I Would Fly 1000 Miles...Part Two

That night, just hours after our adventure off the beaten path, found us right back in Old San Juan at a welcome dinner hosted by Fuschia's parents. I'd actually seen this particular restaurant just a few days before while indulging in my love of No Reservations.  Anthony Bourdain had visited this place (the name escapes me) to try the authentic pina colada in its alleged birthplace. He seemed disappointed with his experience and while I've had better (hell I've made better), I enjoyed it enough to have 4 or 8. For some reason I can't remember exactly how many.

As usually happens when I enjoy the libations a little too much I provided an impromptu therapy session for one of our dining companions, became besties with the older lady next to me and became inappropriately interested in the flamenco dancers' umm, abilities.  Then it was time for the main event, the thing I had actually come to PR for: mufungo.

Root words aside, mufungo is not a mushroom; rest easy.  Mufungo is a pile of smashed, fried plantain that has been mixed with pork fat, topped with veggies and/or meat, then covered with a sauce, usually tomato based.  At the welcome dinner I had chosen the seafood mufungo, despite the fact that it would have a lil calamari on it.  Perhaps it was the hype, perhaps it was the heat, more probably it was the vat of pina colada I had consumed, but I just couldn't do justice by my mufungo.

I tried several bites, delighted each time by the savory flavor of the plantain, the freshness of the scallops and shrimp and the brightness of the tomato sauce. A wonderful medley of flavors, yet heavier than I would have anticipated for tropical cuisine.  I ate maybe a third of my plate, satisfied that I had experience this quintessential Puerto Rican dish and checked it off the mental to-do.

Influenced no doubt by the coconut rum that had replaced a majority of the plasma in my bloodstream, I was inclined to head straight to bed upon our arrival back at the hotel.  After sleeping it off we spent most of Saturday prepping for the actual wedding.  The beach was fine to stay at, but to get married at? Clearly you have to find a hacienda in the rain forest overlooking the ocean. Duh.  So off we went in rented bus: the entire wedding party, the FOG and FOB, me and the Reverend (the brother-in-law in charge of marrying us all).

We literally went over the mountains and through the woods for about 40 min before I rediscovered a key piece of information about myself: motion sickness is not just a ploy to get the front seat.  By the time we arrived at the venue I was too sick to appreciate anything other than the lack of motion.  Attempting to climb the steps up to the main part of the hacienda I became overwhelmed with the need to avail myself of a bucket or bush and quickly stumbled off the side of the path.  Realizing we had located one of the bedrooms, Fuschia helped me into one of the most peaceful, beautiful bathrooms I've ever seen so that I might refresh myself. And boy did I.

Thus reinvigorated we finished the climb only to find ourselves in an exquisite open air house that looked out over the rain forest.  With all of the features one expects in a house sans walls, this hacienda was something I could never have imagined. Instantly I understood what The Geeks had fallen in love with, why they had gone to the trouble of carting us all up the side of a mountain.  Built around an open courtyard, featuring rambling rooms, including den, kitchen, billiard room, and a hammock room, the house was definitively elegant romance at its finest.

The wedding itself was excellent with both bride and groom looking happier than I can remember ever seeing either of them.  As is typical of a reception in Fuschia's family, everyone enjoyed themselves immensely, proclaiming love to one and all before catching a charter bus back down the mountain. Arriving back at the hotel well after midnight, Fushcia and I had every intention of partying in the casino, but soon realized that the same physics problem that had overwhelmed me en route to the hacienda now threatened her composure. Faced with the certainty of an uncomfortable few hours we retired early once again.

We spent the next day soaking in the pool(s), lounging by the pool and playing the ocean. Clearly, an overwhelmingly stressful day.  Our last night on the island was spent once again watching TV, contemplating how old we were acting.

Monday morning found us walking on the beach and having one last soak in the pool before heading upstairs to attempt containment of the disaster area that was our room. An hour of diligent battle left us with one carry-on apiece, a purse each and a sudden readiness to be headed stateside. We caught the last US Airways flight out of San Juan for the day, scheduled to arrive in Charlotte, NC a scant 30 minutes before our connecting flight to Lexington, KY would depart. Even I, in my semi-comatose state, was willing the plane to go just a bit faster.

We hit the terminal running in Charlotte; I couldn't help thinking of the scene in Home Alone (you know the one). Pushing people aside, we really worked our quads trying to make that last flight to bluegrass country. Finding ourselves at the necessary gate we were, how can I say this politely, taken aback, to discover that our flight, already getting us home close to midnight, would be delayed by ninety minutes.  Turning to the only activity available in most airports, we ate some classic American junk food and read the newest People magazine while waiting to board.

Finally hearing our gate being called we headed outside (that's not a typo) to get on our plane.  Having in the past flown primarily in and out of Atlanta, I wasn't aware that planes were ever actually boarded outside (except in movies, of course).  But here we were.  If that wasn't confidence crushing enough the plane also happened to be my favorite variety: school bus with wings. Seating roughly 49 people, these commuter jets are the only thing capable of inducing claustrophobia in yours truly.  The universe was obviously having a laugh at my expense that night since the pilots appeared to be twelve and no more capable of flying a plane than I am. Perfect.

Having sobered up by now I was mildly alarmed when our flight started out a little bumpy, but I tried mightily to focus on my Southern Living.  The real problem came after drinks were served and our flight attendant received a phone call from the pilots. Like any highly paranoid person , I'm attuned to nonverbal mood indicators and this woman was screaming stress. She immediately sat down in the jump seat, strapped herself in and began pounding ginger ale. 

Turns out we were flying through a rager of a storm system battering the East Coast that week.  Lucky us.  Our lil plane bucked and shimmied, even heaving occasionally as the turbulence played kickball with us.  Fuschia, fearless Fuschia, turned an alarming shade of green and began gripping the armrests. Strangely it was a look being sported by a majority of passengers. And just like that I became the fearless one.  Concentrating all my efforts on helping her feel better, I forgot that I was scared, forgot that my Sprite was sloshing violently and just comforted my partner.

As you may have inferred by now, our plane did land safely in Lexington, though that 40 minutes in the air remains the longest 2/3 of an hour I've ever spent.  While I still gaze longingly at travel pieces featuring the Maldives, Tahitti or New Zealand, one thing is for certain: I'm never flying in a toy plane again. 

I would fly 1000 miles...Part One

Anyone who knows me, really knows me, is aware that there are three things I fear above all else: sharks, serial killers and flying.  In no particular order. Our latest adventure involved only one of these, although it happens to be the one that is statistically the most likely to do me harm.

Fuschia's brother and his fiance, The Geeks if you'll recall, decided roughly a year ago that they simply must exchange their vows in a tropical destination.  Hearing this, I was stoked, thinking maybe a visit to the Keys was in my near future.  This optimism lasted roughly twenty-four hours before I was awakened from my road-trip fantasies and informed that I would be traveling to Puerto Rico for the nuptials. 

I have no problem with traveling or with wanting an exciting wedding.  I do have a problem with strapping myself into a metal capsule that's being hurled 3 football fields per second roughly 5 miles above the surface of the earth.  That I most certainly do have a problem with.

For months I researched alternate ways to get to PR.....bridge? takes too much government funding.  boat? cruise ships will let you have a day pass on the island, but refuse to act as taxi cab.  kayak?  see earlier comment on sharks.  Clearly if I was going, I was flying.  So for love of The Geeks (and honestly fear of Fuschia), on a sunny day in late May, I headed to San Juan armed with an iPod full of Jack Johnson and enough sedative to knock out an elephant.

I assume we had two uneventful flights as I was actually higher than the airplane for most of those 5 hours.  Exiting the airport we were assaulted by the kind of muggy heat I associate with Savannah in August. Tropical had a whole new meaning.  We took a particularly speedy taxi to the El San Juan resort on Isla Verde, just north of the airport and arrived at a pretty swank hotel.  The lobby reminded me of movies about Cuba in the 1950's with red velvet and dark wood attached to every permanent surface.  Elaborate carving, dramatic chandeliers and it was basically like the set of a soap opera. On Telemundo. Our room was so South Beach as to give me a definite case of cognitive dissonance; 1950's Cuba in the lobby, 2012 Miami in the room. 

After having a hearty laugh at the minibar price list and the room service menu, we suited up and headed down to the pool.  Most hotels dig a hole, line it with concrete, fill it with water and call it a day. Not the good people of Hilton.  The pool at The El San Juan was actually several, maybe as many as many, pools in various sensuous, serpentine shapes.  We would even discover later that there was a waterfall that had a pool at the top of it with coexisting hot tub.  Amazing.  Covering every available surface were the most plush beach loungers I've ever seen; they in turn were covered in an assortment of mostly tan, mostly scantily clad guests.  Ahhh, the good life.

We eventually caught up with some of the other wedding guests, as well as Fuschia's family.   Luckily, their whiteness acted as a beacon among all the decidedly caramel flesh.  After a dip in the ocean, a walk down to a local taqueria and a shower we sat down to rest for just a moment.  Instead we rested for roughly 12 hours.

The next day found us exploring Old San Juan, although due to somebody's (ahem, Fuschia) reluctance to scale hills, I will never know what is at the top of that particular city.  We quickly discovered that the only possible way to stay cool in the intense heat was to stop every 400 yards for another pariagua (snow cone).  I tried tamarind and coconut, as well as a few other more mainstream choices.  After inspecting a good number of the fort walls and assorted armaments, warning Fuschia of feral cats' rabies potential and scouting out a food truck featured on the Travel Channel it was finally time to head back to the hotel.

Our brilliant plan, cooked up in our overheated tourists brains involved saving $17 and experiencing the real PR by taking the city bus back. Check and check.  As always, I had managed to lead others on a tour through the local ghetto.  Keepin it real has always been my strong suit.

Part Two to follow.

Truckus Ruckus, Berry Pickin' and Za

My favorite ladies from the Deep South did visit in late April, just in time for the annual Kentucky Derby Festival.  True to my family's style we participated in none of the Derby activities on offer, choosing to forge our own itinerary for the weekend.

Without a doubt the highlight was a trip down to the Louisville Food Truckus Ruckus.  It was exactly what it sounds like: a roundup of all the local food trucks into a mobile food court.  All our faves were there:Lil Cheezers (gourmet grilled cheese), Grind (burgers) and Holy Mole (very interesting tacos).  A few trucks we had never patronized participated including one that was selling crepes with a staggering variety of filling options.  Although I had to stick with the tried and true Lil Cheezers, I did seriously contemplate the Peanut Butter and Nutella Crepe.

The day of the Ruckus Louisville was in a pissy mood, retracting spring and giving us midwinter instead.  Colder than seemed normal for April 25, we shivered our way through a walk around the parking lot to decide upon a worthy lunch.  While Fuschia, Mama and Mema all opted for some Texas style BBQ I kept the faith and waited, shivering and alone, for my delicious grilled cheese. Lil Cheezers never fails to satisfy me with their thick wheatberry bread, real butter, interesting toppings and hand cut kettle chips with curry catsup. This particular day I enjoyed the Courtney Jo, a hearty thin sliced roast beef, provolone and mushroom hot sandwich. 

Needless to say my sandwich was WAY better than their BBQ, but I graciously allowed them to a try a bite of the Courtney Jo as a consolation prize. 

A few days later I was in a baking mood, a rarity for me despite my culinary aspirations, and made use of a lazy person's no-knead bread recipe. This was a simple white, yeast dough designed to make boules (free form loaves). 

As you can clearly see, the loaves may have been less than impressive looking, but I swear they had a better crumb than I would have ever imagined.  Moist and flaky without the extreme density that so often accompanies homemade bread. Fuschia and I devoured the first boule in a single day, leaving me no choice but to bake two days in a row.

A few weeks after Mama and Mema went back down South and I had (shockingly) lost interest in baking bread, I realized that it was finally strawberry season here in the semi-frozen tundra.  Dragging Fuschia along, I headed out to a local farm in Southern Indiana.  As usual we had big plans to pick several gallons of berries, make jam and bake pies.  None of that would come to pass.  Due to my severe allergy to Kentuckiana I was incapacitated almost immediately upon arrival at Huber's Farm.  Settling for pre-picked strawberries (and paying 2x the price) we headed back down into the smog choked valley where I can breathe easier.

Along the way we decided to sample the berry bounty, picking out a ripe looking strawberry apiece.  If you've ever experienced fireworks made of champagne and ambrosia exploding repeatedly in your mouth, then you have some idea of how these tasted.  I've never, ever had such perfectly ripe, succulent, tasty strawberries in all my years.  After a hurried discussion about the importance of fresh fruit in a balanced diet we promptly devoured a quart of berries, staining our hands, chin and tongues a delicate shade of stuck-pig red.

Feeling the rush of all that natural sugar and the call of our  bellies, we debated all the way back down the interstate about our dinner plans.  I've been on an Italian kick lately, searching out excellent calzones, pastas and cannolis.  Occasionally I find myself weepy at the very thought of being hundreds of miles away from my three fave Italian places in all the world:  Gargano's of Albany, GA is owned by actual Italians and makes the most interesting, most authentic pizza I've ever had; Tomatino's of Montgomery, AL was the favorite haunt of my dad, Mr. RTR (that's Roll Tide Roll for the unenlightened), and myself for many years; Figo of Decatur, GA is a great Italian bistro with innovative salads and a wonderful create your own pasta menu.

Fuschia and I finally recalled a little place we'd heard about that would do for our dinner: Come Back Inn of Jeffersonville, IN.  The quaint downtown is lined with historic buildings, each seemingly deserted at 5:30pm on a Saturday.  We headed inside the restaurant only to discover the place was jam packed.  Turns out the locals love it.  Totally casual, yet lacking the kitsch of most Mom n Pop eateries, this place had the relaxed atmosphere we're both so drawn to.

A heated debate regarding entrees ensued, leaving Fuschia with no clear idea as to what she would order.  Gallantly offering my services I ordered for both of us: a mushroom and pepperoni pizza, Caesar salad and the Italian roast beef sandwich. Our shared feast appeared quickly thereafter, piping hot and wafting smells that can only be termed heavenly.  We went for the sandwich first, a delightful drippy mess of thin sliced beef, au jus and provolone.  Each mouthful was better than the last, no doubt, but I was really stoked about the pizza.

Family lore has it that Mama ate pizza almost daily while carrying me and it seems that I have food memory of those 8.5 months.  Pizza is my absolute favorite food: thin crust, pan pizza, red sauce, white, Chicago, NY, whatever.  I love pizza. I live for the stuff.  Our 10" shroom and pepperoni selection had an excellent crust in that it was almost nonexistent.  Toppings were piled right up to the edge, with cheese and sauce making an appearance.  It was fantastic, or at least the 1 piece I ate was.  Turns out the stomach can only hold so much au jus soaked bread and meat before it closes for business.  My pizza pie would have to slumber in the fridge while I recuperated enough to finish the job.

Ahh Life

Fuschia and I had gotten pretty spoiled with a relatively slow paced life, but not anymore.  We've been boobs to the wall for a month now with no signs of slowing down.  Of course, we still have our priorities straight: naptime is encouraged, long contemplative walks are an excellent way to avoid chores, and veggies must be eaten (particularly if deep fried).

Just to give you an overview of what we've been up to:

 We hosted a small St Pat's Day do complete with deviled eggs, homemade pickles, balsamic shrooms, fruit kabobs, and a lime punch.  What makes you think I've been Pinteresting?

A couple of weeks ago I was awfully homesick, so I channeled my Mama and made a serious Southern feast.  Cornmeal battered tilapia, carrot souffle, butter beans, green beans and new potatoes, plus fried corn bread.  Yummy.

 This past week I stumbled across a Top Chef recipe I've been wanting to try: Honey-Scallion Potatoes.  These were so easy and so delicious that I'm tempted to make them everyday.  Unfortunately they contain a couple of items not intended for daily usage: bacon, oil, butter and sugar.  Maybe I could come up with a baked version....

We're all caught up for now, but with Mama and Mema coming to town I anticipate new adventures to relate next week...

In true believer style Fuschia and I made a seasonal pilgrimage to the temple of stylish, yet cheap Swedish home goods this week.  Like any good church, the folks at Ikea held me up for a considerable tithe.  Hey, I might be $400 poorer, but at least I communed with the one god that all Americans share: consumerism. 

This is something I've engaged in a remarkable amount this year, which just goes to show that Biggie (and my dad) was totally on it when he said "mo' money, mo' problems" or at least "mo' money, mo' shopping".  No doubt only privileged folks in the so-called first world have these sort of qualms over indulging in material goods.  Seems like a lot of the world would be excited to have some water, rice and a few health clinics.  So basically no matter what I feel silly and guilty.  For spending money on luxuries in the first place and for worrying about doing so. 

Funny that buying a few lamps, chairs and a dresser can bother me this much considering all the people in this country who spend thousands on their furniture, luxury cars and designer clothes.  At least I can tell myself I'm not as ridiculous as those people. Or maybe I can console myself with the thought that one day I can join them in an even more enthusiastic spending orgy.  It could go either way....

Despite the buyer's remorse, the traffic headed into Northern KY and the slight shadiness of the Covington, KY area, there was at least one experience from this Cincy trip that left me satisfied.  Fuschia's brother and fiance (the  self-named Geeks) were kind enough to offer us a trip to their favorite Korean restaurant.  I was deeply hesitant about this, as my one previous Korean experience ended with me in a Chik-fil-A drive-thru.  You might say my hopes were not very high...

Despite some initial challenges getting in the door (a very confusing double door situation), I immediately liked the feel of the space with it's long, high-ceilinged main room and classic Asian (not red lacquer) decor.  Noticing the traditional seating on the right, I was happy to see that our party was being seated in a booth of the sort plump Americans tend to prefer. 

Being a veteran in the food wars and a strong Asian cuisine enthusiast, I assumed (wrongly, as it were) that I would be able to divine my food choices through a quick menu perusal.  That idea was put to rest in short order and I happily allowed The Geeks to guide me in ordering.  We started with a delightful vegetable pancake called Ya Chae Pa Jun. Unlike American pancakes, this one had no starch base and seemed to fall more in the fritatta or quiche category.  Since I lack Korean heritage, I'll concede that they can classify their food however they choose....even when they're so obviously wrong.

Our main course, Dolsot Bibim Bab, was served in a style reminiscent of the Mexican restaurant fajita, only in a stone bowl that had been heated to a temperature somewhere between lava and solar flare.  I know this because I was dumb enough to touch it, but luckily no one could hear the sizzling of my flesh over the sizzling of the meat we were meant to be cooking.

This molten bowl of rice, chicken and veggies was truly tasty with just a hint of the spice that you find in other Asian foods.  I found the flavors to be milder than those of China, less complex than Japanese or Thai food, and much less fragrant than their sub-Asian cousin, Indian cuisine.  I was not initally convinced that this Korean fajita bowl was going to please me; it honestly took at least 5 bites to get there.  But then something happened, a neuron fired, a sensor pulsed and I realized "hey this is pretty good". 

As a bonus/side item we were served an interesting assortment of little pickled things.  There were radishes, kimchi, mushrooms, and some sort of candied potato.  I only tried a few of them, as my tolerance for vinegar is limited.  What these little dishes really did for me was illuminate just how much Korean cuisine is involved in stimulating the umami taste in my mouth.  What it lacked in saltiness, sweetness, and spicyness it made up for in this unique flavor so prevalent in Asian cuisine.  I found myself wishing that I had more interest in lacto-fermentated foodstuffs, as I'm sure this takes the Korean experience to a different level.

Overall it was a truly excellent meal, although I'm not convinced The Geeks believed my enthusuasm for the place.  While my heart still belongs to Thai and Indian, I'm not afraid to take the occasional foray into Korean food.  That alone was worth the drive.

And Then It Was January

Oh how fleet the wings of time grow in the winter...which sounds like Wordsworth, but isn't.  November and December passed Fuschia and I by with a random assortment of relative-oriented activity, an unprecedented indulgence in seasonal consumerism and that nasty little Christmas Day virus that my sister, Typhoid Eeyore, managed to gift the fam with.

Already 3/4 of the way into January 2012 and I can't stop writing 2011 on everything.  Occasionally I regress and write 2009 or 1993. Clearly, the Buddhist ideas about being here now are almost impossible for me to experience.  What is happening here and now in the tiny metropolis of Louisville: we're experiencing a winter unlike any I've seen.  Rain, snow flurries, freezing temps, tornadoes, thunderstorms, highs in the 60s, lows in the teens....we've got it all covered.  What I'd  like to see is some deep powder so we can do some old fashioned, death-defying sledding off the side of the Cherokee Park golf course.  That's what winter should be all about:  potential head trauma, a frostbitten ass and good friends. 

Fushia and I've managed to squeeze in a little adventure over the past few weeks and as usual it's food-centric.  One of the first things we did this year was get back into the swing of dumpster diving.  Technically it was the last thing we did in 2011 since we pulled 30 bouquets of fresh flowers out of the local trendy grocery dumpster just 15 minutes til midnight on Dec 31.  Hauling our bounty back to the apartment,  I was skeptical that we would find any use for them, but Fuschia proved me wrong.  She got right to work arranging artful, dramatic and a few cottagey buckets of blooms to brighten up the house.

A few days later, in a fit of inspiration, I woke up early on a Saturday and set about channeling Julia Child or, at the very least, Rachael Ray,  into a gourmet breakfast for 2.  After ODing on Top Chef and Chopped over the holidays I really felt the need to flex my culinary muscles.  Twenty minutes later saw hand cut sweet potato fries roasting in the oven, French toast browning in a pan, and me leaping and laughing while deglazing bananas in bourbon and brown sugar.  On a technical note, don't leap with a pan that's on fire.  Even Chef Falkner can't do that and neither should you.

 I wanted pictures before the plate was mostly empty, but sadly neither Fuschia nor I could resist chowing down.  Glad though I am to please us with a tasty breakfast, my favorite compliment was from Oberon.  After trying a small bite, he stood at attention for 25 minutes hoping to score just a tad more.  That's dedication.

We've got a new project in the works in our kitchen and for once it's not edible.  We're learning to make soap and other assorted bath products.  I'm so stoked to be expanding our homesteading skill set!  Now we basically just need a farm and we're good to go. 

Ice Cream Road Show: The Cincy Adventures

Fuschia and I have been having so many adventures lately (some pleasant, some the complete opposite) that I've been struggling to find time to wash our delicates, much less update our loyal readers.  Luckily we've hit a lull in the action, so let the stories commence.

Ahhh, September. Just a few short weeks after our rockin good time at the KY State Fair Fuschia and I were offered a couple of free tickets to King's Island during a private P&G event.  With a policy of  turning down only free colonics, we jumped at the chance to check out this classic amusement park just  2 hours to our north. Being random roadtrip adventure junkies, we went ahead and planned an entire weekend around our windfall. 

With a three day window of opportunity for fun we decided on a modest itinerary: inspirational meditation at The Temple of IKEA, ambling stroll through downtown Cincy to admire architecture and locals' handguns, pilgrimage to the original Graeter's, supremely delicious culinary exploration at overpriced gastropub, topped off by our day with Snoopy and the gang at King's Island.

Unbeknownst to Fuschia, I had discovered that Cincy was hosting the country's largest Oktoberfest that weekend and had remembered that Cincy is home to the Findlay Market, a mecca for Ohioan foodies.  Clearly the weekend was going to be nonstop, action-packed awesomeness.

We actually made it to about half our planned events and still had ample time to enjoy a lie about.  By far my favorite part of the weekend was the trip to Findlay Market.  I'm sure my slack-jawed countenance marked my newbie status, but the Cincy locals were kind enough to look the other way. We strolled among the vendors, marveling at the cheeses, meats, spices and prepared foods on offer. 

Seeking a substitute for breakfast we stopped by Taste of Belgium, where they make waffles (didn't see that one coming, didya?) as big as your face.  Opting for a classic, no namby-pamby topping for us, we got the traditional and a few soft drinks.  The waffle was unlike an Americanized version of a Belgian, with a thickness and beautiful yeasty smell that nearly made me swoon.  I managed to control myself and actually share a few bites with Fuschia, but it was touch and go for a moment.

In true Cactus and Fuschia style we followed the taste of Belgium up with a little taste of Italy: gelato.  At the end of the market, just pass the spice guy sits Dojo Gelato, Findlay's awesome gastropub, fusion Italian creamery.  On offer that day were flavors previously unimagined: malted milk, amber lager, Italian hazelnut, dulce de leche de salt, etc, etc, the end.  Clearly, we would need to order the bucket size.  Served in a foursome, our gelato was a delightful mix of malted milk, hazelnut, classic chocolate and dulche de leche de salt. Words fail me.  The chocolate alone was worth driving to Cincy.  You must go there immediately.

We did eventually move on to Oktoberfest where we sampled  solid bier cheese, pretzels, fried pickles and enough draught cider (yay Woodchuck Amber) to make crowd navigation just a tad more like competitive sport.  After enjoying the vibe of a downtown for a couple of hours (read: sobering up) we located our car and sped off to find more debauchery in the Rust Belt.

Hours later , nap time and showers having been indulged in, we arrived in Over-the-Rhine for a trip to Senate.  A simple, modern hot spot with wood details and exposed brick, Senate was a rare find: trendy food without the snotty hipster scene.  As this was a meal we had really been dreaming of, Fuschia went with a signature dog, the Hello Kitty 2.0 (wasabi peas, cabbage slaw and bacon) while I stuck with the Lobster BL (you know my feelings on tomatoes) and truffle fries. I washed it all down with a Kitten Fizz (some vodka/raspberry yumminess) while Fuschia looked on with regret that she lost her license somewhere between Louisville and Cincy. 

Rolling ourselves back to the car we determined that only a movie would make the evening more perfect. We headed north to Springdale to see 'Contagion', a relentlessly cheerful flick, if ever I've seen one.  Sufficiently revived at the cinema we indulged in classic American ice cream for dessert: 2 delicious scoops of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz.

Over the course of our weekend we did make it to Graeter's somewhere in the land of the yuppie suburbs where we sampled new flavors and each had a monster scoop of deliciousness.  At King's Island we managed to have an excellent time despite my fear of roller coasters and other trauma-causing automated adrenaline milking machines.  One of the better parts of the Island?  Free P&G stuff just for showing up and the (yes, I ate tres) huge blueberry soft serve ice cream cones that the park is famous for.

If spending a weekend exploring Cincinnati taught me anything it's that I have sorely misjudged the Midwest.  Cincy had so much great food, some really excellent things to do and an interesting vibe in most areas.  Perhaps we'll have to visit again.