The phrase “Minnesota Nice” gets thrown around an awful lot around these parts.
Wikipedia defines the term to mean “the stereotypical behavior of people born and raised in Minnesota to be courteous, reserved, and mild-mannered.”
Or as I like to describe it, “Having really cool neighbors who leave sushi in your mailbox.”
(Allow me to explain.)
Last night, I was in dire need of some Minnesota kindness. I’ve had an exhausting week at work, and was sore to the point of avoiding the toilet whenever possible due to a CrossFit workout. By the time five o’clock rolled around, all I wanted was a glass of wine, and some time on the couch.
Instead, I had to drag my throbbing body to the gym so I might renew my First Aid and CPR certification.
For the fifth freaking time.
I was in the middle of giving chest compressions to a fake, plastic baby when my phone started vibrating. It was my next door neighbor calling. I let the call go to voicemail, continuing my five cycles of infant CPR. Even I’m not selfish enough to let a fake baby die on the table.
We had moved on to wrapping bloody wounds when I noticed my neighbor calling again. Being that she doesn’t call often, I started to grow concerned. Was she watching my house burn down? Had my dogs escaped and started terrorizing her cows again? Was someone trying to break into my house and steal my giant self-portrait?
“I’m sorry, this call is important — I kind of need to take it.” I explained to my partner before jetting out of the room. The fake hemorrhaging injury on her forearm would simply have to wait.
I answered the phone on the very last ring, preparing myself for the worst. At least we have excellent homeowner’s insurance, I assured myself.
“Do you like sushi?!” my neighbor immediately exclaimed.
Long story short, our friends next door had come across some sushi-grade ahi tuna from a pal in the restaurant business. The best part? They were kind enough to save a fillet for Scott and I to try. If we liked it, we could split an order for a giant case with them, and get it at wholesale price.
I’m not sure which was more exciting — the fact that our home hadn’t burned to the ground, or the opportunity to acquire badass tuna at less than $3.00 a fillet.
I explained I was stuck in CPR training, but promised to stop by as soon as I was home to pick up the fish. Rushing back to the classroom, I finished my final exam as quickly as possible. Mama wanted some tuna…NOW.
My test completed, I located Scott and scurried him out to the car. “DRIVE!” I instructed loudly, “The neighbors have Ahi for us!”
That was all Scott needed to hear–the man loves sushi even more than I do. He sped the entire way home, visions of how he would prepare our fresh sampling from the sea splashing through his imagination.
As we pulled on to our dirt road, Scott slowed down, pulling up alongside the mailbox.
“No time!!” I screeched impatiently, “TUNA!”
“Relax, Katrina. I just want to see if we got any bills today.”
I would have rolled my eyes, had it not been for the glorious slab of fish, delicately covered in saran wrap that happened to be perched just inside the door of our mailbox.
Ummm…if that’s not “Minnesota Nice”, I don’t know what is.
SIDE NOTE: While we desperately wanted to eat the tuna raw, Scott argued fish that’s been sitting in a mailbox for an undisclosed period of time should probably be at least slightly cooked. He seared it on the stove, coated it in sesame seeds, and whipped up a soy horseradish dipping sauce. In-freaking-credible.
(In other words, we’ll definitely be ordering an entire case. Thanks, neighbors!)