Dining at The Willows Inn on Lummi Island

We've been wanting to visit The Willows Inn since Blaine Wetzel took over as head chef three years ago. The Willows has been serving farm-to-table meals to guests for over 100 years. In 2010, Chef Blaine returned to his home state (he hails from Olympia, WA) after a couple years cheffing abroad (most auspiciously at Noma, the critically acclaimed restaurant in Copenhagen) and chose The Willows as his new home kitchen. And thank God for all of us living in the PNW that he did. I have never had a more beautifully prepared meal anywhere in the world, and I got to experience this in my own backyard! And Blaine is just one of several chefs that creates the magic in this idyllic haven. BTW, our room was actually called The Haven, and it is an accurate moniker.
Arriving at Lummi Island is where the fun begins. We took the 5 up to Bellingham and then cut across to the Lummi Island ferry which comes every twenty minutes all day and takes about six minutes to cross. Fortunately, we had nothing but gorgeous weather the whole three days we were gallivanting from island to island. The Willows Inn sits on the northwest corner of the island and afforded us a glorious sunset. Upon arrival, we were greeted by Vanessa who offered us some fresh hot cider ("Now, just so you know, it does have a little brandy and Cointreau in it." "We'll take doubles, thank you.").
After checking in, we got settled and shared a nice hot bath in our spacious tub with some bath salts provided by the local spa. We walked down to the beach and listened to the surf and walked across the rocks and took silly pictures and then got ready for dinner. It was time to get down to business.
Before dinner, there is a little bar in the main house, right between the living room and the kitchen, called Taft's. Our original plan was to NOT drink before dinner so we wouldn't get drunk and forget what we ate. But dinner wasn't until 6:30, and it was only 5:45, so...
Tommy refrained by just ordering a glass of blanc-to-blanc. I had to try the Reefnetter, and I'm so glad I did. It was bourbon and benedictine mixed with a simple syrup they make by infusing toasted birch branches from their birch tree! It was ridiculously good. They also brought us two delicious oysters which were served on this cool wooden box atop ice cold beach rocks. This was a style we would see repeated a few times. The young ladies tending bar were about as sweet as could be and both were actual Lummi Island natives. Tommy asked if they attended school on the island, to which one of them replied "Only through 6th grade." "Then what?", we asked. "Oh, then we just dropped out." She quickly laughed and explained that they attended high school in Ferndale and had to catch the 7:20 am ferry every morning and then take a bus to school.
At 6:30 pm, the kitchen staff began seating. It's a nice intimate space, maybe ten tables. From the moment you are seated, you are never left unattended. If we got up to use the restroom, there was someone there folding our napkin. For us, that's probably not so great since we are moderation-challenged. The half-bottle of Viognier we were served, for example, was gone in about twenty minutes, and they had to bring us more. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With dinner, you have your choice of wine pairings or juice pairings. Our plan was for Tommy to get the wine and me to get the juice, but that didn't work out. We both ended up doing the wine pairings because they just looked too interesting. The juice pairings looked interesting too, if I was twelve or allergic to alcohol.
To start, they served us an Eaglemount semi-sweet hard apple cider from Port Townsend, WA. It was a lovely palate cleanser and complemented the first few dishes very well. And here is where the snacks begin. Samish Bay mussels, crispy crepe with salmon roe, crispy halibut skin and, my favorite, crispy kale leaves with black truffle and rye! I wanted to raid the kitchen and find where they stash the kale and truffles.
As dinner officially began, they served us a 2011 Maurice Cellars Viognier from Walla Walla, WA. It was a perfect choice to accompany the next few courses which included tiny new potatoes in buttermilk and whey, venison tartare with wild sorrel and rye (the venison may have brought tears to my eyes because-A. It was amazing melt-in-your-mouth heavenly goodness and B. We may have seen the deer grazing while driving to the inn), grilled shiitake and yellowfoot chanterelles, weathervane scallops with parsley and dill, and grilled sunchokes with sweet onion sauce.
Each of these dishes are presented beautifully. The chefs have mastered the art of pairing incredible flavors and doing it in the most creative fashion. Throughout the meal, each of them comes out to serve each table at some point and chat with the guests. They were all charming and interesting and told us about how they each have their own projects they work on throughout the week. One of them is a hunter, one specializes in foraging (that's right), etc. They are all culinary artists, and the dishes they create are results of numerous attempts and fails.
For the next few courses, we switched to a Pike Brewing Space Needle Golden IPA which is freakin' brilliant! With it, we enjoyed smoked sockeye salmon and black cod (their smoker is right outside the inn and you can smell them grilling and smoking for hours leading up to dinner), hearth bread with pan drippings and butter (again, I'm crying and shaking the table; and this time in a wooden box atop red hot beach rocks), caraflex cabbage roasted with lemon balm, wild seaweeds braised with Dungeness crab and brown butter, and quite possibly the best ever dry aged duck with dried beets and lingonberries.
At some point in there, we switched over to a 2011 Cameron Arley's Leap pinot noir from Dundee. Yay, Dundee! It was excellent, but we were definitely slowing down by that point.
Finally, we were poured a 2010 Brian Carter 'Opulento' dessert wine, very red and very sweet, from Yakima Valley. It was like drinking candy from heaven. With it, we were served the loveliest quince granita (from their quince tree right out front) with a yogurt mousse, a dish of chestnut and hazelnut creams and little salty caramel flax bites.
Throughout the whole meal, we never once felt rushed, we never felt too attended. The staff were very warm and all great conversationalists, ready to answer any and all questions and also genuinely interested in hearing about us (and you all know how we love talking about us). Each course was presented like a fine piece of music that demanded total attention and focus. And I'm sure it reads like we were inundated with food, but the portions were actually all quite small and manageable.
When the bill comes, we think "we can pay this bill OR adopt a child from Nigeria." But, ultimately, we pay it because what we paid for was an amazing experience-food as art. This was a celebration of good food and the bounty with which we are blessed. And, for these two foodies from Portland (by way of Orange County and Tucson), it was a celebration we will remember and savor for the rest of our lives.

PDX Kids Are All Right

Thank GOD my boyfriend is a social butterfly and actually pays attention to what is going on in town because it was due to his recommendation that I saw Ablaze at Brunish Hall last night. Billed as an a capella musical thriller, and starring a bevy of young young actors, I went in with a great deal of curiosity and perhaps just a little cynicism. I came out a convert.
Not only is Matthew B. Zrebski's composition thrilling and exciting, the execution of it is mind-blowing. Every single actor is gripping and engaged from start to finish. These are professionals with talent to spare. The staging is brilliantly choreographed by Jessica Wallenfels, and Eric Nordin handles the music, so I think it's fair to say that you can't find a stronger more gifted team. And I have to give a shout-out to Erin Shannon who assisted Jessica, and those of us who have worked with Erin know that she is a mighty force of talent and creativity herself.
There was not one boring moment in this show for me. In fact, there were several moments I stopped breathing or my heart stopped. At my age, of course, that could be dangerous, but I was too enthralled to be scared. I know that not everyone will have the exact same experience as I did, but EVERYONE owes it to themselves to see this show. I couldn't just write a brief post because it affected me too much.
Ablaze is a thriller, it's a horror story, it's a psychological drama. It is not a teenage story of angst which, as most of you know, would make me angry. I do not like young people demanding more attention than I. I suggest you go with someone (or sit next to someone) you feel comfortable grabbing because there are shocking and frightening moments. And sometimes the performances are so heartfelt and so good you just need someone to grab and say "Are these kids for real?!"
And that brings me to my one main point. I did not intend to sit here and write a review. We have professionals for that. What I really wanted to say is that the greatest thrill for me in watching this show was the realization that these kids are the future of theater! I think we could all say that we have attended professional theatre wherein seasoned veteran actors have not even been able to save the show from being boring or static or uninspiring. What Ablaze gives us is the next generation (and they are a THRILLING generation) of talented performers showing us what we have to look forward to.  I am so proud to call these actors my neighbors and peers. If Ablaze was not on your radar, I strongly suggest you put it there and schedule a time to see it within the next two weeks. Whatever effect it has on you, you will be thrilled to get a preview of what our next generation of amazing talent has to offer.

Precious Wasted Time

I have a confession to make. Well, now I have two. Number one, I am using what is probably one of the most commonly used opening lines ever, and I feel guilty about it.
Secondly, I like commercials. I do. Unashamedly. When I watch a recorded TV show, I do NOT fast forward through the commercials. I sometimes find the commercials more entertaining than the show I am watching. I love watching my fellow actors hawk the latest cold medicine or bed mattress. Sometimes, their performance is funny. Sometimes it's sexy. Sometimes it's ridiculous and makes me laugh at how stupid it is.
I like the teasers from the news networks. I like to see what their top story is that I am going to have to wait through the entire hour of their broadcast to see.
I love trailers for movies! Love them! Even if I have seen the trailer a dozen times. I love the previews of other TV shows that I may have never seen and know nothing about.
What I love most though is the sense memory I feel during a commercial break. I remember Dad saying it's time to dish up Rocky Road ice cream or banana splits, or Mom running into the kitchen to pull brownies or fudge out of the oven. I remember my siblings racing to use the bathroom. I remember frantically answering a question on my homework assignment.
I guess those interruptions awaken my inner child. I do occasionally fast forward through them if I have limited time or I'm crazy excited to get back into the plot of the show. But, usually, I enjoy the break and all the memories and amusement that come with it.

A Call For Compassion

So you are not a drug addict. Good for you! Neither am I. We are united in that holier-than-thou circle of straight (so-to-speak), sober and intelligent people. We are so good. How fortunate we are that we do not suffer from such crippling insecurities and external pressures that we succumb to drugs and alcohol.
Does this mean we can't have compassion for those who do? Does this mean when a legend dies we should gloat? "They chose their life."
Good for you. You've expressed yourself. You are now even more superior to the junkies.

When I was a teenager, Whitney Houston entranced me. She was the voice of my generation. I would sit in my car and belt out her songs, trying to match her inflections and, believe it or not, pitches. I wouldn't try that today. Last weekend, upon hearing of her death, I tuned Pandora to the Whitney station and sang along to "Where Do Broken Hearts Go", "How Will I Know" and, the one that made me fall in love, "Savin' All My Love For You." I couldn't believe I still remember all those songs so well. I never bother to learn lyrics to pop music anymore. That's a testament to the power of that music.
Yes, I know there are thousands upon thousands of people suffering from drug and alcohol addiction. And, sadly, many die every day. That doesn't make this any less sad. It truly hurts my heart when I read callous comments about Whitney's death as if she deserved to die. Nobody knows what she endured in her life but her. I can imagine that she had a pretty difficult time considering she was thrust into celebrity at 18 years old, and I seriously doubt that anyone in her life was concerned with her physical and emotional strength. She was a commodity and was worked as such. I don't know how that feels. In all my dreams of celebrity, I have never been able to truly relate to that feeling (although my imagination runs wild with it).
I mourn her loss not because of her celebrity status but because I grew up with her music. Her talent was inimitable. No one came close. No, we are not related. I never even met her, but that feeling of kinship is still there. As a performer, I know that we all dream of being able to make a life using our talent. Most of us will never see that become as lucrative a reality as we dream. But imagine if you could. We are all human, and we all have our limits. How would we deal with being a marketing machine day and night, having it not just be a recreation but a requirement to socialize, to schmooze, to promote ourselves on very little sleep and probably no companionship or moral support? I know that would be a struggle for me. And then imagine hooking up with a person who is even needier and more messed up than you!
We have all made decisions that we regret, and we usually learn from those experiences and try to move ahead in a more positive, productive way. But some people are on such a fast track they never get back ON track.
I am sorry that junkies die every day. I am sorry that there are hundreds of homeless, sick and addicted people all over Portland that have nothing. But this person touched me. This person's voice was with me for thirty years of my life. So the loss of this person is extra sad.
I feel sad for people who cannot express compassion when a famous life is lost. Why not? Why shouldn't we? Because they had fame and fortune and blew it? So that makes it less of a loss. So we better ourselves by judging them and their choices? And that improves the situation?
How would you feel if you had a brother, sister or kid who battled drug addiction for thirty years and, when they died, people posted comments like "Well, they chose that life. They had it coming." Really? Even if you agree with that, do you want to read it? Does it make you feel better about their passing? Does it justify negative comments about them after they're gone? Not to me it doesn't. Anyone who knows me knows my love for inappropriate comments. I can verbally bash with the best of 'em. I love to hate on Gwyneth. Do I truly hate Gwyneth? Of course not. Does she deserve to be bashed? Well, maybe. But if she died eating Mario Batali's cooking, I wouldn't say "Well, she died as she lived." There's no need to be callous. It doesn't accomplish anything. It won't discourage your Facebook friends from following in the dead person's footsteps. No one is looking to you for words of judgment. God is not impressed by your level of critical thinking and moral superiority. In fact, no one is.
This Valentines Day, my wish is that people will think before reacting dispassionately to a celebrity's death. Can we try not to be jealous of what they had and gloat in what was wasted during their life? Can we just mourn the loss, and even mourn the loss they experienced when they lived?
Whitney Houston was far from perfect. So are you. Any life lost through drugs and alcohol is a waste. So it is a waste to not appreciate what that life gave us when it was here on earth.

Normino in Copenhagen

Not a cloud in the sky. Det Kongelit Theatre to my left, the impressive new opera house across the canal, the gateway to Nyhavn behind me, I am looking across the water at the gold-spired churchtop in Christianshavn. The sun is shining on my face and glistening on the water. The city is quiet, not at all as it will be in another hour or two. Days ago, my sleeplessness and the cold and the wind and the rain and the noise and the crowds got me down. Down to where I briefly forgot what a blessing this is. But last night, walking back through Nyhavn with my handsome partner at 10:00 pm in the sunshine with two young lovers in their 70s walking hand-in-hand ahead of us, I remembered. As our Danish mother stopped to point out each and every memory, as she stopped to gaze in wonder at how her city has grown and changed, as I watched her eyes shine with love for her home and pride in showing it off, my cold heart melted. This is the romantic city of which I read. This is the historic home of castles and canals and colorful rowhouses and kings and queens and parks where the natives strip themselves in front of the warm glowing sun as soon as they get the chance. This is the small proud country where, despite the growing need to teach their children English, they continue to speak their historic and beautiful native language, the language of Vikings and of royalty, a language older than the country I call home. This is a place of stunning green countrysides, ancient fortresses where brave countrymen guarded their prized land and charming ancient fishing villages where the locals continue to shop for the best herring, salmon, eel, plaice and all the bounty the Oresund provides.
The crowds in the Stroget can be exasperating, the weather unpredictable and the prices wallet-busting; but, at this special moment, there is no crowd, no inclement weather, no cost to sit and watch the sun's rays dance on the water, the little mallard sleeping next to me with its beak nestled in its wing, listen to the chirpsong of the gulls and jays, feel the sun's warmth on my neck, sip my morning coffee and appreciate this romantic beautiful city I am blessed to visit.
Copenhagen, I love your spirit, your sass and your smorrebrod. I love the Louisiana and your appreciation for all things artistic. I love your fighting spirit when your team plays the World Cup and your determination to keep the party going long after the losing play.
Tak for alt, CPH.

Normino in Amsterdam

Surprise, everyone! I am not sick! I have not visited a hospital yet, suffered food poisoning, had an emergency root canal. No major injuries or illnesses. Nothing other than feeling ugly. If you have spent any time in Amsterdam, you may understand what I mean. Are there any unattractive Dutch people? We feel it is inappropriate for the beautiful Dutch to flaunt their loveliness shamelessly in our faces. The coup de grace was the construction workers conveniently situated across the canal from where we had lunch our last day in town. It was like a Pepsi commercial. I kept expecting one of them to pause, wipe their brow and open up a cool one and start drinking.
Anyway, I am not starting at the very beginning, and that is a very good place to start. Our trip began in Portland when our taxi picked us up, we zoomed off for our adventure and promptly had a flat tire before getting on the freeway. I thought "Well, why not? Why wait to be overseas before the mishaps begin?" Fortunately, our cabbie was very fast at replacing the flat tire with a spare from his trunk. As he was at least 65 and panting like he was having a heart attack, I felt bad for him; but not bad enough to offer assistance. I can't be getting dirty right before an international flight.
Eventually, after a 4 hour flight to Dallas, a 9 hour to London, 4 hours sitting in Heathrow, a 90 minute to Amsterdam and a terrifyingly fast taxi trip, we arrived.
The Hotel Wiechmann is a charming B and B sitting right on the west bank of the Prinsengracht canal. Our window overlooked the canal and made for great people-watching. It really is an addictive pastime in Amsterdam. The cyclists alone are thrillingto observe. Do not mistake this for exaggeration when I say that we would see a man dressed for work with a child in the front basket, a child straddling behind him, a coffee and cigarette in one hand, a cellphone between his ear and shoulder, one hand on the handlebars, and he would be flying down the street. Along with him were numerous others, all racing to get to work, school, synagogue and who knows where else.
One morning, T and I rented bicycles and rode to Westerpark. At one point, riding beside Tommy, I hear a bell jingle and a voice say "Hallo!" and there behind me is a woman of at least 60 years in a dress and heels impatiently on my back tire trying to pass. I quickly slowed and got behind Tommy and she sped past me. We stayed single file thereafter.
And the cyclists are hard-core in Amsterdam. Woe is the pedestrian out for a leisurely stroll who happens to walk anywhere but on the 1-foot-wide pedestrian sidewalk. They will be clipped by a truck or run over by a raging cyclist. Fortunately, the Amsterdammits have no qualms about yelling at pedestrians with their loud commanding frightening voices.
Anywho, aside from being scared into submission by the locals, highlights included the Anne Frank Huis which was amazing. So brilliantly put together with an interactive installation at the end which gives visitors a chance to weigh in on more recent events targeting certain ethnic or cultural groups.
The Rijksmuseum is currently under renovation, but they have assembled a "greatest hits" wing which is quite complete on its own. We should have stopped there, but we tried to conquer Van Gogh on the same day. At a certain point, my brain just refuses to accept more information. I quickly grew annoyed with my audio tour at Van Gogh and started just sprinting through the rooms trying to find the exit. Those museums are not easy to navigate quickly especially when other visitors are trying to stroll or, worse yet, STAND and view the works. I may have seemed callous when I knocked that 9-yr-old girl over, but after reading about a man depressed and crazy enough to chop off his own ear, I am sure she has other scars to deal with. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Well, I better sign off for now. It is 7:40 am here in Copenhagen (yes, I am a little behind on this update), and Tommy is sure to be awake soon and ready for some wienerbrod. It's Danish, people!
I will post again later when I actually have something to say. Oh, who am I kidding? I rarely have anything real to say. I will rant some more soon.

Did You See Today?

Lora Ethylene Wilson died March 2, 2010 at 84 years of age leaving behind five children, six grandchildren, five great-grandchildren and numerous nieces, nephews and friends. Her body and spirit, until January 6th of this year, was more like that of a woman half her age. Throughout my life, she inspired and impressed me in many ways at many times.

My first memories of Aunt Ethylene go way back to my childhood. Growing up in Garden Grove, California, my favorite times were those when the aunts, uncles and cousins would come over to our house for holiday dinners and open houses. We had some of the most fun, witty and interesting aunts and uncles. Aunts Ethylene and Dolores were two of my faves. Both outspoken, boisterous, loud and unafraid to speak their minds, they would keep my siblings and I laughing for days after seeing them.

The first time I played Uno was sitting at our kitchen table with my older sisters, Mom, Dad, Uncles Dick and Earl and their respective wives, Dolores and Ethylene. I won, but I am pretty sure I was allowed to win. Even so, I was teased endlessly by everyone for having beginner's luck. I was teased a lot as a child, but I was also very loved and even coddled by my aunts and uncles. I was always so excited when they would come to visit.

Early on, we lost Uncle Dick, Uncle Earl and Aunt Dolores; but Aunt E lived through it all. She did more than live; she loved life and embraced each day. She loved her family, and she doted on me, even well into my adulthood. She enjoyed her home and her garden, and she was a consummate hostess, always ready to entertain.

When I became involved in theater, she was right there with Mom to support me at every show, always commenting that she "couldn't see anything better on Broadway." I knew full well that was not always true, but it thrilled me that she thought so highly of my work. Her voice always made me smile. She had this kind of gruff, but still feminine, voice with a hint of her Virginia heritage behind it. Her southern sensibilities were always there beneath the Southern California woman she had become.

At times over the last decade or so, I have thought about the day she would leave us. I never thought about it very long because it was too sad and too unimaginable that this amazing woman would ever not be here. But on January 6 of this year, she was involved in a fatal car accident. Her son, Barry, and his wife Barbara, were taking her back east to their home in Florida, after a wonderful Christmas she spent at her home in Orange County with her whole family. Something happened--none of us know what--and Barry lost control of the car. He was killed, as was their dog, and Barbara and Aunt E were left in crirical condition. Later, we found out that Aunt E had actually been found dead on the scene and was resuscitated.

The last two months have been an ordeal for her and for her family. She has gone from critical condition to recovery and back again more than once. This last time going back into CCU was it for her. She had taken all she could take.

Come to find out, Aunt E had stated in her will that she did not want to be resuscitated. No surprise really. She was one of the strongest women I have known and certainly never one to be weak or needing of assistance from others. Once when she was sick, her son told her she should lie down for a while, and she replied "I've been lying down all night. I can't lie down anymore."

One of my favorite memories of Aunt Ethylene was when she and my mom came to see a show of mine on a night that happened to be Gay and Lesbian Night at the theater. I swear, I didn't plan it. At one point while people were being seated, in full voice because that was the only voice Aunt E used, she said to my mother "Well, it must be husbands' night out. All the men have left their wives at home."

Her style was always direct and confident and smart. One time discussing death, she told my mom she wanted to be cremated. My mother staunchly opposes cremation and told her so to which she replied "Well, have you ever considered what happens to your body after it's buried?"

She always had a smart response because she was a smart lady.

Since January 1, we have had mostly warm sunny days and very little rain here in Portland. Ironic when you consider we moved up her to experience "weather", and, since we moved, So Cal has had more rain than we have. Anyway, in recent months I find myself asking Tommy "Did you see today?" with a wonder in my voice. This is a result of the beauty I have been noticing that I failed to notice in the past. I see the sun shining on the river and the flowers in bloom. I see the opportunity we have and the bounty with which we have been blessed since we moved. I see the gift of friendship in the people with whom I work. The traits and nuances of each cast member with whom I perform and each banker with whom I spend my days and the ways they color my life. And I feel very blessed and fortunate to have this love and laughter and energy around me. And I find myself saying this phrase "Did you see today? Wasn't it beautiful?" I find myself bragging to Tommy about how talented my fellow actors are, how nice my co-workers are, how rewarding my job is. And recently, I wondered where did this phrase come from?

Last night, my sister called to tell me of Aunt E's passing, and this morning I woke up with the realization that it came from her. She is the origin of that question. She saw every day. Her appreciation of the world and life and the beauty and fun it brings is what inspires that question.

My Aunt Ethylene was one of a kind. A few weeks ago, I sent her a card to tell her I loved her and couldn't wait for her to recover and come see Portland. After sending it, I beat myself up over suggesting such a ridiculous thing. She was struggling to live, and I was telling her to plan a trip. The impetus came from my optimism, or, rather, my hope that she would be well. In retrospect, it was ridiculous and inappropriate. But my request may not have been in vain. I think she may be visiting after all. I think she may be passing by for just a moment to make sure I saw today. I did, Aunt E, and I love you very much.