Fluttering Pancakes

One of our favorite finds has been a sushi restaurant in the little downtown of our very own 'burb. Its nothing fancy - small, sometimes a little stuffy, and located across the street from juvi hall. What it may lack in grandeur, it makes up for in charm. It is located in the basement of an old library, and when we are lucky, we get to sit in the back room, whose walls are lined with rows and rows of sake bottles. And the sushi? Phenominal.

We have made a pact that each time we go, we need to try at least one new menu item. In addition to our beloved rolls of spicy tuna and artful avacado, we ordered a Japanese Pancake during our last visit. Not a pancake of your bisquick and syrup variety, but rather one made of scallions, yams, shredded dried shrimp, eggs, and flour. What arrived at our table, on a pale blue plate, was a small, flat cake that was pink in color. On top of the cake were delicate, paper-thin onion shavings, gently fluttering, as if encouraged to dance by a subtle breeze. Magically, the onions continued to flutter throughout our whole meal.

While watching our choreographed cake, I realized I was witnessing something special. For the same $6 elsewhere, we could've gotten 'tater skins or melted cheese sandwiched between two tortillas with a ladle of salsa up top. Or the chef could've tossed a handful of chopped scallions on top, which really wouldn't have changed the flavor. Instead, the time and effort was taken to make our little $6 cake dance.

Other fluttering pancake moments we are celebrating:


Happy birthday to my brother, John. He turns four years older than me, just as he does every year on this day. For a little over one month, I was one year closer to catching up.

And happy birth day to baby Eli, born on July 23 to our dear friends, Dave and Amy.

We hope you find fluttering pancake moments around you too.

A New PerSPECtive!

Blogs are made to be neglected. That's what grandma always used to say at least. She's always been wise ahead of her time. Sorry for the silence...

So this was meant to be the catch up blog entry wherein I discuss the 4th of July and how, like the Baby Jesus leaving Christmas in favor of loot, the meaning behind the holiday has really lost its luster. Forget independence, I, alongside all of our McDonald-eating neighbors apparently, just want to drink Coors Light and blow some stuff up (by stuff, I mean Freedom Fountain, Screaming Tigers, and TNT: Super Bullet: MAXIMUM POWDER ALLOWED BY LAW). The more burn marks left in the otherwise lovely park, the better. Trash cans? Flip them! Garbage was made to be littered. Celebrate freedom by freely destroying the stuff around you.

But then I got to thinking, "You know - that's what every day is like for me - I should think of a better blog entry."

Which is when it hit me: The new glasses!

It has been quite some time since I heard anybody snicker "Can you hear me now?" as I walked by (the joke, apparently, is that I look like the Verizon guy's brother or something like that. I don't know). Many more years have passed since I was called "Weeeezzzzerrrrr!!!" (all the band members apparently). In an effort to revive some form of public mockery, I decided to take the leap and purchase some new specs. They're not too far of a jump from the last ones, but enough for detail-noticers to take note. I'm hoping Portland pulls through with cries of JARVIS, but I'm not holding my breath.

All of which leads me, quite conveniently, to my doctor's visit today.

Last week, I had a momentary bit of shortness-of-breath. Had I been extreme archery kayaking (as is typical for my Fridays), I wouldn't have thought twice; however, sitting at my desk in the basement of North, I found it slightly strange. So like most folks, I googled it to find out what the hell was going on inside my body.

You'll find it surprising that the internet told me I was likely having a heart attack and that I should call 911 immediately.

I suspected that was a bit of an over-reaction in my situation and opted to just keep tabs on what was going on. Of course, once you're looking for it, there's tons of things wrong with your body. Do my toes always feel like that? Can I even feel my toes? Is my right cheek drooping? You get the point - it is a slippery slope to complete self-anguish. That is, after all, what the internet is for.

Very long story short, I made a doctor's appointment.

After the initial blood pressure check, the nurse, as she walked out of the room, pointed to a robe and quickly said - "Take all your clothes off for the doctor. He'll be in shortly." It could be that I'm just not so much a hospital person. It could also be that smocks these days must be created for the lowest common denominator, both large and small extremes.

There's just a certain humiliation that comes along with being 31 years old, completely naked, and trying to decide if you should fashion a disposable cloth-like robe-ish thing frontward (tie in front) or backwards (tie in back like a middle-school art smock). Add to this the potential pressure of a doctor walking in on you at any given moment and we're talking real fun times.

For what its worth, I opted for tying in front. Not sure if I was right, but it worked in a way.

The doctor arrives to discuss this alleged shortness-of-breath. It was fairly early on that I recognized his language kept revolving around "healthy young man like yourself" and "quite fit" (on a daily hour-by-hour basis, I convince myself I'm neither, so his complements didn't go unnoticed). This was all well and good.

It was when he leaned me back on the table, was prodding various points on my chest and said "I'm sorry, but I just have to ask - where did you get your glasses?"

D: "Oh, LensCrafters..."

Doc: "They are so ni...OH BURBERRY! EXCUSE ME!!!" (it was this line that my once authoritative doctor struck me as an older, fatter Buster from Arrested Development).

D: "LOL. OMG..."

Doc: "Can I try them on?"

(Keep in mind, I'm currently wearing an Ewald-fashioned robe-like disposable thing and a napkin on my bits)
D: "Umm...sure?"

So he tried on my glasses—That's the important thing.

I won't even tell you about when he thought he was comforting me by looking me dead in my fashionably-outfitted eyes and saying "A healthy man your age, we typically don't do the test." Accompanying the test was his rubber-gloved, pointed index finger moving at least two feet straight toward the ceiling, twisting 180 degrees along the way. Up to this point, I honestly hadn't even considered the test; however, the two foot motion seemed to have much more to do with a pastry chef stuffing his fabulous cannolis than with my shortness-of-breath. On its own, I'm fine with the test, but after the glasses...

And now the cannolis.

I'm really not sure what that means or how I feel about it in retrospect (I'm toying with "healthy violation", but haven't settled on anything yet). He did, after inspecting himself in my specs, say that they looked better on me. Which brings me here to the point of this long-overdue post: I have new glasses that look better on me than my aged, fat Arrested Development Buster doctor.

Call me crazy, but in this post-9/11, they-hate-our-freedom world, that's something that I'm going to hold onto. Almost cause for blowin'-shit-up-celebration.

Miss Independent

Patsy uses her holiday to snooze on the couch, catching a much-needed break from her hectic schedule. We hope you enjoy a much-needed break from your hectic schedules too.