As Ma Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie books would have said, quoting Shakespeare, "All's well that ends well," after a near disaster was averted. As it was with our well. It was just plain ol' bad timing that it decided to give up the ghost right after the deck guy left, and while I was plowing through my weekly laundry. It was no one's fault, nothing was damaged, and no one was maimed or killed. It's one of those things that I'd never given one thought to until yesterday. However, now that I've since mentioned it to a few people at work, and then to my neighbor, who saw the big crane in our front yard, I've heard horror stories of wells and pumps and digging up whole yards, and $10,000 repair bills and pumps going out consecutive years. Kinda like pregnancy, people are compelled by mysterious force to share the worst stories possible. So, in the grand scheme of things, it's not unusual, and our situation was quite mild. Just a shock to us city folk. It set us back $1800 (there goes that tax return), but, as Mr. Vadnais said, "Just remember–you haven't had to pay for city water for four years. It all kind of evens out, really." Yeah, sort of, but it is a little harder to stomach when you get slammed at once. If we're lucky, we won't have to think about it again for another decade or so.
We thought it was rather coincidental that our well pump gave out on the two-year anniversary of Bob's heart attack. In a lovely act of serendipity, I ended up with a few cancellations at the end of my day, so I called him on my way home to tell him we're going out to dinner, in celebration his heart attack. He replied, "Is it irony that the well pump went out on the same day that my heart did? Or is that just strange coincidence?" We should consult Alanis Morissett. "By the way," he told me, "we have water again, so we should celebrate that, too."
When I got home, I did a quick workout and then took the longest, hottest, most indulgent shower I've had in a long time. I soaped up good, covering myself head to toe in bubbles, then stood under the spray and let the near scalding water run all over me, sending the bubbles sliding down my skin, twirling down the drain. It felt so good, I contemplating not showering for a few days on a regular basis, just to revel again in the decadence of an act that is taken for granted.
I emerged from the steamy shower all pink and squeaky clean and quickly dried off. I was getting dressed when Bob came into the bedroom and announced he wanted to go to Marx Wine Bar and Grill in downtown Stillwater, for a big ol' steak. Oh great . . . is it a wine bar or grill? Do I dress up or go casual? Heels or flats? Hair down or pony tail?
After several agonizing minutes and more than several costume changes later, I decided on jeans and hair down, and to do the driving, in case Bob wanted to knock a few back, in honor of his special day. We started talking, as we do now and then, about that fateful night, two years ago, when he woke me up at 2 am, moaning and writhing in bed beside me. Not knowing he was having a heart attack, but knowing something was seriously wrong, I drove him to the hospital. There are times when I stop and think about that event and am nearly brought to my knees in wonder and amazement that we got through it. And now, it is two years later, and he is as healthy as anyone could ever be. In fact, he had a doctor's appointment and an EKG a month or so ago, and his doc said that it was the first time he'd ever seen an EKG result where he would not have been able to tell that the patient had had a heart attack. Amazing.
As we headed down the road to town, I decided, for old time's sake, to retrace the route I took to Lakeview Hospital that fateful evening. Along the way, we talked, sometimes laughed, at the events that transpired that fateful evening that at once seems like eons ago, yet is still so raw in my memory. Bob questioned, as he has numerous times, my twisted emergency logic–speeding like a demon along the dark, winding back roads of Washington County, which seemed, to him, to be the long way to the ER. At the time, I was thinking that this route had the least stoplights/signs, and I wanted to make as many right turns as I could to save time, like the UPS drivers I'd read about. Yes, thoughts of UPS driving techniques were going through my mind at 2 a.m., in a mad race to get Bob to the hospital. You just never know how you'll react in a major crisis till you're actually in the heart of it (pun intended). That whole story may be a blog for another time . . .
We arrived downtown Stillwater about 12 minutes later. I found a parking spot on Main Street, just across from the Marx's. The moment we stepped foot in the restaurant, I wished I had worn black pants and my hair up. We'd only been to Marx's once before, several years ago, and I'd forgotten how hip and urban it was (it is, after all, a fusion bistro)—with ocean blue and lime green walls, golden pendant lights dripping from the ceiling, and eclectic, vibrant jolts of red, yellow, green throughout the decor, it feels more uptown Minneapolis than downtown Stillwater. Looking around at the surprisingly crowded dining room (for a Tuesday evening), however, I am reminded that we are still in a small, rural river village. There is a blend of young, old, chic, trendy, casual and downright sloppy patrons sprinkled throughout the joint. I'm okay.
The whole experience at Marx's was simply wonderful. Our server offered just the right mix of pleasantries, knowledge and attentiveness. The ambiance is relaxing, providing good people watching as well as the ability to have a conversation without resorting to shouting, or resigning to smiling and nodding. Bob began with a G-Funny martini (didn't think about it then, but now wish we would have asked what the hell that name meant)—Bombay Sapphire gin, splash of vermouth and garnished with a lime twist and gorgonzola-stuffed olives. I ordered a glass of Willamette Valley Vineyards Pinot Gris. I found it curious that Bob's drink, basically straight alcohol, came in a crazy, crooked-stemmed martini glass that was a major balancing act to hold stead while sober; had to be nearly impossible once the effects of the booze kick in. Oh well, not my tablecloth. My wine was a lovely, refreshingly light and peachy-honeyed little number, perfect for a warm spring evening.
We went whole hog, ordering an appetizer, a salad to split and entrees for each. Our meal began with King Crab teriyaki with dabs of fried banana, wasabi, lime pulp and sweet potato mash dotting the plate. It was a work of art to behold and to taste, a cacophony of flavors and colors. A dab of each flavor on the fork before popping into the mouth yielded a fabulous blend of sweet, spicy, tart, mellow and suddenly—BAM!—wasabi shooting through the nose. We nearly licked the plate clean before the spinach and endive salad arrived, with thin slices green apples, jicama and strawberries, tossed in a black pepper-vanilla bean vinaigrette—light and simple, the subtle yet discernible pepper and vanilla notes in the vinaigrette played off the fruit beautifully. It was huge—more than enough for two people, especially since we'd ordered the appetizer and entrees.
As we were waiting for our entrees, two men set up shop in the front corner of the restaurant, near the bar. A surprise addition to our dining experience—live music! Their voices and guitars began weaving their way through the dining room, playing anything from oldies but goodies of Bob Marley, Simon and Garfunkle, SRV, and Bob Dylan to the current croonings of Jason Mraz and Jack Johnson. Even a few Johnny Cash and Guns 'n' Roses thrown in the mix, for good measure. The music, like the food, was eclectic and unpredictable, yet so thoroughly enjoyable.
We waited quite a while for our entrees to arrive—the only complaint we'd have, if we were hog-tied, pistol-whipped and forced to complain (which, thankfully, we weren't). I loved the leisurely pace of the meal and was content as all get out to wavering between listening to the music, people watching and talking to my husband about everything and nothing. When our meals finally came, we both agreed they were worth the wait. Bob, in a bold and defiant, thumbing-his-nose-at-heart-attacks move, ordered the grilled Angus Sirloin, with Guinness beer glaze, bacon, roasted shallots and home fried onion rings (he might as well have ordered it with a pound of butter on the side), accompanied by the cutest little baby hamburger about the size of a golf ball tucked in, almost as though someone in the kitchen thought, "This plate could really use a little more protein." I had the nightly special - ahi tuna with soba noodles and veggies, topped with a cute little salmon sushi roll, another, kind of random, Lucky Strike Extra. My tuna was melt-in-my mouth goodness, the accompanying noodles and veggies providing a symphony of flavors to enhance the mild fish—ginger, garlic, exotic spices—there was so much going on, on my plate that a novice foodie like me cannot do it justice. All I know is that, despite the chaos of flavors, it all worked. Beautifully.
My food was perfect—just the right sizes to feel sated but not stuffed. Which was my downfall when our server came and asked if we wanted to see the desert menu. Bob said, "Skip the menu. I have just one question," looking at me, smiling. "Do you have creme brulee?" Our server said, "We do offer a dark chocolate creme brulee." Damn. "Let's do it," I said. "I've never had chocolate creme brulee. And a coffee, please." Our dessert arrived shortly after, garnished with fat raspberries. It was nice, especially accompanied by the rich, flavorful coffee, but I must admit, I'm a creme brulee purist. The chocolate twist was interesting, and there's no denying that I pretty much licked the ramekin clean, right there in front of God and everyone, but given a choice, my heart lies with the pure, creamy goodness of a plain ol' unadulterated creme brulee. Sweet, slightly burnt crusty sugary top with pale yellow, creamy, custard beneath. It's supposed to be cool throughout, but I love it when the edges are cool and firm, but the center still slightly warm (not runny) from the hot water bath . . . something about the subtle blend of warm and cool, soft and firm, all together under a crispy sugary lid that just does me in. The chocolate version seemed more dense, less custardy, almost more sponge cake-like. But, as I like to say (and Bob just cringes when I do say it, especially in mixed company): creme brulee is like sex. Even a bad one is pretty damn good.
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