Good morning campers! It is zero nine hundred hours on this beautiful Tuesday morning, and this day is starting off with a bang! Ka-Boom!
I went to lunch/brunch with Debbie and Karen at Dream Café in Addison on Sunday. It was a very cool place, lots of cool colors, really a fun place to be in. The food however, or at least what I ordered, wasn’t the greatest. I word of caution, stay away from the Austin Tacos! That is what I ordered, the description sounded great on the menu, and I was thinking that tacos would come out. A taco in my book is something that you pick up with both hands and eat, or at least have the option of doing this. This was not the case. They came out drenched in a cheese that had no name, with strange things inside them, that were not discernable either to my eyes or my palate, but I tried to enjoy them, tried to look passed what I considered the strangest food experience I had had since someone talked me into trying fried shrimp heads at a sushi place (don’t ever do this). I took at least 3 bites, trying to see if it would get any better, if maybe in the middle of this taco is where they hid all of the good taste. But no, they didn’t hide the good taste they simply forgot to add it, and so with that I was done.
I wasn’t going to say anything to our waiter who had the personality of a gas cap and still hadn’t started to shave… when he hits puberty he might lighten up and be more fun… I may go back in couple of years to find out! So, it was Debbie to the rescue!! She went ahead and brought it up that my food, was not, shall we say, up to snuff and could we get something else. He said “Sure, but we will have to charge you more for it.” Nice. So I ask if they have grits. I have always loved grits, and feel like they are a staple an old friend, something that I know I will always love and remind me of those carefree days of my childhood. He says, “Yes. We do.” He is completely confident in his answer and I order. “I’ll take an order of that then. Thanks” I smile and know that momentarily sustenance will be coming my way, something that is creamy, recognizable and familiar. Hooray!
The conversation continues, and Debbie whips out tile samples, and we all get to give our opinions. I love redecorating! And she has some cool stuff. We all choose the same thing. Birds of a feather. Anyway, the waiter, the child, the stoic, comes back with a bowl of yellow sludge. It is nearly canary yellow in color, and now I am really confused, granted the tacos are not at all what I was expecting, but how can grits be different? This stuff is nearly smooth in texture, it isn’t, well, it isn’t gritty! It looks like pureed banana peel, and I am truly wondering if I have entered a parallel universe. I look at him and say, “Is this grits?” and this child looks back at me, with almost a smirk, and says “Yes, its polenta.” Ok, I have no idea what polenta is, or if it is the Swahili translation for grits. But I did NOT order polenta, and now my hope of having something that I want is dashed. I am now questioning my own powers of ordering, and whether or not I was born under some bad sign. I smile politely and try to make peace with the bowl, and reluctantly try it. Of course, I ask the table first, “would anyone else like a spoon to try it?” No takers. I am in this alone. And I place my spoon in the mush, and grab a small taste. The humanity. It takes like bathtub water, with texture. It is not good. And so now, faced with starvation, I do the only thing I can. I eat the rest of Karen’s pancakes, that were so graciously offered up. They are called “cloud cakes” on the menu, and yet again I am wondering what odd flavor could be in store for me. But no, they taste like pancakes, even light and fluffy pancakes. They are good. They are surprisingly good.
Lunch/brunch comes to a close, and the race is on, I have my entire family or at least those living in the metroplex coming over for dinner. There will be 14 of us in all. And I have to go to the grocery store, and get everything going. I get done at the grocery store, and go home and get to cooking, making margaritas, setting out snacks and all the while wondering if and when this guy will call. The family comes over and we are playing softball with the kids in the front yard. My niece, Claire, is five and isn’t good at throwing the ball or aiming where she is throwing to, and ends up throwing it at my brother Mark and hits him squarely in a region that should not have obstacles flying at it. My brother immediately needs to take a break, and barely makes it into the house. Claire is totally oblivious to what she has done, and wonders what happened to Uncle Mark.
Finally everyone leaves and it is time to clean up and to restore my house back to where it was before this little soiree began. Nearly two hours later I fall into bed, still wondering if he will call. But the phone is silent and I am tired, and at 9:30 I turn out the lights.
Martha
I went to lunch/brunch with Debbie and Karen at Dream Café in Addison on Sunday. It was a very cool place, lots of cool colors, really a fun place to be in. The food however, or at least what I ordered, wasn’t the greatest. I word of caution, stay away from the Austin Tacos! That is what I ordered, the description sounded great on the menu, and I was thinking that tacos would come out. A taco in my book is something that you pick up with both hands and eat, or at least have the option of doing this. This was not the case. They came out drenched in a cheese that had no name, with strange things inside them, that were not discernable either to my eyes or my palate, but I tried to enjoy them, tried to look passed what I considered the strangest food experience I had had since someone talked me into trying fried shrimp heads at a sushi place (don’t ever do this). I took at least 3 bites, trying to see if it would get any better, if maybe in the middle of this taco is where they hid all of the good taste. But no, they didn’t hide the good taste they simply forgot to add it, and so with that I was done.
I wasn’t going to say anything to our waiter who had the personality of a gas cap and still hadn’t started to shave… when he hits puberty he might lighten up and be more fun… I may go back in couple of years to find out! So, it was Debbie to the rescue!! She went ahead and brought it up that my food, was not, shall we say, up to snuff and could we get something else. He said “Sure, but we will have to charge you more for it.” Nice. So I ask if they have grits. I have always loved grits, and feel like they are a staple an old friend, something that I know I will always love and remind me of those carefree days of my childhood. He says, “Yes. We do.” He is completely confident in his answer and I order. “I’ll take an order of that then. Thanks” I smile and know that momentarily sustenance will be coming my way, something that is creamy, recognizable and familiar. Hooray!
The conversation continues, and Debbie whips out tile samples, and we all get to give our opinions. I love redecorating! And she has some cool stuff. We all choose the same thing. Birds of a feather. Anyway, the waiter, the child, the stoic, comes back with a bowl of yellow sludge. It is nearly canary yellow in color, and now I am really confused, granted the tacos are not at all what I was expecting, but how can grits be different? This stuff is nearly smooth in texture, it isn’t, well, it isn’t gritty! It looks like pureed banana peel, and I am truly wondering if I have entered a parallel universe. I look at him and say, “Is this grits?” and this child looks back at me, with almost a smirk, and says “Yes, its polenta.” Ok, I have no idea what polenta is, or if it is the Swahili translation for grits. But I did NOT order polenta, and now my hope of having something that I want is dashed. I am now questioning my own powers of ordering, and whether or not I was born under some bad sign. I smile politely and try to make peace with the bowl, and reluctantly try it. Of course, I ask the table first, “would anyone else like a spoon to try it?” No takers. I am in this alone. And I place my spoon in the mush, and grab a small taste. The humanity. It takes like bathtub water, with texture. It is not good. And so now, faced with starvation, I do the only thing I can. I eat the rest of Karen’s pancakes, that were so graciously offered up. They are called “cloud cakes” on the menu, and yet again I am wondering what odd flavor could be in store for me. But no, they taste like pancakes, even light and fluffy pancakes. They are good. They are surprisingly good.
Lunch/brunch comes to a close, and the race is on, I have my entire family or at least those living in the metroplex coming over for dinner. There will be 14 of us in all. And I have to go to the grocery store, and get everything going. I get done at the grocery store, and go home and get to cooking, making margaritas, setting out snacks and all the while wondering if and when this guy will call. The family comes over and we are playing softball with the kids in the front yard. My niece, Claire, is five and isn’t good at throwing the ball or aiming where she is throwing to, and ends up throwing it at my brother Mark and hits him squarely in a region that should not have obstacles flying at it. My brother immediately needs to take a break, and barely makes it into the house. Claire is totally oblivious to what she has done, and wonders what happened to Uncle Mark.
Finally everyone leaves and it is time to clean up and to restore my house back to where it was before this little soiree began. Nearly two hours later I fall into bed, still wondering if he will call. But the phone is silent and I am tired, and at 9:30 I turn out the lights.
Martha
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