Portland is just a smart town. Its situation at the top end of the Willamette valley, where that river flows northward into the mighty Columbia, set its destiny as a major port city. But that's not what I mean by smart: Back in the '70s, the city's officials set urban growth boundaries (which have been challenged constantly) that aimed to prevent sprawl. Now, 30 years later, our downtown is downright bustling -- I know it's a cliche, shut up. Great restaurants and shops, beatiful views, charming infrastructure -- and it's no fluke that the privately-owned and local Powell's Books is a city landmark. Smart town.
It's the weekend. Jude and I usually spend an hour or two on Friday night or Saturday morning rationalizing the doing of no work on the house and, instead, the going to downtown. Often, the best we can come up with is, "Well, we're gonna need some breakfast." We head through the pantry, full of Grape Nuts and pancake mix, out the back door to the car and downtown to Mother's.
Mother's has the best breakfast I've ever experienced anywhere. As a fan of truck stops, diners, B&Bs, omelet shops, sidewalk crepe stands, and even some microwave gas station cuisine, I'm easy to please -- but the field is that much wider in the competition for absolute best. Mother's wins. They're always busy, with sort of a French countryside decor, but in an early 20th century ironfront structure. They may not know your name when you walk through the door, but when you put it on the list (somehow it's always about a 20 minute wait, no matter how many people are there) all of the staff make an effort to call you by name. It's pleasant, like when they call you darlin' at a truck stop. Go ahead and use an alias if you want, Brad and Angelina. And the food is just unbelievable. We try to order something different each time, but my favorite is the bagels with lox. Sounds common enough, but the bagels are FedEx'd daily from Greenwich Village and the lox are fresh, wild, Alaskan salmon. Cup of coffee and a mimosa. Catch me, Jesus.After a two-hour most important meal of the day, Jude says, "I need to return item X to store Y." This is to indicate that we're not going shopping, just reversing a transaction; not spending, but recovering money; we're working here, checking an errand off a nonexistent list. She is full of shit, and we were born for each other.
We tra-la through the afternoon, and I get some reading done from the novel I happen to have in my pocket. Around twilight I'm usually the one who mentions a movie review I saw (by the way, go see Pan's Labyrinth) and that seals it -- we are just lazy consumers. We get home around midnight, sleepily determined to get up early and work on the house all day Sunday, no matter what. Jude places a bag from Target by the front door, with a pair of 30-inch waist Levi's inside ...
