Take, for instance, the sopa of the second course: caramelized onion broth with chicken liver, pickled carrots and green olives.

Let me tell you, the food was fierce. During the tamale course (a wild mushroom tamale with salsa verde and a chicken tamale with Oaxacan black mole) I couldn’t help but pause to update my Facebook status to say, “I feel like I’m swimming in magic right now. In reality, I’m eating tamales.”

I ate said tamales with such speed and enthusiasm that I forgot to take a picture of them. (Sorry…)

It’s really hard to pick a favorite anything, but the campechana from the first course blew my mind. It was a sea food soup with octopus, shrimp, tomato, jalepeños and radish. It was served with a tiny egg tostada and saltines wrapped in a crisp, wax-paper envelope.

And the dessert course could only be described as a mouthful of awesome. They called it “Chocolate con Chili” and it had the lightest, moussey-est texture with just a hint of heat. The dulce de leche sauce, Shauna told me later, was made from boiling condensed milk in its can.

Shauna promises me there will be more Entropia dinners in the future. More tamales, more campechana, more magic … I, for one, can’t wait.

… and also for Gavin’s birthday. Bloody Marys. Bunny ears. Yeaaaah.

But there’s something comfortable about Under The Table. When there’s something on my mind, be it good, bad or ridiculous, I can bring it here and write and say whatever I want. 

And I am truly thankful for that. I am thankful that the Internet gives me this platform, and I appreciate the people who will read what I have to say, no matter how infrequent my postings may be. 

It’s a New Year, a time for setting goals and making resolutions. I’m resolving not to give up. For now, that’s the most I can promise.

Two weeks ago I was at home by myself on a Monday night. My guy and I had talked about going out for pho, and I was waiting to hear from him. While I waited, I cleaned the floors of my apartment and started some laundry. I tried to think of where we should go. Ba Bar? Than Brothers? I thought, I don’t care what we do as long as we get to hang out. I hadn’t seen him in almost a week.

I got a text asking if he could come over. He wanted to talk.

He did. We did … and then it was over.

Maybe making a pie would’ve helped. But there has been no pie. Even though it’s almost Thanksgiving. Even though I’ve had a lot more time to myself lately.

Last night, I again found myself at home alone on a Monday night. I was doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom and the parallels were obvious. Two weeks is no time at all. Two weeks is a lifetime. I am still at the level of being upset, but somehow beyond the ability to cry, or demand that my friends take me out for alcohol and karaoke (yes, that happened.)

So I was at home by myself and my sink was making me crazy. When I visited my 19-year-old brother in Portland last month, I was humbled by his spotless apartment. If my little brother can keep his bathroom that clean without making a fuss about it, then so can I, damn it! Last night I finally busted out the Clorox Disinfecting Wipes and vowed to never let my sink get gross again. I scrubbed the tub and Cloroxed every corner of the room. I even cleaned all the gunk out of my eye pencil sharpener.

The more I cleaned, the less I thought about all the things I want but can’t have right now.

I debated whether I should write about this. I didn’t want to get too personal, but it felt too weird not to write about it. And honestly, it helps me.  I hope, on some level it helps you, too. Even if it’s just a bit of entertainment as you’re avoiding work the day before a holiday.

A holiday for which I am very excited! And just so you know, I did offer to make the pie (this is what I had in mind.) But I lost out to my grandmother. If Grandma calls pie duty, you can’t really fight that.

So there’s no pie to distract me from my life right now, but there’s bourbon for cold nights, gelato from Lisa, lunch with Monica and helping Emely paint her new place while we drank Italian wine from old paper coffee cups (“I detect a hint of mocha on the nose…”)

And now, I have a really clean bathroom. I’m quite happy about that.

Thanks mucho.

When Thanksgiving rolled around that year, I got it in my head that I wanted to make blueberry pie from scratch. (Never mind that blueberries are way out of season in November. There’s a reason why pumpkin and apple pies dominate the holiday.)

Theresa, my pie mentor, may have mentioned this to me early on. In any case, I didn’t listen (I was 13, after all.) I wanted to make blueberry pie. Theresa was a close friend of my then-step-mother and our families got together for Thanksgiving that year. She had more talent and enthusiasm for baking than any other woman I knew, and I was lucky to have her guidance.

The following year my family had shrunk due to divorce, and we celebrated with my Dad’s cousins who were in from California. I made blueberry pie again that year, and everyone was dutifully impressed that I’d made the whole thing from scratch.

I made blueberry pie a few times after that, but it never really became a skill. The truth is, I didn’t really like the pies I made. The crust was spot on, but the filling was soupy and bland.

But now I possess a new level of confidence and curiosity (in the kitchen, and in life.) There are a hundred thousand recipes for blueberry pie out there … maybe it’s time I tried a new one.

The inspiration for this post came from someone else’s obsession with fruit-filled pastry, a blog called Pie-Scream. I found this post in particular rather touching. I hope you’ll enjoy it, too.

Something about Sunday makes me breathe a little bit easier. Even when I have to work, the day still seems designed for chilling out and having some fun. Best case scenario, I’m enjoying oysters and wine with friends, or sushi and cocktails with my man. Worst case scenario I’m lingering in bed, spending way too much time on Twitter and sipping a cup of hot tea. Any and all of these are fine in my book…

But the clouds come back pretty fast and it’s time to start getting cozy – making tea and listening to KEXP and coming up with excuses not to leave the house. But just as you start contemplating a walk to the drugstore for new shampoo, it starts to rain. What? It’s raining?! you think. And then you remember that you are in Seattle. Of course.

This pretty much sums up my Saturday morning. I could spend the whole day wandering around my pocket-sized apartment in my pajamas when the weather is like this. I made some English Breakfast tea in my Auntie Em mug and tuned into KEXP’s all-Jamaican music show Positive Vibrations. I called my little brother (he’s coming to visit!) and received a “Good morning, Lady :-)” text message that made me :-D.

Then Kid Hops, the DJ for Positive Vibrations, said exactly what I was thinking, on air: “I see weather and clouds like this and i just want to keep it slow and deep like this.”

(This is what “slow and deep” sounds like, if you were wondering…)

It’s all part of the formula that lessens the urge to cry, or move to California, when summer goes away. To be a successful Seattleite, one must have an appreciation for the Gray.

By the way, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I’m starting to understand that writing is an activity that tends to flourish in a solitary lifestyle. The last few weeks have been anything but solitary: I spent two weeks looking after three cats, nine days with my mom as a houseguest and I’ve actually been dating someone (hence all the emoticons.)

But I still can’t seem to kick this blogging habit…

But the Seattle Experience as an event ends there. I’m at Caffé Vita today and Capitol Hill is alive with rituals that are so different from Ballard’s. It can be hard to follow a trail of thought if you’re sitting next to the boisterous black man wearing a seersucker jacket, pink shirt and straw fedora. Two handsome men in expensive sunglasses and bold tank tops walk by holding hands.

From the sidewalk tables at Cugini all you see are kids, dogs and fresh produce as young couples and stylish parents browse the Sunday Farmer’s Market.

A few weeks ago I was there enjoying a latté and scribbling in my blue Moleskine notebook:

I love to see what people are wearing on a Sunday. This spot, near the entrance to the Market gives me the perfect vantage point. There are rain boots and clogs and flip-flops. In Ballard accessories, shoes take third place while babies and dogs vie for first. 

“I WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU’RE WRITING.”

The loud, monotone voice of an older woman makes me look up. I open my mouth, not sure what to say and she reads the first sentence out loud.

“I LOVE TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE ARE WEARING.”

I pull my notebook towards my chest. “It’s personal,” I say, “but thanks for your interest.”

“YOU’RE PRETTY,” she says. “THAT’S PERSONAL.”

She walks away. I watch her go, and make eye contact with a man who witnessed it. Is she for real?

“IT’S ALL GREEN, WHAT I’M WEARING,” she calls over her shoulder.

Back on Capitol Hill, the man in seersucker is equally hard to ignore, though he’s not even talking to me. His conversation (with a scrawny, tattooed hipster boy) is about why people are always staring at him. But his aesthetic hardly matters – his deep voice and passionate views dominate the surrounding airspace.

I find him fascinating and inspiring but alas, too distracting. So I pick up my blue Moleskine and move along to another sidewalk table on a quieter street.

Happy Sunday!