Equus

From the first chant to the final blackout, every beat of Equus pulses with a raw, prickling intensity. Expertly cast, and performed at a clip that leaves you wondering where the 3 hours went, this powerful take on pain, religion, and sanity demands attention. 

For those that don't know the story, Equus centers around a heartbreaking crime, the blinding of six horses, by the local stable hire. Brought to see Dr. Dysart  by the local authority in hopes that the good doctor can help him, the troubled teenager, Alan Strang, powerfully played by Kevin Fanshaw, sulks, stares, and sings his way through the initial meetings. Over time, as trust between patient and doctor grows, we learn more and more about Alan's past and his home life, marching us closer to the answer as to why a boy who so revered horses would attack them with such malice. 

In parallel to Alan's revelations, we learn of Dr. Dysart's increasing malaise towards his role. Burdened by the thought that in "curing" Alan he will essentially rob him of his purest joys, Dysart struggles to reconcile the job he's meant to do and the passion he begrudgingly envies in Alan. As the boy's story of lust and worship builds to a crescendo, Dysart's fascination with his beloved Greek antiquities begins to pale and crack in comparison. Dysart is played with astonishing skill by Charles Numrich, who deftly embodies a man empowered with both the ability to remove his patient's greatest source of pain and the knowledge that gifting Alan with "normalcy" will leave his life lacking. Frequently referring to the sacredness of Alan's pain, the sacredness of each person's pain, we begin to question whether the doctor's years of treating the most damaged of children has sparked in him a near worship of the damage. 

A bare stage is the perfect setting for exploring Alan's mother's near-lustful religiosity and his father's atheism, the foundation of Alan's trauma. Pale, tempered wood, not dissimilar from what you would find in a stable, houses every scene. Just as Alan's world is consumed by the horses, the audience experiences his fragility and passion in the context of a barn. Made famous for its nudity, this production reaches its climax when Alan and his almost-lover, Jill, strip in the stable, and Alan's reverence for his horse god causes a mental and emotional break that culminates in his crime. The choreography of that crime and the use of light to focus on that violence are expertly done, reinforcing at the play's near end that this is not a simple, impassioned moment of weakness, but a visceral, soul-tearing act of violence that shatters a boy and his already fragile family. 

This is a brilliantly done piece of work, and a thrilling introduction for me to the Theatre Coup d'Etat company. Make the time to experience this play and support this group of artists.  Playing November 6-23, Friday-Monday at 7:30. The small theater was packed for our viewing, so reserve your tickets early. 

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Minnesota Opera: Ariadne auf Naxos

Opera is frequently an exercise in hyperbole. The grand sweep from one emotion to another, the tragedy of love lost, the joy of love reborn, it can all become a bit exhausting and disjointed from reality. The best operas that I've seen have done one of two things, they've used that melodrama to heighten the purest of our emotions, or they've flipped the melodrama on itself, highlighting the common understanding that while not all emotions explode with operatic passion, we can all relate to the very human tendency to exaggerate, well, everything.  Ariadne does the latter. The opera itself, the play within a play, teases the audience with the ridiculousness of its self-importance, allowing for an overzealous composer and a haughty (with a voice to say, "and I deserve to be haughty") diva to provide numerous laughs at the expense of The Opera. 

I didn't expect to giggle as much as I did, which is to say, I don't think I expected to giggle at all at an opera. But the comedy of self-aggrandizing  and forced humility never gets old, we all love to see a diva teased. Running a fast-paced 2 hours and 40 minutes (including one intermission), Ariadne manages to surprise us not only with commedia dell arte silliness and routine snark directed at opera's superiority complex, but with a warmth that makes the teasing feel less cruel, and more the type of ribbing a sibling gives another. 

Commedia: Hey Opera, get over yourself. Life isn't THAT serious. Lighten up!

Opera: Hmph. 

Commedia: Cry a little, fine. But let's crack a smile occasionally.

Opera: Hmph. (Opera cracks a very tiny smile.)

Commedia: (winky face)

The vocal talent, as always, is astonishing.  Ariadne and her comedic foil, Zerbinetta, are equals in inhabiting a character with the voice it needs.  Ariadne's deep, creamy, powerhouse of tone expertly underscores the depth of Ariadne's importance onstage and off. She's a star, her voice the perfect showcase for why opera demands applause, and more applause, and more applause, please. Where Ariadne exudes depth and gravitas, Zerbinetta lightens the mood with wit and a shimmering soprano that seems capable of brightening the darkest rafters. Deepening the connection between these two characters, Zerbinetta is the one who highlights how much her comedic persona shares with the tragic Ariadne.  Just as Ariadne is trapped and heartbroken on her deserted island, so Zerbinetta finds herself frequently isolated and confused in a throng of suitors. The physical facts matter little, the heartache in each voice can sound strikingly similar. And therein lies the sisterhood of two warring forms of art.  

Ariadne auf Naxos is sung in German with English subtitles and, due to its easily understood plot, fast pace, and comedic lift, would be an excellent first opera for anyone on the fence as to whether the art form strikes their fancy. It's a beautiful, emotional, frequently funny less-than-3-hours of entertainment, and it would be a shame to miss out on these artistic fireworks (winky face).

Ariadne is showing at the Ordway 1st, 3rd, and 4th.  Get your tickets at www.mnopera.org. And follow me on Twitter @TheMinneapolite. 

Carmen

Carmen was the first opera I went to, a beautiful, intimate production at Theatre de la Jeune Lune.  Like most people, especially the opera novices like myself, Carmen is accessible in part because so much of the music is recognizable. One forgets how deeply Bizet's melodies have woven their way into everyday life, each spicy, sensual vocal or orchestral dance bringing a smile of recognition.

That immediate recognition must make Carmen equal parts exhilarating and exasperating to direct and envision. The Minnesota Opera takes a classic and runs with it, embracing the heat and flash of the 1970s and delivering Carmen's sultry take on doomed love with the gusto it deserves. Sung in French with English subtitles, the three hour show moves at a robust pace. There were no yawning lulls, as even Micaela's heartache moves at a quick clip. Carmen's steady march toward destruction is made all the more dramatic by stunning visuals courtesy of top notch lighting and a beautiful play of shadows and light.

Performances are astounding. My only sadness was that Micaela was a bit dowdy. I prefer a brighter contrast to Carmen, not so much a housewife vs. a harlot, but an angel vs. a demon. But vocally these two women are a perfect foil, Micaela's soaring, pristine soprano offering a ladylike, almost regal, contrast to Carmen's mezzo-soprano sensuality and darkness. Don Jose is properly torn between this darkness and light, and the tenor perfectly imbues that struggle with the crazed passion it requires. Thankfully, he removes his sweater vest before closing in on his beloved, as I can't quite believe a murderer in a sweater vest.

Sweater vests are only the beginning of a costume parade that includes roller skates, fringed leather, and a pair of satin pants that makes Toreador as much a thrill to watch as to hear. This is a lush, sexy world and every inch of the stage seems to pulse with that sensual energy. Embrace a bit of tragic yearning and don't miss Carmen at Minnesota Opera, playing through May 10th.

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Good Turn Coffee

I'm one of those people who can't fully function in the morning without a solid cup of coffee. And I come from a long line of those people.  I don't believe my Grandmother's house has ever been without a hot pot of coffee.  And when I walk into my folks' house on a weekend, I never have to ask if my dad will join me in a cup. The answer is always yes.

I've been following Good Turn Coffee on Twitter for awhile and as I recently invested in a coffee grinder, it seemed like time to try a pound.  It was just in time for a visit from my family over New Year's so I knew I'd have a tribe of coffee lovers to try the Full City Roast.  We finished off two 12 cup pots between the five of us over the course of brunch, so really, is there higher praise for a coffee?

I'm polishing off the pound this weekend and, cup in hand, decided it was time to tell the rest of Minneapolis/St. Paul to buy themselves a pound (or four).  The owner, Chris, wrote this blog post when he began the business and despite his obvious nerves in kicking things off, he has a great product! And to add to the good vibes inherent in a great cup of coffee, Good Turn passes on the warm fuzzies by donating a portion of profits to local youth leadership initiatives.  So far, the Boy Scouts have been a recipient of those feel good funds, and Chris hopes to expand donations to other local groups such as Teen Challenge as his business grows. Help him spread the love and get yourself a great cup of coffee by sending Chris an order at paypal@goodturncoffee.com. Also give Good Turn a follow on Twitter (@GoodTurnCoffee) for updates on when and what Chris is roasting.

Follow me in all my well-caffeinated glory @TheMinneapolite.

La Fanciulla del West

As I've said in a handful of previous opera-related posts, opera is not an art form with which I am well-versed. I can't pick out the famous arias and place them in the appropriate masterpiece. While it's a medium I respect, it's a medium I encounter somewhat ignorantly, which makes it a tricky subject to review for blog purposes.

I can't say much about Fanciulla that would demonstrate that I know what I'm talking about, but I can say that the show is fun! Prior to this experience, I had no idea Puccini wrote an opera set in the American West. What a surprise!  I think of most operas as velvet-draped, Grecian, or Shakespearean-derived affairs, far removed from any American sensibility.  But this is a gun-slinging (so much gun-slinging!) love story with all the swagger of a traditional western. There are heavy boots, saloons, shiny pistols, barrels of gold and whiskey, bandits, and star-crossed lovers meeting on the road to Monterey.  If a John Wayne baritone had moseyed onstage, I wouldn't have been surprised.

The familiar (to Americans such as myself who don't consider themselves opera know-it-alls) setting eases an opera newbie into the experience, and for that reason I think this would be a solid choice for a first opera.  While you won't pick out any famous arias, if you listen closely you will hear the piece that inspired a lawsuit between Puccini's estate and Andrew Lloyd Webber. That alone is reason enough for the Broadway nerd to dive into this performance.

The picture above was taken during Fanciulla's social media preview night and does not do the set justice. It's a see-for-yourself set!

Minnesota Opera's La Fanciulla del West  plays from Sept. 20th- Sept. 28th at the Ordway in St. Paul.

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Open Arms

Volunteering is an important part of my Minneapolis experience. But I've been remiss in detailing some of the volunteer opportunities I've taken advantage of, which I'll try to remedy going forward. The Twin Cities is, by far, the most dedicated volunteer community I've ever lived in, and that is but one of the many reasons I love calling this place home. 

Today members of my chapter of the Cargill Women's Network volunteered for a couple of hours at Open Arms of Minnesota. Our chapter has also been involved in the Cargill Giving Garden, which supplements Open Arms' own farming with additional produce each summer. This was the first time, however, that we'd volunteered at the kitchen on Bloomington Ave, and as you can see from the pictured smiles, we had a wonderful time. 

Suffering through the diagnosis and treatment of a life-altering disease is exhausting both physically and financially. Individuals struggling with MS, cancer, HIV, and other debilitating conditions often do not have the resources, energy, or support to shop for or cook the nutritious meals their weakened bodies need to fight their respective conditions. This is where Open Arms meets a very specific, visceral need. Open Arms serves nutritious, diet-specific meals to 800+ clients (and often their dependents and caregivers) a week. These aren't one-size-fits-all meals.  The recipes are created with the help of chefs and dietitians, focusing specifically on treatment side effects and the needs of immune-suppressed individuals.  Additional care is paid to the comfort aspect of meals, with special care paid to cultural differences. Volunteers help out at several points in the story, lending a hand at the farm in St. Paul, prepping ingredients in the kitchen, and delivering the meals to clients.

Our group of 18 split between several stations in the kitchen, some of us slicing homemade bread, others preparing fresh green beans, some shredding newly roasted chickens.  These weren't ingredients plopped out of a can.  These were ingredients you'd use to feed a sick friend.  This is food you'd take care to prepare, and that's one reason Open Arms is so special.  It's clear the meals are an act of love and support for individuals who may frequently feel maligned and alone. 

Whether you're an individual interested in delivering meals, a gardening enthusiast with skills to lend, or you're planning a group volunteer event, Open Arms offers fantastic opportunities to serve those struggling in our own backyard. 

Foxy Falafel

This spot has been on my to-do list for awhile. And had I realized how 1) delicious and 2) cheap it was, I would have explored sooner! Tucked away on Raymond in St. Paul, Foxy Falafel is just plain adorable. Originating as a stellar food truck that popped up at farmers markets around town, the restaurant is now a permanent hub for anyone who needs a crispy falafel (chickpeas sprouted in house!) fix.

We arrived around 6:30 pm on a Tuesday and there were several empty tables (made finding a spot easy, but I'd prefer to see a great place like this hoppin' at suppertime).  You order up front, a combo of options (salad, sandwich, or platter) that you grace with either falafel or meat. The salad was $8, a mere $2 more than a meal at Subway.  Make the exciting choice.

I chose the beet falafel on a greek salad and it was perfect.  The crispy yet dense falafel balls were hot and wonderfully spiced and the harissa on the side added just enough kick. My friend, Kim, ordered the turkey shwarma and she didn't offer me a bite so I'm assuming that's a too-good-to-share choice. We noticed the happy hour special too late; $.25 falafel balls seem almost criminal.  Can I buy $20 worth and just freeze those babies? With two other falafel flavors to try (traditional and curry), I'm envisioning many an evening of falafel balls, beer, and walks around the not-far-away-at-all Como. The cauliflower steaks and baba ganoush look like appetizers worth tackling, too. And the $1 off sides (and $1 pickle plate) make happy hour that much sweeter.

On our post-supper walk, Kim and I each commented on how good our supper was, "man, that was fantastic!" We'd talk about something else for awhile and then one of us would say, "boy, that was really good." One of those spots that inspires constant accolades, which means we'll need to be constant patrons.

Follow me on Twitter @TheMinneapolite

The Mason Jar

After a beautiful afternoon of snowshoeing, all that's desired is a cozy dinner spot and a glass of wine. As I'm a big fan of the Minneapolis Cupcake location, I was excited to give the Eagan Cupcake location's adjoining restaurant, The Mason Jar, a whirl.

Filled, of course, with mason jar light fixtures and kitschy mason jar art, the space is embracing a literal decor, which comes off warm and a bit cheesey (and who doesn't love cheese?). Not a bad set of adjectives for a spot with a pretty killer happy hour special of half price beer/wine and $6 pizzas.  My friend and I each had a glass of wine, a cup of soup, and split the Ms. Piggy pizza and our bills were just under $12 apiece. That is really tough to beat! The pizza was delicious, as was the vegetable soup, and the service was good, especially considering they're likely still working the kinks out at such a new location.

There were several items on the menu that I tucked away as justification for later visits (multiple hot dish options, fun appetizers, housemade pot pies).  Being the companion restaurant to the always yummy Cupcake bakery (link here to my review of the Minneapolis location), you'd expect great things out of any baked recipe, so I'd wager a glass of wine on their having a pretty great pot pie crust.  Add to that an impressive beer list with local favorites and the promise of cupcakes for dessert and this new spot is a fun, mason-jars-are-just-too-adorable addition to the restaurant file.

The Buttered Tin

This place would have been a dream come true when I worked 2 blocks away in downtown St. Paul! Alas, The Buttered Tin made it's debut a couple of years after my stint on the other side of the river. I'm sad to miss out on what would have been daily proximity, but I'm happy to find another cozy brunch spot to add to a growing list of favorites.

I trekked there on an icy Sunday after church and despite a white knuckle drive from Minneapolis, the warm, bright interior helped me forget the negative windchill outside. At noon on a Sunday, we waited 45 minutes for a table of 3, so keep that in mind if you're in a rush.  The shop is small so aside from one small bench, those waiting for tables will be standing.  But once I had a mug of coffee in my hand, I didn't mind. And when I vaguely recall sunnier days, I can imagine a summertime wait outside being just fine. Perhaps those days will return. Perhaps...

I ordered the tuna melt and was very happy with the choice.  No overly mayonaisse-y mess here, hallelujah. Tuna mixed with olives and peppers and covered with gruyere on housemade focaccia? Yup. That's how that's meant to be done. As happy as I was with my choice, eyeballing another table's biscuits and gravy and my friend's beautiful hashbrowns made me second guess my choice of lunch over brunch fare. Just a reason to go back, I know, and the tuna melt was reason enough.

Service was great. Warm and casual, and quick once we were seated, our waitress was rather perfect and I'm bummed I don't remember her name. She deserves a hearty, "thank you!"  We never had to ask for our coffees to be warmed up and on more than one occasion I wondered, "when did she refill my water glass?" That kind of service just made me want to sit there and chat all afternoon, maybe grab one of those red velvet cupcakes. At the very least, it made me anxious to return.

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Endless Summer Trail Series Lebanon Hills

As I train for the Twin Cities Marathon (gulp!), midweek mileage continues to be a struggle.  Committing to a weekend long run is no problem, I can carve that time out religiously.  But waking up early for 5 milers or begrudgingly tackling them after a long day at the office is tougher.  I do it, but I'm not happy about it sometimes.

Enter, the Endless Summer Trail Series 7 miler at Lebanon Hills. 6:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night, this "race" (quotes explained shortly) makes a loop around the park, rolling over moderate inclines and enough trail switches to keep you on your toes. It takes something truly special to make me excited to run 7 miles after work, and this race nailed it. Despite a delayed start due to parking issues (hopefully that gets sorted out next year), the crowd was happy and relaxed, no whining about that extra 15 minutes standing around.

This isn't for the uber-serious racer because it starts off with a good half mile of single track, causing an instant bottleneck. If that frustrates you, maybe pass on this one, or make sure you are leading the pack. As I'm very comfortable with my slower-than-average pace, bottlenecks are just a gentle way to warm up. Start, stop, run, jog, stop. Warming up.

Cheaper than most races (you get a cute little coffee mug instead of the do-I-really-need-another-tech-shirt tech shirt), supported locally by Rocksteady Running and TC Running, beer and pizza await you at the finish.  Sure, it's Dominoes, but if you're a snob at the finish line I probably don't want to be your friend anyway. It's a casual, friendly run with wonderful volunteers and organizers. I'll give an additional plug to the race director as he did me a wonderful favor when I accidentally signed up for the race twice (genius) and canceled the second transaction before it was processed.  Such is the benefit of a small-ish, local run. The community is warm and inviting and the organizers really want everyone to have a great time (and not accidentally pay twice for race entries). The small size also makes it a great race to do solo.  Instead of being swallowed whole by a throng of thousands, I chatted with a couple women on the trail and others at the finish. No pretension, no show-offs, just a great bunch of folks enjoying a beautiful summer night on the trails.

The fourth of the Endless Summer Trail Series, this was the only race in the series I did this year.  But my experience at Lebanon Hills pretty much guarantees I'll be signing up for the full series next summer.

Follow me on Twitter @TheMinneapolite

Cajun 2 Geaux Crawfish Boil

One of the spring activities I miss most from my years in New Orleans is the crawfish boil. I have fond memories of heading to a park after class, sipping a beer at a picnic table after a milk jug-sized scoop of crawdads and sausage was dumped in my styrofoam container. I remember one boil where the crawfish were poured into a canoe and everyone scooped their own wares. Not a bad serving dish, the canoe.

Suffice it to say I'm rather surprised to have the opportunity to talk about crawfish boils several states North of my last such party. But thankfully, Cajun 2 Geaux food truck exists, and thus I'm a happy Southern girl who has had a healthy dose of mudbugs and shrimp. I've affectionately reviewed the truck before, here, but I figure the crawfish boil is a distinct event and worthy of its own mention. 

For $22 guests had an all-you-can-eat spread of fresh crawfish and shrimp with the requisite corn cobs and potatoes thrown into the mix.  I was sad not to see more andouille sausage, but crawfish were the main attraction and these were beauties and there were plenty for the feast.  I was skeptical that Cajun 2 Geaux would provide the requisite kick I expect in a crawfish boil, given the sensitivity of the Upper Midwestern palate.  But I shouldn't have doubted Chef Tim's Houma, Louisiana roots.  Not overly spicy, but with enough heat to perfectly accompany the Summit brewery choices, this boil was the real deal. And even if the crawfish spread didn't entice you (I wouldn't understand that, honestly), I can attest to the jambalaya (pictured) and po'boys, too, from prior visits to this particular truck. A festive brass band played indoors (when it rained) and out, and those $7 flights of Summit were a perfect pairing for a summertime party. 

This was the second of three opportunities to get in on a true Louisiana tradition.  The next chance is a boil on Saturday, June 15th at 1pm at Pour Decisions in Roseville. Registration is here. Whether you're a crawfish pro or a newbie, the Cajun 2 Geaux crawfish boil experience isn't to be missed. Dig in and get messy, pinch da tail and suck da head!

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Senor Wong

A roommate of mine in college used to make her own kimchee. I remember thinking the glass jars looked to contain mangled body parts, wholly inedible. It's so sad to know I lived for months in the company of homemade Korean food and never asked for a taste. 

Nowadays, I take every opportunity to inject more kimchee into my life. Lucky me, Senor Wong was a recent stop for a late supper. We walked in around 8:30 on Saturday so finding a table was no problem.  We split three dishes, a Korean spare rib appetizer, a bowl of crazy noodles (not pictured because it came out fuzzy), and a banana-soaked donut-y dessert that I loved but cannot remember the name of...

All three choices were good, especially with my requisite dollop of the table side red pepper/chili oil.  The kimchee was flavorful but not as kicky and spicy as some others I've enjoyed.  I don't mind adding my own heat, but a little more zing would have been cool.  The spare ribs were tender and deliciously spiced, a great way to kick off the meal.

The crazy noodles are a perfect-for-sharing bowl of rice noodles with ground chicken and garlic sauce, similar to a pad thai in some ways, with less sweetness. Again, I added a good deal of the chili oil paste to this dish.  

The dessert was great.  The waitress described it as a type of donut, but I didn't feel like it had any distinct donut flavor (there seems to be a Minnesotan attachment to that mini-donut flavor, which I find odd).  I was risking it with a donut anyway given my general aversion to donuts (I know, weird). This was lighter than I expected and the roasted bananas were the perfect sweet finish. If all donuts tasted like this, I might give them another go. 

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Eater Minneapolis: Best Fried Pickles List

I recently compiled a list of top spots in the Cities to eat fried pickles for Eater Minneapolis.  I have a weak spot for these briny bar snacks so it was a fun list to put together.  While every locale on the list is a winner, my personal favorites are Hazel's Northeast and Blue Door Pub. 

Check it out: http://minneapolis.eater.com/archives/2013/04/19/10-places-to-find-fried-pickles-in-minneapolis.php

And follow me on Twitter @TheMinneapolite

Kincaid's

As often as I explore the Cities' eatery offerings, I'm often met with exclamations of horror when people hear that I've failed to experience a local favorite.  Nearly 6 years after moving here, it's nice to know I've still got much to see and taste.

 One such recent shocked exclamation (with a twinge of judgement against my Minneapolis-centric lifestyle) was in regards to my frequenting downtown St. Paul and somehow never eating at Kincaid's. When I worked in St. Paul, Kincaid's was definitely above my payscale. And now, it's still pricier than my preference.  But as this experience was provided courtesy of winning a bet at the recent Swarm game, I was happy to indulge on somebody else's dollar.

We stopped in after the game, probably around 9:30, so we weren't looking for supper but a bit of late night fancy snacking. The bar was peppered with a few other couples and small groups, definitely not crowded but not dead either.  I didn't drink but my date claimed the bar's Manhattan was a solid execution of the classic. 

The trio of fries appetizer was perfectly sized for two or three people, providing classic fries, sweet potato fries, and truffle chips.  The truffle chips were my favorite, because how do you not make truffle anything your favorite?  But I have a documented weakness for sweet potato anything and I polished off that serving with little help from my companion.

Dessert was a tough decision as the sundae with homemade fudge and called my name pretty clearly.  But being a Southerner trapped in the Northern tundra, I'm always curious to give bread pudding a whirl up here.  It's often overly soggy and sickly sweet, which is a disappointment, but I had high hopes for Kincaid's and they did not let me down.  Bread pudding should still retain a bit of it its "bread" character, with that eggy sweetness pulling the flavors together to form a slightly sticky, slightly dense brick of goodness. Traditionally, I'd look for cinnamon and raisins in the mix, but Kincaid's went with a pear variety, which was a nice cold weather twist. The pudding was topped with a house made bourbon sauce that perfectly seeped into every nook and cranny and there was a nice side dish of extra sauce to properly sop up with those last bites.  As desperately as I miss my former New Orleans home, it was lovely to find such a well-executed version of an old favorite.

All those shocked expressions were right, Kincaid's was an experience I needed.  And now I know where to get bread pudding, when the distance from New Orleans feels especially daunting.

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Minnesota Swarm

The last time I saw a lacrosse game I was wearing pearls and heels, courtesy of the Southern tradition embodied by my alma mater in Small Town, Virginia.  I remember very little of the game aside from the fact that all the players were very attractive. 

Fast forward over a decade (sheesh) and I'm at my first professional lacrosse game, cheering on the Minnesota Swarm at the Xcel Center. While the first half proved competitive, with the Swarm and the Philadelphia Wings battling back and forth to ratchet up 5 points respectively, the second half was a blood bath.  The Swarm pounded the Wings for a final 20-11 victory, making my first pro experience even sweeter. 

Honestly, I had no idea this many people in the Cities cared about lacrosse.  The total attendance was over 8,000, and the seats were bouncing with tons of kids, their adults enjoying a beer while the little ones went a bit crazy.  It really seemed like the perfect place to let some youngsters blow off steam, considerably more laidback (and a lot less prone to cursing drunks) than other professional sports clubs in town. The half-time entertainment (a high school lacrosse shoot-out crafted on the Hunger Games), the music, the constant encouragement from the announcers, all were 100% geared towards helping a family have a good time. 

And that isn't to say that the kid-free are overwhelmed by munchkins.  A solid beer selection, skilled athletes, and enthusiastic fans made for an exciting evening, and all the more enjoyable because I was in the company of a Philly supporter. 

A great Friday night activity in St. Paul and one I hope to repeat soon!

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Tanpopo

I wasn't feeling well while debating supper choices.  Naturally, when not in top form, I'm really seeking a form of edible comfort and home-y-ness, but it's hard to find a restaurant that serves white bread cinnamon toast on a My Little Pony TV Tray in my Mamaw's house in North Little Rock circa 1987.  Tough to find that particular milieu.  So instead, I crave soup.

I picked Tanpopo because 1) I'd never been 2) it was in St. Paul, which was necessary for my evening and 3) several googled web searches pulled up its mushroom soba noodle soup as one of the best vegetarian soups in the Cities. Sold. 

We started off with edamame (of course) and then settled into our steaming bowls of simple goodness.  I don't profess to be a "real" foodie.  Those people, in my mind, actually possess an impressive level of knowledge about food, its origins, its import, its traditions.  All I can profess to is an overall curiosity about and enjoyment of food.  So when I say the bowl of soba noodles at Tanpopo tasted like everything I imagine "umami" to embody, as if I fully grasp what umami is supposed to encompass, I kinda feel like a snob.  In all honesty, I'd never really heard about this fifth taste (to complement the other four: bitter, sweet, salty, sour) until recent Food Network shows. The first time I heard it, in relation to an umami burger at some joint visited by Guy Fieri, I thought it was an actual food. Maybe a vegetable of some sort? 

But a quick review of Wikipedia taught me that umami is a distinct flavor, a "pleasant savory" taste (there's even an Umami International Symposium, just fyi).  And that is exactly what that mushroom soba noodle bowl recalled for me. So warm, light and yet densely satisfying, pleasant, savory, meaty despite the absence of meat in my bowl, each component perfectly married to the rest. It was just the perfect comfort for a kind of icky day and a good beginning to a happy evening. You can't really ask any more of a soup, can you? 

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Get Lucky Half-Marathon

Last year's Get Lucky Half-Marathon was nearly 50 (fifty!) degrees warmer than this year's 20 degree start.  March is a complete crapshoot, I realize.  Maybe it'll be 70.  Maybe it'll be snowing.  But this morning I lusted for the warming tents Team Ortho supplies for some of its other races. I have few complaints about this race, as Team Ortho does a great job running a smooth race worthy of its admittedly steep price tag (roughly $70 for the half). But I wonder if it would be possible for planners to look at the forecast and plan for a few warming tents at the start if the temp is going to be sub-30 (and windy). I know I would have been super appreciative and given the number of crazies in kilts, I'm positive I'm not the only one. 

The only other stressor that I feel like could have been avoided was a bizarre line for the bag check.  Bag check should not take any time.  It appeared that only two people were working the table so perhaps the team just suffered from a few volunteers not showing up, which could certainly happen on such a cold morning. But there was a lot of griping in the bag check line and that could be avoided with more helpers and/or gear bags given at the packet pickup. 

I think the Team Ortho events on the whole would be great races for beginner racers.  They tend to be huge and the crowd provides a great deal of adrenaline and excitement pre-race. There's a decent amount of community support, even with sub-optimal weather.  And the cheeky revelry of running leprechauns and/or halloween costumes (a la Monster Dash in October) allows new runners to relax a bit.  This race was one of the slowest I've had in years, thanks in part to a fall at mile 10 that caused a good deal of limping the last 3 miles. Ice is no joke.  But even a slowpoke like myself didn't bring up the rear.  And even if I did, the running community in the Twin Cities is such that I wouldn't much mind.  

All in all, one of the more expensive half-marathons in town, but usually worth the expense. Great swag, good organization, and salted nut rolls in the post-race goodie bag. Solid. 

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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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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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Sausage Fest at Summit Brewery

It's stupid cold outside. I'm not a native so I get to overstate the obvious for the next decade or so. In the midst of such icy, wintry ridiculousness, tonight I was comforted by two beautiful things: beer and sausage.

Both of these gifts came courtesy of the TC Daily Planet-sponsored, Summit Brewery-hosted Winter Sausage Festival.  I'd never made it to the Summit epicenter before, so this was a great way to finally see the taproom pouring a couple of my favorites (Saga, Horizon Red Ale).  The crowd was wonderfully diverse, equal parts male and female, skewing perhaps a bit over the 40 year mark.  It was great to see such a wide span of ages in attendance and that healthy mix added to the happy vibe of local folks enjoying their local beer and their local meat-makers. I saw one couple that had to be in their late 70s and the wife at one point asked, "Honey, d'you want another beer?" to which her fella replied, "Sure, and I'll grab you some more of that terrine." Man. I want to be them when I grow up. I want to be going to sausage festivals eating my weight in boudin when I'm pushing 80. 

The star of the evening was the embarrasment of riches from Butcher and the Boar, Three Sons Meat Co, Modern Cafe, The Sample Room, NateDogs, Corner Table, Seward Co-op, and Kramarczuk's. 

I'm not ashamed to say I taste-tested almost all of them (so sorry, Kramarczuk's, but I know your awesomeness well and saved room for the unknown-to-me vendors in the room) and no master slouched.  

I was thrilled to see NateDogs in attendance, as I reviewed the mustard-that-shall-haunt-my-dreams in my Republic review. This time I actually had a dog plus the aforementioned heavenly mustard with the added joy of some goat cheese.  It was like a high five for my mouth, no joke. 

But my favorite discovery of the evening was at the Corner Table, a restaurant that has been on my must-go-there list for some time.  The pate in gougere, pictured above, was the winner for me.  Side note, despite a decent knowledge of French, I always confuse gougere and courgette, always. As good as I'm sure the pate would have been on zucchini, I much prefer it tucked into a gougere, that flaky, cheesy pastry that Corner Table's Nick described as the savory cousin of the profiterole. And now...a picture of me in France with a plate of profiteroles, because that's always appropriate. 

Anyway, back to the pate gougere. I'm claiming to have eaten two but I think four may be nearer the truth.  The pate was mild and flavorful, the gougere had the necessary sharp touch of cheese, and the mustard seed dollop was the perfect finishing touch. Unfortunately, the gougere really just made me want someone from Corner Table to make me some profiteroles. Minor disappointment for the evening.

And as I was driving away, I thought two things: I really need to go to Corner Table.  And I really need to go running tomorrow. 

Amen, on both counts.

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