No sugar coating. It's a mini rant.

I would like to talk about myself. No, don't worry, I won't occupy your time right now with what I've been up to for the last 6 months or so (e.g., buying a house, moving, installing 1,000 square feet of flooring, refinishing and painting kitchen cupboards). This rant has to do with the use of the word, myself, which as just an example was used correctly in the first sentence. Unfortunately, it's misuse runs rampant these days. It's on the news. It's in e-mails. It's spoken by professional colleagues. Is it just me or has everyone forgotten there is another, shorter, and actually correct word to use more often than myself? That being me. A definition from Merriam-Webster for myself, "that identical one that is I -- used reflexively <I'm going to get myself a new suit>, for emphasis <I myself will go>, or in absolute constructions <myself a tourist, I nevertheless avoided other tourists>."

Here is an example of a common misuse I hear all the time...
          Please turn in your assignment to Kathy, Michael, and myself for review.
The subject here is an unspoken you, so using the reflexive myself is not correct, and when you stop to think about it, makes no sense. The word should be me. By eliminating the other reviewers in the sentence, it becomes evident what the correct word to use is...
          Please turn in your assignment to me for review.

To make this clearer, here is a similar example with a different reflexive pronoun...
          I will turn in my assignment to Kathy, Michael, and yourself for review.
This is incorrect. The correct word is obviously you. Enough said.

In order to keep this a mini rant, in a nutshell, myself is a reflexive pronoun, which means if the subject is not I, then there is no place in the sentence for the word myself. 

After that mini rant, I myself feel better. I also feel like I can't post without a picture, so here it goes.

Fat Tuesday

I'm an all purpose holiday loving fool. I take all comers, religion be damned (pun intended). So I would not let Fat Tuesday slide without a tip of the hat by way of something or other. Paczki was out because I lack coordination and I didn't grow up with it so it seems very odd. So: Mardi Gras it must be. I popped on my Annette Hanshaw station which has evolved into Dixie jazz and made a plan to visit Heaven on Seven.

This was the scene:

What I don't know is if it looks like this all the time or not. It didn't have as much revelry going on as I would have expected, but the decorations did help let me know that we made the right choice.

There was a sad rendition of gumbo. Better was the hoppin' john:
Which makes me think of one of my top 10 favorite movies ever.

And solf shell crab po boy:

It was my first time with soft shell crab of any kind, but it was nicely fried and everything tasted fresh. One dining companion opted for Louisiana crab cakes which (strangely, to us) contained cheese. Is this a thing? Because I call foul. Crabcakes are better without cheese. Especially melty cheese.

I was impressed by how diner-like Heaven on Seven is. They were beyond friendly and accommodating, especially when I messed up and made a reservation for their other location which I imagine might be a bit fancier. But for a grey and quiet Mardi Gras day in Chicago, this more than let us get our fix of gluttony before the big repent.

I spent my weekend making beer...

...and being stalked by this ferocious beast:

That is pure killer instinct. Now that Lily knows that I am a pushover and our other cat is super jealous she spends all day passive aggressively lording over us all. She tends to be so quiet that when she makes any noise we immediately reward her with whatever she's looking for. That usually is a trip to the basement, even though she's ended up accidentally locked down there for a few hours more than we care to admit.

The beer should be alright. It's the first time I've ever done it, and I was happy to have the collaboration of my friend Monica. We brewed, drank some Dreadnaught, and watched Marie Antoinette.

My temperament is not well suited to the "Relax, have a homebrew" mantra espoused by Charlie Papazian and so I had an absolute freak out when the yeast started doing its job and therefore kind of bubbled over into the airlock. Brew day was fun, but this brewing thing seems to be experimental, and the moments I spent thinking we'd wasted our time and money were dark.

Ramblin'

My birthday adventuring has now officially spanned two weeks. Starting a week prior to my actual birthday I've had more than my fair share of Michelle-centric activities. I'm ready to focus on other stuff for a while, but it was fun while it lasted! It culminated last night with a dinner with co-workers, preceded by nice long walk with Andrew. We saw dreamy buildings from another era as well as the very random sewing machine display. I guess it pays to act

like a tourist sometime and delight in things that would be annoying and confusing if passed everyday.

This past weekend included a snowy trip to the Chicago Brauhaus complete with hackepeter and creamed herring as well as the boot. Showing an amount of restrain befitting someone my age, I kept us to one boot (restraint cancelled out by multiple rounds of schnapps).

A week before we went to our very first beer dinner at Revolution Brewing in Logan Square. I've been for food and drinks before, but never to their upstairs room. It's got a vintage feel but

relaxed enough for the low country shrimp boil, which was the theme of the dinner. I was surprised (alarmed?) at the size of the beer pairings for a Monday night. Very generous. Portions for everything were bountiful.

The best pairings were lime chess pie with a hoppy beer they brew called

Anti-Hero (who knew hops and lemon meringue-type deserts go so well?), brunswick stew with Fistmas (poorly pictured to the right) and a smoked stout with cold smoked oysters. The latter was most remarkable in that the smoke taste did not overwhelm the beer and make it taste like drinkable ham, which in my opinion some of the other smoke beers do.

I'm more than happy that the revelry has ended so I can get back to normal life. Which apparently still includes beer and may also feature some archery.

It's not a bomb, it's bread!

This little package is headed for a new home owner sister-in-law I happen to have who just bought her first home in Nevada. I can only imagine the scrutiny this thing will receive as it's a. a barely wrapped beer box and b. going to freakin' Las Vegas. Despite it's sketchiness, what is inside is in fact a loaf of Oatmeal Bread courtesy of me and Kim Boyce's book Good the Grain. Despite all odds, this recipe has become a weekly staple in my household excepting one week we lived through Mark Bittman's Rich Molasses Bread (he's not kidding - this is like a swamp of molasses) from How to Cook Everything.

The number of wholesome things sent to Las Vegas in dubious packages is probably quite slim, so I'm going to count my lucky stars if this arrives intact and delicious. In fact, should I get confirmation it was not a crumbly mess I'm going to immediately buy a lottery ticket and enough books of stamps to keep our postal workers employed until their salaries and pensions are raided to pay for another tax cut or war.

Digressions aside, I've come to decide that a good gift for new home owners might be a nice home baked loaf of bread. This doesn't except you from a more permanent purchase, of course, but it is a nice way to share some coziness with someone going through the horrid experience of moving, not to mention working with mortgage brokers. Hindsight is 20/20, but I clearly was remiss in not including a bottle of whiskey as well. At least we know that you can get in Vegas.

I am THAT Christmas jerk

I put on the Christmas station the day after Thanksgiving. That's a lie. I put it on before but I hide it because my husband hates it so.

I have been thinking about my Christmas Eve menu for weeks. Also a lie. I decided in August it would be German this year. A platter of sausages, Black Forest cake, red cabbage and probably a failed attempt at spaetzle. And some vegan stuff. I've become obsessed with the idea of making vegan recipes, just because, and including them with other meaty dishes. Probably further evidence of my jerkiness as I am basically offending everyone.

The garden is not yet fully harvested (CHARD is still in the house) and Halloween parties are all this week. Despite all this I can't shake my raging desire to revel in sparkles, pine-y displays and fake angels.

So, in order to maintain harmony in my house and the appearance of sanity to the world I am going to fulfill my hearts desire to live in the Christmas spirit for, like, 1 3/4 months by calling it organization. Yessir!! I'm going to be spending my time making lists, thinking of presents, checking it twice and organizing my house so that when the festivities actually begin (November 25 with Kristkindl Market in Chi FTW!!!) I'll be locked and loaded for fun and not last minute running around.

There is of course Martha Stewart and Etsy to fulfill your decor daydreaming and money spending. I also found Organized Christmas, a site that gives you a tip each day on how to get a hold of your crazy self and prepare for what many consider an ultimately unpleasant onslaught. Yesterday's tip was to plan out your calendar now to get the lay of the land. It also urged a reminder to not overbook yourself.

You know the idea that you should "pay yourself first" (that's a Madonna quote, I am sure.)? Well, do that with time as well. Block out days with your partners or just for yourself. For example, Sundays are days I am basically busy indefinately because it is a day allocated to chillaxing with my spouse. Having had 2 such weekends consecutively I cannot advocate this idea enough. And for all his scolding on becoming "that crazy Christmas person" come holiday time I'm sure he'll appreciate my efforts.

Where has the summer gone and what have I been doing?

Over the long 4th of July weekend, I headed to Mount Whitney in California with John and Dave to summit the highest peak in the United State's lower 48. Located just outside of a bunch of little towns (e.g., Lone Pine, Independence, Bishop) hardly anyone's heard of but in an area I love, I could easily see the still snow-packed peaks rising above the forests and drier salt desert shrub valleys further below.

Knowing I would be arriving from Las Vegas and acclimated to elevations between 3000-4500 feet, I was kind of worried about being above 10000 feet. I've never experienced altitude sickness but have seen friends struggle and knew it was one experience I wanted to avoid. With that in mind, we decided to spend a few nights at the lower elevations (8500 feet) of the Whitney Portal area before putting our packs on and heading up. Don't you love that name, the Whitney Portal?? I've heard John talk about it since I've know him, and a sort of mystique has been built up in my brain about it, like we were going to be transported somewhere once we entered. What I imagined was pretty vague. As it turns out the Whitney Portal consists of campgrounds for car and RV campers, parking lots for folks hitting the trails, including the Whitney Peak trailhead, creeks, a pond, which was surprisingly packed with avid fisherfolk and fish (hardly seemed like fair sport for the fish: imagine a big, couple-feet deep swimming pond that the fish can't escape and that tantalizing foods keep getting tossed into; we were a little worried there was one pair that appeared to be catching enough to serve at a restaurant ruh-ruh), and a shop that contains mostly souvenir-type stuff but also a cafe, an amazing and wonderful cafe. Check out that cinnamony pancake!!That'll get you ready for a backpack trip. Although the day I consumed at least half of that monster (plus bacon and eggs), I mostly sat around camp trying to keep the mosquitoes at bay. That's tough work too.

Out of two nights camping at the Portal, we did hear neighbor campers whistling and ringing bells like there was a gypsy wedding going on or something. Turns out they were "scaring" off a bear. I think Pepper-dog had the right idea for where the safest place in camp is should a bear of come by... Hey, isn't that box supposed to be used for keeping bears from our food, Pepper-dog?!?!?Anyway, to make a long story short, the Whitney Trail is pretty and long and kicked our butts. All along the trail, we kept running into folks who said there was still a lot of snow above Trail Camp (12000 feet), the highest campground and still 5 miles from the Summit, and that crampons and ice axes would be necessary. We had been planning a pretty mellow walk up the mountain and really weren't prepared with that kind of equipment, so we quickly scrapped the idea of summiting. With that change of plans, we ended up camping at the lower camp and just day hiked up to Trail Camp. Yes indeedy, there was still a lot of snow above Trial Camp, and I'm sure even more above that. Wowza, going down is faster than going up. Check out Dave's quick downhill descent. This was much steeper and scarier looking in person than in film.

This is what we saw as we bailed off the mountain around 5 p.m. on day two. Because we were all trying to save weight in our packs, none of us brought rainflys for our tents. This was unfortunate for us as we watched thunder clouds build all afternoon before we made the decision it would be in our best interest to be in dry hotel beds instead of soggy sleeping bags that night. This is one of those 'where's Waldo' pictures. Can you find the rainbow or lamebow as John called it? It really was bright and vivid in person but uncaptureable on film. And here is the really pretty Mirror Lake, which is an easy day hike, along the Whitney Trail.