So, here's how it goes. The girl and I get to Chicago and meet up with the one and only Yelper we know at the time. She proceeds to show us around when she has the time. We are grateful.
Yelper finds out I am a Red Sox fan, which flies in the face of all reason considering I've spent the first twenty-six years of my life in Tennessee. She too, being from the New England style parts of the country, is a Red Sox fan. She happens to know these two cats over in Logan Square who are also Red Sox fans, and oh, by the way, would we maybe like to come to their bar and watch the ALCS. Of course we say yes.
The two cats in Logan Square are incredible and, I am certain, will someday be involved in my wedding. But not, you know, in a creepy Mormon kind of way. I don't want to give anyone the wrong, Mitt Romney/Massachusetts sort of impression.
So we spend almost every night until the Red Sox are finished beating the Indians and then trouncing the Rockies at this bar with our new friends. During all this, we find out that one of these cats, the female of the pair, is from a family that's done alright for itself. She informs us that her family has a very nice lake house on Glen Lake, which is somewhere in Northern Michigan, or what we Southerners refer to as the Alabama of the North. I'm skeptical, but I like lakes, so when they invite us up to join them, we work our schedule out so that we can go.
The girl and I spend the next few days isolated from the city and having what most people who believe in God would probably refer to as a "Come to Jesus" moment. I don't come to Jesus, much to Jesus' chagrin, but I do come to my senses. What a beautiful world I'm living in. Man do I miss Tennessee.
So on our last morning in town, these two baseball lovin' cats from Logan Square take us to breakfast at this joint the Foothills. We get a table right away and are set upon by some girls who are almost certainly sisters. I think there were two of them, but there may have been as many as five. Anyway, they were nervous but accomplished servers. I'm thinking maybe the nervousness had something to do with the fact that one of my new friends and I both have a predilection for showing off our tattoos. They don't seem like the folk who see a lot of tattoos. There are painted woodland scenes and handmade crafts on the walls, for chrissakes.
Regardless of our (not really that) shocking appearance, they wait on us diligently, and the food they bring us is just short of divine. I went simple, having a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and sausage and it was damn excellent. Everything was fresh, and I'm told local, and it definitely showed. Despite the divinity of my breakfast, I still didn't come to Jesus.
But I will come back to the Foothills. read more