Ms. Jenny.
This past Friday night, Jake and I were sitting around watching
Trollhunter—a B-horror movie from Norway—when our pal Brandon showed up at the front door. I had a couple seconds to think, “Huh, why is Brandon showing up at our house when he knows Jake has to work tomorrow?” Then, a girl walked in behind him, and I swore I knew her from somewhere. Then, in the dimness of our living room, I recognized the smiling face of my chica from Charleston, Jenny, who Jake had secretly flown in as a super spectacular birthday present to me. The next minute is kind of a blur, but I’m pretty sure there was a lot of hugging and cheek kissing and crying. So began my thirtieth birthday weekend.
Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly. I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.
I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.
Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them. We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.
Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.
At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thi
As I sit here, sipping my Green Mountain Pumpkin Spice coffee, I realize that every year about this time, I crave the stuff. I stalk the Green Mountain website and wait … wait … until they announce: “Pumpkin Spice coffee is on sale for a limited time!” They say “limited,” because it’s true: Pumpkin Spice sells out almost immediately. I order several bags of it to make sure I get my fix, but it’s never quite enough. Come October, when the Pumpkin Spice is sold out, my craving is never sated. Maybe that’s their sales tactic: always leave the audience wanting more.
This brings up a question: what else do I crave? More importantly, what do I crave here in Phoenix? I have a background of growing up near good food. As a kid, my entire family cooked Italian food from scratch. Around Christmas time, I would always crave the Angeli family homemade ravioli, filled with garlic and covered in cheese. In Charleston, I would have incredible (I’m talking pregnant woman style) cravings for oysters and Bloody Marys—easy to fix in a city by the sea. So now, in Phoenix, what is it I have to have every couple months? Let me tell you …
The Nuclear Fallout martini at West Valley favorite Ground Control. Not for the faint of heart, you might see the mystical Green Fairy after too many of these cool concoctions of Agwa Coca Leaf Liqueur and Le Tourment Vert Absinthe.
Fresh bread with parmesan cheese and garlic butter at Bella Luna. Another West Valley locale, it’s locally owned, and sometimes, the chef escapes the kitchen long enough to sing some Italian opera.
Fish tacos at Gallo Blanco. Light, messy, and filled with flavor. Not only is the food yum-worthy, but the environment is one of the best in the Valley, featuring the backdrop of the hip, retro Clarendon Hotel. Frida Kahlo would have loved it.
Any and all Mexican food, most notably Jake’s guacamole and my homemade margaritas. Tragically, my favorite Mexican restaurant so far discovered in Arizona is Café Poca Cosa in Tucson. My dream is that someday charming owner Suzana Davila will open a restaurant in Phoenix and wow us with even more of her fresh, decadent Mexican feasts.
Hawaiian Ceviche at Hula’s Modern Tiki. The description says it all: fresh white fish, “cooked” in citrus juice, coconut milk, chili, and cilantro. Like summer by the sea … on a plate.
Bruschetta boards at Postino. If you’ve ever been to Postino, you know about the bruschetta. I can’t go there without ordering a board. The best choices? Fresh Mozzarella with Tomato and Basil; Prosciutto with Figs and Mascarpone; and Burrata, Bacon, Arugula, and Tomato.
Finally, the pizza at C
Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them. We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.
About the time I was approaching 30, Bob Dylan offered his well-known line, “Never trust anyone over 30.” Then Bob hit 30 himself and decided not to follow his own advice.
Take it from me, the 30s are brilliant. So are the 40s, 50s, and the 60s aren’t so bad either. Knowing how you embrace life, you will find something to celebrate with each decade.
We are so glad to be counted amongst your friends.
Huge Birthday hug, Sue Ellen and David too.