kdiddy.org

Mornin’ everyone. I’m trying to pretend that yesterday never happened for Pittsburgh sports. The Brewers beat the Pirates, 20-0, which makes it the worst defeat in Pirates’ history, and if you know the Pirates, you know that that’s really saying something. The husband and the sister-in-law actually went to the game and they were all depressed afterward. Then the Penguins lost to the Senators in triple overtime. Thankfully, the playoffs aren’t over for the Pens, but extending them longer than necessary gets to be really nerve-wracking.

ANYWAY, let’s move on to more pleasant things, namely who the lucky winner is of the $50 gift certificate to Seviche. I went to random.org a few minutes and drew the number 18. Commenter #18 was…Katrina! Congratulations, Katrina! I’ll be emailing you in a few minutes.

Thanks, everyone, so much for entering. I think this was really fun and I hope we can do something similar again some time. And even if you didn’t win this time, I do sincerely recommend that you check out both the Sonoma Grille and Seviche. You won’t be sorry. Thank you, also, to Nakturnal for contacting me and arranging the whole thing.

So, here is the second awesome giveaway of the week. (If you’re wondering what this is all about, you can read this post for a little explanation.)

This past Monday night, the husband and I headed back downtown to Seviche, Sonoma Grille’s sister restaurant. I have had seviche once before and thoroughly enjoyed it, while the husband remained somewhat skeptical.

Backing up a bit, if you’re not familiar with seviche, I’ll give you a quick rundown. It’s fresh fish that is marinated in citrus juice and the acid from the marinade kind of cooks the fish, but not in a way that turns the fish into the flaky white texture that you get when you, say, bake it or grill it. It’s delicious.

The husband and I settled at our table and ordered drinks. I got one of their Strawberry Mimosa Champagne Mojito, which is a little more froufy than I would normally order, but it was delicious and refreshing and not too sweet at all. I had three. The husband had a Caipirinha, which is distilled sugar cane juice with fresh lime and sugar. The lime gives it a kind of tequila taste. He only had one of those because they’re strong, but very tasty.

The chef, Jeff, came out to talk to us for a few minutes about what we would be sampling that night. We would get to try some of their signature seviche and some tapas, both of which would feature some of their dishes that have a local emphasis. Jeff has been working to purchase ingredients from local farms to keep money in the area and to foster a sense of community in the culinary scene. I like Jeff.

Our lovely server, Jackie, brought out our appetizer dish, which was their Asian Tartare. It’s kind of like your basic sushi roll but with lots of yummy stuff like white truffle oil. I totally missed what kind of fish they gave us with those but the husband and I gobbled those up and nodded wordlessly. Delightful.

Next was a chorizo-wrapped diver scallop on top of a bed of polenta, spinach and a Peruvian barbecue sauce. The husband has told me several times that he doesn’t like scallops and I keep telling him that he just hasn’t had a good scallop. This was a very, very good scallop. More wordless nodding.

Next was some of the Hamachi (Yellow Tail Snapper) in the Fire & Ice preparation. This seviche comes in those big spoons that you get at pho restaurants. The Hamachi sits on habanero peppers and onions and then is topped with a cool, prickly pear granita. You scoop the whole thing into your mouth, like a shot, so that you get the hot and then the cool. Amazing.

Then there was wild shrimp with avocado and corn salsa and milanga chips and THEN there was seared filet mignon with mushrooms (again, we devoured them even though neither of us likes mushrooms), tomatoes, and saffron aioli. Sometimes, I think of it and it makes me shiver.

Finally, we had a pulled chicken tostada. By this point, we were no longer speaking and I was no longer taking notes, because all we were doing was nodding, moaning in delight, and letting our eyes glaze over. It was sincerely some of the best food that either of us had ever had.

The atmosphere is cool but cheery and is more casual than Sonoma Grille, but would be really fun for a date or a night out and I hear that they have good happy hours and events like Salsa Night.

Just like with the Sonoma Grille giveaway, all you have to do to enter to win a $50 gift certificate is be in or around Pittsburgh and leave a comment on this post. You can enter both giveaways, but I won’t award the certificates to the same person. I’ll use random.org to select a winner on Friday, April 23rd. Good luck!

I’ve had a small handful of PR pitches to do product reviews and giveaways and/or to advertise on my site. I’ve turned them all down because the products have either been something I’m just not interested in or that are irrelevant to me or my readers (I don’t write here and you don’t read here to find out about my unstoppable cleaning techniques using X product…because my cleaning techniques are very stoppable). And I’m just not sure how I feel about advertising on blogs…or my blog, really. I’m not trying to start a debate, it’s just that I don’t think it’s for me. Not now, anyway.

However, a few weeks ago, I received an email from a woman who works for a local PR firm asking if I was interested in going to two local restaurants for tastings (full/legal disclosure: yes, our tastings were free) and then, if I liked the food, running a contest for gift certificates to both restaurants. I gave it some thought and decided that this was something that I felt was worthy of my pimpage and worthy of you, my most excellent readership, because it was non-cheesy and would benefit Pittsburgh businesses. And if you’ve hung around me for any length of time you know that I’m very pro-Pittsburgh.

I know, I know, you don’t care about my existential dilemma regarding capitalism, post-industrial flourishing, and my blog. I just can’t talk about this without over-explaining myself first. It’s just my way.

So, today I’m going to tell you about our lovely experience at the Sonoma Grille and give you a chance to enter for a $50 gift certificate. Tomorrow, I’m going to tell you about our lovely experience at Seviche and give you a chance to enter for a $50 gift certificate there.

If you’re new here, you picked a good day to stop by. Normally it’s just angst.

The husband and I headed downtown on a lovely Friday night. The original plan was to start at Sonoma Grille and then head over to Seviche. About two bites into our appetizer, I realized that we were going to need to reschedule our Seviche tasting: there was no way I was leaving a bite of this food on the table.

They started us off with the Stonehedge “Terroir” Malbec 2006, which was delicious and paired amazingly with our appetizer, Wild Mushroom Flatbread. Now, here’s something important to keep in mind: neither the husband nor I like mushrooms. When the appetizers landed in front of us, we both became very nervous, but figured now was as good a time as any to give mushrooms another chance. I was so glad that we did. The mushrooms were sooo savory and the combination of the bread, roasted tomato, chevre, olives, and cilantro pesto made us groan in delight.

To go with our entrees, we were presented with glasses of the Duckhorn “Golden Eye” 2006 Pinot Noir. I like wine a lot, but I’m no sommelier and I always wondered how people could pick up different notes and flavors. This wine laid it all out, bit by amazing bit. While I was still trying to compose myself, our entrees arrived. Before us sat a dish of sauteed veal strips with organic maitake mushrooms, spinach, an apple crisp, mashed parsnips and potatoes, and a black garlic sauce and a dish of Moroccan Braised Lamb Ravioli. Both dishes were out of this world and there were staring contests for the last bites of both.

As I polished off my wine, one of our lovely servers set a long, curved plank of wood in between. Eh? But then…they rested a sampler of their desserts on the plank and I thought I might cry. We had Cosmopolitan Sorbet, Lemon Meringue Cheesecake, Vanilla Bean Creme Brulee, Death by Chocolate Torte, and Peanut Butter Semifreddo.

The atmosphere of the Sonoma Grille is slightly fancy but definitely not uptight or stuffy. There were some folks there enjoying some post-game drinks in their Penguins gear, so while business casual dress would be most appropriate, you can go in your jeans and not feel gauche. (Though, really, this is Pittsburgh. You can wear your jeans and your Steelers jersey to the opera and be cool.) It is the perfect place for a date or celebratory dinner or for catching a good meal before or after a show at one of the theatres.

So, if you’re in or around Pittsburgh, I would love for you to try Sonoma Grille, too. To enter, just leave a comment on this post. You’ll have until next Wednesday, April 21 to enter, then I’ll select a winner using random.org and announce the lucky reader here on Thursday, April 22. Good luck!

Last night, I told the husband, “Whoa, work is closed AGAIN tomorrow!” marveling at the effects the recent fubar weather conditions had had on the city in general. As a result, we’ve been in the house mostly non-stop since Friday.

A few hours later, he said, “So, do you have work tomorrow?”

I thought for a minute that maybe I was in Mulholland Drive.

“No, I already told you I didn’t.”

“Oh. That was today?”

I knew what he meant. What day was it? How long had we been here? Where was everyone? Perhaps the news reports were all pre-recorded to dull panic and the Snowpocalypse had actually been the Apocalypse. And everyone important was sealed in a bunker somewhere. And the real panic wouldn’t set in until we realized that there were no more french fries anywhere. French fries could be extinct right now and we wouldn’t even KNOW.

These past few (I’m not going to attempt a guess at the precise number) days have been pretty wild. I don’t remember much about the last time that we had really significant snowfall like this, which was back in 1993. I only remember that it hit on a Saturday and my mom and I drove into town anyway for my ballet class. There were about 6 other people there total, when normally there would have been a few hundred cycling in and out throughout the day. We couldn’t generate enough body heat to make the cavernous ballet studio not tortuously cold so we all went home, which my mom tells me was a harrowing drive.

This morning, I looked outside and had to laugh. It’s like we’re living in some CGI movie. And everyone seems to be acting correspondingly daffy.

For instance, a woman parked in front of our house Friday night. Saturday morning she came by and tried to dig it out but just couldn’t and I told her it was fine to leave it there until she could come get it because our car was still stuck at my mother-in-law’s house and it would be a day or so until we could park our car there.

At some point on Sunday, she came and got her car but put a chair in the space. In front of our house.

This seemingly innocuous act made our heads explode. If you’re not familiar with the Pittsburgh Parking Chair, I direct your attention to this timely article in the Post-Gazette.

Technically, she did dig out the spot and under a more liberal jurisdiction she would have claim to the space. BUT she KNEW it was not her space to have because we talked about it and we permitted her to leave her car there. If I had known she was just a space pilferer, I never would have agreed. I would never move a parking chair, because I am not a jerk, so she had essentially check-mated me into giving her our space.

This snow is turning people into lawless savages. Today it’s the parking space. Tomorrow she’ll probably try to eat my brains.

There have been other signs that people are collectively losing their shit. Yesterday a woman knocked on the door and we had the most bizarre conversation. She asked which car was mine and I pointed to ours, which was resting in our horrendously angled driveway that the husband had to shovel out because SOMEONE had taken the space in front of our house. (Getting the car to the house was a whole separate ordeal that took several hours and resulted in two flat tires and a close brush with frostbite. I don’t want to talk about it.) After we established which car was ours, the woman proceeded to pepper me with non sequiturs to the point where I was questioning the sanity of both of us.

“Did you see the woman?”

“What?”

“With plastic bags?”

“Um…no?”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Under the best of circumstances, I have a sinking feeling that life is but a slowly unfolding zombie movie. When you throw in three feet of snow, it doesn’t do much to comfort me.

It’s also been really disheartening to listen to everyone whine about the effects the storm has had on city operations. I just don’t understand the outrage. I am not the biggest supporter of Luke Ravenstahl’s administration, but I don’t see the city’s response as “dropping the ball.” These are not normal conditions. These are quite exceptional conditions and would bring even the wealthiest cities to their knees. Under normal circumstances, I think the city’s response and road clearance rates are pretty decent. But there’s an ENORMOUS amount of snow out there. Just figuring out where to put it must be a logistical nightmare.

The public transit system has a Twitter account that has been absolutely amazing keeping riders informed of route changes and delays and as far as I can tell has responded to everyone that has thrown a question at it. Not only that, the people running the Twitter account have been extremely courteous to abuse thrown their way. I understand that it sucks standing outside in the cold, waiting for a bus, and then being stuck on that bus for hours, but please. Look around. Road conditions worsen faster than they can be improved and everyone’s impatience to get back to normal doesn’t help. Is it really any wonder that navigating buses through that is a losing proposition?

The only way through this is with cooperation. If you can stay inside, do so. If you’re an employer, don’t pressure your employees to risk everyone’s safety by making their way into work. If you have to go out, assume that everyone is doing everything that they can to keep you safe and to keep life functioning as normally as possible and respond accordingly. Don’t bitch.

Although, all of that hot air might make the snow melt faster…

It’s just disheartening to see people not sucking it up. For every Good Samaritan tale of people helping each other out or forging their way to work so that we can buy milk and bread, there is a huge chorus of whining that makes it not seem worth it. I would hate to think that we would need to experience a REAL disaster to gain some perspective.

Hello, from the paralyzed tundra formerly known as Pittsburgh. I won’t bore you with yet another series of pictures of people standing waist-deep in snow, because, really, there’s no new ground to break there. It’s snow. It’s white. There’s a lot of it. I will insert a little slideshow that you can view or not at your leisure. No pressure.

So, my big emotional post the other day about how our new life was starting today? Yeah, it’s been put on hold a bit. Not from the snow, but from some…I don’t know…HR matter that pushed back the husband’s start date a week. No biggie. And because I am paranoid, I verified with the husband that this was not some passive move. And it worked out well, because my work is closed today (unheard of) and the baby is off of school at least today and tomorrow. Aside from slight cabin fever, it’s been pretty nice to stay holed up the past few days, cuddling and watching TV and whatnot.

Really, I don’t know when things are going to be normal around here, especially since there is more snow coming down the pike. I’ve never seen anything like this.

On the upside, it was kind of fun exploring everything on Saturday. A lot of people went out for walks, taking advantage of the fact that you could just march down the middle of the mostly useless streets. We saw a few ATVs, a snowmobile, and one guy on a snowboard. We stopped into the new coffee shop on Brookline Boulevard, Cannon Coffee, and I nearly died from happiness. I’ve been moaning since we moved here that we needed a good coffee shop and now we have one. With pastries and sandwiches and excellent beans and cozy places to sit and wireless internet. I see myself spending some serious time there.

Schmutzie recruited me to do her Grace in Small Things exercise about a year ago and, predictably, I abandoned it after a few weeks. Eh. It happens. But this morning I saw something that would definitely qualify.

The baby and I were walking to the bus stop and were surprised to see a big piece of cardboard tied to one of the street signs. Someone had written, “JOE LUVS MARY” on it with spray paint and surrounded the message with a big, pink heart. “Oh!” we both said, surprised and then irritated by the sign’s presence, since it forced us to step around it into the street.

Further down the sidewalk, tied to the marquee/display sign at the corner church, was another big piece of cardboard onto which Joe (presumably) had spray painted, “GIVE ME A CHANCE!”

“Aww!” I squealed and fumbled for my phone to take picture. My phone died at that moment, because I never remember to charge it.

We passed a few church workers who were outside, hemming and hawing about what to do with the signs. Had Mary seen them already? Was it safe to take them down? Could Joe have maybe left his number so that they could check in with him to see how much longer he would be needing the support of their marquee/when would he be exiting the doghouse?

After putting the baby on the bus, I headed back to the house and scooted around the signs. I heard a car coming up the hill and paused for a few seconds, waiting to see if, maybe, it was Mary, on her way to work, her eyes still swollen from crying. It would be awesome to see her face light up at the gesture.

The driver was a woman and my heart beat a little faster when her hands rose to her head. But, alas, she was smoothing her hair. Her eyes glanced at the signs as she drove past them but she didn’t stop. Perhaps Mary was still at home.

I glanced back at the signs one more time before quickening my pace toward my house. I still needed to pack my lunch. “So sweet,” I sighed.

Then, of course, my true pessimism kicked in and I started muttering, “I wonder what he did that he has to go to such lengths to apologize. What a dick. You deserve better, Mary!”

I’ve heard from various sources that you’re supposed to get your hair trimmed every six weeks. This sounds nice and all, but I’ve always fancied it to be excessive, both in terms of maintenance and cost. Granted, I tend to let things go longer than I should, but usually get my hair cut maybe twice a year.

My most recent trim was back in September and I went to another salon on the main boulevard in my neighborhood. The one that I first went to last summer, the one that the husband feared would give me poofy bangs, was fine, but they seemed slightly put out that I was messing with the age curve.

So, in September I went to another place that served a slightly younger clientele and got a haircut that I wasn’t sure about at first, but turned out to be just fine. And it got me parting my hair slightly off-center, which, when I look back on 2009, will stand out as one of life’s big events. What Master’s degree? DID YOU SEE MY PART?!?!?

So, with my ends looking mighty unhealthy, I headed down to the same place on Saturday. I wanted to keep the little side bang, take off a few inches, and get some layers.

The haircut portion of my visit was fine and I addressed the de rigeur pitching of Redken products with aplomb.

When it came time to dry my hair, the stylist said, “Now, last time, we dried your hair straight. Could we try playing up your curl this time?” Eh, sure, go for it. I always have stylists dry it straight because it always looks so smooth and pretty, but change is good, right?

Well, 5 curl-defining products, a diffuser, and a curling iron later, I found myself staring at this:

The stylist, bless her heart, was so excited about the Bon Jovi masterpiece atop my head that when she asked me, “Do you like it?” I had to reply, “Yes, of course!” I normally wouldn’t endorse lying, but like I said, the cut was fine and this style would go away just fine. In the meantime, I just tried to stifle my laughter and wondered if I could find neon spandex pants at the thrift store.

When I walked into my house, the look on the husband’s face was one of horror mixed with whatever contortion happens when you try to stifle laughter. I couldn’t contain myself and cracked up.

It’s calmed down considerably since I washed it, but if you’re in need of a groupie for your 80s revival band, I’m available.

I just groaned imagining all of the times that that headline has been used for promoting or reviewing The Chief. But I’m unimaginative and I recognize this.

I bought the husband tickets to see the aforementioned one-man play about Art Rooney for Christmas. Because I am awesome, about two days after I purchased them, he spotted a billboard for the play and mused, “I’d kinda like to go see that.”

Our interest in the play went beyond the fact that it was about Rooney. The guy who was performing in the title role was Tom Atkins, a Pittsburgh native who has starred in a couple cult-ish horror movies, in particular Halloween III, Escape from New York, and The Fog, which are favorites in our house.

As we were heading to the theater last night, I realized that, despite the Steelers’ season ending in a whimper, there would probably be plenty of people wearing their jerseys. Well…not only were people wearing jerseys, but they were selling Terrible Towels in the lobby. (Sadly, no one twirled one during the performance.)

We sat in our seats and waited for the lights to go down and the theater piped in every popular song that was about or referenced or was even remotely related Pittsburgh, including Mister Rogers’ “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” which made me tear up because I’m a sap.

Atkins is a fantastic actor, capturing minute mannerisms and rambling on with stories about Rooney’s upbringing in the North Side.

The play itself wasn’t the most staggering work of genius. And it seemed safe to assume that many audience members were drawn to the theater simply for the fact that the play was about Rooney. And the play was obviously written with a very specific audience in mind, designed and timed to hit certain pressure points. There was nothing universal about it. For a second, I thought that maybe this should bother me, but, as the husband so eloquently put it, “It’s Pittsburgh shit for people from Pittsburgh. Who gives a fuck about anyone else?”

At one point, Rooney shows the film of the Immaculate Reception. I whispered to the husband, “That’s kind of cheating.” For Steelers fans and for most native Pittsburghers, that catch is legendary, part of the lore handed down from generation to generation. It’s almost not fair to show it during a play, as it’s guaranteed to stir emotions in the audience. But watching it was just as thrilling as any other time and hearing “Rooney” describe how he fatefully missed the whole thing and how it sounded like a tornado had hit when the elevator doors opened and he realized that the tide of the game had turned was simply magical.

Near the end, Rooney’s emotions swell and he describes what the Steelers have meant to their fans. I’ve rambled about it myself many times. He described circumstances that were just as relevant today as they were 30 years ago. People out of work, clear skies but dark outlooks. But the Steelers, there, reminding us with every hard-earned victory and every crushing defeat, that Winning. Is. Possible.

Tears stung my eyes as I sat there, in the dark, next to my husband. We’ve been through a lot and we’ve made some mistakes and we’ve landed ungracefully. But it’s possible we can win. Still.

We exited the theater and scurried to the parking garage in the bitter cold, soggy snowflakes covering us. We needed to eat and tossed several options around before settling on Fiori’s, the pizza place near our house that feeds us at least five meals a month.

We sat and ate our cuts and our wings and talked about the play, laughing at some of the anecdotes that we remembered. Soon enough, we had to head back out into the cold to pick up our son.

I grabbed the husband’s hand as I teetered across the slippery cobblestone street that had been around since smoke from steel mills darkened the sky and the Steelers were still a punchline in the world of professional football.

Earlier in the day, I had been sad after hearing about a fantastic career opportunity in California. But I can’t go to California. I must stay here, where the job prospects are much dimmer, because this is my home.

Forget New York. If I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere.

Dinner and a show, Pittsburgh-style, with football and pizza. When we pulled up to our, big, old, drafty house, I felt like Pittsburgh royalty.

With the Master’s degree pretty much over and done with (or, as I told my friend Jennie the other day, “It was time to put that bitch to rest,”), I am all set to dive into holiday stuff.

I have this emotional quirk that doesn’t allow me to enjoy things if I have some stressful thing looming over my head. So, even though I started listening to Christmas music weeks ago and busted out the It’s a Wonderful Life and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation DVDs embarrassingly early, I was really holding back my excitement for this time of year until Tuesday’s presentation was firmly in the past.

As I’ve mentioned, this year I’m really into Christmas because it means lots of time to hang out with my family and the end of a year that’s been kind of shitty. And I’m sorry to brag, but my family is rad as hell. So, this weekend, I’m hoping to finish some cleaning and decorating projects and perhaps get our tree.

Our celebration of Christmas is very secular. The husband is an atheist. I’m comfortably unsure, though definitely very happy without an organized religion. And the baby…well, the one thing that we feel strongly about is that he’s too young to really ponder the enormity of things like faith and existence, so assigning him our choice of religion (or lack thereof) is inappropriate. And so we’re kind of just waiting for him to ask us questions.

Anyway, all of this is to say that our version of Christmas marches alongside the traditional version and looks much the same, but we center it around different things. And, really, I think inventing new traditions, borrowing from what came before you and shaping it into something new and good is pretty rad.

In our sporadic discussions of religion, we’ve told the baby that we (or at least I) would be happy to explore options if he were ever interested. Last night, he asked us about the possibility of celebrating Hanukkah.

I was all for it, noting that we might need to get a few things and figure out generally what one does during the Festival of Lights. “I’ll look it up on Wikipedia,” I promised, knowing that I needed to fill in the holes of what I knew…dreidel…oil…latkes…8 days.

I knew that Hanukkah was coming up but I was kind of surprised to find that the whole thing starts tonight, leaving me literally no time to obtain a menorah and whatnot.

So, there’s us. Lapsed Catholics, failed Jews. Story of my life.

I think we might still improvise the whole thing, just to get a feel for it. Then next year we’ll firm it up a bit.

*A common exchange amongst speakers of Pittsburghese. Translates to: “Did you eat yet?” “No. Did you?” Has been adapted to become the name of a local eatery.

My mom likes to tell the story of the time her mom left her in the care of her Uncle Franny one day. When my grandmother came home, she couldn’t find my mom or Uncle Franny. Panicked, she searched all over their neighborhood, and finally came upon them in what used to be Sufak’s Round Corner Hotel. My very young mom was sitting on the bar while Uncle Franny enjoyed some beers.

Tonight, fifty-some years later, the husband was DJing at a club in that same neighborhood. The baby is fascinated with the husband’s DJing career and already has his own record player and a vinyl collection of his own. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to go to gigs with the husband and embark on his own DJing career.

Whenever the husband has a gig, the baby asks if he can come. The answer, of course, is always no because said gigs are always at bars and nightclubs.

Tonight, since my sister-in-law and her boyfriend are in town, we all went out to dinner before he had to be at the club. He suggested swinging past on our way home and letting the baby in for a few minutes just to see what it was like. The baby was thrilled.

After we had finished eating and paid our bill, we made the short drive down to Butler Street. The baby got apprehensive right outside, so I had to kind of push him in. Inside, he spotted his dad at the turntables and walked up to him, much to the bewilderment of the bar’s patrons.

We were only there for maybe five minutes. But the baby could hardly contain how thrilled he was to be there and to see what his dad does when he leaves the house with huge crates of records.

When we left and got in the car, the baby announced, “I’m going to tell all of my friends at school that I went to a night club last night!”

Mom of the Year.