Monthly Archive for May 2011
Last weekend, Kevin flew west (for a weekend with his friends in Yosemite) and I flew north (to Minnesota, to see my family). The camera went with Kevin (filed under “The Things I Do For Love”). But my iPhone came with me and I kept it busy documenting a rainy, chilly, but still-perfect weekend with my parents and sister. There was beer (Fulton and Summit and Surly, but not Grain Belt, alas):
And fat spears of asparagus shaved thin and tossed in lots of lemon, olive oil, parmesan and coarse salt:
When we moved back to Chicago from DC in 2005, one of the biggest draws of this town was that it was where many of our friends were living. Kevin had grown up here, we’d both gone to college here, and it wasn’t so far from Minneapolis, where I’d grown up. Unlike Washington, where everything was new and where we were wrapped up in anonymity much of the time, this was a place where you could run into someone you knew at a Cubs game, where you could go to a place that you’d been five (or, in Kevin’s case, ten or fifteen) years ago.
There were a lot of great things about being back in Chicago—but returning to a tight group of college friends was certainly one of the best. There were BBQs and nights of unending Taboo and weddings and chili cook-offs and fantasy football drafts and Fourth of July fireworks and book clubs and girls dinners and street festivals and concerts.
I’m crazy for ramps right now. Absolutely mad. I see them in the grocery store, tucked beneath deep green eaves of chard and kale, and I can’t help but grab a bundle in my fist, lift them triumphantly over my head, and squeal to myself (or is it aloud?): Ramps! About this time, Kevin busies himself in the crucifer bin—suddenly fascinated beyond distraction by a seafoam green head of cabbage. And, although the man does love his slaw, I’m beginning to think that maybe—just maybe—he’s embarrassed of my expression of ramp triumph. But, no matter: my shopping cart is lined with a lush carpet of ramps. Tra-lah-lah.
In truth, what I’m really crazy for is spring, and the ramps are just a little part of that. They’re a middle piece of the jig-saw puzzle. It seems that the perimeter of that puzzle has taken shape (the trees are starting to fringe themselves in chartreuse; the tulips have begun to unfurl), but the rest of the zillion middle pieces seem reluctant to fall into place (creating the real-deal, warmer-than-60-degrees, local-produce-at-the-markets, full-on spring).