That's What She Said

Today I went to the grocery store on my lunch break to pick up a few things for my fabulous, funky dinner party tonight. The store is about a 20 minute walk from my office, 30 minutes when the streets are packed full of tourists on a beautiful day like today. Given that it would take me 30 minutes to walk there and 30 minutes back, I had to find a way to get there via transportation. So I took...dun dun dun...the bus. And thus began my hour long adventure.

Now I ride the bus out on the west side from home to the red line a couple of times a week, but rarely in the loop. These past few weeks, however, I've found myself running errands north of the loop on my lunch break, which has required extra bus riding. And the thing about bus riding, the most unfortunate thing about bus riding, is that it is not a solo activity. No, there are other, I shall call them "people" but I'm hesitant, other "people" that ride the bus with you. Occasionally, this makes for an entertaining trip. Usually it makes for an annoying trip. Like today.

1:05 p.m
I get on the bus today, quietly catching up with my mom on the phone. The bus seems pretty empty and I am pleased.

1:07 p.m
A couple stops down and the bus is much fuller. An ambulance is screaming by and children en masse are getting on the bus. One of them and his mother sits down directly across from me. This child appears to be about six, maybe seven years old. Old enough to behave. Upon sitting in his chair, he starts wailing and crying and flailing for reasons I do not understand. I am still on the phone with my mother.
Mom: Where the hell are you now? What's all that noise? Is that a baby???
Megan: No. No Mom. It is not, in fact, a baby.

1:08
More people get on the bus, this time a very angry woman and her child. She shoves her child down the aisle toward a seat and plants herself next to the driver and begins yelling. I'm trying not to pay attention because, quite frankly, I don't care. But the yelling escalates and finally I have to hang up the phone with my mom because we can't hear each other.

1:10
The angry woman seems to be angry that the bus didn't come fast enough. Or that some other bus drove right past her. I couldn't tell which. She eventually sits down, but not without comments from the peanut gallery behind me. Next thing I know, some dude yells to the middle of the bus, instructing the angry woman to sit down and shut up. Why on earth someone is picking a fight with this woman is beyond me, but he is. She tells him to shut up. He tells her to shut up again, for she is on the bus now, what is the point in yelling? He gets up to exit the bus at his stop. She gets up to confront him. They talk in each others' faces for a few seconds. He tells her to stop her bitching and gets off the bus. She yells after him, "SHUT UP! YOU GAY BITCH!!"

1:20
I see I'm at my stop and fly off the bus, only to be confronted, videogame style, with a load of tourist idiots that I have to dodge and wiggle through to get to my destination.

1:23
I finally make it to the grocery store where I search out my bread and marshmallow cream. Apparently, this grocery store does not have marshmallow cream because God hates Megan.

1:33
I get in line. The Express line, as I only have four items. I'm going to be cutting it close getting back to work, perhaps I will take a cab. I look to see who's ahead of me in line. The guy directly in front only has a few items. As I look to the lady in front of him, I noticed that it is her turn and she is paying. She has also just pulled a large pile of change from her purse. My eyes widen. She begins counting.

1:38
Her total is $21.19. Moving at the speed of a glacier, she puts the change into dollar piles and slowly reaches $7 of change. I nod my head to myself, "Yeah, this about right. This is my life." After another dollar pile and another two minutes, she hands the woman a $10 bill, pleased with herself and, apparently, finished counting. I calculate in my head and find she has only paid $17 of her $21.19 bill. The cashier agrees with my mental math and tells her she needs more money. The woman scoffs and mutters in another language and counts out another dollar. Again, the cashier points to the total on the screen and says, "It's $21.19". The woman mutters again and reaches into her pocket, from which she pulls a fistful of BILLS. Ones, fives, tens, twenties. My eyeballs nearly fall on the floor.

1:45
I'm out the door and standing on the street trying to get a cab. A seemingly harmless grandpa looking old man approaches the bus stop near me. He begins bumbling around and quickly becomes less harmless seeming. "Those motherfuckers!" he bellows, gesturing at some invisible group of motherfuckers. "Those motherfucker bastards! Shouldn't be workin a job like that," he growls. "They should be workin in a kitchen. In a dump!". He is talking to no one in particular. "I'll tell you what, those cocksuckers! That fucking bus!". As he continues talking, the words between curses begin to make less and less sense. Finally a cab rescues me.

1:48
I am in the cab of a rather friendly cab driver, probably in his fifties. We have some ambiguity about which way he should go, and he offers the information that he is new to cab driving. This is not the first time, or the second, that I have been subject to the confusion of a new cab driver, but at least he knows where the address is, if not exactly how to get there.

I asked, "How long have you been driving then?".

He tells me three weeks. I ask him, "Do you like it?"

He says no, with a very sad look on his face, and tells me that he lost his job and that this is what he is stuck doing. He also tells me that since he has started driving all day long, his back has already begun hurting him. None of this is said pitifully, just with resignation, which makes me unbearably sad. I tip him $3.50 for a $6 cab ride, as he probably needs the extra dollar more than I do. He thanks me profusely and I exit the cab.

Readers, bloggers, friends, brethren. It's a shit day. It's drizzly. It's dark. It's putting everyone in a foul/somber/utterly depressing mood. For reasons related to my inadequate computer skills, the most I can do for you is provide a link. A golden link. A link that will lead you to the greatest 2 minutes in cinematic history. Minutes so frought with sexual tension and dirty southern excellence you will immediately pack your bags and head off for New Orleans in search of the great American lust fulfillment. Go forth and watch.

On Monday morning my childhood friend passed away.

We went to a small Catholic school through 8th grade and then to the same high school, although by 9th grade we ran in different circles. Even though shit happened between us that caused our friendship to end when we were kids, we were friendly in high school. After she heard that I'd gotten married in January she sent me a really nice message and we caught up a little. She seemed happy with her life and excited about her future. Her name was Niki.

Niki's death has sort of rocked my world. It's strange and uncomfortable to think that while I go about making my plans, hers have been cut short. She was six months younger than me.

Every time I think of her family I get choked up. I cannot imagine how I would feel if my brother or sister died. I don't even know how to fathom losing a child. I've never lost anyone close to me.

I am not sure if I'll attend her services. People are wearing pink, Niki's favorite color, to honor her memory. I don't know if I want my last memory of her to be her wake, her funeral, all the sadness and loss. I'd sort of rather remember our childhood sleepovers, the note-passing during class, and her big, bright smile.

That's supposed to be a reference to the big bad wolf. It is also, however, fitting for me, huffin and puffin and stuff (you will understand momentarily). A few days ago, to celebrate my birthday, my lady friends took me out for an awesome dinner at Silver Palm, a fun little restaurant tucked away on the west side of the city. You may have heard of this place (if you watch the same outrageous amount of food-related television that I do) as it was featured in Anthony Bourdain's recent trip to Chicago on No Reservations (video below).

It was at Silver Palm that Mr. Bourdain indulged himself in what was, for me, the ultimate pig-related sandwich. I say "pig-related" because it wasn't just a ham sandwich. Or a pork chop sandwich. No, my dear friends, this sandwich was allllll P.I.G. Fried and juicy pork cutlet, topped with tender slices of ham (real ham, not deli ham), topped with crispy BACON (!), topped with melty gruyere cheese, topped with a fried egg, TOPPED WITH an onion ring, all on a buttery brioche bun. "Three Little Pigs" it's called. Oh. Yeah.

Now I trust Tony to steer me in the right direction when it comes to eating. But I was still skeptical. You see, when things are so over-the-top ridiculously indulgent, I tend to think a lot of their hype comes from that alone, not really the taste or quality of whatever food concoction we are talking about. So while I was OF COURSE planning to order this make-me-a-fatty sammy, I wasn't convinced it would live up to it's reputation.

SURPRISE!! I was clearly mistaken, and despite not even wanting this sandwich to be that great (its proximity to my house is waaay too dangerous), it was. It was heavenly. It was also huge. I cut that baby in half, took a bite and passed it around to my four friends who each took a bite. After that, there was still 3/4 of a sandwich left. I finished the first half and promptly wrapped the second to savor later (sometimes leftovers are a happy thing). It took me the better part of 4 days to finish the rest, and each time I went to the fridge, I was impressed by how utterly delicious that sandwich still was. I loved every calorie laden bite of it.

Here's a clip about it from No Reservations. See fo yo self!

I look forward to three day weekends the way little kids look forward to Christmas. For weeks and weeks before the actual weekend I dream of what I will do with THREE WHOLE DAYS. "Vacation" is a foreign word around here, so 72 hours without having to see certain attorneys' stupid faces and without freedom-ruining 'sick day' guilt is pretty much the greatest thing ever.

All that said, you might assume that I would do something spectacular with my wonderful happy extra free time. But you would be wrong. Instead I did all of the normal things I like to do (cook and eat and drink), on a much larger scale. Especially 'eat'. Lots of eating happened this weekend. And when people have asked me today, "So what did you do this weekend?", I've had to refrain from telling them I ate my face off. But it's been hard, because this is how I chronicled my three days:

Thursday: Freedom night: Ceviche and horror.
Sat on the patio at Dunlay's (which I found out is a chain). I searched the menu, hoping that if I stared hard enough a calamari dish might appear to satiate my inexplicable craving for fried squid. But to no avail. So instead I ordered me a real nice Bell's Two Hearted Ale and some ceviche. My beer was delicious. The ceviche not so much. I'm pretty sure it was all prepackaged frozen ingredients. Nuff said.

Erin ordered BBQ Pork Wraps. Sounds tasty yes? Barbecue pig in a fried wrapper. Can't go wrong there, you say. But again, you would be wrong. So wrong it hurts. What appeared before Erin was the disgusting love child of Mao Zedong and Sweet Baby Ray, two people never even meant to meet. Accompanying this horror of a dish was two different types of "sauce", one plum and one a mustard based barbecue sauce. Neither one was too offensive on its own, but they didn't do anything for the wrap. And the wrap needed something to be done because the barbecue pork with the Asian cabbage mix was offensive to my taste buds. I didn't even eat the second roll that I was entitled to. And I've eaten things off the floor. My conclusion is that Asia and the American South are on opposite sides of the planet for a reason. They should stay there.

Friday: Fireworks and potluck! But mostly a good reason to cook!
Feeling rather ambitious I chose to make a pasta salad and just make up the recipe as I saw fit. I was dying to roast some red peppers, as it seems so easy and yet so bad ass. It was. So I made a roasted red pepper sauce to go with wilted spinach and bacon(!). Delectable. Or it could have been had there been enough sauce to moisten the 1.5 lbs of pasta I used. The sauce had too much noodle to cover and so most of the flavors disappeared. I was pretty disappointed with the result, but vowed to fix it as soon as I could get my hands on some more roasted red peppers (fresh or jarred, I did not care).

Ms. Erin on the other hand consulted The Yellow Bible and found a recipe for panzanella. What is panzanella? It is perfection. It is Italian bread salad, so basically toasted bread and tomatoes all gettin it on with garlic and oil and onion. Plus did I mention bread and tomatoes? Seriously, I could have eaten the entire bowl. But Erin had a fork weapon.
We also made chocolate chip cookies. With nuts. I never get nuts in my cookies (laugh, laugh). It's such a delightful treat. I ate at least a dozen of them. Shhhh.

Saturday: Megan feels better about her skillz
Saturday I did not leave my block. This made me happy. Instead I did nothing all day but clean up the aftermath of the previous day's cooking extravaganza. I also popped into the Alb (corner store) to find that they did, in fact, carry a jar of roasted red peppers. It appears to be the only jar of them they have ever carried. I had to wipe about a centimeter of dust and dirt off the container to make sure it was really what I wanted.

At home, I tossed a few more red peps into the food processor, some more oil, and this time some spicy garlic chili sauce that burns my taste buds off but always keeps me coming back for more. I doused that dry ass pasta salad from the day before in my new saucy sauce, added a little more Parmesan and put that biatch in the microwave. What came out was a spicy, rich, cheesy scrumptious bowl of pasta that I couldn't get enough of. It wasn't what I started out trying to make, but like Erin said, "it evolved".

Sunday: Yes my stomach hurts because I ate so much.
Sunday I had foods with Ms. Rachel at Farmerie 58 in River North. Known for local, seasonal ingredients, Farmerie 58 is a lovely place for a brunch on a sunny July Sunday. I had the sour cherry french toast topped with hazelnuts and bourbon syrup. It was sweet and tart and a nice change from regular french toast. The crispy little potato pancake on the side pleased me too, as I am a sucker for the sweet/savory contrast. A tasty meal to start the day. Note "start".

Shortly thereafter, I met up with Erin to visit Taste of Chicago. Because, evidently, I needed to eat again. After avoiding The Taste last year, I guess I forgot why. Now I remember: because it's crowded and hot and crowded some more. Overall it's not worth the excursion or the prices, but I had a couple yummy bites. Since most of our tickets went toward assy beer, we were left to choose a few things we could get sample sizes of.

• Cheese empanada, yum! But there was a cinnamon flavor sometimes present in Mexican food that I can generally do without.
• Taro root french fries! MMMmm. Taro root is something I have only recently discovered, and let me tell you, I was missing out. Starchy like a potato, but sweet and creamy when cooked, taro root is really good in soups and other fried concoctions (like Chinese dumplings). It was only a matter of time before I met it in its fry form. Yum yum.
• Cajun meatballs - Spicy as balls. I don't know who was the first person to grind up some meat and put it in sphere form, but I'm glad they did.

I am back and mostly recovered from Wedding Weekend. It was four days of exhausting, emotional goodness and my sister's all hitched and moved to California For Real and Actual Life, Not Just For a Visit. The wedding was gorgeous, the bride beautiful, and the weather was perfect. I maaaay have indulged in too many vodka cranberries at the reception and flung myself pretty terrifically around the dance floor. Hopefully there's no photographic documentation of my drunken idiocy but that remains to be seen. I know there was a photographer lurking about.

What sticks out to me most about the weekend, though, is that my baby sister moved 2,000 miles away at the end of it. Sunday we kissed her goodbye and sent her to California on a plane with That Boy. And if ONE MORE PERSON tells me how great! it! is! that I have a free place to crash in California now ("Isn't that awesome?!") I might have to punch them in the head. You've all been warned.

(Confidential to World: THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER SHE IS STILL 2,000 MILES AWAY.)

My sister and I have always been close, close friends. We make each other nuts, are very different in most ways, but none of that matters because she's Meredith and I'm Austin and that's just The Way It Is. We laugh at the same jokes and not even our parents can tell us apart on the phone; we quote TV shows and sing the entire Rent soundtrack together. We used to have sleepovers in one another's room to watch movies from our childhood.

So how have I kept from throwing myself onto her sheetless bed in despair and clutching at the clutter of boxes and wedding gifts that await the movers in her empty-walled-but-still-smells-like-her bedroom?

Why, I've gone shopping.

Yes, near my mother's house rests an ever-expanding and glorious outlet mall, where one can purchase last season's clothes at major discounts. And there I soothed my weary soul. So far I am one pair of pants and one tank top from Old Navy, one pair of capris and one pair of super cute shorts from Ann Taylor, and one Burt's Bees shampoo/conditioner set happier. Zack, however, not so much. He may be sending her some hate mail when he looks at our credit card bill because I have not, as this post title implies, begun farting money.

Onward!