the best

I am Thanksgiving's #1 Fan. Its the simplicity of the holiday that is so attractive. It celebrates three things; our country's beginnings, food and togetherness. Thats it. There's nothing else clogging it up with superficiality. Uncomplicated, humble and pure.

getting bare

Holed up on the East end of Belmont is a non-descript auspice of unruffled food-fare, paying no attention to the culinary snobbery that pervades the Portland land mine of restaurants and food carts.

Bare Bones chooses not to abide by the norms of Portland-lore in the manner of pretension. For starters the rectangle box of a shop-billows top music hits- blatantly non-conforming to the understood rule that in this bridge city to claim your spot as a notable eatery or quote- unquote "hip hang out' is to have the most art laden tunes reverberating the trusses- in an effort to prove how with it they are. Here at "bones" all that hipster bullshit is thrown out the window. MJ- is cool with everyone here- and Lady Gaga- hell yes!

The food is just slightly pared down from any stuffy brunch spot that has been determined fabulous by the likes of Willamette Weekly or the Food section of the Oregonian. The prices match the atmosphere-understated, a little gritty and happily undone. The pint mimosas are an unbeatable understanding of everything right with Sunday. The staff are warm and friendly and are neither too much or too little.

Bare Bones

2900 SE Belmont Street

Portland, OR 97214

503-206-6535

http://www.barebonescafe.net/

finally finding peace

Peace may have found me or maybe I found it. Finding refuge in lit candles, a lulling fire, staying home. Respite in not knowing what God is but not wanting to give it up. Hope in the future ahead. Comfort in putting my head down and moving toward my desires. A schedule. A plan. A glass of wine in a solo happy hour event inside my chateau. The blazing rows of blueberry plants. The autumn leaf filled air. The familiarity of the season, the patience it encourages and the nostalgia it stirs up. I welcome it. I praise it.

my love affair with the end of the world

Astoria, Oregon is hands down one of my most favorite places on earth. There is something about this funky little town that got under my skin years ago, and like a long love- I've never been able to rid it. In fact the romance may have intensified. If Astoria were a smell it would be a combination of earthy patchouli and cigars with a hint of victorian vanilla. Once that sweet blend of gritty masculinity and lacy femme- enter your nostrils forever it stays.

The town of Astoria abounds with delicious food. Seafood is abundantly available being at the end of the world- as the mouth of the Columbia runs head-on into the foreboding Pacific. My favorite food haunt of all the world is the Columbian Cafe. In true Astoria form it is anything but all done up. It refuses to dress up- and keeps its business true to delivering the best food I've ever consumed- rather than beautifying itself. I have managed to take my grips off my beloved hole in the wall and have ventured out to other food establishments- and have been blown away. Clementes is a new favorite on the CG list. The fish they serve is of top notch quality and is unbelievably fresh (aka the owners family is the fisherman!). I love their corner spot with floor to ceiling windows- that let patrons take in the comings and goings and the loveliness of the Liberty Theatre across the street.

The community is like none other. There's an unspoken code here- "get involved or leave". Its a community with a past of hard working people and that sentiment has bled over into the current state of mind. The arts both music and fine- are supported by the inhabitants better than anywhere I've encountered.

Living at the end of the world has benefits- amazing food, an arts culture off the hitches and a community that is fiercely supportive. Pretty dang worth it I gather.

independent spirit

As the upcoming red, white and blue holiday is nearing-I can't help but get filled with nostalgia and pride. I enjoy all of the holidays- but the Fourth of July is especially sacred to me. My family has been gathering in the same place for almost a hundred years to commemorate not only the birth of our country but also the existence of the patriarchal side of my family. We were blessed with having a woman in our family that possessed an abnormal wealth of fortitude. My great-great grandmother decided over a hundred years ago to homestead on the bank of a small inlet on the Puget Sound. As time passed on, so did the property- being placed in the hands of each subsequent generation. I grew up spending a tremendous amount of time lapping up the paradise of Vaughn Bay-I have realized that it is such a piece of me-this land is in my bones. The smells and the feeling that envelopes me when I am there is like no other. I get sad every time I have to leave and get back to the persistence of life that extends past the retreat of the Key Peninsula.

Our country is not perfect- just as people are good but not without a few blemishes, you can not be alive without making a few mistakes- it is a country that I am fiercely proud to be a citizen of. Our United States was created on firm principles no other country has dared declare or demand-that being free is a right every human is entitled to. In its pursuit for stretching its borders and influence the government encouraged its citizens to head west. The efforts of these brave people were rewarded by the gift of property. Another brilliant move by the country of stars and stripes-instantaneously its people were overwhelmed with loyalty, a sense of pride for not only its generous country but also for a land- that was now theirs. It is a land of the proud and of the free. I know this all so well- I bubble over with immense happiness of the land that my family has been blessed with. If it were not for the vision of a young and determined country and the brilliance and grit of a smart woman- we would be Vaughnless. This dirt is in me-its mine-and this country is mine- and its yours.

hail to the chief

My Pops was never particularly known for his culinary attributes- his domain is on the other end of the band-saw or sander. All the while he has always attempted to keep a few main-stay and go-to recipes in his tool belt for the now and again get together.

Being that his prowess is not in the kitchen- there have been comical events transpired with him at the helm of that particular mast. One of these particular mishaps is of constant reminiscing with me and the rest of my brood of sibs. I was around 10 years old at this time- I'm the oldest so that means there were four more youngsters running around cascading down in age from me- and my Dad was trying to play the part of Mr. Mom- while our Mom was getting her Masters Degree. That meant a lot of evenings where he tried his wiles at the range-the oven range that is. The most memorable dish that was bore out of these evenings was- "porcupine meatballs"-which are meatballs made with rice as part of the filling. The recipe did not mention that the rice needed to be cooked first-and being a novice cook- he didn't think to cook the rice first. I can still see all of us five kids and our Dad gathered around the oak table and chairs that he made for our dining room crunching through those hunks of ground meat- baring our sheepish eyes to meet our Dad's to scan if he was having the same crunchy experience. At that time he did not admit defeat- and we all had to continue eating our meal. Shortly thereafter it got put into the rounder file of funny stories. We often revisit it for ol' times sake and a darn good laugh.

I tip my hat to my Dad- the Dad who despite not enjoying cooking amidst a very busy life- valued our time as a family that he gave up his own comforts and potential ridicule so we could all gather around the dinner table and grow; grow into the thing he loves most-

his family.

i do declare!

I recently encountered what I do declare as to be the best food moment of my life. This past Memorial Day Weekend while spending time at what I refer to as Paradise- but to others known as Vaughn Bay (my great-great-grandmother had the fortitude to homestead on the water and pass down her property to generations following her- brilliant woman I tell you!!)--I was blessed with the most delicious moment. My friend and his youngsters bounded down to the rocky beach and combed its soil for its crop of shelled delicacies. They successfully bounded up to the grassy bank that extends a thumb of a finger into the water and holds a fire pit that encourages the view as well as conversation. The oysters (Pacific Blues) were distributed evenly amongst the hot coals glowing in the masonry and earthen round. My friend attended to the oysters and maintained their progression- as the oysters succumbed to the heat their shells popped open. Then they were swooped up by a leather adorned hand and then cracked further- and the beautiful white meat was exposed and extracted from the shell and plopped on the plate of anxious comrades around the circle. They were then doused with the taste of choice- simply lemon juice and kosher salt or cocktail sauce. Bottles of champagne were opened and were sipped while noshing on the clean and salty loveliness of the bounty of the bay. The sun was just beginning to crest behind the Olympic Mountains- and was extending its rays to our bank. We all lingered in the beauty of the moment- exquisite food, delightful company, and the sun shining. Everything was right- and it will stand in my memory for all time.