36 month celebration

Rob and I celebrated 3 years recently - time has flown!

Despite our otherwise exhausting weeks, we chose to indulge a bit for the occasion.

We met in Larimer Square, which we normally avoid like the plague. The twinkly holiday lights are charming, but the plethora of valet runners (and the Teslas whose gears they're grinding) gets obnoxious quick. But - 3 years - it's kind of a big deal, so we figured we'd weather it.

Normally we return to our go to favorite, and the setting of our 3rd date, Osteria Marco. It never fails, and is the perfect execution of Italian food without pasta in every single dish (much to the satisfaction of my pasta-averse boyfriend, who OD'd as a kid growing up in an Italian family).

This anniversary, we thought we'd try something a little different. After dropping a dollar bill in the top hat of the carolers outside, we headed downstairs to Green Russell, a speakeasy-style bar I've been wanting to try for awhile. Despite feeling like we were in the wrong place (which is the whole point), we strode forth acting like we knew exactly what was in store. With the pie shop in the front and the smokehouse just off to the side, we still felt like we were in the wrong place when we arrived at the "check in" table. All in good fun. We produced our IDs and did a secret handshake with the hostess, and were led through the swinging door to the dingy, basement establishment.

I was prepared for the dark, dampness of the place, as well as the polished brass studs on the red vinyl bar stools, but even my wildest imagination hadn't prepared me for the stench. It smelled like a mixture of wet hops and dirty socks - too much so to just be "part of the experience". We held our breath and took our seat, angled toward the bar to watch the drink-making show.

Though it took at least 20 minutes to get served (should've known it was an old-style speakeasy with modern hipster service), I will give it a gold star for ambience. The suspenders-clad servers and Brylcream'd bartenders did a great job looking nervous and shady, and my drink (whose name I can't remember because it was at least a full run-on sentence long) was quite good. We snacked on homemade pretzels and cheese dip, which were salty as all get out but good nonetheless. The "rules" of the joint, posted all over the place, are cutesy and perfectly pretentious - "Be kind and dress smartly".

When we'd had enough, we j-walked across the street to Rioja, which I'd only ever been to for brunch. It was Rob's first time. The ambience was disappointing after Green Russell, of course - the metallic wall art is more fitting of an all-things-Asian restaurant (you know, the ones that have udon noodles and pad thai and lo mein and pho and dimsum). Oh well. The sheer glittery curtains between tables, meant to serve as a visual blockades between diners, were a good idea in theory. After all, it did serve as an identity protection sheet for our neighbor, whose cackling laugh nearly cracked my wine glass.

The food really was good. Our main courses, Artichoke Tortelloni and Black Truffle Gnocchi were perfectly seasoned and melted in our mouths. We had placed a bet on how many pieces of pasta would arrive on our plates (I guessed 3, Rob guessed 4), and we were both happily surprised to find 5 tortelloni and at least a dozen little gnocchis.

The goat cheese and olive plate could have been executed better - it arrived in a minimalist display with 3 whole olives rolling around the plate, and about a teaspoon's worth of a few different cheeses. We are normal-sized people - come on. The Castelveltrano and apple skewers were surprisingly well-paired, and though Rob was not a fan of the smoky caramelized olive dust in the center, I was just intrigued enough to dissolve most of it on my tongue.

It would be unfair if I didn't mention the bread baskets, which are arguably the #1 reason I like this restaurant, and will likely return. On this particular night there was a lavender sourdough, a goat cheese puff and homemade  focaccia. Hands down, the highlight of the meal is selecting your bread(s) from the bread peddler as he comes by with his tongs.

Despite having to Google half the menu items (we're fairly smart people, by the way), we were impressed by the dining experience at Rioja. The best feature of this type of restaurant, of course, is feeling uncomfortable but pretending that you are totally accustomed to someone straightening your table cloth and folding your napkin when you leave the table to plug the parking meter. And the smoky caramelized olive dust - that's just weird.

Citrus is a funny flavor for a cinnamon roll

I had breakfast with an awesome friend today - one I've never thought of as "close", but who always inspires me. We ate at Dozens, a place I've seen a million times, parked near a thousand times, considered a hundred times and made a date to go to a handful of times, but this is the first time I've actually gone.

There is something about certain restaurants or drinking establishments that makes me feel required to be judgmental. It's nameless, but it makes me notice every burnt out light bulb, every stain on the menu, every chip in the paint. Dozens is NOT one of those places.

I didn't have a stellar experience, and I didn't have a horrible experience, and somehow that was ok. I left feeling like I came, I ate, and I got exactly what I expected. That's more than I can say for many dining experiences I've had.

The "I'm your friend let's hang out" service was great and not overdone - it seemed authentic, which almost sounds like an oxymoron as I type it, but it's true. The name of each dish was cheeky and Denver-y: you had to be a local to understand them all, I think. Or maybe you had to be the owner. My 'Blue Bonnet Sonnet' omelet was exactly what it needed to be: fluffy and filled with green chile and cheddar. Although I'd hardly call the 1/48th of a slice of pineapple a "side of fresh fruit included", it was fresh and zingy on a cold winter day, which was all I could ask for.

There was one thing that caught me off guard: the citrus overtones of the cinnamon roll. It's cool to play with comfort food favorites and add a twist of your own flavor and all that. In fact, it's common and often well done. But, Dozens, you really do owe diners fair warning when you mess with something as promising and potentially life changing as a cinnamon roll. People see the poetic combination of those two words on the page and spiral-shaped, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside memories take hold. It's already an uphill battle: going up against the idea of the cinnamon roll. You really should be honest if you plan to throw those memories down and stomp on them.

The citrus marmalade glaze was a shock when I was expecting gooey, cinnamon-y, creamy icing-y goodness, but I made it through and feel I'm better for it. I even enjoyed it a little, once I assuaged my mind with the logic that, this wasn't a real cinnamon roll. My memories are tainted, and I may never read that poetic line the same way again, but I'll add it to my life experiences and hopefully never be duped again.

My breakfast-mate, on the other hand, welcomed the surprise and counted it as a blessing. Which brings me back to him: the inspirational friend across the table from me.

It's not that he has a difficult life: in fact, quite the opposite. But the few circumstances that might be considered setbacks by some have had 'opportunity' written all over them through his glasses. He had a child before he was ready to start a family, and does everything he can for his son despite the circumstances. He has followed a career path taking him far away from his girlfriend of several years, but he has the strength and conviction to stay on that path because he knows it's right for him. He sees every day as a chance to wake up, do awesome stuff, and live for himself without apologies. He fits more activities into one day than I fit into an entire summer, and for a peak bagger living in Colorado that says alot.

I only hope I can take some lessons from his book and run at life head on while still stopping to hold doors for those who need it. May we all rush at our dreams full force and take unhesitating bites of cinnamon rolls, come what may.

Ravi-frickin-oli!

I got in a fight today. A knock down, drag out fight. I threw a few punches. I nearly cried. I was sore after. I let my rival rest for a bit before the second round, then I really let him have it. He ended up so stretched thin that he had to roll over and surrender. I am proud to call myself victor over that damn ravioli dough.

sweet success

It seemed like a simple enough recipe: flour, salt, eggs, olive oil. I can count the ingredients on one hand - there was nothing else. But, wow - how near I came to defeat!

I hit an immediate wall of frustration and blamed everything in sight: my dough hook let me down, the recipe let me down, the flour (how long ago did we buy that?) let me down. Even before I started to knead the dough I was concocting a backup plan: wonton wrappers, fresh lasagne noodles from Spinelli's contorted into shape, butternut squash shells?

Somehow I coaxed my obstinate self on long enough to arrive at the resting period - after 10 minutes of getting the dough to the utterly unachievable "elastic and smooth" state, cheating by adding surplus dabs of oil here and there, I said "f this", wrapped it in plastic wrap and sent it to the other corner of the ring. It rested. In fact it dozed a bit too long, but I needed a break - time to collect my thoughts and regroup.

I won't go so far as to say it was perfect, but seeing that dough ribbon its way through the pasta maker made my heart sing. Thanks for coming through for me, dough ball - now I know. Trust the process.

In case you're wondering...

Tough But Worth It Ravioli Dough

2 c. flour

1 tsp. salt

3 eggs (plus one for egg wash)

2 Tbsp. olive oil

In a stand mixer, combine flour and salt with a dough hook attachment.
Add eggs one at a time, combining completely.
Drizzle in 1 Tbsp. olive oil, and continue to mix until the dough forms a ball. (This never happened for me, so I moved on to the next step)
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, and fold/knead for 10 minutes (this sucks, and you'll probably feel certain you're a failure as your shaggy dough crumbles in front of your eyes)
Once you've stared at the clock and thought over and over again, "is my 10 minutes up?", smash the dough into a disc, brush the remaining 1 Tbsp of oil on it, wrap it in plastic wrap and let it rest at room temperature for 30 minutes (shut up and do it)
Remove 1/3 of the dough ball and keep the rest wrapped until you need it so it doesn't dry out
Using a roller, flatten the dough into a rectangular shape thin enough to run through your pasta maker on the widest setting. Run it through, moving to narrower settings, until you get to about 1/8" thickness
Create an egg wash with 1 egg plus 1 Tbsp cold water, brush it on the pasta, fill with something delicious and seal well (I sautéed shallots and butternut squash puree, then added salt, pepper, cream and parmesan cheese for mine)
Cook in boiling water 2-4 minutes, remove, and toss with a brown butter sage sauce

This Year, We Host

I often wonder why I feel more inspired to write when I'm traveling, on vacation, trying something new. The answer always seems obvious: because I'm out of my element. Who wants to dwell on, let alone subject others to, the mundane details of their daily working life?

But today I stand up to my inner voice and ask - why are travel, vacation and newness antonymous to "my element"? If that's where I'm inspired, isn't that exactly the element I'm made of?

Of course I'm oversimplifying - I don't have the pocketbook to constantly inspire myself with new far off destinations and distant cultures. But I do have the mundane yet magical ability to open my eyes just a bit wider, encourage my taste buds just a bit more, and go back to the Chartreuse Umbrella roots of tasting life in the every day.

~

It's a perfect time to talk food - autumn has fallen and I'm in the midst of prepping a Thanksgiving feast for the masses. Thinking we'd win the pity and company of one or two other family-less friends this Tofurkey day, we put the invite out and wound up with over 20 mouths to feed (and seat!) in our 1,200 square foot, single bathroom house. Thanksgiving Dinner Host Challenge, here we come.

Pot-luck style was the obvious answer, and as the number of attendees has crept up, I can only hope the dish size has too. In homage to the Mennillo family, this year we will celebrate Italian Thanksgiving, with all the good old-fashioned American fixins, plus pasta, pasta and more pasta. As if Thanksgiving was't the most gluttonous, overindulgent, stuffed to the gills holiday in the first place - we add pasta to the mix.

Luckily for us, our friends are gems and threw their hands high in the air volunteering for the traditional dishes: pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole - we even pulled the vegetarian card and convinced a friend, who's a stellar chef, to take charge of bird duty.

We quickly agreed on three Italian dishes, some old school and authentic, and others not so much. Our Manicotti will be straight from the Mennillo recipe book, which is to say simple and delicious, with no fuss. The Butternut Squash Ravioli will be 100% made from scratch, which would be no small task if it weren't for Pistache, my beloved KitchenAid stand mixer. Individual lasagnes are simple with the exception of the elusive Amore Herb Paste - come on, who sells that? I could write a whole blog post about the practice of including esoteric ingredients in recipes as a means of lifestyle-ism. Maybe I will...

On Monday night, a last minute Google search on "how much turkey for 20 people" raised our blood pressure at the thought of not enough food, so we added Butternut Squash Soup and Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies to the menu at the 11th hour.

Monday prep, from squash soup to peach pie

Tuesday prep, pie filling and cookies ready to bake

As stressed out as my other half is, I have to say I'm calm as a tryptophan addict having planned and scheduled each prep step. Call me crazy, but as in life, knowing what you're in for and then choosing to run at it full force is the best practice. Outcome, still to be determined but outlook is good.

Leftovers

Dinner: leftover frozen mushroom and olive pizza, spinach bleu cheese salad, limeade and a Cake Crumbs cupcake for dessert

What is it that's so tough about letting go?

As small children grasping comes to us naturally but releasing must be taught, and even enforced at times. It's bothersome when we cannot embrace something new because we will not relinquish the old.

What follows is not only a perhaps obnoxiously existential trio of rhetorical questions, but suggested lyrics for a ditty on the contradictory nature of idioms and 'words of wisdom' of the English language:

How contradictory is it to be open to new experiences yet "hold on to hope"?

We are persuaded to 'hold up a mirror' and face ourselves to get through tough times, yet how can we forcefully 'break down barriers' with such a delicate object in hand?

How does one 'never look back' while taking care to 'learn from experience'?

It is dangerous to bury our true feelings but God knows it's the easiest thing to do. We do not have to define or face them when they are out of sight. However we can't fool ourselves into believing they are not there, for burying feelings deep in our subconscious is to hold on to them with greatest attachment.

Of course the first step in letting go is admitting you have a problem, and accepting it. It's ok to hold a blanket over your eyes for awhile, but remember you are the only one who knows when to remove it.

Have you ever heard of an apologetic chocolate cake?

"brunch" at work: Mile High 5 Layer Chocolate Cake

I apologize for myself quite often. Not verbally, but mentally.

Don't get me wrong - I'm just as obstinate, if not more, than the next person, especially when it comes to being right. Just ask, well, just about anyone who knows me :) On the flip side, I feel I am fairly apt at pinpointing situations where a heartfelt apology is due. But when it comes to expressing myself fully in the way I would be most "honestly" expressed, I often quell my inner urge to act how I truly feel.

Case in point: I attended an info session tonight for a TEFL course (If I know my audience, you all know EXACTLY what this acronym stands for, but just in case: Teaching English as a Foreign Language). As attendees tossed around stories of living abroad, teaching abroad, learning languages and cultures, sharing their own language and culture - my excitement grew and grew. People's hands were flying up to add their 2 cents, and others were interrupting each other in exuberant haste. But I calmly sat back and watched, taking in every perspective before carefully crafting the wording for my own, to be shared only in the instance of a lull in the conversation. My instict was to stand up and shout with enthusiasm or, in this arena, at least share some stories of my own (I feel like I have a few good nuggets), but instead I sat and watched.

Another example: singing in the car. I've been known to belt out a good tune here or there. In fact, all the way home from the aforementioned info session I dubbed my own version over every song I heard come on the radio, whether I knew the actual lyrics or not. However, at each stoplight and, for that matter, at each high note, I became very self aware and apologetic. It's as if I was telling myself, "Ok, that was fun. Now get a grip." But there is so much people like me can learn from people like the guy who pulls up next to me at the stoplight: head bobbing, finger tapping, vocal chords straining, dreadlocks flying...

I often find myself in an over the top, ecstatically delicious, multi-layered, sickeningly amazing mood. The Mile High 5 Layer Chocolate Cake doesn't apologize - why should I?

My way

S'mores, the real kind:
1/2 Hershey's chocolate bar, 2 marshmallows, 2 graham crackers
Instructions: create sandwich, wrap in foil, set near coals and turn frequently until squishy and melty, avoiding third degree burns if possible. Eat and enjoy, smearing as much chocolate on your face as possible.

On a recent camping trip with friends, I learned that the majority of people I know grew up making S'mores the wrong way. Instead of the above (read: correct) recipe, they have been cutting important corners and simply roasting the 'mallow and shoving it in the cold chocolate/cracker-wich, thus bypassing the all important warming of the cracker and chocolate. Of my fellow campers, my sister was the ONLY person who understood the importance of the foil-wrapped version: you know what they say about great minds...

This led me to think about how many things I know are "correct" that are so completely "incorrect" to anyone outside my household. Most of these practices are food-related: mayonnaise on grilled cheese sandwiches (I tried to make this for kids I was babysitting once, and it did NOT go over well), pickles in hash browns, couscous as a main dish. But other practices are equally intriguing: closing the shower curtain to it's fully extended position after use (my mom and I can't be the only people who believe this is an essential rule of human etiquette!), taking every opportunity to scramble up carpeted stairs on hands and knees, forcing the neighborhood parents to sign away our liability for their kids when jumping on our trampoline, sorting coupons in alphabetical order in the car before entering the grocery store. It's a real wake up call - a sign of growing up - when you realize that there are other ways to do things.

But still, about the S'mores - come on.