Trade Ya (You'll Thank Me)

First things first:  To my fan (you know who you are), thank you for the guilting strategy employed to get me blogging again.  It really does speak to some of my truest parts, after all.  I should never have neglected this self-imposed duty for so long.

But more importantly, let’s talk Trade.  In case you’re out of the loop, Trade is one of the new restaurants down by the waterfront, ie. my ‘hood.  (Shut up.  I can say that.)  It’s on the corner of Atlantic and Congress, within spitting distance of South Station.  That’s gross, and I can’t quantify it because I didn’t spit, but I feel that I *could have* made that distance.  But I digress…

Let’s start with the ambience.  Energetic but not overly loud, I’d say.  It’s all open, however, so the volume was definitely increasing as our dinner advanced.  Plus, we were there early – 6:00 – which was the only reservation I could get for us, a week in advance.  It’s that HOT right now folks.  There was a group of woman behind us that was getting a little boisterous toward the end, but I didn’t mind it.  Just don’t go there expecting a quiet, romantic date with your bf and get all bent out of shape when you can’t hear his sweet nothings.  And also, stop calling it sweet nothings.  And also, stop annoying me.

Our server was attentive and knowledgeable.  Nothing more or less than I expect.  Service kind of defines a good restaurant for me.  When it’s subpar, I really feel it.  I’m more likely to return to a restaurant with excellent service and average quality food than the other way around.  (You may want to keep that in mind when considering my reviews.)  The hostess was very engaging and welcoming and we were seated immediately.  Don’t you hate when you are forced to wait in spite of your conscientious pre-planning?

Windows abound, so you have a clear view of the Greenway (count your lucky stars the Occupiers are gone – that wasn’t pretty) and, well, Congress St. and Atlantic Ave.  But you’re in the middle of the Financial District, on the cusp of the Waterfront, so I would imagine that kind of hustle and bustle is what you’re anticipating when you make a reservation in Boston.

All of this aside, let’s talk food.  I will be back, I guaran-gosh-darn-tee it.  And my friend and I really only sampled the flatbreads!  Well, she also got this appetizer – fried dough with parmesan, prosciutto and anchovies – that I sampled.  The flavor was yummy; garlic wasn’t part of the description, but it was welcome just the same.  But really, we both wished the fried dough portion was less crispy, more chewy – like the standard gratuitously fattening fried deliciousness you may remember from childhood town fairs.

The flatbreads, on the other hand… oh myyyyyy.  My friend ordered the lamb sausage with eggplant, Manchego, peppers and garlic yogurt, and I went a bit simpler, ordering the 4-cheese with slow braised tomatoes, basil and arugula.  Heavenly, friends.  Heav.  En.  Ly.  Let’s start with the crust, since they had that in common.  These were cooked brick-oven style and the dough was just thick enough to not become soggy with the toppings, with a crunchy/chewy crust around the edge.  Perfect.  On the other hand, the two flavors were entirely unique.  But in a blessedly beautiful way.

My pizza wasn’t inundated with too much of any one ingredient.  For instance, just enough baby arugula and basil on top (this is important because, sadly, I tend to choke on arugula… don’t ask), just enough pesto accent, just enough tomato base and, oh yes, plenty of the best combination of cheeses to be light and airy enough to absorb those other luscious flavors and also not too, too stringy so that you’re constantly slurping and peeling it off your chin.  Meanwhile, my friend’s flatbread was pleasingly hearty with tender, slightly spicy lamb influenced by a smattering of pepper and balanced by Manchego – all brilliantly complemented with a light drizzle of garlic yogurt.  We finished every bite.  Plus, I don’t mind saying I can’t wait to go back and try the mushrooms and figs with gorgonzola, sage pesto and walnuts.  Oh, and the rosemary, ricotta salata and sea salt.

From their web site - a look at the lamb flatbread.  Pretty darn accurate.

Folks, these are just the flatbreads!  That’s merely one of five groupings on the menu – and the smallest one at that.  There are a host of small plates for those that enjoy sharing tapas (the fried dough was a part of that family), a handful of soups and salads and an entire list of entrees yet to be tested by this palate.  Oops, and a few extra side dishes as well.

That said, I already have plans to return next month with another group of friends.  Again, not just for the food itself, the descriptions of which each beg their own sampling, but to enjoy a festive atmosphere where bursts of laughter among groups of friends are a part of the atmosphere that I’m pretty sure is not only encouraged but actively cultivated.  Maybe you’ll have to pump up the volume when you get to the punch line of the best joke you’ve ever told, but given the epicurean delights you’ll be savoring and the quality service you’ll be experiencing, I’d call that more than a fair Trade.

If You Love Me, You’ll Read This Post (Facebook Tells Me So)

“I hate Alzheimer’s, cancer, heart disease and all debilitating afflictions.  I think most mothers are real heroes.  My heart breaks for the military sacrificing their lives and separating themselves from their families to protect my rights.  But most of all, I hate when people put these messages on Facebook.  So let’s stop peer pressured status updates!  If you agree with me, you’ll post this too.  I know my friends will.  Let’s end this insanity in 2011!”

                               

Ok, so yes, this one has been driving me crazy.  I’ve rallied Lord Bessie as well.  She never goes on Facebook, so it’s up to me to report such abuse on a regular basis.  (What?  It helps to build a posse.)  The annoyance factor is pretty obvious, but I think a little deconstruction will help me understand why each instance of this propaganda has me looking for ways to reach through the screen and choke the offender.

1.   What exactly do multiple postings of the same status do for the cause?  It’s not like anyone is asking for a donation through a supporting organization.  Nor do I see a call for mass mailings to our politicians to change laws or increase funding or advocate for change.  Even a request for intercessory prayer would be compelling.  Yet apparently, if you post the same message, somehow we’ll be that much closer to a cure or the end of war or appreciation for some super nice person.

I wonder how that works.  Further, can this skill or process or what-have-you work toward other ends?  For instance, could I insist that others post a wish that I become invincible?  Or, perhaps we could all collaborate to end traffic jams forever.  Or maybe with the help of all of my FB friends, I would never have to pay rent again!  I’m not sure what the rules are or where the boundaries of propriety lie, but since it already seems like they’ve been crossed, all doors look open to me.

2.   There is also the implication that one isn’t a *real* friend if she doesn’t repost the same message.  Crazypants.  When have there ever, Ever, EVER been two people who agree point-for-point on everything?  Lord Bessie is the most closely aligned with my thinking and yet there is no way we have the exact same priorities and views.  And for those opinions that match, our expression or support of them can vary significantly.  (This rant is a case in point.  LB may snort and guffaw in agreement but has no interest in writing a treatise on it.)

Now, I realize that this is simply a strong-arm tactic to motivate people to adhere to these requests.  After all, I have yet to be deleted from the FB accounts of any such status-updating-offenders for not reposting per instruction.  So why even say it?  Are they testing their power over their friends?  Why not just have them spread their arms to show how much they love you?  (“Thisssss much!”)  And if it is a thermometer of love, why not just call it that?  Perhaps an alternative could be offered:  You’re under no obligation to repost if you simply remind me how much you love me in the comment section.  And/or, send me a gift.

3.   Plenty of times, it turns out that what the Status-er wanted was a little sympathy.  I’ve seen the likes of:

Comment from Status-er (under her own status):  My mother died from cancer X years ago, and I miss her every day.
Comment from Friend 1:  My heart goes out to you and your family!
Comment from Status-er:  Thanks Friend 1! XOXO!!
Comment from Friend 2:  Thinking of you and sending hugs…
Comment from Status-er:  Thanks Friend 2.  That means a lot.

You get the idea.  To that end, I get it.  It’s a boost.  You’re sad, you want people to know you’re sad, you’re hoping someone shows you a little compassion, their comments salve your wound, repeat.  I guess it’s because it just trumpets “NEEDY”.  As I have been criticized for not being needy enough, you can imagine my lack of appreciation for this approach.

4.   Finally, isn’t Facebook really just a social networking site?  (That’s what they called the movie, after all.)  So, in the words of the immortal Joker:  “Why so serious?”  These statuses aren’t all that social.  More accurately, they’re anti-social.  The Status-ers don’t really want to talk about it.  No one wants to get down and dirty and delve into the issue… and they shouldn’t!  But they’re not light issues, and the real intention notwithstanding, it feels like they’re being treated lightly.

It's not like I'm being forced to keep these Status-ers as my Facebook friends.  Frankly some of the most oft-repeat offenders have been banished from my news feed already.  I'm just stymied by these behaviors, and rather than lose connection with these well-intentioned souls, I've opted to unload here.  If you're a real friend, you'll understand, repost and show me some love with your syrupy comment. XOXO

The Trials of My Left Foot - Apologies to Christy Brown

First, a short history:

1.   Many years of high heels and shoes with extremely tapered toes.

2.   Two sprains.

3.   One broken ankle.

4.   Weeks of training for a half marathon with a tack in my sneaker.  (Discovered the night before the race by the way.)

I have not been kind to my left foot.  Nothing personal, I swear.  But after years of the type of torture I just described, I suppose it was inevitable that I’d develop an Intermetatarsal Neuroma.  Basically, this is a thickening of the nerve between two of my toes (above the ball of my foot) that results in tingling, numbness, burning, a piercing pain and this weird feeling like your sock is bunched up in your sneaker or there’s something stuck in your shoe or inside your foot.  My first podiatrist failed. (I actually want to say more about this, because c’mon man, that’s your JOB… but I won’t.)  Anyway, eventually a friend referred me to Dr. Robinson who diagnosed me immediately and tried everything to avoid surgery, but when the other non-invasive strategies didn’t work, I was forced to consider the slice-and-dice.

Once I made the decision, then came the planning, which took a pre op appointment with New England Baptist Hospital, a pre op with Dr. Robinson, the actual surgery at New England Surgicare, a week of convalescence at home, and a post op with Dr. Robinson (stitches removal).

Well, I was a little edgy going into it, I’m not gonna lie. I mean, I’d never had surgery, and hey, they were going to put me to sleep and carve out my swollen nerve.  Needless to say, I could hide my nervousness on the outside, but I kept getting sold out by my slightly high blood pressure.  Still the adventure of doing that first pre op was surprisingly – what’s the word I’m looking for? – delightful?  Not a drag?  Ego boosting?  I felt like a rock star!  The nurses kept saying I was “so cute”.  The one going through the questionnaire with me asked if I went to college because I was “very well-spoken”.  Plus, whenever anyone hears that I work for a social service charity, I get about 300 extra credit points.  She even liked my black and grey argyle socks.  (This is a true story.)  So, we got through the tough questions to determine that I am extremely healthy in every other way, and then she came at me with the stethoscope.  That’s when she discovered that my skin was all blotchy and I was sweating. “Are you nervous?”  Apparently so.  She tried to make me feel better about this by saying that she felt it was warm in the room and cracked a window for me.  This concession was kinder than you know because I am extremely thermal.  In fact, I am pretty sure that it will be me and the polar bears in the next Ice Age.

From my perspective, the only glitch during this preliminary exam was the result of my deep veins.  (I miss my mom so much, I’ll take the inherited hit.)  The teenage-y nurse who initially accepted the assignment to take my blood was stymied by my line-less arms.  I warned her, but she forged ahead convinced she’d found the mother lode.  Jab, jab, pinch, jab.  Nothing.  Blessedly, she resigned and left to find a colleague, conceivably with a better success rate.  Blood nurse #2 immediately knew it was no use and ended up using a vein in my hand.  I didn’t like the idea of it, but it wasn’t any more painful and at least she wasn’t wriggling something sharp and pointy under my skin.

Two weeks later Lord Bessie and I headed over to New England Surgicare for my 1:00 check in.  Strangely, upon our arrival, there were no further directions or instructions to indicate where I should be.  The registration/security desk was noticeably vacant and the directory was no help at all.  I called my friends at Dr. Robinson’s but they really had no idea considering they sent me to the third floor where all of the maternity and pediatric offices were.  (It’s all water weight, I swear.)  Eventually, the guy returned to his reception desk and pointed us in the right direction.  But really, where was he?  In retrospect, I think I saw him chatting up someone on the couches to the right of the entrance.  Shouldn’t he have had an eye on the door?  Perhaps watching for any lost and lingering types?  Wasn’t my name on some VIP list?

On the second floor, I was immediately checked in, paid my $250 deductible and provided a copy of my Healthcare Proxy.   Am I the only one curious about what exactly was going to go so wrong that my Healthcare Proxy would come into play?  Dr. Rob slips, throws the scalpel in the air and it slices my jugular?  A faulty IV ODs me?  The bright lights in the operating room burn through my skin and damage my internal organs?  Disturbing.  However, Lord Bessie retains all these decision-making rights, so no matter the freak scenario, they would have had their answer pretty quickly.

While LB waited, I was then brought to another area where my vitals were taken and I was given my gorgeous matching johnny wear and rubber-bottomed socks.  Hot.  Nurse Julie was very engaging and apologized for the cold temps.  I assured her of my thermal-tude, but she was sure I’d need the two folded blankets left for that purpose.  I kind of cuddled one – it was the best I could do.  Sue took one look at my arms and decided it would be more appropriate to wait for the anesthesiologist.  She told me I could expect a visit from him, from the physical therapist and Dr. Rob himself.  It was like my own personalized A Christmas Carol.

Fortunately, while I awaited my visitors, LB was allowed to sit with me.  Thank goodness, because then she was privy to the accolades I began to receive from Nurse Julie and her friend Nurse Kay.  As I passed by them to use the bathroom, Kay complimented my “cute glasses” and Sue responded with “all of her is cute”.   These are real quotes.  I can only assume they must get some real boring types around there. 

My first visitor was Simon Baker, playing the part of my physical therapist.  His role was to evaluate my crutch-wielding skills.  I’m pretty good.  I mean, consider the list at the beginning of this post.  Plus, I would think it’s somewhat telling that I brought my own crutches.  Anyway, I passed with flying colors and heard further compliments between Simon and Sue.  It takes very little, I guess, to impress the medical community, patient-wise.

Next, Kay noted that my IV hadn’t been started and decided to take a stab at it.  Multiple stabs, in fact.  Bless her heart, she was really trying, but it was supremely uncomfortable for me.  In the middle of her attempts, Bob the anesthesiologist showed up to explain the drowsy plan ahead of me.  He also gently suggested to Kay that she allow him to handle the IV sitch later.  Upon her exit, he took a look at my arms and was undeterred by the deep veins.  I loved his confidence.

Finally, Dr. Rob stopped in to draw a line on my foot (very technical) and make sure all my questions had been answered.  I said, “Nope.  Sounds pretty cut and dry.  Literally.”  Shut up.  He laughed!  Then, he left and a few minutes later, the surgical nurse came to get me.  Once again, I was warned of low temperatures in the operating room as she reached to grab more blankets for me.  One of my johnnies was then removed and I laid back on the operating table.  Immediately, my right hand was grabbed for the IV and the inevitable sedative to put me in a state of “twilight”.  The last thing I remember is Bob placing the oxygen mask over my mouth and pulling out a syringe full of sleepy juice.

Next thing I knew, someone was calling my name and putting me into a rolling easy chair.  It was as if no time had passed.  Weirdest sensation.  Plus, I was immediately wide awake and in the best mood.  Nurse Sue handled my recovery and brought me crackers and ginger ale and went to get LB.  Then Simon Baker arrived to watch me use the crutches.  LB heard him say that I was the best/easiest patient with the crutches.  Honestly, I don’t know what I was doing to impress these people, but I could do no wrong.  Sue reviewed all of my post op instructions with me, fitted me with a boot and had me get dressed.  Then, she sent LB to get the car and called for another nurse with a wheelchair transport.  In parting, she told me what a great patient I was and how pleased she was to meet me and my sister.  The best way to end her day or something.  (I’m not making this stuff up.)

 In the recovery room.

Now I’ve been home recuperating for a few days, and I’ve barely needed any meds.  The first day and a half, I took the Advil to manage swelling, and one dose of the codeine when I felt the local anesthetic wearing off, but since then, nothing.  I just sit here, foot raised and iced, and heal.  It’s not like being on vacation, and I’m definitely going a little bit stir crazy, but all things considered, this hasn’t been a bad experience.  So maybe the tide is turning, and like Christy, I now have an ally in the former nemesis that was my left foot.

Make It A Big Night

There are plenty of food-centric movies that have made my mouth water:  Babette’s Feast, Chocolat, Tortilla Soup (lame movie, excellent cooking), Woman on Top (perhaps even worse movie, same excellent cooking).  But none of these movies has inspired my inner chef like Big Night.  This 1996 independent film gathers an impressive ensemble cast but the real story centers around two brothers played by Stanley Tucci and Tony Shalhoub.  (I should have had you at “Tucci”.)  I don’t feel like it’s an exaggeration to say this movie is no less than awe inspiring with its depiction of traditional Italian homemade cuisine.  In fact, I dare say, I feel a little bit sorry for you if this movie has escaped your attention.  But it’s not too late friends.  Just, you know, don’t go in it for the complicated plot or the fast-paced action.  Oh, and possibly consider skipping a meal so you’re on the verge of real hunger.

However, this post is not a review of that movie by any means.  This is about the signature dish of that movie.  On the “big night”, the brothers have invited a VIP to sample the best of their edible fare as a last-ditch effort to save their restaurant.  From the first course, nay the preparation of the first course, your mouth will be watering and your taste buds tingling.  But the most delightful presentation of all, the most compelling dish among the many epicurean jewels spread across the table… is the timpano.  For years I’ve watched enraptured, upon every repeat viewing, as Tony Shalhoub’s Primo (that’s his character’s name) creates this dish.  Then, last year, Lord Bessie and I discovered that she had a few friends who were equally fascinated by the timpano.  And so we had our first Timpano Day.

We went all out.  One of her friends even had the Tucci family cookbook with the recipe from the movie and a special dish to accommodate it.  (It’s huge.)  Then, we divided the prep responsibilities, set aside a whole afternoon, and coordinated the construction of our masterpiece.  It completely met our expectations.  But better yet, my nephew saw the video we made and wanted to try it, so we lured him for his first visit ever to our apartment with the promise of a timpano custom-made just for him.  And his teeny tiny girlfriend. 

This is what it takes.

First, we needed to borrow that special basin-like dish.  Second, we prepared Ragu Tucci, because not only must everything be made from scratch, it must be the exact same recipe as the movie.  Then we made the little meatballs.  Only that didn’t turn out quite so well.  Apparently I should have read every line of the recipe to note that the ten slices of Italian bread needed to be left out for three days.  Discovered this detail on Timpano Eve at about 5:00 pm.  We gave it three hours.  Unfortunately, that was not enough time and, long story short, the meatballs were kinda mealy.  Lord Bessie didn’t mind them, but they made me gag.  I tried three times... and then made a quick trip to the grocery store.

Other ingredients for layering include Genoa salami, provolone, pecorino romano, hard-boiled eggs and 3 lbs of ziti.  The pasta shell to encase these tasty layers was made by Lord Bessie and rolled to correct proportions by yours truly.  That’s rubbery stuff, I tell ya.  The first time we went through this process we realized that flour got stuck in crevices we could neither see nor feel in our smooth-topped table.  Still, it’s the only surface big enough for this purpose, so we simple re-speckled.  Apparently, just as I’m willing to suffer for fashion, I am equally willing to damage my furniture to legitimize my cooking.  Plus, technically Lord Bessie bought the table.

Ok, so the pasta shell is rolled out and placed in the basin, draped over the edges.  Then the layers begin – ziti, meatballs, salami, eggs, provolone, ragu, romano – repeat.  Finally, top it off with some beaten eggs and fold the flaps together over the top.  I suspect an aficionado like Stanley Tucci can accomplish this seamlessly; however we needed a few toothpicks to ensure a tight fit.  No big deal.  That part ends up on the bottom.

The bummer of the process is the wait.  It needs to cook for an hour uncovered, then another 30 minutes with foil on top, then it needs to sit out of the oven for another 30 minutes, then you pop it out of the basin and let it sit for another minimum 20 minutes.  (Only, I recommend longer.)  On the other hand, that meant we had the pleasure of my handsome nephew’s company that much longer.  It’s a strategy I recommend:  bondage by appetite.  To his credit, he acted as if he liked being here.  (If you’re reading this, kid, you made our day.)

As for the timpano, two out of two times it hasn’t disappointed.  It’s hearty and dense and filling and altogether satisfying.  And it’s not really difficult, so you should attempt it yourself.  Make an occasion of it, as seems to be our burgeoning pattern.  It deserves nothing less than a Big Night.

Fully layered and ready to seal.

Toothpicking.

Settling.  For another 20 minutes.

Nephew going in for seconds.

Over the river and Upstairs on the Square

Lord Bessie was a little anxious when she heard me tossing around the idea of a posting after our experience.  So, let me begin by saying I’ll gladly return to this Cambridge restaurant, very few caveats.  There.  That makes this a positive review in my book/blog.

Here’s what you’ll love:

First, the staff is attentive and conscientious and – I suspect but can’t prove – omnipresent.  Plus, all but one of the waiters was male.  Lord Bessie and I call any good-looking waiter Antonio, and this place was chock full of Antonios. (expectant pause) Fine, I’ll digress to explain.

Years ago, we were finishing up at another restaurant having been adequately served by a competent waitress.  The place wasn’t packed, so we were subconsciously if not fully conscious of the rest of the patrons and staff during our meal.  Thus, we were surprised by the sudden appearance of a very attractive, dark-complexioned young man at our table with our check:  “I hope you enjoyed your lunch, ladies,” he intoned deeply, with a sparkle of promise in his eyes.  (Later we decided he also had a sexy foreign accent.)  We played it cool, but I’m pretty sure one or both of us murmured, “What the heck was that??”  We later dubbed him Antonio, and have found ourselves likewise played in similar scenarios, we suspect in order to positively influence the size of the tip.  I can’t say for sure that it hasn’t worked on occasion.

Anyway, UotS didn’t have to deploy special forces since our needs were already being met by an Ivan Sergei look alike.  Let me just say, I don’t spend a lot of time dreaming about Ivan Sergei, but when he’s suddenly your waiter, your appreciation levels change.

Ivan Sergei or possibly our waiter.

Second, the décor is charming and eclectic and comfy.  The arrangement of tables nestles groups into corners or envelops them in velvet cushioned couches.  Even the table-less seemed to snuggle up to the bar and settle in.  Yet the vibe is energetic, with a flat screen in the corner playing the obligatory football game.  It’s your friendly upscale neighborhood bar, I guess, but it feels more like the home of your friendly upscale neighbor.

Third, and probably most importantly, we enjoyed our meals.  We both got the sirloin cheeseburger on a buttered potato roll with gruyere, Niman ranch bacon and cucumber pickles.  Tasty and extremely messy.  It came with fries, which were flavorful and well-seasoned but they earned a demerit for my usual fried potato complaint:  not crispy enough.  (If it helps you create a full picture, Lord Bessie didn’t want me to mention the fries.  She thought my censure would be too off-putting.)  For dessert, I enjoyed a couple scoops of their homemade chocolate malt ice cream.  Basically, I saw “malt” and stopped reading.  My sister opted for the sorbet – pear, pomegranate lemonade and some berry flavor with a couple of shortbread cookies.  After those burgers, this was about all we could handle.  All in all, exactly the meal your belly craves when fulfilling its natural urge to build thermal cushions of cellulite to protect you from the winter cold and snow.

However,

Caveat #1

I suspect this place is better suited to groups, or at least parties of 4 or more.  Lord Bessie and I were the only party of two not seated at the bar.  I further suspect that there was a bit of a scramble to accommodate us.  We were at a tiny little table that seemed placed in the middle of a major walkway between the bar/kitchen and the private dining room in the back and other areas of the restaurant.  Every time one of the ubiquitous wait staff walked by us, it felt like the thundering of a herd of elephants.  Worse, no one could take the corner clean enough to avoid hitting Lord Bessie in the shoulder or head.  She didn’t seem to care (most of the time), but I found it annoying as the observer.  I think I was nervous, positioned under what felt like a spotlight… further proof that our table was in unfamiliar territory.  We were both nervous, me and the table.

Caveat #2

I was on the verge of full heat stroke most of the time.  Granted, this could be a direct result of the awkward placement of our accent table (seriously, we were stuck behind an actual sofa), but the entire restaurant is cozy enough to contain the natural heat generated by the activity of the patrons and swinging door to the kitchen.  That’s why I think the roaring fireplace was maybe… possibly… a little overkill.  I mean I get it about ambience and all.  It’s lovely to observe, for sure.  I just think that perhaps a video flame or candles or decorative lights would have also conveyed a homey, living room atmosphere and not have required pourer’s elbow from the Johnny-on-the-spot water boys trying to keep me hydrated.

Don’t get me wrong, I really did like this place.  In fact, I had a chance to look at their 2011 list of upcoming events, and I’m interested.  Teas, Piano Sings (oh yes), Trivia, Wine Tastings, Fondue Parties… I am definitely compelled to return.  Just, you know, with a few extra friends and maybe wearing layers.

Wii/Weeeee

I now realize why that fifth little piggy squealed all the way home.  He wasn’t shouting “weeeee!”; he was shouting for his Wii.  I’m convinced of this.  That is, now that I (I = Lord Bessie) am the proud owner of an actual Wii.  I admit, I’m not exactly an early adopter with this thing, but better late than never as far as I’m concerned.  I am hooked.  And all I’ve done is this dance thing!

This is typically how it happens with me.  At Christmas, I go to my oldest sister’s house and they inevitably have something new to engage and delight me in the realm of digital entertainment.  First it was Guitar Hero, then Rock Band and this year I was aggressively wooed by Just Dance.  My niece, Lord Bessie, my sis-in-law and I fist-pumped, gyrated and bounced our way around the room for about 15 minutes and 4 or 5 songs and completely wore ourselves out.  I didn’t score too badly either.  Therefore, almost immediately – and telepathically – Lord Bessie and I decided that we must own this magnificent invention for ourselves.  (Later we also actually verbalized this to one another.)

It’s highly likely that most or all of you have already played this particular game, but if you haven’t, you must purchase it immediately and provide me with your feedback (ie. agree with me).  I promise it doesn’t require real skill.  You don’t even have to be a good dancer.  Or very coordinated.  I myself am prone to massive and extravagant falls, yet dare I say, I am poised to be a Just Dance star.  The key is figuring out when you can cut corners to stay in the game.  Keep in mind that only your right hand is being monitored by holding the little Wii device.  (Sorry, I don’t know the vernacular yet.)  This means you can occasionally give yourself a break on the legwork or slow your left hand/arm and still sustain your winner’s edge.  See?  I’m a novice, and I’ve still managed to pick up on these secret strategies. 

I hate to say it, but really, it’s also a brilliant way to trick yourself into exercise.  I did 50 minutes straight the other day, and frankly I haven’t managed that length of consistent aerobic activity for quite some time.  Then later, I followed that up with another half hour or so of competitive dance with Lord Bessie.  It’s addictive, I say!  We’re already ready to buy Just Dance 2 simply for the variety of songs.

I must also mention that the entertainment factor is further enhanced by the cartoon characters that are leading the dance moves for each song.  They are colorful, decade-appropriate and unique.  Think afros and flared jeans for 70s tunes or parachute pants to accompany those MC Hammer moves or Richard Simmons attire to punch out “Eye of the Tiger”.  I think our favorite one is actually this hoe-down style song… oh what a YouTube hit we’d be.  Granted, some are better than others, and there are various levels of difficulty to navigate, but gosh it’s fun.  In fact, my youth phoned me immediately after my first session, and unfairly reamed me out for not playing sooner.  (Don’t worry, we made up later.)

In any case, it’s here now and that means my little piggies will be getting quite the work out this winter.  I’m sure you’ll hear them Wii all the way home.