5 posts tagged “casey and mary”
Sitting in the wonderment-inducing lobby of Toronto's Sheraton Centre, chatting briefly with the missus, I had in my earshot a guy leaving a voicemail message for someone. "Heyyyy Meg [name has been changed for this story], wanted to let you know I just got into TO. Looking forward to seeing you guys tonight."
While generally very much not in the custom of inserting myself into other people's shit, especially strangers, his message hung around in my head longer than it should have. This is like me, to think, to wonder, that hey, this guy might be in town to see some friends, maybe he's here for the weekend, maybe they all go back some many years in their friendship, each of them, like, 20 or 33 years they fucking go back. They probably all grew up together, have splintered off to do their own shit, but always maintained the slack on that line between the, what, three or maybe 5 of them? I came back to reality and we got into a cab, but I keep returning to a consideration of that little imaginary interlude.
You know how it feels. Look, we're all down for our friends, right? But there are some cats that you just love hanging out with. And this is probably because you don't get to see them as often as you would like. That then makes you feel like you don't get to see them as often as you need.
Think of the last time you had a great time in a room half-full with some of the people you decidedly dig the most, but get to see only infrequently. Quickly emptied rock glasses, bottles of beer, wine glasses with that nearly erased tinge of red around the inside, dishes that once held food but are now dotted only with crumbs, and by now, at some point, you hear the laughter of someone you care about. That usually stops most people, where in that micron of second you tell yourself how good of a time you're having, how you don't even want to think about this ending any time soon, how much you love these motherfuckers.
That's how I feel every fucking second I'm in Toronto.
While I certainly do not get out around the country, and the world, as I would like, dispatches from the seemingly requisite trips to Chicago and -- gasp! -- Toronto, are more frequent here than even I would like. Great, John went to Toronto again.
Scoff all you want, but being able to stand in front of places like this kind of excuses our current self-imposed, budget travel ball and chain.
All you really need to ever say about this building, for starters, is that they played Original Six hockey here. That alone crushes. But, but, they love this fucking team, and this building is oftentimes regarded as one of the greatest hockey venues since the formation of ice itself. They no longer play Maple Leaf hockey here, and my foot hurts from repeatedly kicking myself in the ass for not enjoying a game experience there when I had the chance. I loved taking these pictures today, and standing in its shadow early on a Sunday morning before we headed out was an important punctuation on the weekend.
I feel this Toronto love because my wife turned me on to it. She and her family have been coming here since she was a kid. I look forward to creating another decade or so with her brothers and their children.
One of the better weekends recently for sure. It could have started and ended Friday night, and I would have been fine with that: kicking it at the bar at the end of our street with Mrs. Chicken, reuniting with a long-lost friend I haven't spoken with in years, who lives about 5 minutes away from me. Little has changed. He's still the kickass, super solid motherfucker I've always know him to be. Looking forward to many beer-soaked bbqs and backyard fires this spring and summer.
Saturday, however, would shoot at us out of nowhere, and the efforts of two of some of our favorite people would render us decidedly gleamy eyed. It started at a family gathering last month, when speaking with Brother Chicken In Law and his wife about "getting together one of these nights." The first version of plans called for visiting their house outside of Ann Arbor, in one of the more charming communities, itself Rockwellian with 100-year-old brick buildings along Main Street in its downtown and a distinct charisma you tend to find in cities of less than 3,500 people.
Early iterations of the plans called for going out, maybe hitting a few bars, but those changed to hanging out at their house with Mrs. Chicken's lovely 9-month-old niece, enjoying a nice meal, otherwise lounging, and eventually staying the night in their spare room. The reality, however, turned into this:
- Come to our house, please. Oh, and bring your dog, too. That's totally cool.
- We are making a dinner of killer pot stickers, a festive salad, mashed cauliflower, and Asian pork tenderloin. And no, you can't help clean up or help with the meal.
- We will keep your pint glasses and, later, your wine glasses full at all times.
- After everyone is full and nicely buzzed, we will watch portions of both "Caddyshack" and "Blazing Saddles."
- At about 11 p.m., we are going to break out some mint chocolate chip ice cream with some Sanders topping.
- After that, the bro-ham in law, just for shits, will ask me, "You want some Scotch?"
- I will sip on some 12-year Balvenie Double Wood before going to bed. My head will be just right.
- We will hang out a bit in the morning, enjoying a little conversation and the company of their beautiful baby.
We left Sunday morning, later driving through Ann Arbor, where we will stop to walk the dog around the University of Michigan's campus, blissed out, relaxed, content, loosey goosey, you name it, we were there. It was hospitality defined and for their selfless efforts, we come out saturated in euphoria. It was a wonderful gesture on their part and one of the nicest things anyone has done for us. We returned home Sunday feeling like we just left a vacation-induced pampering.
Despite temps in the teens, we walked around U-M like we were high on something.
It was an appropriate puncuation to a solid weekend. My in-laws' efforts did what very few can do, and that was staving off the Sunday Blues. Starting at about 6 p.m. on Sundays, and ending with the bomb-like tick-tick-tick of "60 Minutes" in the background, I begin to get a little surly. Weekend is over. Workmode is about to engage. This sucks. But I wasn't feeling that Sunday. I didn't even care. Imagine that. The power of being kind and cool. Casey and Mary live it, and we couldn't be more grateful.
My brother-in-law's fantastic wife is pregnant. Congratulations! Here at City Chicken, we aim to please.
Naming a child can be daunting and tricky. Face it, the kid is stuck with it until he/she is 18 and can legally change it to a singularly-named entity to spite you and your Midwestern morals. That's one challenge. Some others include placating relatives with traditional family monikers or, in the case of some women/lunatics with whom I've previously worked, you can tire yourself out by not telling anyone what names you might be considering. Why this is a secret among the expecting is perplexing. So, to Casey and Mary, I offer the following, a use-as-you-see-fit guide.
First, don't be afraid to consider naming rights for your child. Ford, Quicken, Verizon, Wachovia, Eli Lilly, 3M, they are all viable names and could net you some seriously sweet loot. For the sake of playground torment, you can always abbreviate. "3!! Get down from there, RIGHT NOW!!" Think about it, a quick $120,000 buys a lot of Chipnuts.
Secondly, don't be afraid to eschew tradition. Irish heritage, schmirish schmeritage. Edgy is what the kids (and some horribly misguided adults) want these days. Think: Fonzie, Jet Li, or even Bono.
Third, embracing ethnicities other than your ancestors shows to the other drop-in playtime mommies that you're well-rounded and not bound by society's benchmarks, man. Possible considerations could include LeBron, L.L., Wyclef, Julio or Mauricio. Steely Dan is also acceptable, as is Julissa or Hiroshi.
And finally, seek inspiration from those around you. Would you consider Duke, Sac, or Doo Doo?
In the end, the choice is yours. But, please, feel free to use City Chicken's missives as a roadmap, if you will. Whatever you do, steer clear of the common Christian names. Trust me, going through life named a slang term for a toilet and/or a man who frequents prostitutes has its drawbacks.
Returned yesterday from a long weekend in Milwaukee, roughly two and a half days of much drinking, some quality dining and a decidedly good time in some esteemed company. We left with Casey and Mary Thursday after work, stopping in Kalamazoo at Bell's Brewery, crafters of some of our favorite beers. Great place, by the way.
While they excel in beer-making, their food menu was underwhelming. We would arrive about five hours later in Milwaukee, checking into the County Clare on Astor Street.
If given the choice between a nice chain hotel and a bed and breakfast, we've been known to opt for the former. This place exceeded my expectations and put to rest any reluctance I may have had. Having an Irish-style pub on the ground floor of my inn will do that to me.
We started off with drinks here Thursday before heading to Nomad on Brady Street, and then wrapping up the night at 1:30 with some pie at Pizza Shuttle. Friday was a standard/boring breakfast at the inn and then off to check out the city. Mary graduated Marquette some years ago, and Casey has been to Milwaukee before so this was definitely "their city." They graciously did all of the driving. It was a real treat, let me say, to see a new city from the backseat of a car, while someone else drives. Thanks, guys.
We drove around while Mary remarked on the development and growth that has occurred in her absence. "This wasn't here when I lived here," seemed to be a recurring theme. And that's definitely a good thing, I think. There evidently has been a lot of change in Milwaukee — and I encourage any other Milwaukee Voxers to remark on that.
This is clearly a good sign for any city, especially one of roughly 570,000. The city also appears to exist dually as shiny new developments rub elbows with historic, older buildings. In the downtown area, a good number of these older buildings have been converted into viable retail and housing, which is exactly what Detroit is trying to do. It just seems to be taking a long time around here. We tooled around Wisconsin Avenue and would visit first the Public Market. It was full of some good-looking items.
From there we continued to drive, admiring the city's architecture and layout. We stopped and walked around an area called the Third Ward, which is essentially a multi-block stretch of 100-year-old buildings housing art galleries, shops and restaurants. We saw this guy in some store specializing in gifts from the East.
Milwaukee is an old city. The buildings look as if they have been there forever. And seemingly on every other block you see places like this.
Milwaukee also apparently takes its restoration very seriously.
Even the bicycles you see locked up around town are old and kind of cool-looking.
This is actually kind of refreshing. Take all of the carbon-fiber, thousand-dollar road bike frames you want. I think these rigs are just as cool, and, honestly, just as critical a component of any city's cycling community or bike landscape than any other brand or style.
Friday evening, we blew out some fish fry and polka at the Lakefront Brewery. That was some good shit, believe me. I was in for a surprise when we stopped afterward at Landmark Lanes.
Got up Saturday morning for a walk around some neighborhoods. When we booked at the County Clare, we were told Saturday was a full house, so we would check out and have to check in to a Radisson by the airport, which wasn't too bad, but not nearly as nice as our previous lodging. We split out to Discount Liquor where I would find the license plate of, I hope, the owner.
Saz's was our pre-game warmup. The food did not disappoint. We would hightail it out of there for the Brewers-Giants game. I was impressed with Miller Park.
We did get to see the very well-known sausage race.
As well as a few dozen spent shells, a true hallmark of any ballpark experience. Some people like to hear the sound of fresh snow or leaves crunching beneath their feet in their Zen moment with nature? Give me the shells in the urban landscape.
The game went quickly. The young starter for the Giants, Tim Lincecum, held the Brewers hitless for five innings, thowing some wicked stuff in the process. That fucking kid is going to be lights out. (Editor's Note: Lincecum would win the National League Cy Young the next year). For a moment, I hoped I was in the midst of another no-hitter. I know it was a stretch, but damn, when the kid has zeroes up there after 5, I think it's safe to have a little hope. Can you imagine? Being present for two no-nos in one season?
Bonds struck out and would go 0-for-2 before sitting down. They booed the hell out of him pretty good there. The Giants, however, would shut the Brewers both down and out, winning the contest, 8-0. MIller Park has a solid layout to it, and I especially enjoyed the whole field house look. It also has a retractable roof, which must be strange to be under when it is, well, not so retracted. Good park, good team, loyal and knowledgeable fans.
They also had some bomb statues out front as well, including homages to Hank Aaron and Robin Yount.
En route to the hotel after the game, we would drive through Walker's Point, which appeared to be the primarily Hispanic/Latino neighborhood of Milwaukee. I would definitely spend some time there on the next visit. The rest of Saturday night was spent drinking more beer on Brady Street, first at the Roman Coin and then again at Nomad. A stop at the Dogg Haus was in order, for some obvious Chicago-style fare there.
Leaving town on Sunday morning has us stopping in Kenosha at this place.
I can't say enough about Mars. It was a cheese and sausage emporium,
replete with beer and wine sales, an "art" gallery, gift shop, bakery and cocktail lounge. Thirsty patrons were drinking in there at 10 a.m. on a Sunday. It was sweetly surreal. They also had these bad boys:
In addition to the pleasing aesthetics of MIlwaukee, I was grateful for its economical pricing values. There is plenty of beer and most of it is affordable. A round of four Stellas will cost you $12. Order that same round in Royal Oak and you're looking at double that. The locals appeared especially friendly and outgoing. Everyone we met or with which we came in contact was sincere and seemingly likeable. I can appreciate a community where people are real. I get enough of the fake bullshit element at home. While I like where I live, I'm not exactly high on the rest of the people who live there, nor do I have much in the way of patience or respect (none, really) for the throngs who "come to party" in my hometown. They can suck it.
And I am sure that if we sought out $12 martinis, we could have easily found them. I enjoy venues like that now and then, but when I do, I'm typically the most under-dressed (style-wise) guy there. I don't mind things with a little well-wornness to them, and that's the kind of vibe I picked up in Milwaukee. I wouldn't call it dirty, but it's not spit-shined, buffed or manicured either. It's a fun town with a lot of good people living in it, or so it seemed. I look forward to a return.
Compared to last weekend, which was all but lost due to burning a path between Royal Oak and Ann Arbor, a day trip to Dirty Jase at his ma’s on Sunday, and the general nerves that come with Father’s Day (Do I call and take the piss out of him for not showing up to our wedding reception and not even calling? Do I just let it go and chalk it up to yet another in a long line of instances detailing his disinterest in my adult life? Do I even call at all? What to do), this weekend has been short of divine.
We kicked it off perfectly Friday with a birthday dinner celebration at Priya, arguably some of the best Indian food in metro Detroit. For each genre, there are about three or five restaurants that are pretty much the authority, and I think one could apply that in any city. In Detroit and its suburbs, when it comes to Middle Eastern chow, Priya holds court among the best, including Taj Mahal in Hamtramck and Passage to India in Berkley. So it was Friday, when we enjoyed the first round of a night out for us. Based on a recommendation, we started with some rava masala dosa, lentil dough mixed with rice flour and spread out like a crepe. This rava is stuffed with potato curry and came with some fitting compotes. Priya also has some fine lentil soup.
The entrees were tastefully excellent. Kerry had the tikka masala.
And I, the chettinadu chicken, small pieces of bird simmered in a blend of mustard seeds onions and a dash of cinnamon.
Stuffed, we visited Dino’s in Ferndale for some drinks, before meeting some co-workers at a nearby “dance club.” I was reluctant to do this. First, I don’t dance. And if I did, it would not be in some place specializing in ‘70s and ‘80s dance music. But, this is my staff and they were gathering for a birthday, and they invited me. Normally, I would politely pass on such an offer, but I get the sense that these folks are tight-knit and I think they appreciate some semblance of an other-than-business-as-usual relationship with their boss. So, we obliged. It turned out to be more fun than I thought, especially given the opportunity to see these folks outside of work. They’re all so fucking intense inside the building, it was a welcomed relief to see them engaged in normal behavior. And by normal, I mean getting drunk and dancing.
Kerry managed the shot of the night. This guy was in mid- air guitar riff and had no problem with Kerry capturing his handiwork.
I don't know. I just think the guy was having a really good time on a Friday night.
Kerry and I split from there just after midnight, where a stop at the bar at the end of our street would be in order. Yes, we have a bar at the end of our street and it’s a perfect little neighborhood joint.
We got home late and Kerry hit the hay, while I beamed up and enjoyed some rented DVD episodes of one of my favorite shows from childhood.
We would sleep way, way in on Saturday, get up, chow, go back to bed, get up and head to Casey and Mary’s for dinner. To know my brother in law and his wife is to adore them — pro travelers, adventurous cooks, very nearly the perfect hosts, like-minded pleasure-seekers like us, the whole thing just works out well. I married into one of the best situations ever. Not only is my wife top-of-the-line, but her family has welcomed me in a way that nearly makes me misty. It's hard when your own family is a toxic, fecal-covered mess. I mean, really, fucking hard. But when your in-laws are warm and caring, genuine and well-adjusted, communicative and supportive, it makes things easier. A lot fucking easier.
We took Lamont, so he and Stella could run each other legless in the yard. And that they did. It was a lot of this:
They would do this for hours and then take a small break,
Before they would go back at it.
The food, as usual, was a magnum opus. We had a starter kit with some spicy salami, water table crackers and a couple of cheese options, including a hunk of the bleu, as well as this wonderful prosciutto rolled with basil and mozzarella.
As well as several of these …
Out came the big guns, though. The grill was fired for the mahi mahi, rolling around in a concoction of lime juice, chili powder and cilantro.
After grilling, Mary broke it up and you could customize your fish taco based on your own guidelines and standards.
And dessert? Homemade ice cream with chocolate/peanut butter brownies.
Shit was good, really good. We spent the evening around the table on the deck, in 70 degree temps with no humidity, bullshitting and hanging out with Mary's parents, Don and Judy. Lamont would punctuate the evening by puking on the deck. That was pretty much our exit.
Again, another excellent meal by those two. Casey will be featured prominently coming up as he customizes a used refrigerator into a garage fridge to hold kegs of his homemade brew, replete with taps sticking out of the refrigerator door. Oh yes.
