Friends go to Charleston.

Let me tell you a little something about Friends—it was a nineties sitcom featuring a group of six besties living out their post-post college years in Manhattan.  Now, let me tell you a little something about my friends.

Sure, you probably won’t find them hopping in and out of Central Perk on a Friday night, because that’s honestly probably because more likely than not, they were too busy hopping on and off planes to get their nonexistent little Asian butts down to Durham.  Friends don’t got nothing on my friends.  Ok, I’ll stop pretending that I’m anything but Asian now—but in complete and total honesty my friends are great.  Actually, rephrase.  My friends are fire-trucking fantastic—haven’t you heard?  Modesty was so 2014.

When Forrest sat on that bench and told you that life was like a box of chocolates, I’m sure it was because he had Valentine’s Day on his mind.  Nothing can invoke images of sugar plum fairies like Christmas, and trust me, the same could be said about boxes of chocolates around Valentine’s.  It’s a true phenomenon, really.  Regardless, my point is, had you been sitting with Mr. Gump on that bench on the 15^th of February, he would have told you that life is, in actuality, like a loaf of bread, and true friends are like beautiful slabs of Bordier Butter, in a sense that without them, life is still great.  Life is bread, for goodness sake, but with them, life is an absolute experience.  It’s a sensual journey full of indulgence, gluttony, and pleasure.   It’s full of contrasting textures, ups and downs—it’s rough, rugged, silky, and smooth all in one bite.  It’s essentially the new black, and you know what they say about going back once you go black—let me clue you in, you don’t.  

Good friends leave sunny and 75 to join you in frigid and 40.  They see the comfort in silences that are more often than not, mistaken for awkwardness.  They encourage and embrace with wide arms and wider mouths, ice cream before dinner, and second entrées for dessert.  They tell you all the things you don’t want to hear, mixed in with all the things you do.  They laugh at you when you cry, and with you when you laugh.  They pound mussels like gluttons, but savor each and every bite like scrooges.  They humor you, following you on detours to abandoned shores and deserted beach towns. They like your flaws, and even when they don't, they tell you that they do, then admit that they were lying because they're fun, funny and fire-trucking fantastic--I already told you, modesty was so yesterday.

With that being said, good friends, like Bordier Butter in the states, are hard to come by.  So take my words of advice and stick them in your pocket beside the sunshine: when you do happen to find them, offer them cookies to spark their interest, love to gain their trust, and your hand to hold theirs, and once you’ve got a hold, never let go.  Stick your nails (that are in desperate need of a trimming) into them, make your mark, and brand them like steers so they’ll stay forever yours, because trust me, good friends will make you redefine friendship.  Like butter, good friends make you better, and ultimately make life a game worth playing, bread, a food worth eating, and Charleston, an adventure worth taking.  So, yeah.  Let me tell you a little something about Friends—let me tell you a little something about my friends.

P.S. Family?  Don’t think I forgot about you—you’re like friends on steroids.

Kimmy

Sorry I'm Not Sorry But I'm Sorry

I know that you’re expecting me to start this blog post with the most apologetic of apologies for my pathetic absence, but I’ve decided that from now on, I will be unpredictable.  I will be wild and defy expectations by leaving out that sad little apology, simply because I feel like I’ve reached the point where inconsistent blog posts have become the norm, and therefore, as have the consistent apologies.  And once apologies become the norm and more consistent than my shaving habits, the sincerity of each apology can only diminish until it reaches a point of sadness so sad that only the day after Christmas can compare.

So you see, to spare the world from such sadness, I will no longer be apologizing for my absences.  But I guess in this case, apologizing would have been far easier than explaining the reasoning behind my lack of apology.  And also I guess in this case, my acknowledging the lack of apology is an indirect apology in itself.

On another note, I had the chance to visit a beloved over my much deserved fall break.  But even more than well deserved, this hiatus was much-more-than-much needed.  You see, coming into senior year, I was under the influence that college seniors did nothing but eat, sleep, and exist.  Actually, I'd even go as far to say that the existing wasn't a conscious effort on their part, but rather, they just let it happen.  As a college senior, however, let me tell you something.  Take all your beliefs and prior conceptions of life as a college senior and drop it like it's a Shabu Shabu hot pot, because nothing is what college seniors do on opposite day, and everything?  Everything is what college seniors do on the daily. 

I kid you not, I was Jabril.  For those of you who don't know, which I'm sure is nearly all of you, Jabril is the goldfish my roommate won playing one of those state fair games that you're actually not supposed to win.  No, I'm not nearly half the looker, nor do I live in a 2 gallon-sized mason jar on the granite kitchen countertop, but yes, like Jabril, I was drowning--suffocating in a sea of floating, linear, pink turds--waste, I had inflicted upon myself. 

I was in desperate need of a break and a breath of fresh air--or I guess, being Jabril and all, an air pump to churn the stagnant waters.  Naturally, given fall break and the opportunity to leave my poop-polluted habitat, I seized it.  I booked the first and cheapest flight I could find to Minnesota, and went.  I was in the pursuit of happiness and on the search for some good ol' R&R--Rapid City and Rushmore, with a bit of Minnesota sprinkled in, of course.

Seeing as I've failed to spend my sorry's at the start of this little post, I have one to spare, and so, I'll throw it into my savings account to sit and laze around with the other things that should be used wisely and deliberately.  There is not only a time, but also a place, for savings account inhabitants, and these friends should only be called upon in times of dire need and necessity.

With that being said, I think that it's appropriate to make that withdrawal, because I'm genuinely sorry that I couldn't stick you all in my pocket to experience this midwest adventure with me.  Instead, you'll have to appreciate and experience these flyover states with Jason Aldean and I the only way you can through the interweb--vicariously.

 

Until my next unapologetic post,

Kimmy

Doing It Like Dudes at Midwood

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do”, my friend Kate hollered from the backseat of the fun-mobile just as I was shifting into park. “So, naturally, when in North Carolina, go out for some Texas styled barbeque”, I laughed, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Regardless, I could go for any kind of barbeque right now”, Kate closed her eyes, wrinkled her brows and cradled her stomach. “I’m absolutely starved”, she whined. My stomach couldn’t help but to whine right along with her, and whimper in agreement.

“Welcome to Midwood Smokehouse”, our waiter, a bearded and tattooed brunette dressed in black, greeted us with a smile. “Could I get you ladies anything to drink? We have a wide selection of beers on tap if y’all are interested”. As the responsible designated driver, I opted for water, and as responsible passengers, my friends did the same. He smiled at us, and I’m sure at our innocence, as he let us know that our drinks would be right out.

Scanning the menu options, I couldn’t help but wonder why or how I’d gone living so much of my life not only consuming such sad barbeque, but also accepting my sad barbeque as barbeque. “Carolina Pork”, Luya clutched the menu, her grip threatening to leave crinkles on the edges, “Hickory smoked chopped pork, lightly dressed in our Eastern NC vinegar sauce—I have to”. I believed in it too—I believed in my sad barbeque. Every summer that rolled around tied me to the belief that overdone slabs of steak served with plain pasta, a puddle of ketchup, and a healthy dose of A1, could even be classified as barbeque. Instead of being turned away by barbeque’s ringleader, Regina-Eastern-Carolina-Barbeque-George, my sad summer suppers were allowed not only to associate, but also sit with the great Reginas and Gretchen-Texas-Style-Barbeque-Weiners, of the barbeque world. “I might have to go with the Burnt Ends”, Kate declared, interrupting my brief trip down memory lane. “Crispy caramelized cubes of brisket”, she read, her eyes, already practically the size of saucers, widening by the word, “tossed in our own house made Fat Tire BBQ Sauce”. I laughed and grabbed her menu from her before her saliva decided to grace its stark white pages. Flipping around, I skimmed through the appetizers, sandwiches, salads, and sides until I reached the castle at the end of the yellow brick road, the “classic bbq plates”. Eyeing the beef brisket prepared “Texas style in it its natural juices”. “I can’t believe how far I’ve come”, I smiled, unable to help but to recall the dry slabs of beef claiming to be barbeque that peppered my younger years. “Yeah, almost two and a half hours”, Luya threw her head into her palms. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore”, I remarked, closing my menu. “Obviously Kim”, Kate turned to me, “we’re in Charlotte”.

“What can I get you ladies?” Given my indecisive nature, the waiter’s timing was nearly spot on. “The large portion of burnt ends”, Kate nodded, “with hushpuppies and collard greens”. “The pulled pork”, Luya declared, confident in her decision, “large portion—with baked beans, coleslaw and hushpuppies”. I was pretty much set on my choice, but the hickory smoked pulled chicken, lightly dressed in house made South Carolina mustard sauce was proving to be a serious contender. “How’s the chicken?” I asked. “Is this your first time here?” I nodded. “Go for pork or beef”, he suggested. “Alright then”, I smiled as the weight of the decision was lifted off my shoulder, “the small brisket with collards and smoked veggies”. “Oh, and the fried pickles too?” Kate smiled at us for approval, but we all knew the decision was made regardless of our consent. The waiter jotted down her request, picked up our menus, and reassured us that our food would be out in no time before leaving us to our conversation.

After a few minutes of gabbing and a few more minutes of gossiping, our waiter reappeared with a red plastic basket, lined with a picnic-inspired red-and-white-checkered wax paper, and filled with slices of deep fried pickles. A fried pickle virgin, I curiously picked one up. It was ridged and reassuring—blessed and browned with the perfect tan, the pickle was the color of comfort. It was the warm brown of fried chicken with the golden undertones of funnel cake. Surprisingly sturdy, the pickle held its own when dunked into the black tub of accompanying ranch dressing. Satisfyingly thick and luxuriously creamy, the dressing was the consistency of guilt—practically begging to be slathered and spread. It oozed, rather than trickled, hugging the fried pickle with utter and complete devotion. I couldn’t help myself—I went in for a lick before I dared a nibble. It was a sensual experience—one that was differentiated by contrasting tastes and textures. The coolness of the ranch helped to balance out the rough and rugged pickle, and the dry outer fried shell worked surprisingly well with the pickle’s natural juiciness—opposites could not have been attracted more perfectly so. Had I been a bit less hungry, hence a bit more difficult to satisfy, I may have argued that the shell could have been crisper, and the crunch, more auditorily satisfying. You see, I’m a McDonald’s fries over In-N-Out’s kind of girl, simply because fries should be, well, fried. They shouldn’t wilt at your touch, but rather stand erect between your fingers; anything less would be an injustice to the art of frying and the nature of fried foods. Had I been a bit less hungry, I would have expected an eargasm, but what can I say? I was desperate—I was easy, and with that, I was easily pleased.

As with all sinful pleasures, the excitement was short-lived. With three pickles under my belt, I threw in the towel and called it quits, leaving my friends to attack the remaining few. Newly escorted out of the land of the hangry and into the land of the hungry, I checked my watch just as the second hand rushed past the hour mark—5:40. I glanced up towards the bar and the three men nursing their beers, eyes fixated on the flat screens situated above the beers on tap. I should have figured—ESPN. Glancing around the room, I was surprised at how empty the restaurant was considering the noise level. The blaring rock music was just loud enough to encourage small talk without threatening to drown out and overpower conversation. Because of this, there was a good buzz going about the restaurant despite the fact that there were at most only four other groups of diners scattered about. I’m sure that the buzz had nothing to do with the fact that it was happy hour, and everything to do with the music, but I’m sure Jamie Foxx and T-Pain would have begged to differ. The brick walls were worn and weathered, covered in vintage metal road signs and beer paraphernalia. The lights were dim, and the tables, varnished. The beer—abundant—and the red meats, even more so. “Hmm”, I murmured to myself, just as the waiter reappeared and handed us literal platters of meat, “we’ve stepped into a male utopia”. This place was nearly everything my dad’s man cave wasn’t, but wishes it were.

“Could I get you ladies anything else?” I checked my plate and counted my sides. One. I recounted. One. “I think I ordered smoked vegetables too”, I remarked, lifting the cup of collards just in case the smoked veggies thought it’d be funny to hide underneath. “Yes, you did”, he replied, “Sorry about that! Let me bring them right on out”. He was apologetic, without being annoyingly so, and attentive enough to make us feel cared for rather than smothered—pretty much what you’d expect in a decent boyfriend, I guess, but obviously better. I mean, how could a man who was always carrying a pitcher of water or unholy heaps of meat when you saw him not be better than the best boyfriend?



“Alright guys, let’s eat!” I exclaimed excitedly, looking up to find Luya already mid-chew. Laughing, I grabbed my fork and decided to go straight for the collard greens. Although I’m not exactly sure how anything cooked in bacon grease could possibly be bad, I found myself extremely disappointed. A soppy mess, the greens were close to flavorless, and even the generous sprinkle of diced bacon and bacon fat couldn’t do anything to change that. “Did they just decide to bathe the collards in water?” Kate looked disgusted as she shoved her cup aside. The brisket, however, was much more satisfying. Crusted and flavor packed around the edges, the meat was lean, moist, and tender. It pulled apart obediently and without resistance at my insistence, and obligingly and wordlessly endured countless numbers of, what I’m sure should be classified as torturous, dips and dunks into the accompanying barbeque sauce. Unlike the ranch, the sauce was dark and sweet, yet savory. It was more complex, and dripped and dribbled, rather than oozed. This wasn’t a dipping sauce, I concluded. Meat was meant to be mercilessly drowned in this—it really had no other option. If the brisket was moist, the pulled pork, tossed and turned in a light coat of vinegar, was succulent to the point of juiciness. And if the pork was practically oozing juice, the burnt ends, simply were not. Although much drier in comparison, they were absolute flavor bombs. A plate of the best bits, a platter of the best bobs, zero percent guilt and one hundred percent pleasure, the burnt ends were dark, caramelized, chestnut brown, glazed in a sticky, house made barbeque sauce, and blessed with a char that toughened the ends to assume a texture somewhat in between beef and jerky. They were the pan scrapings and brownie ends of barbeque—I couldn’t get enough. I was making my way back to Kate’s plate for a second go when I was interrupted by the return of the waiter.

“Here you go”, he smiled, sliding my tray of vegetables before me: an array of smoked broccoli, summer squash, zucchini, red bell peppers and purple onions—It was essentially summer, grilled, smoked, charred, and presented on a plate. The smokiness seemed to permeate the vegetables, softening and rounding out the flavors, adding another dimension and layer of depth to the otherwise rather one-dimensional ingredient. With that being said, however, the vegetables were excessively oily, and coated my lips with a much too generous layer of unflattering gloss. But at least the gloss was good, I thought to myself, licking my lips.

By this point I was winding down, and looking over at Kate and Luya’s platter, I noticed that the rate at which they were stuffing their faces had significantly decreased despite the fact that both platters were still pathetically full. Given that we were practically in an idealized man cave, however, I really shouldn’t have expected anything less than behemoth portions. “Could we get the check please?” I gestured to the waiter, “as well as a few boxes to go?” I asked. “I’ll handle it for you”, he reassured us, grabbing our plates of unfinished food.

Within a few minutes, he returned with our food boxed and bagged in one hand, and the check in the other. Kate grabbed the check. “$19 a person should cover it, and that includes tax”. “Not bad”, Luya nodded her head, “but I think I’m too full”. I didn’t feel it necessary to remind them that they had ordered large platters that I’m sure were made for men feeling extra carnivorous. “So”, Kate grabbed the doggie bags and began making her way towards the door, “when in North Carolina, do as the Texans do?” I scrunched my brows, “Maybe when in Charlotte”. “But regardless”, Luya patted her stomach, “don’t do it as big as the Romans do”.

Ungodly Goodness

Okay, seeing as fall is creepily lurking right around the corner, I think it’s finally time to talk about summer.  I don’t even need to say it this time around, because I know that you’re already thinking it, but yes, I do suck, and yes, I do need to do a better job at keeping up with my blog, but this time, unlike every other time—this time, it’s not my fault. 

Take a deep breath here and calm down before you start aggressively pointing and jabbing your grubby fingers in my direction.  I know.  How could it possibly not be my fault when I’m the writer on this little old blog?   Well, you know how sometimes when something so traumatic happens, some people tend to push it aside, lock it up, and bury it deep where the sun don’t shine?  It’s kind of a strategic tactic, a form of denial if you will, to help them forget or pretend that what just happened, didn’t.  The same phenomenon, I’d argue, actually occurs with happy events and experiences as well.  Sometimes, some things are just so good and so pure that to expose them to the world would be a sin right there alongside greed and gluttony.  Some experiences are just so completely good and perfectly perfect that in trying to describe and share them, you somehow manage to knick off a corner, chip the paint, and scratch the varnish.  The only difference, I guess between the ungodly bad and the ungodly good experiences is that the bad stay buried deep, whereas the good put up a fight, kicking and screaming like Beatrix Kiddo, and eventually, given enough time, pop out of the snow like daisies—or I guess in this case, like vengeful undead brides.

And that, my friends, pretty much sums up my time in Secastilla, Spain this summer.  I’m only kidding, but while I’m at it, let me grab a trowel if I’m going to be chipping paint and scratching varnish.  I’m sure there’ll be a few laying around in the tool shed, and I guess I’ll just dive right in.  That’s something I picked up there.  When the sun is blaring down on you and you’re at the lake for siesta, you’re always going to expect the water to be a lot warmer than it actually is.  Trust me when I say that the water isn’t going to get any warmer in the twenty minutes it'll take you to fully submerge yourself.  Also, trust me when I say that in those twenty minutes, if you fail to fully submerge yourself, Jesse and Steve will definitely make sure to help you out.  They might throw a little mud in there as well.

I guess, rather than produce a long narrative slash journal entry documenting my experience, what would prove to be most useful when staying as a guest at Casa Luisa would be some words of advice.  Or should I say words of precaution?  Wisdom?  I guess the two really go hand in hand.  

But in actuality, let me take the plunge and say don’t be afraid of dirt, because dirt will become one of your best friends.  You’ll find her in places you didn’t even know she’d manage to wiggle into: behind your ears, in your pits, and if you’re lucky, you’ll even get mud thrown in your mouth a few times too many!  Don’t be afraid of wine, even though if you ask the Casa Luisa gang, I’m sure they’d be convinced that afraid was more of an understatement of what we were--terrified was probably far more accurate, but don’t listen to them—I can guarantee you that terrified was one thing we were not.  We just didn’t happen to be as close with wine as we were with dirt, but regardless, have no fear.  Live to learn, and love to learn, because you’ll be doing an endless amount of that in Secastilla. Don’t fear the sickle, nor the tractor rides, weed whacker and mortar buckets; don’t be intimidated by the plantas magicas, and don’t shy away when it comes time for the chickens to be fed, raised, and eventually, killed, defeathered and gutted.  Don’t be afraid of food and never shy away from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.  Actually, that line needs to be revised.  In fact, BE afraid of NOT going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.  Love, or learn to love, the second breakfasts and the ten o’clock dinners, the tapas, the plates of jamón, chorizo (pronounced choritho, say it right), and queso, the crusty breads drowned in house-pressed olive oil, and the Sunday vermouths.  Clean your plates, and I mean this literally, with a nice generous chunk of crusty bread baked fresh daily a few doors down.  Really, love your food and love knowing that it came from a garden planted, grown, and tended to with the utmost care, dedication, love and devotion, with a smidge of pee thrown into the mix.  Don’t be afraid of the fiestas, of the blaring live music, and the throngs of men and women loosened up by good drinks and great company.  Don't be intimidated by the history, nor afraid of the abandoned villages that you'll frequent rather frequently.  The buildings, though old and dusty won't collapse, or if they do, just trust that they won't collapse onto you, because you'll be far too busy trying not prick your finger sleeping-beauty-style picking wild blackberries outside.  Don't be afraid of snapping your fingers along to some John Denver during a late night jam session. In fact, get crazy, pick up a ukelele, and join in on the fun!  Whip your hair back and forth to some Radiohead in the car, and only stop for a few seconds for a few sips of "road beer". Don't be afraid to leave your phone, and with it, your connection to the world, behind you, because only in doing so will you realize that the real connections, and the only ones you really need, are the ones you'll make in Secastilla on a day to day basis--with not only the old wizards of the town, but with the earth and the carrots pulled fresh out of the ground, still blanketed by a layer of soil, with the animals, chickens that wait anxiously for your arrival and bunnies that scamper away at the sound of your footsteps, with the food and food culture, but most importantly with the people of Casa Luisa. Let these horribly fantastic people wiggle their way into your life and don't stop them as they're crawling into your hearts.  Trust me on this one, you won't regret it. 

The only thing you will regret is not being able to portray the experience as perfectly perfect as it actually was, without the knicks, dents, chips and scratches.  No amount of words or pictures can and will do the experience justice.  It really is just better in person, and no, this is not one of those "he looks better in person, trust me" moments.  This isn't about Facebook stalking the kid that sits three rows in front of you in your chemistry class, and reassuring your friends that the weird dent on his face that shows up in pictures when he smiles, is so not there in person.  This is the real.  It's George Clooney on the cover of a magazine--great, but much better in person.  Secastilla, Casa Luisa, and the experience in general really does look better, taste better, and feel better in person.  It really just is better in person, and all I can say is, you really have to take my words of precaution or wisdom, whichever have you, and dive right in.  Don't be afraid.  Just go.

Gracias (pronounced grathias, say it right) para todos Casa Luisa!  And I guess until next time,

Kimmifer (the whale that was scared of water, wine, and mud)