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  • The dress is souper!

    Today, I did more sleuthing for the coming February fashion
    feature and uncovered this treasure: Kim Bartmann, owner of Bryant Lake Bowl and Barbette as well as a lover of all
    things vintage, has an original "Souper Dress" on display at her new-ish Red Stag
    Supper Club     (see my mediocre snapshot below). This paper dress, inspired by the
    work of Andy Warhol, was issued by the Campbell’s Soup Company in 1967. Shoppers could
    get one sent directly to them, via US Mail, in exchange for one dollar and two Campbell’s soup labels. Unfortunately,
    however, because the dresses were advertised as disposable (per the trend of the time), most didn’t
    survive until now. This one belonged to – and was lovingly preserved by – Bartmann’s mother. Other Souper dresses
    have recently sold for as much as $5,000.
     
     

  • First Stop: Stephanie’s

    So, yesterday I started working on the February fashion
    feature, for which men and women pick fashions for their sweethearts. (Check the
    crappily laid-out online version from last year.) First stop was Stephanie’s in
    Highland Park
    with WCCO-TV reporter Jason DeRusha, who picked out a darling dress for his
    darlin’ wife. That dress, however, shall remain unseen until the Feb issue hits
    stands. But I can tell you this: As it turns out, DeRusha actually likes
    shopping for his wife, so we had a pretty good time. Here’s a snap of DeRusha and
    shop owner Stephanie Morrissey hangin’ out in the back of the store, near the
    sale section.

     

    "Oh, I know Ted Baker!" said DeRusha upon noticing the label on the beautiful
    steel-gray dress below. "I like his ties." But of course, Stephanie’s doesn’t
    carry the ties. (You’ll need to head to Len Druskin to find those.) However, Stephanie’s is
    the exclusive Twin Cities carrier of Baker’s women’s line. Alert! Occupational
    hazard! Yes, that is my very own bathroom in the background you see there. If
    you have already gleaned this fact, I’ll lay it out for you: I bought the damn thing.

  • Eating Japanese, I Think We're Eating Japanese

    And if you’re not eating Japanese yet, what exactly are you waiting for?

    First, there was a minor surge in the opening of small sushi and bento box places over the past year. Then, last week, in roughly the time it took for 2007 to become 2008, we went from an urban core with shamefully slim Nipponese offerings to — poof! — practically overnight, Sushi Central on the upper side of Hennepin Ave.

    Now, I’ll admit, this particular stretch of Minneapolis has its problems. Block E is the kind of urban planning debacle a city never really gets over: a mismatched monstrosity with the exquisite Graves Hotel on one end, an Applebee’s on the other, and miles of corridors in between that reek of urine and peach-mango Jamba Juice.

    But the good news is that Randy Norman and several unnamed partners have arrived to spruce up the corner of Hennepin and Seventh with two new restaurants: r. Norman, a steakhouse, and Seven Sushi. These are the guys behind Bellanotte — or at least, a couple of them are. But there’s a veiled secrecy to the ownership of all their restaurants, as if you’re going to open a door in back and run across an underground railroad for battered women or a rousing game of Russian roulette. I think they like it that way; it’s part of their mystique.

    To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of Bellanotte. It has a too-cool-for-school kind of vibe that I find interesting for about three minutes. The regulars all seem to be dressed in P. Diddy’s cast-off clothes. The women. . . .well. . . .they wear so little — even in the dead of winter — it’s impossible to pinpoint an actual style. And the food, while fine, has never been the draw. (Quick: Can anyone name the chef at Bellanotte? Or any chef who’s ever been at Bellanotte?) This is more like a nightclub that happens to serve food — a place where you pay a price to join the in-crowd for a night.

    From what I can see, r. Norman, which opened January 2 on the north side of the Pantages Theater building, looks like more of the same: roaring fires, flaming cocktails, and slinky servers with mile-long legs. But I think Seven Sushi, which occupies the top floor, has a shot at bringing something worth bundling up in the middle of January, paying $10 to park, and climbing two flights to see.


    First — and it hurts me, an avowed shunner of ubiquitous Shea designs, to say this — Seven is simply gorgeous. Sleek chocolate suede banquettes with marble-topped speakers doubling as tables. The accents are rich: red, cream, gold. And the sushi bar itself shines with a steely glint. The wine and liquor offerings include 20 kinds of sake, champagnes up to a $500 Cristal, and specialty martinis. As for food, chef John Ames (formerly of Fuji-ya) is putting out everything from maki to nigiri to a sushi and sashimi platter for two ($50).

    Prices are high, but perhaps not as high as you might think. Baked mussels (6) go for $10, seared crab cakes can be had for $14, the baby squid tempura is $8, and a dish of edamame costs a mere 5 bucks. My bet is that Seven will see a huge return on its liquor business — which, by the way, dictates they must serve food all the way until closing. That means sushi every night until 2 a.m.

    Strangely, just a few days before the opening of Seven (and after several delays), the far more modest Japanese eatery Musashi — just one block down on Hennepin and 8th — turned on its neon-green OPEN sign.

    Musashi is a very different world: plain and cavernous, with servers in traditional black-with-red-piping double-breasted Asian coats. The atmosphere here is quaint, with wooden tables and flower vases and a stack of paper takout menus on the maitre d’s desk.

    There is a huge, drafty bar to the south — serving table wines such as Menage a Trois — and a street-facing dining area with a sushi bar that offers a slightly more scaled-down menu than Seven’s. But Musashi does have an amazing 29-item list of maki rolls and many a la carte options.

    This restuarant also has a separate hibachi room to the north, where people cluster around hot griddles and watch showmen chefs with Fu Manchus dice, sear, and serve up their food. The bento box and hibachi dinners use fairly pedestrian ingredients (chicken, steak, shrimp) but are served with an entire complement of sides, including soup, Japanese salad, vegetables, fried rice, and noodles.

    Incidentally, my husband delicately explained the lyrics of the song that inspired this blog this morning (Turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese. . . .), which gave me an entirely new perspective. So let me just point out that the sushi bars at both Seven Sushi and Musashi are very nice places to dine, um. . . .solo.

    For reservations: Seven Sushi, 612-238-7777
    For reservations or takeout: Musashi, 612-332-8772

     

  • The Year's First Weekend Signals Good Things to Come

    FILM
    There Will Be Blood

    The latest from director Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) is rumored to be a front runner for the best-picture Oscar, but that’s highly unlikely. There Will Be Blood is magnificent, epic, and utterly bizarre; films this weird never win the big one. Based loosely on Upton Sinclair’s 1927 novel Oil!, There Will Be Blood features Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Dano as an oil man and a preacher, respectively, at odds over money, faith, and oil rights. These actors perform like serpents fighting to swallow the film whole and there is vast pleasure in watching them coil around one another in mortal combat. With an equally audacious score by Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood (he summoned Stravinsky’s screeching violins), an impressive cast, and startling direction, Blood is the boldest Western since Sam Peckinpah walked the earth. —Peter Schilling

    Starts Friday at the Uptown Theatre, 2906 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-825-6006; $8.25 (seniors and children $5.75).

    MUSIC
    Bill Carrothers’ Armistice Band

    Jazz pianist Bill Carrothers was born in Minneapolis in 1964 and, even as a tyro getting his artistic bearings, elevated the local jazz scene with his cerebral gravitas (No one, for example, untangled the Gordian knots of altoist Lee Konitz better than Carrothers in concert.) While his best-known disc is probably Duets with drummer Bill Stewart, his masterpiece is the two-hour epic, Armistice 1918,which won the Charles Cros Award (the French equivalent of a Grammy) in 2004. It opens with the innocent pop songs of the pre-World War I era, such as “Hello Ma Baby” and “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” and then wends through a wellspring/maelstrom of affecting originals and period-covers, brimming with impressionistic details regarding, as Carrothers put it in his liner notes, “the call to battle, separation of loved ones … night raids, rum rations … the disillusionment with ideals and finally the silence of Armistice Day.” Many of the original musicians will join Carrothers for this extraordinary U.S. premiere, including cellist Matt Turner, percussionist Jay Epstein, and vocalist Peg Carrothers. Rounding out the ensemble are bassist Jean-Philippe Viret, drummer Dre Pallemaerts, and bass clarinetist Jean-Marc Foltz. —by Britt Robson

    Friday and Saturday at 9 p.m., Artists’ Quarter, 408 St. Peter St., St. Paul; 651-292-1359; $15.

    Native Pianist Plays Ballard

    When we think Native American music, we tend to think drumming circles and unblended monophony. Some of us — familiar with Buggin Malone and Cochise Anderson — might even think hip-hop. But few of us ever think classical music. Few of us stop to consider George Quincy, Jerod Tate, R. Carlos Nakai, or even Janika Vandervelde. And though his compositions are performed by major symphony orchestras across the globe, few of us consider acclaimed Quawpaw/Cherokee composer Louis Ballard. Well, start considering him, people. Consider him Saturday as his work is performed by another nationally recognized Native musician, classical pianist Tim Hays (HoCak). Enjoy this rare opportunity and stay for a post-concert dialog with the artist. Proceeds will benefit the Two Spirit Press Room and the
    International Two Spirit Gathering.

    Saturday at 7:30 p.m., All God’s Children MCC, 3100 Park Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-824-2673; suggested donation of $10.

    We don’t get a lot of gospel here in the cities, so let me toss in this last minute event: Mama Digdown will serve up some hot New Orleans gospel with hard-hitting brass band music this Saturday (9 p.m.) at the Nomad World Pub (501 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-6424). For only $5 you’ll cleanse your soul!

    ART
    Closing this Weekend: Nuestra Frida

    Taken up by fans, feminists, malcontents, ideologists, and ax-grinders, Frida Kahlo has become much more than an artist over the last couple of decades.Yet somehow she is also often presented as less than an artist. In conjunction with Walker Art Center’s Kahlo exhibition, Grupo Soap, an alliance of artists who share a Hispanic heritage as well as robust senses of occasion and humor, will give its take on the Frida phenomenon. Last year the group produced four-by-eight-foot woodcuts printed by steamroller for a Día de los Muertos show. A poster for a2001 show featuring the artists as luchadores (Mexican wrestlers) still hangs on walls all over town (the show was good, too). So expect their efforts to restore Kahlo as a complex artist and Mexican citizen as well as an iconic sufferer—Our Lady of a Thousand Coffee Mugs—to be both serious and facetious. —Ann Klefstad

    Friday and Saturday from 12-6 p.m., Grupo Soap del Corazón and Art Jones Gallery, Casket Arts Building, 681 17th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis.

    Also closing this weekend is the Pompeii exhibit at the Science Museum. Check out our video tour.


    Opening this Weekend: News from the Moon

    If News From the Moon sounds like a children’s story you might want to read, then you’ll especially enjoy the new exhibit at Rosalux. Both Jennifer Davis and Amy Crickenberger Oeth show a childlike quality in their work that emphasizes life’s simple joys. This is definitely not one of those slick, all-dressed-in-black art shows — you won’t spend the next three weeks trying to climb out of the abyss. No, this will be a lovely show, with beautiful images, sweet images, images that will appeal to you on an emotional level and still leave you feeling good. I once said I would want Davis’ images bedecking my child’s nursery. I hold to that.

    Opening reception Saturday from 7-10 p.m., Rosalux Gallery, 1011 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-396-3947; free.

     

    PERFORMANCE
    Another Year, Another Party in the Rec Rooom

    The celebration isn’t over just yet, folks. This Saturday — and every Thursday through Sunday for the rest of the month — Lorna Landvik will be throwing a Party in the Rec Room comedy bash. Join the local author and actor for a fully improvised evening of comedy mayhem, replete with made up characters.

    Saturday at 7 p.m., Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 West Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-3737; $15.

     

    TV PARTY
    The L Word Season Premiere

    Will Alice lose her mind? Will Helena wind up in the slammer? Will Shane cheat on Paige? Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? If not, then it’s time to step it up and rent the first four seasons of The L Word, so you won’t be lost on Sunday when the new season begins. (See, now you know what to do all weekend.) Fittingly, our lovely local "L" bar will be hosting a party for the premiere. Can you think of a better place to see it?! Gay or not, you’ll want to hear the comments flying back and forth during commercials. Jana Shortal, from KARE 11 News, will serve as guest emcee, so maybe she’ll have some interesting insight of her own. You’ll have a chance to win L Word-related prizes, and everyone will walk away with an advanced copy of Season 5, Episode 2.

    Sunday at 4 p.m. (screening at 7 p.m.), Pi, 2532 25th Ave. S., Minneapolis; $5 suggested donation (V.I.P. $35 for reserved seating, waitress service, one drink, and your annual HRC membership).

  • My First Rake Mea Culpa

    More like a mea maxima culpa. 

    In my very first guest post here, I used the Rachel Bliss show at Cliché as
    an illustration of art works on display in places other than galleries,
    something that happens more and more here in Minneapolis.

    And then I posted the work of the wrong Bliss.

    The artwork I posted — and have removed from this blog — came from

    Rachel Bliss in Pennsylvania
    and did not appear at Cliché.  We were informed that the images on the
    site, like many pieces on artist sites, are copyrighted and require
    permission to use. 

    I meant to use some pictures from the Minneapolis Rachael Bliss, who did in fact have an opening at the clothing store in Uptown.   You can now see her images in the original post. 

    My apologies to Rachel and Rachael and to Cliché for the confusion.

  • I, Too, Have A Bone To Pick With Andrew Zimmern

    I know I said yesterday that I was going to talk about my favorite books from 2007. I’ll do that eventually, I suppose, although who really gives a rat’s ass? Right now I’m all worked up about something else, so the book nonsense will just have to get shoved aside for the time being.

    I’m not a guy who can easily mask his feelings, and I guess I more or less telegraphed where I’m coming from in that headline up there: along with virtually every one of my Rake colleagues, most of whom I don’t personally know, I have a beef with Andrew Zimmern. And, yes, I know I said earlier that I had a bone to pick, but this being a discussion about food I feel excused in mixing my metaphors, if in fact that’s what I’m doing, or did.

    At any rate, what’s my big problem with Zimmern? Where to begin, where to begin?

    First of all, I suppose I should admit that I really don’t know who the hell this Zimmern fellow is, and by that I mean I really don’t know who the hell he is, just as, I’m sure, he doesn’t know who the hell I am. I got wind of the recent dust-ups, however, and felt riled and curious enough to search Google images for a picture of the man. I always start there, if possible, because I have no problem at all judging a book by its cover, being as I am a firm believer in that old business about a picture being worth a thousand words (a phrase, incidentally, that was coined by my old colleague at City Pages, Dylan Hicks. Or perhaps it was Paul Demko). At any rate, I spent some time –way too much time, actually– looking at photographs of a man alleged to be Zimmern and quickly concluded that a thousand words were something like 975 words too many; a couple dozen, I should think, would suffice.

    From what I’ve seen I can definitely tell you that I don’t like the cut of Zimmern’s jib. I think he eats too much, and given that he apparently spends so much of his time eating, I also think it’s fair to presume that he eats bugs…no, wait, he does, it seems, eat bugs, but what I meant to say was that it’s fair to presume that he talks with his mouth full. I don’t care for that.

    I had to dig a little deeper to find out more about this Zimmern character, and mostly what I discovered was that –yes, just as I suspected– he eats too much, and also eats almost entirely at places I’ve never heard of. I’m not a big fan of people who make a habit of eating at places I’ve never heard of, and then proceed to go on and on about how great those places are.

    I’m guessing that Zimmern has never in his entire life spent a morning laying drywall and then, with dust all over his hands and under his fingernails, eaten the hell out of a Manwich and a can of Pringles. I’m also guessing that he’s never spent a cold afternoon in the garage skinning muskrats and then driven his truck through the drive-up lane at Arby’s and polished off the 5-for-$5.99 roast beef special all by his lonesome.

    Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe Zimmern has, in fact, laid drywall and eaten the hell out of a Manwich and a can of Pringles. Maybe he has skinned muskrats and gone to Arby’s to gorge himself on beef. But I’ll say this: if I’m correct in my suppositions –and I feel confident that I am– then I’m also correct in saying that this is a man who doesn’t know a diddly-damn thing about truly great food and the supreme pleasures and surprises of eating when you’re flat-out hungry as shit.

    Answer me these questions, Zimmern, you hot shot:

    Have you ever eaten a pie from Beek’s, King of Pizza?

    Under the right circumstances (very, very hungry; very, very stoned and/or drunk; etc.) could you rave for hours about the wings at Shorty and Wag’s?

    Can you name, with appropriate enthusiasm, a favorite brand of canned chili?

    Could you, do you honestly think, tackle the Tremendous Twelve at Perkins?

    Have you ever been so fucking hungry that you’ve eaten a microwave hamburger from Super America and felt like you’d died and gone to heaven?

    Might you, as I did this very evening, mix together cans of Progresso vegetable beef and beef barley soup and eat the whole damn pot while seated on the kitchen floor?

    Have you ever spent hours driving along a freeway praying for the appearance of a Taco John’s?

    Do you agree that Tootsie Rolls and pretzels are often as not a perfectly suitable lunch?

    If you answered no to even half of these questions, Zimmern, you’re not only a piss-poor food critic, but you’re also a pussy.

  • January: Days of Emergen-C and Ice

    Let’s face it. The Days of Wine and Roses are past.

    This is January, month of frigid temperatures and atonement. And all I have to say is, if you overindulged in December. . . .well, join the club.

    I’m not a glutton by nature. I don’t typically stuff myself; I’ve been drunk maybe twice in my life. But there’s something about the relentless holiday season with its obligatory parties and family gatherings and professional to-do’s. You’re surrounded by food of a junky, sugary sort. Pretzels crusted with blocks of chocolate and whole grains of salt. Pastries oozing a cheesy strawberry cream. Chex Mix spiked with red and green M&M’s.

    And the wine. It just keeps coming, like a spigot you cannot turn off. Put down your empty glass and it’s full again. Just the other night, on the first of January, I finally hit a point of saturation with the whole hedonistic affair. I’d had a glass of something French, then an Italian table wine with the New Year’s meal. Afterward, someone poured me a glass of Syrah, I took one sip, and something in me rebelled.

    "Aren’t you going to finish?" our host asked.

    "No," I said — politely, I hope. "I’ve had enough." And I meant it.

    This is not to say I quit drinking wine. I was, in fact, back at it tonight. But only a glass, or two. Something dry and red and low in sugar, after an abstemious meal of grains, vegeatables, and seaweed.

    Beyond that, my cures for the bacchanalia of the season include:

    Emergen-C: I know it’s a hackneyed starlet’s trick, but I love these packets of water-soluble vitamins and, placebo effect or not, I swear they make me feel better; I take two doses of Emergen-C Lite in ice water each day.

    Lemon juice: It’s astringent, cleansing, and somehow — despite all the citric acid — can settle your stomach on even the worst of days; I squeeze a full lemon’s worth into hot water and start the morning with this brew. Evenings, if needed, I drink it cold.

    Green tea: Think of it as a dietary tonic. Green tea is antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, and — supposedly — boosts both the immune system and the metabolism; experts recommend 4-5 cups a day, with organic honey (but never milk, which inhibits tea’s healthful properties).

    And if you get truly desperate, you can revert to "colonics:" a method for detoxifying that’s preferred by super models and Swedes. This is, of course, actually just a fancy, upscale name for something that’s done with a bag and a hose and warm, soapy water (or coffee, if you’re into that pleasant mocha scent). But I wouldn’t advise anyone to undertake this "cure" unless under a doctor’s — or massage therapist’s — care.

    Given a couple days of clean living, I think you’ll find extreme measures involving reverse-ingested caffeine just aren’t necessary. And slowly, you’ll be able to return to the wine. In fact, you’re going to need a little nip from time to time. Because the days are getting longer — or so I hear — but it’s still the same steel gray sky each day. The realities of a new year have set in. Work has resumed. And it’s just too damn cold outside.

  • Grassfed buffalo: something to chew on

    I had a lovely dinner last night at the Grand Café:
    cauliflower soup with a fig gastrique; pan-seared scallops with porcini-potato
    pave, and lean slices of medium rare bison (buffalo) top sirloin with lentils, bathed in a fig and port wine
    demi-glace. Then this morning, I happened to see the full-page ad in the New
    York Times for Michael Pollan’s new book, In Defense of Food: An Eater’s
    Manifesto    . Pollan wrote the best-selling Omnivore’s Dilemma, which takes a
    critical look at our overly industrialized food system.

    The new book is billed as The Omnivore’s Solution, and the
    dozen recommendations in the ad start with

    1. Don’t
      eat anything that your grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food,

    and ends with

    12. Eat deliberately, with other
    people whenever possible, and always with pleasure.

    But it was recommendation #9 that caught my eye:

    9. Eat food
    from animals that eat grass.

    I’d read the literature about this before: meat from
    grass-fed is lower in calories and higher in healthy omega-3 fatty acids and conjugated linoleic acid, which is supposed to reduce your
    risk of cancer. And grass-fed animals have a much smaller environmental impact that animals raised on corn.

    That made me curious about last
    night’s bison: was it grass-fed or grain-fed? Ordinarily, I would have simply
    assumed that buffalo are raised on grass, but a recent letter to the editor of
    the New York Review of Books claimed otherwise: the writer had done a little
    research and discovered that a lot of buffalo sold in supermarkets (including
    Trader Joe’s) is actually raised on corn. Apparently, a lot of consumers like
    the idea of buffalo, but like the flavor of corn-fed meat.

    Our hostess, Mary Hunter, who owns the café with her husband Dan,
    had told me that the bison came from Venison America, a family-owned business
    in Hudson, WI. According to their
    website, their bison comes is raised in Minnesota by a supplier who "feeds
    the bison grains and grasses but also supplements this with a weekly ration of
    whey from their cheese factory." The website does claim that their bison is
    still a lot leaner than beef:

    " Bison has per 3.5 ounce serving: 143 calories and 2.42
    grams of fat.
    Choice Beef has per 3.5 ounce serving: 211 calories and 9.28 grams of fat."

    There aren’t a lot of buffalo producers in Minnesota, and
    even fewer who own cheese factories, so the producer in question had to be
    Eichten’s Hidden Acres, which raises buffalo and produces cheese. Steve Loppnow, the owner
    of Venison America confirmed that Eichten’s is the supplier, and said that
    while the buffalo spend most of their lives eating grass, in the last 30 days
    before slaughter, they are fed a diet of oat silage, alfalfa, and "a little bit
    of corn, not a huge amount because corn is really expensive."

    Loppnow said that if restaurants want bison that is purely
    grass-fed, he can supply it, from an organic producer in Rice Lake, WI, but
    it’s more expensive – and he added that the fat from grass-fed beef is not as
    palatable as the fat from animals that have had some corn in their diet.

    Bottom line: that bison sirloin at the Grand Cafe was from an animal who consumed some corn, but a lot less than the typical feedlot steer.

     

     

     

  • I Really Did Get Wet and Wild at "Wet and Wild"

    Ok… I made a promise to my husband and kids that — although I am
    known to get a little out of control — they would never have to worry about me pulling a Britney Spears. Well, I pulled a Britney, but it wasn’t my fault! 🙂

    Here is what happened.

    My whole life I have dreamed of swimming with Dolphins, so my husband found a place in Mexico called Wet and Wild, where, after being given THOROUGH instructions with the Dolphin trainers, you can actually jump in the pool and swim with the Dolphins.

    I cannot begin to tell you how excited I was!!!!!! In my mind I pictured being like one of those woman you see at Sea World posing in a pretty suit on top of two Dolphins swimming full speed ahead.

    Well, it wasn’t quite like that.

    First of all, I was put in a group with five kids under the age of 10 who wanted to jump in without listening to the rules. Big mistake on their part. One at a time, each of these little rug rats came out of the pool disappointed by the fact that the Dolphins were not cooperating. Not only were the kids bummed, but their parents, who all had cameras ready and wallets empty, came away with nothing more than an angry kid in a wet bathing suit smelling of bad fish!

    I was not giving up on my dream though! I had a plan: Get to know the
    trainers and listen very carefully.

    After chomping at the bit and making small talk with Edgar (the head trainer), it was my turn to fulfill my dream. I jumped in the pool without thinking about two very important details. First, I was wearing a bikini; and second, I had on more ornaments than a Christmas tree. What can I say? I don’t go anywhere, even swimming, without covering myself in jewelry. Sickening? Yes. But that’s me!!!!!!

    Edgar guided me to where I needed to go, and after a little bit of flirting (with Edgar) and watching my husband roll his eyes, I was READY!!!!!!!

    I did as Edgar instructed me to. I floated on my stomach and positioned my feet facing down, waiting for "Alex" and "Keeley Kat" to come and whisk me up in the air for the big ride across the pool.

    Well, as I was swept up in the air by the two Dolphins and whisked at full speed across the pool it never occurred to me that I was being videotaped by several people, and that the bottoms of my bathing suit were… well… how should I put this?… OFF of my butt and ON the Dolphins.

    After I took a deep breath and saw the horrified look on several people’s faces, I did what any person who just fulfilled the fantasy of a lifetime would do. I made every person with a camera promise not to post the video of my very embarrassed 40-year-old butt on YOUTUBE!

    So far, so good! My only concern is the one guy who pretended he didn’t speak English and refused my plea to respectfully erase the footage.

    As I told my family… If a picture of me standing half naked on top of two dolphins should ever surface… I will simply deny deny deny… unless it just so happens that some hot 20 year old also went swimming with Dolphins at "Wet and Wild" and lost her bottoms too!!!!

    P.S. Much to the dismay of my husband, the navel jewelry stayed on, so I guess I will have to keep wearing it. 🙂

    Thanks Alex and Keeley Kat!!!!!!!!!!!!

  • Food Forward '08

    Forget about looking back … let’s guess what’s in store for 08!

    If a rat can charm us, why not a bug? The next great food film to be revered by adults and tolerated by kids will be a jaunty romp with Corky Cockroach as he sings his way through a scrappy life spent in the bottom of a Caesar salad bowl.

    Gourmet burgers and sassy meatballs were the rage last year, our Isaac Becker got a nod in the NYT for his meatballs, but what’s next? The Cheddar Foie Dog, coming to a hot cart on every corner.

    The locavore movement has helped to push CSA into the mainstream. Look for farm-to-table boundaries to be further pushed with the advancement of text message "birth announcements" so you can race to field and arrive for the exact moment your rutabaga is ripe for the plucking.

    The small-plates trend is dead. This time we MEAN it. Who cares that O-Bentoya got a plug for their robata which I find myself thinking about sometimes…it’s dead, I tell you. What’s hot? Anything in a loaf (shrimploaf, robataloaf, okraloaf, hot hot hot).

    Buzzwords of the food world were clearly local, seasonal, organic, and sustainable. The trend they describe shows no sign of abatement, yet the words themselves have become a little overused, a little blah, no? Look for these new snazzy watchwords: earthish, dirt-nurtured, zip-code-containable, seasonesque (i.e. What are those tomatoes doing on your January menu? Shame on your lack of seasonesque.)

    He’s already worked on banning trans-fats and is trying to start a menu-labeling scuffle, but what’s The Man really doing for 08? He’s going to save your life, whether you like it or not, by instituting mandatory steel-cut oat enemas. Bend over, and Supersize it please.

    Damn, I’m excited. You?