The Way To A Girl's Heart Is Through Her Neighborhood Eateries.

Occasionally, I get the urge to move. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. The far reaches of the country, the edge of the forest, smack dab in the center of small town America (with a three-color gingerbread Victorian). Away from the nonstop noise, away from the screechy (and drunken) neighbors, away from the Good Lord, change your a/c filter, you're blowing rancid air right into our shared walkway/my nasal passages.

But then I have a weekend like this past one. Which starred, namely, the food of my oft-condemned 'hood.

There were the sweet cherry tomatoes, abundant raspberries, and rampant mint of my backyard- picked by some pretty cute li'l blonde farmhands.

There was the takeout barbecue joint that recently moved in three blocks down the road. (Chicago pals, if you haven't tried Small's Smoke Shack, go there. Run there. Say hi to me there. Because I'll be there.) Between the brisket and the pulled pork and the fried chicken and grilled elotes and copious dipping sauces (comprised of garlic mayo and bacon mustard and banana ketchup), we didn't say a word to each other during the meal- except for "Have you tried this yet?" and "Are you eating garlic mayo with a spoon?"

And there was the leftover duck cassoulet (from Chalkboard!) handed to me by a pal who stopped over after a celebratory dinner...to watch my children...so I could hear Eddie Vedder play at Wrigley Field from atop our friends' posh roof deck. I mean, really.

Obviously, there were also tamales verdes from Veronica, our favorite tamale cart goddess (because this unborn child- like the two who have come before him/her- is a goodly part Mexican food).

And since yesterday WAS National Ice Cream Day (Observed), we celebrated with chocolate cherry Bordeaux ice cream...and a few of the chocolate chip cookies that Peej and the girls made. Because- Ice Cream Day.

Serious bakers.

While no amount of food can erase last night's overheard (and shrieked) conversation about the merits of Walgreens from my brain...I'd have to be pretty daft to leave a part of town which shoves this kinda food into my mouth.

I'm many things, but rarely daft.

Over-full, yes. Definitely.

Unless you're making a quick trip to Small's.

Then I want the brisket.

The Kiddos Take You To Montrose Beach.

This morning, I took the girls to the beach. And thought I'd show you the drive towards the lake, just so everyone (i.e., non-Chicagoans) can see how bizarre it is that there are miles of beach within a major metropolitan area. (Like- not off a highway, not a town over, just right there. In the city.)

Pulled out of our alley and headed east on Montrose. It's very quiet here at 9am- the drunks are sleeping
it off and no one (to the best of my knowledge) is running around naked. Not pictured: three separate tamale
vendors. Also not naked. Just incredibly awesome.

Just over ten minutes later (because a high heat index apparently makes every stoplight turn red) we're under
the Lake Shore Drive overpass and pulling into the marina/park/beach/rollerbladers.

View from the parking lot. That little person by the bike trail is Nora, yelling at me to either hurry
up with the beach toys or to leave Susannah and hurry up with the beach toys.

Just past the bike trail, the march to the beach (whereupon Nora is already too tired to go any further). It's been
roughly nine feet. Also, Zuzu is done with her sunglasses for the whole day.

Free of their possessions, the girls have renewed energy to hike the [admittedly long] walk to the actual water.
The sand on Montrose Beach is actually sandy. Not so in all other Chicago beaches. Also- it is boiling hot.

Zu is the thrilled-iest to be dumping water on things which can actually get wet. (A big change from the other 95 percent
of her daily existence.) Also, her bottoms look like they're about to fly away. I assure you this did not happen.

This beach has the coolest (and cutest) miniature seashells. Like, teensy twists and impossibly small bivalves. 

We made sandcastles, witch's castles, and a moat for Zuzu to stomp in. (We also went swimming- but I'm
not insane. The camera phone stayed in the beach bag. In a Ziploc.) 

Beach picnic! 2 parts salami, 1 part sand.

Two hours later (and ten degrees warmer), we headed home. Thankfully Nora was there
to put Zu's hood onto her [sweltering] head.

Beached. Also? My car is now 2 parts sand, 1 part apple slices.

I love summer.

Officer, I'd Like To Report A Herbicide.

When P.J. and I moved in together, we received a housewarming plant. And even though I have a solid track record of alternating between over-loving plants (watering and pruning within an inch of their lives) and letting them die slow, neglected deaths, I seemed to be doing okay with Planty.

Even when I didn't allow for proper drainage, Planty persevered.

And that time[s] I forgot to water Planty for roughly three weeks, he still grew another inch. 

We had a good, bizarre run for seven years.

However, the other day I had the brilliant idea of moving our indoor plants to the outside patio. Lovely fresh air, a consistent watering schedule, and gentle exposure to the elements. Seven years of neglect + three days of awesome treatment = 

A dead Planty.

"I can still tend the rabbits, George? I didn't mean no harm, George."

...I'm so sorry, Planty.

I'll miss your tough-as-nails, Can Do Midwestern attitude, and foliage of indeterminate origins.

Rest in peace.

(And if you wanna see what I'm doing when I'm not killing shrubberies, check out my guest post over at the awesome Greta Funk's GFunkified! She's the coolest, her Great Expectations series is fabulous, and my post is...concerning my failures as a wife and mother. Enjoy!)

Cold Cereal Would've Been Faster.

We were approaching hour six of the drive home yesterday- right around dinnertime. The girls had been good. SO good. They'd napped, read, played, and watched individual media like champions.

I had also been good. (SO good.) I'd written and filed and emailed and kept my passenger seat comments to a minimum. (Hush up, P.J., I did. Ponder THAT.)

So when we hit the city limits, Peej suggested we stop and pick up dinner to make that aspect of mealtime (and clean up) that much cinchier. I called in an order, pausing to ask P.J. which street the restaurant was located on.

"Clybourn. Right by the store, so I'll go grab some milk, too."

I phoned in dinner (in more ways than one), and quietly prided myself on having a night that was shaping up to be extremely easy. We pulled up to the restaurant and I ran in to grab it.

"Name?"

"Keely."

"Spelled?" (I spelled it.)

"Did you call it in?" (I had.)

"...Was it phoned into this location?"

I took to a sec to breathe, not roll my eyes at this moron, and even pulled out my phone to confirm that I had called them- these flighty people at the Clybourn restaura-

"Wait a sec. We're on Elston, aren't we?" (He nodded patiently.)

We were on Elston, of course we were. This was the one we always went to, not their other place on Clybourn, nearly two miles south of here. I smiled jovially. (I think they were glad to see me go.) I got back into the car, giving the same bright smile to my quizzical husband.

"Hey!" I beamed. "We called in order to CLYBOURN!"

He gave me a weird look. "Of course we did. And it's right- GAH."

So we drove to Clybourn, berating ourselves for acting like tourists (and not the braindead parents who had resided here for over a decade). My monologue was silent. P.J.'s was not. And as we drove, we gave the evil eye to the people clogging the roads at 6pm on a Sunday, all of these other folks who were out and about wanting dinner. (Jerks.)

We got to Clybourn and I ran inside. Gave my name. And got a strange look.

"I just gave you your food."

"No, you didn't."

"To your husband?"

"Ah, definitely no."

She went to the back room. Came out with a manager. Who conferred with a third party, the order-taker.

"Yeah, Keely," he said.

"Yep!"

"The guy who just came in."

"Nope!"

The manager listed my order- exactly- and stared at me. I confirmed. After a painfully long time of re-listing, re-confirming, re-questioning, and trying to figure out if I was some sort of prankster, they checked their phone. Turns out, there were two identical orders placed, one right after the other; same salads, pasta, soup, all of it. Hilarity.

So they made me a fresh order. Took a nice discount from the price. And I got back to the car roughly ten minutes later, greeting my confused family and waving a gigantic bag of food. P.J. was miffed. Really miffed.

"They gave away our food? They had to make us new food?"

I showed him the receipt with the sizeable discount.

He smiled.

And he agreed that everything had worked out for the best, after all.