Futility Now

Here is a frittata that Hazel made last weekend.

Here is a delicious soup I made on Tuesday.

Here is a tableau from it’s creation.

Here is Yoshi hitting the sauce.

After avoiding the inevitable for months, maybe years, we finally caved to the food cart craze. Our first cart: Eurotrash, where I had a waffle with two pieces of bacon inside it, and eggs, and J had a sort of breakfast quesadilla that benefited from a healthy dose of hot sauce. It wasn’t great (nor was it exactly Euro-anything…), but it was cheap, tasty, and fast. That last bit is pretty impressive, if you consider that our other major brunch contenders often ask a good 45 minutes of waiting for a table.

The other exciting (?) innovation was at the coffee cart, where we picked up strong french press — the stir sticks were buckwheat linguini (ahem, uncooked). Oh, Portland.

While we ate (and tried to avoid getting mauled by toddlers and their SUV strollers), we admired the building across the street, and daydreamed about buying it and living on the top floor, with a second apartment converted to an office studio. I would manage it and teach ceramic workshops and write articles for magazines, and J would do something brilliant and computery.

Then we decided to walk over a bridge; we picked the Hawthorne. It’s a good thing we like it, because we were on it for longer than expected — it went up to accommodate a (presumably) very important sailboat.

It was hot.

Sunday, today, we almost didn’t leave the house, but hunger and peanut butter toast fatigue set in, so we went to a second cart, um, grouping or whatever, and had fried fish. Fine cuisine it was not, but satisfying, yes.

P.S. Sadly, I have no pictures to represent the other notable part of our weekend, which was spent spacing out to the Eluvium album over and over and over again.

This is probably the sweetest ice cream that I have ever eaten. There’s something kind of admirable about it in theory, but in practice it’s actually kind of gross.

One of each of us whilst we waited for brunch at Broder.