Gift Source – Max’s: Jewelry, Chocolate, and Art

This past summer during one of our CSA Tuesday adventures, Eric and Pierre made me into an enabler.  They’d gotten a couple of gift cards to Max’s at Excelsior & Grand in St. Louis Park as a gift and wanted me to go in as their agent to get some chocolate.

What?  You need me to go in for you to get chocolate.  What the hell is wrong with you?

That’s when they explained that they’d already been to Max’s for chocolate and would be embarrassed to go in for more.

So?

That’s when they said it’s the best chocolate ever.

And?

That’s when they said I could keep a box of it for myself for my trouble.

Okay.

I went to Max’s with a mission…I came out with an addiction.

Bastards.

It wasn’t just any chocolate that Eric and Pierre wanted me to retrieve.  It was gourmet Sea Salt Chocolate Caramels by VChocolates, specifically.  Soft caramels, dipped in milk or dark chocolate, sprinkled with sea salt.  They’re a decadent addition to my chocolate palate.  For that, I’d sink to subterfuge.  Thankfully, I didn’t have to–they’ll sell them to you if you want to buy them.  Fancy that.  And, they’re not even horribly pricey.  For 32 pieces of sheer delight, you’ll spend around $22.

I’d spend my soul for this stuff.

Today, I just bought a small box of 2 confections for $3.  Never mind the other big box of toffee you see in the pictures.  That’s, uh, research for another piece I’m writing.  Really.

Max’s isn’t just my chocolate connection.  There are also collections of beautiful glass art and jewelry in addition to the tables and tables of artisan chocolates.  I’ve purchased elegantly simple letterpressed cards there as well as a one-of-a-kind ring.  It is a little gem of a boutique and–I’ll let you in on a little secret–they give away samples.  While I was there today with absolute “get-in, get-out” intentions, I taste-tested a nutty caramel, a chocolate-covered almond, and a piece of dark, dark chocolate bliss.

Sigh.

Let me know if you want me to pick up some for you.  I charge one box per run.

You won’t regret it.

Trust me.

Pioneer Day at the MOA

I was shaking my head Saturday morning.  I was going to the Mall of America for the second time within 24 hours.  It was obscene.  It’s downright unheard of.  It was really happening.

Only some really special women could get me to do this.   No, I hold no ill will toward the MOA.  I like the MOA.  Heck, I like Saturday.  What I do not like is the MOA on a Saturday.  Twice in one Saturday was brutal.

I’d been to the MOA to see “New Moon” with my friend Tam and her twelve-year old daughter (my Goddaughter), Elizabeth, during the night.  It was a special coming-of-age evening that was capped off with a debriefing slumber party at my apartment in Minnetonka…as the mother and daughter live over an hour away in Hutchinson.  It started in a line at 9:30 and ended with a Zombie Walk to our vehicles at in the wee hours of the morning.

Funny.  That’s how my afternoon at the MOA began and ended…in a line and with a Zombie Walk.

Sort of.  To be accurate, the afternoon at the MOA began with a rash of panicky text messages.  You see, we were going to the MOA to see Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman.  When I say “we,” I mean my friend Joy from St. Paul and my friend Pamela from Dassel.  It was a fantastic combination.

Joy has been my friend since the college years.  Originally from Grand Rapids, Minnesota, she moved toward the urban life of Minneapolis at a young age and hasn’t left…well, now she’s in St. Paul and we like it that way.  She has a husband named Matt and an infant son named Vincent. She and her mother go mushroom hunting and make homemade pasta together.  Yorkshire Pudding is a traditional Christmas dish in their family.  Joy and I try new restaurants and recipes and often rope in our friends for some kick-butt dinner parties.  We both whip out our cameras at inopportune times.  I used to be in her blog’s “About Me” section as the Viking Goddess and Queen Drrty Martini as we used to run rampant and stupid together–often–in our younger, dumber years.  We understand each other.  She keeps a jar of bacon grease in the refrigerator to use when cooking.  Joy blogs about the food scene at Eating the Minneapple and is deliciously snarky.  Her distinct, percussive laugh makes me smile.

Pamela has known me in some subconscious way since I was three years old when my family moved to the rural area outside of Dassel, Minnesota.  We went to the same church, Gethsamane Lutheran Church, which she still attends and I still visit when home with my parents.  She’s four years older than me which mattered in primary and secondary school but means nothing now.  Her mother was my music teacher.  I know her siblings and I know some of her husband Eric’s siblings.  They both know my sibling.  It’s life in a small town.  It translates well to the internet.  The last time we saw each other, we were trying not to giggle as she was the Communion attendant and I was in line to receive Communion at one of the Christmas services last year.  We were trying not to giggle because, while our friendship has been primarily online (other than the Communion Incident), it’s been a funny friendship.  Whether over Facebook or my blog, we’ve had some pretty funny exchanges about food, home renovation, and Neti Pots.  Armed with each other’s phone numbers we were about to move our friendship offline.  Watch out, world.

That I would be sharing the Pioneer Woman experience with these two gals was perfect, really.  Someone from my rural life, someone from my urban life…who would’ve rounded it out would have been Joanna, if she could’ve made the trip from North Dakota, as she introduced me to the Pioneer Woman by way of her blog, Punkyseed.

I can only imagine the text message storm that might have happened if we’d thrown in an arrival from North Dakota.  As it was, Joy was going to the MOA from St. Paul (15 minutes), I was making the trip from the western suburb of Minnetonka (30 minutes), and Pamela was roaring over from Dassel (70 minutes).  The text storm started as a drizzle turned into a downpour quickly:

8:39AM – Joy to Andy: What time do you want to meet at the MoA?  I’m sure there will be a line and traffic over there is always nuts on the wknd.

9:14AM – Andy to Joy: 11:30?  Noon?

9:17AM – Joy to Andy: Either works for me.  Want to just say around that time?  Did it say outside of Nordstrom?

9:20AM – Andy to Joy: Yeah, Nordstrom at 1:00.  Have coffee, will stand in line.

9:22AM – Joy to Andy: I need only a stop at Gloria Jean’s (coffee) and possibly a Mini Bun (Cinnabon) and I’m a line standin’ fool, yo! (And she was.)

11:02AM – Andy to Pamela: I’m hoping to get there around 11:45. (I split the difference between 11:30 and Noon…and, I dawdled.)

11:03AM – Pamela to Andy: I’m outside Delano.  I guess there is already a big line.

11:05AM – Andy to Pamela: Jerks.  Why couldn’t we live in Kansas with a short line? (Sorry, Kansas.)

11:18AM – Pamela to Andy: They are giving out wristbands…now they’re even bigger jerks. (She had an insider already at the MOA.)

11:19AM – Andy to Pamela: As if we might not get to meet her??? I’m running to the Jeep.

I almost ran.  First, I updated my Facebook status.  Then, I grabbed my The Pioneer Woman Cooks cookbook and green spatula to be signed.  The Jeep was a close third.  You can get me to the MOA, Ree, but you can’t make me run.

11:20AM – Pamela to Andy: This blows, man.  I’m going to have to break the law and speed.

She did what she could, but we both hit the same slowdown across the eight lanes of two-way traffic.  Have ambulance, will have gawker slowdown.  Sigh.

11:28AM – Joy to Andy: I’m here in line.  The mall cop has already pissed me off but I think it won’t take too long to get through once Ree starts.

We found out later that there was a crew filming the reality show “Mall Cops: Mall of America” at the same time as the book signing by Ree.  Great. We also found out later that our mall cop rocked hardcore.

11:30AM – Andy to Joy: Wow.  Really?  Did you get a wristband?  I’m at 494.

11:39AM – Joy to Andy: Yup.  I’m near the end of the first line.  Get your wrist thing and come to your little red haired friend.  I have cake.

11:40AM – Andy to Joy: Stuck in trffc. Bstrds.

11:44AM – Joy to Andy: Yeah.  The traffic over near here sucks.

To say it “sucks” put it mildly.  It was traffic at the MOA on a Saturday.  There were people directing clueless drivers who were trying not to hit mothers with baby strollers going to Ree’s book signing.  I’m not kidding.

11:48AM – Pamela called Andy: No niceties…no “how’ve you beens,” it was all about how the heck to get into the parking ramps at the Mall.  Traffic jams…bad driving…and even we used our better judgment and stopped texting.  I filled her in about the wristbands, lines, and Joy.  We agreed to get what we needed and meet in line.

After parking on the fifth floor, I tried to make a mental note of my Jeep’s location.  I’ve been known to resort to hitting the panic button or trunk release in order to find my vehicle in crowded parking areas before.  I waltzed into Nordstrom with my spatula and cookbook as my swork and shield.  My mission was clear and my feet were ready.  It was 11:48 and I was going to stand in line.

For a long time.

11:50AM – Andy to Joy: Walking into Nordstrom top floor.

11:55AM – Joy to Andy: Grab your wristband and aim for the end of Line One.

Line One?  How many lines are there?  Are there signs?  I saw a place to buy a cookbook.  I saw a place to get a wristband.  I saw a line coiling around and around.  I think an aerial shot would’ve been a snail shell configuration.  I saw many smiling faces.  I did not see my little red headed friend with cake.

11:57AM – Joy to Andy: Where’d you go?  Come back to the escalator.

You try finding “Line One” in a mob of people you’d rather not tick off.  The people waiting to meet Ree and get her autograph were just like Joy, Pamela, and me.  Some older, some younger…all clutching colorful, floral shields emblazoned with a photo of a woman with long auburn tresses and a green Le Creuset.  I stood for a moment at the end of a very long line.  That was when I realized I wasn’t by the escalator mentioned in Joy’s text.  But, I was at the end of The Line.  Hmm.  Quandary.  I walked a little and saw that Joy was at the end of a line that was much closer to the book-signing stage.  Ah, Line One.

It was hard to think offensively in this crowd of people just like me.  But, just as I’d shed my usual, lollygag-style of driving to get to the Mall, I could also shed my Minnesota-nice style of standing in line…and budge next to my friend.  Come on!  She had cake!  You would’ve done it, too!

As it turned out, she’d cleared it with the mall cop next to her that she’d have one friend joining her.  What we didn’t clear was that I’d have one friend joining me.  We are not nice people.  Without a “Hello!” or “How’ve you been?” we squeezed in the newly arrived Pamela right next to me…without batting an ethical eye.  I was thinking about it, though, the night before at “New Moon.”  What is fair in Lines and War?  If someone were disgruntled over being the victim of a budge, what would a fair trade-off be?  Letting them go ahead of both the budger and the budger’s buddy?  That’d tip the scales.  I digress.  Really, if anyone were so ticked off about a budge, I’d wave them through.  We all came to that conclusion at the end of Line One.  Then again, we didn’t have to follow-through with it because our mall cop was enforcing the end o’ the line for us…and when he couldn’t, Jessica did.

Joy had been in line since a little after 11:00.  She’s passed her time with Jessica, the other lucky last-in-liner for Line One.  Jessica was able to also wave in another person, her sister-in-law, Katie.  Jessica had a quick wit, gorgeous eyes, and an armload of four cookbooks to be signed.  Those cookbooks got pretty heavy close to five hours later.  I felt for her.

I introduced Pamela and Joy to each other and, as we all laughed at something, I noticed that Pamela has just as distinct of a laugh as Joy.  This was going to be a good time.  I was already amused.

At that point, we had no clue how long we’d be hanging out together.  And, after it was all over, I could never have told you that it was around four hours and twenty minutes that we spent in line…it was that much fun.  How does one pass the time?  I’m not sure what everyone else did…but I’ll tell you how we passed the time.

I started it off by eating a delicious piece of cake that Joy had made for a dinner party the night before.  When she handed it to me, I had a moment of deja vu.  I knew this cake.  I’d recently seen its yellow and brown marbling somewhere…but where?  I took a bite…it was the Nutella Poundcake that had been just featured in the latest store magazine REAL FOOD by Lunds and Byerly’s, our local high-end grocery store chains.  I’d fallen asleep reading that issue the night before “New Moon.”  I’d wanted to make the cake.  Joy did.  I will forever be grateful to her for that.

I also knew that I’d be spending some quality time trying to tutor Pamela in the ways of her new CrackBerry.  When I was laid off, I had to part ways with mine…it was rough.  I had to come to terms with not being able to upload a photo or update my status on Facebook whenever the spirit moved me.  I couldn’t Tweet at will.  I relished the thought of being able to vicariously relay the Pioneer Woman experience at the MOA through Pamela’s CrackBerry.  Once I figured it out.  Two hours and one cup of Caribou Coffee later, I had us up and running…keeping our Facebook friends and fans of Ree apprised of our progress.

I also made sure to whip out my iTouch and hack into some WiFi to update my Facebook account…

…and Tweet a bit.

I wish someone would've taken me up on the auction offer. Seriously, I'm unemployed. I could've used the cash and had plenty of time to spare.

Here's my "Ree Tweet." Get it? Ha. Retweet. I know. It didn't need explanation.

We took pictures of ourselves, our surroundings, and our objects of affection.

Pamela, Andy, Joy...with one of the blue balls. Yes, that joke was made.

A handler came around and wrote our names on the items we wanted Ree to autograph. Background: Our mall cop and Jessica...with her four cookbooks.

With Jessica and Katie...after Katie had made a Taco Bell run. Atta girl.

There's never a dull moment with Joy.

The object of our affection...on time and on stage.

What was between us and our object of affection. (By the way, the back of your head looks nice, Joy.)

Ree took the stage and did not disappoint.  Of what I could hear of her (the sound system probably wasn’t intended to make it past the blue balls and escalator), she was just as funny and entertaining in person as she is in writing.  She sang a little song, talked about sweaty palms, and let us know that the young cowboy on their ranch, Cowboy Josh, is not only single but is also dogsitting their Basset Hound, Charlie, during this leg of the book signing tour.  I felt the crowd swoon…much as it did upon seeing her husband, Marlboro Man, and their punks.

Marlboro Man and the youngest punks. So close, but nothing was going to make me leave my spot in line. Nothing. Except the aforementioned money.

The signing had begun, but there was still plenty of waiting to be done.  We lost Joy for a while who left for some nourishment.  I made Pamela listen to a song on my iPod…it was by Weezer and when I posted its title as my Facebook status update “Andy Lien:: ‘(If you’re wondering if I want you to) I want you to” Pamela took it to mean that I wanted her to send me a Neti Pot, so she did.  We lost Katie for a while to a bench.  We saw other people we knew from other areas of life, one of whom–Christy–I worked with at a private school.  She made a gift for Ree which I saw last night on Ree’s site.  Rah, Christy.

We wound our way to the middle of Line One.  Then, Ree disappeared.  The poor gal needed to exercise her right to a bathroom break.  She came back to a little applause.  We’re a crowd who fears neither bathroom breaks nor sweaty pits.  When we were finally in the line’s layer that was next to the stage, we overheard the mall cops telling one of the people who coordinated the event that there was a suspicious package by Orange Julius and we needed to move.

No way.  Not gonna happen.  This is what I said:

We’re also a crowd that doesn’t fear diaper bags.

We stayed the course and were on deck within minutes.  We checked our flashes and decided they should be used.  I checked my breath and it smelled of fermenting Twizzlers.  I popped in a piece of gum…I’m nothing, if not classy.

When it came time for our turns with Ree, we all found ourselves a bit tongue-tied.  What do you say to a person you feel like you’ve known for a couple of years but have never met?  After hours of build-up, we had only a minute or so with Ree.  And, you know what?  That made me happy.  It was perfect.  I visit with her for only a minute or two per day…it seemed only appropriate that we didn’t sit and linger for a heart-to-heart chat.  Plus, I still didn’t know what to say to her.

So, we chit-chatted.  She signed my book and my spatula.  We smiled at the camera.  She was all class.  And tall.  God bless her, she’s tall.

As we slowly walked away from the signing stage, we got our free t-shirts (very cool, Ree) and said goodbye to our close friends for four hours, Jessica and Katie.  Our legs were tired and I did the second Zombie Walk to my Jeep in a MOA parking lot within 24 hours.

When I got home, I went through my pictures and noticed this.

Like I said…I’m nothing, if not classy.

Thank you, P-Dub, for sharing your life and talent with us.  And, for giving us a reason to spend Saturday afternoon together at the MOA.  Later that evening, I received the following text from Pamela:

6:22PM – Pamela to Andy: My friend is still in line waiting.

If you may recall, her friend got there before we did.

Okay…I owe Joy for more than the piece of Nutella Cake.  I owe her for getting us into Line One.

And my karma may require a little recompense.

A Cheeky Monkey and A Piece of Cake

A sunny day.  A sunny day in St. Paul.  A sunny day in St. Paul on Selby.

There.  That’s about right.

I see the trend–I’m not blind to it.  The last restaurant review I did was of The Blue Door Pub also on Selby in St. Paul.  It’s not that I don’t branch  out.  Really.  Last week, I had three scrumptious flavors* of artisan ice cream at Izzy’s…but I didn’t have my camera and it was a dismal rainy day.  Izzy’s always pleases…the day’s context did not.  And, for those of you wise locals, you might also note that Izzy’s is in St. Paul.  On Marshall.  One block from Selby.

I love St. Paul.

And, one of my dearest friends-who-is-also-not-working-right-now lives a couple blocks off of Selby in St. Paul.  There are no coincidences.

Joy and I set up a lunch date and she threw out the Cheeky Monkey Deli as a new place to try.  Looking it up, I noticed it was where the old brother restaurants Zander Cafe and Cafe Z used to live.  A time when Mildred Pierce used to be more than a name of a great dame, but also a great eatery.  An era when The Vintage inhabited a now-empty old Victorian with a realty sign in front of it.  Oh, St. Paul.  You can be fickle.

Meeting Joy and her infant son Vin at the Cheeky Monkey after 12:30, we hoped we’d find a place to sit.  With a baby at a delicatessen, you don’t want to find yourself also balancing your beverage as you loom…watching over people…waiting for them to vacate their lunch tables.  Personally, I’m not a fan of the establishments at which you order off a board at the counter, grab a number, and sit down.  I need more time than that.  I like service.  I like a menu I don’t have to crane my neck to read.  So, I made sure to look at the menu online before meeting them for lunch…and my decision was quick and easy.  The hot meatloaf sandwich would be mine.

I’m not surprised by Joy’s choice, either.  She ordered the Cubano, something I know she likes to compare from establishment to establishment.  We both had a glass of ginger lemonade for the sunny day lunch.  And, an empty table with room for a high chair rounded out our lunchtime preparation.

This is where I should mention a couple tally marks of mistakes.  The gal who took our order just could’ve been new to the job.  Or, just not terribly observant.  After she tipped over the on-deck pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator which spillled all over both the appliance and the floor (I cringed at the stickiness to come), she handed me a broken glass of lemonade…at the same time another gentleman came up with a broken glass he’d gotten from her.  Whoops.  Her coworker promptly fixed the foible with gracious apologies as I stared at the lemonade being tracked around tarnation.  It was quick and without kerfuffle.  We’ll call those tally marks canceled-out.

My own mistakes started with not paying attention to the menu to note the accoutrements of my sandwich.  What accoutrements?  Oh, there weren’t any.  I didn’t pay attention because I didn’t think there wouldn’t be any.  Usually, at lunch places, there’s a side of cole slaw and chips with a sandwich.  At the very least–at a deli–there’s a pickle.  Our sandwiches showed up in stylish black wire baskets with nothing but the tissue paper liners.  Oh, they looked very chic served in the high-ceilinged black, red, and white surroundings.  But, ultimately, very disappointing.  It was 1:00pm and one of us was still eating for two.  This was not looking good.

My sandwich was $6.00.  My bill was $9.15 (was the lemonade over $3.00?).  And, I always tip…even when I don’t have table-side service.  So, for $11.15, I got a glass of lemonade and a sandwich the size of a double-pack of playing cards.  Sigh.

Another mistake for the scoreboard: I should’ve noted that I could’ve gotten some great side dishes…if I had noticed, first, that I wasn’t going to be getting any automatically.  A pot of pickles for $.75, some salt and pepper chips for $1.25 or cole slaw for $2.00.  My love of olives should’ve sensed that I could’ve had a side of them in marinade for $3.00.  Heck, the side-dish offerings were more diverse than a pickle and a pile of chips…I could’ve even gotten a side salad or hummus for $3.00 a piece.  But, what would have been the use of noticing that these were a la carte side menu items?  I would’ve said to myself that spending $10.00 for lunch, plus another $5.00 for beverage and tip probably wouldn’t be worth it.  It’s not that I’m not used to such prices for a lunch.  My old favorite lunch place when I worked in Plymouth was the D’Amico and Sons in Golden Valley.  I’d get the salad sampler  and beverage for just under $10.00 and bring the two free slices of bread and over half the sampler home to eat at a later time.  Or, I’d go to Bacio in Minnetonka and order the sumptuous Grilled Turkey Burger for $11.95 that came with fries and aioli to die for…and, again, take half of it home.**  I spend money on lunch if the lunch merits the money.

This one didn’t.

This is where I took on my final, crucial mistake.  Instead of Operator Error, we’ll call it Ordering Error.  I didn’t read the description of my meatloaf sandwich.  I stopped at meatloaf, cheddar, and bacon.  Does that not sound delectable?  Add a little barbecue sauce and close coffin lid, I’m in heaven.  When I got the sandwich, I picked up the first dainty teatime half of it and took a bite.  And took a breath.  And blinked.

Wow, that was hot.  I tasted chili peppers.  That was about all I could taste.

Duh, of course I would.  The entire description of the sandwich said it was comprised of “Meatloaf, cheddar, bacon, spicy mustard, [and] pickled chilies on toast.”  Whimper.  I can handle spicy food…if I steel myself first and expect nothing  but a drippy nose and hiccups later.  No, it wasn’t quite that spicy, but the first bite only gave me chilies.  I couldn’t tell there was a bite of meatloaf, let alone cheese and bacon on it.  After Joy and I had already puckered our faces over the unsweetened lemonade (okay…I take back the sticky floor bit as there was no sugar in it, it was probably more of a cleanser) I then flashed her the “I made a big mistake” look.  Giving it the benefit of the doubt, I announced that I was going to “turn it over” for a second approach.  I wanted my tongue to get the meatloaf before the chilies.

Sigh.  Thwarted again.  My tongue hit Dijon.  I’m a huge mustard fan, but as a condiment…not as a course of its own.  Chewing through my second bite of spicy-tart sandwich, I bit past the frip-frappery to go right for the grey meatloaf in the middle.  And, it tasted like meatloaf.  Not great meatloaf.  Perhaps it was the greyness of the layer…perhaps it paled in comparison to its chili and mustard predecessors, but it was a disappointment.  I love me some meatloaf, but apparently this wasn’t meant to be.

I soldiered through my sandwich.  For heaven’s sake, I paid for it…I’m gonna eat it.  It wasn’t its fault that I can’t read menus, whether online or on the wall.  It wasn’t its fault that the Cubano ordered and consumed by Joy was quite a bit better than it.  It wasn’t its fault that it was overpriced as a small, solo sandwich.

It knew I didn’t hold it responsible for my dining disappointment.  And, because of that, it gave me one last bite of redemption: A little toast, a little meatloaf, and a bite of bacon glued together with melted cheddar.  Amen.

So, we left the Cheeky Monkey with a less-than-great taste in our mouths. Wanting to walk off some of the soon-to-be-forgotten lunch, we ventured down to Selby and Western to soak in some of the history and architecture.  After caressing beautiful cards and stationary at the Paper Patisserie (oh…the tactile pleasures of paper), we wandered back to our vehicles…but not before stopping for dessert at A Piece of Cake.

Not knowing A Piece of Cake was more than a storefront for a wedding cake company, we pressed our noses against the window.  At this point, we were still hungry and also happened to have a sleeping baby who wasn’t as enthralled by the paper products as we were.  Seeing cupcakes, cookies, pies, bars, and cakes,  we stepped inside and were pleased by the quiet eating area…as well as the prices.  We purchased a big chocolate-oatmeal bar, a cup of coffee, and a huge Red Velvet cupcake for less than half the price of my lunch.  And we were pleased.

The day was still sunny.  The street was still Selby.  And St. Paul was just a little bit sweeter.

 

_________________________

 

*Izzy’s Ice Cream pleased my palate with a split single scoop of Hot Brown Sugar (cayenne roasted pecans in a burnt sugar ice cream) and Midnight Snack (swirls of graham cracker, peanut butter, and chocolate in graham cracker ice cream) with an Izzy (little tasting scoop) of Mexican Chocolate (dark chocolate and cinnamon ice cream).  Yum.

**Sure, we lunchers are a bit too accustomed to a bit too much food.  We are used to getting a bunch of lunch.  Hear this disclaimer: We should not eat as much food as we do.  There should be more take-home boxes leaving restaurants.  That said, we also shouldn’t pay too much money for too small a meal.  It hoits.

I Love Blucy – The Blue Door Pub Review

My brother and I were having a Local Dive/Great Grub conversation a couple of months ago.  Our parents were in town and we were on our Great Family Staycation of 2009, the home base of which was in the Merriam Park Neighborhood in St. Paul.  And, nestled within Merriam Park and the nearby Mac-Groveland neighborhood, are such gems as The Groveland Tap, The Nook, and The Blue Door Pub.*

The Blue Door Pub?  Erik threw that out as an option after I’d mentioned I’d had the best cheese-centered-burger at The Nook, but that I’d already brought Dad there before a Wild game a couple of years ago.  By cheese-centered-burger, I need to be clear as each local dive has its own name for its masterpiece of hamburger patties fused around cheese that melts as the burger cooks to medium-perfection.  Matt’s Bar in Minneapolis has the “Original Jucy Lucy.”  The Groveland Tap and South Minneapolis’s 5-8 Club call it a “Juicy Lucy.”  The Nook cooks up a mean “Juicy Nookie.”  Names and such are important foodie business in the Twin Cities.

What about this “Blue Door” place?

Wanting to expand my stomach’s horizons, I asked a bit more about this new purveyor of gooey cheese food…most importantly, where is it?  I get a little territorial  and huffy when my brother knows something more about my ‘hood than I do, being that my alma mater is the “Mac” of “Mac-Groveland.”

“It’s at Selby and Fairview,” he said.

I pictured the intersection in my feeble mind.  “Did it replace that other restaurant?”  I’m all about specifics.

“Yes.”

“The one…what was the name…I went there once…something with ‘azul’ in the name?”  I was hot on the trail.  I had half of it.  He wasn’t going to know more about my stomping grounds than me.  “It’s now The Blue Door?”

“Puerta Azul?” he finished the other half of the restaurant’s name.

I nodded.  “Yeah.  That sounds right.  I think.”

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Blink.

Blink.

Sigh.  “I took French, Jerk.”

So, we may have a neighborhood knowledge draw, but he’s got me on the Spanish language.  Either way, we didn’t eat at any of the neighborhood dives that lunchtime as we needed to keep the young kids fresh between morning and afternoon engagements and, as we many of us have learned the hard way, kids rule the schedule.  We ended up with sandwiches and naps for all of us.

This past Saturday was gorgeous here in Minnesota.  The sun was out, the air was crisp but not cold.  My afternoon activity was to go over to St. Paul for a late lunch and cookfest with Joy and Aisha at Joy’s new pad just off of historic Summit Avenue.  Having had an eleventh hour textfest about canceling the cookfest and enjoying the weather (yes, vague), I left the dog at home and dressed for whatever the day may bring.  I left that a bit open ended…Joy and her husband Matt have a delightful five-month old lad named Vin.  As far as this three-person Dependency Spectrum goes, Joy has a somewhat-distracted student husband and new child so she’s close to the “Never in Control of Own Destiny Let Alone Using the Bathroom Solo” end; Grendel puts me near the middle with “Can’t Fall Off Face of the Earth but Can Crate for the Day Without Too Much Guilt;” while Aisha’s “rocnrol” husband and two flighty cats have her at the “Am I Supposed to Be Somewhere?” end.  So, between the three of us, it wasn’t too hard to figure out who picked our afternoon plans.

Vin did.

And Vin’s parents who left the base of his car seat in the vehicle that had gone to the University of Minnesota for the afternoon.

C0nsidering the facts that Vin can sleep in the sling that Joy coils around herself like a textile Slinky and that she’s always got his food supply along for the ride by anatomical default, we were mobile…within walking distance.  And, what’s within walking distance of her new place?

The Blue Door.

Porte Bleue.

Being that it was 1:30 in the afternoon, we were hoping the stories of a waiting-line-out-the-door wouldn’t apply to us.  But, we’re out of touch with the world.  Let me say this again to you folks who don’t know where the intersection of Fairview and Selby in St. Paul is located: We were hoping there wouldn’t be a line to get in at a greasy burger joint located between The University of St. Thomas and Macalester College at 1:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday.

Suckers.  No, there wasn’t a line…but there was a wait.  The three of us strode through the blue door (Hey, if you wanted to say it in Spanish, it’d be “puerta azul!”) and into a wall of heat and steam with a strong tinge of chlorine.  Every table was full and every table’s guests were moving at sloth pace due to the time, day, diet, and climate.  I think my pulse slowed to an audible chug as we assessed the situation.  We agreed to give them a name and wait but the need to breathe drove us to do our waiting outside.  In the sun.  In the air.  In a chair.

We meandered back outside and Joy and I both plopped into chairs next to a table.  Next to the table and chairs were stacks of tables and chairs.  Then, collective genius struck.  (Really, the three of us could probably change a light bulb but only after we’d been fed.)  We could dine outside!

After assuring them we’d be fine with no booze on the sidewalk (apparently it’s a no-no…Vin took it the hardest), we set up our al fresco dining room and settled in for a glorious meal.  Even Vin got to try a high chair for the first time.  And, rather than sound anti-establishment, the restaurant is quite charming and I could’ve dined inside…it’s just that I was wearing corduroy and had bathed earlier in the day.  Plus, look at the mid-October weather in Minnesota.  It would’ve been criminal to ignore it.

Sun on Selby with Joy and Aisha.

What? Like You Don't Ever Bring a Monkey to Lunch?

Clearly, all was meant to be.  Now, for the menu.  It became obvious how The Blue Door chose to distinguish itself among the other cheese-centered-burgers in the Metropolitan Area: We were shopping for Blucys.  Charming.  My marketing heart smiled.  Immediately, I chose the Bacon Blucy.  A burger stuffed with cheddar and bacon.  Upon reading the rest of the description, I pulled the hair trigger and chose to upgrade it to a Cowboy Blucy, adding a mere fifty cents as well as barbecue sauce, exterior cheese, and onion rings to my culinary near future.  I couldn’t wait.

Well, not waiting wasn’t an option…you can’t rush perfection.  But, you can have an appetizer in the meanwhile.

It didn’t take long to discuss appetizers.  Joy brought up the SPAM Bites and Aisha and I promptly (and perhaps unfairly) shot that one down.  She’d had them, they were good.  Me?  I’ve determined that the only good thing to come out of Austin, Minnesota, was my dog…and he came from the pound, not the Hormel plant.  Instead, we were slapped in the face by the Deep Fried Pickles.  This is the land of the Minnesota State Fair at which even corn husks are deep fried and served to thronging masses of thick-thighed people.  I was also interested in comparing them to the deep fried pickle spears served by The Groveland Tap which, in my estimation, retained the heat of the fryer too long due to the density of the spears.  I was pleasantly surprised by what came out of the kitchen with a side of garlic aioli.

Thin-sliced Dill Deliciousness.

There Goes the Neighborhood.

Aisha and I dug in.  Joy snagged a bit of batter, tossed it in her mouth, and muttered something sounding like “Tempura.”  Undeterred, my first bite delighted me:  Garlic introduced a delicately crisped-but-soft blanket of oily batter, surrounding a thin slice of warm pickle.  Nothing scalded me, nothing choked me, nothing overwhelmed me.  Understand, I have a high grease threshold, but I found these to be well within the “normal” range…for a Minnesotan, at any rate.

Before the Appetizer Afterglow had worn off, our burgers appeared.  Between Joy and Aisha, they had chosen the Blucys with blue cheese inside…one of them added bacon.  Both of them had the hand-cut fries, I went full-on glutton and had as my potatoes of choice the deep fried Cajun Tater Tots with a side of ranch dressing.  And, like those French women who don’t get fat, I’ll tell you that this is not a meal to repeat with any sort of regularity.  Moderation, baby.

But a meal to enjoy, it was.  The Cajun Tater Tots weren’t too spicy and the ranch dressing was creamy without being cloying.  And, that the tots were fried and not just baked added to their decadence.  Compared to fries with their geometrical shapes, the tots had the additional and more porous surface area to take on the crisping oil.  (Come on.  Work with me.  Or, are you one of those weirdos who discards crispy chicken skin, too?  If so, you may want to stop reading.)  At the risk of sounding like Napoleon Dynamite, the tots were fantastic.

And the Blucy?  How do I judge my cheese-centered-burgers?  I admit, it has as much to do with presentation and self-preservation as it does with taste.  First, does it look good and will it leave me looking good?

Shucks, That's Purdy.

Its bun glistened, the pickles and onion rings were obvious and inviting, and the extra cheese and barbecue sauce glued the sandwich together.  It looked good, but whether it would leave me looking good was yet to be seen.  I cut it in half.  The cheese-centered-burgers served by some of the aforementioned establishments tend to run amok at this point…which is why self-preservation is key.  When the cheese that is used liquifies instead of melts it becomes a hazard to my well-being and wardrobe.  If it spurts, it hurts.  We’re talking about molten liquid cheese, here.  I already mentioned that I was wearing corduroy…not only would such an eruption potentially burn me, but I could be scraping crap out of my cords until Kingdom Come.

Let me assuage your concerns here.  I know tension is high, I’ll end your misery: The Cowboy Blucy passed with flying colors.

Be Still My (Clogged) Heart.

By now, I know better than to lift up a cheese-centered-burger and take a blind bite.  I’d rather cut it in half and risk losing the contents in the basket than down my chin and in my lap upon popping it by means of a bite.  Being the cheese in the middle was cheddar and there were bits o’ bacon to cobble the burger together, I was in no danger of anything other than clogging my arteries in one sitting.  Second, the taste.  I know–it’s odd to place taste second in the list of how a meal rates, but this is a special case.  If it doesn’t pass the first round, it’s rather difficult to enjoy–or even ascertain–how it tastes.  Right?

Oh, did this baby taste good.  It was like a marriage.  A love marriage.  The sweet and tangy barbecue sauce complemented the bite of the cheddar and the smoke of the bacon.  The burger, itself, was juicy and discreetly seasoned.  The onion ring, barely a hint, was like an unobtrusive chaperone, if such a thing exists.  It was there, but only to accompany…not overpower.  Perfect.

I can only guess that the other two enjoyed their meals as much as I did.

I Never Knew I had a Thing for Cowboys.

All in all, The Blue Door is a winner.  Good location, great food, and the staff was extremely personable.  Our server, Angie, was nice enough to be the human eclipse every time we spoke so I could at least try to focus on her facial features as I gazed at her against the sun.  And, she handled our little tabletop aberration with class  by simply removing it…and the bee within it.

The Bee Menagerie.

I hate bees almost more than I hate clowns.

With happy bellies, a doggie bag, and a strap-on kid we continued with our St. Paul afternoon and hit some of the stores at Selby and Snelling.  Our afternoon might’ve taken us over to the old campus, but young Vin started gnawing at his mother’s clothes and we had to respect his need to feed as well.

What a Guy.

Like I said, we know who rules the schedules.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

___________________________________

*Merriam Park and Mac-Groveland are known for many other eating establishments, but we’re sticking to the category of Local Dives/Great Grub.

I am a Rock, I am an Island.

I started this on the train almost two weeks ago…but was distracted by a low battery and the fact that I was aboard a Circus Train.  Thank goodness I wrote it in past tense anyhow…man, those tenses kill me.

Oh, did the prospects of Saturday pique my interest.  We woke up to a sunny day in Bellingham, Washington.  Coffee, half & half, homemade biscotti, and fruit was our morning menu…but this wasn’t just any fruit.  The lovely plate of goodies not only had ripe-but-not-overripe apricots and big, red strawberries, but also the variety of cherries known as Rainier Cherries.  They look a bit like the red and yellow fiery tulips…yellow bleeding into orange into a candy apple red.  Luscious.  Knowing our first stop was to be the Farmer’s Market downtown, I didn’t load up too much on the goodness—that would still be in the fridge upon our return.

It’s funny how Minnesotans are somewhat tortured over our preoccupation with the weather, but I’d like to point out that it’s usually during the winter or severe thunderstorms.  We monitor how many inches are expected, if there’ll be sleet above or below a new blanket of white, or if we should run to our basements due to impending tornadic doom.  In Bellingham, the weather at the home of Leah and Jorgy could be as different from that at the Farmer’s Market just minutes away to make one rue any poorly made wardrobe decisions.  I had to rib the Bellinghamptons (Bellinhamplians? Bellinghutians?) about this—how they couldn’t shake loose the topic of the weather.

Arriving at the Farmer’s Market in Bellingham is a much different experience than either the Minneapolis or St. Paul markets.  We drove near the parking area and were faced with an immediate difficult decision to make: Where to park…there were too many open spaces.  Never a problem in Minnesota…you can never park within a three-block radius unless you get there at the butt crack of dawn.  To that point, we arrived around 9:45…which is when most Minnesota crème de la crème of produce might be picked over.  Instead, in Bellingham, we noticed that stands were still being set up by their vendors.  The clanging of the bell at 10:00 would later tip us off that we were not only going to find the pick of the produce, but we were early.

We started wandering in a somewhat methodical fashion.  I’m all about order…and what I love about Leah is that she is, too.  The first booth I saw brought forth an excited utterance out of me.

SCAPES.

It was an organic produce stand and right there, as the centerpiece of the table, was a huge vase of garlic scapes.  Oh, I love those exotic green coils so.  They’re Seussian in their form…fresh, solid tubes of light and crispy garlic flavor.  I had to take a picture.  Upon being caught by the cute Bellingham-crunchy bearded vendor with black-framed glasses, I quickly explained that I am from Minnesota and scapes are like gold to me.  He told me to take a couple.

FOR FREE?!?

He nonchalantly told me to go ahead and run with my bounty.  I trilled to Leah and Jorgy about it and stuffed two of the scapes into my purse.  This was starting out on a great note.  I wanted to marry him.

The market was segmented into covered rows, at the head of which ran a long, tall open-air building perpendicular to the rows.  Within the building were artists and jewelers, candles and textiles.  And the pretzel maker.  The biscotti and regional fruit were only the hors d’ouevres for this main course: A pretzel filled with Nutella.  Leah had already tipped me off to these and I readily followed her example and got one for myself.  We savored (okay scarfed) our doughy Nutella babies and I laughed over how all topics seem to turn to Nutella lately.  I couldn’t wait to gloat over it.  Read it here.  Gloat.  It was glorious.

We continued to amble our way through the market.  Each vendor station was as if a Fifth Avenue professional window dresser had lent her artistic eye to the goods.  Eggplants, asparagus, beets, peppers, beans, cabbages, and huge pea pods graced the presence of most of the stands…in addition to some specific berry sellers.  I wanted to nab a giant pea pod just to look inside to see if each pea was the size of a marble, but refrained.  Leah bought some sugar snap peas which were at least double the size of our organic sugar snaps from Featherstone and I had Pea Envy.  Seriously.

Also in abundance were…yes…scapes.  I’d turn a corner and spy another batch of scapes each one bigger than the other.  At a certain point, I stopped taking pictures.  Here comprises the rest of my Scape Menagerie:

Bliss.  They don’t know how good they have it.  I had to stop with the photography–I was an embarrassment.

Eventually, the small market had been enjoyed to its fullest…people watching, busker listening, pretzel eating, and pea pod purchasing accomplished.

Next, it was time to travel to grab the car ferry for Lummi Island, the smallest and closest of the San Jaun Islands off the coast of Washington.  As a child, I would lovingly page through the National Geographic showcasing Victoria, British Columbia, and so wanted to go there to see the beauty.  There were starfish of orange and purple…seeming so …oh, rainforesty…but in Canada.  Alas, Victoria was not meant to be.  I had botched getting my passport renewed in time and didn’t want to relive the angst we went through when my parents and I went to Canada’s International Campobello Island from Maine last year only to be duly chastised for not having passports upon our return.  This year, there would be no exceptions after June 1…so, we made us some lemonade.

Lummi Island was where Ladies’ Aid chose to send Leah and Jorgy for a stay at a bed and breakfast as a delayed honeymoon.  We didn’t know a thing about the Bellingham area when we chose the little island, so I was terribly curious to see where we’d sent them.  We drove north of Bellingham and took to some country roads.  What is so special about touring with the two of them who are now working and living in the area is that they can give a new insider’s view to the experience.

As we drove through the Indian Reservation, they told me of some of the rules and history of the area as well as some of their own experiences with life on the water.  And, I’m not talking “Land of 10,000 Lakes” water.  Jorgy’s job has him working for the Bellingham Port Authority at the Alaska Ferry lines office.  Lore has it that there was a criminal who’d taken the ferry from Alaska to Bellingham with one goal in mind: To go to Bellingham with a pistol and a rifle, find the female cop who’d caught him, and shoot her.  As it so happened, the cop was standing at the ferry terminal and as the guy disembarked the ferry, he saw her.  He grabbed his pistol and upon seeing the gun, she fled.  Shots were fired and as he chased her, he realized that he was blocked off from his rifle that was in his suitcase…that had been checked.  Knowing not what he should do, he grabbed the ferry’s purser and held the gun to him.  More law enforcement arrived…purser still at gunpoint…and when the guy realized all was for naught, he turned the gun on himself.  The story ended with the disappearance of the purser who was later found to have wordlessly walked himself down the street to the nearest bar and promptly got his drunk on.

The moral of the story is: Don’t check your suitcase with the rifle in it.

Our day was accented with such stories and I loved every one of them.  Leah and Jorgy gave me more than the tourist’s taste…I highly recommend staying with them if you’re ever in Bellingham.

We reached the Lummi Ferry landing and waited in line for the boat to arrive.  The skies were clear and the sun was streaming down on the water.  The island itself isn’t very big, but it’s tall.  I’m not accustomed to tall islands…the air of the new was fragrant.  Because the car ferry is a tiny thing only holding about twenty regular-sized vehicles, there was no room for opening doors and running around on the deck during the 10-minute ride to the island.  Oh, fine.  I had to settle for yelling “I’m king of the world!” from the back seat of the Taurus.  I love boats.

After leaving the ferry we went directly to the island’s version of a Farmer’s Market, which was…oh…about 100 vendors smaller than the Bellingham market.  There were about five stands.  One with puppies (immediately, I voted this market better than Bellingham’s).  We putzed through the stands and the nearby store before taking off for the drive around the island.  Not so fast…there was more putzing to be done.  We found that the reason for the sparse market was that there was a rivaling church rummage sale down the road.  It had our names written all over it.  Oh, do we like our rummaging.  Leah’s style has as much to do with buying new items to decorate her surroundings as it does with using antiques or rehabbing relics.  “One person’s junk…” And so it goes.

The sun was beating down on us as we perused the new items…jewelry, handmade cards, and more dogs.  Okay.  They dogs weren’t for sale, but I’m a bit o’ertaken when it comes to dogs in public.  Must.Touch.Dogs.  And, if allowed, Must.Stroke.Soft.Dog.Ears.  There’s nothing like a dog’s ears for making everything right in the world with a touch.  While I was making new best friends with two yellow labs, the perusing continued.  It was an interesting set up…the building was a lodge-like log structure in the back of which was a deck with a few umbrellas.  Kind of like a camp church with a back bar patio.  A beer garten and a guy with a microphone made it clear that this was an all-day affair…if we stuck around, we could even take in some live music.  As we finished up our business, I heard out of the corner of my ear a familiar “Fu-WUHHHH.”

Could it be?  Was our timing correct?  Would we be treated to a live performance of THE BAGPIPE?  “Fu-WHUHHHH.”  The air was in, the bladder was being compressed and out came the first notes of a Scottish tune.  My face lit up like a kid on Christmas morn.

Onward we traveled around the small island…our next destination was a beach accessible if you parked on a road and found the trail opening in the trees.  Kind of like portaging in the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area.  For me, it was a bit by-gosh-or-by-golly, but Leah and Jorgy knew where they were going.  On the trail, we had to squnch to the side to let others pass going back to the road…one of whom squarely stepped on the largest slug Leah had ever seen.  She was just about to point it out, but it met its demise before she could bring it to our attention.  Boo.  I was really looking forward to seeing me some giant slug.

Down at the beach, it was rocks and rocks as far as the eye could see.  I wasn’t exactly prepared for just how seriously we were going to hunt for rocks, but figured out why Leah armed us with cloth bags before leaving the car.  We meant business…and I was ready.

This, my friends, was the beauty of this vacation.  There were moments of perfectly touristy things to do and there were times of silent rock hunting.  Simply spending time together doing something simple.  Appreciating the beauty of the place instead of looking for the next big adventure to be had on an island.  Telling stories about wayward criminals and local peculiarities.  Stacking stones on a log in a zen-like fashion.  Me yelling out every time I found sea glass and the color of the specimens…Jorgy silently turning in twice the amount of sea glass when it was time to leave the beach.  Cheeky.

Around the island we went, our final destination would give us burgers for our bellies.  Leaving Lummi Island provided more visual treasures as I sat in the backseat trying out my camera’s “macro” function…something that would become a theme to the rest of the time there.

Macro = Focus on Close Object.

Maritime Macro.

Not Macro. Far Away Object = Mount Baker.

Upon our return to Bellingham, they brought me to the waterfront where we laughed at kite-flyers and admired the beauty of the day.  At the Port Authority, we went looking off the piers into the water for starfish and my childhood vision from the National Geographic was realized.  We putzed some more in an antiques store and I practiced more “macro.”

My favorite word from Washington: Chuckanut.  Yup.  Sound it out.  Chuck-A-Nut.  The drive home was along the most scenic route and its name is Chuckanut Drive.  I laugh every time I say it.  Try it.

Our evening was spent enjoying meats and cheeses on their back patio…sifting through our rock bounty and just plain chatting.

Yes. That is the Beauty of Hunting Rocks.

We could’ve been in Minneapolis, but we were in Bellingham  The beauty of good friendship is being able to pick it up and put it anywhere.  I am blessed.

Lakewood Cemetery – Shifting Dimensions

I spent Sunday afternoon in a cemetery.

Nobody had passed, nobody was there to for me to visit posthumously.  Hardly anyone was there at all.

I drove through the gates of Lakewood Cemetery a little before 1:00 in the afternoon.  They were wide open and Hennepin Avenue flows right through them, causing an abrupt end to the avenue at the cemetery Administration Building.  A lovely structure, it was closed on a Sunday afternoon.  I had hoped to get a folded brochure of the walking tour there, but would make do with the copy I’d printed off from the internet despite the printer cutting off the right edge of the map.  I looked around…there was nobody else within eyesight.  Was I supposed to be there?  Is there a parking lot?  Would I get in trouble for pulling over wherever I pleased?

It became clear that I was supposed to be there.  The sky was blue and the clouds were white.  There was barely any sound which was unexpected as it was smack dab in the middle of the Minneapolis Urban Jungle: Uptown on one side, Lake Calhoun on another, and sun-starved half-naked Minnesotans all around.  I was happy to be buffered from the courteous chaos beyond the fences…acres of Minnesota’s ancestors, statesmen, mothers, fathers, brothes, sisters, and children were keeping the surroundings down to a respectful hum.

I almost didn’t want to run the engine of the Jeep…and I certainly felt it was appropriate to turn MPR from the edgy station to the classical station.  With the Sky Slider roof back, the sun on the skin, the symphonies for accompaniment, I was ready to tour Lakewood Cemetery.

Unobtrusive

Going around the loop in a counter-clockwise manner was my plan.  Starting at the gate but passing the Administration Building, the first stop would be the Chapel.  Lakewood Memorial Chapel  was built in 1910.  Designed by Minneapolis architect Henry Wild Hones, the Chapel was modeled after the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul.  The interior, by New York designer Charles Lamb, is modeled after the mosaic design in the San Marco Cathedral in Venice. Oh, what a structure.  Domes, arches, brick, and stained glass greeted my eyes as did ornamental iron and carved stone.  On the National Registry of Historic Places, the Chapel did not disappoint my senses…though the locked door did.  I walked to the door, felt its permanence beneath my fingers and breathed in its art.  The interior would have to wait for a return trip.  Oh, how I wanted to see the stained glass with the sunlight streaming through it…

Chapel

Form and Function

Turning around, I gasped in horror.  God, I hate mid-’60s architecture.  Really.  Beneath the beauty of the sky and at the end of a flower-bordered Pool of Reflections was the Mausoleum.  Shudder.  It looked like a fall-out shelter with a few carved stone pieces to distinguish it from the concrete vaults used to protect the caskets in the ground.  Completed in 1967 the Mausoleum exterior is comprised of Minnesota granite (okay…not concrete), steel, bronze, and ugliness.  Oh, how could such Elysian Fields be disrupted so?

This is where I would’ve inserted a picture of the Mausoleum exterior, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  No, I will spare you that blight.  It reminded me of the Dassel City Hall and Library.  Let’s stop talking about it.  It doesn’t belong in Lakewood.  I drove around to the entrance of the Mausoleum and, again, found myself wondering if I should be there.

To call it just a “mausoleum” is to be incomplete in its title; it is the Memorial Community Mausoleum and Columbarium.  From the description, I’m guessing that the mausoleum refers to the 3,000 crypts within…but the structure also has seven columbarium rooms with more than 2,000 individual and family “niches” for cremated remains.  I didn’t know any of this going into it.  I just read that now as I’m typing this blog post.  No, I went into the structure blind.

A Ford Focus pretty much sums up the firepower of the security guard I found in the office just inside the Mausoleum.  Always a class act, I parked, closed the Sky Slider roof, locked the doors, looped the three-keys-on-a-bootlace that I use when dog-walking (and when going purseless, I guess) around my neck, and refrained from removing my pink bucket hat upon entering the place of reverence.  I figured the lack of respect for the deceased was canceled out by the fact that I was doing them a service by hiding my hat hair.

The security guard was around the corner in an office, shuffling paperwork.  A look-alike of David Cross in the days of “Arrested Development,” I felt immediately at ease.

“Hi,” I said, camera in hand.

“Hello.”

That’s a start.  I continued, “I’ve never been here before…is it okay if I…um…poke around?”

POKE AROUND? What?  This isn’t a Yard Sale.  Jeez.

“Go ahead.”  He smiled.

Phew.

“And…um…is it okay that I parked…just…there?”  I asked, pointing to the only vehicle other than the Focus.

“Yes, it’s fine.”  He went back to his paperwork.

Wow.  I’m smooth.  I’m gonna go hide in the crypts now.

Walking into the main foyer, it was clear that the interiors were just as they were originally designed, except for the carpet.  The décor was very late 1960s.  Wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, ornate mirrors, dated sconces…and the stained-glass windows.  Oh, the stained-glass windows…they almost hurt my feelings considering that I don’t like the glass art that came from the same period as the architecture.  But, I can respect it.  And, I can admire the beauty that the stained glass windows cast on the corridors and alcoves of the final resting place of so many.

Blue Skies

Vignettes of both sacred and secular literature were portrayed in the 24 large stained-glass windows.  The colorful light they provided illuminated what could’ve been a very maudlin place.  In fact, there was an exquisite reflective effect on the marble of the corridors as the sun shone through the windows.  I noticed it after I tried to take a few photos of the windows, themselves.  Here is a small gallery of corridors.

As the only other person in the building but Security Guard Cross, I felt a little conspicuous.  I hoped that nobody minded me nosing around and taking pictures.  Having spent many a Wednesday night watching “Ghost Hunters” on SciFi, I have both a healthy imagination as well as a very real respect for what might be considered paranormal.  I didn’t want to bug anybody by taking their picture from a bad angle.  At least they didn’t have to worry about a double chin.  That’s something to look forward to.

I had to talk myself into going to the lower level.  I thought, “There.  You saw it.  This is the Mausoleum.”  But, I knew that if I were to experience the whole shebang, I had to stop being a chicken shit and go downstairs.  I don’t know what I was thinking—well, embarrassingly, the scene with Tony Todd in “Final Destination 2” kept popping up in my head.  I pushed the black button for the elevator and I swear I heard a pulley turn…yup: Original Lagerquist Elevator.  Great.  Stepping inside, I pushed the button for the lower level and felt the temperature plummet as I descended.  Well, that knocks out the “Final Destination 2” scenario with a crematorium, I figured.  Instead, as the doors opened, I saw more of the same sconces, chandeliers, wood paneling, and carpet.  I’m a dork.

The difference between the upper and lower levels had mostly to do with the lower level having more of an earthy feel…exposed wood beams at the ceiling, what looked like a slate tile on the floor, and piers of rough-hewn vertical rock strips anchoring the structure.  There were fewer stained-glass windows but many, many more niches.  Perhaps there’s a caste system to the Mausoleum and Columbarium.  The more you spend, the higher you stay…forever.  If that is the case, I had likely found my people…in the basement with very modest accommodations (if tan, grey, and green marble is modest).  The upper level contained corridors that were a polished rosy marble with distinguished metal lettering spelling out the family names…the lower level was more like a post office with smaller rooms of honed stone and carved lettering.  If nothing else, it was clear that the upper level sparkled while the lower level let it.  Definitely, my kind of people downstairs.  Figuring I’d spent just the right amount of time indoors, I bid Security Guard Cross adieu and left the building.  It was time to explore the smaller stone structures of the cemetery.

Oh, the monuments.  It was between 1850 and 1930 when prominent architects and sculptors designed monuments as “cemetery art,” the three most popular styles of which were: Classical Revival (ex: a woman draped in a robe), Egyptian Revivial (ex: obelisk), and Medieval Revival (ex: round, Romanesque lines or delicate gothic style).  As I walked from the darkness of the Mausoleum into the bright light of day, the monuments glowed.  I was drawn toward the Classical monuments…the women were haunting me.

On foot, I explored the area around the Mausoleum.  It seemed to be the central area where all the founding fathers were buried; many, many important names adorned the monuments: Lowry, Dunwood, Pillsbury, Fridley.  It was the Fridley monument that I took a particular shine to–one of the largest in the cemetery.

Smart Chick

Not only was Abram Fridley a farmer and Minnesota Representative in the 1800s, but he introduced the first women’s suffrage bill to the legislature.  The Minnesota city of Fridley was named after him.  I think we should’ve renamed the state after him.  Rah, Abram.

Here are additional impressive examples of monument art in Lakewood:

Knowing I had two more areas that  I really wanted to find from the self-guided tour I’d downloaded, I ventured onward.  The next section was to be the one closest to Lake Calhoun.  I took the Jeep around to the outer loop of Lakewood.  Upon seeing Lake Calhoun, I knew I was in the area of the Francis Memorial.  This is where I would find Ellen and Joseph Francis.  The story goes that they had vacationed in Minneapolis before Lakewood Cemetery was founded.  Ellen stood on a hill overlooking the Lake and said she had never seen such a beautiful site and that she wanted it to be her final resting place.  Upon the planning of the cemetery, Joseph immediately purchased the lot—Lot 1, Section 1—not realizing that Ellen would be laid to rest there only two years after in 1873…he was to outlive her by 20 years.  So lovely a story, I wanted to go find the spot and stand there myself.

I started walking toward the lake.  Seeing a memorial that was fashioned into a granite bench facing the lake,

My Kind of Monument

I smiled.  If my loved ones go against my cremation wishes and bury me in the ground, that’s the kind of utilitarian memorial I would like to have.  Moving closer to the lake, a wide white memorial popped into my field of vision: Pohlad.  Huh.  I didn’t know he was here.  Successful Minnesota businessman and philanthropist, I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that Carl Pohlad would have a first-class view of the lake from his gravesite.  What did surprise me was the understated boulder right next to Carl.

Could it be it? I’d read about it, but decided not to try to find it.  I walked closer.  My throat clenched.  Yes, that was it.  On the boulder in large letters was carved, WELLSTONE.

Oh, Paul.

I let out a long shaky exhale.  I recalled hearing the news in 2002 when the small plane carrying Senator Paul Wellstone, his wife Sheila, and their daughter Marcia—as well as campaign staffers, driver, and pilots—crashed in Northern Minnesota, ending the story of the “Underdog Goes to Washington.”  He wrote the “Conscience of a Liberal.”  He championed the little guys.  He was a hero.  In my head, I started singing “Love Train,” the refrain of which I’ll never forget due to his Memorial Service on television, the morning after which I went to work looking like I’d been beat up, I’d cried so hard.

Peace Be To You

A few tears rolled down my cheeks.  I smiled.  The sun was shining, the sky was blue, President Obama is in office, and we are on our way, Paul.  As I walked back to my Jeep, I said goodbye to the in-ground granite markers: Paul, Sheila, and Marcia Wellstone Markuson.  Thank you for helping us get to where we are.

I was feeling a little jittery after seeing the Wellstone lot.  I’d come to Lakewood to be a tourist, not to be affected in such a personal way.  I shrugged it off, glad to have had the experience…a reminder.  I would continue with my plans for the rest of the tour.

Other than some sundry sections of interest, there was only one place I wanted to find yet that afternoon.  It was only listed on the map and as a heading in the self-guided tour materials…there was no written description of it.  Other areas that were mentioned involved war memorials, fire department tributes, and wealthy family lots…this one had a different, more simple allure.

Because there was no description of “Babyland,” I had no idea what I would come across.  I drove around the loop further, checking the map as I went.  I located the area that I suspected to be my destination.

Oh no.  There were people there.

I couldn’t stop without seeming odd about it.  I kept driving.  There was a couple that was about my age, in their thirties, and a couple that looked to be the age of their parents.  At Babyland.  Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt anything.  I don’t know what I might have interrupted, but I’m guessing it would be a visitation.

Oh please, oh please don’t notice me.

The older guy waved as I slowly passed by them.  They all hugged each other and made their way to their vehicles.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Of all things, I did not want to trespass on anyone’s experiences at Lakewood.  They’re there for their own reasons, far be it from me to tromp through their lives with a bucket hat and a camera.

After they left, I got out of the vehicle and approached Babyland.  All of the monuments were the rectangular types, flush with the ground.  In the middle was a solitary upright monument of Jesus with the little children.

The Scripture on the monument says, “Suffer the Little Children, and Forbid Them Not to Come Unto Me, For to Such Belongeth the Kingdom of Heaven.”  My knee-jerk reaction is to hate the Bible because of this Scripture.  Sure, I get it that the context of it was that Jesus was chastising his disciples who were shooing away children…but then say it that way.  Because I didn’t know the context of the words until I looked them up just now, I got all mad at the monument.  Putting the words “suffer” and “children” in the same sentence is a dastardly thing to do.  I won’t go into how much the Bible irks me right now, but I will say that I was feeling very defensive of the children around the monument.

I gazed down at the quiet placecards in the ground.  Reading them, there were children buried there from the 1960s until present day.  I couldn’t find a rhyme or reason to the layout…and I also noticed that the age ranges on the markers indicated that they might’ve passed away the day they were born, or lived as long as five years.  There were different ethnicities in Babyland.  Different religious carvings in the markers.  Different sayings carved into the child-sized monuments: “Beloved Boy,” “Safely in His Bosom Gather,” “Little Lamb.”

Then, I saw this marker:

If you can’t read it very well, it says

“In Loving Memory of Our Sons
Benjamin Jon  Aug. 19 – Dec. 2, 1984
Joseph Benjamin  Aug. 19, 1985″

My mind raced trying to piece it together.  The first son was born on August 19, 1984, and died in December at four months of age.  The second son died on August 19, 1985.  A year after his brother was born.  Was he born the same day he died?  Joseph was not given a birth and death date, it must be the case that he died the day he was born.  They shared the same name, “Benjamin;” the second was presumably named after the first.  Did Joseph arrive just over eight months after his brother died?  Not being able to know what happened put me into such flux.  What pain their parents must have gone through.  What pain their parents must still go through.

I lost it.

Completely.  I’d been primed by the Wellstone monument, but this pushed me over the edge.  I wept for the parents of Benjamin and Joseph.  For the little children who suffered.  For the parents who are left here, without them.

I thought of my few friends who have lost babies early in their pregnancies, near term, and shortly following birth.  I cried for them.  I went from marker to marker reading through the tears.  Thoughts of my friends who have fought to have babies brought forth more sobs.

Yes, a Pro-Choice Democrat can mourn in Babyland.

It took me some time to find peace.  A few times I made the futile effort to look skyward and see if the tears and snot would soak back into my head, but it had to run its course.  I had to let myself mourn.

Eventually, I dried up.

I wondered what I should do next.  I didn’t have any other real “destinations” to see…and, while still standing at Babyland, I found myself perturbed by the sightseeing parallel.  But, at the same turn, that is what I was doing.  I was visiting the past…in the present.  Like other historical sites, I was learning from my predecessors.  I appreciated the beauty of what they left behind and what it means to me now.

With that in mind, I concluded my tour of Lakewood Cemetery from my Jeep.  With classical music as the soundtrack, I left Benjamin and Joseph in Babyland and drove.  Every once in a while, I took a photograph.

Somehow, though, the remaining memorials just didn’t seem all that important.

***

The Day After Yesterday

Ah, what a weekend.

What a SUNDAY.  I was debating what to do on my “Sunday Off” for much of the weekend; in fact, I was still debating it until I went to sleep last night.  Friday’s post detailed all of the options I could’ve chosen yesterday and, I won’t lie, I was trying to make it a difficult decision for anyone weighing in on the issue.  Why?  Because it’s always difficult for me.

I was reframing. You see, the impetus for me laying out my weekend for some third-person consideration was to generate a little bit of excitement in the process.  Usually, I’m staring down the barrel of deciding my future, blowing woefully into my popped and deflated paper party horn, thinking, “Yay.  Another decision I get to make for myself.”  Woo-hoo.  Self-pity sets in that I have no “dedicated person or people” in my life to share the days and nights…and I usually choose cable.  No, it’s not my default response to watch TV when in a cycle of self-pity, but it works as a free solution that really is rather harmless. So, by putting twelve…or seventeen…or thirty options out there on Friday, I was trying to spin it into an interesting/I’m exciting/you want to hang out with me/don’t you just want to be me situation.  No, not really.  I was mostly just trying to look forward to Sunday, somehow.  Historically, I don’t like to do things by myself.

As Sunday approached, I started whittling down my options.  Money was spent on Saturday, so Sunday should be as free as possible.  Antiquing, the Pride Parade, and the Farmer’s Market aren’t as fun solo and don’t involve dogs.  Since Grendel was crated much of Saturday, he deserved to get in some good exercise and fresh air on Sunday.  I didn’t quite have the intestinal fortitude to go to church.  The CSA roadtrip meant that I spent a tank of gas on Saturday, so Franconia, Stillwater, the arboretum, Vacation Land, and Taylor’s Falls were out.  Working on the deductive reasoning, that pretty much left walking, coffee, and MIA, Lakewood Cemetery, movies, and St. Anthony for consideration.

The Minneapolis Institute of Arts was indoors which would be a shame on such an idyllic day, nix.

I was at St. Anthony and went to a movie the night before, nix and nix.

Walking and coffee are a matter of course, so those were in…but for a Main Attraction, Lakewood Cemetery it would be.

Andy’s Sunday:  Woke up and lolled around.  Made a lovely breakfast with eggs, stale French bread, ham, scallions, and white cheddar cheese with a sprinkling of smoked paprika and a deep, dark, creamy cup of coffee.  Threw on rags and piled Grendel into the Jeep.  Took Minnetonka Mills by storm, letting him climb all over the place, snurfle through all the long grass, wade into the marsh, and then clean off in Minnehaha Creek.  We walked to my favorite (suburban) Dunn Bros. on Minnetonka Boulevard and enjoyed a leisurely cup of Kenya in the sun on the sidewalk.  Grendel mostly behaved.  Upon returning home, I showered and got ready for the day of adventure, opting for an outfit with cropped cargo pants over carrying a purse.  Gasp.  I was Ms. Adventure and I would not be weighed down by the trappings of femininity.

I loaded ID, cash, debit card, and lip balm in one pocket with the other pocket carrying gum, camera, and keys.  My pants were riding low due to the cargo.  Red undies were the wrong choice.  Smokes were in the Jeep (sigh).  I was excited.  I was thrilled that I had made a decision and it seemed to be a good one.  Sure, I’d never been there before, but what could be so scary about a cemetery during daylight?

I hopped into the Jeep.  The Skyslider Roof was retracted, Los Straitjackets were playing on MPR’s The Current, and–best of all–I remembered to wear my pink bucket hat so I wouldn’t burn my scalp to a painful crisp.  I was aimed and ready to fire.  Solitary Sunday was going full speed.

Sunday continued…but this post will not.  Not right now, at any rate.  To do justice to my experience at Lakewood Cemetery, I have to spend a little more time on it than the time this took to write and post…which is all I have today.

Check back soon.  Until then, let my photo of a monument at Lakewood speak to the beauty of a solitary woman.  Something I forget to notice too often, myself.

Rollins Memorial.

Sunday in the Suburbs with Andy

I have absolutely nothing scheduled for my Sunday.  This is new, odd…and a little wacky.  No commitments, no trips, no engagements.  What I’ve got on Sunday is Andy, at home, in Minnetonka, with Grendel. Between now and Sunday, though, I have a dinner with family at the Longfellow Grill tonight, a Strawberry Celebration at our CSA farm, Featherstone Fruits and Vegetables, Saturday afternoon, and a late show of “The Hangover” Saturday night.

Sunday, I may want to rest.  But, it seems like such a waste of a day.

What some people may never have gotten to experience is the complete sense of being untethered as a singleton.  As far as Sunday is concerned, my only responsibility is my dog.  I need to wake up sometime in the morning, take him out, feed him…then…I can do that again sometime later…then…I should do that at least once more before bedtime (sans feeding).  That’s it.  That’s all I need to do on Sunday.  I don’t have to wear anything more than rags, brush my teeth, comb my hair, or even feed myself.  I can fall off the radar of the world.

Exciting, huh?  To have absolute power and freedom.  Nobody making any demands on my time…influencing my decisions…whining to go to McDonald’s…sweetly asking a bedtime story of me at 7:30pm.  Are you jealous?  Waxing poetic over your days of being single and unfettered? Wondering what such a state of being would be like?

I often live under these lax guidelines to living.  Decisions are made only by me.  A mistress of my own universe.  The world is my oyster.  I am its pearl.

So, what’s up for Sunday?

Other than taking down my task list, I will offer up another list of possibilities:

1. Go ELCA Lutheran Church Shopping.  It’s been on my sociocultural task list for too long.  Note: Do not sign up for a choir at this time.
2. Visit old friends at former Catholic Church in St. Paul just for my heart’s sake.
3. Start State Park Sunday and take stickered Jeep to a nearby park for romping with Big G.  Aim for Taylors Falls area.
4. Find a flea market that’s open on a Sunday but not all the way up in Brainerd Lakes Vacation Land.  Hell, I could go to a flea market in Vacation Land.  What else is there to do?
5. Go to St. Paul Farmer’s Market.  Try not to spend money.  Remember…no dogs; last time was spent walking around the block over and over while companion shopped.
6. Hit up MIA and visit my Henry Singer Sargent paintings.  Skip Walker–it’s just not my taste.
7. Walk around the St. Anthony Main area.  Try not to let Grendel sniff his way off of the Stone Arch Bridge.
8. Tour Lakewood Cemetery.  There’s a fabulous walking tour (PDF).
9. Romp around the arboretum.  It’s been ages.
10. Spend the afternoon in Stillwater.  I love me some art galleries and antique stores where I can price out my inheritance one dish at a time.
11. Go to Franconia Sculpture Park and see the installments that have appeared since my last visit two years ago.
12. Lest I be remiss and forget my LGBT friends, there’s the Pride Parade in Minneapolis.  It’d be my first…and there’s always time for a new first.

So, which one would you choose for a free Sunday?  (I listed twelve as I wouldn’t expect you to pick either of the first two…they’re fairly specific to yours truly.)  All of the options are quite affordable and accessible.  The biggest expense might be gas or a couple bucks for admission, but we’re not talking about a matinee at The Ordway and dinner at Forepaugh’s.  Things aren’t too far for a day trip and as close as ten minutes from Minnetonka.  Some would involve a dog or children, but most probably wouldn’t hold the attention span of a young homo sapien terribly long.  The weather is supposed to be about 78 degrees and partly cloudy…but no rain.  Other always-options are walking around Lake Harriet or Lake Calhoun, sitting at a coffee shop in Bryn Mawr, romping around Minnetonka Mills, checking out the dog park at Minnehaha Falls, going to see “Star Trek” or “Wolverine” or “Transformers 2,” or sitting at home watching my free cable.

Put yourself in my shoes.  You can do any one of those 17 or so things I’ve listed.  Well, there are more than 17 when you consider that you’d have to choose which coffee shop, which lake, which dog park, which movie…  Your options are many, your freedom is unbridled.  Your decision?

Yes?

It ain’t easy being me.

I’m stymied.  I’ve got less than 48 hours to figure this out.

I’d love to know what you’d choose to do out of the list.  Or, tell me something I’ve missed.  Ideas are welcome.

And, let me know if you’re interested in attacking Sunday with me.  That way, we can narrow down the options together.  We can put the top back on the Jeep and get twigs in our hair as we adventure through the Twin Cities.

Have a wonderful weekend, friends.

No Cabin for Young Canine

I meant Friday’s post to exude the rest and relaxation that the weekend at the cabin was supposed to provide for my life…and perhaps it did.  I’ll tell you, though, that’s not how it went down.  I’ll give you a one-word reason why it was neither restful nor relaxing:

Grendel.

I love my dog.  Very much.  But, he is not a cabin dog for many, many reasons:

Grendel’s an escape artist.  Though my little shadow can’t stand for me to be out of eyesight, he will bolt to Tijuana the second he senses his leash is not on him and there’s a whiff of freedom in the air.  Then, all I see is a sassy blonde butt galloping off into the sunset.  It’s happened twice–once at the cabin, once in St. Paul.  Both times, I required reviving upon his return.  I must add at this point that it was my Hero Dad who found Grendel, both times, and against all odds.  My dad also came up with an idea to “slow him down” by tying him to a brick to make him easier to tackle should he try to run.  I nixed the idea as I imagined the carnage left in Grendel’s wake as he ran with a brick attached to his 40-foot flourescent orange tie-out cord.  Shudder.

The cabin doors do not close.  It’s a fishing cabin that was built over 50 years ago.  The floors are uneven and the screen doors definitely do not snugly fit into their casings.  Grendel knows this.  And, he watches for his opportunities to make a break.  One of the two exits must be blocked, completely, by a wooden door thereby also blocking out sunlight.  The wooden door is necessary since Grendel knows his nose can nudge the screen door open and the world is his oyster.  The other door has to be latched from the inside, so all humans have to ask to gain entrance from the deck while the unlatcher hangs on to Grendel’s collar as he squirms toward the light.  Sure, I’ve got him microchipped, but what I really need is a GPS tracking unit on the bugger.  I blame the fact that, in dog years, he’s basically my 25-year old younger brother who’s testing his boundaries…it’s just that the a night in the klink doesn’t usually end in euthenasia for twentysomething humans.

My mother referred to my father as Grendel’s “grandfather” this past weekend.  This has nothing to do with the cabin.  This does, however, mean that my mother needs some time away from my dog to think about what she’s said.

Grendel rolls in things…usually odiforous.  While walking on beaches, he has to be carefully monitored as he hones in on dead fish.  Once they’re on his radar, he’s hellbent for them.  But, this time, there were no fish.  He just took the opportunity–once sopping wet–to roll his 30-inch long self down the sand dunes over and over.  If you have kids–or ever were a kid–you know the anguish cased by sand-on-scalp.  Think of your own scalp…as a kid or now.  Let’s use our alegebra now.  To get Grendel’s area, we take L x H x W.  I’m too algebraically challenged to consider circumference (my Special Ed teacher mother and Math teacher father have tears in their eyes they’re so proud of me now).  Back to Grendel.  30″ x 13″ x 9″ = 3,510 inches.  Now, multiply that by 1,000 to account for all that blonde hair.  Now, add water and sugar-sand (practically the powder of the beaches in the Caribbean) that adhered to those follicles and that skin.  Now, divide by 5,280.  Grendel was covered in over 6.5 miles of sand.  I don’t care how whack my math is…that, my friends, was tracked into the cabin, into my bed, into my Jeep, into my apartment, and pretty much clogged my bathtub drain upon bathing him.

My dog is a lowrider Tick Magnet.  If he were a car, he would have adjustable hydraulic suspension and be blasting some sort of West Coast Hip Hop.  As it is, his collar says “Bajito y Suavecito,” or “Low and Slow.”  He snurfles his way along the cabin boardwalk, the driveway, around the perimeter of the cabin-on-cinderblocks…looking for vermin.  Being only about 13 inches tall but over two feet long, he is the epitome of “Bajito y Sauvecito.”  In the tall grasses, Grendel gives the woodticks plenty of surface area on which to attach…both from above and below…like the rain in Forrest Gump…even sideways.  As I pulled off over 32 woodticks over the course of fewer than 48 hours, each one was announced by number…and type: “14…dogtick!”  “24…dogtick!”  “26…deertick!” I pulled the 26th off of me.  I circled the bite with a pen.  The only available pen was an eraseable pen that my mother uses on crossword puzzles.  Regardless of pen, I have a Lyme’s Disease test scheduled for Wednesday.

During a storm in a flimsy fishing cabin, Grendel’s owner gets spooked, but Grendel gets spooked worse.  During the middle of the night on Saturday, the most insistent flash of lightning and crack of thunder made me cringe…but the suffocating crash landing of a furry chin and throat across my face scared the shit out of me.

Grendel’s not good at being flexible or sharing.  Usually, I get the left side of the bed and Grendel gets the right.  He doesn’t understand that my placement might not be based on “which side of the bed” but “what is closer to the door.”  At home, I’ve had to train myself to sleep on the left side of the bed, though the door is on the right.  It’s taken months and I’m still not quite there.  But, at the cabin, the room is about half the size of my own…with one window…and darker wood paneling.  I can’t stand it.  There’s no room to move around the bed on foot, so I have to crawl over the bed to get to my spot.  Nuh-uh.  I get the door side.  This didn’t fly with the dog.  At first, he just kept doing his heavy sighs.  Then, after a midnight bathroom run, he just took my spot.  After that, I tried pushing him over and he “went limp” in silent protest…whenever he pulls that, even his tail is dead weight.  Finally, when I got my spot back he gave up and jumped to the floor…leaving me dejected but victorious.  That was, until I moved my feet slightly toward the center of the bed and he jumped up and took my footspace.  For the rest of the night.  In the morning, I awakened to a happy dog at the foot of the right (door) side of the bed…while I slept across it diagonally.  As you wish, dear dog.  As you wish.

Basically, Grendel cramps my style at the cabin.  There’s no hanging on the deck since he’d be trying to dig up the planters and boardwalk in search of those rascally chipmunks.  There’s no swimming because, if tied up by the dock, he’d be rolling in sand or, worse, fish.  There’s no sleeping comfortably with him vying for my spot all night…or completely smothering me during a storm.  There’s no freedom in moving between the outdoors and indoors since Grendel’s aspiring to be the next prisoner to escape “The Rock.”  And, there’s no sense (cents) to him being there…literally.  If I did the cost-comparison, boarding him for two nights at Bed & Bone (camp) would cost half as much as both his and my Lyme’s Disease tests coming up later this week.

It’s a no-brainer.  That dog’s going to camp instead of the cabin, next time.  He’ll be much happier.  So will I be.

God, I love this guy:

Speak for Grendel. Leave a caption for his sentiments in this picture in the comments section. I'll arbitrarily pick a winner and republish the photo with that caption.

Art-A-Whirling

On a lighter note, I’d like to share some photos from Sunday’s Art-A-Whirl.  Art-A-Whirl occurs one weekend a year in Nordeast Minneapolis when the NEMAA (Northeast Minneapolis Arts Association) gets the entire artist community of Nordeast to open its studio doors…and let us tromp through their galleries and personal working spaces.  I love it.  I’m pretty hit-or-miss as to whether or not I get around to seeing it, but was able to get it on the books early enough to reenact whirling with Eric and Pierre two years ago.

Grain Belt Brewery - Tracks to Nowhere, photo by Eric.

Grain Belt Brewery - I Picked My Room, photo by Eric.

It's "friendly" beer. See? Photo by Eric.

Downtown Minneapolis Under Blue Sky, from the California Building, photo by Andy.

Scandynavian's Next Art Purchases, art by Potek Glass, photo by Andy.

My Kind of Window Box Vegetation, at the California Building, photo by Andy.

A lovely day, fantastic art, and even better company.  It’s not often that I start the day making Herby Omelettes and a Dutch Baby, go to Art-A-Whirl, find that Potek Glass still rocks so hard, dicuss whether or not the word “lugubrious” is appropriate for particular artwork, grab an iced coffee in Bryn Mawr, and hit an ALDI in North (not Nordeast) Minneapolis.  I kind of wish it were, though.

And, a hearty “thank you” to the nice Minneapolis Police Officer who stayed at the ALDI until we got into our vehicle at  7 minutes past closing time.