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I should just point you to MÅURICE’s website, and not even write this review. It’s the most charming and beautiful restaurant website I’ve seen, and on a day when I need to be cared for and can’t get downtown, I may spend ten minutes jumping in to Kristen D. Murray’s online universe.
I went to MÅURICE on a Saturday afternoon-evening, overstimulated from a week of gremlin-keeping. Being in charge was corroding my soul. Family-boss-duty has its perks, but it can also destroy you from within, so be careful.
MÅURICE is the antidote. The whitewashed walls, the bleached chevron tiles climbing up the open kitchen, the white wooden tables and chairs: they will scrub your tight-woundedness away like a palate-cleanser for the soul.
And then there’s a hand-written menu, which begs you to order the oysters because the raw fish warning is so sweetly scrawled at the bottom.
Yes, I’ll have one of each variety. And then the tastes of the ocean, powerful, wind-whipping my taste buds, whisk me away to the ocean–as easy as I always think it should be to arrive there, until I start packing the car and putting socks and shoes on small people.
I generally eat gluten-free, and this was no problem at all at MÅURICE, even though it’s a pastry luncheonette. My tomato, cucumber, fennel, and edible flower salad seemed bathed in lemony sunshine.
A macaroon is a must-order for me anywhere I see one, and the coffee and almond flavors in their mini-macaroons (bottom left) were quite nice.
I ordered the lapsang souchong–tea truffle (bottom right), as well, even though I was skeptical it could beat out the simple, hoi polloi–pleasing chocolate bombs I get at Trader Joe’s (I’m a low-brow truffle-eater), but it had a luscious earthiness that made me feel like I was at a French farm picnic.
The pine-nut, white-chocolate truffles (top) I ordered once, and then once-tried, ordered again to share back at home. I’ve never had a nutty truffle cluster quite like this one. It was oddly-shaped like a trail-mix bite, but soft and buttery and delicately knit together: hazelnuts and walnuts, and perhaps a pistachio, pinned with ganache.
At home, I want my family to know that they are well-cared-for. When I’m out on my own, I want to happen upon the same in return.
Many of the fika, or little treats, in MÅURICE’s lovely glass case at the front are $.75 each. I will stop in and pick up a few whenever I’m in the neighborhood, which will probably be more often now. The pureness of MÅURICE’s blanched decor and the richness of the seasonal flavors made me feel renewed. I want that feeling again.
I have romantic images of family beach vacations swimming in my head. My siblings and I would play pretend in the dune grasses and find sand dollars at low tide. We would ride our bikes down to the village for ice cream, and at least once every trip we would go in to the city to buy saltwater taffy and seafoam—that crackling, airy, sugary delight—dipped in chocolate.
The Instagram filter of my childhood ocean vacations is sutro, that one where the colors are faded but deepened, brightest in the middle and soft around the edges.
Now it’s my turn to immerse my children in the salt-water sweetness of the Oregon Coast.
I had images of the boys in bathing suits with ice cream melting down their faces in my mind as I loaded up the car with our supplies and the used bike-trailer-stroller that would wheel everything down to the sand for 4th of July week.
But, as many of you already know, gremlins may turn psychotic when removed from their normal routines and surroundings. They snatch candy from holiday parades and hide it in secret corners of hotel rooms. They scream and yell and claw at you when you are helping them make memories, and instead of napping they may rearrange furniture to create launch pads to hurtle themselves onto beds.
Once after college I spent a summer in Houston and went to the beach at Galveston for the day with friends. I looked on derisively as beat-up minivans backed onto the sand close to the water, then unlatched their trunks–giant coolers, cases of soda, children, and boom boxes tumbling out.
This was not the classy, eclectic magic of the Pacific. This was an anarchist explosion on the shore. I was happy to leave those trashy images behind.
Oh karma, you beautiful beast.
Ten years later I am unlatching the Velcro of my hand-me-down bike-trailer-stroller and letting coolers filled with pepperoni and beer tumble out, setting up a Bedouin tent city for our assault on the beach, camp chairs and a giant shade umbrella anchoring the set-up, a $19.99 blow-up boat and a garage-sale kite keeping company nearby.
Each day we would shove our bike-buggy near the freshwater creek heading to the ocean, just far enough off the beach path so that others could get by on their way to long, romantic walks. We weren’t ambitious enough to turn the corner to where we could see the waves. Instead we looked across at our hotel, where we could run to when we had forgotten a bottle opener, or a gremlin needed to use the bathroom.
And the ice cream.
By the time we remembered the ice cream, the gremlins had been banned from sugar for the rest of the trip. So my mom and I snuck off during nap time and she bought cones for the two of us. We ate them on the ledge of a planter by the general store, hidden from passersby, lest our secret be exposed by a wandering family member.
The next day, it was my husband’s turn. He left to get a scoop of Tillamook marionberry pie ice cream while I stood guard back at the room.
And those were the best ice cream cones we’ve ever eaten.
I don’t mean to leave you thinking there wasn’t magic in this trip. There was. It’s just that the image I often have in my head about what something should be like is just that. It’s an image reflecting a set of expectations that may not be realistic.
I always think of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, as his romanticized holiday is going up in flames and the family is starting to jump ship: “Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together… We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f*cking Kaye.”
My Writing About Women’s Soccer on The Daily Beast, Bonus Photos, and Thoughts on How We Women Never Feel Totally Legit
My article “Portland Is Ground Zero for the Best Women’s Soccer in the World” recently got published on The Daily Beast! Yeeeeeeeehaw!
It’s about two great loves: gender equity and sports. Find it here.
And just for you, my dear blog readers: my favorite two photos from a recent Portland Thorns game that didn’t make it into the article. :)
I owe a huge thank you to my friend Conor for constantly supporting my writing and pushing it forward, and to my friend Mana for being an inspiration in women’s sports.
I thought I would feel totally legit as a writer now that a big-deal publication accepted an article, but it turns out as women we constantly struggle with a slowly waning crisis of confidence and the sense that we’re probably impostors.
The Atlantic Monthly wrote a great article about the confidence gap recently, and Cheryl Sandberg talks about the impostor complex in Lean In. It’s nice to hear powerful women talking about these everyday facts of existence. That makes me feel legit.
Hopefully as time goes on I’ll feel all puffy-chested and blow-hard about my writing. In the meantime, I’ll have to struggle with whether to move “writer” in front of “editor” in my email signature, because I couldn’t possibly be a writer–a real writer–first.
This is the weekend. This is the weekend to snatch your strawberries before their sweet aroma drifts away on the summer wind.
When it comes to berries, I’m like one of those rats in a pleasure experiment where the scientist gives them a button that mimics orgasm, and the rats just push the button over and over until they’re in a coma.
About 40-50 pounds of strawberries have come through our house in the last two weeks. We couldn’t possibly need that many strawberries. But have you stuck your nose into a pint of ruby-red Oregon Hood strawberries and then let their juices explode in your mouth?
You’d be pushing that button over-and-over-again, too.
I’m avoiding dairy and doing low sugar right now, but I had to find a way to have a decadent strawberry milkshake. My friend Sara suggested strawberry-roasting, and that’s what started me down this path…
Vegan Roasted Strawberry Milkshake
- 1–2 pints strawberries, hulled
- 1–2 tablespoons olive oil (for roasting strawberries)
- 1 pint Coconut Bliss ice cream (or other non-dairy, coconut-based “ice cream”)
- 1 14 oz. can coconut milk (I use Trader Joe’s canned coconut milk because it’s economical and doesn’t have the additives that the refrigerated kind has.)
Now Do This
- Pre-heat your oven to 425 degrees.
- Place your hulled strawberries on a baking pan, coat them in a little olive oil, spread them out evenly, and pop them in the oven for 15 minutes.
- After 15 minutes, or when strawberries still have their shape, but are oozing some juices, take them out of the oven and put them in a bowl to cool. This is important so you can catch all the juices. You can try a strawberry at this point, but I found they were a little too pungent for my taste.
- Add strawberries, coconut ice cream, and coconut milk to your blender and blend it up! Done!
This can easily be done with real ice cream and milk, of course. Either way, enjoy, and let me know if you have suggestions!