friends and food start with the same letter
This weekend, my friends Carrie and Joshua came to visit from Massachusetts. They drove, the brave, patient souls, and we had a whirlwind weekend of long walks, eating, and pleasantly just existing.
When I visited them for New Year’s, I was treated to beautiful homemade meals of sushi and fresh pasta, as well as a lovely exploratory walk of their town, two holiday parties and an outdoor hot tub with a neighboring wood fire. My goal was to attempt to meet this level of visit excellence. However, I—we, really—were immediately hit with a very serious problem. We had way too much food. We also planned to go biking, visit the Arboretum, visit the gems of Ypsilanti, and find the street Carrie had lived on during a very brief stay in Ann Arbor years ago. In approximately 48 hours.
In preparation for a fast-paced weekend, I had procured salad greens, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, catfish filets, potatoes, and pasta. They brought tomatoes, herbs, and bread from the CSA. They also wanted to take me out for dinner to celebrate my new job. I also wanted to take them to my usual haunts.
We spent the entire weekend eating.
Shortly after their arrival, we headed downtown for dinner and beer at Old Town. We ate ribs, a Knight’s burger, and a reuben with pitchers of Oberon and Two Hearted. We were joined over time by friends who’d planned to join us and those who were collected along the way, maxing out around a dozen. Diagrams of how people knew each other were drawn by hands in the air. Stories were told. Design theory was hashed out. Drinks were drunk. We drifted home, full of meat and hops and goodwill toward men.
After sleeping in on Saturday, and changing the tires on my bike to the lovely road tires they’d brought me, we brunched at Northside Grill, consuming two-egg breakfasts and pancakes. We headed to the farmer’s market, intent on browsing only and full of plans to tour downtown and campus. However, we were faced with raspberries and cherries. We bought them. We continued downtown to drop by The Brickyard and had a small picnic of fruit and almonds. Another friend, just returned from the meat capital of America, called to let me know he had thick cut, vacuum-sealed bacon for my visitors. We met him upstairs, received the bacon, and wandered southward toward campus. All that walking required a snack of tomato bruschetta and ABC’s Brasserie Blonde at Dominick’s.
This is where we descended into madness.
Still wanting to take me out to dinner, my guests suggested that we go to eve in Kerrytown. I reminded them that they were leaving on Sunday afternoon, so our only chance at a fish and potato dinner would be that very night. They made the obvious point that we would just have to have two dinners. Reservations for a late dinner at eve were made, and after an attempt to triangulate Carrie’s old neighborhood, we began the march home to fix dinner number one.
We drank cranberry juice and Vernor’s and made insalata caprese, garlic mashed potatoes, and milk-soaked, flour-dredged fried catfish. We all remained prone for approximately an hour, with Carrie and I elevating our various bad joints made worse by walking nearly all the way to the Zen Buddhist Temple on Packard and back, then rose and dressed for dinner number two, which consisted of really delicious cocktails, appetizers (curry mussels, chicken dumplings, and scallops), and desserts (with wine, of course). Creme fraishe was the order of the evening.
On Sunday, sure we would never eat again, we rose and began to plan the bike ride, which got increasingly short as we discussed it, despite our clear need for exercise. Then, an IM from my usual weekend brunch companion sent us rolling toward the Roadhouse for oysters, grits, eggs, huevos rancheros, and pastries. Afterwards we slowly prepared ourselves for exertion and rode the paved path around Argo Pond, stopping occasionally in search of wormwood. Successful, we returned to my apartment, packed their car, I sent them off only 2 hours behind schedule. I was left with the beginnings of bathtub absinthe, leftover potatoes and fish, several tomatoes, and a surprise bottle of 10-year Laphroaig.
These people are probably the best house guests ever.
