Occasionally, I get the urge to move. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. The far reaches of the country, the edge of the forest, smack dab in the center of small town America (with a three-color gingerbread Victorian). Away from the nonstop noise, away from the screechy (and drunken) neighbors, away from the Good Lord, change your a/c filter, you’re blowing rancid air right into our shared walkway/my nasal passages.
But then I have a weekend like this past one. Which starred, namely, the food of my oft-condemned ‘hood.
There were the sweet cherry tomatoes, abundant raspberries, and rampant mint of my backyard- picked by some pretty cute li’l blonde farmhands.
There was the takeout barbecue joint that recently moved in three blocks down the road. (Chicago pals, if you haven’t tried Small’s Smoke Shack, go there. Run there. Say hi to me there. Because I’ll be there.) Between the brisket and the pulled pork and the fried chicken and grilled elotes and copious dipping sauces (comprised of garlic mayo and bacon mustard and banana ketchup), we didn’t say a word to each other during the meal- except for “Have you tried this yet?” and “Are you eating garlic mayo with a spoon?”
And there was the leftover duck cassoulet (from Chalkboard!) handed to me by a pal who stopped over after a celebratory dinner…to watch my children…so I could hear Eddie Vedder play at Wrigley Field from atop our friends’ posh roof deck. I mean, really.
Obviously, there were also tamales verdes from Veronica, our favorite tamale cart goddess (because this unborn child- like the two who have come before him/her- is a goodly part Mexican food).
And since yesterday WAS National Ice Cream Day (Observed), we celebrated with chocolate cherry Bordeaux ice cream…and a few of the chocolate chip cookies that Peej and the girls made. Because- Ice Cream Day.
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| Serious bakers. |
While no amount of food can erase last night’s overheard (and shrieked) conversation about the merits of Walgreens from my brain…I’d have to be pretty daft to leave a part of town which shoves this kinda food into my mouth.
I’m many things, but rarely daft.
Over-full, yes. Definitely.
Unless you’re making a quick trip to Small’s.
Then I want the brisket.
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