Ward 6

Nestled as I am in my dear little Whittier neighborhood (kinda Uptown, kinda downtown, kinda Eat Street, kinda LynLake), I don't venture to our sister city often. Even when I worked in St. Paul, I didn't take advantage of the many neighborhood restaurants and pubs that could have, perhaps, lessened the annoyance of a Metro Transit between Uptown and downtown St. Paul each day. 

Now that I work in a western 'burb, my tendency to head to St. Paul has decreased dramatically, aside from monthly trips to the Ordway,and I fully recognize that I'm missing out on some nifty eats and activities. But tonight I took a step towards remedying that problem (which is really just a result of laziness) by checking out Ward 6, a great neighborhood spot at Phalen and Payne. 

I went to the restaurant at the recommendation of a dear friend and former colleague from my St. Paul days who had peeked in before and found the place to be packed. She reads this blog and thought it seemed like a worthy spot for blogger exploration and I am always game for her company and always game for exploring new spots. So it was a win-win for me. Even at just past 5 on a Friday, an hour I tend to associate with the elderly, there was a 20+ minute wait for a table for 2.5 (we had a young one in tow).  It's great to see a new spot brimming with business and to see such a healthy mix of ages enjoying the atmosphere.  There were several little ones in attendance for such a small restaurant, a fact easily explained by a laid back vibe and some well thought out kiddie food options.  I was especially impressed by "I'll have what she's having," which is a smaller portion of whatever Mama (or Dada) is having for the pipsqueak. My friend's little one is a bit too small for such things at this point, but I can easily see why this would be a comfortable place for families. Great beer list for the parents (or the friends of parents in my case) and comfy enough to not worry about the occasional throwing of a shoe, dropping of a menu, or kid squeal-of-no-apparent-purpose.

We shared a large order of fries which came with a choice of two sauces. We didn't finish the fries so for two people I think I'd recommend a small serving. The fries were hot and perfectly salted, though not as crispy as I tend to prefer.  These were the softer variety, almost akin to roasted fries.  Excellent flavor and the range of sauce choices was cool. I'm a huge harissa fan after living in Morocco, and the harissa paste was a really fun side for the fries.  I would have liked it a bit spicier, but the flavors themselves were quite authentic. I ordered the beer cheese sauce as my second choice thinking, well, people up here really like beer cheese.  Evidently I do not like beer cheese.  Not a judgment against Ward 6's variety, just learning as I go sometimes. Harissa, yes! Beer cheese, no!

I had the camembert grilled cheese, which was light and delicious.  I love camembert with pears and the walnut butter was a nutty, slightly sweet companion to the bite of arugula. It was served on sourdough and I ended up taking the tops off and eating it open face, just because I think bread gets in the way of flavors sometimes. Melty camembert with excellent company (sleepy, adorable munchkin and all) was just what I needed after a never-ending work week.  Typically, the sandwich would come with fries but I opted for the beet salad on the side instead.  A few candied pecans, local blue cheese, beets, and a balsamic vinaigrette always make for a great salad.  Not reinventing anything here, just a solid mix of flavors that always make a mouth happy.  And the beet salad really went well with the camembert sandwich, I even smeared a bit of vinaigrette on my last bite of cheese-wrapped pear. 

My only regret is being too full for dessert.  They serve beignets (!!!) at Ward 6 and as a former New Orleanian, I feel it is my duty to judge them appropriately.  But I'll have to venture back for that excitement.  I'm not above having beignets and beer for supper. 

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Singing Hills Dairy

I'm not sure what to say about this gem other than I love their chevre.  Singing Hills Dairy pops up at various farmer's markets around town but this is the first time I sampled and it's probably best that I waited awhile to discovery them. I really don't need an additional justification (they're local, I should support them, right? It's almost immoral NOT to, right? Goat cheese is good for you, right?) for buying cheese.

 I tried the honey/lavendar chevre and the curry feta today at the Mill City Winter Market and loved both.  I'm regretting not picking up the feta as I'm now imagining everything I could do with that little miracle but it was the chevre that called my name this afternoon. $5 buys you smallish tub, probably enough for 4-5 salads like that pictured, roughly 1/2 cup. See how my little gnome salt and pepper shakers stand guard over that beautiful chevre-blessed salad? They know what's up.  They know I bought something delicious. The gnomes always know.

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Vinaigrette

I'm a sucker for vinegars and oils.  I developed a pretty intense affection for Stillwater Olive Oil Company given that I visit Stillwater frequently when the sun is shining and the weather is ice cream-friendly. But tucked into winter and lazy about driving to Stillwater or White Bear Lake, I lamented the lack of options for taste-testing potential vinegar and oil additions to my kitchen.

And then, miracle of miracles, I found Vinaigrette, wonderfully close to home at 50th and Xerxes, and chock full of deliciousness. I wandered the store for several minutes, soaking up various flavors with bread (and taking some shots of my favorites, if I'm being honest). And I settled on the porcini mushroom olive oil, sun dried tomato olive oil, and a pomegranate vinegar.  I'm pretty sure the pomegranate vinegar consumption could be graphed in parallel to a recent increase in spinach, radish, and goat cheese salads on my part. 

I wanted to save my blogging exuberance for an opportunity to post a recipe I've loved with the oils.  The sun dried tomato oil has, unsurprisingly, made appearances in many pasta and risotto dishes, as well as a pretty stellar spicy shrimp etouffee.

But one of my favorites in this cold season is a roasted acorn squash stuffed with wild rice, asiago cheese, and mushrooms.  And that porcini mushroom oil perfectly enhances that earthy, wild rice happiness. Check out Vinaigrette to inspire your own recipes and let me know what you come up with!  I'd love more recipes!

Roasted Acorn Squash Stuffed with Wild Rice, Mushrooms, and Asiago
(serves 4, with some wild rice mixture to spare)
2 acorn squash, halved, seeds removed
2 cups dry wild rice or mixture of grains (I prefer a wild rice blend with quinoa)
4 cups vegetable broth
1/4 cup shaved asiago, the good stuff, and additional for sprinkling on top
1 cup chopped mushrooms, I used buttons
4 shallots, chopped
1 bay leaf
Porcini Mushroom Olive Oil
black pepper, to taste
salt, to taste

Preheat oven to 400. Set acorn squash, cut side up, on baking sheet.  You may want to slice the bottoms just slightly to make them flat so they won't roll.  But I usually don't feel the need to do this.  Drizzle with the olive oil and dust with salt and pepper. Place in oven for 40 minutes, testing for doneness after 30 minutes, you want the inside scoopable (not a word). 

While squash are in the oven, bring vegetable broth to a boil. In separate skillet, add a drizzle of olive oil and saute mushrooms and shallots until shallots are translucent, set aside. Add bay leaf and rice mixture to vegetable broth and simmer for 20-25 minutes, until done.  Drain any remaining liquid, remove bay leaf, and mix in mushrooms and shallots.

Remove squash from oven and let cool for 5 minutes.  Using a spoon, gently remove the squash innards and add to rice mixture.  Be careful not to tear squash skins.  Once all of the squash has been removed, mix thoroughly into rice mixture.  Add assiago cheese, allowing to melt a bit, and add salt and pepper to taste.

Return 2/3 cup rice mixture to each acorn "bowl".  Sprinkle with additional cheese. Set under broiler for 2-3 minutes to melt the cheese, browning it slightly (note: I did this for the pictured acorn squash but will admit to eating off the melted cheese before taking a picture...cheese problem here). Allow to cool 2-3 minutes before serving.

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Book of Mormon

I knew what I was getting into with Book of Mormon at the Orpheum.  While this was my first time seeing the show, I'd heard several songs from the soundtrack and was expecting a hilarious, morally dubious, I-really-should-not-be-laughing-at-this experience. From the moment the curtain raises the show leaps, joyfully, from one middle-finger-at-God joke to another.

Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the guys behind South Park, have carried their penchant for cracking people up over subjects we were all raised to avoid to the stage.  What I found astonishing was how adept the musical is at both laughing at faith and glorifying it.  The central characters' perspective, though misguided and sometimes self-serving in many regards, is also charmingly innocent.  Their dogged belief in their ability to make change is awe-inspiring, given the truly deplorable enemies they face.

The "bad guys" in the story, though physically wrapped up in the persona of General Butt-Effing (see, I can't even type that word, knowing everybody's going to read it) Naked, are actually the disasters of the modern condition: starvation, poverty, AIDS, female genital mutilation, maggots in one's nether regions.  Seriously.  This is in a comedic musical.  Our heroes, joined by a beautiful Ugandan village girl Elder Cunningham repeatedly calls by product lines (Neutrogena, Neosporin, Nicoderm CQ), must not only maintain their faith in the midst of such human trial, they must somehow impart their vision of God to the villagers they encounter.  It seems an insurmountable task, but one that, over time and with a few tweaks to the sacred text (Joseph Smith and the Death Star?), is uniquely successful.

I see a lot of shows around town and I, like most people, often leave a theatre thinking of who I know that would love the production.  I want to spread the word, let people in on all my theatre-going secrets.  This one would prove a bit tricky.  I'm a Christian and while I've watched my share of South Park and enjoy some inappropriate humor, there were elements of this show that gave me pause.  I think any Christian would cringe inwardly at a Jesus Christ -actor using profanity (and that was seriously tame compared to some other moments).  So my recommendation for the show would be to know oneself and one's tolerance for irreverence.  I laughed a great deal, but I would not have wanted to see this show with my Mom. So y'all can take that bit of warning to heart if it's helpful.

If you're comfortable with laughter at the expense of religious deference, this show is a must-see.  The talents are fantastic, and Samantha Marie Ware's Nabulungi (Neosporin, Neutrogena, etc.) is worth the price of admission in and of itself.  It's a fast-paced show with the audience barely able to catch a breath between moments of hilarity, whether they be hobbits, skeletons in the Spooky Mormon Hell Dream, or pink-sequined, tap-dancing Mormons. Sidestepping the occasional moral discomfort, the show provides moments of poignant ingenuity, ridiculing the rules of Religion while embracing the joy and community a belief in God provides. There are moments of beauty wrapped up in all that profanity, and I never stopped smiling.

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Doubt

I am not an opera veteran.  I balked at the price tag for most Minnesota Opera seats. I decided to go with the cheapest option for the closing performance of Doubt, a partial view seat for roughly $30. When I arrived at will call, I was in luck.  There were several open holes in the orchestra section, seats far above my pay grade, and I was offered a beautiful vantage point from which to view my first Minnesota Opera production.  I don't assume that I'd luck out similarly for other shows, but there are perks to flying solo to such events.

Nifty seat aside, I could have been facing a blank wall and been happy. The timbre and power of the vocal performances by the principals was simply stunning.  Doubt is a wonderfully accessible opera given that it's sung in English (and I've seen the movie).  While translation is still provided, it was usually unnecessary.  The clarity of emotion was perfect, with each character offering their own personal perspective on what is certain, and what is not.

Part of the power of the story lies in its isolation.  While the students involved move between The Church and The World daily, one is struck immediately by the confined environment inhabited by the sisters and Father Flynn.  While the Father has loosened many constraints following Vatican II, Sister Aloysius operates within a seemingly impenetrable fortress of moral righteousness. Her perspective does not require truth, only certainty.  Sister James, by contrast, appears the weaker of the two, burdened by a vision of the world that is not proven by absolutes.  She loves her students, empathizes with their pain and that of a potentially wronged priest. She wishes aloud that she could have the certainty of Sister Aloysius, while the audience shudders at such a thought.  Because such "certainty" as proclaimed by the elder nun, oftentimes seems so bent on superiority over truth.  Is she genuinely concerned for the welfare of the children, the school's first black student in particular, or is she merely vengeful against a hierarchy she has come to distrust?

The black student's mother, Mrs. Miller, provides a perspective that is equal parts desperate and disgusting. To watch a mother seemingly acquiesce to the idea that her son may be the victim of abuse should be appalling.  But paired with that resignation is the plea of a mother who sees her son as desperate for male attention given the lack of love from his father.  Additionally, she sees a son with one shining hope of an education, and perhaps that education is worth a few emotional scars.  Like the other characters, Mrs. Miller provides a study of what we feel we know to be true. If one believes that one's child is in an environment of abuse, how can one stand by? But learning the background of young Donald's home life, hearing of his heartbreak when Father Flynn changes parishes, one is forced, yet again, to wonder if perhaps there is truth in a gray area.

By the end of the show, nothing is truly resolved.  One never finds out for sure whether Father Flynn had a history of suspicious relationships with children or if that suspicion was the product of changing times, of a Father who saw himself as a friend and bosom companion to his flock while many still held to the formality and separation that preceded Vatican II. The beacon of certainty, Sister Aloysius, falters in the end when she wails, "I have such doubts."  And as an audience we are left wondering if a man was falsely accused, or if a predator has been merely shuffled to his next school of prey.

The emotional tug of that uncertainty is a triumph onstage.  Visually stunning, the set moves in and out of shadows, lights occasionally spotlighting an uncomfortable Father Flynn as if he were a criminal under the glare of questioning.  The steady roll between scenes increased the feeling that these are a series of events unfolding over a short period of time.  A matter of weeks or months. A pocket of time in which enormous damage is done and/or perhaps avoided. That movement of time allows one to witness Sister Aloysius as she convinces herself to greater and greater degree of the Father's guilt.  Sister James asks her if she ever proved it to anyone but herself, a question Sister Aloysius dismisses as unworthy of an answer. Why would convincing someone other than herself be important?

The uneasiness of the conclusion did not dampen the audience's exuberant applause.  If anything, it was nice to feel assured of something, even if that assurance was merely that we'd witnessed great talent ask great questions.

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Polar Plunge

I state and restate my non-Minnesotan-ness.  It probably gets annoying.  But there are certain elements of my life Up North that true Northerners cannot appreciate the foreignness of to someone born South of the Mason-Dixon. Walking on, much less jumping in, frozen bodies of water is one of these activities.

Lakes do not freeze in Arkansas. And even if they did, nobody would organize a fundraiser requiring otherwise reasonable persons to jump into said body of water.

But this is something Northern folk appreciate and, for some odd reason, encourage.  After discussing my jump at a Super Bowl party, one of the fellow revelers commented that his family had a tradition of jumping into a frozen lake up North after their Thanksgiving meal. Arkansans nap on the couch like normal folk.

All of this is somewhat tongue-and-cheek, because I rather enjoyed my first, and possibly not last, Polar Plunge.  I could say that it was due to the good cause it supported, but while I'm thrilled my little team raised $2000 for the Special Olympics, I honestly got a kick out of it because it was just so crazy.

5 degrees outside and roughly 800 people, many of whom were costumed, ignored reason, stood at the edge of a hole cut into a frozen lake, and jumped, screaming like a girl regardless of gender.  5 or so seconds of agony was coupled with a primal, desperate need to get out of that water and onto dry (albeit snowy) land. And then we all ran to various hot tubs and oohed and aahed at the best damn hot tub ever created.

If and when I am talked into repeating this experience, I will whine like any true Southerner should.  But deep down, I'm embracing the crazy.

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