Some weekends, I just really love Pittsburgh. Last night, we celebrated the release of Unicorn Mountain’s new anthology, The Black Forest, at the Warhol. Edited/curated by Boyfriend, the collection of art, comics and folk tales is simply magical. There’s something incredibly creepy and breath-defyingly beautiful about this package of words and images. I’ve got one of the dozen or so leather-and-wood handbound editions on my coffee table, but the softcover is available to you at $29.99.
Then today I SAW MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL at Whole Foods. She’s in town filming some mothers-make-a-difference-at-a-school movie with Viola Davis and Holly Hunter (so my kind of flick). Secretary is one of my favorite movies of all time, so it took every ounce of restraint not to pester Maggie (stunning with no makeup, messy hair and a loose sundress) while she was checking out with her cherubic, pigtailed daughter and, yes — how cute? — her mother. They loaded their watermelon and fresh flowers into the trunk of some totally nondescript Dodge rental sedan (“Oooh, we should have gotten steak,” Maggie remarked at the register), and then I floated over to Mellon’s dog park to eat my pesto ‘n’ roasted veggie sandwich and ogle the pups. Tonight’s ragtag bunch of friendly canines included THREE WHEATEN TERRIERS. See that dog below? Gus? Wheatie. Remember my dearly beloved Mackie? Wheatie. I am obsessed with this breed. I truly believe there is no cuter creature. Three Wheatens was the pinnacle of delight.
Life is not perfect. At times it straight up blows. So sometimes we deserve weekends full of high heels, chick lit in the sunshine, Bloody Marys, puppies and celebrity spottings.
Bug bite count on Friday: 0
Current bug bite count: 7
Well worth it, though, for: iced black coffee, warm chocolate croissant + Food & Wine in the Lower Lawrenceville sunshine; falafel, onion rings, lemon water, chlorine and sunburn at the Oakmont pool; pesto pasta, grilled corn, puppy cuddles and all the kids in the same city (for once) in my parents’ new Squirrel Hill backyard; Dr. Praeger’s California Veggie Burgers, rocket pops and Belgian pale ale on an L-ville deck that makes the city feel green and small and large; timid dogs, friendly babies, fire engines, vintage autos, red, white and blue at the Aspinwall parade; strawberry, melon and mint (cold) soup with vinho verde and an old friend at Ibiza with the doors open and the Birmingham Bridge buzzing and sweating.
Summer’s whipped into place, making amends for the weeks, months, years (it feels) of sluggish rains and scarves with boots.
It’s impossible to stay indoors, and hard to imagine it will ever be cool again.
Well. It has been a day.
The $585.50 speeding ticket was just the start. You’d think I clocked in at lightspeed for that obscenity, but oh no, no, 32 mph.
I could go on. But I won’t. (I will, however, fight this thing*.)
People, please be cautious at the 40th and Butler intersection. I am not the first person I know to get pulled over and grossly fined there for following the flow of traffic.
The rest of the day involved such memorable hits as: “You Think You’ve Lost Your Wallet But It’s Really Just Under Your Front Passenger Seat” and “Thanks for Trying to Connect to These Three Conference Calls But Technology and Miscommunication Are Doomed to Fail You,” as well as “Say Farewell to Your Childhood Home (Your Parents are Downsizing Remix).”
Beer was in order. And fried things.
To Park Bruges we went for Rochefort 10 (figgy, plummy, caramelly, complex; but no 8, which is impossible to find in Pittsburgh), tarte flambée sans jambon, and perfect little frites with enough garlic aoli to negate my recent shift toward less dairy, less egg — i.e. I must’ve consumed the byproducts of at least five chickens, a gaggle of cows and perhaps even a goat or two today.
… An Espresso a Mano chocolate croissant may have factored into my post-ticket breakfast. And a Cadbury Crunchie. Thank goodness I stocked up on sweets yesterday at Mon Aimee.
One can never be too prepared.
*I’ve never had a speeding ticket before. Or a parking ticket. Or an accident. Not even a fender bender. Not even detention.
Rice macaroni with dairy-free “cheeze”
Organic tomato paste
Jam whose* main ingredient is not corn syrup
Bread whose* main ingredient is not sugar
Crackers whose* main ingredient is not salt
Whole wheat fettuccine with milled flaxseed
Spinach and artichoke hummus
Coconut milk vanilla yogurt
Mold-free fresh strawberries
Dark chocolate
*Yes, I am personifying food.
Best $5 I’ve spent all week: the “cold plate” at Istanbul Grille (643 Liberty Ave., Downtown). Red kidney + green bean salad; creamy, spicy eggplant; hearty grape leaves; unspeakably addictive oil + vinegar-dressed iceberg, purple cabbage and shredded carrots with a big scoop of that thick, grainy hot sauce you get on roadside falafel in Israel.
Worth the walk past the construction workers who’ve taken up lunchtime residence outside my office (catcall season has begun… jerkfaces).
My zippy little Fit is in the shop for a little dent-removal TLC following that bizarre hailstorm a few weeks ago. So now — as my insurance covers a rental, thank goodness — I’m driving around town in some massive Dodge station wagon/SUV thing (my first Enterprise loaner was a much more manageable Civic, but it reeked of cigarette smoke, and I find breathing essential to safe driving, don’t you?).
This vehicle is classified as a “compact,” but is about as agile as a Tolkien oliphant. Switching the turn signal starts at my left shoulder rather than the usual ring-finger flick. Shifting from drive to reverse stresses that upper back muscle that’s been aching ever since I took a desk job some 10 months ago.
Parking this thing in Shadyside over my lunch break was even more stressful than the $60 Sephora bill that followed (better to be addicted to Nars blush and Bare Escentuals primer, I say, than crack cocaine or corn syrup).
Pittsburgh is made for small, sprightly cars that are easy on the gas budget and can navigate tight turns, parking chairs and narrow alleys doubling as major throughways (hello, Bloomfield). Anything else is completely impractical.
How do you regularly drive such vehicular monsters and stay sane, I ask you, dear The Rest of Pittsburgh??
Ah, it was Sara Watkins of Nickel Creek playing with the Decemberists, not Gillian Welch of David Rawlings partnerships. Sometimes I wish concerts came with playbills… The part of “the fiddler” will be played tonight by Topol!
Thanks to the PG’s Scott Mervis for the clarification.
The past two Decemberists shows I’ve attended have involved majestic intra-audience duels and unparalleled group storytelling something like prophet-eering set to lush, carnivalesque folk-prog (i.e. “frog”). Last night’s sold-out show at the Benedum was a bit more sedated and straightforward –- as is proper in the wake of the band’s latest release, the more sedated and straightforwardly folky The King Is Dead.
I’m pretty sure it was Gillan Welch — from whom I’ve heard nothing since 2003’s exquisite Soul Journey — up there, fiddling like mad and doing vocals to the tracks she accompanied on the album. Incredibly enjoyable, but still, a girl can yearn for Shara Worden’s spectrally demented version of “The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid.”
I’ve been out of town a bunch lately. A Parisian getaway with a few good girlfriends, and Toronto with a gentleman currently known as “the omnivore.” The weeks leading up to Paris, then between Paris and Toronto, and then following Toronto till now have been all sorts of busy—with work deadlines and puppy-sitting, concerts, plays, dinner plans, and the sorts of exhilarating adult responsibilities such as grocery shopping, laundry, paper-grading, insurance pestering and tax preparations I usually accomplish those weekend afternoons that have been dedicated lately to transportation from one country to another.
This weekend, I spent firmly planted in Pittsburgh, but with a mini-holiday mentality that reminded me why it is I love this city: friends, family, mercurial weather, people doing ridiculously creative things with food, drink, art, culture.
Friday was PBT’s ode to Balanchine with my mother. Gorgeous. Agon, the first of the evening was particularly mesmerizing. Geometric and athletic and exposed. Every muscle a new memory. Saturday started with lunch at Sababa in Squirrel Hill with three generations of women. A sunny salad of greens, avocado, chickpeas and egg dressed in a lime vinaigrette that zipped through the torrential downpour. Lunch was followed by the Symphony performing Disney in Concert (cheesy, but nostalgic and wonderful, and the astonishingly well-behaved children in attendance were a delight) and Handmade Arcade, where I spent far more than I should have on beautiful things from friends far more talented than myself, including handcrafted ceramic earrings from Redraven Studios (daffodils for spring!) and a hand-bound, leather-and-wood edition of Unicorn Mountain’s third publication, The Black Forest. Takeout Thai from that place on Liberty that is not the one right by the SureSave, but a block up from the SureSave, and a root beer float with Root liquor. Lazy Sunday morning followed by white peony tea at Voluto and a boozy birthday BBQ in Bloomfield.
What I’ve done, but have neglected to document: Lots, really. Next to Normal and Sara Bareilles and Kurt Vile and Ragnar Kjartansson. Brgr for falafel and herbed parmesan fries, the Cantina for Bloody Marias and tofu scramble on the back patio, Los Cabos for chile rellenos and bean tostadas, Piccolo Forno for wood-fired pizza and BYO-red, Kaya for happy hour Dark ‘n’ Stormies, Pastitsio for spankopita and dolmas, La Gourmandine for a baguette that rivals those found in the boulangeries of Paris.
I love getting out of town, and what I love even more is coming back to this town.
Now, please enjoy a smattering of my pics from Paris.
