Next time, I'll have the iced tea.

On Labor Day we met some friends at Katy Trail Ice House in Uptown. Summer insisted on keeping the outdoor temperature in the low 90s for most of the evening, even though it is now most definitely September. But the ice water flowed freely, fans and misters were going full tilt, and the cicadas sang better than the satellite radio. 

KTIH’s most attractive attribute would certainly be the huge outdoor patio that backs up to the Katy Trail, a steady source of people- and dog-watching entertainment. To wit, on Monday night we saw a young man in black roller skates with yellow wheels boogie-ing up and down the stretch closest to our section of the patio. All he needed was a soundtrack, and honey, it would have been ON, cue the disco ball. At times, he was shirtless. It was hot. I can’t blame him.

Service was friendly and efficient even with the goodly number of patrons. The food (burgers, fried jalapenos, tacos) was tasty, and the beer was served in chilled glasses. And then I had the $11 house margarita, and it was like getting knocked on my keister, I really don’t know what happened, it didn’t look that big, and it’s not like it had one of those Coronitas in it or anything, it was just a margarita, I swear!

And then I went home and went to bed.

The culprit.

The moral of the story: Have a great Labor Day. Celebrate responsibly. Visit the Katy Trail Ice House. Watch out for the roller-skating dude. SHARE the house margarita. Or just go for the iced tea. That is all.

Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 2

Curtain opens. Lights up. Chicago. The scene opens on the girls seated at an umbrella-topped table outside the High Noon Saloon. They need carbs. And mimosas. And more carbs.

 

After Friday night’s meal and libations, we nursed ourselves with a Saturday brunch in Wicker Park. (You know, sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this eating whatever I want, cavorting, martini-ing, sleeping in, train-hopping, vacation lifestyle.  And then I remember that I’ll be that sassy octogenarian with bright red lipstick who winks at the little waiter boys someday, so why not raise a glass today…even if it means a teensy—really the mildest—headache in the morning?) And besides, the ubiquitous presence of hipsters made it perfectly acceptable for me to wear my sunglasses while chasing a mimosa with an icy Mexican Coca-Cola. Sweet nectar. 

Sufficiently fed (and aspirin-ed), we spent the next few hours tramping up and down blocks of boutiques, odd bookstores, resale shops and hippie food establishments. Good fun. And there was this: 

That’s when the evening’s festivities really took off.  Back at the hotel, we traded our walking duds for evening togs, stopped at the bar for a quick tipple and then made our way to Topo Gigio in historic Old Town for dinner. I have no idea why, but the name has to do with some sort of Fievel-esque mouse character because he was on every waitperson’s shirt.

If you dine here, and you should, try everything. It’s all exquisite. The filet mignon medallions over risotto, the rigatoni, the farfalle, THE TIRAMISU. All of it will make you want to weep with gastronomical joy…and punch your skinny-ass Zumba instructor in the face. (She’d be raking this risotto off her plate, too.)  Okay, okay, enough about the food. It’s fab. If you’re in Chicago, and you’ve got to eat, go here. That’s it.

Thanks to our trip organizer, the impeccable Dr. T., we had tickets to the late show at The Second City. For the uninitiated, Second City is the improv comedy launchpad for greats such as Alan Arkin and John Belushi to Tina Fey and Steve Carell. All cinematic tastes aside, if you like to laugh, you need to go see a show. If you don’t like to laugh, well then, you’re doing it wrong.

To make sure we had floor seats close to the stage, we got there at 9:30 for the 11:00 show. And before you go rolling your eyes because you have the patience of a fruit fly, just know that we sat our cute Texas derrieres in the first and second rows, and two of us got called upon by the actors during the show. So good, funny things really do come to those who wait.

The show, specifically the 101st revue “Let Them Eat Chaos,” was two-thirds scripted and two-thirds unscripted, witty, goofy, smart, even touching scenes—and that was before I had a cocktail. One cast member described it as “not Applebee’s,” and really, can you get any better than that?

After three hours of laughing so much I could probably count it as an ab workout, we giggled our way back to the hotel for 39-and-a-half winks before catching a 6:30 a.m. flight back to Dallas. It was still dark during our 4:00 a.m. cab ride to O’Hare, but the late night partiers were out and about aplenty. By the time Des and I got through security and to our gate, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It reminded me of all those teenaged slumber parties when we stayed up all night, talking, laughing, and confiding,  just because we could.  Until next time, Chicago, old friend. 

Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 1

Oh, Chicago, why do I love you so? There is nothing in my country mouse upbringing that should feed on your hustle and bustle, grow giddy at the sight of your skyline, or salivate over your deep-dish and bun-wrapped culinary creations.

And yet you woo me, Chicago. You ply my heartstrings with your proud and beautiful buildings. You captivate me with your art. And you stun me with your hardscrabble history—built by men with roughhewn hands and undaunted determination.

Home of the White City, debut site of the Ferris Wheel, birthplace of incomparable Studs Terkel, death-place of Enrico Fermi (nerd out), and home of sports franchises so hallowed and fraught with history they themselves have become venerated characters in the play that is Chicago.

So is it really any surprise that I leapt at the chance to see you again? Admit it. You wanted to see me, too.

In mid-July, the gals—five of us, college girlfriends, and let me just say, totally classy—flew from Dallas, Houston and Washington, DC to converge at the Long Beach, Indiana home of some of the loveliest hosts ever. Well, almost all of us.

Flights out of DC were cancelled due to weather, so Egypt flew out the next day and then took a bus to Michigan City, Indiana where we picked her up in a hotel parking lot. Lord, you should have seen it. It was like opening the door to the chicken coop in a room full of junebugs.  The mad rush, the flapping, the triumphant cackling. We may have had a lot of catching up to do…

We stayed up late, we dished about boys, we canoed, and we swam in Lake Michigan. And that was just in one day. Memorable moments included the making of Egypt’s rock sculpture on the beach, our first tastes of summer shandy, and Des and me (slightly) ramming the paddle boat with the other girls in it. Really, the fact that we successfully boarded and de-boarded debarked (whatever) the canoe without capsizing was a feat not lost on any of us. 

That night, after watching fireflies in the backyard, I remember climbing the stairs, dusting the beach sand from my toes, feeling the pleasant weariness that only comes with good, long, sun-dappled and laughter-filled days.

The next day we took the South Shore Line from Michigan City into Chicago. Blinking, we emerged from the station to street level, and it was like greeting another old friend. The city had weathered a few more winters since I last saw her, but then again, so had I. This time, I brought better walking shoes (Mr. Man, I can feel you rolling your eyes at me in exasperation. It was three years ago, so just don’t even go there.).

We then proceeded to check into our hotel in less than two minutes. Truthfully, we didn’t even take our bags upstairs. (Which reminds me of how surprised I am that so many folks don’t know about the whole “there is no 13th floor” thing. Seriously, you haven’t noticed that, people? C’mon, we all know what the 14th floor really is.)

We hightailed it to Navy Pier for lunch where, Gospel truth, I saw a young seaman in dress whites, complete with traditional white “Dixie cup” cap and those pants with the slight bell, who couldn’t have been more than 19. Goodness, he was handsome! <The author fans herself.> (I get this penchant for men in uniform from my mother who, had she been there, would have come positively unglued.)

We hit up some usual tourist stops: Garrett’s popcorn (caramel with pecans = sinful), photo ops with the Ferris Wheel, and a water taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue where we braved the throngs at the iconic Cloud Gate sculpture to leave our fingerprints and take selfies.

By dinnertime we were more than ready for some of Gino’s pizza, calorically speaking…and because we thought we’d start the evening off with cocktails but instead ended up crashing a private party at the hotel’s rooftop bar. <affects a nearly Steel Magnolia’s-esque drawl> “It’s okay, y’all! We’re from Texas. Y’all have a great night. Mazel tov!” Indeed, there is something so totally satisfying about good friends, especially those who’ll crash a party with you, hot pizza and cold beer. 

Pumpjacks, Purple Pigs…and Chiggers

If you can guess where we were this weekend based on the title of this post, good on ya, friend. You are either quite adept at inductive reasoning, or you have experienced all of these things first-hand. (And let’s be honest, between reason and experience, experience is usually way more fun.

Except that I don’t know what it means to “experience” a pumpjack. I mean, all I did was look at them. That’s all. Don’t go getting any harebrained ideas about climbing astride no pumpjacks, fools.) (Yes, that’s a parenthetical phrase split between two paragraphs. Because I can.)

We spent the weekend in the gloriously piney woods of east Texas with dear friends and their young’un, Little Miss. From Friday through Sunday we traipsed between Henderson, Chapel Hill, White Oak and Tyler soaking up the trees, sunshine and barbecue.

First order of business: introduce Little Miss to ribs. (Having recently graduated to Cheerios and yogurt melts, we wagered it was reasonably safe to introduce some ribby goodness.) To accomplish this most sacred Texan rite, we embarked to the Purple Pig Café outside Tyler where we all commenced to imbibe in the meat parade in which joints like the Purple Pig specialize.

Next up: Chapel Hill where we lounged and (one of us) fished from a homemade barge on Horseshoe Lake. Good thing we weren’t fishing for dinner. After nearly an hour without a bite, we decamped for Tyler to catch “Man of Steel”* and frozen custard at Andy’s.

Maybe we should have been more patient when it came to fishing, but we all agreed that frozen custard for dinner ranks somewhere between getting a paid day off on your birthday and having Little Miss sleep until 10:00 a.m.

On Sunday we adventured around a recently acquired (and almost wholly undeveloped) piece of land dotted with the aforementioned pumpjacks. To our credit, we were smart enough to trade our shorts and sandals for jeans and boots to protect against the Johnson grass, snakey critters and chiggers. The more I tramped down the roughshod paths, the sun blotted by trees and creeper vines, the more I thought of slipping into Narnia or that island from Lord of the Flies. It was great fun.

Soon enough the heat drove us back to the air-conditioned truck, and we were then on our way home. With the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s number of chiggers in tow. Seriously, they must have been ninja chiggers because I don’t know how they got around boots, jeans and undergarments.

Gah, they’re like sneaky, “sleeper” bugs. They don’t start itching immediately. They get going once you’re comfortably back home or having lunch at Chick-fil-A, and you absolutely cannot scratch that itch without alarming, offending or disgusting those around you. So I’ll leave you with that…after I pry the anti-itch spray away from Mr. Man. Damn chiggers.

*OMG, Henry Cavill, will you be my cabana boy? Whoa. Forget Amy “I have bouncy hair” Whatshername. She’ll never lust you like I lust you.

Redneck Sushi and a Sweet Bronco

Today’s trek, just up the road to Denton and Lewisville, was both pleasing to the appetite and the eyes. 

First we landed at Rooster’s Roadhouse in Denton for lunch. If you’ve never been, don’t worry. It’s not hard to find. Tucked into Denton’s burgeoning downtown/Industrial Street area, Rooster’s, perhaps in a cheeky nod to its neighbor Dan’s Silver Leaf, boasts—yep, you guessed it—a large metal chicken atop its roof. (Dan’s sports a big silver leaf on top of its digs, you see.) Or maybe Rooster's just wanted to put a giant metal chicken on their roof. Because they could. It seems logical. (For ideas on other things you can do with a giant metal chicken, read Jenny Lawson's memoir. There's a whole chapter devoted to it. Truth.)

Rooster’s fare is what I'd consider "traditional roadhouse" with a few quirky twists. In addition to classic burgers and barbecue sandwiches, there are: a salad named the "Double Wide," a veggie po' boy and pulled pork nachos (a personal fave) topped with a sweet-tangy barbecue sauce, jalapenos and pico. (It’s listed under “appetizers,” but it’s big enough for two meals easily...or one really big carbo-load, like if you were prepping for a marathon or something...or, like, 17 Weight Watchers meals.)

Another appetizer, the Redneck Sushi, is anything but fishy. Its brisket and sweet-hot pickles come slathered in barbecue sauce and cheese (That's right. I said slathered.) and wrapped in a tortilla. The best part, however, was the horseradish Dijon for dipping. Holy cow! Hold on to your chopsticks, that stuff packs a sinus-clearing punch that hits you like a fiery kiss and a simultaneous full-face slap.

A few pointers:

Silverware, napkins and menus are already at the table.

It’s almost always busy, and the noise level hovers somewhere near “constant ruckus.”

Try the Cockeyed Lemonade. Seriously. Try it. (*Not for tiny humans. Only for big people.)

Desserts, namely banana pudding, come served in mini-Mason jelly jars, a fact which I’m convinced enhances the flavor to drool-worthy heights.

All told, Mr. Man (AKA the hubs, the Tall One) and I got out of there with drinks, an appetizer, two entrees, and some of that banana pudding for less than $30. And we had enough left over that I broke the to-go container trying to make it all fit. (Don’t judge. You’ll be taking home the pulled pork nachos, too.)

Our second stop was a small car show in Lewisville where we perused a smattering of Corvettes, two Plymouth Road Runners (They really do honk meep, meep!), a handful of hotrods in various stages of rebuild and customization, and a ’72 Chevy Cheyenne that held Mr. Man’s eye. Its black ostrich interior didn’t hurt either. Seriously, I don’t know how you feel about ostrich, but the upholstery work was downright stunning.

My personal favorite was a nice looking maroon Bronco owned by a lovely young lady sporting a cool blue fedora-type hat.  I don’t know why the hat ratchets up the cool factor, but it does. Though it still needed some engine work, this machine was good lookin’, big but not too big, and broad without being too stocky. It was tough…but pretty. Totally my idea of the perfect vehicle for trekking—one well suited to a long drive with the windows down into the great wide open.