So when we left off I was… beet-curious, we could say. Though I had enjoyed many a beet in the now-ubiquitous and standardized “salad” form with goat cheese and sometimes other accoutrements, I had never been totally romanced by it in that sort of arrangement. But that seemed to be the only way a gra could get her hands on it (short of a nice bowl of borscht, of course), at least until recently.
As many of the Chicago readers will know, it’s recently become Bike Season around here. Now, it’s important to note that the start of Bike Season is in no way synonymous with the start of Spring, though the two can coincide when the stars align, the gods smile, and everyone in the city wears their lucky underwear on exactly the same day. Or something. Anyway, Bike Season starts when everything that has fallen from the sky in the last 4-5 months – snow, sleet, ice, debris, street signs, stray gloves, the ever-present but no-less-inexplicable doll head or two, and apparently, as I noticed the other day, an apron – has melted and/or been washed away by That One Really Warm Day Where It Didn’t, Like, Snow or Anything the Very Next Day. You know that day: standing rivers of crap flank the sides of the streets and what stops you from being utterly repulsed is the fact that today promises the distinct possibility (though by no means inevitability) that you will be able to count on one hand the number of times you will wear your winter coat before retiring it FOREVER. (Okay, until October.) So, on this day, it’s possible to ride one’s bike footloose and fancy-free down the detritus-lined avenues without spattering (very much) of it all over one’s person.