Spokane Exodus

Mitch and I had a hot night in the cab of a U-Haul on the eve of our one-year anniversary. And contrary to my purposely misleading sentence, the night was hot, sweaty due to the average kinetic energy of the air molecules and the ones making up the black faux-leather seats. Not even officially in the midwest (night spent in Somewhere, East Montana) yet on our move to Chicago, and it's already getting uncomfortably humid, the coffee's weaker, the water's starting to taste like it has leaves mixed in with it, and servers in restaurants have started to chat more.

Mitch and I were sitting at a home-style restaurant in Caramel, Indiana with Mitch's grandmother, Barb Story. We had some east-coast beers and Barb had her two fingers of Johnny Walker Red. Our server was talking to us as effusively as one of those lonely people on the STA. She was in her forties. Bleach blonde hair, high-wasted jeans, lime green blouse, cleavage. She took a seat at our table and told us about her life and the specials -- pork tenderloin: a thin slab of pork trippled in thickness by being fried and breaded. A large sesame seed bun with a side of pickles or coleslaw or baked beans or pasta salad with spaghetti noodles.

I related my theory to Mitch, John, and Chri$ta last night when we pulled in late to Denny's in Billings. The closer we get to the Midwest, I predicted, the more talkative our servers will be. If I'm right we might be in trouble.

Bill: I brought you some waters.

Bill: To make a long story short... I worked as a manager in a Denny's in Florida before I moved back up here.

Bill: You don't have Ketchup...?

Bill: I knew the guy who won the world's best server competition... for Denny's. Damn it, what was his name?

Lady in the kitchen: Bill!

Bill: He got on that TV show on the Food Network. Fuck me, what was that called?

(He hits the glass partition above the booth with an open palm.)

Bill: (Presses his clenched fists against his forehead. Closes his eyes.) Shit.

Lady: Bill!

Bill: (Opens his eyes)And you know something else? He was a Russian. Now what does that tell you?

He let the question hang.

I'm thinking about taking Denny's late-night wait staff out of the test group for my theory.

Now, I don't want to give you the wrong idea. I'm very excited about this move. We saw lightning at 8 a.m., and if we're lucky we'll see lightning bugs tonight.

I've spent all of my Christmases in the Midwest and only have resented a couple of them.

I'm excited for the large Midwestern boys. German decent. 6'2" at the minimum. And brawny from their participation in manly team sports like Wrestling and Eating Pork Tenderloin.

I woke up on my one-year anniversary to the itch of mosquito bites. The cab stuffiness was so bad that we left the U-Haul windows wide open. And as the sun rose in the intricately clouded Montana sky, so did the blood-suckers. (I lived in Spokane for so long I forgot that there are places with lots-o-bugs.) I watched the silhouette of one on the steering wheel; its gut inflated and its insectile shoulders hunched and hairy. I tried to remember how the kid from Hatchet managed.

As much as this move is exactly what I want for my life right now, I regret putting states between me and the best people in the world. My friends are objectively the best combination of charm, intelligence, humor, loving disposition, and quirkiness that can possibly exist. I have no idea how they came to be so rounded up.

I don't expect to find people who laugh at my jokes, who listen to me, and who like me so well as y'all do. Of course, I hope I am wrong. If not, at least I know my waitress will talk to me.

Food in the Midwest

My mom's side of the family lives in Indiana, and my family has been coming here (Indianapolis) every Christmas since I was born. I hadn't thought about how Midwestern cuisine could be different than that of Colorado or the Northwest until I was reading in Bill Bryson's "The Lost Continent." Or at least I think that's where I was reading about it.

Bryson said something about Midwestern fair consisting of depression-era food: odd casseroles, white bread, plates of lunch meat, and every meal adorned with green olives. The olive part was what really caught my attention. Every supper we eat (and it's called "supper") is buffet-style with an option of olives and sweet pickles. I thought my grandpa bought them because I like them (and that may still be the case), but Bryson knew about the olives! Maybe it's cultural.

I spent a half hour looking through the book to find the exact quote without success. According to Google there is no use of the words "olive", "olives", "pickle", or "pickles" in the entire book. (What would olives have to do with the Depression anyway?)

We had cheeseburger pie two nights ago. It's hamburger, tomato paste, onion, and Italian seasoning covered in mozzarella cheese. All this happens in a pie tin, hence the name, and is drizzled with a tomato-paste sauce according to the diner's taste.

Spaghetti noodles make unexpected appearances. We had lunch and opened presents with Mitch's mom's side of the family. There was a spaghetti-based pasta salad. And my favorite food at Grandma's is her chili with tomato paste, hamburger, chili pepper, and spaghetti noodles.

Midwesterners like their beer light and macro brewed. It wouldn't make sense for them to drink anything that would take their attention off the Colts game they're watching. Even Fat Tire has only made a recent and slight appearance in this area. Mitch's cousin allegedly doesn't care for hops.

In an attempt to spread the canned-food love, I have made my beloved cherry-pineapple pie (quick-acting tapioca balls, a can of sour pitted cherries, canned pineapple, sugar, almond extract) for Washingtonian housemates without much success.

I'll be spending a rare New Year's outside of Indiana and intend to make the traditional and delicious Polish Mistakes: sausage cooked in Velveeta cheese placed on pieces of rye bread and baked in the oven.

I had thought it a bit extreme that the second thing anybody would say about Mitch's cousin was, "She's a vegan. She doesn't eat anything." Veganism: more restricting than vegitarianism, but not unheard of. It took me writing this blog to realize that a Midwest meal is never without meat, cheese, and eggs--sometimes all three in the same dish. A vegan from the Midwest is kind of like a cow that only eats strawberries.