two prior to my meeting Mr. Odell, I had attended the release party for another of their seasonals, Red Ale. Coincidentally and very happily, that event was held at the very same Pizza Lucé.
That was the same evening that I got to meet a local online friend, Holly, in person for the first time. Holly is an online acquaintance of my friend Rob’s friend Sara. Rob is my best friend from here who moved to California. Sara is one of his best friends there. Keeping up?
Holly took off and I stayed for one more. As the Odell people were winding things up, I introduced myself to two fellows, Hanszee from Odell’s distributor Capitol Beverage, and Todd the local Odell rep. It was the end of the evening and maybe they were looking to get rid of the rest of their stuff, or maybe they just appreciated my enthusiasm for their product. Hanszee gave me an Odell bottle opener key ring and a Red Ale t-shirt.
That was the start of my beer t-shirt collection.
A couple of weeks later I was excited because Doug Odell was coming to town and his meet-and-greet was being held at another of my favorite establishments, Brit’s Pub. I dorkily showed up in my Red Ale t-shirt, and it was about an hour before anybody came over to talk to me. Happily, it was Hanszee, and I explained to him my desire to get a photo with Mr. Odell, but that I was having a shy attack. Hanzee took charge and marched me over to Mr. Odell and my mission was accomplished.
There was no contact between me and the Odells for months after that. But then, spring drew nearer and I had a concrete date for the release of St. Lupulin. In quite the anticlimax, it turned out to be a week later than I had been led to believe but when it happened, the release party was thankfully at an establishment downtown and I was able to attend, barely. My parents were arriving for a visit at about the same time. I ignored that fact to go get a taste of springtime nectar.
Hanszee and Todd were there, as well as some other Odell associate who physically resembles Todd, and oddly, Nate the local Stone Brewing guy. Huh?
I was recognized and greeted, and though I would have loved to stay for two or three, I had to get going. On my way out, Hanszee offered me my snazzy St. Lupulin t-shirt. I was very excited!
A few days later one of my local stores, Zipp’s Liquors, had an Odell tasting. Turns out, Todd was there to pour. Then the following week, after a Zipp’s-sponsored major beer tasting, I got to hang out with Todd for a while, as well as a few other beer suspects including Hanszee and Tyler from Zipp’s, during a Double-Double mini-event. Double #1: Myrcenary double IPA. Double #2: Double Pils. A month earlier I had tried Myrcenary for the first time. Instant favorite!
One of the things about Odell Brewing is that the label artwork and hand-lettering is just beautiful. Such are the Myrcenary label and the St. Lupulin. I happened to notice that Todd had given a Myrcenary t-shirt to another patron. It didn’t take long before I was in possession of one myself. Heh.
So suddenly, I have five beer t-shirts, three of which are Odell**. Wokka! It’s a little bit silly how thrilled I am to have them, unless you consider how much I love what they promote!
*Bell’s, Lagunitas, Sierra Nevada, Summit, Surly (alphabetical order, because I couldn’t be expected to actually rate them)
**The other two are Surly, which I bought after a brewery tour, and Great Lakes Brewing, which was given to me at the above-mentioned Zipp’s tasting. I like the Great Lakes Commodore Perry IPA.
Odell brews I have brought home.
Odell brews I have tasted.
Food trucks step up in tornado relief
May 24, 2011
As if I didn’t already adore my local food trucks for their amazing culinary delights, today, in the aftermath of yesterday’s tornados in the Twins Cities, one of which tore through the Camden neighborhood in north Minneapolis, several of the mobile kitchens went up to the area to aid in relief food dispensation. I admire them even more. It doesn’t matter that it was mostly hot dogs and bottled water donated by grocery stores. None of them hesitated in committing to the effort.
A photographer named Tony Webster has a gallery on Flickr of shots from around the neighborhood (one of which I linked to above). There wasn’t utter obliteration as in Joplin, Missouri, but the damage was still pretty devastating.
We had had almost two inches of rain in the previous 36 hours so the ground was saturated. A lot of the damage was caused by entire trees being uprooted and falling over onto structures, rather than simply snapping and not expanding their footprint too much. I’ve seen photos of entire blocks of trees just toppled over on their sides. It weird and sad. And, of course, plenty of roofs were torn off also. That’s odd, too, to see into homes like you were the Jolly Green Giant who just pulled them off to see what’s inside.
Fortunately, unlike in Joplin, there have been “only” two related deaths so far.
If you’d like to donate to a local relief organization, GiveMN.com has a fund. I contributed what I could.
Smack Shack. At one point there was an impromptu prayer session in front of the truck.
World Street Kitchen. The comfort of a hot meal, however simple.
Chef Shack. A worker refuels.
Photos by Tony Webster, Smack Shack, World Street Kitchen, Chef Shack
Fake plastic cat
May 23, 2011
About a year after I bought my place, my mom gave me this plastic cat lawn ornament. I have amassed quite a few rabbit nick-nacks but I have always made it clear that I don’t want to get into collecting cat things. Every now and then, though, my mom breaks that rule if she finds something that reminds her of one of my cats. Such was this lawn ornament when it sported its original coat of black paint.
In the intervening years, the black paint has worn off and I’m left with a tacky orange cat. Neither of my cats is orange. I wish I could say that I keep it around because I can’t bear to throw away something that was lovingly given to me by my mother who only had the best intentions, a thing which, every time she visits, she makes sure is looking into my window so that she can see it when she sits in my rocking chair.
But I can’t say that. I just haven’t gotten around to “relocating” it yet. So for the time being I will hope that nobody rolls their eyes too hard when they notice it.
Salad: a love affair
May 9, 2011
I didn’t always love beer, and I didn’t always love salad. But now I love both. My love of beer developed gradually and I couldn’t really say when. However, I think I can’t pinpoint my first salad-loving incident to Vancouver, British Columbia, in November 2004.
My parents and I were about to embark on a group holiday tour across western Canada aboard the Rocky Mountaineer train. Sort of like the Orient Express—every bit as romantic (because when isn’t overnight train travel not romantic, even if you’re only with your parents) but quite a bit less famous.
The evening before we were to begin riding the rails, the group dined out at Canada Place on the Vancouver waterfront (pictured below). It was a fine dinner and I ate mine up. It was also the first time I can remember truly enjoying eating a salad. Maybe it’s because it was (perhaps) the first one I had that consisted of darkly colored “greens” rather than pale wedges of iceberg.
At any rate, I ate mine up, and dinner, and then noticed that a couple of my dinner neighbors had left theirs untouched. So I asked if they’d mind passing them over because it would be too bad if they went to waste. They were quite happy to. And I was in my first salad rapture.
Now that I think about it, it was roughly (give or take a couple of years) around the time of my beer awakening as well. I hadn’t gone hoppy yet but I had gone dark, and regularly enjoyed Newcastle with my buddies Jim and Rob whilst we shot pool at City Billiards and they flirted with Liz, our frequent server. At the first dinner for the tour group in Winnipeg, Manitoba, we ate a place with (as I recall) “grape” in the name and Fort Garry Dark Ale on the menu. At the time it sent me into my first beer rapture.
Now I realize I’m merging Canada group tours. The Winnipeg stop was prior to boarding the train up to Churchill to commune with polar bears. Salad in Vancouver was prior to the train heading back east across the Canadian Rockies.
But the point I was going to make was, I had discovered my enjoyment of getting tipsy by the time we were dining in Vancouver, and I know I was at least mediumly tipsy that night. The salad was really delicious and, due to my tipsiness, I was emboldening to beg more off my dining neighbors.
As with the beer, I don’t know when the absolute love took over. But I do know that it has and that if you give me a choice between a large salad and most other things, I will choose the salad. If it were between salad and pizza, I’d have a tough decision, but my current favorite meal is a rare steak and a giant salad. Nothing else (except the adult beverage), just the steak and the salad.
This past week I’ve been enjoying particularly delicious salads. My grocery store changed the way they make their deli roasted chickens for the better (saltier). One of the best ways to do the salad is to get the chicken for dinner one night, then use the leftovers for really tasty big salads that are a meal in themselves from then on. Finished with olive oil and either balsamic or raspberry vinegar, and you’ve got a winner.
Salad, salad, salad!
May 4, 2011
I interrupt my regularly scheduled post (which was to be an account of how I came to love salads so) to gloat. There’s no sugar-coating this—I WON!
I have never been part of any “in” crowd. Every now and then I’ve gotten to the cusp, but I can’t honestly say that I ever completely broke through. That’s not to say I haven’t had my groups of friends. Of course I have. But if you know me away from here (or even, possibly, if you’ve been reading along for any amount of time), you’ll know that I mostly don’t give a flying fuck what other people think, so that’s probably a good indication that I’m not going to shmooze my way into very many cliques.
One time during my senior year in high school, I tried, sort of. The school was large enough to have both cheerleaders and a dance team and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to try out for it. My two or three friends and I worked up our routine and performed it on the day. When we were finished, I took off with some other college friends who had come to watch. I got to school the next day only to be greeted with queries of why I had left early. It seems I had been unaware that there was a second part to the try-outs. I did not rise in social standing, not that I was particularly bothered about it. I went back to band and every thing was as it was before.
For the last four years I have felt vicariously popular. I’ve mentioned on other occasions that my friend Rob left me here in Minneapolis for the sunshine of Silicon Valley. He works at Yahoo! Inc. and has fancy friends who work at other high-faluting companies or invent things or start start-ups. They like me (I think) (I hope)(don’t answer). This makes me feel good, even thought they’re half a continent away.
The context tonight is close to home—bowling. I think one of the reasons why I enjoy my leagues is because the people in them like me. I wouldn’t say people liking me is important to me, but every now and then I ponder why I do enjoy it so much and that’s a large reason I come up with. I do alright with the execution of the sport, which helps, but I’m not an elite bowler (averages over 210 or 220). I’m just good enough (average in the 190s, usually) to hang with the crowd I hang with.
A few weeks ago the league secretary asked if I’d be interested in filling the vacant vice presidency for next year. That’s not as important as it sounds. The secretary does all the heavy lifting and if he happens to be absent the president fills in. The vice president is actually only third in line. Also, because it is a mixed league at least one officer must be a woman, and since I am one of only a handful of women in the league, I am an instant forerunner by default.
My gut response was to laugh in his face because I shirk responsibility, however slight, whenever possible (even though I’m good at being in charge). But after a while I realized that I was flattered that he had asked me, so I said sure, I’d do it. Tonight at the banquet, when it came time to (re-)elect officers, my and two other names were put forward. Two others? So much for feeling hand-picked. But I immediately understood that it was a good thing after all—because it would be a popularity contest! And I felt a high degree of confidence that I would prevail.
The nomination was opened and from all around the room I heard “Kelly,” “Kelly,” “Kelly.” I didn’t hear one “Julie” or one “Ann.” I felt smug. And popular. And good.
So I can’t actually lay claim to any special amount of social apathy, loath as I am to admit it, and I probably sound rather shallow at the moment. The affirmation of my peers is important to me after all.
I just won’t go around admitting it in public.
Deviant behavior
May 5, 2011
Yesterday on my walk home from work, I engaged in behavior which, in my mind, was surely worthy of receiving an ASBO. I thwarted my initial plan because I couldn’t overcome my self-consciousness to act in the location I really wanted to (Nicollet Mall and 5th Street South/Light Rail). There were just too darned many people milling about waiting for buses, waiting for cross-walking right-of-way, and the like at that unpopular time of day known as rush hour. Someone would, at the very least, see me, and at the very worst, be curious and stop to ask me about it. I chastised myself, didn’t change my mind, and moved on.
As I contemplated its execution a little further down 5th Street (at 3rd Avenue South, in front of the Qwest building, if you must know), I came to notice just how many security cameras we really have in downtown Minneapolis. I guess that’s not exactly a bad thing; a few years ago, a violent criminal was apprehended because a citizen phoned 911 immediately and authorities were able to track the suspect on sequential cameras as he ran away.
For my own little plot, I got nervous because Gotham City Hall is across the street, and also because after noticing the cameras, I figured somebody was watching me take photos near a sensitive building and would be swarming out to disappear me, in light of the Osama bin Laden developments over the weekend. I didn’t wish to take any chances. I put my head down and hightailed it onward.
For a couple of blocks, I felt like an utter, pansy failure. Then I had The Brainstorm. I’d have to be patient, but I would still have the opportunity to perform my duty in a location well-traveled by desirable types. I spent the next fifteen minutes walking another three-quarters of a mile to the bike trail that connects Downtown East to my home neighborhood.
And then I did it.
I drew in chalk on the pavement.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 