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.