"You order like a true paisano!" It was a compliment like none other, especially coming from Adriana herself, owner and operator of St. Louis' beloved Adriana's on The Hill.

I got the sandwich special, Franke got the Sicilian meatloaf, and we both got an order of Adriana's cucumber, tomato, onion salad. If ever I can replicate that meatloaf I'm pretty sure every meat-loving man worldwide would be knocking on my door. Even more so than they already are, that is (wink, wink).

Adriana's was our first stop on The Hill, and it was there that I rekindled my love affair with all things Italian. This fabulous little Italian-American neighborhood made me wish Nashville had such a place. It made me wish I had known my nonna and that my grandfather, Andrew Spelta, had passed on his knowledge of his native tongue. It reminded me of the amazing sense of life that I felt when I spent that wonderful summer in Italy, and it made me want to return even more.

I always like to say that the Italians really know how to live. By that, it just seems that they appreciate the small things in life and take the time to take them in. They put family, friends and food in their rightful spots in their lives, and they are passionate about all three. It could be that I'm just romanticizing the whole thing since I have Italian roots and I spent that one fabulous summer traipsing all over the country. Nah. Too many others see it the same way. It's just fact.

Isn't it odd, then, that my own Italian family here in Nashville, Tennessee is so foreign to me.

When my mother was growing up, the whole Spelta crew was here in Nashville, and the way my mother tells it, her uncle Peter (my grandfather's twin) was the patriarch of the family. He apparently kept things together and made sure there were gatherings and food and reunions. I even remember a few of them from my childhood days.

After "Uncle Pete" passed, cousin Tony kept the tradition alive. I don't really know what happened as the years ticked by, only that either they stopped having Spelta family reunions or we stopped going. And that's really when it all breaks down. When we stop gathering, stop participating, stop telling stories about our family and about our past. If I'm gonna be a "true paisano" I guess I better stop longing for my Italian past and start reaching out to my here and now.

Perhaps I should work on my Sicilian meatloaf recipe and work up a little family reunion of my own.

I Stand Connected

This is Jack with two of his favorite things, Orangina and cheese pizza. It's hard to find things this 7-year-old son of mine will eat. He's picky, which I understand from other moms is quite normal at this age. Still, it pains me that my son could give a flip about food.

Take our recent Spring Break trip to Crested Butte as an example. Diana's husband John is a good cook. He made us homemade pizzas on the grill and some fabulous pork loin and veggies. I was in heaven. Jack was indifferent, at best. Then, there was the incredibly delicious dinner at their friends Andrew and Suzanne's house. Andrew and John were test driving some Middle Eastern fare on us in preparation for a fund-raising dinner they were going to cater there in the Butte.

Let me just tell you, it was a treat. Delicious in every way, especially the sauces. Juliet, Zane and Nola were good little children and ate it up. Jack was in the other room with an altitude headache (first day in the mountains). Poor little guy! But even if he hadn't been under the weather, he would have snubbed his nose while Mom stuffed her face. Luckily, no one in Crested Butte held it against us.

In fact, I noticed during our visit to this beautiful Butte, that the people are incredibly laid back, hospitable, family-oriented and equally plugged-in as they are unplugged. Diana was cracking me up with her account of just how unplugged her husband John is. Half the time he doesn't even have his cell phone with him. Imagine that! I was Twittering from the slopes the whole time, eager to share my travels with all those hundreds of eager @kristegoad followers, and here's John who could care less whether he's even got a charged cell.

It's refreshing, really, not to see everyone all Blackberried and iPhoned up all the time. Refreshing, but I couldn't break my habit with only a five-day visit. I think it takes much longer to reprogram. But the Butte residents seem to have it mastered. And in such a beautiful environment, it's a good thing. More time for the great outdoors, which lured them to this remote location to begin with. Remote, but thanks to modern technology, totally connected.

I had wifi everywhere I went, which made me think just how amazining life has become. And many of the people I ran into are able to live in Crested Butte and still earn a good living in a worldwide market because of the ole' World Wide Web. Of course, even though I was on vacation, I had my computer with me and even did a little "work" while I was there.

It's a fine balance we now have to strive for. Because while technology has enabled unprecedented freedom, it's also created a constantly plugged in society. So while we are now free to travel and roam and work from just about anywhere, we have to remember to take a page from our friends in the Butte and unplug every now and then.

Note to self: Remember to disconnect so you don't become disconnected with
life.

Legendary? I'll Say...

Last weekend, Franke and I figured we'd do our part to stimulate the economy while watching our dollars. "Hey, I got this 2-for-1 coupon in the mail from Stoney River," I chirped with a smirk, eyebrows raised in a question mark. Should we try it?" To say that I regret the experience altogether would be inaccurate. I chalk it up to a learning experience, further reinforcement to go with my gut on these things. There's a reason I had never been to Stoney River before, and now there are several reasons why I wouldn't go back.

I had never darkened the doors of this establishment before last week because I figured it was just one of those typical chain restaurants with chain fare. Ding, ding!

Going in, we figured it was pretty hard to mess up a steak. The filet was fine. Nothing special. No great flavor. Nothing memorable about it. The potatoes were good. Franke got the fish. I think it was a sea bass or something. It was shaped like a heart, which was strange and very unnatural, and it was seasoned with an even more unnatural something or other. I wouldn't call it a spice, necessarily. I'm still a little stumped what it was, to be quite honest.

Now, I would have overlooked the sub par taste of the food if the prices had not been so ridiculously high for this level of grub. It's dumbfounding, really. Why, we wondered, would anyone ever come here without a 2-for-1 coupon in their pockets? Even with the coupon, we paid too much. And why, we wondered even more, do so many people repeatedly patronize restaurants with sub par food when they could get fabulous meals at the same or better prices at smaller, chef-owned restaurants all over town? It's an American phenonenon, for sure, and one this foodie will never, ever understand.

The bartender did give a generous pour of the vino, and for that we were grateful. The place was packed out, too. Our very friendly yet nearly indecipherable, low-talking, marble-mouthed waiter confirmed our suspicion that we were not the only 2-for-1's in the joint. He estimated about nine out of 10 patrons that evening were sporting coupons. Not a good night for tips, he bemoaned.

Looking around the Stoney River Legendary Steakhouse on this particular evening, it was quite the motley crew. It looked more like a Hooters crowd than one you'd find at a West End steakhouse on a Friday night.

I'll give Stoney River points, though, for truth in advertising. It was, indeed, Legendary.

What Time is It, Anyway?

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm perpetually running late. Many times, I'm right on time, which is my preferred state of being. Often, however, I'm about 5 or 10 minutes late. I realized this morning, when I was about two minutes early to coffee at Fido with my friend Andrea, why I hate to be early.

First of all, it makes me nervous. I go into a slight panic if I'm the first to arrive. I automatically think I have the wrong location, and I begin rechecking my calendar, rechecking e-mails and, inevitably, I phone a friend.

I have several friends who are just like me in this regard, and they are always understanding. I can pretty much always count on them to be later than I am for our meetings. I also have friends who are the extreme opposite and make it a point to arrive early to everything. Not to name names, but Margie and Joy have informed me that it pains them if they are not early... by at least 10 minutes. They get as nervous about being late as I get about being the first to arrive.

I don't know why this is, but I suspect, like so much in life, it goes back to childhood. My mother was almost always late to pick me up from things. I was almost always the last one to be picked up at the skating rink, the arcade, school... you name it. But I'm not bitter. In fact, writing this just made me realize from whence my fear of abandonment comes. Eureka!

Sort of weird, don't you think, that I ever went into a deadline-driven business. I've realized something about that, too, though. This business of deadlines and speeding all over town to get somewhere right on time and procrastination (yeah, did I have to even mention that I also like to procrastinate?)... this is what motivates me. I need pressure and deadlines to operate on all cylinders. I don't know whether that's good or bad, it's just how I operate. My ex-husband and my ex boss hated this about me. See the pattern?

Which leads me to my final point. We're all made just a little differently. We all get things done in our own ways. None of us are perfect. So cut me some slack when I'm late, praise me when I'm early and pray for "right on time."

Hot Dog!

Nobody likes a free lunch more than the Goad. Couple it with a free lunchtime concert and a sunny downtown day, and I'm a happy camper.

That's exactly what I stumbled into earlier this week thanks to @nashvillest, one of my new favorite twitterers. I follow them, they follow me, see, that way one of us always knows what's happening around town. And I like to be in the know. It's just one of those things with me. The more information the better. It's a sickness really, because there's no way to totally keep up.


This particular event made my week. Here's why: great people watching, I ran into my old friend Stephen Linn and found out he's now at CMT, I saw my old friend Brad Schmidt across the way but didn't get a chance to say hello, I got to take a stroll with my friend Margie Newman, the sun was shining (big plus), downtown was hoppin' and I got this free dog with neon pickle relish. Seriously, what's the deal with the color of that stuff. There's no way that's good for you. Not that hot dogs are good for you, either, but they sure are tasty, aren't they!



It's funny how a simple walk on a sunny day can change your whole attitude and your whole week, but this did it for me. So, my thanks to Universal for hosting this "Downtown Shutdown," as they called it. I know it wasn't for me. It was for all those country radio programmers who were in town for their annual conference. Apparently, as Stephen informed me, 68 percent of all new country hits are still "discovered" by country radio stations. Glad to know there's still some old school discoveries in this manufactured world. Which reminds me, you should have seen some of the big hair and fake tans at this thing. It was off the charts.

The Face of Things

Thank you, Joy, for the introduction to Chimay Ale. This delightful champagne of beer is just the new drink I was looking for. It's different, it's delicious and it's not a martini but tastes and looks nice served out of a martini glass. Plus, I like the bottle. Very hip. Just my speed.

I may even add it to my Facebook page as a favorite item and really get the talk going. Because let's face it, Facebook is out of control. Seriously, it's taking over people's lives and capitalizing cocktail conversations worldwide.

Last night, at a gathering that was organized via wall-to-wall posts on Facebook, I got together with old friends Joy, Kim, Kris, Novella and Katie at Katie's nice, new house somewhere between the burbs "Bum" and sounds like "Duck." Thanks to Facebook, we were already semi up to speed on each other's lives since the last time we all got together some two or three short years ago. But there were holes that needed filling. Like, when did Katie have her fourth child?! And WTF is Kim's last name now? And what do you mean, Novella, that you're selling everything and hopping in the car with no real destination or plan?! And why, Kris, won't you just go ahead and sing us a karaoke song?! And since when, Kriste, did you get a divorce?!

Throughout the evening, Facebook kept popping up. We chatted about each other's 25 Things lists (apologizing to those whose lists we hadn't yet read). We talked about people's pictures and kids and random friends that have recently made it to our invite lists. We wondered how some people in our collection of Facebook friends do anything but troll the site and post comments. Still others have had offline conversations about how they don't understand some people's status updates (hey, if you don't get my updates you really don't need to be my friend). And then there's the whole issue of "defriending." It happened to Katie. She was defriended by an old friend who shall remain nameless (you know who you are you messed up mess). It happened to my friend Margie, too. I defriended a woman, but that was only because she was a whack job and was scaring me! And then there's my friend Kym Gerlock, who just decided that Facebook was too much and dropped off altogether. The nerve! I'm starting to think she may be onto something though. I casually keep up with Facebook, and I try to keep up with people's new posts and comings and going and postings to my wall and such, but frankly it's a little too much sometimes. I've found that some people take it personally if you don't respond for a long time. They think you're mad at them or something. But if I'm mad at someone, I'll usually tell them rather than go all Facebook passive aggressive on them.

It does make me wonder, though, what would happen if I just up and defriended everyone one day? I mean honestly. How long can this Facebook thing go on? I can barely manage the 289 friends I have. What's going to happen in say, 10 years, when that number has doubled? Or, what if I've made everyone so mad at me by then by not posting to their walls or commenting on their status that I'm down to a handful of friends who really aren't friends at all? I know one thing, my girls from Clarksville will always be my friends. They're smart. They're sassy. They're funny. And they feed my soul.

A Taste of the Goad Life

Here's the deal. I like to eat, and I can put away a lot of food. So much so, that is solicits comment from men and women alike. In fact, the only time in my life I ever remember not having an appetitite twice my size was during my divorce. Those were dark days. I withered away to 117 pounds (which, for me, is anorexic), surviving on a diet of coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, a bite of food here and there and the teeniest amount of sleep. I do not recommend this.

Since then, I've come back into my own. I quit smoking, kept drinking (in greater moderation, of course), started sleeping, returned to eating and regained my sanity.

And so, this blog is my little corner of the world where I plan to post musings about the various things that feed me, Kriste Goad, as a person. Let's start with the past weekend, 'cause it was a good one.

First, I finally saw Frost/Nixon. Loved it for many reasons, mostly because the acting was fabulous by all involved, but Frank Langella, in particular, lived up to the billing he's received. I haven't seen The Wrestler yet, but if Mickey Rourke beats Frank Langella for best actor this year, I will be very upset. Then there was Kevin Bacon and Oliver Platt. I love them both. In any role. Wrap them up, and put a bow on them.

After the movie, there was tapas at ChaCha, a new hipster spot on Belmont, right beside the renovated hookah bar we've known for years as Tabouli's. Tasty treats at this little nook, but my very favorite was the goat cheese and tomato tortilla. Delicious! Franke's favorite was the spicy gambas (spicy shrimp). Worth a visit, and I shall definitely return.

Saturday night, though, brought Miel, which I've been dying to try since before Christmas. It was spectacularly delicious from start to finish. From the wine (Domaine des Toures, Rhone Valley) to the cheese plate, to my delectable entre of Eggplant Roulade to my cookie plate dessert with French press coffee. Cannot wait to try their Saturday and Sunday brunch.

Sunday brought sunshine and a trip to Warner Park. First, though, we cooked up a breakfast of salmon and scrambled eggs, sourdough bread toasted and drizzled with avocado oil and several cups of bold, dark coffee. That was plenty of fuel for the 3-miler on the blue trail at Warner Park. Perfect day for a run in the woods. The hills kicked my ass, but it was a good ass-kicking. Train there, and you can tackle any road race around.

From there, it was back to my place for fruit smoothies and a sopressetto-provolone-pesto sandwich that I would challenge any restaurant to beat. Seriously, it was that good.

Later, it was Super Bowl fare washed down with several tasty Sam Adams Winter Lagers. Fun crowd at the Solinsky's abode and then, sleep, glorious sleep.

Oh, and of course, Franke. He fed the Goad, as always, with laughter and kindness and companionship. It was the kind of weekend that makes you say to yourself: "Life is goad..."