It's December, and Jack Frosting is nipping at my nose.
Who is Jack Frosting? Oh, come on, you know. He's that guy who makes it cold outside, who puts the winter chill in the air. He's been only slightly re-named by my three-year-old, Tucker.
Now, let me make myself clear: I have never been one of those mothers who talks baby-talk to her kidlets. I never called a bottle a "ba-ba", nor did I ever say "binky", "wee-wee", or even "potty".
But my kids have introduced some tasty words to our vocabulary just the same... words I will probably never say correctly again. These are not words they were unable to articulate. These are words their ears simply heard in a slightly new way. And may I say, it is my opinion they have improved upon the original.
When I was a kid, my mother made me swear never to correct my younger brother Kendall when he said the word "amblee-ance" instead of "ambulance". As year by year his mispronunciations corrected themselves, it was the one word that remained, the last holdover from his little-boy-hood. I understood my mom's need to keep that one word sacred and safe; I never corrected him. He said "amblee-ance" until he was about 23, I think.
Addie was extremely verbal at a very young age, and continues to take great pride in expressing himself. When Tucker annoys him, he isn't merely "mad". "Mama," he says, "Tucker is antagonizing me, and it's making me apoplectic." Yep, that's my seven-year-old.
But he also still calls the center of an egg "the olk."
Somehow, he never got the memo that there was a Y in there. And I love it so much that now, I call it an olk too. I also have been to the Natural History "Musa'am", seen "The Umpire Strikes Back", and sometimes a gray day can make me feel "bloomy". These are the only words I have left from the plethora of mispronounced words in my almost-eight-year-old's past. I cling to them. I don't want to let them go. Because you see, the day when he stopped asking for "nuck" and said, "milk", my heart broke a tiny little bit. When we no longer grabbed a cheeseburger at "Old McDonald's", when his special flashlight no longer shone a "laser bean". With every word that corrects itself, a child loosens his grip around his mother's hand. He grows up, and away. Just a tiny little bit, each time. I want to take those words, cradle them in my hand, put them in a bottle, so when I twist it open I can hear the sweet, raspy sound of my sons' perfect little voices just as they are now. In the utterance of those words is a bliss so sweet it aches. And with such profound happiness comes that tightness in my chest, the knowledge that as surely as the sun will rise, I will have to say goodbye to these words, one by one. And someday, goodbye to my boys. And someday... goodbye to every sweet beautiful lovely thing.
I hate goodbyes.
Tucker is nearly four now, also extremely expressive, and thankfully he has added his own flavorful interpretations to the mix. We no longer "cut" anything around here. We "snizz" it. Why? Because Tucker calls those funny cutting contraptions "snizzors", and the first time he asked me to "snizz" something, I almost keeled over with joy. As Christmas approaches, he sings "I'm Mr. Heat Visor!" at the top of his lungs. And as I mentioned, Tucker happily announced on a recent chilly morning that Jack Frosting had come to visit us.
I glanced at Addie, who was clearly poised to correct his brother. "Addie," I whispered. "Don't tell him what it really is, okay?" Addie looked at me, and smiled knowingly. He understands too. He'll be me, someday. Grabbing onto words, silencing older siblings, holding on. Just a little longer.
But I don't mean to be bloomy.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Sandwich Sitch
Things have been mighty busy in this household... not much time to try new restaurants. Our Freedom Fridays have gone on temporary hiatus, while three different musicals swirl in my head and I try to keep them straight. I don't want to end up throwing cheesy 80's choreography into "Little Women", period promenading into "Tommy", or traumatic druggie twitching into "The Wedding Singer". So far, so good.
Stan and I did have the opportunity to try a brand new sandwich place recently, aptly named "Which Wich?" This adorable little factory replaced our local La Salsa, so that was okay. I mean, with Loteria right around the corner, who needs fast-food Mexican? I also happen to be a sandwich devotee, so I'm all for a new sandwich place. I crossed my fingers and hoped Which Wich was going to be not only tasty, but popular... as even good places tend to disappear quickly in Studio City if they don't catch on.
After having one of Which Wich's wiches, I will never go to Subway again.
Not that I ever really went to Subway. I'd say the only time it would happen was when the family found itself in a state of emergency. Kids starving. Blood-sugar levels plummeting. Need food STAT. Subway nearby; only eatery within a three-mile radius. Call it. Going to Subway always felt like a resignation. Am I really going to waste a lunch on this crap? I was always disappointed with it. The meat was rubbery, the mayo tasteless, and I sort of dreaded the whole assembly-line thing, where customers are forced to dictate their sandwich needs to three different sandwich makers as their creation makes its way down the line to the cash register. "White bread. No wait... what's the three-cheese artisan Italian bread? Never mind. Wheat. Yeah, I guess, bell peppers. No, not that many. Um... mustard. Wait. Could you put a little more on there? Not... that much." I swear I saw judgment if I ordered too many onions. And God help me if I had multiple orders.
At Which Wich?, customers grab a long brown paper bag and mark their desires on the outside of it. There are different brown bags for every make of wich. I grabbed the turkey bag, and ordered my wich on toasted white bread with cheddar, lettuce, red onion and mayo. I handed them my bag, paid for it, and then they hooked it up on a sort of factory clothesline and slid it down to the wichmakers. The only criticism I had was the Waiting of the Wich, which takes longer than it probably should... but the Wich Wait was worth it. What emerged from the counter was the melt-in-your-mouthiest concoction I've had in a long time. The key is the bread. Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. The turkey is thin-sliced and stuffed heartily, the produce fresh, the cheese melty... heaven.
Stan ordered "The Wicked", which basically means they take everything they have back there and throw it on the bread. A meat-lovers paradise. We went back a week later, and this time I had a breakfast-wich (served all day!)... scrambled eggs, cheddar, bell peppers, onions and bacon on the same toasty bread. Dee-lish.
I anticipate that Which Wich will become a weekly thing for The Chandlers Four. And apparently there is no danger of it closing... at lunchtime, the line is out the door, every day. Whee!
Stan and I did have the opportunity to try a brand new sandwich place recently, aptly named "Which Wich?" This adorable little factory replaced our local La Salsa, so that was okay. I mean, with Loteria right around the corner, who needs fast-food Mexican? I also happen to be a sandwich devotee, so I'm all for a new sandwich place. I crossed my fingers and hoped Which Wich was going to be not only tasty, but popular... as even good places tend to disappear quickly in Studio City if they don't catch on.
After having one of Which Wich's wiches, I will never go to Subway again.
Not that I ever really went to Subway. I'd say the only time it would happen was when the family found itself in a state of emergency. Kids starving. Blood-sugar levels plummeting. Need food STAT. Subway nearby; only eatery within a three-mile radius. Call it. Going to Subway always felt like a resignation. Am I really going to waste a lunch on this crap? I was always disappointed with it. The meat was rubbery, the mayo tasteless, and I sort of dreaded the whole assembly-line thing, where customers are forced to dictate their sandwich needs to three different sandwich makers as their creation makes its way down the line to the cash register. "White bread. No wait... what's the three-cheese artisan Italian bread? Never mind. Wheat. Yeah, I guess, bell peppers. No, not that many. Um... mustard. Wait. Could you put a little more on there? Not... that much." I swear I saw judgment if I ordered too many onions. And God help me if I had multiple orders.
At Which Wich?, customers grab a long brown paper bag and mark their desires on the outside of it. There are different brown bags for every make of wich. I grabbed the turkey bag, and ordered my wich on toasted white bread with cheddar, lettuce, red onion and mayo. I handed them my bag, paid for it, and then they hooked it up on a sort of factory clothesline and slid it down to the wichmakers. The only criticism I had was the Waiting of the Wich, which takes longer than it probably should... but the Wich Wait was worth it. What emerged from the counter was the melt-in-your-mouthiest concoction I've had in a long time. The key is the bread. Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. The turkey is thin-sliced and stuffed heartily, the produce fresh, the cheese melty... heaven.
Stan ordered "The Wicked", which basically means they take everything they have back there and throw it on the bread. A meat-lovers paradise. We went back a week later, and this time I had a breakfast-wich (served all day!)... scrambled eggs, cheddar, bell peppers, onions and bacon on the same toasty bread. Dee-lish.
I anticipate that Which Wich will become a weekly thing for The Chandlers Four. And apparently there is no danger of it closing... at lunchtime, the line is out the door, every day. Whee!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Return of the Hubby!
To commemorate our triumphant return to Freedom Friday, Mr. C and I celebrated with ceremonial trips to Target and Costco. After our shopping revelry, I led Stan off our beaten path to a little hole-in-the-wall deep in North Hollywood, called Brami's Kosher Pizza. I had read about some amazing creation they had there, though I could not remember the name. My confidence was momentarily shaken when we pulled into a dingy little strip mall and I saw cheesy posters in the window of Brami's, advertising "two slices and a drink, $3.99!" It looked like your average generic pizza slice joint, no frills, nothing that promised to be earth-shattering.
Appearances can be deceiving.
We wandered in, throwing caution to the wind (though we didn't throw too much caution; we did, indeed, take all our valuables out of the car). There was no ambience to be found within the confines of Brami's; in fact, this was pretty much a get-down-to-the business-of-eating place. We went to the register and said to the guy, "Okay, we read about you guys in the Times. What should we get?"
He humbly pointed to one of the items, entitled Malawach Pizza, saying, "This is pretty darn good.". It wasn't even prominent on the menu. But it sounded different enough to be promising. So we told him to bring us one of those, and a Greek salad.
Once we had ordered, we noticed the very article I had read from the Times, framed on the wall. Indeed, it was the Malawach pizza they had reviewed, and I was happy I had gotten my facts straight.
We were even more thankful when we got our pizza. WOW. Turns out Malawach is a kind of dough. I can't quite describe it except to say it is melt-in-your-mouth spectactular. Kind of a cross between puff pastry and phillo dough. The bottom gets a little crispier, the top is soft and pillowy, and stuffed in between is an exquisite melted mixture of mozzarella, feta, chopped tomatoes and green olives. Stan and I shamelessly inhaled this pizza in about five minutes, giddily laughing because it was that good. I could have used a little less green olive- I love them, but the tang was a bit overwhelming after two pieces. No matter; I simply peeled back my Malawach, picked a few out, and folded it back. If I ordered it next time (and there will be a next time), I would ask for what the menu says: green onion, not green olive. Big difference. I think the menu must be a misprint, but I'd like to try it! Stan loved the abundance of green olive, so it might have just been my delicate feminine palate.
Let it be said that the salad was also big, beautiful, and quite tasty. Lots of lettuce, feta, red onion, kalamata olives and tomato, with a huge side of ranch dressing. And if you're just not in the mood for kosher pizza or a salad, fear not... they have omelettes too.
Appearances can be deceiving.
We wandered in, throwing caution to the wind (though we didn't throw too much caution; we did, indeed, take all our valuables out of the car). There was no ambience to be found within the confines of Brami's; in fact, this was pretty much a get-down-to-the business-of-eating place. We went to the register and said to the guy, "Okay, we read about you guys in the Times. What should we get?"
He humbly pointed to one of the items, entitled Malawach Pizza, saying, "This is pretty darn good.". It wasn't even prominent on the menu. But it sounded different enough to be promising. So we told him to bring us one of those, and a Greek salad.
Once we had ordered, we noticed the very article I had read from the Times, framed on the wall. Indeed, it was the Malawach pizza they had reviewed, and I was happy I had gotten my facts straight.
We were even more thankful when we got our pizza. WOW. Turns out Malawach is a kind of dough. I can't quite describe it except to say it is melt-in-your-mouth spectactular. Kind of a cross between puff pastry and phillo dough. The bottom gets a little crispier, the top is soft and pillowy, and stuffed in between is an exquisite melted mixture of mozzarella, feta, chopped tomatoes and green olives. Stan and I shamelessly inhaled this pizza in about five minutes, giddily laughing because it was that good. I could have used a little less green olive- I love them, but the tang was a bit overwhelming after two pieces. No matter; I simply peeled back my Malawach, picked a few out, and folded it back. If I ordered it next time (and there will be a next time), I would ask for what the menu says: green onion, not green olive. Big difference. I think the menu must be a misprint, but I'd like to try it! Stan loved the abundance of green olive, so it might have just been my delicate feminine palate.
Let it be said that the salad was also big, beautiful, and quite tasty. Lots of lettuce, feta, red onion, kalamata olives and tomato, with a huge side of ranch dressing. And if you're just not in the mood for kosher pizza or a salad, fear not... they have omelettes too.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Flying Solo on Freedom Friday
How can there be a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", and I didn't know about it?!
This week, my husband was rehearsing a show and was unavailable for Freedom Friday. Oh, the horror! But I quickly rallied and recruited aforementioned awesome friend Jimmy to be Stan's Stan(d) In. He lives in Los Feliz, so we chose this place with the name I melt for, right around the corner from him. You can't miss "Home", as a huge red sign hangs over the outdoor patio seating area as you walk in, as if announcing to the neighborhood that you've arrived at the zenith of comfort and coziness. I almost expected Aunt Em to emerge from the kitchen to hand us our menus.
We sat inside on this chilly November day, and were greeted by our waitress, a good old gal who was so friendly and helpful we almost asked her to join us. She explained the highlights of the menu, and was very enthusiastic about her favorite items. She also joined Jimmy in a discussion of the best and worst wheat-free products available at Trader Joe's.
Jimmy got the red velvet pancakes, and I ordered the Eggwich, designed As You Like It. As I Liked It was with eggs scrambled fluffily, as-crisp-as-they-could-get-it turkey bacon, smothered with cheddar cheese, on grilled sourdough. This was one awesome Eggwich, accompanied by home fries- the kind with tiny perfect squares of red and green pepper and onion mixed in. Who invented breakfast? I'd like to kiss him.
Jimmy raved about his red velvet pancakes, but I didn't try a bite only because I am not a huge red velvet girl. It's just chocolate with red food coloring, right? But the red throws me off. I think I prefer taking my chocolate straight. And keeping it out of my pancakes.
Jimmy and I talked about everything under the sun, which always happens when we get together. We're very like-minded and seem to agree on most things of grand importance, from the key to world peace to the best and worst movies (perhaps we only disagree about red velvet). On this particular day, we were lamenting violence in film and TV. We agreed that many psychological dramas and creepy thrillers can be great fun... but both of us have trouble watching scenarios of blatant brutality towards human beings. I know for me, something changed when I had kids (I can hear the collective childless-adult groan now). But it's true; after Addie's birth, I was shocked to find myself walking out of the room early into a renting of "Pan's Labyrinth", because of a particularly brutal scene involving a father and son. This scene would certainly have bothered me before I had kids, but it is unwatchable now. It followed me into my dreams. I will replay the images over and over again. It's not worth the wrenching sadness it causes within me. Lots of people tell me I'd really enjoy "Dexter", but I haven't seen it because I'm afraid I won't sleep.
By contrast, I watched "Paranormal Activity" on Halloween. I was tense the whole time, but it was a fun tense... and I didn't dream about it, or even think about it, again. Supernatural and demonic, I can handle. Throw me an Exorcist or a Rosemary's Baby anytime. I love it. But I will never watch "Saw", any of its countless sequels. What good are these movies in the world? They only serve to give bad people innovative torture ideas. For the rest of the population, they're a way to watch horrific things happen to ordinary people. Who sits in a room and thinks of these things? What a waste of brain cells. I can't think of anyone I'd want to see tortured in this manner. Okay, maybe Katherine Heigl.
Funny that Jimmy and I were sitting in a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", talking about violence and death. Maybe we needed to provide a yang to the eatery's yin. Whatever the discussion, I always come away from Jimmy feeling a little closer to The Truth, whatever that is. Pity we can't spend a week at some culinary retreat. We could solve all the world's ills during our meals, and I'd never get fat because Jimmy's a nutritionist.
Next Friday, my hubby will be performing in Palm Springs and I'll be spending Black Friday with my two wonderful boys, eating leftovers and belching a lot. So stay tuned for the following Friday, when Freedom will be restored and Stan and I will be reunited to embark on yet another Los Angeles eating adventure.
Speaking of eating... Happy Turkey Day, everyone.
This week, my husband was rehearsing a show and was unavailable for Freedom Friday. Oh, the horror! But I quickly rallied and recruited aforementioned awesome friend Jimmy to be Stan's Stan(d) In. He lives in Los Feliz, so we chose this place with the name I melt for, right around the corner from him. You can't miss "Home", as a huge red sign hangs over the outdoor patio seating area as you walk in, as if announcing to the neighborhood that you've arrived at the zenith of comfort and coziness. I almost expected Aunt Em to emerge from the kitchen to hand us our menus.
We sat inside on this chilly November day, and were greeted by our waitress, a good old gal who was so friendly and helpful we almost asked her to join us. She explained the highlights of the menu, and was very enthusiastic about her favorite items. She also joined Jimmy in a discussion of the best and worst wheat-free products available at Trader Joe's.
Jimmy got the red velvet pancakes, and I ordered the Eggwich, designed As You Like It. As I Liked It was with eggs scrambled fluffily, as-crisp-as-they-could-get-it turkey bacon, smothered with cheddar cheese, on grilled sourdough. This was one awesome Eggwich, accompanied by home fries- the kind with tiny perfect squares of red and green pepper and onion mixed in. Who invented breakfast? I'd like to kiss him.
Jimmy raved about his red velvet pancakes, but I didn't try a bite only because I am not a huge red velvet girl. It's just chocolate with red food coloring, right? But the red throws me off. I think I prefer taking my chocolate straight. And keeping it out of my pancakes.
Jimmy and I talked about everything under the sun, which always happens when we get together. We're very like-minded and seem to agree on most things of grand importance, from the key to world peace to the best and worst movies (perhaps we only disagree about red velvet). On this particular day, we were lamenting violence in film and TV. We agreed that many psychological dramas and creepy thrillers can be great fun... but both of us have trouble watching scenarios of blatant brutality towards human beings. I know for me, something changed when I had kids (I can hear the collective childless-adult groan now). But it's true; after Addie's birth, I was shocked to find myself walking out of the room early into a renting of "Pan's Labyrinth", because of a particularly brutal scene involving a father and son. This scene would certainly have bothered me before I had kids, but it is unwatchable now. It followed me into my dreams. I will replay the images over and over again. It's not worth the wrenching sadness it causes within me. Lots of people tell me I'd really enjoy "Dexter", but I haven't seen it because I'm afraid I won't sleep.
By contrast, I watched "Paranormal Activity" on Halloween. I was tense the whole time, but it was a fun tense... and I didn't dream about it, or even think about it, again. Supernatural and demonic, I can handle. Throw me an Exorcist or a Rosemary's Baby anytime. I love it. But I will never watch "Saw", any of its countless sequels. What good are these movies in the world? They only serve to give bad people innovative torture ideas. For the rest of the population, they're a way to watch horrific things happen to ordinary people. Who sits in a room and thinks of these things? What a waste of brain cells. I can't think of anyone I'd want to see tortured in this manner. Okay, maybe Katherine Heigl.
Funny that Jimmy and I were sitting in a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", talking about violence and death. Maybe we needed to provide a yang to the eatery's yin. Whatever the discussion, I always come away from Jimmy feeling a little closer to The Truth, whatever that is. Pity we can't spend a week at some culinary retreat. We could solve all the world's ills during our meals, and I'd never get fat because Jimmy's a nutritionist.
Next Friday, my hubby will be performing in Palm Springs and I'll be spending Black Friday with my two wonderful boys, eating leftovers and belching a lot. So stay tuned for the following Friday, when Freedom will be restored and Stan and I will be reunited to embark on yet another Los Angeles eating adventure.
Speaking of eating... Happy Turkey Day, everyone.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Double Feature Freedom Friday
Today I shall proudly report on our last two Freedom Fridays, since I neglected to post last Friday. What a week to neglect! We went to what had to be my favorite F.F. place so far: BeaBea's in Burbank. Stan found our destination last week, and he did it unprompted, too! He got inspired, went onto Yelp, and announced where we were going. I was thrilled and delighted! So mid-morning, we took our hungry selves to a strip mall on Pass Avenue. Tucked in the back corner was the little diner with the big menu. BeaBea's tag line is "Breakfast is Everything", and when I saw that on their awning, I already knew I was going to love it.
The joint is obviously a local favorite; it wasn't overly crowded, but we got the immediate sense that they have their "regulars". There's a counter, where customers chatted it up with the wait staff like they were all old buddies. We told our waiter that it was our first time, and he happily regaled us with his personal menu favorites.
It is a restaurant where you definitely need suggestions. The breakfast selection is massive. Under the heading "Pancakes", there are twenty options. Same goes for "French Toast", "Waffles", and "Crepes".
Do you already love this place? I thought so.
Because it was a mere three days before Halloween, I decided on the pumpkin pancakes, our waiter's very first suggestion. Stan, who is usually in a more savory mood, got the Volcano Scramble. A perfect combo, as we always go halfsies. Mind you, it was tough to pass up the specials... there was an apple walnut pancake a la mode, for example. But we went classic, simple, and straightforward for our first BeaBea's bonanza.
Wow.
The pumpkin pancakes were perfection. A light sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. I slathered on the butter because... well, because it's butter... and asked for an extra maple syrup, because I hate to run out. I've been to The Griddle before (where the pancakes are the size of manholes and I'm not complaining), but these pancakes were even better, simply because they weren't so rich that you're done after three bites. These had just the perfect amount of sweetness that kept you coming back for more until the plate was empty. At The Griddle, I felt terribly guilty that when I was full I still had enough on my plate to feed a small third-world country.
Stan's scramble was delicious too... eggs, mozzarella, cheddar, chicken apple sausage, tortilla strips, sour cream and tomatillo sauce, with hash browns on the side (Stan orders his extra crispy and they got it right). We sat, holding hands, filling our bellies and commenting about how much we love our Fridays. This may be the best idea we've ever come up with!
Today, we decided to turn it into Freedom Friend Friday and meet our wonderful amigo Jimmy for breakfast. Originally we had chosen Alcove in Los Feliz, but it's an outdoor cafe... so when the rain resumed mid-morning, we quickly re-routed ourselves to Fred 62. It's a very popular kitschy diner on Vermont. We sat in a cozy booth and basked in the excitement of a rainy-day egg delight. There's nothing like breakfast in the rain! Stan and I were both in a savory mood (Stan was shocked I did not get a pancake/waffle/french toast concoction), and this time we both opted for their breakfast burrito.
Jimmy is eating gluten-free these days, so we almost made him sit at another table. The only reason we allowed him to stay is that he really is having trouble with gluten; he's not just deciding to be a pain in our wheat-eating ass. We appreciate that. But he had to order an egg sandwich without the bread, so there you have it. I'm sure it was tasty, but who cares. Bread is everything.
What's surprising about Fred 62 is that it looks like your average greasy spoon, but what emerges from the kitchen is actually quite artful. Our burritos were beautifully coated with a delicious red sauce and perfectly drizzled with sour cream, then sprinkled with cilantro. Inside was a mesmerizing combo of scrambled eggs, chorizo, jack and cheddar cheese, and green onion.
I can't believe I ate the whoooooole thing.
We haven't really had a "miss" yet on our Freedom Fridays. I like to think it's because the world senses this is a good thing. We are in the Karmic Zone, treating our tastebuds and our marriage to a weekly treat. Even if we run into a meal that stinks, the company will never let us down. Today, we spent an hour with a true friend. We laughed, we commiserated, we shared ideas and stories and insights. Talking to Jimmy is never boring. He's one of those people you just feel lucky to have in your life.
Him, and breakfast. Because you know what BeaBea says.
The joint is obviously a local favorite; it wasn't overly crowded, but we got the immediate sense that they have their "regulars". There's a counter, where customers chatted it up with the wait staff like they were all old buddies. We told our waiter that it was our first time, and he happily regaled us with his personal menu favorites.
It is a restaurant where you definitely need suggestions. The breakfast selection is massive. Under the heading "Pancakes", there are twenty options. Same goes for "French Toast", "Waffles", and "Crepes".
Do you already love this place? I thought so.
Because it was a mere three days before Halloween, I decided on the pumpkin pancakes, our waiter's very first suggestion. Stan, who is usually in a more savory mood, got the Volcano Scramble. A perfect combo, as we always go halfsies. Mind you, it was tough to pass up the specials... there was an apple walnut pancake a la mode, for example. But we went classic, simple, and straightforward for our first BeaBea's bonanza.
Wow.
The pumpkin pancakes were perfection. A light sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. I slathered on the butter because... well, because it's butter... and asked for an extra maple syrup, because I hate to run out. I've been to The Griddle before (where the pancakes are the size of manholes and I'm not complaining), but these pancakes were even better, simply because they weren't so rich that you're done after three bites. These had just the perfect amount of sweetness that kept you coming back for more until the plate was empty. At The Griddle, I felt terribly guilty that when I was full I still had enough on my plate to feed a small third-world country.
Stan's scramble was delicious too... eggs, mozzarella, cheddar, chicken apple sausage, tortilla strips, sour cream and tomatillo sauce, with hash browns on the side (Stan orders his extra crispy and they got it right). We sat, holding hands, filling our bellies and commenting about how much we love our Fridays. This may be the best idea we've ever come up with!
Today, we decided to turn it into Freedom Friend Friday and meet our wonderful amigo Jimmy for breakfast. Originally we had chosen Alcove in Los Feliz, but it's an outdoor cafe... so when the rain resumed mid-morning, we quickly re-routed ourselves to Fred 62. It's a very popular kitschy diner on Vermont. We sat in a cozy booth and basked in the excitement of a rainy-day egg delight. There's nothing like breakfast in the rain! Stan and I were both in a savory mood (Stan was shocked I did not get a pancake/waffle/french toast concoction), and this time we both opted for their breakfast burrito.
Jimmy is eating gluten-free these days, so we almost made him sit at another table. The only reason we allowed him to stay is that he really is having trouble with gluten; he's not just deciding to be a pain in our wheat-eating ass. We appreciate that. But he had to order an egg sandwich without the bread, so there you have it. I'm sure it was tasty, but who cares. Bread is everything.
What's surprising about Fred 62 is that it looks like your average greasy spoon, but what emerges from the kitchen is actually quite artful. Our burritos were beautifully coated with a delicious red sauce and perfectly drizzled with sour cream, then sprinkled with cilantro. Inside was a mesmerizing combo of scrambled eggs, chorizo, jack and cheddar cheese, and green onion.
I can't believe I ate the whoooooole thing.
We haven't really had a "miss" yet on our Freedom Fridays. I like to think it's because the world senses this is a good thing. We are in the Karmic Zone, treating our tastebuds and our marriage to a weekly treat. Even if we run into a meal that stinks, the company will never let us down. Today, we spent an hour with a true friend. We laughed, we commiserated, we shared ideas and stories and insights. Talking to Jimmy is never boring. He's one of those people you just feel lucky to have in your life.
Him, and breakfast. Because you know what BeaBea says.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Son of Freedom Fridays
Last night as I settled into our cozy bed, I must admit I felt giddy anticipation of our imminent Freedom Friday #5. I knew we would be visiting Clementine, a little cafe in Century City that boasts the best scones, muffins, cakes and cookies this side of the Pacific. Those of you who know me know I am a sucker for scones, melt for muffins, and kvell for cakes and cookies. Basically anything bread-related makes my heart beat the faster. So I was all atwitter this morning when we returned from dropping off our boys at their respective schools. We hit the road at 9:15, hit a bit of traffic, but no matter; this was our time. Time spent laughing and holding hands and playing Punch Buggy and acting like we did before our daily dialogue became "Honey, did you pack the diaper bag?"
We didn't have anywhere important to be. We just had each other.
We arrived at Clementine a little after 10, and it's just the cutest little place! It's located on a side street, quaint and romantic, complete with sidewalk tables and a colorful array of customers. We had already agreed we were going to sample multiple things, and we brought our appetites. After asking the guy behind the counter what he'd recommend, we ordered: Stan, a mushroom/basil/three cheese scramble with a side of crisp bacon and a hot buttermilk biscuit. Me, a bacon and leek quiche and a blueberry sour cream coffee cake muffin (their specialty), accompanied by a caramel cappucino.
Heaven.
We lingered over our creations at our adorable wooden table, sharing everything. The best thing on our plates was the quiche, followed closely by the scramble. Both incredibly savory, decadent and dee-lish. Stan's buttermilk biscuit was also awesome, especially smothered with butter and raspberry jam. Truth be told, the least interesting thing we tasted was the muffin. It was mighty good, but apparently the LA Times raved about it, and we thought there were other things behind the counter that looked more my speed. Like the gingerbread cake. Thick and dark and amazing. Shoulda gotten that. Next time.
Bellies full and hearts soaring, we made our way back to the valley and stopped at Target. We went in for two things and came out with twenty... but it was bound to happen; our moods were too jovial (note to self: never shop Target when feeling celebratory). We bought Super Mario pajamas for both kids, a Sonic T-shirt for Addie, and a sweatshirt for Tucker that says "Save Ferris". He'll be clueless, but it'll make me happy. We bought Halloween candy and a spooky brownie kit for the kids. We mused about all the women who wear jeggings five sizes too small and then walk around hiking them up every five seconds.
We had a ball. We entered the elevator with our loot and rode in silence up to the second floor, where our car was. For a moment the elevator was silent, then I looked at Stan, smiled and said, "I love Target." The old woman standing in the elevator with us looked at me rapturously and said, "Isn't it WONDERFUL?!"
Then we went to get our boys. All in all, a perfect day. And a great kick-off to our ten-year wedding anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow.
Life is awfully sweet.
We didn't have anywhere important to be. We just had each other.
We arrived at Clementine a little after 10, and it's just the cutest little place! It's located on a side street, quaint and romantic, complete with sidewalk tables and a colorful array of customers. We had already agreed we were going to sample multiple things, and we brought our appetites. After asking the guy behind the counter what he'd recommend, we ordered: Stan, a mushroom/basil/three cheese scramble with a side of crisp bacon and a hot buttermilk biscuit. Me, a bacon and leek quiche and a blueberry sour cream coffee cake muffin (their specialty), accompanied by a caramel cappucino.
Heaven.
We lingered over our creations at our adorable wooden table, sharing everything. The best thing on our plates was the quiche, followed closely by the scramble. Both incredibly savory, decadent and dee-lish. Stan's buttermilk biscuit was also awesome, especially smothered with butter and raspberry jam. Truth be told, the least interesting thing we tasted was the muffin. It was mighty good, but apparently the LA Times raved about it, and we thought there were other things behind the counter that looked more my speed. Like the gingerbread cake. Thick and dark and amazing. Shoulda gotten that. Next time.
Bellies full and hearts soaring, we made our way back to the valley and stopped at Target. We went in for two things and came out with twenty... but it was bound to happen; our moods were too jovial (note to self: never shop Target when feeling celebratory). We bought Super Mario pajamas for both kids, a Sonic T-shirt for Addie, and a sweatshirt for Tucker that says "Save Ferris". He'll be clueless, but it'll make me happy. We bought Halloween candy and a spooky brownie kit for the kids. We mused about all the women who wear jeggings five sizes too small and then walk around hiking them up every five seconds.
We had a ball. We entered the elevator with our loot and rode in silence up to the second floor, where our car was. For a moment the elevator was silent, then I looked at Stan, smiled and said, "I love Target." The old woman standing in the elevator with us looked at me rapturously and said, "Isn't it WONDERFUL?!"
Then we went to get our boys. All in all, a perfect day. And a great kick-off to our ten-year wedding anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow.
Life is awfully sweet.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Revenge of Freedom Fridays
Today Stan and I stuck close to home, lunching at Charlie's Pantry in Studio City. It's a kind of mini-Dean and Deluca... small marketplace, coffee, muffins, scones and a lovely sandwich, soup and salad menu. I am a die-hard egg salad fanatic, so I tried theirs, and it was mighty tasty. I usually prefer my egg salad minced, so there aren't any huge chunks of egg white... and though theirs was slightly chunkier than I am used to, the seasonings and celery made it scrumptious. It comes on toasted brioche bread with iceberg lettuce. Stan got the Studio Club with organic chicken breast, and that was very straightforward and quite good too. We'll definitely go back; I'm anxious to try more things on their diverse menu! They serve breakfast all day every day, and since that's my favorite meal, I'll be trying their stuffed french toast. They also have homemade matzo ball soup! All of this is served in a very bright, cheery room with marble tables and ceiling fans. Ahhhhhhh.
So far, the grilled cheese truck wins for Best Freedom Friday Lunch so far! Stay tuned. Next week... Clementine.
So far, the grilled cheese truck wins for Best Freedom Friday Lunch so far! Stay tuned. Next week... Clementine.
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