Keeping it Local

One of the advantages of being a city chick is the proliferation of local establishments.

My son and I have breakfast at The Place to Be,

The lad, pre-facial hair, at our breakfast spot

usually once a week, where we catch up on each other's doin's as we share a bowl of oatmeal (me) and pancakes or an omelet (him).

This weekend, however, the lad is in Paris. And while I fervently wish we could be breaking baguette together in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, this trip is his, not mine. Alas, I pine away in my home town.

What to do for breakfast?

Mr. Ginley graciously suggested we try out a new place within walking distance of our house. Called Hatfield's Goode Grub, it serves country style food and offers various coffee drinks. We had gone there last weekend and enjoyed a late lunch, so we thought, "why not?"

The owner, who chatted us up last weekend, made a lot of the furniture himself, including the many mirrors, whose glass came from a display case left by prior tenants. He disclosed he is descended from the Hatfield clan, thus explaining the theme of the joint. Hatfields and McCoys alike have stopped by, but the meetings have been congenial, with comparisons of genealogy to determine which part of the clan that particular Hatfield or McCoy was from.

The setting is informal. You place and pay for your order at the register. When it's ready, a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, and you fly to the counter to pick it up. I elected to try the Hillbilly Breakfast, which consisted of eggs, bacon, toast and a heaping helping of potato hash, topped with sausage gravy. The gravy was a little too spicy for my tongue, but it was still tasty.

Mr. Ginley dined a la carte, choosing a biscuit and the potatoes sans gravy. We ate well and enjoyed the local atmosphere. A lot of people choose to get carry-out. And there are special barbecue menus for different times of the month, which are very popular. We need to check into that more.

For anyone who does decide to visit, I can't recommend highly enough the brown sugar bacon mac and cheese. We told the owner he needs to offer this as an entree. I'm thinking there will be a day when we order a few sides of just this to go.

I know the whole "Shop Local" thing is in fashion right now. But being chic is not why we choose to support our nearby businesses. We love our local Ace Hardware. The Public House is our date night go-to. The new Cleveland store, where we bought my LA-dwelling brother-in-law a Cleveland Indians' tee shirt, is great fun. And Gene's, with its black and white photos of early movie stars, makes a mean skillet breakfast.

These folks work hard to make a go of it in our neighborhood. I salute their passion, their friendliness, their drive to make our experience the best possible.

Sure, we still go to McDonald's now and then.

But when I want to savor, I look for local flavor.

Turning Green

I wasn't born wearing the green.

I married into it.

Mr. G. is 100% Irish. My roots are mostly Germanic in nature, and we've been in this country so long, our ties are barely visible. I grew up in a suburb comprised largely of folks of eastern European descent. Pirogies and kielbasa and stuffed cabbage ruled. So St. Patrick's Day wasn't a huge deal back in my day. There was some residual interest, of course, because of the Catholic thing, but it wasn't nearly as sacred a day as it is in my current neighborhood.

For example, the schools my son attended as he came of age closed on March 17th. The bishop gave Catholics a day off from the meat thing yesterday because the green holiday fell on a Friday. The downtown streets filled with revelers. And my neighborhood hosted its annual pub crawl.

As I drove down my street last night, I noticed it was lined with parked cars. That's because the nearest main street is home to several bars, mostly Irish. We treat this night like New Year's Eve...a sort of amateur time for drinkers, an excuse to imbibe too much and behave badly. We've awoken to broken beer bottles in our driveway, cans on our tree lawn, etc. We stay home.

We celebrated in our own grand fashion at work, where Stacey took the initiative and organized a potluck. Yours truly baked hot cross buns for the first time. They looked, as my brother noted on my FB page, like I'd been hitting the rum balls when I made them. (See the photo and decide for yourself.) But they tasted pretty good, and almost all of them were devoured. Coworkers provided scrambled eggs, hash, a casserole, pancakes (hot off the griddle), some fruit and lots and lots of sweet stuff. Very yummy. We overachieved, and thus resorted to urging passersby all day to partake.

Actually, having a potluck was a great idea, a way to celebrate the forefathers and foremothers of the Irish population, many of whom came to this country to avoid starving to death in their native land. In a time when the reigning government just wanted them to go away. Sadly, too many of them did.

So, although I am not Irish, I was happy to join in the celebration. Sans alcohol. That includes rum balls.

Sláinte.

Three Amigas

Some things are just meant to be.

As we lined up in a queue at the zoo, my two sisters and I looked up at the board to see what the cost would be.

"I get a senior discount!" exclaimed Denise, whose birthday it was, and who had just reached the minimum threshold for the savings.

When you get older, you learn to savor these little triumphs. A couple of bucks is as good a reason as any to celebrate.

For the first time in a long time, we three spent the day together. The cold and blustery weather kept the crowds away and the animals inside, but we plodded along gamely. Singing Mitch Miller tunes at the top of our lungs. Waving to the zoo bus. Skipping (Denise).

There's something about hanging out with your siblings, who have known you since forever, and whom you just can't bullshit. They know your foibles, and they still (hopefully) love you, anyhow.

After toodling through the Rain Forest, the brisk outdoor air actually felt pretty good. We headed off to dinner at a place called Momocho, featuring modern Mexican cuisine. It was self-described as "innovative, hip and exciting." We went because my kid recommended it.

And it was good. Very good. And lots of fun.

At the end of the evening, we headed back to my house, Denise and Diane in the front seats, I in the back. (But I had a window seat - if you don't have siblings, you won't understand this reference. And no, I didn't get car sick, you're welcome, Denise).

I was contented but a little sad, too, wishing we'd had more of these days over the years.

I hear someone else has a birthday coming up in a few months...hint, hint!

Loving Lorelai

The first step to overcoming a problem is to accept that it exists.

I accept it. I embrace it. I don't want to let it go.

I'm hooked on...the Gilmore Girls.

Yes, I'm a latter day fan. I know it's been out there for seventeen years and never before did I have so much as a whiff of interest in it. And yet...through the miracle of Netflix, I have become addicted to the exploits of Lorelai, Rory, Luke, Suki, Lane, Michel, Emily, Richard, Paris, Kirk and all of the other characters who live in Stars Hollow.

I know it's a TV show. I know I could be doing so many other intellectually stimulating things, like watching CNN or reading a history book or inventing something that will save civilization, but I just can't seem to help myself.

I enjoy the hell out of this TV show.

In my defense, I did not get hooked on Downton Abbey. Or Game of Thrones. Or CSI (Las Vegas, Miami, or New York). Although, of course, with reruns as easily accessible as they are, it's never too late.

I believe Mr. Ginley is hoping my little obsession will run its course soon. Without commercials, each show runs about 45 minutes. Lately, I've been watching two shows each night, mostly on my Kindle.

Yes, it's a waste of time. No, I really can't justify it.

Still, I enjoy the hell out of it.

And, honestly, with all that's going on out there in the big, bad world, a little escapism is a real blessing.

Pour me another cup of coffee, will ya, Luke?