Tales from the Ole' Boston Homestead

Study time has struck again at the Hansen homestead. Little Joe and Hoss are settling down to prepare for the bar exam. Dr. Quinn is continuing her medical education. Laura's writing another book, and even Kwai Chang Caine is meditatin' up a storm. But no one's harder at work than Danielle, who's fixin' up a fine sermon and preparing for a whole mess o' grading next week, and Eric, who's got one actuarial exam coming up faster than a rattler after a field mouse and another, black hat-wearing exam on the horizon.

“Why all the Western nonsense?” you might be a'pondering. Well, you grab yourself a sarsaparilla and settle in, because Eric's about to tell you a tale of a trip to the Border.

Friday night was filled with Plan A's that didn't come about and and Plan B's that worked out just fine.

At various points in time, we had envisioned having some tiny houseguests (and their esteemed parents); going to Williams-Sonoma to buy some kitchen knives (which we thought might be useful after our kitchen-knife-skills class from last week) and then to get dinner; and ordering out for delivery. None of these happened due to Boston traffic (typical) and a sudden and acute winter storm that dropped a little snow and a little more ice on the roads. Not to be deterred from having an awesome evening, we got back on the horse, so to speak, except this horse tasted like lobster ravioli (thanks Costco), with a delicious white wine/julienned onion/butter/soy milk sauce, with just the right amount of tarragon. So, nothing like a horse at all, really. After that, we settled down to catch up on our Oscar movies, taking in Black Swan and as a blast from the Oscar past, Transamerica.

Getting up at the crack of dawn (D that is; E's more like the crack of 9:00), we valiantly started working hard on our various endeavors, until heading out to visit a pioneering family of a different sort. D's college friend Elizabeth had been nice enough to invite us over for brunch and to meet her husband (Skuli, a fine gentleman from ICELAND! That's right, the land of exotic meats, geothermal power, fireworks on New Year's Eve, Bjork and Sigur Ros, and the best yogurt-like product you'll find anywhere – Skyr, not to mention the place where we really realized the other one was pretty darn spiffy and then some) and their 10 month-old, Scandinavian-elf-resembling daughter, Elinor. After a meal that stuck to our ribs and a healthy bout of conversation, we headed back to the homestead to study and write some more.

Several hours later, we took a break to see if we could make it to Williams-Sonoma after all to get some knives. Off we went to the Burlington Mall. W-S proved to be a bit more than we could handle. The staff person wasn't quite as helpful as the one that D had talked with before, and we couldn't decide which knives to go with without trying them out on a cutting board. After examining many knives and browsing for a smattering of other toys – er, tools – that I'd meant to get (crème brulee dishes and torch, salt and pepper shakers, and more), we finally left the store laden down with an entire shopping bag filled with – wait for it – one (1) silicon cooking spoon.

On the way out, D thought she'd stop by a White House/Black Market store to check on a dress that caught her eye for an upcoming interview with an agent. Not letting our W-S empty-handedness get us down, she picked out a smashing selection of dresses to buy, take home and try on. But here's the best part. D has been in need of a garment bag for some time. But none of the bags she's looked at have fit the bill. Usually they're too long for her clergy garb. Well, WH/BM gave her a free garment bag made of surprisingly nice material along with the dresses, which pretty much made our night.
So, to summarize, we came for knives, we left with a garment bag. Pretty much a total success in my book.

Finally, we'll get to the Western bit. We were about to hit the old dusty trail and head home when we felt a hunger a'growlin' in our bellies. The Cheesecake Factory was nearby, but no frilly citified grub was going to satisfy our needs. The Macaroni Grill was across the street, which was closer, but not quite right. And then down the hill our “covered wagon” rolled, straight to a pink neon-marked oasis called the Border Cafe. This place looked like a twister had rolled right through Texas, into New Orleans, past the Bahamas and up the Atlantic coast (picking up a shipwreck on the way) and dumped the whole steaming mess in Boston. And it was awesome. Chips and salsa – fantastic. The chips were hot and tasted fresh with almost a popcorn flavor, and the salsa was almost definitely not from New York City (NEW YORK CITY?!?) The server brought plenty, seeing that we were a couple of hungry cowpokes. We ordered up a plate full of chicken and chorizo etouffee and some blackened catfish fajitas. A few take-home boxes later, we turned the cattle drive back east to settle in for the night, after a little harmonica playing and singing under the stars.

Ya'll come back now, y'hear?