Last week Susan, George and I were gadding about town, running errands and making our requisite trip to Target and Starbucks when dinner time rolled around, as it is wont to do almost every day. Rather than go home and broil a chicken breast we decided to go to Frog and Turtle so that I could accomplish my entry into the BLOGGER ROUNDUP OF DESTINY, fancy burger edition. I know, I am very special.

I had been to F&T once before, the weekend that they opened. The place had definitely changed for the better. It seemed more open and breathable, if you know what I mean. I think that when F&T opened they were having a bit of an identity crisis, trying to be one thing (fancy pants) when they were really another (good food, classic environment). Thankfully, they have settle down to their lot in life. Well done and welcome to post adolescence, Froggy T.

I ordered the french onion soup, which came highly recommended by our lovely waitress, Flo (I can’t remember her real name). Unfortunately, she came back a few minutes later and told me “Kiss Mah Grits”. Not really. She told me that the French onion soup had surrendered (ha!) and been replaced with chicken-onion-bacon soup. OK, I’ll have that.

In the meantime we had lovely warm brown bread and butter, which really is all I need from a bread course. Mmm. Buttery.

So, I had my soup. I was so excited! Bacon soup, right? Well, not so much. I think that the French onion soup wasn’t selling, so the chef threw some chicken and bacon into it. I wouldn’t have minded it the bacon had been crispy, or the soup had been tasty, but it wasn’t. Ah well. I sent it back.

I ordered the Frog and Turtle burger with bacon, Gruyère, and sauted onions. I notified Flo that I would be needing more than the normal thimble full of ketchup that I got last time. She laughed at my story and told me that they don’t serve it like that anymore. Yay! I felt like Michelle Pfeiffer in Grease 2, in the diner, remember? When she really wanted ketchup? No? Come on! Must see movie, if only for the Sex Ed song. Moving onward.

The burger was awesome. First off, the bun was grilled lightly brown. It was buttery and crispy and soft. The bacon was deliriously crispy. And there were 3 whole pieces! The Gruyère was melted and drippy and savory. The onions were brown and sweet. And the burger? It was cooked perfectly medium rare. Pink in the middle. Mmmm.

The onion rings were nicely seasoned. Not too overpowering, but subtly salty and peppery in a homemade batter. Also, order their homemade barbecue sauce. Mmm dippage. I asked what was in it, but she told me it was a F&T secret and she’d have to cut me if she told me. Spicy!

Final thoughts: I have heard that some of the apps are hit or miss. So far I have missed, but I plan to keep trying. The burger was worth it. Go and experience it. Tell ‘em Chris sent ya! (You’ll get nothing but confused looks, but wee!)

My fellow bloggers have reviewed, too. Read em and weep at the sorry state of my blog…

Appetite Portland,
Edible Obsessions,
From Away,
soooo.. you really like cats, don’t you
Where is Jenner’s Mind
Vrai-lean-uh

And, of course: Portland Food Map

I’m sure I’m not the only one who loves to move furniture around. When I was younger I would move my bedroom around ALL THE TIME. My parents sat downstairs every Sunday and listened to the bed being pushed across the floor and the dresser scraping its way from one wall to another and silently said to themselves “My, but my son likes to redecorate. My STRAIGHT son. Ha!.”  

Even when I got my first apartment I remember the thrill of moving furniture around. I mean, it was my place! I had no one to answer to! I could move the bed and the TV into the kitchen! Not that I did such a thing, of course. No. My sofa also never thrust out into the middle of the living room, bearing no relation to any other piece of furniture, blocking off the front door awkwardly. My bed never floated in the middle of the bedroom, not touching any wall, surrounded by maroon drapes. GAY.

However, I now own a home. And I find myself not having moved a piece of furniture in years. YEARS. What is the matter with me? Why is this happening? Am I losing my flair? Am I to be FLAIRLESS?

No. I resolve not. I am moving furniture. I have been given carte blanche (well, carte grise, at least) to do what ever I want to do to the back bedroom. There reside within three 6 foot bookcases filled with books, a day bed with trundle, and a closet filled with a TV and gaming systems. What? It is out-of-the-way and cozy. Don’t hate. You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.

I have decided, due to my intense Oprah-level love that I have for my iPad, to put all of my books into storage. What need have I for physical media? I have a Kindle app, and a Nook app, and an iBook app, and even a (useless) Borders app. Goodbye, 3 large and cheap bookshelves. (PS – Anyone want 3 awesome 15-year-old bookshelves? They still work! Free to you!)

I am moving the bed to the corner once occupied by the books. I am moving the TV and gaming systems out of the closet (insert clever gay joke here). I don’t play them anymore due to my iPad. I can game all I want with my easily downloadable game apps. Even Final Fantasy! Nostalgia! Gaming Fun!

And what, pray tell, will go into said now empty closet? Not clothing, surely. No – the TRUNDLE BED. Let that marinate for a second until it blows your mind. I am putting the other bed into the closet. And it will be AWESOME. A private sleeping area just for guests and friends. And maybe a nap or two for moi. Not for the claustrophobic.

I’m so excited. I am moving furniture around again. Next, maybe the bedroom. I’m thinking the bed can go against the windows. Who needs to get into that one closet? And then the living room! Bye bye, optimally positioned TV. I think we should have an “obstructed view” that can only be managed by various moveable mirrors and body contortions. And maybe the dining room could be repurposed into a Zen room!

The possibilities are endless!

The big world of college was just opening up to me and I was still finding out who I was and why I was and all that existential foolishness. I remember walking through the Cove building and stopping to listen outside the closed door of one of the practice rooms. Someone was singing so beautifully, so delicately yet with real strength. His voice was rich and powerful one moment, tender and controlled the next. Eventually there were several of us standing there, listening, scattering when the door opened.

The next time I heard the voice was on the stage, during rehearsals. He was playing the role of God. He sang to Adam and he sang to Noah and he sang to encompass all of the love that God has for his children, and everyone wept, every night.

That next summer I was working at a church camp in Upstate New York when he came through for a couple of weeks. He was leading a small group of singing college kids. He was always so dapper, so put together. His hair was always perfect. His clothes were always Gap. I remember walking at dusk with a group of friends and talking about him. We said some hurtful things, as children do. I remember looking back for some reason and realizing that he had been sitting off to the side of the road in the shadow of a tree. I knew he heard us, heard me.

The next year he was leading a small group that I was a part of. He never let on that he had heard me before, but I know he did. He was too proud. I hope he forgave me. My favorite moments with him that summer was when he was driving us around in that huge van, singing. That voice, my God.

We faded into and out of each other’s lives for a couple of years. He had graduated and was working in admissions, I was busy building who I was into some semblance of personality. We still hung out on occasion, with our small group of friends, but not all the time.

I really connected with him after I graduated. He invited me to join a group at his apartment in Boston for a New Years Eve party. We hung out, listened to music, ate bad food and drank terrible drinks and just loved being together. All of us. We went downtown for New Years and practically froze. We were young and happy.

After that visit he and I started talking almost every day. We found out that we had so much more in common than we ever thought. We confided in each other. We racked up phone bills. We became close. He had started a new relationship and was falling in love. He seemed happy to share his stories with me.

And then one night he didn’t call when he was supposed to. I figured that he was busy, or out, and thought nothing of it. His roommate called me later. He had been trying to reach everyone my friend knew. He found my number on the phone bill.

My friend had died that day, from a senseless stupid random disease. In a matter of hours, he went from feeling fine to feeling a little sick to falling into a coma to dying.

None of us were prepared. How do you say goodbye to a friend that young? What about all of the plans that he had? What about the happiness he had so recently found? Why would this be allowed to happen?

And his friends came together. We talked about him. We shared our individual stories. We found out that he was special to each of us, in different ways. His gift was making us all feel that we meant something special to him.

With joy, I remember.

Dexter Scantlebury, 2-15-1998.

With: George

Where: The Salt Exchange, 245 Commercial Street, Portland

Why: Valentine’s Date

George and I decided to celebrate Valentine’s day a little early by treating ourselves to a dinner that costs more than 20 bucks and wasn’t just protein and veggies. Yay! Carbs! We had never been to The Salt Exchange (TSE), so being enterprising gays who love new experiences, we rolled the dice and made our reservation. Not that we needed to – there were plenty of seats to go around.

TSE is decorated in “contemporary” style. So (as I have sadly come to expect in any Portland restaurant) there was the requisite exposed brick wall, the high ceilings, the minimalist decor, and a local artist’s art.

Crows, watching us eat.

Hana

Our waitress, Hana, was attentive and sweet. I am a stickler for not using the same utensil with any successive course, and she was there with a fresh fork or spoon or knife as needed. Our food was brought quickly (as I hoped it would be, due to the lack of others  in the restaurant) and unobtrusively. Our water glasses were always full and we never found ourselves wanting for anything. Excellent service.

Apple Blueberry Scrumptiousness

I ordered a lovely apple blueberry martini, made with vodka, apple and lemon pucker, and that Maine Blueberry soda that I can never remember the name of. I know it sounds kinda cloying and sweet but it was really crisp and refreshing. Hana dropped off some homemade garlic chips (yum) and some french bread with teensy cubes of butter and salt (fine). George had a glass of red.

TSE is a small plate restaurant, so go expecting to order 3 to 5 small items for your dinner. And bring your wallet. It’s a tish expensive considering the 4 or 5 bites you receive of each dish.

I started with Crab Cakes (spicy!), moved on to Sweet Potato Soup (the highlight of the meal), had Poached Pear Salad for the first time (goat cheesy!) and finished with the Stuffed Chicken (a leg (boo)). George had Potato Croquettes (eh), Brocoli and Scallop soup (awesome!) and the “Local And Sustainable Daily Fish Preparation” (fine).

Truth? The soup was the best course. My crab and his potato croquettes were tasty but ordinary. I had 1/4 of a pear on my salad (although I loved the hazelnuts). And really? A chicken leg? And fish with gravy? I expected more for the price.

I don’t think I would recommend TSE for a first date. Maybe a second, once you know you like the person and if you don’t mind spending a pretty penny for teensy plates. The food was just ordinary, with occasional dashes of inspiration. What can I say? When you try new things it’s sometimes a crap shoot.

Hana rocked, though. Yay Hana!

And now, some glamour photos (note that all of these are shown larger than they are in real life):

Spicy Crab Cakes

Potato Croquettes

Sweet Potato Soup

Port Poached Pears

Stuffed Chicken

The Sustainable Fish

The Menu

This post is my first foray into Group blogging  – see www.portlandfoodmap.com  for more bloggy stuff from other more famous folks. (Valentine’s Day Dating Advice)

Last Friday George and I went to Blackstone’s. Yes, alright, take it in. The old married couple went out on the town. And get this – it was for the third weekend in a row. Right? Right?!? Who’s fancy now? (The answer is us.)

We have some new gays in our lives – Ryan, who works with George, and Peter. Who also works with George. It’s always a delicate situation to make new friends, and even more so with new gays. You never know how much of your true self to show, or how much of their true selves you are seeing. Thank god they seem normal (…so far) (Hi Boys!). They are cheerful and personable and don’t have any obvious ticks or cringe-inducing social tendencies. And thankfully, they think we don’t, either. Heh.

We were hangin’ with the men at Blackstone’s, chatting and laughing and minding our own business, when we were approached by a, shall we say, “diminutive” gay. He was staggeringly drunk. He pointed at George, at me, and at Peter, and told us that he could “take” us all. I’m assuming that he meant that he could beat us up (incidentally, he could not), and not “take” in a biblical sense (again, he could not). He boozily went on his way.

A little later in the evening Ryan was at the bar getting more libations when our little drunken friend made his re-approach. He pointed once more to George and announced “You are pretty”. George, in turn, blinked silently at the tiny gay. He swiveled to Peter and loudly stated “You are pretty, too”. Peter thanked him warmly. Then he turned to me, pointed, squinted, paused, and yelled out “But you? You are HANDSOME”.

So – thoughts? Is this as good as pretty? Am I the manlier of our trio? Should I assume that it is ok to be handsome and not pretty? Someone bolster my flagging ego, quickly!

Shall we take a short walk through an ipod set to shuffle? We shall.

1. You’re Not From Here – Lara Fabian
Have you heard of her? She is like the Canadian version of Celine Dion. You know, if Celine wasn’t the Canadian version of Celine. Ok, she is like her much less successful successor. Anyway, this song is haunting.
 Listen and Buy

2. United State of Pop - DJ Earworm
Mr. Earworm is a DJ, as evidenced by his first name. He mixed songs together. I think the hip kids call it a mashup. This particular “mashup” (I’m young and cool!) is all the greatest songs of 2010 pop. Although it begins with Kesha, so Pbbblt.
Download

3. You Wont Suceed On Broadyway - Spamalot, The Broadway Soundtrack
The wonderous David Hyde Pierce sings this ditty to Dr. Frankenfurter himself, Tim Curry (So, come up to the lab…) about staging a Broadway show and how you need some jews and some gays. Either way, he references Streisand, so yay!
Listen and Buy

4. Appletree - Erykah Badu
The first year I moved home from College, (the lost year) I lived in my parent’s basement. I remember buying a computer (I didn’t have one in college – almost no one did (I’m old)) and exploring this new thing called the internet. I would light incense and listen to this album and chill. Now I recommend it for a quiet evening with friends.
Listen and Buy

5. Rejoice – Bec Jenkins
My girlfriend in college, and the girl I thought I was going to marry. That didn’t work out, which was for the best for both of us. Obviously. However, she could sing like an angel and she recorded a demo in college. We had just broken up, so I ended up buying this rather than being gifted it. Let me know if you want me to send you an MP3 of this. It’s pretty great.

6. Because Of You – Kelly Clarkson (Jason Nevins Acapella Mix)
Excellent Kelly song, completely stripped down to just the vocals. It’s like a primer on how to add effects to pop songs.
Listen and Buy

7. Whenever I Call You Friend – Kenny Loggins
Yes, I know it’s ancient. But listen to the backing vocals. Perfect! “Sweet love showin’ on some heavenly night…”
Listen and Buy

8. Face To Faith – Sandi Patti
I sang this when my first year Summer Ministries team went to Canada to perform. If there is anything in that sentence that doesn’t make sense to you then you did not go to ENC!
PS – Hi Sandi!
Listen and Buy

9. Superman – Prelude and Main Title March
When I was a wee bairn I used to take my mother’s “Pops In Space” record, stand in the living room with a straw, and conduct the hell out of this piece. Also, I wanted to fly. Also, I like his cape. Also, I have a little crush on Brandon Routh.
Listen and Buy

10. Better Way - Spencer Day
I can’t recommend this guy enough. His album Vagabond is essential listening. He’s a mixture of Chet Baker and Harry Connick Jr. Please go here and listen:
Listen and Buy

11. The Boy From Ipanema – Diana Krall
An excellent jazzy standard, twisted.
Listen and Buy

12. We Both reach For The Gun – Chicago Movie Soundtrack
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes they both, oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both, reached for the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, oh yes they both reached for the gun, for the gun.
Listen and Buy

13. My Body Keeps Changing My Mind – Karen Carpenter
From her unreleased solo album (until after she died). It’s a boogie disco confection that’s sexier than the Carpenters have a right to be.
PS – I love her voice. LOVE.
Listen and Buy

14. Older – George Michael
A sad, lush track about realizing that you can’t go back to an ex.
Listen and Buy

15. I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Wont Do That)
Come on. It’s over the top, it’s overblown, it’s flashy and glittery and bombastic. And awesome. It’s also TWELVE minutes long.
Listen and Buy

16. Cry Me A River – Michael Buble
This link doesn’t do the track justice… perfectly produced jazz pop of a classic standard. Just buy it.
Listen and Buy

George came home from work last night, put on his giant snow boots, his puffy snow jacket, and his knit cap, and immediately turned around and went back outside to clear the snow from the Grady poopy area and the driveway. The city plow had gone by in the last hour, so there was a sizable mountain at the end of the driveway. An hour later, all was clear and he was warming himself over my homemade chicken nuggets. And no, my gutter-minded friends, that is not a euphemism for anything.

The thing about George and snow is that he hates to move it. Rather passionately, really. We have worked out a chore division that left him moving snow (I mow the lawn). He generally keeps the hate to a gentle simmer, but occasionally it will boil over to declarations of “That’s it, we are moving to a condo!” or “That’s it, we are moving to Arizona!” or “That’s it, we are moving after I murder the plow driver!”. You see, the city plow driver always does one last swipe after George has completed his removaging. Which necessitates one more expletive-filled de-snowing.

Last night, though, the snow had tapered off and our street was as clear as it ever gets and we felt that it would be ok. There would be no more passive-aggressive snow plow sneakery for the evening.

Later, I was in bed reading and he and Grady had fallen asleep (they both fall asleep in, like, 7 seconds (irritating)) and we were snuggled up under our 2 blankets, separate quilts and individual down comforters ready for a long winter’s nap.

Suddenly I heard the basso profundo of the city plow approaching. Really, city plow? Where were you all day when I drove* my wildly weather inappropriate car through Hothian drifts into my driveway? Where were you last Wednesday, when we didn’t get plowed until the snowstorm was completely over? And now? It has not snowed for 2 hours. Yet here you are, and I am going to have to break it to my husband that you gave him the present of an early morning workout.

From beneath the blankets, from beneath the quilts, from beneath the comforters a muffled sound works its way out to my ears, said so softly yet so filled with resignation…

…”God Damn It.”

___

* And by drove I mean that we (my car and I) careened from one side of the unplowed road to the other in a ballet of terror, my face stuck in a rictus of impending death and sure knowledge that if I live I will be paralyzed and George will have to care for me, Boxing Helena style.

Remember 1982? I do. I was in second grade, going to elementary at Lincoln school across the street from my house, hanging out with my church buddies Matt and Jason and Chris and Chris. (Yes, we were the three Chris’s. Bonus points if you can remember our last names.) My teacher was Mrs. Searway, my pants were corduroy (slim fit!) and my grouping was nerd. Back then it was still stigma-y. Good times.

My mother always tried to make my birthday parties something special. One year we took a group of kids to Funtown. One year we had a McDonaldland celebration. And one fancy year we partied at the Ground Round. (Not a banner year, no.) But this particular year we had a sleep over in our living room and watched crappy-awesome science fiction. And the centerpiece of said fete, the piece de resistance, was the sci-fi spectacular Tron.

Tron was futuristic and mind-blowing for a 8-year-old. I mean, they went INSIDE a computer! And they were all glowy and slim. And they fought on light bikes and with shiny frisbee. Since that day whenever I throw a frisbee, I imagine that it is a disk from Tron. Geek, I know.

It's bad that I want this, right? Would you still talk to me?

The supreme bad guy was the Master Control program. He was a giant red spinning computer head. Excellent! There was a journey and a minor bad-guy to defeat and a massive final battle and the good guy got the girl. It was everything that an 8-year-old would want (aside from the girl thing).

What? It was cool in 1982!

Yesterday Mom and I went to see Tron Legacy. I know that there have been detractors out there who don’t like this movie. To them I say: you are not the demographic. The demo for this movie is exactly who I am. The target demographic saw the movie in the 80s and loved it, and want to see more of the world inside the computer. Yes, the de-aging of Jeff Bridges is a tish creepy. Yes, we never see Tron’s face. But come on. Light cycles! Disk throwing! Computer battles, and a religious-creator allegory. It’s all there.

I want to love this movie so badly that I am willing to overlook all of the minor glitches and focus on the gorgeous world building and the fun journey story and the awesome clothes and I would totally wear.

Also, and as a final note, when Flynn’s son Sam goes into the old arcade and turns the power on, these familiar strains pump out into the theater. I defy you not to get excited. PS – Turn it way up.

Separate Ways

PPS – Bruce Boxleitner is still crazy hot.

Bruce Then

Bruce Now - Still foxy, Scarecrow!

Lately our house has been very British. Tea and crumpets, croquet, bad teeth, the whole nine yards. And you should hear my excellent British accent. George simply loves it when I start in with it.

Me: Good Morning, Guvnah.

G: …um, ok. Morning.

Me: And what, pray tell, is on the docket for today’s Shhhedool?

G: Stop it.

'Ello. Me name is Madunna.

It is all because we have been simply steeping in Merchant Ivory films and period dramas. Simply steeping I tell you.

We watched Howards End a few days ago. Have you seen this movie? It is not, as I assumed, a movie about a man named Howard and his magnificent rear-end. Rather, it is about class struggle in Edwardian England. I know, I know, try to contain the unbridled joy. At the very least it starred Helena Bonham Carter, who I adore in spite of her teeth, and Emma Thompson, who I adore for Nannie McPhee. (Shuddup). Also, Anthony Hopkins chomps his way through the film. And there is a house named Howards End for some inexplicable reason.

Next, we marinated in The King’s Speech. I would watch Collin Firth do pretty much anything. He’s so genteel and kind and precious and mannish. Plus, Geoffrey Rush is there, speech instructing. And Helena Bonham Carter. Hi again, Hel! The movie was excellent, couldn’t recommend it enough. George even teared up during said speech. He thought I didn’t notice, but I did. I always notice. Also, hearing Susan’s British accent “attempt” during the ride home was exquisite. No one mangles an accent like my Suzie.

Mr. Darcy dresses to the left.

We started watching the new PBS mini-series Downton Abbey, starring Elizabeth McGovern, of many 80s things, and Maggie Smith, of many awesome old lady things, and a castle which I adore and want to live in. The jury is still out, but Graham Norton liked it, so I probably will, too.

And finally, last night, we watched The Remains Of The Day, with Sir Anthony Hopkins (of liver with fava beans and Chianti fame), and once again the regal Emma Thompson (of I-divorced-Kenneth-Branagh fame). The story revolves around a butler whose life is not his own; it is given over to serving others. And once he realizes that and makes a grab for happiness it slips through his fingers. Not really the feel good movie of the year (1993). Kind of dreary and sad, really. I guess not all movies can be Moonstruck happy.

I think that next I will rent Maurice. The major theme in these movies seems to be angst and the struggle to repress each and every inconvenient emotion, and of course that is true with this one, too. Plus, super gay Hugh Grant and Rupert Graves and hot man on man romps. Yay!

Hugh make the softest pillow...

Anyway, Chip Chip! Cheerio! I wanna really, really, really wanna zigga zig ah. Carry on.

On Friday our oil company was supposed to come and put oil in our tank. You know, for heat. Grady complains if we let it go below 60 (whatever, whiner). But, they called and let George know that they could not make it until Monday. No problem! Except – whoops! Our oil tank runs out at just below 1/8th of a tank. (Side Note: does this mean that we have just less than 1/8th of a tank of sludge at the bottom? Ew.) So how much oil did we have left?

Of course when I got home from work I ran downstairs to nervous-nelly check the oil level because I was wondering if we were going to make it through the weekend. I was worried that we would freeze to death in our sleep when the oil puttered out and that we would be eaten by wild dogs and/or Grady. That’s reasonable, right? No? Hmm. You obviously have not seen Grady when he is chilly. Ga-Rumpy. Anyway, back to the story. Can you guess how much oil we had? Just about 1/8th.  So, of course, I calmly assessed the situation and handled it like an adult. Wait. No, I didn’t. I panicked and made plans for my viewing and funeral. Closed casket, due to the tiny Westie teeth marks on my face.

Suddenly, the siren call of the internets made its way through my hysterical over-reacting and good ol’ reliable Google answered my query. What else can I add to my oil tank in an emergency? Oh, Diesel. What’s that, internets? Did you say DIESEL? Yes, Diesel fuel from the gas station around the corner. Why is this a secret? So, George went to Aubuchon and bought a gas tank, and three trips to Sunoco later we were halfway to a quarter tank.

Not this kind of Diesel. Although, he would probably keep us warm, too.

So there you are. We will never again pay for an emergency fill up. All thanks to the miracle of the internets.

…And my fear of being eaten by my 18 pound dog.