Each doorway had a story to tell, a past as much history as mystery, as much climate as culture, a story of isolation and adaptation, family and abiding religious faith. And while it was more than I can do justice in a single post, it was all fascinating reading, complete with colorful pictures! Here are a few highlights of Santa Fe's story.
We spent our first day in Santa Fe, New Mexico walking the picturesque streets of the historic district, charmed by the earthy vibe of the simple adobe dwellings, impressed by the architecture of Gothic chapels and Spanish cathedrals, excited (me more than Jimmy) by Santa Fe’s colorful collection of galleries vying for our time and money. Jimmy was excited about the food!
Each doorway had a story to tell, a past as much history as mystery, as much climate as culture, a story of isolation and adaptation, family and abiding religious faith. And while it was more than I can do justice in a single post, it was all fascinating reading, complete with colorful pictures! Here are a few highlights of Santa Fe's story. It was a thing of enormous beauty.
Wait! That’s not quite right. It was an enormous thing of beauty, thin and crispy along the edges, moist and soft at the center. And the lingonberries were to die for. I’m such a glutton for punishment; I mean a glutton for pancakes. I still can’t believe I ate the whole thing! Lynda made me do it! I’m so glad we eat three meals a day! It’s been our saving grace for the last week, our only real excuse for a break (we did manage an afternoon or two away for sanity's sake), deep in the throes of a kitchen remodel. No, not our kitchen; Steve’s kitchen, as in Jim’s son, in Reno, Nevada (remember, this is a travel blog). Yes, Steve’s new place is a cute little fixer upper, long on fixin’s, short on space (625 square feet, including the kitchen), as in perfect bachelor pad in Midtown Reno where things are happenin’, particularly when it comes to food (and spirits) in “The Biggest Little City in the World.”
Based on our week of dining out Reno style, I’m not sure remodeling Steve’s kitchen was such a good idea; too much good food, literally steps away from his front door, to consider dining in, especially when cooking for one. Five of us made it for Happy Hour at Rapscallion, just blocks away (1555 S. Wells Avenue) from Steve’s new home; Jimmy and me, Steve, Steve’s sister Rachel, and her husband Brian. It didn't take long to discover why, year after year, this establishment has been voted the "best" seafood restaurant in Northern Nevada. I’m pretty much a Neanderthal when it comes to exotic foods. Sophisticated has never been my strong suit.
Then again, I have acquired a taste for something beyond your everyday burger topped with lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and onions. Top that chunk of chuck with Bleu cheese crumbles, fried onion straws, spicy pickles and zesty aioli and it’s gourmet all the way. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! But with all my traveling, I am broadening my food horizons; when in Rome, as they say, or Gator Joe’s, it’s go with the Romans/gator. Eat your heart out Survivorman! Jimmy and I were up and out early this morning; after all, it’s Paczki Day, Fat Tuesday for those of you not of Polish descent (Chicago is the Warsaw of the Midwest), Mardi Gras if you’re French (wee, zee French have a way with words, no?), Carnival, Carnevale or Fasnacht in other parts of the world. This traditional Christian day of deep-fried doughy indulgence kicks off 40 days of fasting beginning tomorrow, Ash Wednesday.
No way my little Polish Prince (actually, Jimmy is half Polish, half Bohemian, not to be confused with the half-Astors of last week's most popular post) could pass up this golden opportunity (as in paczki, "little packages" of exquisitely fried doughnut-sized puffs of cream-filled pastry that melt in your mouth) to revisit the days of his youth, albeit no paczek (singular for paczki) is ever quite as good as the memory of those lovingly prepared by one’s busia (BOO-sha, the Polish word for grandmother). I was off the hook and out of the kitchen minus a Polish heritage. I try not to shop for groceries on an empty stomach, otherwise it’s like shopping with three kids in tow; all kinds of food I don’t need ends up in my cart.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you read today’s post on an empty stomach, I guarantee you’ll consume all kinds of food, most likely of the breakfast variety. We consumed our fair share at Peg’s Glorified Ham ‘n Eggs, voted “Best Breakfast” for 11 years running by satisfied customers in northern Nevada (Reno and Sparks), and now, Roseville, California. I’m from Chicago, but I’m here to cast my vote, too. The food was glorious, all glorified as it was for the hungry patrons packing it in the morning we were there! We were kids again, the four of us, making the night ours on a Saturday when we walked into the Dell Rhea Chicken Basket on the old U.S. Route 66. The night was young, much younger than our collective 271 years. Yowza!
Too much travel and I have a hard time calming the monkeys! Actually, too much caffeine has the same effect.
Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the mind monkeys; those thoughts that collect in our craniums and then take off like a bunch of rhesus monkeys swinging through almost every hour of the day, touching on dozens of ideas that just end up scattering across all those time zones that come with travel. Hey! I’m not monkeying around here; Buddha, maybe, but not me. He gets all the credit for coming up with the ‘monkey mind’ metaphor. I’m just the guinea pig, or should I say flying monkey, trying to cope. On the other hand, Colonel Tooey gets most of the credit for the real monkeys I saw freely running around central Florida on one tiny island. Those monkeys are coping very well; much better than mine. After all, Florida is the closest thing to a jungle in North America. I’ve always thought there was something romantic and daring and liberating about life in the big city. There’s an energy unique to big cities that sweeps through those canyons of steel skyscrapers, carried on a flood of people and power and potential.
That energy (and a beautiful lakefront) draws 40 million visitors annually to the city of Chicago. Make that 40 million and five visitors. We (Jimmy, me, grandkids Grant and Grace, and their mother, my daughter Jennifer) made a day of it several months ago at Chicago’s Navy Pier. There’s something truly magical about Chicago’s Navy Pier. Two months ago, I had no idea this would actually be my very last officially sanctioned Philly cheese steak. Nonetheless, my taste buds went into a delicious full bloom!
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