City Chicken: The undead, Little League and creme brule

We made it to the Friday premiere of the full-length motion picture on which my nephew Sam was the lighting director.

Have I mentioned that he got a full-ride, four-year scholarship to Northwestern and was valedictorian of his high school class? Did I mention that already? That, and he and large group of like-minded independent film heads made this zombie flick.
Despite getting back at 1 a.m., we knew we had to get up early Saturday morning to catch Brendan’s Little League game, where his team was vying for the championship title. They won convincingly. He did pretty well, actually. For the four innings we were there, he drew a walk, got on first, advanced to second and then scored from second on a base hit. Here he is patrolling right field.

And here he is at the plate. This is where the beauty of photography’s permanent record showcases itself. Look at that ball coming in. The ump called that junk a third strike. Now, I thought it was high to begin with, but when I saw this photo, I knew I was right.

It’s at the kid’s fucking shoulders, which I understand is at very the top of the strike zone, no so much IN the strike zone. Little League is funny, umps who can’t officiate, coaches who think they’re playing for some of sort grail and fathers out there reliving their own athletic shortcomings through passive-aggressive displays. Good times. But it was good to see Rian and meet Corey and Joe, and even the elusive Farkas. The Bean looked like he was having fun, and that’s what counts. Plus, they won. Bonus.
We hauled ass back home Saturday to clean, clean, clean and get ready for Installment II of Dinner With Friends. The lineup? Our next door neighbors, Jen and Wynn; Gary and Jason; and Kerry’s friend Jodie, in town from L.A. Jodie, however, could not attend, so it was just the six of us, 2 gallons of sangria and a huge pan of paella. Since we lost Friday night to highway travel and zombie chicanery, we had to bust ass all day Saturday to catch up on cleaning, yard work, food prep, you name it. It was tough, frustrating actually, but worth every hour of it, I think.
Kerry blew out the food, as usual. I don’t think I got anywhere near the kitchen. She started making the paella (yes, two dinner parties in a row with the same menu; we know, we know)

a few hours before everyone arrived. We munched on this killer bruschetta Gary and Jason brought (baquette with tomato, fresh mozzarella and a basil leaf, brushed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil), as well as a salad of cucumbers and strawberries with mint vinaigrette. Kerry also made black bean and banana empanadas, and let me tell you those bad boys are the bomb.

The paella would later turn out wonderfully.

Rice, chorizo, chicken, corn, artichoke hearts, garlic and a few other items I’m sure I’m forgetting. True Spanish tradition calls for eating it right out of the pan, which is what I did. We enjoyed a lovely meal with great company