Week Seven.

Photo Seven.

Observations: To state the obvious, I slacked off on my duties last week. I know, I know. But as they say, back on the horse again right?

This weekend my friend came to visit from Athens. This was the first time she had seen my new place and I took it as an opportunity to take her around the city and explore my new neighborhood a little bit myself. The entire weekend was packed with discovering new places to eat and drink all around the city. Everyday we tried somewhere new. The itinerary included Dark Horse Tavern, West Egg Cafe, American Roadhouse, the Corner Tavern in West Midtown and Panita. This is a pic from West Egg where I got the Elvis French toast which features 3 inch slices of French toast sandwiching the ungodly combination of  peanut butter, banana slices, and bacon.

As far as drinks go, we decided to take our first venture to Dark Horse Tavern on Friday night. Those of you who know me, know that I am much more at home in a gay bar than I am at at straight one. There is a very different bar etiquette that I haven’t mastered yet. After an hour and a half of quietly sipping Malibu and diets on what was becoming an exceedingly crowded porch, I had lost any hope that the night was going anywhere. With much resignation I headed to the bar to close my tab and accept my failed attempt at showing my friend a good time. As I was shamelessly staring down the bar tender in hopes of catching his attention, a group of friends beside me struck up some conversation. Now I don’t consider myself a “bar person” in that I don’t usually talk to people that I haven’t come with or know somehow already. For some reason though, I felt particularly fed up with being bored that night. In fact, these friends actually turned out to be really cool people. The night turned out to be a lot of fun despite its rocky (read: boring) start.

I am a pretty firm believer that if you put yourself into situations with even the slightest openness to whatever could come your way that the world will respond in like. I have realized lately how long I have lived shut off, not allowing anything unexpected or different to happen in my life. As a result, I missed out on a lot of experiences that could have been really amazing or hell, could have been really terrible. Either way, I am tired of the predictable and expected. I’m ready for adventure and I’m going to try to open myself up to it in every way I know how.

Day Twenty Six.

Photo Twenty Six.

Observations: Chicken Sausage and Pierogi Night. From the culinary mind of Barron Biros I have learned to make a tasty little meal of sauteed chicken sausages, assorted bell peppers and onions, and boiled pierogi (frozen from a box of course, do I look like Giada or something?). If I do say so myself it turned out quite well, despite the fact I can’t flip the stuff in the pan quite like Barron can. More practice is definitely needed on this front. It was nice to make a meal for my family, since they are usually the ones feeding my little free-loading mouth. It is also nice to see something that you put effort into that fills such an immediate need and gets such quick gratification (especially with the eating habits of my family).

For some reason, I believed this dish was German and so reminded me of some news I was told recently by my mother, being as my mother’s side of the family is mostly German. Now, stay with me because this is a bit of a tangent that has little to nothing to do with pierogi, which I found is actually a Polish dish.

My mother has not spoken to her mother in quite some time, as long as I can remember. In fact, I cannot remember ever meeting my grandmother. There is a lot of family history, hurt feelings, mean words, and craziness behind all of that. Anyway, my mother’s nephew David called my mother relatively out of the blue this week informing her, among other things, that he had visited her mother (my grandmother). He said he visited her in a nursing home somewhere in Illinois, her birthplace. David mentioned that she seemed to have a hard time keeping on a coherent conversation and mentioned names over and over again. The entirety of my grandmother’s family is either deceased or refuses/does not care to have contact with her. For some reason I feel no attachment to my maternal grandmother, anymore than I would feel to anyone else I had never met. To many this may, and does, seem odd. Maybe there are parts of my personality, my life, my character that would make sense if I knew my grandmother. However, I am not sure I will ever get to know. I almost want to call this probable outcome unfortunate, but that would not be the truth. It is interesting to know where she is now but I still do not feel any desire to delve deeper into knowing her at this point. Maybe I will regret this decision in the future, but I don’t have that sense of curiosity even enough to warrant a visit. Perhaps my time to know my grandmother has or will pass me by, but to pursue it would be out of an obligation of societal pressures to “know my roots” or ancestry. The idea of my ancestry matters about as much as whether those pierogi are German or Polish. At this point, no matter how callous it may seem, I am at peace with knowing what I know.