The Portland Pattypan Gods speak?

So once in a great while I like to head out of Chicago and share my greatness among the little people far and wide. After all, the gifts such as those I possess shouldn’t be contained within such a small area, n’est-ce pas? (that’s French for “Tasha, are you on crack again?”)

Thus, over Labor Day weekend, I decided to head out to grace the city of Portland, Oregon with my presence – to visit beloved CancerChick friend Kim, who lives there, and meet up with equally beloved CC Melinda, who was flying in from Ohio. In a fortuitous turn of events, I managed to get the very last ticket to Portland on United using my miles. Hmm, interesting. I mean really – they try to scare you on the website with the “there is ONE ticket remaining, buy now or you’re screwed!” thing – but in this case, it was true.

So off I went, whee! Kim came to pick up me and Melinda at the airport, and we head out to the parking garage, where I got the first indication that Portland exists in some weird time-space warp that is so unlike Chicago as to be scary. Or rather, it just confirmed how absolutely fucked up Chicago is.

Because we get to the garage-ticket-paying thing, and I pull out my wallet, ready to be the polite guest and pay for the stuff that our wonderful host wouldn’t incur if we hadn’t foisted ourselves on her. I figured it would be what, $26, maybe $28? You know, like in Chicago. And Kim had surely been there almost an hour.

We patiently wait for the machine to tell us the total owed.

$2. Yes, $2.

I promptly put away my wallet. “Hell, you can pay that!” I cheerfully say to Kim. I am nothing if not the most considerate of guests.

We then proceed to have one of the most amazing weekend ever, truly. I never laugh so much as when I’m with my CancerChicks. Katie joined us on Friday, and then Debbie came down from Seattle on Saturday, all of which led to us having the most amazing and brilliant conversations, replete with astonishingly wonderful ideas, like this one.

Me: Hey, we could totally do a doggy food truck here! Think about it, people would love it, especially since this is already food truck central! And we could have special things based around Kona and Lucy and Daisy.

Kim: Yeah, like….

Me, interrupting: I have it! Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies! Because everyone knows me as Miss Curmudgeonly, so it would all blend seamlessly, and….what?

I noticed that Melinda is looking at me with that long-suffering “Tasha you’re insane” look on her face.

Melinda: Umm…..do you realize that Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies spells out……KKK?

Thank god I have my friends to save me from myself.

But the truly remarkable thing happened when we went out to dinner on Saturday night. The Portobello restaurant we wanted to go to was booked, so we went to another cute place, Café Haydn or something like that, which had an outdoor seating area under a beautiful gazebo. After we ordered our drinks, I noticed that they had a lawn area to the side, with gardens in raised beds, so I got up to wander over there and take a look.

I’m walking along, noticing the nicely trellised lemon cucumbers, the lack of tomato plants (sigh), the…….wait, what? Is….is that what I think it is????

“Oh my god, oh my god, give me my camera QUICK, before it disappears!” I’m practically hyperventilating as I bustle back to our table, waving my arms and demanding someone hand me my camera.

Melinda: What the heck did you find? A tomato?

Me, breathlessly: No!

Kim: A…….pattypan?

Me: YES!

I grab up the camera and run back, and lo and behold, the pattypan beauty is still there, perched on the railroad tie, like a beacon from heaven in all its glory. I swear I am not making any of this up. It’s bizarre. This lone lovely pattypan, right there at this random restaurant – when there’s not even a squash plant in sight, because I look closely.

Is it a sign? Is it one of many signs I’ve been getting, like my deciding to read the latest Outside magazine (which I never do), which names Portland as one of the top places to live? Actually, THE top one, right after Chattanooga (which, really, what the hell?)?

Would it be crazy to pack up and move to Portland in part based on a sign from a squash? Does the fact that the idea of moving from my sedate comfortable ordinary life scares me shitless mean I should just go ahead and do it? I have no idea.

We left the pattypan there, as I didn’t think it would be right to relegate it to an ordinary end, like being cut up and grilled. That seemed a bit….ignominious. Better to leave it in its exalted state, right where I found it.

Of course, no discussion about Portland would be complete without mention of Miss Lucy, Kim’s most adorable and wonderful pup. I’m happy to report that Kim runs a tight ship just as I do, ever the strict disciplinarian. Then there were the daily jaunts to Papaccino’s, the best coffee shop EVER, and the trip to Breadquarters, aka home of Prisoner Bread, and last but not least, the visit to the incredible rose garden, which wowed even me, aka someone who’s generally ambivalent about roses.

Portland – Chicago – Portland – Chicago. Hmm. I need more signs. Off to the store now to get alphabet soup – I will report back. Though I kinda feel like god or fate or whatever is out there is right now saying "Oh for chrissake, now you want words written in alphabet soup??? I gave you a fucking PATTYPAN, wasn't that enough?? You people!"

Oh, and if I do move to Portland, I need insta-friends, so please, blogosphere, send some cool people my way. M’kay, thanks.

Denied at the stripper store

There’s time before the next session, so the girls all rush up to Command Central, aka my and Kim’s room, so that we can use the interwebs to find a solution for Cori. Being a Philly native of sorts – ahem, having gone to Wharton for my MBA – I recall that South Street is a bastion of all things bizarre and eclectic, and if there are going to be any slutty nurse outfits anywhere, it would be there. Sure enough….

Cori: Great, I called this place and they’re open until 5PM – let’s hit it, ladies!

One contingent branches out to hit South Street, while another one decides to stay and listen to the seminar “So Cancer Has Caused You to Forget how to Put Makeup On.” The suspense is at a fever pitch…

On South Street

Cori is standing in front of the erstwhile stripper store, and sure enough, there are stripper outfits galore in the window. Victory! But wait, what’s this? The door is locked. Hmm.

Cori: Okay, let’s go down the street and check out what else is around here – hey, is that a condom store? The store person here probably just went in the back to go to the bathroom or something, and locked the door.

The girls explore all the wonders that South Street has to offer and then Cori makes the fateful call.

Cori, calling the stripper store: Umm, hi, I was just at your store? And the door was locked, but I called earlier and the person said you guys were open. Are you?

Stripper store person: Yes, we’re open until 5PM. But you have to dance.

Cori: Dance? Umm, okay, sure. We’ll be there soon.

Dance? Cori figures, as do the rest of us, that this is some weird deal they have where you have to dance to get in, prove yourself worthy or something, in some bizarre South St. tradition. She decides she’s up to the challenge.

Cori, knocking on the door of the stripper store: Helloooooo?! Are you open?

A guy comes up to the door, unlocks it, and peers out at Cori.

Stripper store guy, coldly: Yes?

Cori: Hi, I’m the person who just called, to look at your merchandise? You are open, right?

SSG: We are, but by appointment only. And we’re not taking appointments…..(he looks her up and down)….today.

And he proceeds to close the door in Cori’s face…..and lock it.

Yes, denied. Not just denied, but turned away in spectacularly humiliating fashion, in front of all the denizens of South St. The outrage among the girls is palpable. What, Cori doesn’t look enough like a stripper?? What the hell?

Meanwhile, back at the conference….

The “How to Put On Your Makeup Such That You Look Like a Clown” seminar is over, and the girls have gathered back in the big ballroom for the closing remarks. There’s been an exhortation to get up and dance, and other bizarrely jiggy stuff, and now it’s time for what we are all referring to as the Kumbaya Moment – where everyone is sitting at their tables holding hands, contemplating their place in the world and what they’ve learned along this Incredible Journey that is The Cancer. The room is hushed, except for a few sobs here and there, as people are overcome with the emotion of the moment. Patti has put her iPhone on the table in front of her, and amidst this reverent hush, suddenly there’s the distinctive “ptoodoolooh” sound indicating that she’s gotten a message, which all the girls sitting on her side of the table can see:

“Cori got denied at the stripper store!”

Now, I’m not quite sure if the snorting uproarious laughter that followed is enough to get all of us blackballed from the conference next year, but well……if it is, it was worth it.

That evening

Cori is devastated at her inability to get a simple fricking slutty nurse outfit in the entire burg of Philly, and so, as we all try to console her, she takes to drink again and mumbling about how we all need to take The Man down, i.e. the asshole who shut the door in her face at the stripper store.

Cori: What, like my Boobages aren’t good enough?? Look at these puppies! Just look at them!! Some of Dr. Fine’s best work! I mean really, what the hell?? I’ll sue, that’s it, I’ll sue! Mental distress to the Boobages!

This sounds to all of us like a fine idea, though this could also be the alcohol talking. Who can say?

The next morning

We’re cleaning up the hotel room, and as I peek in the fridge, what do I find? Eggnog! The magic elixir that I had bought at RTM yesterday, and totally forgot about! Yum.

Kim: Eggnog? Where’d you get that?

Me: Oh, I bought it at Reading Terminal Market yesterday, from the Amish-looking folks at that one end selling the juices and milk products. Omg, this is the best eggnog I’ve ever had.

Kim: I thought you were boycotting the Amish?

Me: Did I say they were Amish? I misspoke. With all the black they were wearing, I’m pretty sure they were……Hassidic Jews. Yes, that’s it – I think the Hassidic Jews are known for their fine eggnog, no?

I really don’t know why the girls look at me so strangely at times – really, it’s a puzzle….

The quest continues...

As has been noted previously, these conferences aren’t all fun and games, not at all. This means that while Cori is still AWOL, many of us are at the first seminar, having chosen the “Cooking for Health and Wellness Even Though you have The Cancer and None of That Stuff Really Makes a Difference” one. I figure at the very least we’ll get some tips on using quinoa and other miracle grains, or turmeric, which is apparently a miracle spice. Who knew?

Instead, we get some otherworldly version of the SNL Delicious Dish ladies:

First cook: “Boy, I’ve always wondered what something like this ingredient could be used for. Hmm.”

Second cook: “Oh, you mean the salt? Why, that’s a GREAT question! Let me tell you ALL about it!”

And so forth.

But then we get to the heart of the presentation: the cooking. And first up on the agenda – muffalettas! Yes, the classic N’Awlins sandwich that’s piled high with meat and cheese and all sorts of yummy things. In fact, they set the anticipation level pretty high through their slide presentation, which shows them getting fresh ingredients from Reading Terminal Market that morning, and lo and behold, there’s a picture of a muffaletta, about a foot high, stacked with every meat and cheese imaginable. Sweet! This will probably be a slightly healthier version of that, I’m thinking.

“And now, we’ll show you how to make……an Almost-Like-a- Muffaletta -Salad!”

Hmm. Okay. I guess that can work too, if you substitute lettuce for bread and still pile it high with the good stuff. I try to pay attention, but Katie and Melinda are just chattering away like magpies.

Me, hissing: “Pssst! Pssssssssssssssttt! Girls! Can we pay attention here please? I’m trying to learn how to make a muffaletta salad that seems to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the sandwich of the same name.”

Now surrounded by the proper kind of respectful silence, I gamely listen on, waiting for the part at the end where they’ll surely pile on the masses of meat and cheese, right? Right now they’re taking half an hour to make the homemade dressing, which is really just glorified oil and vinegar.

“Then you use some freshly picked peppercorns from your adorable little rooftop garden, and put exactly 12 of the roundest looking ones – I like to use this special device to make sure I get ones that are round and not oddly misshapen – into your mixture that I’ve just taken half an hour to prepare…”

“And then, to finish it up…”

I perk up, eagerly waiting for the muffaletta part to come in.

“You garnish it with this sprig of jicama, and voila! Your Almost-Like-A- Muffaletta -Salad!”

Huh? As Cori’s husband Dan later points out, that’s not a muffaletta salad – it’s a fricking garden salad. No wonder guys don’t go to these conferences – they’d never stand for this stuff.

Then it’s on the pumpkin soup – where they lose me basically right from the start.

“So for this, you want to start out with a fresh pumpkin that you’ll hollow out and cook yourself – and then you want to pop over to the market like we did and pick up a huge piece of fresh ginger, like this! And then spend hours slicing off pieces for the soup – this will really require some muscle power!”

Okay, now seriously folks. No offense meant to the organizers of this conference at all, because they did put together an immensely well-run event – but these two are talking to a bunch of cancer survivors here. Most of us are broke, none of us have tons of free time, and if we do, we’re not going to spend the day traipsing to the market to pick up fresh ginger root to grind, m’kay? So telling us how to spend literally hours making one batch of pumpkin soup isn’t all that helpful.

Finally, they’re winding things up with my favorite part: dessert! Whee! This would surely have to be good, right?

“For dessert, because sugar is BAD BAD BAD, we picked up a whole bunch of these different kinds of seeds and nuts, and we’ll make a paste out of some of them, then sprinkle in a carob chip or two…”

That does it. Carob? Also known as one of the most heinous substances known to man?? It’s time to take matters into my own hands.

Me: “Whoopie pie, anyone? I bought them this morning at RTM. Look, there’s chocolate, and here’s a red velvet one…”

Our cooks yammer on as our table partakes in whoopee pie goodness. Finally, this seminar is over, and who should come bustling in?

Cori, bustling in: “You guys won’t believe this! I couldn’t get anyone to open up the slutty nurse outfit store, so I’ve been looking ALL OVER this city and haven’t found anything so far. I must have that outfit!”

The sisterhood springs into action….