2-Bit Review: Jamaican Jerk Pit

One or two visits. A few hundred words. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Over the past couple years, whenever I was in the North U. area I’d swing around the corner onto Thayer to see if the Jamaican Jerk Pit might be open. On the few times I’d managed to catch the eccentric little restaurant open, I’d enjoy the food. But the guys who ran the place were just crazy-erratic with their hours. Not to mention the fact you felt like you might be taking your life into your hands, cleanliness-wise.

But the Jerk Pit is under new management, now owned and operated by Robert Campbell (right), who also owns Irie Caribbean Cuisine over in Canton. Irie is the Accountant’s absolute FAVORITE lunch spot. He’s like Norm from Cheers whenever he walks into that restaurant – staff call out his name in welcome, but with an island accent.

So we popped into Jamaican Jerk Pit for lunch with high expectations. Robert himself was manning the grill, and the first thing I noticed was how tidy everything looked. “Guess how long it took us to get this place clean?” Robert asked. “Two months!”

The menu at the restaurant on Thayer is similar to what Robert offers in Canton, with a few accommodations to student tastes like “Jerk Nachos.” The Accountant ordered his usual Jerk Chicken meal for $8.50, and I had a Jerk Chicken Pita on special for the day at $6.50. The meal comes with Caribbean veggies, plus choice of white rice or “rice and peas.” The “peas” in the latter are actually beans, so the side is pretty close to what we’d call dirty rice. It’s my favorite among the side dishes.

We ordered our chicken at a “medium” spice level, which I found just right. I like my jerk spicy, but not so hot that I have to down five diet cokes to douse the fire. Robert’s jerk sauce is really flavorful – the allspice isn’t overwhelming, so you get a notion of the other spice layers, too. At the store in Canton, I’ve also had the Jerk Pork and the Curried Goat. The pork is yummy, the goat is a bit of an acquired taste – kind of gristly.

Like the restaurant in Canton, Jamaican Jerk Pit offers a towering coconut cake as dessert. It looks pretty, but I found the flavor a little lacking. A better bet is to simply wander over to Stucchi’s or Ben & Jerry’s for a cone. Also, keep in mind that seating is primarily in the basement – the Accountant and I got our meals to go, what I imagine will be our habit as long as the weather is nice.

At the Jamaican Jerk Pit the food unique, tasty, and economical. The place is clean. And Robert is a super-nice guy. What’s not to like?

Riverfolk Festival in Manchester

“Did you hear that Mandy didn’t like the food at the Chicken Broil?” a friend announced loudly as Dan and Pepper settled to our table at the Riverfolk Festival in Manchester.

“I know she didn’t like the Chicken Broil! And CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHE LEFT ANN ARBOR AND IS ACTUALLY HERE IN MANCHESTER AGAIN?!” Pepper responded, equally loudly.

“Shut up you guys!” I rasped, leaning in low over the table, “you’re going to get me beat up!”

I’m not a big fan of the seemingly endless drive out to Manchester (I’ve been assured that it’s only 35 minutes, but it always seems longer – I keep watching for an “Ohio Welcomes You” road sign), but given that once again I cadged a ride from a friend we headed out for the Riverfolk Festival’s opening night.It was a Cajun theme - $12 got us admission tickets, and another $10 got us a Louisiana-styled meal. We could choose from pulled pork or jambalaya, cole slaw or corn on the cob, strawberry shortcake or brownie, and a slice of cornbread thrown in for good measure (awesome cornbread - so sweet and moist that it was just shy of yellow cake). Stockwell's Catering provided the food, and it was all perfectly fine, and a good value. Plus I was most impressed that they served the food on aluminum pie pans. No saggy plates, plus recyclable!

There were soft drinks, beer, and wine. The two men dispensing the beverages were jolly, age-appropriate, and wedding-ring-less, so my friend Beth and I brushed off our best flirting reparte:

“Look at those tubes for the keg,” Beth said, “they look like something from a science experiment. Or worse.”

“A hospital,” I mused.

“Like a catheter,” one of the guys chimed in.

“Or like the stomach tube my daughter had to have,” I bantered wittily.

“Oh, yeah, I had to have one of those tubes up my nose once,” Beth nodded.

Sexy. I can’t understand why they didn’t ask for our phone numbers.

Anyway, Cedric Watson and the Bijou Creole Band were the headliners, packing the dance floor. That's Cedric and his friend Jermaine taking a break in the photo at left. Woody Pines also played – they were charming, though their rootsy-bluegrass didn’t lend as well to dancing. Besides the music and the beautiful weather, the best aspect was the small crowd. It seems like lately, every activity in Ann Arbor involves me and about 1,000 of my best friends. It was refreshing to go to an event, to see some new faces, and for there to only be 150 or so people. Very pleasant.

Riverfolk continues all day today (Saturday) – thumbs up, and worth the drive.

Bloggers For Reformed Health Care

Word has it that President Obama sent out a call to high-profile progressive bloggers to beat the bushes for health care reform.

The Brou may not have nearly the number of followers as say, the Huffington Post, but I'll do my part.

Take a look at this quote from today's online Washington Post:

"As his committee has taken center stage in the battle over health-care reform, Chairman Baucus (D-Mont.) has emerged as a leading recipient of Senate campaign contributions from the hospitals, insurers and other medical interest groups hoping to shape the legislation to their advantage. Health-related companies and their employees gave Baucus's political committees nearly $1.5 million in 2007 and 2008, when he began holding hearings and making preparations for this year's reform debate."

Now, regardless of where you fall in the debate, this is just crazy. Max Baucus of California is in my own Democratic party, for god's sake, and it makes me ill. Like Mark Sanford exhibiting stupidly poor judgment by"going hiking on the Appalachian Trail," how can any elected official think it's even remotely acceptable to take this kind of money from Big Medical?

I understand that drug makers, hospitals, and insurers employ thousands of Americans and contribute to hundreds of communities. But there's no way these folks are hoping to create a better health care solution for their employees and neighbors. Their mission is to protect the bottom line, and their shareholders' profits. Period.

And that had better NOT be the mission of any government official - elected or appointed - in this country. Period.

The Spy, the Stage Manager, the Swan, and the Stay-At-Home-Mom…

...And Then There's Me

“One of us is going to get lucky tonight!” Jenny pronounced from the passenger seat, as we motored down M-52 towards Manchester.

“What do you mean?” Kristi asked, alarmed.

“I mean one of us is going to end up making out with a guy! At the Manchester Chicken Broil.” Jenny continued in the confident tone of a woman who knows of what she speaks. “What goes on at the Manchester Chicken Broil, stayyys at the Manchester Chicken Broil!”

“Do you really think one of US is going to end up playing tongue hockey?” I piped up from the back seat, imagining that I’m the most likely candidate since I’m single. And wondering just how drunk I’d have to be. And glad that I wasn’t doing the driving.

“Tongue hockey?” Jenny repeated the words, rolling them around for effect. “Tongue. Hockey. Toooonguue Hockey. I’ve never even SAID those two words together before! I love it!”

“If you had a sixteen-year-old daughter who has a boyfriend, you’d use those words on a regular basis,” I pointed out.

Manchester, Michigan Hot Spot

My friends Jenny (the Stage Manager) and Allison (the Spy) flew into Michigan this week, and along with locals Kristi (the Swan) and Beth (the Stay-At-Home-Mom) we all went to the Manchester Chicken Broil on Thursday night. Allison’s family still live in Manchester, and her aunt owns the Village Tap. Amazingly enough, I’ve never been to the Broil, so was really looking forward to it, and to catching up with the girls.
The first thing you need to know (and I realize this may ruffle a lot of feathers) - don’t go to the Broil for the food. Because it sucks. Awful. Eat before you head out there. The chicken was pale and rubbery, the “famous” cole slaw was only notable by the large portion flopped onto your paper plate, and nothing seems to be seasoned enough. Honestly, a little marinade and about five extra minutes on the grill would have done wonders for the chicken.

But, ohhhh, the people-watching opportunities.

I grew up in a small town, and the Manchester Chicken Broil is exactly the kind of gathering that brings back fond memories. The cloggers (photo below). The trio of 50-something guys in Hawaiian shirts performing from the flat bed of a truck. The 85-year-old man on the loudspeaker keeping a running commentary of the various home states of visitors. (At one point, when he announced Alaska and then “Romania!” I surmised that somebody had gotten the bright idea to pull his leg, and that one of us should go up and say we’re from “American Samoa.”)

And just as it should be in a small town, Allison still seemed to know everybody. A steady stream of old family friends wandered in and out of our space at the end of one of the rectangular rental tables, and I have to admit I was a little jealous. Last summer I went back to my hometown for the county fair, the social highlight of the season in that rural area. And didn’t see a soul I knew. Not a single one. Allison’s lucky she still has those roots that are sunk deep.

You Can’t Beat $3.50 Chablis In A Plastic Cup

After doing the best we could to wipe down with the wet naps provided, we walked up the hill from the Broil back to town and the Village Tap. The Tap hosts “Roosterpalooza” to coincide with the Broil, and Allison’s cousin’s band, “Star 69” (photo below. And I really don’t want to have to explain that name to the Button), was playing in the roped-off parking lot.

What a great setting! A cool, beautiful night, cheap bag-wine from the bar, and music from the sort of workman like band that you might hear any night down on Bourbon Street, playing Eagles tunes for all the 30 and 40 somethings to sing along with.

Shouting over the music, the five of us caught up. We all went to the U of M together, and became friends through working on various extracurricular stage activities. Jenny is a stage manager and does festival work in Williamstown, Vermont. Beth used to teach math and computer science here in Ann Arbor at Greenhills and is now the stay-at-home-mom. Kristi is a retired Radio City Rockette who now does drama therapy. And Allison is a spy. No, really. A spy.

Code Name: “Mustang Sally”

Allison isn’t even her real name. Cause I’m kind of afraid to even use it, just like I’m kind of afraid to even pass on the things we talked about.

Allison works in counter-terrorism and directs a department of over 200 people. She speaks four languages, attended the Naval War College, has spent time in the Middle East, and gives regular briefings to General McChrystal, the new commander in Afghanistan. And that's just the stuff she can tell us about. I can picture her rolling her eyes at this, but I imagine that her job is like that of the director up in the glass office on the TV show “24.” Deploying analysts, agents, and resources like chess pieces in a deadly, serious game.

“It’s NOTHING like TV or the movies, ” Allison laughed, shaking her head, “satellites cannot take pictures of your license plate.”

“What about track me via my cell phone?” I persisted.

“Nope.”

“What about shoe phones?!” Jenny interjected.

“Nope.”

I feigned distrust, piercing Allison with my laser-like expression. “Ha! You’re just saying that! I bet you’ve been sent to the heartland to sow misinformation!”

“Yeah. Whatever.” she said, with exactly the same tone she would have used 20 years ago when I said something stupid. Ah, another fond memory. And then, plastic cup of Budweiser in hand, Allison got up to dance along with her aunt.

How many super spies do you know who can shimmy and sing along with “Mustang Sally?” Our nation’s security is in good hands.


PS: Almost forgot. Though there seemed to be dozens of age-appropriate guys (THAT'S where they're all hiding - out in Manchester!), disappointingly no tongue hockey occurred. At least that I can remember.

A2 Questionnaire: Beth Pascoe

(Same Six questions, Different Victim)

Beth Pascoe.

Beth is one of my oldest friends, and I'm particularly tickled to have the chance to post this photo. It's at least 20 years old, taken at the house I rented with friends on East U. First "porch party" of the Spring, if I recall.

Beth, what’s your favorite dish to cook?

Coconut Mango Sticky Rice

It’s Friday night and you’re exhausted – what do you do for dinner?

Ask my husband to cook.

Now it’s Saturday night and you’re ready to go out and have a great time – what do you do? Walk downtown with 3-4 other couples to explore various eating and drinking establishments (after leaving all of our kids – about 10 of them - at our house with two sitters, pizza, and movie).

What’s your favorite restaurant (besides Zingerman’s!) to take out-of-town guests?

Bar Louie for happy hour, Prickly Pear (for the outdoor back patio) or The Quarter (too bad it’s not downtown) --- Arbor Brewing or Palio (if there are kids involved).

What do you love about Ann Arbor?

The wide variety of entertainment opportunities (to watch and participate in) – sports, music, outdoor activities, or if you want to combine all three --- Top of the Park!

Last question - if you were to write a Blues song about living in Ann Arbor, what would the title be?

All I Want to do is Ride My Bicycle, but There’s Too Many Cars on the Road

Warning: The Button Is On The Road!

Alert to all Ann Arbor motorists, bicycle riders, and pedestrians! The Button is 16 and has passed her road test!

First, did you KNOW that a parent has to ride in the car during the road test? I’d like to know who thought up THAT bright idea? The test took about 45 minutes, and I sat quietly in the back seat the entire time with my eyes closed, trying to come as close to a state of zen calm as possible.

It’s hard to argue with the longer, more complex driver’s ed process that kids have to undergo nowadays. The Button did six weeks of classes at All Star Driver’s Ed last year, plus several hours of road time with their instructor. Then she had to take a shorter class (again at All Star) close to her birthday this year, pass the written test, and finally the road test. PLUS we had to document that she experienced 50 hours of driving accompanied by her dad or me.

When I was a kid, driver’s ed was offered after school and taught by “moonlighting” teachers. I have very fond memories of my teacher. To this day whenever I parallel park, I can hear Coach Rayce telling me “pull forward so that your front passenger door is lined up with the rear passenger door of the car parked in front of your space.”

Anyway, despite my misgivings the Button passed her road test with flying colors – she appeared to only get marked down for failing to check her blind spot when she changed lanes on I-94. After she finished, I commented that it seemed pretty easy. “Honestly, has anyone ever actually failed?” I wondered. “Yeees!” the Button yelped, “My friend Gina failed three times! Why do think I won’t ride anywhere with her?!”

Twelfth Night, or How to Know When the Knave is Just Not That Into You

The Button and I rented a movie recently, the charming bit of chick-flick fluff called “He’s Just Not That Into You.” Then the Accountant and I went to see “Twelfth Night” in the Arb Saturday night. And the two have gotten kind of mashed up in my head….

Olivia: So wait, this was at the end of the date or the beginning of the date?
Viola: End. Why?! Does it matter?
Olivia: Yeah… ‘Nice meeting you’ at the beginning of the date, that’s normal. ‘Nice meeting you’ at the end of the date…it could be a blow off.
Viola: (uncertainly) Maybe it was at the beginning…
Olivia: Okay. That’s fine. He’s gonna call.

Orsino: Look, you seem like a cool girl so I’m going to be honest with you. The guy is never going to call you.
Viola: Really?! How do you know?
Orsino: Because I’m a guy, and that’s just how we do it.
Viola: He said it was nice meeting me!
Orsino: I don’t care if he said you were his favorite female since his mommy or Joanie Cunningham. Over a week went by, okay? He ain’t calling you.
Viola: But maybe he did call, and I didn’t get the message. Or maybe he lost my number. Or is out of town. Or got hit by a cab. Or his grandma died.
Orsino: Or mayyybe he just didn’t call because he has no interest in seeing you again.

Maria: I’m pretty sure that something’s about to happen between us.
Andrew: (knowingly) Ohhhhhhh.
Toby: So then are you at the party like, as his guest? Or like, as his date?
Andrew: (interjecting) I hate that! When you don’t know if you’re a date! So you don’t know if you should bring a friend, or are you like co-hosting? And should you stay to the end to try to get some alone time?
Maria: He didn’t really say. But I’m sure I’m more than a guest. I mean, there have been signs.

Olivia: I can’t text. I’m not charming via text.
Malvolio: Well, maybe you should stop texting.
Olivia: But it’s not just texting. It’s email. It’s voice mail. It’s snail mail.
Malvolio: That IS regular mail.
Olivia: Whatever. None of it’s working. This guy left me a voice mail at work, so I called him at home. And then he emailed to my blackberry, and so I texted t his cell. And then he emailed to my home account. And the whole thing just got out of control. I miss the days when you had one phone number and one answering machine. And that one answering machine held one cassette tape. And that one cassette tape either had a message from the guy or it didn’t. Now, you have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It’s exhausting.

Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“I read this article in the travel section of the paper,” Kelly said to Sherry and me as we sat down to the bar on the roof at Palio. “It was all about getting the most for your dollar for a night on the town. I think the goal was $40 per person. We should try that tonight!”Kelly was in town from Chattanooga, so we were in the early hours of one of our bi-annual girls’ night out. We were exploring Main Street as part of Restaurant Week, and had just rejected Black Pearl’s $25 prix fixe meal in favor of 1/2 off appetizers and wine at the Palio roof bar. We had a very congenial bartender in the form of Vinnie (who looked young enough to be the Button’s prom date), but the restriction of staying at the bar had us literally sweating it out. Comprised of a large concrete slab, it had absorbed the heat of the day and was radiating it right back at us. A little toasty.

So we vowed to try to make it through the evening, dinner and drinks, on $40 each. “I think we could even stand out on the corner and beg for money!” Kelly laughed. “You mean like on ‘Amazing Race,’ when a team loses their wallets?” I asked. “Yeah!” I then pointed out that it would take some nerve, in a town where half the people have suffered paycuts or lost their jobs, to beg to pay our bar bill for the night. No matter how cute Kelly looked in her sundress.

Palio offers a limited menu on the roof, with only four appetizers on the menu. We ordered the bruschetta, the tapenade variety plate, and some sort of melted goat cheese thingy. The bruschetta was the best – the balsamic vinegar drizzled on the chopped tomatoes, onions, and capers was tangy and yummy. And the artichoke spread among the tapenades was also a standout - garlicy good. The melted goat cheese had been under the broiler too long, we thought – too stiff to spread and too oily.

We wrapped up at Palio and walked down Liberty towards Top of the Park, bumping into Beth on her bike on the way. Luck was with us, since it was one of the few nights this week that rain wasn’t threatening, and it was a beautiful evening on the Ingalls Mall. We marched up to the bar in the Beer Garden at TOP, and Kelly explained “Girls’ Night Out - Beg, Borrow, or Steal Edition” to Max Kurek, the bartender.

And this is where things started to get a little fuzzy, so allow me to refer to my notes…

Max is…
… a Greenhills graduate.
…junior at U of M.
…philosophy major (didn’t know people still did that).
…taking “Philosphy of Religion” with Prof. Louis Loeb spring term.
(exactly 23 years ago I took the same class, same professor. Think I passed.)
…member of Phi Delta Theta.
…not dating anyone right now.
And, without a doubt, Max Kurek is the most charming, handsome, erudite bartender to ever grace the staff of Top of the Park. If you think Max might be a good match for a friend or daughter, send me an email and I'll forward.

As I said, things started to get a little fuzzy about half-way through TOP, but emerging from our hangovers the next day an email came through from Sherry, who had been tracking our expenses on her iPhone:

Palio - $42.14
TOP, Max 1 bottle of wine - $12.00
TOP, Max 4 mini bottles - $15.00
TOP, tip $5.00
Arbor Brewing - $22.00

So, that adds up to $96.14. We easily beat our goal of $40 each.

(Thanks Max!)

Signs of the Times

Hand-made road signs spotted in our wanderings over the weekend:

Sexy Yard Sale

Custom Rototilling

As we tried to get our heads around just what might make rototilling NOT custom, the Accountant turned to me and commented, "that's marketing, right?"

Recession Potluck

“I don’t want to go out tonight and blow $50,” I said to Rachel one morning back in March, sitting in Sweetwater’s at Kerrytown. “How ‘bout a spontaneous potluck? We’ll ask people to bring just whatever’s in their fridge and call it a ‘Recession Potluck,’ cause we’re too cheap to go out!”

And thus the seed for every Ann Arbor restauranteur’s worst nightmare is planted. Normally avid fans of the downtown restaurant scene but feeling the economic pinch, our crowd has made the Recession Potluck (RP) a monthly event. Our only “rule” is that it’s BYOB and the food you bring must have come from your pantry or fridge. No elaborate planning or purchases allowed.

We had 8 or 10 people at the first RP, and the resulting menu sported just the right mix of meats, veggies, desserts, and snackies. The mix is always one of the more dicey aspects of a potluck, if you ask me. I hosted a potluck at Christmas once, and I SPECIFICALLY told guests that I was making ‘cheesy potatoes.’ And yet TWO friends also brought identical casseroles. The Button and I were eating cheesy potato leftovers for the rest of the holiday vacation.

Impromptu themes are emerging – the second RP in May was a Derby watching party, so we all wore hats. And last Saturday’s event was Beth P’s birthday, so the day was declared a birthday party for EVERYONE. Host Kristi and kids made cupcakes, which had candles and we sang happy birthday to ourselves. I also found myself particularly entertained by the contents of Kristi’s pantry and freezer – she has young kids, so her stocks skew a little more creatively than mine. Mixing a brightly-colored punch for the kids with pomegranate lemonade and ginger ale, Kristi asked me if I’d like some. I accepted, and promptly added a jigger of Pinot Grigio to the glass. “What are ya gonna name that drink Mandy?” Beth S called out from across the room.

The “Recession Potluck Cocktail,” of course. Impromptu, cobbled together from materials at hand, and crafted with a spirit of whimsy.

Underground Dining

“I’m telling ya,” Pepper said about this time last year, “Ann Arbor is going to catch up with the trend on both coasts, and underground dining is going to be THE thing.”

I had just been to Sparrow Market’s after-hours dinner extravaganza, and Pepper and I were discussing how the economy was going to be hard on traditional restaurants in town. But that out-of-the-ordinary, value-add dining experiences like Bob Sparrow’s might do well. Now, a year later, I’m definitely hearing more about events that might fall into that “underground” category. Friday Mornings @ Selma, for instance.

It all started a month or so ago with an email and a link from my ex, “you might be interested in this. We had breakfast at this house last week, with a guest chef and everyone kicked in $10.” It turns out that Jeff McCabe and Lisa Gottlieb live in a vintage house over on Soule (the “s” in Selma), and as supporters of locally-grown, sustainable food they decided earlier this year to throw their house open once a week for breakfast.

I emailed Beth, who lives nearby on Crest, “hey, do you want to do this breakfast thing in your neighborhood next Friday?” I asked. She responded that she had already been to Selma a couple times, and that it was fun and the food was good. After berating her for holding out on me, we made arrangements to rendevous with our friend Kristi the next week.

If you spend a little time reading the Selma website, or you have the Ann Arbor Chronicle loaded in your reader, you’ll know that Jeff and Lisa have had a little trouble with the local authorities. The short version is that someone complained that the couple were operating a restaurant in their home (you can download the letter of complaint via the Chronicle – I find the accusation of “animal attraction” regarding the chickens in the front yard particularly entertaining) and the county and city inspectors were forced to rattle their sabers. The intrepid foodie couple consequently massaged their M.O. a bit, and are doing their best to avoid the label “restaurant.”

As soon as Beth, Kristi, and I approached the house I thought to myself, “ahh, I bet this is one of the reasons the neighbors complained.” The offending chickens are no longer out front “attracting” people, but as we approached the first thing I noticed was what appeared to be a TV hanging from some sort of hand-assembled, stick-truss thingy.

Some of you may remember that back in the day, Arwulf (local dj, performance artist, and raconteur) used to wander the Art Fairs with a hollowed-out television cabinet on his head. And this is the fond memory that immediately popped into my head as we walked up. But alas, it wasn’t a hollowed-out TV. But almost as good – an old mini-fridge repurposed as a bread box for Jeff and Lisa’s “honor bar,” where passersby can help themselves to surplus bread, produce, and herbs and leave behind a few dollar bills in a jar. Just the sort of thing to drive the bourgeoisie crazy.

The night before, I sent Lisa an email that basically said “Hi, can I be your friend and come to breakfast?” Because parties in houses are for “friends,” while strangers showing up and paying for a meal is a “restaurant.” So when Beth, Kristi, and I entered the house, we immediately found Jeff and Lisa and introduced ourselves as their new friends. “I’m so glad it seems to be working,” Lisa said, referring to the system of potential guests introducing themselves via email. And judging by the dozen or so folks mingling around their dining room and kitchen, the new rules imposed didn’t seem to be putting much of a damper on things.

A volunteer showed us to seats at a card table in a lovely sunroom off the kitchen, and we discussed the offerings listed on a chalkboard on the kitchen wall. We were a tad late in the morning, so they had run out of the lovely sounding rhubarb bread pudding. We were left the choices of asparagus quiche or whole-wheat Belgian waffles. Beth and Kristi chose the former, and I waffled. We were offered tea and coffee by the volunteer, and our meals also came with fresh spinach greens and locally sourced bacon. My waffles were great, accompanied by a warm, chunky apple compote, and judging by my taste of Beth’s quiche, it was a home run, too.

Much like a traditional restaurant experience, half the fun of the morning was people watching. I recognized local photographer Myra Klarman socializing at the kitchen island, and as we were finishing our tea a man asked if he could take the empty fourth seat at our table. He introduced himself as Archie, and we made our way through the typical introductory chit chat. “I met Lisa and Jeff when I was putting on a festival last year,” Archie told us. “What kind of a festival?” Kristi asked. “I did a sort of food and nutrition festival, “ Archie answered, “my wife passed away giving birth to our son, so I did it to honor her.” Beth and Kristi proceeded to ask polite, civilized questions, while it was all I could do to not blurt out “You’re the guy with the lard!” Friends participated in the festival last year, and for some reason the thing that stuck in my head was how the festival’s nutrition philosophy espoused that lard is good. I mean REALLY good. Thankfully, my super ego reigned in my id and I simply said, “oh, you know my friends who own Great Harvest Bread Company.”

“It really takes trust and bravery to do something like this,” Beth observed, looking around at the bustle and activity. “To just let people you’ve never met come into your house.” We agreed it’s a great way to not only support local food growers, but to make new friends, too. And while the consensus was it’s a shame “the man” tends to throw roadblocks in front of creative thinking (see “Westside Farmers’ Market,” thankfully resolved when folks came to their senses), I think it’s a mistake for people to expect something like Friday Mornings @ Selma to settle in and become some sort of permanent fixture.

Because for me, part of underground dining’s attraction is that it’s ephemeral. Like a rave crafted for people with mortgages and middle-age spread, a large part of the appeal is the fact that it’s unique, economical, and lasts only a little while–then we move on to the next intriguing concept.

Peony Garden 2009

Wow. It's hard to take a bad picture, even with my cheesy camera and lame photographic skills.

Back from Hiatus

'kay, I give in. Consistent blogging is hard work. I know, I know, many of you are thinking to yourselves "I could have told her that."

With summer encroaching (if somewhat half-heartedly), I've been feeling the creative writing juices flowing. But with the economy in the tank, the Kay family budget has been suffering and I haven't been out on the town quite as much. So rather than limit my meanderings to activities here in Ann Arbor, the Brouhaha is going to morph into a forum for random blathering. And maybe I'll be able to keep it up a bit better.

Coming soon, posts about Fridays at Selma, Recession Potlucks, and Love (yep, just "love").