new address

Hey there readership:

We're relocating to Wordpress. It gives us more creative control:

http://stuffwedo.wordpress.com/

We've got a new, supersized entry there about Becca's birthday, so check it out.

Thanks,

Michael & Becca

No, it's a TAPAS bar...

We are aware that it’s been almost a month since our last blog. We’ve been too busy going out on dates instead- not because we actually enjoy them, but so that we’d have stuff to blog about.

Since the next day was going to be Becca’s birthday, and I had a proper date planned, we thought we’d only be stepping out for an hour to see Bill Wright’s Berkshire Veteran’s Photography Project reception at the (surprise, surprise) Lichtenstein.

The show was really something else, especially given that nearly every veteran photographed was there at the reception. The vets we spoke to were a lot of fun, and we learned that there are still flight engineers on commercial airliners. The way my grandfather told it, they’d been extinct for decades. But since he’s dead and we therefore can’t speak ill of him, I’ll blame Uncle David for not correcting my misperception. We also made the pages again, for those of you who’re interested in that sorta thing.

As the event wound down, and we were cleaning up (both of us being unable to sit idly by and watch others do all the work), We were invited by the Wrights to be a part of their entourage and head over to Mission. The initiation hazing wasn’t so bad (Becca’s hair’s growing back nicely), so we accepted.

We mentioned Mission in our first blog. Something about a solid wall of pretension. Well, since no bands were playing, the local hipsteratti weren’t there. We arrived well before the rest of our party, having no children to negotiate, so we headed to the bar, where we ran into another friend (Jess from the Alchemy Initiative) and had a drink with her and a friend of hers (Warren, who makes furniture out of raw wood and birch bark).

We joined or party as they arrived, and enjoyed some Tapas. It is a Tapas bar, after all. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it simply means a lot of little dishes that you get as a group and pass around the table. It’s good for large gatherings, because everybody gets a little of everything. Of course, we hadn’t planned on staying long, so we just ordered some fries, but our friends (and their friends, and Becca’s new BFF [by virtue of the fact that his family owns a flower farm] Adam) insisted we tried a few items.

We turned in early, though not nearly as early as we had intended. But not before Becca made me pocket every Boylan bottle on the table. She swears by all that is Holy that she’s going to make glasses out of them.

At the Movies...

We love the Olympics. Just love ‘em. They make us feel good about ourselves because every time a record is set, the entire human species evolves. But we’re mostly fat & lazy, you say? Well, not every cheetah’s top speed is 65 MPH, I say. Not every african elephant weighs in at 14,000 lbs, I say. So there, I rest my case.

Well, it was brought to our attention by some new friends that the Beacon Cinema had been showing the prime time Olympic events on the big screen for free every night. We didn’t make it until the last friday, and we were kicking ourselves for not going sooner and more often.

To start, it was a nice night. The snow was falling fairly heavily, but it was warm enough that the flakes were that huge kind that stick to everything and kinda frost the landscape.

I was also reminded within moments of stepping outside with Becca how well this type of snow makes snowballs. I tucked the offense into the back of my mind, bearing in mind which temperature revenge is best served at.

So the Beacon is pretty swanky. But, having worked at the Nickelodeon, anything with carpeting & cup holders impresses me, so I may have been too easily impressed. Until I learned that they served beer in the upstairs lounge (See? Upstairs lounges are swanky, right?). Still not convinced? They’ve got an escalator, for crying out loud!

There’s no pleasing some people.

At any rate, we met up with our friends, who were a little late and chagrinned to know that the upstairs lounge stops serving after the last show stops selling. But we had fun watching speed skating, then watching bobsledding, then watching the entire theater go dark because the staff forgot to tell us they were shutting down and that we should perhaps leave. We still managed to catch a few minutes of men’s hockey on the lounge TV with the janitors.

We stepped out onto North Street and to a few more inches of snow. It could’ve been a perfectly romantic moment, but my bruised ego would not be sated until I’d blasted Becca with a snowball. Fortunately, laughter and romance are interchangeable in any healthy relationship.

Michael's Birthday Dinner

If you’ve known me for many years, or if we’re friends on facebook, you may be aware that my birthday was this week. If not, you probably wouldn’t know- I don’t exactly broadcast it.

There was one remaining place in Pittsfield where we had not yet dined, one more jewel to add to our crown: The Trattoria Rustica. We’d heard great things, but their nasty little habit of closing early had kept us on the outside. So we did the unthinkable: we planned ahead.

We actually called and made a reservation in the afternoon for that evening, and it worked so well, we might be tempted to try it again in the future, but let’s not go overboard.

Walking in, we were hit by what was clearly something roasting in sage & rosemary, which I subconsciously decided that I’d be having as a main course. The dining room was dimly lit, but warm, quiet & well-appointed (no chef’s table by the door on MY birthday), furthering the argument for calling ahead.

In the traditional fashion, they dropped a loaf of bread into our laps (not literally. They’re professionals), with a bowl of olive oil. In contrast to most places we’ve been that have done this, they had diced basil in it, instead of parmesan. It was a nice change, and certainly healthier.

We, after much deliberation (and one callback of the waitress to re-recite the specials) decided on the grilled calamari and a salad of field greens and shaved fennel to start. Having previously lived in New Bedford and on Cape Cod, I’d never had calamari that wasn’t deep fried. It was like tuna, only tougher, I was surprised to find. And it should be noted that I ignored Becca’s repeated warnings to stop eating bread, or I’d be too full for the main course (Bah! I say to that).

The main courses came, and true to our relationship style, we split everything, so they set us up with extra plates and all that. We ordered the afore-hinted-at sage & rosemary roasted chicken with broccoli rabe & squash (they were out of polenta), and a goat cheese ravioli with balsamic vinegar and truffle oil. Everything was excellent. The chicken was perfectly roasted (as assessed somebody who can roast a chicken perfectly, if I do say so myself) and the herbs played well off the slight bitterness of the broccilini, and the ravioli- our first foray into goat cheese, was amazingly buttery, and the combination of the tangy sweet of the balsamic and the earthy sweet of the truffle oil (also new to us) made the ravioli almost a dessert. But, with Becca and dessert, almost doesn’t count.

Becca will use any excuse to get a tiramisu, and my birthday was no exception. For my part, I’ll use any excuse to get Becca drunk, and the vino dolce was mine. The tiramisu was (apology in advance) better then my Ma’s, and the vino dolce tasted like a light brandy. We had some trouble choosing, and deferred to the waitress’ suggestion of the best wine to pair with the tiramisu. She was right, it was perfect.

Sure, all of this sounds expensive, and it was. But in lieu of any other birthday gifts, I’ll take a nice dinner for two any time.

I have but one regret for the evening. Much like a well-crafted beer should be enjoyed in a chilled glass, or a hot dog can best be savored at a baseball game, Becca with a buzz on is at her most entertaining in a library. But alas, the Athenaeum closes at five on Mondays, so I had to take my lady home.

Cabin Fever and Cudgels

Becca’s been sick, and now she’s a little stir crazy. As such, we couldn’t wait until nightfall and made it a date day. The main concern with this decision was where to eat. Most of the restaurants we’ve earmarked for dates are only open for dinner, so we went in the opposite direction and opted for a greasy spoon.

Every town has ‘em, but not all of them are equal. The best thing about diners such as these is self-evident: breakfast all day. Not that we’d had our hearts set on breakfast, but in the lumbering hours between waking and twilight on a lazy Saturday (say, 11 AM to 5 PM), it’s nice to have options. We settled on lunch, and were underwhelmed. That’ll learn us.

We’ve been to many a splendid greasy spoon in the past, and this was not one of them. Hey, they can’t all be winners. We’ll speak no more of it.

Due to the aforementioned cabin fever, Becca felt like taking a drive up North Street, culminating with a stop at Emporium. Emporium is, for lack of a better word, a novelty shop, and it’s a lot of fun. The Wrights, who own it, are always good for conversation, which on this day ranged from moustaches (real or synthetic) to the product line of Blue Q to blogging. It turns out the we know a “billshotme” as well as a “benshotme,” photographers from either end of the state who unwittingly share a title. And, in accordance with my understanding of the universe, they must engage in mortal combat to restore harmony to the spheres.

All this interaction with people who are not Michael was doing wonders for Becca, so, after buying some licorice (which I don’t usually like, but the stuff they sell at Emporium is like crack), she was ready for the main event: The Armed & Dangerous weaponry exhibit at the Berkshire Museum. Because nothin’ says ‘romance’ like a mace.

We knew we were in for a good time when the children exiting the show were battling with plastic swords before even leaving the museum. After Herb hooked us up with our memberships and maps and programs and several charming, yet meandering anecdotes, we were left with less than an hour to peruse some of the most beautifully crafted implements of destruction that history has to offer. There was no way we could do it, especially when they started up a swordfighting demonstration (which we just missed) and serving appetizers (which, well, the diner did leave us rather dissatisfied), so we’ll have to go back to see what Europe’s (no doubt brilliant) contributions to murder & mayhem are on display.

In line for appetizers, we were behind one of the “knights,” who was giving a brief synopsis or armor through the Middle Ages to a few boys. He was very knowledgeable, and I’m sure it’s a worthy academic pursuit, but we rather pitied him - imaging having a wealth of insight on a subject nobody over the age of twelve wants to hear about.

We got through Native America, Polynesia, Aftrica, Indo-Persia & Japan. All very fascinating. If ever I’m cleaved in twain, I hope it’s with an implement of such unparallelled beauty.

Coming out of the museum onto South Street might have been the best part of the date. Looking down a twilit street with the headlamps and traffic lights against the sihlouettes of mountains and a cool pink sky reminded us how lucky we are to be here. “This is the best time of day for photography,” said Becca, but I don’t think there’s really any time that this view isn’t breathtaking (and yes, I’m looking at her as I think this).

Pre-Christmas Dinner

In the week before Christmas, we took a little break from the mad flurry of giftmaking (because nobody wants a purchased gift from artists. How gauche...) and set out to view Christmas decorations around town. We did not do this on foot, for that would be insane, what with evening temperatures reaching the positively balmy mid-teens that week.

It struck us as amusing that the same populace that created graphic scenes of mutilation on their front lawns on Halloween would have such subdued and tasteful Christmas decorations. (For in-depth descriptions of creative use of food coloring, corn syrup, hatchets and strobe lights, you'll have to wait 'til next October...) Wreaths, bows, white lights... hardly any giant, inflatable snowmen or Santas. And, not having really gone by Park Square in the evening, we had yet to see the beautiful tree alight there, so we made the pilgrimage.

After having feasted our eyes, it's not hard to imagine what we next did. We had been hearing about Elizabeth's, a middle-of-nowhere bistro that we'd often driven by, but never noticed. Word-of-mouth having never yet failed us, we stopped in.

There are two floors, and half of the ground floor is the kitchen, separated by a four-foot wall. We were greeted with nervous looks from the staff when we said we did not have a reservation, until Tony (who is co-owner & co-head chef with his wife, ironically named Elizabeth) asked if we were okay with the chef's table. Of course we were.

Usually, the chef's table is the best, or worst table in the house, depending on your attitude, and this was no exception. It was crammed between the kitchen, stairway, entrance and major foot traffic lane for the waitstaff. We were alternately buffeted with bursts of heat from the open kitchen and gusts of arctic air from the entrance. In truth, we didn't notice at all once the food started arriving. A shared salad of greens, fruits, vegetables & cheeses (that's right, plural cheeses), with in-house baked bread. We got a whole carmelized onion to share, which is like an Awesome Blossom for people who don't want to die. Yes, we understand that none of this is unusual, but it's the sheer quality of the food that sets it apart.

We each got a pasta dish, Becca's baked with sweet peas and another few cheeses (I'm not sure if they ever use less than three...) and mine with marinara and locally-made sausage. As things slowed, Tony came and sat with us, and we discussed things like the early dinner hours of Americans and the merits of corned-beef hash from one place to the next. In his opinion, the Moonakis Cafe in Waquoit has the best in the world (can you disagree?), but a close second is a tiny place in Ashfield (about 45 minutes from us) that we'll have to try soon, but that's another date night, I suppose.

Going Once...

For last night’s date night, we partook in the age old merrymaking tradition of blowing off the company holiday party. We had intended to go for an hour or so, then skip out before the award ceremony (Boy will I be embarrassed if I got an award. But not nearly as embarrassed as a company that would give “Employee of the Year” to a teacher who’s been there three months...). But we decided that, well, we didn’t wanna.

Instead we skipped right to phase II of our date: The 12” x 12” Art Raffle at the Storefront Artists Project. I contributed an etching to this show, so we wanted to check it out. Of course, when we got there, we simply had to buy a raffle ticket, because there was so much great art, and because every raffle ticket would get something (they only sold as many as they had art). We took out program and perused the walls, circling our favorites and ranking them so that when our number was called, we could choose quickly.

As the bidding began, it was clear that some pieces were more popular than others, and it was also clear that some artists (among them our friend Rebecca) were more sought after than others. Being an unknown outsider, my hopes were not too high for when my piece would be chosen (I was not wrong, either. Mine wasn’t chosen until all the well-known artists’ work was gone), but one can hardly be concerned about such things when caught up in the intensity of an auction. Keeping a weather eye on our chosen favorites, and noting the furtive glances of our competition, we waited with bated breath to hear our, grumbling in disappointment as it was not called and our favorites came down off the wall.

“Damnit! They took “Wrackles”! (#2)
“Did we want that one?” “Yeah, we had it at number twelve”
“There goes the Callagraph”

Sixty seven numbers were called before ours. We were down to only three out of our top fifteen. Oddly enough, however, our number one choice was still on the wall for us to nab, leading me to at least one of the following conclusions:
1. The artist was an unknown. or
2. We have really weird taste in art.
Argue it out amongst yourselves. We have our own theories and we don’t need yours.

After all the excitement we relaxed and chatted with the other artists and the event planners, discussing the merits of a Berkshire Printmakers Collaborative and Becca working for the Storefront.

We made it home to watch 50 Cent on the Graham Norton Show. Funny guy, but I can’t say much for his music.

Live and Let's Give

So this weekend, we mixed some business in with our pleasure on date night, attending the "Live and Let's Give" charity event at the Lichtenstien Center for the Arts (quickly becoming our favorite haunt). It was a charity art sale for Charley's Fund (which supports research for curing Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy), and wall overstuffed with art and crafts. It was also, we're not ashamed to say, a great networking opportunity.

We hunted down all the artists whose work we enjoyed, and chatted them up something fierce. I'll tell you, there's a drastic difference between the artists here and the Cape Cod artists. They actually were keen to discuss their art with strangers, and seemed genuinely interested in a stranger's critiques. I turned for a moment, and Becca started a conversation with a man who edits Rural Intelligence, a Berkshire-based arts and news website. He took our picture for the site, and we felt special. Although, having seen it, I must ask if anybody has any tips on how not to look like a crazy person.

I bought Becca a necklace from Good Charma (www.goodcharma.com), and on our way out, a woman at the desk- we later discovered her to be the aforementioned Charley's mother)- gave us a DVD documentary about a kid with Duchenne's. She was very nice, too bad this was all past Charley's bedtime.

Having shown remarkable restraint at the complimentary snack table, I coerced Becca into dinner at Brix. Those of you from the area should go if you haven't. It's a unassuming but excellent french restaurant that we'd been hearing we simply had to try, so try we did. Our waitress was sarcastic and funny; the owner came over to talk to us (I'm assuming that he tries to visit every table, it seemed like that sort of place). Becca had... some french word I don't remember (it had a Monsier at the end), which equates to the best ham and cheese sandwich in the world. I had the mussels, and I learned (note: collective failure on the part of Cape Cod for not telling me this) that you're supposed use a mussel shell to scoop all the other mussels.

We had a nice conversation with the couple at the next table about secondhand clothing, formerly living in Falmouth (small world, eh?) and the reception we were just at, when we discovered that our waitress had made some of the croched objects that were in the show.

Of course, the dogs were far less amused by our date night, and let us know as much when we returned home. They were strangely unmoved to the fact that I might have the opportunity to collaborate with a jewelry maker and that we're starting to insinuate ourselves into the culture of the Berkshires. But the most upsetting part to them is that the french secret to eating rich foods whilst staying rail thin is portion control. Ergo, no doggie bags.

Night at the Museum

So your favorite sickeningly sweet couple went out on a proper date last night (yes, Irupe, married couples do sometimes have dates, though not often enough). We wanted to catch the last Third Thursday of the season here in Pittsfield.

We stopped into the Lichtenstein Gallery, to absorb some culture, and there was a performance/video/installation art piece going on called "Apollo Risen" by Julia Morgan-Leaman. In some windows, short films were playing on a loop, and in others, people were performing (some dancing, one boy playing the Baritone, a woman in a hammock, etc), their silhoettes (sp?) projected onto sheets covering the windows.

We ran into the only three small children we know in the Berkshires at the gallery, having met them while taking our dogs for a walk in a field while house hunting in August. And we chatted with their babysitters, following them upstairs (they were regulars) to the studios where the performance art was being conducted. We stopped in to talk with the boy with the baritone (Becca still has that band geek radar going...), and the artist came up so we found ourselves talking with her.

She came to relieve the boy for the night, she'd just finished taking photos of the installation. She then decided that we were positively adorable, and had to have us dance in the window for her exhibit/performance. We obliged, happy to finally be part of the Berkshire art scene we'd been drawn to in the first place.

All that dancing made us hungry. We were over to Mission, the local trendy tapas bar. We couldn't get past the solid wall of pretension, so we left in search of Trattoria Rustico, a tiny hole-in-the-wall bistro.

The were closed. So we went to the Malaysian restaurant next door, I forget the name... Being a Malaysian restaurant, they of course had a bluegrass band playing. Why not? We sat at the bar to order some takeout (we're old & it was almost nine), and enjoyed the music. They play "Man of Constant Sorrow" from "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" and some other fun numbers. We had some homemade ginger ice cream that a server had accidentally brought out (the order was cancelled, but we swooped down on it), and paid for our food.

As we were leaving, the band finished a song and Becca shouted (she does that sometimes) "Play Johnny Cash!" They laughed, then looked at each other, and broke into "One Piece at a Time" (which is a fun song, look it up...), so we of course had to sit back down.

Then we went home & ate some Orange Ginger Chicken & assorted Malaysian fingerfoods and agreed to do this every Thursday.

Stop pretending to wretch, you're just jealous.