Miami and the Florida Keys: A photo essay

Our three-day Miami and Florida Keys mini break started off on the right foot at the Miami airport Enterprise (they have an excellent corporate structure) car rental spot. As we waited for a standard car, say, a Jetta or a Corolla, to be shuttled over, a white Jeep Patriot came rolling through first.

“How do you feel about taking this Jeep instead?” our agent asked us.

“Uh, fuck yes,” we said in unison–in our heads.

“We’ve always wanted to drive a Jeep,” I said–out loud, “Thank you so much! What’s your name?”

“My name is Love,” said Love, pointing to his name tag that said “Love.”

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Hey Miami, we coming at you

The Beast and I realized that his dad has probably seen Nick Edwards more than we have this year, which hardly seems fair.

We enjoyed both their company at the Beast’s dad’s pop-up art reception. A few of Nick’s illustrations are included in the show; specifically, illustrations from Bumble Bear, a children’s story that the Beast wrote years ago.

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Too many lentils, not enough curls

About a year ago, maybe longer, the Beast decided to turn a left-over ham bone into a soup. He found the recipe on his own. It called for both split peas and brown lentils–I’m guessing less than a cup of each.

But he brought home two-kilogram bags of each. That’s four kilograms of dried legumes.

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Repetition, Liberty Valance, and leaning in

Foodie: I just love the combination of ham, scalloped potatoes and cabbage salad  all in one bite!


Beast: You realize you’ve said that three times since we started eating, right?

Foodie: Oh have I?

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Brunch at Buca, between the cottage and Thanksgiving

The Beast and I blinked and there went summer, without a vacation together to speak of.

So, last week, I took three days off work. Friday and Saturday I spent with my mom. We did the usual: Costco, Walmart and the Superstore. I got her all stocked up with supplies. At Costco, a woman did a double-take when she saw me, my mom practically willing her to do so, and said: “You look like that girl from The View.”

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A bachelor and a TIFFhole

After eight days and nights of eating with my hands–think skewered meatballs and shrimp, tuna ceviche on flat bread and itty bitty tacos–I had my first meal on a plate topped with food that I consumed with a knife and fork on Thursday night.

I covered the TIFF party scene for Metro this year. It’s my fifth year reporting on the festival’s nightlife, and–like clockwork–I metamorphosed into something I call a TIFFhole. I define what this is here. If you have no interest in reading that, I’ll quote myself, which is a really TIFFhole thing to do: “The transition to TIFFhole is a well-known phenomenon in some circles. It’s two weeks of obsessing over party invites, name-dropping and filing stories as the sun rises,” I wrote. “The TIFFhole is a werewolf, ashamed of what it’s become but hungry for its prey and the second-rate rubbed off luminosity of being in close proximity to the stars that it’s hunting.”

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Sundays: You’ve changed. Plus, sushi.

Last night we got a bit cray-cray and watched Wedding Crashers followed by The King of Comedy.

In keeping with living on the edge, I ate dinner–some sushi and sashimi that we picked up from Sushi Nomi on Roncesvalles–in my new white cotton Ralph Lauren romper.

It took about 37 seconds before I had soy sauce spilled all down the front.


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