Affections

Our St. Patrick's weekend turned out quite alright. We didn't exactly land the corner Irish pub booth I was hoping Friday night, but Craig and I did fight our way to the bar at Rosie's for one pint of Guiness. We stepped outside onto Rosie's surface patio space, pints in hand, just in time to witness a woman wipe out across the street, face to pavement, glass in her hand shattering across the curb. She must have been one of those who managed to sneak out of work early enough to help polish off the first couple of bottles of Jameson that morning. Anyway, after the lone pint we headed in the direction of a less Irish establishment, Buffalo Wild Wings. Because of March Madness basketball and the Irish holiday, we knew the place would be packed, but since I was wearing my lucky shamrock necklace, just as we entered the big warehouse-seeming bar, a booth cleared out and we took over. K, the K who shares my name, showed up with her mother in tow. We drank beers (I opted for plain Harp sans green dye) and ate wings, like any good Americans would do during the basketball championship tournament coupled with St. Patrick's Day. K's mother had dental discomfort from a recent visit to her friendly hygienist so she numbed the pain with vodka and cranberry. We wound up back at the Mansion showing off our apartments to each other. Saturday morning Craig and I woke and I concocted a complete breakfast of bacon, eggs, potatoes and toast (we even attempted to finish off leftover turkey bacon that our building friend GR had indicated is so amazing but we're Midwestern pork-eaters, and I must confess, the turkey bacon can stay at the store, as far as I'm concerned). Then we called our neighbor MF, whom we had encountered the previous night at Lucky Lounge having a few Irish holiday cocktails himself. We had loosely arranged an impromptu adventure down to the street party called Shamrock the Block, beginning at noon Saturday. MF called our building manager HH, and the two of them, along with HH's boyfriend J and our other community friend B, met us in our apartment to walk together to the party. HH gave Craig and I two basketball-festive gifts (so sweet and thoughtful!) because of how enthusiastic we are about tournament time. Everyone was adorned in some green or another (I wound Craig's Banana Republic knit scarf that I constantly borrow around my neck as my spirited green) and we headed in the direction of the party. As we stepped across the parking lot downstairs, GR drove up returning from her Saturday morning at work, and we convinced her to join us. The festival was definitely fun. Better than the festival itself was the company, by all means. I think we had just about the best of the Mansion crew with us - and it seemed to be the general consensus among us that drinking Bud products in the afternoon to the backdrop of bands performing old Metallica, Godsmack and Beastie Boys is mind-emptying blissful entertainment. Even waiting eternally in portajohn lines proves a lackluster adventure of its own invention. But the mediocrity is the admirable quality of standing on the street drinking beer. Anyway, I posted the two pictures depicting me offering or receiving holiday affections, and the third is of HH showing us her spirit as well (with her boyfriend J standing behind). Altogether we are quite the collaboration of characters, those of us who reside in our late twenties and early thirties in HH's building. Quite the cast.*Since the holiday, I've been cooking a lot again. Nothing outstanding or adventurous: Craig's mom's carrot cake (a tribute to his mom but only if it turned out half as good as hers, and for the fact it was my first cake ever, it was actually pretty good...it gave Craig a couple of stomach aches this week, but that's to be translated as a positive thing - it means he ate too much of it), a beef roast with onions, potatoes and carrots (all-American fare), and Monday night I made a handsome tray of chicken enchiladas verde - topped with pretty fresh colors. Last night I took the night off from kitchenry but I thought it vaguely memorable the following conversation exchange that took place at East Villa, our bi-weekly Chinese take out place on Main Street - the kind of place that could be condemned by the board of health based on appearance but whose existence is saved by the fantastic flavor of their food: KB, leaning against the counter rambling distractedly while staring at the standard Chinese dish photo menu mounted above: Last night I had a dream about this incredible Vietnamese garlic chili sauce that I used to like at Pho Grand in St. Louis - pausing upon recognition of Craig's far away glazed expression and turning to lecture the side of his face - I bet you didn't hear a word I said! Craig, adamantly protesting: I heard exactly what you said: Last night you dreamed about a Vietnamese garlic chili sauce you liked at Pho Grand in St. Louis - pausing to process the words 'Vietnamese garlic chili sauce' - Gross! He makes me laugh...