Restaurants

Mmmmm. Pheasant.

Mmmmm. Pheasant. 0

Share

I’ve been planning a post all weekend that involves Scott coloring pictures of Sleeping Beauty, getting confused for Captain America, and wearing red lipstick. And yes, these events all occurred in the same extremely confusing yet ridiculously fun day.

Unfortunately, I was way too exhausted/busy/behind schedule to crank it out in time for today, as we just returned home from a weekend of fun in Nebraska.

The good news?

I’ve since stumbled upon a restaurant you simply have to experience. (If you’re willing and/or able to travel to Nebraska, that is.)

Roosters at Pheasant Bonanza is a 1950s hunting style bar and restaurant located at Pheasant Bonanza Hunt Club in Tekamah, NE. Our dear friend is the General Manger of the resort, and had invited is for a weekend of turkey hunting (I stayed back for that part) and fine dining at the new restaurant. Let me just say that I had ridiculously high expectations, which were completely blown out of the water. This place is, for lack of a better gangsta phrase, off the chain.

Enjoying dinner at Roosters at Pheasant Bonanza in Tekamah, NE

This photo of my friends and I will have to suffice. I would have taken a picture of the food, but I was too busy scarfing it down while making inappropriate “yum” noises. There was simply no time for photos.

Roosters is open Thursday and Saturday evenings, and features a prix fixe menu that changes weekly. For twenty-five dollars a person, you’ll enjoy an appetizer (smoked pheasant, cheese that is more addicting than crack cocaine, and some homemade focaccia that I’m sure Scott will attempt to recreate this week.) Our entrée included the best scallops I’ve ever eaten, jumbo prawns, smoked pork belly and a creamy polenta that pretty much changed Scott’s life. He cried out “polenta!” in his sleep last night, which I’ll take as a sign he was dreaming about it. Dessert was a deliciously dense pineapple upside down cake with a Tuaca-soaked cherry and some bomb-diggity cream cheese frosting.

(Food critics totally use the phrase “bomb-diggity” right?)

Other than purchasing Sheila, that meal just may have been the best $25 I’ve ever spent. The chef makes everything from scratch, uses only the best ingredients, and will prepare you something that is on par with meals you’d pay three times as much for in New York or Seattle.

Have I convinced you to travel to Nebraska, yet?

Oh…and don’t forget to tell them I sent you. They’ll make sure to give you a massive discount.

Alright…fine. I made the discount thing up. While I don’t think I can score you half-off your meal, the manager was Scott’s college roommate, so you’ll at least get some embarrassing stories from undergrad.

And honestly? Those stories are way better than a discount in the first place. (Especially when enjoyed over a platter of smoked pheasant and cheese that’s more addicting than crack cocaine. Take my word for it.)

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

The fall of veganism

The fall of veganism 22

Share

It’s high time I came clean and ‘fessed up to falling off the vegan bandwagon.

(And not just a little fall…like, a break your back paralyzed from the waist down fall.)

Some of you may recall how I swore off animal products the week before Christmas after watching this documentary. Please realize that my intentions were as pure as the organic broccoli I ate by the bowl-full. I even brought my own vegan-friendly food to my mother-in-laws house to eat over Christmas!

There were only two problems.

1. I live in Minnesota…the land of butter, cheese and more butter.

2. I love me some seafood.

While sticking to my plant-based diet at home was fairly simple, dining out was nearly impossible. It was getting to the point where I would simply order french fries or onion rings as they were the only things on the menu without any animal products. Is it just me or does eating 2,000 calories of fried onions seem completely counterintuitive to the concept of a healthy vegan lifestyle?

‘Ish hit the fan in a major way the night Scott insisted we go to a local steakhouse for supper. No matter how long I stared at the menu, there just wasn’t anything offered that I was “allowed” to eat.

Me: Scott…there’s seriously nothing on this menu that I can order. I told you I didn’t want to come here.

Scott: Just get a salad.

Me: All the salads are covered with meat, cheese and ranch dressing. I swear, ranch dressing is like, a religion here.

Scott: I know. So? Just ask them to take the meat and cheese off, and get a vinaigrette instead. It’s not that difficult.

Me: Yeah…but then it’s just a plate of iceberg lettuce with a few tomatoes. I don’t do iceberg, Scott.

Scott: (Eye roll)

Me: Do you think “Ranchology is the new Scientology” would make a good bumper sticker?

Scott: Katrina…I admire your dedication to this diet, but you’ve got to realize that it simply isn’t practical for where we live. You need to exercise a little bit of moderation here. I agree that it’s not good to eat meat and dairy all of the time…but when we’re out at a restaurant, it’s kind of impossible to find a healthy vegan option. You’re always so polarized with these things…either you’re one-hundred percent vegan, or strung out on a 3-day ice cream binge. You just need to be a little more reasonable and find some middle ground. And no. I don’t think that would be a good bumper sticker.

Me: I know it’s not easy to be vegan in Smalltown. But doing the right thing isn’t always easy, Scott! I’m not going to compromise my principles for the sake of convenience!

The conversation went on for a good fifteen minutes. I think the waitress was afraid to take our order as it appeared we were in the middle of a divorce. Eventually, I gave into Scott’s nagging. Perhaps it was my distaste for all things iceberg, or maybe I was just “rage hungry” as Scott had insulted my bumper sticker concept. Whatever the case may be, I surrendered to my cravings and ordered the Walleye dinner with a side of mashed potatoes and teriyaki green beans.

And it was delicious.

It took a mere fifteen minutes to completely clean my plate. While Scott finished his sandwich, I discretely grabbed the dessert menu.

Me: So…uh…wanna get dessert?

Scott: No way, I’m too full.

Me: Well, can I get dessert?

Scott: No. You don’t need dessert.

Me: But I really want a piece of cheesecake.

Scott: Katrina — the cheesecake slices here are the the size of your head. Plus…you were vegan, like, thirty minutes ago. And now you want a mammoth-sized dessert made entirely of dairy?

Me: Yes. Yes I do.

Scott: That’s even worse than iceberg and ranch dressing. Plus, whatever happened to your…what did you call them? Oh yeah…your “principles”?

Me: They got hungry.

Scott: See? I told you. You’re just hours away from an ice cream binge.

*****

To be fair…I made it seven days without engaging in sed ice cream binge. And I didn’t even order the cheesecake that night! (But only because Scott told the waitress I was diabetic. Whatever.)

Since my fall from veganism there’s been a zealous parade of cheeseburgers, shrimp, yogurt and bacon marching straight into my hungry little mouth. But it hasn’t been all fun and  fro-yo — I’m still trying to incorporate lots of plant foods into my diet, and am continuing to prepare several vegan meals at home. Still…a life without cheese is something I just don’t think I’m cut out for.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…welcome  back, dairy. I’ve missed you terribly.

(But don’t worry. I’m still not touching ranch dressing with a ten-foot pole.)

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

At least we didn’t get shot 7

Share

For this former Washingtonian, the Denny’s in Parkland brings back floods of fond, maple syrup covered childhood memories. Whenever my parents felt like an evening out, the six of us would pile into our wood panelled station wagon and make a pilgrimage to “America’s Diner”. Before the waitress even had the chance to hand us menus, my father would order six $1.99 grand slams and six waters. ”It’s the best value.” he would sternly say.

As we cleaned our plates, I dreamed of one day working at Denny’s–earning a king’s ransom in tips through exceptional service and witty banter with my customers. Free pancakes and popcorn shrimp would obviously be an added bonus.

Over the years, the restaurant of my youth has declined–or perhaps it’s always been crappy and I never noticed. Either way, I still secretly love eating there, despite it’s rough demeanor and questionable breakfast meat.

All this is to say, when my sister sent me the following text last Friday, I wasn’t exactly shocked.

Deny's text message

Apparently, she wasn’t either. ‘Ish like this really isn’t out of the ordinary in our ‘hood.

Speaking of P-town, the next morning I found myself back in my old stomping grounds–my parent’s house, to be exact. I had made plans to take my mom to breakfast prior to attending a wedding later in the evening.

ME: So…where do you want to go eat, mom?

MOM: Let’s go to Denny’s!

ME: We can’t go to Denny’s…two people got shot there yesterday–it was a drive-by. Let’s go with something a little less violent.

MOM (completely unphased): Oh…okay. Wagon Wheel?

ME: Yeah. Wagon Wheel.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the hot spots of the 98445 zip code, the Wagon Wheel is a 24-hour Parkland institution that sells beer for $1.50. They’re famous for having delicious, chicken-fried breakfasts, and a large, obnoxious sign.

Unfortunately, we made quite a disappointing discovery upon rolling up to “The Wheel.”

They had up and gone out of business.

ME: Look mom…they’re closed. For good. Do you just want to go to Starbucks and get pastries?

MOM: No, not really. I’m still kind of in the mood for Denny’s. Is that OK?

Long pause.

ME: I guess so. I mean…if someone just got shot there, chances are it won’t happen again for at least another month or so–statistically speaking, our odds for survival are actually pretty strong.

MOM: Right. And Starbucks doesn’t have good bacon.

She had a point. Five minutes later, we found ourselves seated on opposite sides of a booth in an extremely crowded dining room. Apparently, the people of Parkland are more than willing to risk their lives for a three dollar omelet.

Being that this could potentially be my last meal, I decided to go all out with a short stack of blueberry pancakes (extra butter and syrup), hash browns, sausage links, scrambled eggs, and several cups of coffee. Mom had the same.

MOM: Why does coffee always taste so much better when you don’t make it at home?

ME: I know. This coffee is totally worth a bullet wound. So are these pancakes.

MOM: Especially the pancakes.

We wolfed down our food, caught up on our gossip, and complained about my dad and his ridiculous pants collection. We felt totally safe — like the drive-by shooting never even happened. I even worked up the courage to use the ladies’ room before we left.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, our bellies full with grease and simple carbohydrates, I breathed a sigh of relief.

ME: Well mom, we didn’t get shot.

MOM: At least not yet. Hey–wanna go to the Quilt Shop?

ME: Not really. I kind of needed a few things from Target.

MOM: Yeah…but we’re far less likely to get shot at the Quilt Shop.

She was right. Worse case scenario, one of us would get stabbed with a crochet hook–but those things aren’t that sharp anyway. We probably wouldn’t even need stitches…just maybe a tetanus shot.

With an argument like that, I couldn’t really say no.

Well played, Mom. Well played.

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

First Date Rules 1

Share

I’m pretty doggone excited, you guys.

I’ve painted my nails, gussied up my hair, doused myself in the fanciest of perfumes, and applied more makeup than a drag queen at gay bingo night.

In other words, I’m going on a date.

A girl date!

That’s right–after three endless months of flying solo in Small Town, I’m finally going out with some friends! Technically it’s only one friend as I haven’t met the other girl yet…but I’m sure we’ll be instant BFFs, don’t you think?

Come one you guys…don’t you think?

Sweaty Katrina

(Hopefully she doesn’t have a problem with creepy sweaters.)

As in people who sweat, not wooly articles of clothing.

Anyway.

I’m a little bit nervous about the date. I mean…I’ve gone so long without making friends in Minnesota, and I really don’t want to screw up such a golden opportunity. Thankfully, I have this thing called the internet to help keep me from turning tonight’s dinner into a Hurricane Katrina-style disaster. After a quick Google search, I found these 8 rules for a flawless first date.

Thank you, world-wide web.

Note: I’ve changed “him” and “he” to “her” and “she” as this is a girl’s night out and not, you know, an inappropriate dinner with a man who isn’t my husband or something.

Rule 1: Do not go out on the same night that she calls and asks you out.

Duly noted. We actually made plans two days ago, so I’m covered. Plus, she didn’t call me–she asked me at the gym. I must have lured her in with my enticing mascara.

Rule 2: Do not hang on every word she says.

Does this mean I can’t get all sweaty and stare creepily at her like in the photo above?

Rule 3: Do not be a conversation hog.

This could be a problem.

Rule 4: Stay away from “ex” talk.

Like, ex-friends?

So, you’re saying I can’t even talk smack about the girl who thought it would be “cute” to throw up on my favorite sweatshirt and then go sleep in my bed?

(I’m talking to you, Jolie.)

Rule 5: Resist asking about her previous relationships.

But what if she also has a vomiting dog that needs to be gossiped about? Or perhaps a cat with an affinity for peeing on Barbie dolls?

(I’m talking to you, “Nike”. I know you died of a tragic case of worms in 1994, but I’m still pissed off that Dad had to shave the beautiful blonde hair off all my Barbies.)

Rule 6: Do not get drunk and dance on her lap.

I’ve already learned this lesson the hard way. Trust me.

Also…I think this technically means that getting drunk and dancing on the table is okay, right?

Rule 7: Let her be the one to suggest you get together again.

This rule is stupid. I’m vetoing it.

Also, I still think a drunken lap dance might be a tiny bit charming.

Rule 8: Do not ask her to come to your home after the date.

Even if I’ve made brownies?

We’ll see if these rules end up steering me in the right direction or not. I’m crossing my fingers that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be raving all about my two new gal pals and how we’re planning a trip to the day spa or something. (Maybe even the naked spa if things go really well?)

Although truly, I’ll consider the night a success so long as I can avoid drinking too much wine and telling stories about my dad’s tooth collection before breaking into tears as I recount the night I first discovered stretch marks on my hips.

Yeah…that actually happened.

This is why I need the internet to tell me how to go on girl dates.

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

1 2 3 4