Blame Silly's Jilly

"Meet me at Silly's." I've been saying this a lot lately. Silly's meteoric rise on my list of top gathering spots is in no small way due to their eccentric menu. And their location. Which, you may have guessed, is also a stone's throw the to new apartment. (I apologize for continually bragging about the fabulous location of my apartment. Oh, heck. No I don't. It's a fabulous location). Silly's cliched fried pickles epitomize their off-the-wall culinary mantra. (Although anyone who's ever visited Silly's knows nothing is actually off the wall. They're absolutely with pictures and kitschy lamps and lights. How silly). On my last trip to Silly's I stumbled upon Sangria. At $11 a pop, their half pitchers are irresistable. Sangria is a pretty sexy drink, if you think about it. Lusciously red, packed with sugar, wine, and forbidden fruit. Great for an evening out in Barcelona. Not a wise choice if you're about to attend your sister's birthday party in the north woods of Maine. Especially unwise if you are solely responsible for obtaining a Friendly's ice cream cake and transporting it to said birthday party in a hot car for two hours. Needless to say, I found myself and another family member (who I should note, was NOT attending my sister's birthday party), cajoling ourselves into a little mid-afternoon Sangria break at Silly's. An offer I couldn't pass up. An offer I should have passed up. Our server moved at a languid pace. Not a waitress in the good-old-fashioned quick service, great smile, mildly flirty sort of way. More in the screw-the-status-quo, look-at-my-tattoos vein. She did manage to keep the sangria flowing, so no real complaints.

After the second tin cup of Sangria (note more silliness here, relatively fancy drink in a tin cup) were a little silly. And a little sleepy with a two-hour drive and cake-obtaining quest beckoning. Without my timely arrival, no birthday cake. Uh-oh. Were my problems sangria-related? Maybe just a little.


After officially sobering up (under .08 I promise), I proceeded to get lost in the even littler city of Lewiston, Maine. Birthday parties. Always stressful events in my family. When we were little, my mother used to throw us the most wholesome parties with a homemade cake, a gaggle of friends, the grandparents too. My sister, ever the family-oriented anchor of our clan, really wanted to recapture this magic by spending her 29th birthday party in Maine with her husband and family. Did I mention loathing getting in my car? If I did, it is only because I loathe that it is usually for the sole purpose of traveling to a town with a few less places like Silly's, and a few more watering holes in the tradition of Awful Annie's. I love my mother though. And she is a sophisticated lady still rocking it in the little rural Maine town I grew up in, bless her soul. And my car. Which makes the trip north just for her.

The Friendly's worker asked me if I wanted a Sponge Bob or Barbie statue on the ice cream cake. "No, she's turning 29. Happy Birthday Jill will be just fine." I was going to be two hours late, for sure. Getting lost trying to find a Friendly's in Lewiston didn't help either. I drove about 70 mph after getting the cake since I still had another 45 minutes before arriving home. But that's where I came from. Not Portland. A little town. Where the kids don't sip Sangria, they just want birthday cakes. As a matter of fact I didn't even know what Sangria was until last year. (Well, that's not entirely true, but Bud tops the list of preferred beverages back home). No matter how much I love the Little City of Portland, I can't shake my rural roots or get too big for my britches (or in my case my vintage-inspired dresses).

Sometimes, when I reach Exit 75 on the Maine turnpike, a strong yearning for rural life stirs in me. The peace. The quiet. The joy found in small familial gatherings. After packing the cake in the cooler, I even started yearning for the wholesome birthday my sister requested. Down with sangria. Down with hipsters (which is how my family classifies me these days). Give me a Bud Light, some Eagles on the radio, the mountains, and the trees. Sometimes the Little City gets this Little Girl intoxicated with its sights, sounds, and Sangria. And back home, simple is what's on the menu. No kooky lights or fried pickles, just my mom in the kitchen, older folks talking about the days of yore, food flowing. The things my sister loves.

I dedicate this post to her. She is traditional and virtuous in a way I can only dream about being. I wish her a wonderful last year of her 20's, and I hope I survive mine as gracefully as she has hers. Which will involve more birthday cakes. And less Sangria.