Getting up in the morning is murder these days. Right after time change, Lexington skies stay dark until 7:30 a.m., longer if it’s overcast. For three weeks I’ve been hitting the snooze button, an annoying habit I can’t seem to shake. On weekends, my light sensitive brain usually brings me to reluctant consciousness before seven. Lately, I can sleep in blissful ignorance until eight or nine. Then Monday comes, and I’d swear it was two in the morning the way my body refuses to cooperate.
I can blame the time zone. Lexington is on the late side of Eastern Standard. We see dawn after everyone else. Overall, it's worth the dark mornings to be the last to see sunset as well. As days become noticeably longer, I smile in anticipation. I remember long, languid summer evenings when daylight lingers hours after the day’s heat.
In early March I spied a cat digging around in the new grass in the back yard. He turned sideways, and I realized the flattened, pudgy shape was not a cat at all. It was a groundhog, the first I’d ever seen. Why didn't he show up on February Second, his very own holiday? We could've thrown him a party! That would have been a memorable milestone of our first real winter.
Nevertheless, Craig and I are charmed by this unusual local wildlife, and named it Gordon. Gordon the groundhog.
When the plumber came to fix our icemaker, he was less impressed. "Your yard will get all torn up if you don't do something about the pregnant groundhog," he observed, laconically looking out our window as he installed a new faucet.
Oops. We just thought he was a pudge. Gordon became Gordina. We still see her partaking of tender new plants in our backyard, probably the ones high in Folic Acid.
Gordina is welcome to all the plants she wants, as long as they are weeds. Our grass is coming slowly back to life, but the weeds are beating it by a mile. We have each and every plant we resodded our California lawn to get rid of: dandelions, pursillane, baby tears, thistles, clover, and more I can’t name. In October, I observed a landscape maintenance crew strewing straw all over a lawn in my neighborhood. How odd, I thought, they are really going all out to decorate for Halloween. I later learned that this local custom protects a newly seeded lawn, trapping in moisture and preventing seed from washing away. We probably should’ve done that.
All through the winter, I gloried in the break from mowing the lawn. California lawns still need to be mowed all winter, albeit only bimonthly. We haven’t mowed our back yard since we moved in. In California, we could probably hide a car in the resulting overgrowth. Here, where yards grow dormant in the winter, we just have slightly scraggly grass.
A few weeks ago, a friend remarked that the tree border behind our back fence must be really pretty in the summer. "Yes, it must be," I agreed, laughing because it's my house and I have no idea how it will look in the summer. We are lucky to have trees that provide shade, a privacy barrier, and Kentucky fall colors. Best of all, they don't drop ten cubic yards of leaves every winter like the Liquid Amber tree we left behind. We just have to be vigilant for Poison Oak, another Kentucky native. I dread the red-and-yellow leaves, and the red, pimply skin rash that results from the slightest touch.
I'm looking forward to sitting on the back deck, an unheard-of luxury by California standards, in the glider I put together for Craig's birthday one year. I want to get more deck furniture, but I have to be mindful of the high winds that can accompany spring storms. Last week, a friend with a deck similar to ours looked out her back window to catch her barbecue grill in the act of walking itself down the stairs.
Yesterday the Bradford pear tree in our front yard exploded in delicate, white blossoms. One by one, trees around the neighborhood are doing the same. I just hope the exuberance doesn’t give way to a late freeze. Last April, a Lexington freeze killed delicate trees and plants that started to bloom and leaf out.
I even feel the coming of spring differently this year. I suppose I had to feel a real winter to truly appreciate it. The temperature shot past 65 degrees yesterday. It felt like the middle of summer to me. When I lived in California, I used to vacation in colder places, and marvel at the way Seattle residents wore flip flops and no coats in the pouring rain, or my Midwestern cousins gleefully ran around the yard in shorts in sixty degree weather. I wonder if I am going to turn into one of those people. I imagine myself wearing tank tops and short skirts when I go home in December, fanning myself on a sweltering sixty degree Christmas Eve.
In California, winter meant pansies in the front yard planters, and spring meant it was time to plant the marigolds that would last all summer. I don't know if either flower is well suited to the different climate zone, but I think its time for a change.
We've decided on petunias. The crinkly pinks and purples I see at the nursery would complement the red brick of our house. I wonder if they're good to eat. Not for me, of course, but Gordina needs her vitamins. Yesterday, we saw two fluffy bodies creeping through our back yard, so I guess we do have a Gordon the groundhog as well. I think I have a baby name book somewhere. We better start looking up names for the blessed event. I wonder how many groundhogs are in a litter. Do you call it a litter, or is it something else? At least we know what letter of the alphabet the names should be.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Things I Can't Live Without
Craig and I have made a few gastronomic concessions to the grad school lifestyle. We drink at least a pot of coffee a day now. Typical, I am told. We also eat out at least once a week, a luxury we didn’t allow ourselves in California. We were immediately able to find food we liked here, too.
There are many culinary consolations to living in Kentucky, despite the lack of a decent Mexican food restaurant. Now, I find that if we ever moved away, I’d dread leaving these new favorites behind.
1. Texas Roadhouse
I don’t consider myself a fan of Southwestern cuisine. I know it’s a little weird that our favorite restaurant in Lexington purports to serve food from another state. It’s also by no means rare, a chain of eateries that just hasn’t reached to the west coast. It’s a little hokey, a little cheesy, and a LOT fattening. I can’t help it. I’m willing to drive 20 minutes to Richmond Road to taste pulled pork on homemade bread.
In the unbelievably stressful first month of my job, I had to unwind at Texas Roadhouse after work at least once a week. After picking up Craig, I’d turn right instead of left onto Limestone Avenue, looking at Craig with one eyebrow cocked invitingly, issuing an invitation he couldn’t refuse. We’d travel back through downtown to Main Street, which runs into Richmond Avenue. I’d salivate in the driver’s seat as we drove past Ashland (Henry Clay’s estate) and streets of historic homes. Finally, we’d catch sight of the familiar, wood-slatted building, iconic in a termite-fearing town full of aluminum siding.
Craig would hold the door open for me. I’d step into the slightly darkened interior, noting the rough-wood paneled walls and breathing a sigh of relief. One thing I enjoy, though it's not unique to this chain, is the bucket of peanuts on every table. Patrons are encouraged to eat the peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. Somehow, the inherent rebellion in this messy appetizer is very enjoyable. Pretty soon I am guzzling water, too, as the peanuts coat my tongue with powdery salt.
After a while, I tire of the peanuts and grab a homemade roll and smear it with cinnamon butter. They have the best bread, and a glance through the window into the kitchen lets you watch it made on-site. Craig and I have a simple test that separates a great waiter from the rest. A great waiter will bring more homemade bread when the first basket is almost finished. I admit that we always try to finish off the bread so we can take home the contents of a second basket. The low-carb lifestyle definitely misses out here.
My favorite dinner there is a pulled pork sandwich, served on another large, homemade roll and topped with an onion ring. The meal is traditionally served with steak fries, which are nice and potato-ey, not fried unrecognizably into processed food. If not in the mood, I like to substitute a baked sweet potato, which can be ordered with toasted marshmallows on top. My other standby is the portobello mushroom chicken. I’m usually so sated with bread and peanuts that I don’t get through dinner, so I pack the leftovers in a box to take home.
I no longer need my peanut fix once a week. I am pleased to report that we even obstained once for an uncharacteristic six weeks. My mom, whose peanut allergy would send her into anaphylaxis just smelling Texas Roadhouse, visited us. We abstained for her sake. After she left, the looming Christmas holiday encouraged us to refrain from calorie binges other than the ones spontaneously cropping up at work, school, and church. By the time the craving seized me again, it was January. I am thankful that my obsession has subsided into a normal affinity, but I could really go for a roll with cinnamon butter right now.
2. Culver's
As we drove through Wisconson this summer, we thought our journey through the land of dairy would be incomplete without stopping for ice cream. Ironically, we scanned the highway for a hundred miles and never saw a local ice cream store. We kept seeing, instead, gyms and exercise equipment vendors, leading us to believe that Wisconsonians, a class of people I’d always imagined pudgy, had given up ice cream in favor of the modern fitness craze (sniff!).
We finally exited the highway and ordered iced coffees at a Borders bookstore. At least they had milk in them, I guess. We commented to the barista on the noted absence of frozen desserts.
“Well there is Culver’s,” he replied.
“What’s that?” I wondered.
“It’s like McDonalds, only better.”
The statement intrigued me. I’m not really a fan, so just about any hamburger could fit that description. I began to watch for the blue-and-white signs on the highway, which seemed to pop up every ten miles, announcing “Culver’s. Frozen Custard. Butterburgers.”
What could a frozen custard be? I wondered. My mind conjured up pictures of Mexican flan and pudding, frozen rock-hard and served on a plate. It didn’t seem “like McDonalds, only better” to me.
Back in Lexington, I noticed a Culver’s next door to our bank. We immediately decided to eat there, hoping to discover why Wisconsonians had evidently given up ice cream in favor of it. We scanned the menu, whose colorful panels filled an entire wall. I noted a burger with Wisconson Swiss cheese (aha!) and Craig chose a cod sandwich. Our food came warm to our table, and a choice of side dishes meant that we were not out of luck if not in the mood for fries.
The blue and white décor was typical of the chain, but in Lexington the interior was naturally decorated with Wildcats memorabilia. I nodded approvingly, taking in the open, airy structure and comfortable booths. Unlike most fast food restaurants, whose cramped interiors and hard, plastic booths are difficult to endure for more than a few minutes, the store actually invited you to sit and eat.
As we ate, the manager circulated the dining room, chatting with patrons and pausing to empty the trash bins. I nodded approvingly, remembering my first year of work in a food environment. In a business where a set-in-granite hierarchy usually gives the dirty tasks to the caste of new workers, it’s nice to see a manager humbling himself to get things done. He ended up coming to our table and chatting with us, noting that we were new to his store and asking if we were new to the area.
At the manager’s recommendation, I ignored my full stomach and ordered dessert. The caramel cashew sundae, our first taste of the famous frozen custard, remains Craig’s favorite to this day. He, though declining to order dessert, ate more of it than I did. When it came, there were two cherries on top. Someone had noticed that I had ordered one dessert for a table of two and assumed we’d be sharing.
“We don’t like to cause any marital disagreements,” quipped a worker. “We’ll make sure that BOTH of you get a cherry if you want one.” I’m not a big fan of maraschino cherries, which don’t really taste like food, but I was nevertheless touched.
I’m not saying that Culver’s influenced where we bought a house, exactly, but I was happy that we found a house that kept us nice and close. Every time I go to the bank or the grocery store, I pass the store and note the flavor of the day. If it’s good, maybe oreo cheesecake or heath bar swirl, I’ll pull up to the drive thru and order “a hot fudge ice cream sundae with the flavor of the day.” The operator repeats my order back to me, replacing the “ice cream” with “frozen custard”, the emphasis in his voice betraying pride.
Well, they should be proud. They’re WAY better than McDonalds.
3. Spalding's Bakery
Any local will tell you that Spalding's is special. Even the way they say 'Spaullll-dinggs', stretching it out slowly like saliva is suddenly making it hard to talk, hints that this is no ordinary bakery. When I told my coworkers I had never been there, they took me immediately.
From the outside, it looks worse than unassuming. A shoebox set down onto an empty lot, devoid of decoration or even a fancy sign. The parking lot is small and square. The second thing I noticed is that the parking lot was crammed full. An empty truck even sat in the right turn lane, its wheels tilted crazily.
Inside, I took a whiff and was immediately transported back to childhood. My great-grandmother, Elsie Meth, made wonderful homemade doughnuts. I was unable to help much because of the hot oil, but I was allowed to watch. She would fold a small dish of leftover mashed potatoes into the dough, and I would marvel that something so prosaic could be the secret ingredient in a heavenly pastry. She would bend over the oil, lifting doughnuts out with a forked server and dipping them in sugar. After she was done, the counter would be full of the characteristic shapes, and also strange, lumpy, peaky dough bits that she would fry as well. Somehow, I liked the contorted, leftover shapes the best.
My daydreams continued to have free rein, because the line at Spauldings tends to be long. The lone clerk is unabashedly unrushed. He must have the lowest blood pressure in town. If he doesn't eat too many doughnuts, he'll live to be 100. I stood with my companions, breathing the heavenly smell and inching my way towards the antique silver cash register. I studied the black and white photos on the walls. Definitely a family business, and definitely around for a long time.
The display counters, also straight from the fifties, hold cakes, cookies, and a few specialty doughnuts. They don't disappear quickly, though. Everyone comes for the original glazed doughnuts, buying them up by the dozens. They don't really look like anything special. They aren't as perfectly round as Krispy Kremes or as evenly frosted as the ones in Meijer Foods. That doesn't matter.
I finally reached the front counter, paid for two original glazed, and blinked my eyes in amazement. A slight, grey-haired woman, slightly stooped and crinkly-skinned, came out of the back to hand me a white paper bag. It wasn't Grandma Elsie, but she looked like enough to be her sister.
In the car, I lifted out a doughnut and took a bite. Spaldings doughnuts are best eaten slowly, and my eyes usually close involuntarily in concentrated enjoyment. They're also so good that one is enough. One per sitting, that is. I've been back a few times, and I'm never disappointed.
4. Caribou Coffee
Did I say I wanted a Starbucks to move close to my house? If a Caribou Coffee did, I’d be ecstatic. It’s a similar coffee chain, just with a drinkable house blend. Starbucks is often criticized for their strong, sludgy house blend, so thick it coats the inside of a mug with an oily slick. Everything at Caribou Coffee is not only drinkable, but enjoyable.
I first noticed Caribou Coffee in North Dakota, a state we frequently visit because of family ties, and fell in love with the store over a caramel mocha. I try to time my coffee bean needs between the few places I see them, mainly the Minneapolis airport. When my plane was last delayed and an employee handed me a meal voucher, I tried to spend it all on coffee beans, but they wouldn’t let me.
“Coffee is a food!” I argued brightly. It didn’t work.
Their best blend is Obsidian, a dark, rich brew reminiscent of French roast. The beans smell smoky, which is slightly off-putting, but the coffee tastes sweet and smooth. I also buy a decaf blend, necessary for afternoon and evening drinking because of a familial tendency towards insomnia. The list is less robust, but the Fireside blend is very good.
Sadly, there are no Caribou Coffees in Lexington yet. There are five in Cincinnati, only an hour away. I hope that the chain, which started in the far North, will continue its southern expansion until it takes Kentucky by storm. If I could walk to the end of my street and order a Mint Mudslide Mocha, I’d be in coffee heaven. Until then, the UPS man brings me an occasional box of Caribou Coffee.
There are many culinary consolations to living in Kentucky, despite the lack of a decent Mexican food restaurant. Now, I find that if we ever moved away, I’d dread leaving these new favorites behind.
1. Texas Roadhouse
I don’t consider myself a fan of Southwestern cuisine. I know it’s a little weird that our favorite restaurant in Lexington purports to serve food from another state. It’s also by no means rare, a chain of eateries that just hasn’t reached to the west coast. It’s a little hokey, a little cheesy, and a LOT fattening. I can’t help it. I’m willing to drive 20 minutes to Richmond Road to taste pulled pork on homemade bread.
In the unbelievably stressful first month of my job, I had to unwind at Texas Roadhouse after work at least once a week. After picking up Craig, I’d turn right instead of left onto Limestone Avenue, looking at Craig with one eyebrow cocked invitingly, issuing an invitation he couldn’t refuse. We’d travel back through downtown to Main Street, which runs into Richmond Avenue. I’d salivate in the driver’s seat as we drove past Ashland (Henry Clay’s estate) and streets of historic homes. Finally, we’d catch sight of the familiar, wood-slatted building, iconic in a termite-fearing town full of aluminum siding.
Craig would hold the door open for me. I’d step into the slightly darkened interior, noting the rough-wood paneled walls and breathing a sigh of relief. One thing I enjoy, though it's not unique to this chain, is the bucket of peanuts on every table. Patrons are encouraged to eat the peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. Somehow, the inherent rebellion in this messy appetizer is very enjoyable. Pretty soon I am guzzling water, too, as the peanuts coat my tongue with powdery salt.
After a while, I tire of the peanuts and grab a homemade roll and smear it with cinnamon butter. They have the best bread, and a glance through the window into the kitchen lets you watch it made on-site. Craig and I have a simple test that separates a great waiter from the rest. A great waiter will bring more homemade bread when the first basket is almost finished. I admit that we always try to finish off the bread so we can take home the contents of a second basket. The low-carb lifestyle definitely misses out here.
My favorite dinner there is a pulled pork sandwich, served on another large, homemade roll and topped with an onion ring. The meal is traditionally served with steak fries, which are nice and potato-ey, not fried unrecognizably into processed food. If not in the mood, I like to substitute a baked sweet potato, which can be ordered with toasted marshmallows on top. My other standby is the portobello mushroom chicken. I’m usually so sated with bread and peanuts that I don’t get through dinner, so I pack the leftovers in a box to take home.
I no longer need my peanut fix once a week. I am pleased to report that we even obstained once for an uncharacteristic six weeks. My mom, whose peanut allergy would send her into anaphylaxis just smelling Texas Roadhouse, visited us. We abstained for her sake. After she left, the looming Christmas holiday encouraged us to refrain from calorie binges other than the ones spontaneously cropping up at work, school, and church. By the time the craving seized me again, it was January. I am thankful that my obsession has subsided into a normal affinity, but I could really go for a roll with cinnamon butter right now.
2. Culver's
As we drove through Wisconson this summer, we thought our journey through the land of dairy would be incomplete without stopping for ice cream. Ironically, we scanned the highway for a hundred miles and never saw a local ice cream store. We kept seeing, instead, gyms and exercise equipment vendors, leading us to believe that Wisconsonians, a class of people I’d always imagined pudgy, had given up ice cream in favor of the modern fitness craze (sniff!).
We finally exited the highway and ordered iced coffees at a Borders bookstore. At least they had milk in them, I guess. We commented to the barista on the noted absence of frozen desserts.
“Well there is Culver’s,” he replied.
“What’s that?” I wondered.
“It’s like McDonalds, only better.”
The statement intrigued me. I’m not really a fan, so just about any hamburger could fit that description. I began to watch for the blue-and-white signs on the highway, which seemed to pop up every ten miles, announcing “Culver’s. Frozen Custard. Butterburgers.”
What could a frozen custard be? I wondered. My mind conjured up pictures of Mexican flan and pudding, frozen rock-hard and served on a plate. It didn’t seem “like McDonalds, only better” to me.
Back in Lexington, I noticed a Culver’s next door to our bank. We immediately decided to eat there, hoping to discover why Wisconsonians had evidently given up ice cream in favor of it. We scanned the menu, whose colorful panels filled an entire wall. I noted a burger with Wisconson Swiss cheese (aha!) and Craig chose a cod sandwich. Our food came warm to our table, and a choice of side dishes meant that we were not out of luck if not in the mood for fries.
The blue and white décor was typical of the chain, but in Lexington the interior was naturally decorated with Wildcats memorabilia. I nodded approvingly, taking in the open, airy structure and comfortable booths. Unlike most fast food restaurants, whose cramped interiors and hard, plastic booths are difficult to endure for more than a few minutes, the store actually invited you to sit and eat.
As we ate, the manager circulated the dining room, chatting with patrons and pausing to empty the trash bins. I nodded approvingly, remembering my first year of work in a food environment. In a business where a set-in-granite hierarchy usually gives the dirty tasks to the caste of new workers, it’s nice to see a manager humbling himself to get things done. He ended up coming to our table and chatting with us, noting that we were new to his store and asking if we were new to the area.
At the manager’s recommendation, I ignored my full stomach and ordered dessert. The caramel cashew sundae, our first taste of the famous frozen custard, remains Craig’s favorite to this day. He, though declining to order dessert, ate more of it than I did. When it came, there were two cherries on top. Someone had noticed that I had ordered one dessert for a table of two and assumed we’d be sharing.
“We don’t like to cause any marital disagreements,” quipped a worker. “We’ll make sure that BOTH of you get a cherry if you want one.” I’m not a big fan of maraschino cherries, which don’t really taste like food, but I was nevertheless touched.
I’m not saying that Culver’s influenced where we bought a house, exactly, but I was happy that we found a house that kept us nice and close. Every time I go to the bank or the grocery store, I pass the store and note the flavor of the day. If it’s good, maybe oreo cheesecake or heath bar swirl, I’ll pull up to the drive thru and order “a hot fudge ice cream sundae with the flavor of the day.” The operator repeats my order back to me, replacing the “ice cream” with “frozen custard”, the emphasis in his voice betraying pride.
Well, they should be proud. They’re WAY better than McDonalds.
3. Spalding's Bakery
Any local will tell you that Spalding's is special. Even the way they say 'Spaullll-dinggs', stretching it out slowly like saliva is suddenly making it hard to talk, hints that this is no ordinary bakery. When I told my coworkers I had never been there, they took me immediately.
From the outside, it looks worse than unassuming. A shoebox set down onto an empty lot, devoid of decoration or even a fancy sign. The parking lot is small and square. The second thing I noticed is that the parking lot was crammed full. An empty truck even sat in the right turn lane, its wheels tilted crazily.
Inside, I took a whiff and was immediately transported back to childhood. My great-grandmother, Elsie Meth, made wonderful homemade doughnuts. I was unable to help much because of the hot oil, but I was allowed to watch. She would fold a small dish of leftover mashed potatoes into the dough, and I would marvel that something so prosaic could be the secret ingredient in a heavenly pastry. She would bend over the oil, lifting doughnuts out with a forked server and dipping them in sugar. After she was done, the counter would be full of the characteristic shapes, and also strange, lumpy, peaky dough bits that she would fry as well. Somehow, I liked the contorted, leftover shapes the best.
My daydreams continued to have free rein, because the line at Spauldings tends to be long. The lone clerk is unabashedly unrushed. He must have the lowest blood pressure in town. If he doesn't eat too many doughnuts, he'll live to be 100. I stood with my companions, breathing the heavenly smell and inching my way towards the antique silver cash register. I studied the black and white photos on the walls. Definitely a family business, and definitely around for a long time.
The display counters, also straight from the fifties, hold cakes, cookies, and a few specialty doughnuts. They don't disappear quickly, though. Everyone comes for the original glazed doughnuts, buying them up by the dozens. They don't really look like anything special. They aren't as perfectly round as Krispy Kremes or as evenly frosted as the ones in Meijer Foods. That doesn't matter.
I finally reached the front counter, paid for two original glazed, and blinked my eyes in amazement. A slight, grey-haired woman, slightly stooped and crinkly-skinned, came out of the back to hand me a white paper bag. It wasn't Grandma Elsie, but she looked like enough to be her sister.
In the car, I lifted out a doughnut and took a bite. Spaldings doughnuts are best eaten slowly, and my eyes usually close involuntarily in concentrated enjoyment. They're also so good that one is enough. One per sitting, that is. I've been back a few times, and I'm never disappointed.
4. Caribou Coffee
Did I say I wanted a Starbucks to move close to my house? If a Caribou Coffee did, I’d be ecstatic. It’s a similar coffee chain, just with a drinkable house blend. Starbucks is often criticized for their strong, sludgy house blend, so thick it coats the inside of a mug with an oily slick. Everything at Caribou Coffee is not only drinkable, but enjoyable.
I first noticed Caribou Coffee in North Dakota, a state we frequently visit because of family ties, and fell in love with the store over a caramel mocha. I try to time my coffee bean needs between the few places I see them, mainly the Minneapolis airport. When my plane was last delayed and an employee handed me a meal voucher, I tried to spend it all on coffee beans, but they wouldn’t let me.
“Coffee is a food!” I argued brightly. It didn’t work.
Their best blend is Obsidian, a dark, rich brew reminiscent of French roast. The beans smell smoky, which is slightly off-putting, but the coffee tastes sweet and smooth. I also buy a decaf blend, necessary for afternoon and evening drinking because of a familial tendency towards insomnia. The list is less robust, but the Fireside blend is very good.
Sadly, there are no Caribou Coffees in Lexington yet. There are five in Cincinnati, only an hour away. I hope that the chain, which started in the far North, will continue its southern expansion until it takes Kentucky by storm. If I could walk to the end of my street and order a Mint Mudslide Mocha, I’d be in coffee heaven. Until then, the UPS man brings me an occasional box of Caribou Coffee.
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