Turnips, Tango, Tapas, Tequila, and Totes

For those wondering what happened to those delectable turnips I purchased last week, here is the result:

Pictured above: Sliced turnips, sautéed with garlic and red wine, seasoned with parsley and basil. After this picture, I promptly threw them all in the garbage. Why? Turnips are gross! Eww!

But as exciting as turnips are (most of my blog readership now comes from links from the Turnip Fancy magazine website), I decided to leave them at home as I prepared for a night on the town last Friday.

There was a free Argentinian tango lesson and live tango band performance at Grant Park, and a fellow MSTP student and I wanted to give it a try. You should understand that, between the two of us, our respective Tango abilities could not more disparate. I realize that although I have an immense history of "gettin' jiggy wit it" to a variety of dance styles, the tango was one dance I had never tamed. It was my unicorn: uncatchable and ready to impale me with its powerful horn.

Contrastly, my friend not only knew how to tango, he had years (probably decades) of Tango experience and training. I imagine that as a fetus, his in utero months of dance practice were difficult, as the umbilical cord was his only (and unruly) partner. Now a grown-up, non-fetus tango master, he could will a single rose into his hand just by stepping onto the dance floor.

The basic tango lessons at the beginning were easy enough, but when the band came on, I entered a world of trouble. All of my leading skills were limited to swing and salsa, where "leading" really just means throwing the girl around until you get tired. My half-whiteness, eager to finally get the chance to gain control, shone through in spades; I became a bumbling, awkward nerd. I didn't so much tango as I just apologized and stumbled around. While it is true, as the old saying goes, that it takes two to tango, it only takes one to ruin it.

However, my friend had the opposite problem. His level far exceeded that of the crowd, forcing an excess of charm and machismo to ooze onto the dancefloor, certainly in violation of some EPA ordinance. Later, he lamented the casual nature of the dance, where I "asked" women to dance with me. "In real tango," he said. "You find your partner by locking eyes onto each other."

Pictured above: This tango master demands a dance. And a GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

Defeated by the tango, I decided to do something I knew I could do well: eating. A few of us MSTP kids when out to get Tapas on Saturday night. Tapas is a famous part of Spanish cuisine, where traditionally diners will all share their entrées, their wine, and their tuberculosis (el consumption).

Afterwards, we went to a tequila bar, because this weekend had still not yet become Hispanic enough. Unfortunately, I didn't know that there was a themed party going on at the bar. From what I could deduce, the theme was "Terrible Frat Party." I took a picture, but my film melted almost immediately.

Pictured above: Not pictured. It was like the Ark of the Covenant. But instead of Nazis, it was dudes with baseball caps and polos. Close your eyes, bro!

So that's about it for my weekend. Oh yeah, I also made this sweet tote bag.

Pictured Above: Punctuation-nerd tote bag.

Note: This is not irony. Punctuation marks are awesome.

Fast Breaks and Radishes

This wonderful Sunday morning, my older brother Kuma and I went out for a delicious Chicago breakfast (for those unfamiliar with it, "breakfast" is a kind of early lunch or very late dinner).

He suggested a place called the Bongo Room, which I assumed was some kind of Argentinian nightclub that served breakfast-themed cocktails (for example, a cosmopolitan benedict, which is vodka, cranberry juice, and just a splash of hollandaise sauce). But it turns out with was your classic Wicker Park restaurant: everything you enjoy, but exactly $2.50 more expensive than you would expect (walking into the restaurant cost $2.50). I ordered the breakfast burrito in an attempt to make myself appear more ethnic.


Pictured above: A burrito filled with avocado, eggs, and regret. While it was delicious, my brother's croissant sandwich (not pictured) had significantly more pastry.

Afterwards, as Folmsbee men are want to do, we ventured to see if there were other foodstuffs to conquer. We stumbled upon a Farmer's Market, but yet there were no farmers being sold, only sad buckets of fruits and vegetables at a considerable mark-up.

As much of a fan of local food I used to be, I have some skeptical hold-ups best described by Mr. Brian Dunning (see here for those reading for science and not absurdity). But regardless, I found some roots too appealing to turn down. My love of subterranean vegetables is well documented.


Pictured above: a chump and his turnips.

More exciting events transpired today, but I will save those juicy tales for later in the week. For now, I shall change out of my after-dinner tuxedo and into my flannel pajamas and cap. I have a long night of dream-thinking ahead of me.