Snow.my.god 2015

Hi friends,

I write this holed up on my living room couch, trapped in my apartment. Trapped because all the weather channels predicted a megastorm by the name of Juno that was supposed to be a lot more threatening than the teen character in the film by the same name. On Sunday, the city of Somerville declared a snow emergency for Monday and by noon yesterday, I received the notification that my work was closed today. The mayor of Boston also declared a travel ban, effectively shutting down the entire MBTA system and making it literally impossible to go anywhere, just in case you were crazy enough to leave the house on a day you had off from work.

Winter Storm Juno was predicted to drop about 3 feet of snow on the state of Massachusetts. Considering that Illinois cities rarely shut down for major snowstorms (I used to have to drive to the bank on days where the streets were coated in at least six inches of snow because the plows hadn’t been by in some time), I was not worried about the impending storm. But then Jackie Rosetti, a Somerville city official, left four emergency messages on my phone about the city being shut down. And my electricity and gas provider Nstar sent me a number of communications letting me know what to do in case the power went off or there was a gas leak in my apartment building due to flooding ruining our furnace. Since the pipes in Boston are ancient, I figured this time there much be something to worry about. I got the flashlight out and my roommate bought a ton of candles.

I got to leave work an hour and a half early yesterday, which was helpful not because of the weather (it was only flurrying) but because I got to deposit a check before the bank closed and wash a load of laundry by the time I would have returned home from work. Then I kicked back with a giant mug of Kahlua-spiked cocoa … and waited. I waited for the snow to build but by the time I went to bed, the snowfall still seemed pretty light. I expected to wake up to a snowglobe landscape, like the epic Nemo snowstorm of 2013.

This is actually what it looked like when I got up. Definitely not nothing but also not as epic as I expected.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely enjoying having the day off. I slept in, finally washed my sheets, paid some bills, signed up for a class I’ve been meaning to take for fun. I even did my part for the shared space of the apartment building, shoveling and salting the front steps. But that only really took me about 10 minutes because my roommate had shoveled early in the morning and despite the gusting wind, there wasn’t too much additional accumulation.

I will say, I love how cautious Boston is. Chicago has an attitude of, we can take anything, which has passed on to its residents, who continue to drive like bozos when the streets are undriveable, Here in Boston, officials make sure it residents stay safe and the highways aren’t clogged with costly pile-ups. I’ll take an extra day of leisure over an unnecessarily stress-filled day any time. See you tomorrow, outside world.

A decaying garden

Remember the Great Olive Garden Debate of 2012? A sweet 85-year old reviewer for the Grand Forks Herald in North Dakota reviewed a newly opened restaurant in town, which just so happened to be an Olive Garden. The Internet exploded when the review went viral and one of the recognizable chain restaurants in America became a symbol of class/culture. My Facebook page was awash with snarky commentary from my East Coast friends who coined Marilyn Hagerty a Midwestern simpleton with low-class taste. On the other hand, my Midwest friends rose to the defense of the budget-friendly restaurant that offers filling, hearty food and nice linens, where you can feel like you’re treating family without breaking the bank.

Mmmmmmmm breadsticks

Growing up in Illinois, Olive Garden played a key role in dining culture. Any Friday or Saturday night you drove past the parking lot, you would see that it was packed. And people would happily wait for an hour until their beeper went off so they could go on a Tour of Italy. And also sample free wine and endless soup and salad. Birthdays, pre-prom dinners, anniversaries; just about any milestone you could think of was celebrated at Olive Garden. Not because it was the only place you could go to have a nice meal; though, yes, it was one of the nicer places you could eat. No, because it was a place you knew you’d get good, consistent service, amazing bread sticks you could take home for free in a reheatable bag, and you’d likely run into someone you knew. As I’ve matured, I’ve obviously begun to appreciate local restaurants more but Olive Garden, with it’s warm memories, will always hold a special place in my heart.

Now in Boston, with its lively North End, Olive Garden is regarded as sub-par, low-class food. There’s only one location in the area, in Dorchester, and as I discovered when I told my coworkers I was eating there, many people don’t even know it exists. Last year, my roommate Christina and I found it by chance and paid a visit in the doldrums of winter. We got super friendly service (a little too friendly as the server gave us her number and told us she wanted to be our friend because we seemed so awesome … which was weird, but understandable).

For her special birthday dinner this year, which she mentally plans months ahead of time, Christina decided she wanted to go the nostalgia route and eat at the OG. Our other roommate, Annette, hadn’t been able to join us last time, so we were all excited to get our breadsticks on.

But when we got to the Dorchester OG, everything was off. As usual, we were handed a buzzer and told we had at least a 20 minute wait. So we headed to the bar to begin celebrating. After initially acknowledging our presence, the bartender proceeded to ignore us for the next 10 minutes. She then wordlessly handed 4 people one menu to share and turned her back to us again. The bar area wasn’t even packed and the staffing seemed fine. By the time we flagged her attention, we realized our buzzer was going off, so we abandoned the pre-dinner drinks idea.

After we were seated, our server took her sweet time bringing the breadsticks, which is like a cardinal sin of Olive Garden service. After what felt like forever, she finally took our order and then we waited … and waited. For the people at our table who ordered unlimited soup and salad, they maybe got to have two rounds of soup at max because the server was so inattentive. Our runner was a mess. He brought two dishes to our table, one of which was in a casserole-style dish that you couldn’t see into from a seated position.

He had no idea what food he had in his hands. He rested my roommate’s seafood Alfredo down and then asked if the other dish was mine. To which I replied (maybe slightly buzzedly): “I think it might be, but I can’t see; what is it?” The server, instead of describing the dish, said, “I don’t know,” and just stared me down. Thankfully, it was my shrimp Parmesan dish and everything tasted fine. However, instead of being so rude, he should have been able to tell me the dish was shrimp and pasta. Simple as that. Once we all had the itis, we were ready to head out and nearly fell asleep at the table because the server ignored us and our signals to leave. And even though we had told her it was our roommate’s birthday, no cake and singing offer was thrown out, which is definitely something they do, having seen it go down so many times before.

While the meal was tasty, the experience wasn’t satisfying. This Olive Garden seemed to treat its customers just the way East Coasters who look down their noses at the restaurant think they should be treated. This was an experience unlike any I’ve head at home. Needless to say, none of us will be headed back to the Dorchester Olive Garden.

Can Rockford have a come up?

For as long as I can remember, growing up in Rockford, Illinois, all I dreamed of doing was getting the hell out of dodge. If you were a quick-witted teenager, you knew you weren’t meant to languish in a fading city and that your days there were numbered. So many conversations in high school began with Man, Rockford is laaaaame. I can’t wait til I move away.

And move away I did. When I arrived in Boston, I put the failing school system, declining local economy, and general disillusionment of a once glorious industrial city past its prime behind me. I moved on to a booming local economy, which feeds a network of global brainpower, with functioning schools, and a very healthy, much more hip than I was used to population.

Usually each time I return home for the holidays, I find that one of Rockford’s local landmarks has gone out of business, only to be replaced by a chain store–or worse–nothing but a sad out-of-business sign. But this time when I visited, I felt optimistic.

Why? Because the hipsters have arrived.

During my final year in Rockford, I served as an AmeriCorps VISTA at YouthBuild Rockford, where I helped start a community gardening alternative education program. That program, through a partnership with Angelic Organics, harvested produce from the garden and sold it at the Rockford City Market, what was then a fledgling project to encourage local businesses and get residents to venture downtown. These days, the City Market is the place for the twenty and thirtysomethings of Rockford to hang out on Friday nights in the warmer months. You can buy local products–like screen printed tees from Rockford Art Deli–order food from food trucks, listen to live music, and drink beer outside.

Replacing the Manor, the (one decent) dance club (the city ever had) where my Condo Crew celebrated many a milestone, there’s now Izakaya 88, a Japanese tapas restaurant with sexy low lighting and a sound-proof karaoke room! At Edgebrook Shopping Center, a strip mall of sorts mostly frequented by the gray-haired crowd, there’s a new Mexican spot, Lucha Cantina, where my mother, brother, and I recently sampled ghost pepper for the first time (dare you to try it!). The fact that ghost pepper salsa exists in Rockford, a city where growing up, spicy food just wasn’t a thing you could order blew my mind.

Dat ghost pepper salsa

Then there’s Prairie Street Brewhouse, a funky warehouse-vibe bar in the rebuilding downtown area where everybody whose anybody holds their wedding reception. Seriously, 2/3 of Destiny’s Child (Michelle and Kelly) were even guests at a high school acquaintance’s wedding there. My friend Mike is considering it as a reception venue as well. Why are they so popular? I’m told they have mason jars. And where there are mason jars, there are hipsters, who are willing to shell out a little bit more money to support quirky local businesses. 

I, for one, am excited about all these new businesses sprouting up. I know that Japanese tapas and mason jars in the grand scheme of things might be passing trends. But what I’m seeing is people my age, who grew up observing the urban blight that was the former downtown pedestrian area invest their money to rebuild the River District and make Rockford cool. Maybe it means the old Swedish people who made so many awful business decisions, like shunning Northern Illinois University and Metra service to the city, are aging out and young people with fresh ideas are resuscitating the local economy. 

The day I visited Lucha Cantina, I posted a picture of my food with the status, “Rockford’s on the come up!” The resulting posts contained mixed reactions, some pleased about the turn Rockford’s taken, pointing other cool new spots, and some jaded that the city could ever repair itself. 

Rockford economy FB discussion

The responses to this post reminded me–minorly because I’m not a provocative comedy great–of one of the most epic sketches from Chappelle’s Show, I Know Black People. When his game show host asked, “How can black people rise up and overcome?” the answers varied based on inside/outsider status/jadedness.

For once, I’m going to play the role of the optimist. I hope Rockford does have a come up. I would like to see the city make it off those lists of the worst places in America to live and at least gain a mediocre city status. In short, maybe Rockford doesn’t suck anymore, you do.