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My Captain and I were restless last night.   We felt adventurous, but not to the point where we had to actually exert ourselves.  We decided to go to a restaurant we’ve never been to, that was not too far afield, and settled on one in Gaithersburg called Growler’s.

To get there we had to pass Dogfish Head Restaurant, and that is not easy to do.  Their chocolate martinis, their Cajun eggrolls….oh lord don’t get me started.

But we were on an adventure, dag-gum it!  We couldn’t stop!!

We had a hard time finding a parking place when we got to Growlers, which is located on a prominent corner of old town Gaithersburg.  A grand old structure, it had been built in the late 1800’s, right ON the street.  Not a lot of room for error on that one.  Though, admittedly, the street probably was smaller then.  It served as a post office, a community gathering hall, a store…all kinds of things.  It was the biggest structure around for miles.

Apparently, the old hall had burned back in the early part of last century, and had never come back to its original glory, until very recently.  Now it is a very, very cool old historic landmark.

Unfortunately, that was the best part of our dining experience.  (Insert Organ music: Dun Dun DUUUUNNNNNN!!!!)

We started out with cocktails.  Growler’s casks their own beer, and My Captain, being somewhat of a connoisseur, was eager to try something new.

He chose a beer that had been aged in Whisky barrels: Pappy Van Warhammer. (It must be fun to come up with beer names. Often times the names sound like they were created when the brewer was already drunk…)   It came Dark.  He loves Dark.  It was straight from the cask, unrefrigerated, and packed a punch (much like his wife…).

He enjoyed it!

I chose the only non-beer chick drink on the drink menu:  The Pomegranate Cosmo.  It resembled nothing of a cosmo, but it was sounded yummy.  It looked purty when it came, and so very cute in its itsy bitsy, eensy weensie widdle martini cup.  My first impression, “You are charging me HOW much for this kiddie drink???” The Scottish in me hates to be taken like that.

But I still drank it.  And it was good, I’ll give them that.

I don’t care how yummy something is, though, zinging me with a big pricetag….and right out of the starting gate for the meal, tends to leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Pushing that aside, I decided to try their fried pickles.  For six bucks, I figured I’d get a basket of fried pickles, right?

There weren’t even a dozen on this little dental-tool-looking plate.  That’s, what?, more than 50cents a pickle slice?!!  (See how good at math I am?)  My Scottish was SCREAMING at this point.  I mean, 50Cents for a SLICE, not even the whole dag-gum pickle!!! Outrageous.

And they were good, but not 50cents a pickle slice good.  And the sauce that was served with it did not compliment the dill pickle flavor…too much salt all around.

At that point I was so peeved I ordered nothing else.  My Captain, however, had his beer and wanted something to go with it.  So he ordered the Shepherd’s Pie.  It came out hot.  Looked good.  Smelled good.  Was a decent portion…not generous, but fair enough:

As you can see, it came with home-made bread on the side.  A little dry, but that is good for sopping up pie juice, right?

I thought maybe Growler’s could redeem itself with this dish.  But My Captain, a very LOW-Maintenance eater, admitted that the veggies inside were mushy.  WAY over cooked.  And frankly, they looked like they had come from a bag of frozen mixed veggies.  Not fresh and cut large like you might expect from a restaurant that claims it’s all ‘from scratch’.

I am the one in our family who complains the most.  You’d think I would be the one to call over the manager to give him some constructive criticism.  But honestly, I was so disenchanted with the experience that I really just wanted to go.

My Captain was not so easily mollified.  Ever the ‘fixer’, he felt we ought to give them some feedback, and so he talked with the manager about our experience.  The guy came to our table, shirt un-tucked, sucking on a cough drop, looking harassed already.  I felt for him.   We said what we had to say as gently as possible, to which he replied appropriately, and could not leave fast enough.

I feel so traumatized.

I need to go to Alexander’s today to cleanse my palate.   Maybe I’ll be able to sweet-talk My Captain into going there after we visit the ‘tax man’.

If we have 1) any appetite left or 2) any money left.

Wish me luck!

I was alone for far too long tonight.  My kids were at their father’s house.  My Captain was out saving the world.  My cats were napping, and my fish isn’t speaking to me.

I had plenty to keep me busy.  Tremendously fun stuff like dishes, laundry, paperwork, cleaning, scooping the cat box, things like that.

Oddly enough, none of it intrigued me.

And when I get bored like that, my thoughts turn to food.  But no one was here to tell me I wasn’t hungry, merely apathetic….unmoved by the prospect of an evening filled with mundanity.

I wandered around my little cottage a few times, and finally found myself in front of my lover, the cookie jar.

I treasure that thing.

I didn’t hesitate, but with growing excitement lifted the lid….

and was immediately deflated.  My hopes were dashed with one swift glance at the bottom of my love. He echoed apologetically with his emptiness.

I whimpered, and drifted dejectedly to the fridge.

Opened the door.  Saw nothing I wanted.  Closed the door.

Opened the door again.  Tried to lower my standards.  Saw nothing I wanted again, and closed the door.

Opened the door again.  Lowered my standards to that of a college student after a night of binge-drinking, and finally settled on the vegetable drawer.

I hate you, you tasteless bit of barely edible disappointment.  You are nothing but a vehicle to get some kind of fatty dressing into my mouth.  Like cardboard with crunch.  Don’t ever forget it.

And you, don’t just sit there laughing at the Romaine.  You’re actually worse…you have to be peeled and seeded and even still you can be unpleasantly bitter.  At your best, without something salty or sweet on you, you taste like nothing, and you know it.

And YOU. Don’t let your wonderful color fool you into thinking that you are actually a pleasure to eat.  If it weren’t for Ranch Dressing, you wouldn’t even be considered good enough for a Crudite.

You. You make all the stuff above palatable.

But don’t get cocky.  You’re no chocolate chip cookie, that’s for damn sure.

I hate being left alone for too long.  I end up berating produce.

Take that look of concern off your face.  You know you have insulted food out of boredom too.  Don’t act like you haven’t.

My kids have so much energy, it makes me want to cry.  Actually, it does make me cry.  Often.

I don’t cry well.  At least, not like delicate females.  I am the most liquified, mucus-y, red-nosed, bleary-eyed crier ever.  I never understood it when I’d read a story that described a woman who would weep, and then dab her eyes.  Dabbing?  Seriously?

With me there is no dabbing.  Honking, hiccupping, and snorting, yes.  Dabbing, not so much.  When I cry, it requires a half a box of tissues, minimum, to mop up the flood.  We’re not just talking tears.  Ya got yer snot and your saliva to deal with, too.  And probably sweat.

But this post isn’t about me and my secretions.

My Varmint and Critter. Their boundless energy. To say they are full of it is the understatement of the century, second only to the statement ‘Saddam Hussein had issues’.  We’re talking a lot of zip. Pluck.  Zest.  Verve.  Vigor.  Pizzazz.

Are you pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down?

To illustrate, take Critter a few days ago.  My Captain had a load of gravel delivered for the construction project.  He had not used quite all of it up yet, and there was a slight mound of it left in the driveway.  Critter got home from school, saw that some of the pile was still there, made a bee-line for it and in the space of less than a minute:

hurled himself on it, proceeded to run circles around it, ran sprints up the incline, sideways, down at full speed, jumped, leaped and galavanted all over it.

I haven’t galavanted for years.  Lord I miss that.

I asked him what he was doing and he said, “What do you mean?” in a pitying tone that really meant, “Why do you ask such stupid questions, Mother?”

I turned around, went back into the house mumbling, took some Motrin and One-A-Day Energy Vitamins, and laid down for a nap.

I may have mentioned a time or two that our cottage is very sweet (read: small).  Our downstairs bathroom is cozy (read: cramped) and efficient (read: you could brush your teeth while you were sitting on the toilet).

I don’t see this as a problem.  In fact, I see it as a blessing.  Less house means less to clean.

And I try to make it as homey as possible.  Clean and Homey.  That’s my goal.

How far would I extend this concept?  Take that cozy and efficient bathroom I mentioned:

My kid’s bought this sign for it as a Christmas gift.

I made the shower curtain. (I make a different one for each season. I mean, when you are sitting on the potty and the shower curtain is so close you could wipe your nose on it, it might as well be interesting to look at.   Heck, if I could find a material with Soduko games on it, I’d make one out of that.)

This season’s curtain is a gold / tan / brown flannel with green accents.  It’s got a “let it snow” theme with snowmen.  I even put jingle bells at the top.

Note the matching valance I made.  No jingle bells on this.  I mean, come on, I don’t want to get too kitschy.

And also note the very cute wooden sled craft on the window. Ties the whole thing together nicely, don’t you agree?

I think it helps the view, which is currently our construction zone/mud pit/future patio.

The kids, being kids, don’t even notice these little details.  It’s ok. I still make a point of it because I figure it is doing something good and warm and fuzzy to their subconscience.  Something down so deep they don’t even know it’s part of what will make them grow into healthy, well-balanced, productive citizens.  This potty room is sure to be one of the rocks in the foundation of their lives.  Yessireee, it’s no less than a blessing, I tell you.

Feng Shui galore.

Little did you know that a shower curtain had that much power.  Well, shower curtains, and cute little embroidered hand towels.

I know, adorable, right?  That bathroom has got LOVE written all over it, I tell you.

But while you can consciously appreciate the effort and purposeful thought that went into all these little details, they apparently can’t, as evidenced by the quickness with which they trash the joint:

***sigh***

They wouldn’t know Feng Shui if it smacked them upside the head.

This is why we can’t have nice things.