Taste of Hartford Restaurant Week, a summer favorite of Live in Hartford, is being incarnated as a January event!

Restaurant Week will take place from January 18 through January 24, and many of Live in Hartford's favorite restaurants are participating.

For $20.10, participating restaurants will offer a 3-course dinner: appetizer, main plate and dessert (alcohol, taxes and gratuity are not included).

It's a great way to try out restaurants you might otherwise not be able to afford, or an affordable way to take folks out for a special treat.

Reservations are strongly encouraged by Taste of Hartford, and we recommend them too. Last summer we were DENIED at Costa del Sol, but ended up with a yummy dinner at La Casona  (not participating) where we planned our fabulous trip to Ireland.

We also went to Carbone's (oh.my.gawd.amazing), and I went with Heather and her lovely husband to Trumbull Kitchen.

This time around I'm thinking of another visit to Carbone's, and perhaps an Intro to Sushi night at Feng.

So get out there! Warm up your cold January evenings and give some love to our wonderful Hartford restaurants!

        

The word "throttle" had never been in my vocabulary. That all changed this weekend after attending the Northeast Motorcyle Expo at the Connecticut Expo Center.

Slightly skeptical, but completely game, I agreed to join my Motorcycle-Riding Friend at the Expo. I figured I'd focus on the fashion aspect rather than the motorcycle aspect. I knew fashion would be a highlight because I used to live in South Dakota, home of the world-famous Sturgis Bike Rally. Fashion is a big deal at the Rally.

The Motorcycle Expo didn't disappoint.




You could find pretty much anything you wanted at Shitzengiggles Cycle Circus, including this tasteful basic black tank:





The vendors had you dressed from helmet to boots, jacket to delicate underthings.




Wait. Are underthings sporting gemstones delicate?




Well, they're at least versatile, I learned while speaking with Speed Channel personality Michelle Smith, purveyor of the "no needle" tramp stamp.

Because these aren't just any old thongs. No. Each thong is also a necklace.

Here's the deal: the jeweled bits are attached to the fabric with little hooks. While you're washing the fabric, you can unhook the jeweled bits and wear them as a necklace. Patent Pending. Seriously.

After chatting with Michelle, who was trying to convince my Motorcycle-Riding Friend that the rhinestone heart necklace panties were a great Valentine's Day gift, I felt that any other motorcycle fashion would fall short. I mean really? A fringed leather bustier? That's nothing after the Jeweled G.

It was time to move on to motorcycle fashion.




Isn't this pretty?

At the Motorcycle Expo I discovered all sorts of sparkly decorative objects for your bike.




Check out these beautiful taillight lenses. I mean, they're practically like pavé Swarovski crystals.

And speaking of crystals...



...you can get jeweled license plate bolts. Stylin'.




I was thrilled to learn that hot pink duct tape exists.

And I was completely enchanted by this:





"What is this?" I asked my Motorcycle-Riding Friend while pointing at the silvery knifey flamey things.

"It's a wheel," he said.

I'd seen quite a bit, and was more or less ready to go when I realized something. I didn't have to be a passenger forever. I could actually ride a motorcycle on my own!

But first, I would have to learn.

How convenient! The Connecticut Rider Education Program had a booth at the Expo!

There were two simulators in the booth, used for the classroom-instruction portion of the Basic Rider Course, which includes 6 hours in-class and 12 hours on-cycle.

I took the opportunity to try out the simulator. It was super fun. At first I just tooled around a course getting a feel for shifting and braking and using the throttle and turn signal and stuff. At one point the instructor told me I was going 75 miles per hour. I hadn't noticed because I was concentrating so hard.

Then I crashed.

At that point he suggested I try a training course. He loaded up City Course 1, and I drove my virtual motorcycle around a sleepy downtown.

Merging into traffic? A.

Ride safely behind a truck? A.

Avoid a car door being opened in front of me? A.

Avoiding collision with a passenger car that suddenly darted into the street? C. I came within 6.7 feet of colliding with it.

But all-in-all?




I got an A!

Exhilarated, I set out to find a real motorcycle to sit on. They come in all sizes and I'm kinda short, so I needed to find one that wasn't too heavy, and would also let my feet touch the ground. Easier said than done, as sellers aren't actually taking up space in their trailers with their smallest, wimpiest motorcycles.

But MOM saved the day and I found myself on a Suzuki GZ 250. All black. And I wanted it.





I'm not kidding. Wheels were spinning, bank balances were reviewed, cash registers were ka-chinging in my head.

Yes, I almost impulse-purchased a motorcycle.

I was stopped only by the knowledge that I wasn't capable of test-driving it.

I'm signing up for my Basic Rider Course tomorrow.

        

On New Year's Eve I attended a gala at Open Square in Holyoke MA. It was sponsored by an organization called CRUSH - Citizens for the Revitalization and Urban Success of Holyoke. It was fun - I love dressing up and dancing, and got to do both. I met great people, spent time with new friends, and got a midnight smooch. All in all a great success.

But an interesting theme emerged during the evening. It brought to mind something I'd studied in grad school: Standpoint Theory.

Crudely described, Standpoint Theory states that we all stand on, say, a point. From my point I observe and describe the world. From your point you observe and describe the world. When we talk and combine our perspectives we come away with something that is more objective than what we could have described individually.

My standpoint on New Year's Eve? That of a deeply invested and committed resident of Hartford visiting Holyoke, a city in which I have a significant interest.

The standpoint of many of the folks with whom I had conversations? Those of deeply invested and committed residents of Holyoke who are sincere in their desire to revitalize a fascinating and historic industrial city.

The first indication of the emerging theme was when a person expressed complete and utter shock that I would leave Hartford to spend New Year's Eve in Holyoke. Why? Because Hartford is way cooler than Holyoke. It has cooler clubs, cooler restaurants, more better cooler people...

I disagree. I've been to some great places and amazing homes in Holyoke (architecture and history fiends should visit just to check out the canals), and I've met truly wonderful people: Denis, Marjie, Maggie, VanDog and many others.

And as all readers of this blog know, when you start to meet a place's people, you start to feel its spirit.

Later conversations referenced a Hartford full of great restaurants. A Hartford where you can hear live music. A Hartford with cool galleries and that "fabulous museum."

"Hartford is great," said one person, "Holyoke would love to be like Hartford one day."

Said another: "Have you ever been to Providence? Hartford is like Providence..."

I think my jaw hit the floor when I heard that. Don't leaders around here always wish that Hartford was like Providence?

One of the people I was speaking with helped me with my jaw and asked about my reaction.

"Did you say Providence?"

"Hartford's problem," he said, "is marketing. It's a great cosmopolitan city."

Great. Cosmopolitan. City.

So let's see what happens when we combine the standpoints of the various folks with whom I conversed: Hartford has much to recommend it. Hartford  is diverse and sophisticated. Hartford is a destination. Hartford is a city to emulate.

Could Hartford already be the city it wants to be?

        

I've been working crazy hours the past two weeks. Crazy as in at the office until midnight or home at 9pm and working again from home at 9:30pm. Big firm-wide deadline, so I'm not alone. And better than the alternative.

Anyway, I managed to spare some time last week to perform my civic duty and vote for new BOE members. I didn't make it to the candidates' forums, but I did read through candidates' websites, their statements on Cityline, the small amount of campaign literature I got at home and Real Hartford's fantastic windup of the debate at the library. And I know a few of the candidates. So I wasn't the most informed voter, but I did my best under the circumstances, and I knew who Milly Arciniegas was and what party she was with when she greeted me outside my polling place.

This afternoon, I took a short break from work to quickly catch up on what's going on in the city. While reading through Cityline's recent posts, I found this pathetic back and forth that appears to be between a Democratic councilperson, the chair of the Democratic Town Committee, and the-man-who-would-be-chair.

All I can say is ARGH. I'm a registered Democrat. I voted for one Democrat and two Working Families candidates. You want to know why I voted for those three candidates? They were the most impressive. They were prepared. They have relevant experience. I know one of them. And in local elections, parties just don't matter to me. People do. I've more than once voted for Independent and even – gasp – Republican candidates, too.

And I'm also sick of this kind of stuff. I cannot fathom being a member of the City Council and attacking my colleagues on blogs. Nor do I understand why a Town Committee chair, who is supposed to be the leader of his party in the city, would stoop to that level. Most of all, I can't imagine being a City Council member and attacking MY CONSTITUENTS for voting for a third-party candidate. You want to know why your party is losing our votes, rJo and Sean? Because of behavior like this. You don't have a right to my vote just because we're registered with the same party. And to attack the WFP for not showing the proper "appreciation" to Democrats who allegedly "put them in office"? PLEASE. The WFP has been gaining steam and EARNING their seats because they're working hard for them. People in this city know them because they knock on doors and show up to events. And because they aren't wasting time on personal attacks instead of dealing with this city's real issues.

Get the hell over yourselves and do your jobs, people. THAT's what will make people vote for you. 

I, for one, know who I'm NOT voting for next time Council seats are up for grabs.

And now, back to work. I promise to write something more positive soon.

        

Science.

Beer.

What more could a girl want, really?

Well, maybe she could have her own time machine. Just a little one. And Dr. Ronald Mallet could build it for her.

Dr. Mallett is Professor of Physics at the University of Connecticut. While his research interests may seem pedestrian to some (general relativity? gravitation? black holes?), there's one subject that grabs even the most jaded person's attention: time travel.

Photo: UConn Department of Physics Web site

Dr. Mallet is the author of the book Time Traveler: A Scientist's Personal Mission to Make Time Travel a Reality. According to a press release announcing Spike Lee's acquisition of film rights to the book, Time Traveler is  "...the compelling and touching story of a man whose deep childhood trauma -- at age ten the sudden death of his father -- drove him on a quest to build a time machine in an attempt to go back in time to save his father."

Dr. Mallet believes he has discovered the basic equations for a working time machine, and is telling the world about it.

On November 4, Dr. Mallet will be at the Connecticut Science Center to discuss the scientific theory surrounding time travel and the transformation of his book into a Spike Lee film.

Details:

6:00 - reception with cash bar
7:00 - author talk, followed by book signing
$25/$15 for Premiere Members
Reservations - 860-520-2154

I've already been to the event and I've come back from the future to tell you that it's great.

        

A shaft of feeble light catches the curve of the white wicker bassinet, and a dim shadow rises and falls on the wall. The bassinet rests among boxes overflowing with bright games and children’s clothing. It stands next to an empty bed frame. A narrow path runs through these fragments of a family’s material life, and I turn sideways and shuffle through, trying not to brush a single box with my fingertips.

I step on something. My heart pounds and I’m suddenly chilled.

“I have to leave this house,” I say.

It doesn’t matter what I’ve stepped on. Whatever it is, it’s soft, and I think of the baby who slept in that bassinet. The despair I feel is exactly the weight of an infant settling on my chest. I turn and walk up the stairs, leaving the gray basement and the empty bassinet behind.

* * *

We’d arrived at the three-family house, on a boulevard of grand old homes in Holyoke, to meet a broker for a walk-through. We were early and he was late, so we strolled up the block, observed by neighbors who, it was easy to imagine, had their fingers crossed that we would buy the house and do something, anything, to keep it from sliding further into disrepair. In a neighborhood heavily burdened with houses-in-need-of-work, just one more can be a sign-post on the road to that place where desirable is revealed as worn and tired.

Whenever I’ve looked at a house, I’ve approached it tentatively. It’s almost as if a buffer forms between me and the property, and I circle at a distance until I find a polite way in.

This house, with its teal exterior and peeling gray turret,was no different. We walked into the backyard and took in the single electrical meter on the back wall. I frowned at the condition of the garage next door and peered curiously at the collection of plastic flowers nailed to the wall underneath the fire escape.

We peeked, shook and rapped our way to the front of the house, and found ourselves standing on the lawn, wondering aloud how much it would cost to make the necessary repairs to the exterior. As we talked, I noticed that there were pieces of paper taped to a window and the front door of the house. Feeling emboldened, I stepped up to the porch and looked at them.

The paper taped to the window was a building permit. In 2006, the year that he had purchased it, the owner of the house had been granted a permit to rebuild the porch, put on a new roof, and paint the exterior.

The paper taped to the door was a notice that the water was going to be turned off.

And stuck between the mailbox and the wall, not noticeable from the street, was a judgment against the owner of the house from a creditor.

I was moved by the story told by those papers. In May of 2006 the house had been purchased and the new owner had enthusiastically set about undertaking repairs and improvements. In October of 2009 it was back on the market, with newspapers and unopened letters blown into a corner of the porch and empty beer bottles balanced on the railings.

The broker arrived, and after some fiddling with the key, we stepped into the house. Weak sunlight barely passed through the windows. The floor had buckled, and from wall to wall it was covered with trash. In one corner a single brown shoe rested against a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. A child’s blue t-shirt lay wrinkled on the floor next to an open picture book.

In the kitchen a metal trash bin overflowed with beer bottles and soda cans. Dirty pans and dishes were piled on the counter.

The blue-walled bathroom was large and strangely empty.

The apartment on the second floor was cleaner, although its narrow hallways and small rooms pressed in on me from all sides. The appliances had been stripped from the dingy, light-starved kitchen. Stick-on parquet flooring had been used to cover mustard-colored vinyl tile in one of the bedrooms. Looking out of the kitchen window, I could see how rickety the fire escape was.

The third floor apartment was bright and nearly spotless. I found myself thinking that I could live there easily, and was enchanted by the curving turret space with its two long windows and arched doorway.

I can’t help but make up stories to fill in the space left by objects, overheard conversations, body language, or scenes. I allowed my mind to fill up with the story of the owner of this house and his family.

I see him, with a wife and three children, hoping to grab onto the American Dream by purchasing a house on a shady, quiet boulevard, in a neighborhood filled with children and dogs. This is a move up for his family – perhaps out of an apartment, or out of a house with smaller windows on a noisier street.

The well-kept houses on the new street are beacons of what lies in the future: a house-become-home, loved and comfortable, the children growing up with fond memories of hide-and-seek and Christmas.

As each part of the house is improved and restored, the apartments are reclaimed by the family. Ultimately the three floors are rejoined into a single-family home. The little girl who had slept in the bassinet uses the turret as a playroom, and light slants in to illuminate the cribs where her baby dolls lie.

I know this story is a fantasy. The owner was likely an investor who bought at the top of the market and found himself sinking fast as the economy collapsed around him and he stared full-on at the dark underside of theAmerican Dream.

Either way, the house was bought with hope for a better life, and I saw the hope draining away as I descended from the bright third floor into a basement filled with artifacts of happier days. On the first floor, I saw despair turned to bitter rage: nothing is folded neatly or packed into moving boxes. Piles of broken objects tumble and spread on the floor, a painting is hanging by the corner of its frame. A window is open, allowing the wind and freezing air to rush through the unruly space.

* * *

I reach the top of the cellar stairs and walk toward the front door. Two men are looking in the window, hoping to see the house when we’re finished; hoping to grab on to their piece of the American Dream. I turn away from them to face the chaos: the sagging ceiling, the cheaply paneled walls, and the endless trash. I feel trapped in this space, and tricked by its promise.

I shiver again. I wish the men would go away. I want to walk out the front door and never look back. No one should have to live filled with this kind of despair and rage. No man. No woman. And certainly no baby who sleeps in a white wicker bassinet, the future for whom all these dreams are pursued.

        

Another grand pie-in-the-sky development plan bites the dust. Cityline reports that the Hartford Redevelopment Authority voted unanimously to kill the project by rescinding its initial agreement making Plaza Mayor LLC the tentative redeveloper for the intersection of Park and Main. The resolution rescinding the agreement cited Plaza Mayor LLC's "significant challenges in obtaining the necessary financing for the project." No financing = no final agreement between the Authority and the developer = the intersection remains empty lots filled with trash and surrounded by chain link fences.

I can't say I'm sorry that the plan as proposed isn't going forward. I never liked the idea of high-rise buildings at that intersection. Just doesn't seem to fit the feel of the area at all. Cityline has a drawing of the proposed "gateway" to Park Street here. To me, those high-rises looked like they would just swallow up the space and block Park Street off from Main Street instead serving as a gateway welcoming people onto Park Street. 

I did, however, like the part of the plan that called for a "main square" surrounded by retail. Perhaps in today's economy the retail part is a tougher sell, but why can't the city still pull something together at this site, something that would be a draw to Park Street and an attractive entrance to what has become a very attractive street thanks to the city's taxpayer-funded streetscaping efforts? Why not build a main square anyway? Maybe pare down the whole columns and arches look, but put in a nice gathering place for people, with an attractive, accessible bus stop. Add in some benches and tiered seating areas so concerts can be held there during the summer and vendors can able to sell their wares during the week. That intersection could be a perfect place for another farmer's market in the summer, or for public art installations. Keep one wall as a designated graffiti artist wall that's re-painted every month. Give graffiti artists a sanctioned place to show off their talents.

Barnard Park, just across the street, is always filled with people hanging out waiting for a bus or just chatting and smoking cigarettes. While some people probably call that "loitering" and are uncomfortable with the idea of encouraging people to hang out, I'm reminded of something Will K. Wilkins of RAW said at the live broadcast of Where We Live two days ago. He said something like: "Hartford's problem isn't that there's nothing to do, it's that there's nowhere to do nothing." In other words, there's nowhere for people to just hang out and connect with each other.

I'm not sure I entirely agree with that statement because to me, the parks across the city fill that role pretty well, but his commment certainly resonated with listeners. Wilkins was quoted on Twitter several times just moments after he made that observation and those tweets were re-tweeted by others who weren't even listening to the broadcast.

The people who hang out in Barnaby Park have found somewhere to do nothing. Why not build on that idea and put in a square designed for nothing more than doing nothing? At the very least, a main square would certainly be an improvement over the way it looks now.

        

One of my favorite shows on NPR, and probably my favorite WNPR show, Where We Live, did a live broadcast at Real Art Ways this morning. The topic? Hartford. Specifically:

Hartford was once a thriving city in a thriving state. To many, that time has passed. Others think differently. What does it mean to live in Hartford? How has Hartford's past influenced its present? And where might Hartford go next? Where We Live and Real Art Ways want your thoughts on Hartford's past, present and future, for an interactive, live broadcast featuring their stories, ideas, questions, and thoughts on Connecticut's capitol city.

About 70 people showed up, including a dozen or so high school students (I hope they were in high school, because if they were college students, I'm really getting old), a City Council member, new COO David Panagore, the ever-present Mike McGarry, and some fellow bloggers. Looked to be a decent mix of ages, races, backgrounds in the crowd. And apparently we all had one thing in common: Hartford is important to us. 

John Dankosky had three planned guests, Trude Mero, a longtime Hartford resident and assistant to four governors, Will K. Wilkins of RAW, and Mixashawn, a local composer and performer. (Detailed bios available here.) As is often the case, the guests were interesting, but the best part of the show was the contributions from the audience members and the "people on the street."

The show opened with short clips of people talking to a Where We Live intern about how they would describe Hartford and what their perceptions are of the city. While I know that opening montage was edited, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that the majority of the comments were positive. The people interviewed must have been in good moods that day.

I was struck by the fact that, as is often the case when Hartford cheerleaders get together, a lot of the discussion touched on people's negative perceptions about this city. Several audience members said that people who come to Hartford only to work just don't realize how much there is to do here. Wilkins made the point that "the people who are most negative about Hartford are the people who know the least about Hartford." Amen to that. (I was sad to learn, however, that Wilkins was responsible for the horrendous slogan "Hartford: You Could Do Worse" that appeared on bumper stickers years ago. It was supposed to be funny. Ugh.)

It's a mindset I just don't understand. Yes, Hartford, like any city, has its faults. Yes, to some people, those faults probably seem enormous. But if you don't know much about a place, why even comment on it, let alone deliberately tear it down? I'm not just referring to the people who post terrible comments about Courant articles. I'm talking about people who questioned, and still question, my decision to buy a house here. I'm talking about the people, including my friends, who complain that nothing is open on weekends--but never come to the city on weekends. I'm talking about the guy who, according to Heather Brandon, showed up at the public meeting on potential future uses of the landfill site and started trashing Keney Park as a dangerous place that no one goes into unless armed with a weapon. Turns out that guy had never even BEEN to Keney Park.

I'm not really sure what the solution is. I do know, however, that slogans like "Come to Hartford, I swear, it's fun" are not going to get us anywhere. I hope that this blog, and others like it, play a part in changing people's minds. Ultimately, though, I think the only way to show people what Hartford has to offer is for all of us Hartford cheerleaders to convince them, one by one. To take that colleague who never leaves the office for lunch down to Pratt Street (or even better, out to Frog Hollow to visit Firebox or La Paloma). To convince your music-loving friend to check out a summer performance at Riverfront Plaza or Bushnell Park. To walk with people through the park and through downtown at night after a show at the Bushnell. To take them to Keney Park to watch cricket matches or to Colt Park to watch rugby. To convince them that their kids will enjoy a trip to the Science Center followed by a walk or a bike ride along the river. To tell them about the skunks and possums and rabbits we see in our yards on a regular basis and the pine cones and chestnuts that fall in our driveways.

At bottom, changing perceptions means making personal connections. I'm up for the challenge. Who's with me?

        

        

Last Saturday was an interesting day. I spent the morning volunteering at a soup kitchen in Hartford and the evening having dinner at a farm in South Glastonbury.

My morning at the soup kitchen
The Young Lawyers' Section of the Connecticut Bar Association has committed to providing food and volunteers for meals in three soup kitchens throughout the state once a month. In Hartford, we're staffing the Mercy House kitchen and I've signed up for several of the volunteer spots. I volunteered there once before--I thought it was just last year, but we figured out it was almost three years ago! No reason not to go there more regularly.

The morning went smoothly. We were tasked with preparing spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread and salad for the residents of the shelter and non-residents who come for meals. As preparations go, it was an easy meal, and time flew by. Before we knew it, we were bringing out the food and lines had formed both inside and outside of the shelter. Everyone was polite and most people were very friendly. It was a great way to spend three or four hours on a Saturday.

My evening at the farm
Each year, two restaurateurs and a farmer organize Dinners at the Farm, a series of dinners that promote and focus on eating local food. The dinners are pretty impressive, in large part because the meals are prepared entirely at the farms, using produce and/or poultry raised at the host farm and others in the area. My mother and I splurged for one of these dinners last year (the ticket price is pretty high, in part because farmers and designated non-profits receive portions of the proceeds) and had a great time despite the torrential downpours that week. This year, my sister also came along.

We got a short tour of Old Maids Farm, which this year is growing primarily organic corn to be turned into feed for livestock and poultry, but also raises chickens and turkeys and sells organic compost to local landscapers and towns. Then we settled in for a multi-course (but small portion) meal that included mozzarella and potato salad, seafood tamales, heritage turkey stuffed with something delicious, and molasses cake. We drank wine, local beer, and apple whiskey sours. It was a nice evening.

I had a better time at the soup kitchen.

At the soup kitchen, I was surrounded by people dressed in jeans and t-shirts, track pants and sweatshirts. The cook and other staff working at the shelter were friendly and outgoing and easy to be around. At the farm, I was surrounded by women in high heels, men in jackets and people who arrived in limos. (Limos to a dinner at a farm. Yes.) My mother, sister and I felt underdressed in our practical shoes, jeans, and light sweaters. Most of the attendees looked like they stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog. (Full disclosure: Yes, I own some Brooks Brothers clothes. I'm a lawyer, it's practically a requirement. But at a farm? Come on.)

At the soup kitchen, everyone we served thanked us. Some thanked us more than once. At the farm, I was surprised at how infrequent the thanks were for the servers walking around with hors d'oeuvre, filling wine glasses, and serving each course.

At the soup kitchen, everyone was friendly. The volunteers, staff, and residents smiled at each other, chatted, asked questions about each other. At the farm, few people mingled, despite the family-style sit-down meal.

Maybe I've truly become a city girl. Maybe this dinner was just unusually fancy because it was in South Glastonbury at a farm along the water surrounded by huge houses. But the result of Saturday is that I'm really looking forward to my next weekend morning at Mercy House, and I don't think I'll be attending one of the Dinners at the Farm next year.