Where have the days gone?  No, seriously?  It’s more than halfway through January, but somehow that doesn’t seem possible.  A few weeks ago we bought tickets for a short trip to Houston and at the time it seemed like February was never going to get here.  But it’s so close!

There is a light at the end of the tunnel, or so I keep reminding myself.  These tunnels are nasty little buggers and it seems like there are so many of them.  I find my way through one and I’m rewarded with beautiful moments, full of laughter and love and fun.  But then there is another damn tunnel.

Who makes these tunnels?  I guess I do, but I prefer to imagine tiny little dwarves inside my head, chipping away slowly and methodically.  Must be why I get the occasional migraine.  I just wish the bloody bastards would make the tunnels a wee bit more interesting.  Perhaps they could throw in an interesting curve every now and then?

Well, seems they may be listening.  I often find myself lost and stumbling through tunnels full of boredom and mundanity for weeks on end when Lucas is gone.  But the tunnel I’m currently in has smoother edges and the air I breathe is spiked with motivation.

It’s a nice feeling.  Who knows?  Maybe the dwarves are getting better at what they do and I’ll continue to have an easier time in between the moments I truly look forward to.

Oh, what the hell am I going on about?  Tunnels and dwarves and the flying spaghetti monster only knows what. I’m rambling and making no sense to the average normal person.  Methinks it’s time for bed.

On our way to Niagara Falls a couple of weeks ago, Lucas and I were stopped at the border crossing and questioned thoroughly.  We were then told to pull to the side so our vehicle could be searched.  As we stepped out of the truck I began to feel nervous.  I was concerned that my prescriptions would be a problem because they have a different name on them than what’s on my passport.  And then if I had to explain that the name on my passport isn’t actually my name anymore … would they let me in?!

But no, they weren’t worried about my name.  Or my klonopin.

When we heard the border patrol mention guns multiple times Lucas and I began to lighten up and laugh at the situation a little.  This caused one especially serious guy to look over at us and snap “if you have any guns it would be a whole lot easier if you just told us now.”  Um, yeah.  Because if I had a gun I would be laughing at that very moment?  No, I’d be hyperventilating on the pavement, confessing to everything and bawling my eyes out.  I know it’s sad, but I would be a horrible criminal.

So why did they profile us as gun smugglers?  Could it have been the Pennsylvania license plates?  The big, white truck?  Do Canadians hate redheads?

I think it’s because they’re just a bunch of assholes, eh?

Whatever it was, moments like that leave me feeling a bit violated even though I haven’t done anything wrong.  If they wanted to scare us enough that I’d be reaching for my klonopin, they failed.  I win!  The most surprising part – and a wonderful tip for you wanna be gun smugglers – is that they didn’t even search us individually.  It was quite chilly outside and we were wearing big coats.  Could have easily been packin’ a gun.

Alas, they let us in to their (not real) country and we headed to what I’m now calling the “WTF Hilton”.  You’d call it that too if you had to wait in a line 20 people deep just to check-in.  But I digress.  After finally getting our room key and heading up the elevator I was desperate to throw my stuff on the bed.  I assumed that we would have a nice view from the 44^th floor, but I was floored when I looked out the window.  Lucas and I opened a bottle of wine and sat at the window, mesmerized by the panorama.

Eventually we decided go out and made our way down to the 34^th floor for drinks at Myst Lounge.  This was a pretty cool place!  I ordered a martini and sipped on it, watching the snow fall and switching back and forth from one seat to another in an attempt to decide which view was best.  It didn’t matter, each was different, but amazing.  Watching the snow fall outside made me feel like I was inside a snow globe.

After munching on some calamari we made our way back to the room to set up the tripod.  And no, that’s not code for some freaky sex toy.  During the Winter Festival of Lights there is a fireworks display over American Falls.  I watched the show from the floor, a glass of wine in hand, while Lucas snapped away.  Each firework lit the sky with color and we were treated to our first clear view of American Falls.

When the fireworks were over we left our room again and walked across the street to grab dinner.  At this point we didn’t care what we ate.  We were just looking for a place to stop and fill up our bellies so we could continue our night of drinking at the casino without making complete asses of ourselves.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of casinos.  I may as well just throw my money in the garbage, or better yet, use it as toilet paper.  But Lucas was dead set on playing Roulette and I finally got into the spirit of things.  We just kept placing our bet on … wait?!  Why I am giving away our strategy?  Instead I’m going to brag.  We doubled the money we put down and because of that had a hell of a hard time getting out of there.

The next morning we got up – slowly – and after coffee and a quick breakfast drove to see the falls up close.  I have wanted to see Niagara Falls ever since Lois Lane threw herself over in Superman.  But you know what?  She’s an idiot.  I am amazed that anyone has ever survived a trip over the edge.  They’re all idiots, too.  The sheer force behind the water as it rushes down, down, down is just insane.

After taking pictures and walking around, soaking it all in, we stopped at Elements for something to drink.  I lingered over my coffee spiked with Bailey’s and copious amounts of whipped cream, admiring the view of Horseshoe Falls.  I highly recommend this spot if you find yourself at Niagara Falls in the winter or even on a hot summer day.  It’s a great way to get out of the elements and still see the falls.

No, we didn’t do the Maid of the Mist.  Or really anything else.  December is a great time to visit Niagara Falls if you’re looking for a romantic getaway.  Nothing was overly crowded, I don’t recall seeing many children and we were able to get much better shots without tons of people blocking the view.  The downside, obviously, is that the weather forces a lot of things to shut down.  Maybe someday I’ll go back to see the falls from below, but for now I’m exceptionally content with the trip that we had.

Just about the whole past year has been like that for me (if these feelings are not part of your life experience, please pop this movie in your VCR and go away).

I have barely written.  And what’s that thing you do to burn calories?  Oh yeah, exercise?  Umm … not so much.  Also, cooking for one pretty much sucks.

2011 has been the year of anxious, sad and lost Kelly.  Take me out of Houston, away from loved ones and familiar places, and I feel like I need to wear one of those “fragile” stickers on my forehead.  I finally understand why everyone who tries to leave Texas goes back.  It’s called Vitamin D3, baby.

After a recent mini-breakdown (yes, I like to exaggerate) I went home for a few days in utter desperation.  I was looking forward to seeing everyone, however I was very nervous.  Stupid me decided to be terrified that all of the shitty things I’d been feeling would be exponentially worse once I returned to Pittsburgh.  But if you can read between the lines you know that hasn’t been the case.  Look, I’m writing!

The time I spent with my family in Houston was so perfect that it surprised me.  We’re a rather loud, opinionated and oftentimes obnoxious bunch.  Naturally, we have had our ups and downs and issues with one another.  At some point in time we’ve all wanted to tell each and every person in the family to fuck off.  And some of us have.

I’ve known for awhile that the time apart from my family had been good in many ways.  It gave me time to forgive, the opportunity to realize how much we really are there for each other, and also the chance to miss them enough to want to be around them.  No joke.

What I didn’t realize was just how much they ground me.  Somehow being around them brought me back a little closer to myself.  And while I was so very sad to leave (uh, might have considered not getting on the plane), I returned to Pittsburgh feeling more positive than I have in a long, long time.

So … the point of this post is to remind everyone that you should not take your family and friends for granted.  I am angry at myself for not recognizing the full importance of each and every relationship I spent years, decades, a lifetime building.  Our friends and families are not just there to entertain us or to help pass the time.  Personally, they help to define who I am, they keep me in check, remind me that I haven’t always been a grumpy controlling bitch and they love me even when I go over-the-edge-batshit-crazy.  Well, maybe not during said batshit crazy episodes.  But at least they hang around long enough to still love me afterwards.

If you managed to make it this far the next paragraph is as “Spirit of Christmas” Pollyanna-preachy as you’ll ever get from me:

Happy Holidays!  If you are lucky enough to spend time with your loved ones, please cherish it and remind everyone how much you love them.  Even if your creepy Uncle hugs you just a little too long or stares at your cleavage.

But they are easily replaced by cooler temperatures and as the rain turns to snow, it once again covers the earth – hiding that which I love.  I am left feeling morose; stuck in a world of black and white.

But I am hopeful.  I long to see leaves budding on trees.  Flowers.  Hell, I even want to see other people’s toes again because it means the days have grown warm enough to wear flip-flops (I imagine this is still a ways off).  For days I have been daydreaming about hiking – fresh air, peanut butter sandwiches and making out next to a waterfall.  Yes, Lucas has been gone too long.

The last time he was in town I was drugged up on klonopin due to a ridiculous anxiety attack brought on by the stresses of work, loneliness and the complete inability to cope with my situation.  I’m feeling better, thanks to an attitude adjustment, yoga and yogurt.  May The Schwartz be with you.

But the time before that?  When I still thought I was a somewhat well-adjusted individual?  We spent a Saturday together exploring, eating and laughing with each other.

We started our day with lunch at Azul Bar y Cantina, a tasty little Mexican restaurant located in Sewickley.  We munched on homemade chips and salsa and then enjoyed some tacos along with three of the most incredibly delicious roasted jalapenos you could imagine (coated in salt!).  Their house margarita was on par with those I’ve had in Houston and we left giddy with happiness over finding a restaurant we really enjoyed.

Our plan was to head downtown for an auto show at the convention center.  But plans often go awry, as did ours when we discovered the line to get in wrapped around the building.  It was cold outside and we weren’t in the mood to wait in a line so we could shuffle around inside like sardines.

We walked the streets of downtown and discovered the Toonseum, a museum dedicated to celebrating the art of cartooning.  Their current exhibit was Charlie the Tuna from Sunkist (or Starkist, but who actually pays attention to my blog anyway?), which was surprisingly cool.  Even cooler was what I found on their bookshelves – a used copy of Still Life with Bottle (Ralph Steadman) for only $10.00!

Our next discovery was a fantastic martini bar – Olive or Twist.  Their Chai Martini was perfection and a purple concoction of champagne and lavender made my taste buds sigh.  Must. Go. Back …

So!  How cool is this?  A Transformer, made out of bridges (this is the City of Bridges after all).

And for you Pirates fans – PNC Park (baseball sucks, but stadiums are fun!).

So yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  Pittsburgh is a beautiful city.  And for now, it is mine.

They had a meetup tonight at the Penn Brewery, the first craft brewhouse in Pennsylvania.  I arrived about fifteen minutes late because I got lost.  If it was up to me I would have driven all the way to Harrisburg, but common sense hit me.  Okay actually I saw a sign that said Brewery <—.  And still made a wrong turn after that.

I was nervous at first, especially when I saw that the table was full, but someone quickly made room for me.  Within a few minutes I had a Penn Weizen in my hand and was chatting with everyone, thanking myself for showing up.

Because really?  I needed girl time like it was nobody’s business.

What is it about female relationships that are so important?  I love Lucas so freaking much, but there are certain needs that a guy simply doesn’t have the capacity to meet.  Just goofing off with women I hardly know awakened something in me that has been dormant for months.  I smiled.  Felt happy.  Hopeful.

The food?  Wasn’t even important.

Pittsburgh ain’t all that.  And I know it’s bad when I get excited in the line at Chipotle because right there, in that very line, was the biggest melting pot I had seen in weeks.  An Indian couple in front of me, a black woman behind me.  Wait, was that it?  You see?  That was enough to impress me.

This is a white ass city.  And yeah, I’m a white girl.  But I like color.  I like Chinatown, Long Point, Greenspoint (Gunspoint), Mission Bend, Hillcroft, Airline and all Six Wards of Houston.

I miss attempting my rusty Espanol at a taco truck.  The goofy smile on the face of the owner at Kim Tai as he corrects my pronunciation.  “Cám ơn”, he says.  “Gum on?”  I respond as he laughs once again, patiently sounding “thank you” out while I continue to butcher his language.  I should stick to food.

Almost everyone I work with is white.  There is not a single Jesus to make fun of.  Just Doug’s and Nancy’s and other boring ass names like Kelly.

The closest thing you get to culture here is the Polacks.  And those delicious pierogies.

Overall I’m fairly comfortable with the person I am.  But there has been one thing (let’s just leave it at that for this post) that pops up every now and then, gnawing away at my sense of compassion.

Eating meat.

Being a vegetarian is something I’ve toyed with before, abstaining from consuming meat for almost a year at one point.  At that time I read quite a bit on the subject, really believing in all of the different reasons why I should stop eating cows, pigs, chicken, goats, fish, etc.  I quite literally drove a few people insane until I picked up that first juicy hamburger in what seemed like ages.  Mmm hmm, that was the first thing I ate.  With jalapenos.

Hell … meat just tastes so freakin’ good!  There is nothing in the world like a medium-rare steak, a simple piece of nigiri, a rack of smoky ribs or a slice of salty bacon.

So why not purchase meat from more ethical sources, right?  Because I don’t have the willpower, nor can I always afford, to do so.  It takes a little bit more work and while I realize that’s an excuse, it is what it is.  I fucking love meat and if it’s a convenient source I’m eating it.

I just finished reading Anthony Bourdain’s “A Cook’s Tour” and found myself grinning from ear to ear near the end.  His producer’s thought it would be funny to send him – a beligerant, smoking, cursing, meat-lover – to a vegan potluck dinner in Berkeley.  They were right, it was funny.  But that wasn’t the only reason I was smiling.  You see, Bourdain gave me a little bit of peace.  This is what he said:

“It was difficult for me to be polite (though I was outnumbered).  I’d recently returned from Cambodia, where a chicken can be the difference between life and death.  These people in their comfortable suburban digs were carping about cruelty to animals but suggesting that everyone in the world, from suburban Yuppie to starving Cambodian cyclo driver, start buying organic vegetables and expensive soy substitutes.  To look down on entire cultures that’ve based everything on the gathering of fish and rice seemed arrogant to the extreme.  (I’ve heard of vegans feeding their dogs vegetarian meals.  Now that’s cruelty to animals.)  And the hypocrisy of it all pissed me off.  Just being able to talk about this issue in a reasonably grammatical language is a privilege, subsidized in a yin/yang sort of way, somewhere, by somebody taking it in the neck.  Being able to read these words, no matter how stupid, offensive, or wrongheaded, is a privilege, your reading skills the end product of a level of education most of the world will never enjoy.  Our whole lives – our homes, the shoes we wear, the cars we drive, the food we eat – all are built on a mountain of skulls.  Meat, say the PETA folks, is ‘murder’.  And yes, the wide world of meat can seem like a panorama of cruelty at times.  But is meat ‘murder’?  Fuck no.”

He goes on, and it’s just brilliant.  I don’t think an argument about why someone should or should not eat meat (or at least shut the fuck up and do what they want without pushing their opinions on everyone else) has ever resonated so perfectly with me.  Perhaps, just maybe, he has put an end to the angst I occasionally feel while dining on poor little Wilbur.

You don’t have to eat at a fancy restaurant to find that bliss.  It can be found in a bowl of pho on a cold day, at a rib cook-off with friends or while making a simple pasta dish with the one you love – purposely brushing against each other in the kitchen until consuming al dente noodles with a voraciousness you didn’t know existed.  Food and passion.  Mmm.

On Saturday night Lucas took me out for an early dinner at a restaurant named Tamari in Lawrenceville, a neighborhood just minutes from downtown Pittsburgh.  Most of you probably know that Tamari is a Japanese soy sauce, but Tamari can also mean “people who do things passionately” in a native South American tongue.  I think that’s quite clever, considering the restaurant is predominantly a fusion of Japanese and Latin cuisines.

And as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, the meal was perfect.  Why else would I write – no, how else could I have remembered the way that a perfect meal makes me feel?  It has been too long since I admired the simple beauty of a chef’s presentation, treasured every bite, anticipated the next course.  Shiro’s in Seattle ring a bell?

We arrived early and were seated at one of the few tables downstairs.  Tamari is a small restaurant with beautiful, yet simple decorative touches.  The bar takes up the entire right side of the restaurant; beginning as a place to enjoy a drink, but as it extends further patrons can enjoy their meal with views of the open-air kitchen or at the treasured seats in front of the sushi chefs.  I am so glad that we sat where we did because our waitress played an essential role in helping to make the experience so wonderful.  When I mentioned that I was torn between starting with a cocktail or a glass of wine she recommended the Asian Pear Sake-Tini (Asian Pear Sake, Grey Goose La Poire & Prickly Pear), an ambrosial, barely sweet drink that still packed a wallop.

Perhaps Lucas ordered a beer.  I don’t know because I was lost in my own little world, daydreaming about becoming a lesbian and running away with our waitress who had two adorable braids, an endearing accent and the sweetest face you could imagine.  Plus she was tall.  A tall Asian?  Actually she reminded me of my friend Cecily who is now pregnant.  Wait … lesbian scene is over.

By the way, this was a two hour meal so the flowery, pretty language that this post started with may eventually default to typical Kelly-isms and perhaps a few “f words”.  I’m a little ADD.

After ordering our first drinks we moved on to a few small plates.  Yellowtail Nigiri, while fantastic, may have been the most commonplace thing we ate.  Next, the Robata Platter (skewers of chicken, beef, salmon, mushrooms, Brussels sprouts and – my favorite – bacon wrapped quail eggs, which exploded in your mouth, releasing the soft yolk).  The skewers were served with not one, but three dipping sauces.  For those of you who know me well this is restaurant gold.  Three dipping sauces, each equally as good as the last!  Ponzu butter, which paired nicely with the mushrooms and the bacon wrapped quail eggs; chimichurri, which I greedily coated the beef with; and an amazing ginger sauce, which was ideal with the salmon and the chicken.  The Brussels sprouts surprised the hell out of me and required nothing except to be put into my mouth and savored.

Next?  A glass of reasonably priced Carmenere for me and a 3519 (Hendricks, St. Germain & Cucumber) for Lucas.  Along with the best specialty roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.  Appropriately named the “Tamari Roll”, this beautiful work of art was stuffed with white tuna & crab, then topped with torched scallops (!), a touch of crunchy flakes and an abundance of gorgeous, red roe.  There was just a hint of spicy aioli, but not so much that it overpowered the delicate flavors of the fish.  When I saw Lucas fighting for the larger pieces I knew he was equally as smitten.  I believe the exact words from both of our mouths were “I could eat three or four more of those”.

But we didn’t.  Instead we ordered the Chipotle Tuna Tartare.  Chunks of decadent tuna coated in smoky chipotle, topped with a hedonistic portion of yuzu crème fraiche.  But the pièce de résistance?  Wasabi tobiko (flying fish roe).  I don’t recall ever trying roe that was infused with wasabi and let me just say that it’s fucking brilliant.  The plantain chips that garnished the tartare were perfect for scooping up small bites and also offered a slight reprieve from the richness of the crème fraiche.

Time for another drink?  A sparkling rose, thank you.  And you, sir?  I’ll have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Pork belly.  If you have made it this far in life and never tasted pork belly you should just off yourself now.  Your life has been a complete waste.  Contrary to what some people think pork belly is not some over-hyped holy grail of the foodie community.  When done well it is one of the most fantastic pieces of meat you will ever put in your mouth.  And let’s be honest?  Far worse piece of meat have gone into your mouth, no?

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck <– I just described the pork belly, but you have no idea what I said, do you?  You’re still trying to decide if I just called you a whore or possibly a gay whore.  Well, not really.  Just, um …

Pork belly!

Braised with Chinese Five Spice until tender, luscious and ahhh!  So delicious!  Topped with crispy, fried leeks and served with a side of Ra-Yu marinated cucumbers, which slapped me in the face with their oh-so Korean spiciness.  I paused occasionally, smiling like an idiot for all the world to see, beaming at Lucas with thanks for making me so happy.  Sounds escaped my lips that were highly inappropriate for a social setting, but to hell with everyone else.  I was in heaven.

Our plan was to skip dessert because let’s face it – pork belly is like dessert.  But curiosity got the better of us and we agreed to look over the dessert menu.  Haha, somewhere else?  Nope.  We argued back and forth between the Thai Tea Cheesecake (my choice) and the Pear Something or Another (his choice).  We left it up to the waitress who picked the Pear Something or Another because it would be a nice, light dessert to follow the unctuous pork belly.  Humph!  She was right, of course.  I have no clue how to describe that damn, awesome thing.  Pastry stuffed with homemade paneer cheese.  Incredible.  Roasted pears.   Exquisite.  Cinnamon whipped cream?  Yes, please.  It was like Japan, India and Mexico all declared war on my mouth, dropping flavor bombs at the exact same time.  To know perfection, you must first surrender.  Oh yes, very wise am I now.

Haha, see?  I just can’t do such an interesting, delicious meal justice.  The only way for you to find out is to come visit.  Dinner will be on me.

(at Steak n’ Shake)

Since then I have started my new job, driven through snow for the first time, eaten sandwiches with French fries on top, tasted my first pierogi, consumed beer in a church, signed a waiver before eating the second hottest wings I’ve ever tried and baked more than I have in the last five years.

Five weeks.  Five long weeks without my friends, my family, familiar sites.

And Specs.  That’s what I dream about most days, people.  Specs.  Such glorious aisles lined with an incredible selection of liquor, beer and wine.

But it’s the wine selection I miss most.   Who am I kidding?  Pittsburgh is a beer town.  I’ve been impressed with the selection everywhere I’ve gone, but can I find a good California Cab for $15.00?  So far the answer is no.  I’ve never been a big Merlot fan, but the best wine I’ve found so far is a Merlot.  Drinking a glass right now.

Going to eat some soup, too.  Because that’s what you do when it’s fucking cold.