beautiful 'burbs

The tentacled grasp of corporate America is tight around Overland Park, Kansas, a Kansas City suburb that has become famous not for any geographical wonders or architectural achievements but for its dull landscape populated by strip malls, big box stores, churches, and chain restaurants.

Given the city's inability to offer any shopping or dining experiences outside of what was tested on target demographics in focus groups (with a few fine exceptions), it's easy to dismiss the whole place as soulless, and after a day spent interacting with the other humans only while sitting behind a windshield, waiting in line at Target, or asking for your ranch dressing on the side at Applebee's, odds are you'll be hungry for anything genuine, no matter how fleeting.

Having grown up in Stilwell, which is just south of the OP, I spent the majority of my teenage years bumming around the 'burbs looking for beauty, and I'd find it in unexpected places: the picnic table in an office complex courtyard; a mosquito-filled neighborhood park; an abandoned farmhouse still filled with the former residents' furniture, curtains, and documents.

Granted, the farmhouse was bulldozed years ago to build a Wal-Mart, but on a lazy Sunday afternoon this spring I went out again in search of beauty in the 'burbs, and here's what I found. From a distance it may appear mundane, but sometimes you've just gotta look a little closer.

A sassy, windswept tree

on the soul-crushing median of a four-lane suburban street.

 

A puddle of spring rain

in the joy-melting parking lot of a mostly abandoned strip mall.

Greenery and new life

amidst the hope-destroying landscape architecture of a former chain restaurant.

Charming wind chimes

hanging on the decaying patio of a long-closed Thai restaurant that is surely the harbinger of doom.

More to come...

"POISON"

For the last three weeks, while getting ready to move into my new place, I've been staying with my parents in the KC 'burbs, and this is, hands down, the most consecutive time I've spent with them since I moved out ten years ago. 

For the most part, they're normal folks, but I'm starting to notice some of their quirks.

For example, my mom's morning routine includes drinking coffee and watching the weather while brushing the cat, and at least once a week my dad brings home leftovers from his neighborhood hangout, announcing to an indifferent audience, "I've got livers and gizzards. Who wants some?" He has also been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he'll tell you it's my mom).

Last night after brushing my teeth in their bathroom, I found them stretched out in their respective recliners watching Dancing with Desperate Former Celebrities, or something like that. I had discovered something peculiar that demanded an explanation.

Me: "Do I even want to know why there's a giant Tylenol bottle by the sink labeled 'POISON?'"

My mom, who throws away everything on the exact date it expires, pointed to my dad, whose advice for eating past-prime foods is "just cut the mold off and it will be fine."

Dad: "That's mine."

Me: "Why do you have poison in the bathroom?"

Mom: *shakes her head* "Your father..."

Dad: "It expired, and your mother was going to throw it away. I told her I'd keep it."

Me: "So it's not really poison?"

Dad: "Your mother thinks it is." 


5 reasons it's amazing my brother and i survived our childhood

1. In our early years, rusty old farm equipment doubled as playground equipment. Our grandmother lived on a farm in Odin, Kansas, which isn't even a blip on the map but is considered a part of Claflin, pop. 705. The farmhouse was built in the mid-19th century, and over the years the yard became the final resting place of combines, tractors, and other various and terrifying wheat-harvesting implements featuring man-sized blades and jagged pieces of metal. There was also a turn-of-the-century car in the process of being swallowed by the back yard with springs poking through the seats like craggy old fingers.

2. Our games of cops and robbers involved "jewels" that were actually broken pieces of glass we found on the ground near the spot where my grandma burned the trash. As the robber, it was my job to "steal" these bits of glass and run back to my hideout before my brother or cousin caught me. In the event of a search, I would hide the shards o' glass anywhere - tucked in my hat, rolled up in my sock, taped to my big toe. Have you ever tried running with glass in your shoe? It'll fuck you up.
3. One winter, mired in stifling post-snowstorm boredom, we decided that instead of real sledding, which didn't happen unless my dad pulled us behind his tractor, we would go "sledding" indoors by sliding down the stairs on the beanbag. This was great fun until my brother put his foot through the wooden basement door at the bottom of the stairs. I'm pretty sure the hole is still there.
4. Sometimes we would decide to play "restaurant," which basically involved dumping random shit from the kitchen cabinets and the fridge into a giant bowl, mixing it together, and then eating it. These cooking experiments involved everything from raw eggs to shredded cheese to bread crumbs. This was also how I discovered the cruel joke that is Baker's Chocolate. It looks and feels like real candy, but it tastes like bitter arse.
5. Cows. During the two weeks we'd typically spend on my grandma's farm each summer, we would throw dirt clods and skip rocks near the pond in the cow pasture. From a distance or while passing on the highway, cows appear docile and harmless, but that is not always the case. Up close, they're rather large and terrifying, especially when you're ten years old, and especially when they chase you.

day 48: i caught fall as it fell

Right now, Halloween week, is when the trees in my parents' yard typically catch fire with the colors of fall. I always intend to take photos but through laziness or forgetfulness fail to do so. And I am still both lazy and forgetful, but today I accidentally remembered the camera, so here are some of the badass vibrant trees. 

"The Spring and the Fall" 
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.

 

 

Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.

 

day 42: i rediscovered frozen yogurt

Down the street from my childhood home was a fried-chicken-and-mashed-potatoes homestyle restaurant called Joe's Barn. And the name was literal - in the not-yet-suburbanized community of Stanley, Kansas, this full-service eatery had indeed been converted from a big, red barn, with the original rafters and windows still visible up top.

As a kid I was inexplicably horrified by meat - it had not yet become a moral issue, I just thought it was fucking gross - so my favorite part of the Joe's Barn experience was the self-serve frozen yogurt machine.

The pink strawberry ice cream coiled into my glass bowl like intestines (for some reason this image did not gross me out); the vanilla provided a perfect palette for rainbow sprinkles; and the twist was simply magical, because how on earth did chocolate AND vanilla come out of THE SAME spout?

I would take my ice cream back to the table and lick each bite slowly from the spoon, often going back for seconds or even thirds.

As I got older and experienced more exicitng specialty ice cream flavors and discovered the mouth orgasm of gelato, soft-serve fro-yo kind of fell off my radar until yesterday when I discovered Yogurtini.

The moment I walked into the sleek, modern, blue-and-white-tiled shop my mind was blown: bowls the size of small popcorn buckets were stacked on a table next to 15 self-serve ice cream spigots. Because I am both impulsive and lack self-restraint, I grabbed a bowl and went at it, filling it with whatever sounded good. This ended up being a mixture of red velvet, dulce de leche, and something else I added randomly because I could still see the bottom of the bowl, and that was just not gonna fly.

When I got to the toppings, my dam of self-restraint broke entirely, flooding my brain with commands beginning in "I want" and ending in "Twix, cookie dough, brownie chunks, gummy bears, sprinkles, blackberries, kiwi, chocolate sauce, marshmallow goo." I ended up with a globular, multi-colored mountain that could have been on the cover of a "what not to eat" pamphlet for diabetics.

Of course my chilly creation melted to a disgustingly sweet grayish sludge, but my friends had better luck: the tart yogurt is good with fruit and coconut, apparently, so next time I'll know to go with a plan.

kansas city vs. seattle

Note: I haven't been very good about updating this blog due to depression, futility, too much pinot grigio, failure, this poem by Charles Bukowski, etc. My goal going forward is four times per week.

I was nearly 25 years old before I realized Kansas City isn't all that bad: I mean, it has restaurants like Eggtc. and You Say Tomato, dive bars like Dave's Stagecoach and Chez Charlie, and plenty of trees and green space, plus a low cost of living. 

But every time I visit a place like Seattle, as I did last week, I'll be reminded that KC is, in fact, a big small town, especially when other travelers I meet say things like, "Yeah, I'm planning to visit pretty much every place but Kansas City, sorry," as though it offends me, and then, "How are Toto and Dorothy?" as though I still think it's funny after hearing it for the five-hundredth time. 

Just for the sake of competition, though, here's my snap-judgment KC vs. Seattle showdown, based solely on various initial impressions:

Round 1: SEAFOOD

Seattle:

Choose from saltwater (the Puget Sound) or freshwater (Lake Union, Lake Washington). You can get everything from dungeness crab to king salmon or tilapia to halibut. My friend I. and I had some oh-my-god smoked salmon nuggets at the Fisherman's Terminal against which I will now compare all food.

Kansas City:

There's a dirty pond around 27th and Broadway where I suspect bums jab at mutant fish with sticks.

Who has the edge: Seattle

Round 2: SAFETY

Kansas City:
Within six months of moving to 39th Street and Wyoming in 2003, I got mugged by some behemoth with a crowbar who stole my purse and my new cell phone. Also, at night I used to sit by the open window in my living room and listen to the bums sing.

Seattle:
The scariest thing that happened was when some toothless crack addict got all up in my face mumbling gibberish while I was on the phone. That is to say, kind of gross, but not scary at all. Also, as two girls walking alone at night, I. and I never once felt uncomfortable on the busy, well-lit streets.

Who has the edge: Seattle

Round 3: SCULPTURE PARKS

Seattle: 
The Olympic Sculpture park occupies a beautiful, grassy hillside overlooking one of Seattle's many glittering bodies of water. But the sculptures themselves were scarce and somewhat unassuming, aside from a shiny aluminum tree for which Charlie Brown would have no love. We did have some fun climbing on wooden replicas of a washer and dryer for photo-ops. 

 

Kansas City:
The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art is home to several stunning pieces I still remember vividly though I haven't seen them in over a year, including, of course, the world's largest shuttlecocks, the several haunting rows of emaciated, headless bronze figures (Standing Figures by Magdalena Abakanowicz, below), and several abstract but oddly hypnotizing Henry Moore creations.

Who has the edge: Kansas City

Round 4: PRO BASEBALL STADIUMS

Seattle: 
The home of the Mariners, Safeco Field (in the background below, as seen from the Smith Tower) is downtown within walking distance of the bars and restaurants of lively Pioneer Square. Built in 1999, it's one of only two partially-domed stadiums in the world, providing shelter from the rainy northwestern climate. The pitcher-friendly park features natural grass and is named after a Seattle-based insurance company.

Kansas City:
In the drab, ironed landscape of a Blue Springs parking lot, the Royals' Kauffman Stadium is within a five-minute drive of several sketchy barbecue joints and strip clubs. Built in 1973 and named for late owner Ewing Kauffman, the park is the sixth-oldest in the MLB and the only stadium with fountains in the outfield. 

Who has the edge: draw

Round 5: FARMERS' MARKETS

Kansas City:
The first time I went to KC's downtown City Market I was 19, and it is to date one of my favorite summer memories. I snatched up several plants that I was unable to keep alive longer than a couple months, and I bought a bunch of fresh vegetables I never cooked and some dried lavender my cat ended up eating. But the experience freed me, somehow, and let me know there was more to the city than seedy gas stations, the creepy cashier at Apple Market with the hand swollen to two times its normal size, and a whole bunch of people who just wanted to drink 40s and smoke cigarettes.

Seattle:
For all my happy City Market memories, it is absolutely dwarfed by the awesome supernova of Seattle's century-old Pike Place Market. With a street musician on each block(some good, some pretty awful) and cute dreadlocked boys (who, I realized somewhat painfully, are now much too young for me) handing out slices of fresh peaches at the many produce stands, the market has a life force all its own. The many colorful flower stands are a treat for anyone coming from the summer wasteland of the Midwest, and the Pike Place Fish Market truly lives up to its fame, with strapping young fishermen-types shouting catch phrases as they toss and wrap your order. There's also the Beecher's Handmade Cheese factory, home to mouth parties such as the world's creamiest mac-n-cheese, which the cashier informed us you can order online (note to self: hide your credit cards next time you drink) and an heirloom tomato and grilled cheese sandwich.

Who has the edge: Seattle

So far, as expected (largely because I'm notoriously self-defeating) Seattle comes out on top. But I suspect if I were to include gelato (Christopher Elbow's Glace) and happy hour prices (Buzzard Beach's 75-cent PBRs) in round two, KC would come back swinging for the fence.

day 35: i confirmed the myth of the community garden

These days my hometown of Stilwell, Kansas, is more suburb than farmland, but when I was growing up it was still quite rural. 

My parents built their house in the 70s, and on their two-acres of land my dad has always planted a vegetable garden - tomatoes, corn, bell, jalapeno, cayenne and poblano peppers, broccoli, yellow squash, zucchini, carrots, cauliflower, spinach, lettuce... even the occasional pumpkin when my brother and I abandoned our rotting, frowning jack-o-lanterns in early November and one or more rogue seeds took root the following spring.

When I moved into my own place the summer after I graduated high school, I didn't realize how much I would miss having ready-to-pick cherry tomatoes in my back yard or having fresh broccoli on which to pour a shitload of melted cheddar cheese. Instead I had a concrete rectangle also known as a "patio" facing a dumpster on which someone had spray-painted "fuck you" in neon purple. 

Given my affinity for planting seeds and watching them grow - both literally and metaphorically, mind you - I was super excited when I began hearing that urban community gardens were becoming a thing in KC. Despite all the chatter, though, I never saw one anywhere, much less in my neighborhood. I began to suspect, like the so-called "snow plows" that supposedly clear the streets in the winter, that it was all a myth, too good to be true.

But last Sunday my friend I. and I were walking off our latest Christopher Elbow ice cream adventure (blueberry lemon sorbet with toasted coconut ice cream - yum!) when we totally stumbled upon a community garden on 51st and Main, where each plot is owned and tended by a different group or family.

"Holy shit," I said, "they do exist," and then I pulled out my cell phone and started snapping pictures of some rhubarb, much to I.'s confusion.

And if further rumors are to be believed, a community garden is coming to my boyfriend's West Side neighborhood, which means I just may have time to plant a fall garden. Fingers crossed.

growth for the sake of growth

Like many kids who came of age in the suburbs during the era of sprawling strip malls, big box stores and chain restaurants, I did not have an idyllic setting to explore during my childhood.

The Stilwell, Kansas, neighborhood where I grew up was built in the mid-70s, and it wasn't as cookie-cutter as some of the newer neighborhoods, the ones with names like Cedar Crest, Parkwood Hills, or Deer Creek; in fact, the house where my parents still live sits on a two-acre yard in which my dad plants a vegetable garden, my mom plants flowers, and my brother and I used to spend hot summer days running through the sprinklers, playing volleyball and basketball, and splashing on the slip 'n' slide. And, in the backyard, my dad still keeps homing pigeons, which he races competitively against other pigeon breeders in the KC area. These aren't your mangy, garbage-pecking street pigeons; they are big, muscular and graceful. They're kind of like if Kid Rock were a pigeon vs. if James Bond were a pigeon, or a Courtney Love pigeon vs. an Angelina Jolie pigeon. Anyway, you get the idea.

When I was a kid, Stilwell was still relatively rural, but by the time I was 16 and able to drive, big corporations had gobbled up much of the open space and filled it with strip malls, Wal-Marts, Super Targets, Taco Bells, Starbucks, etc. - you name it, and if it's a corporate franchise, you can probably find it within a 15-minute drive of my parents' home. Having such a homogeneous setting in which to do my first large-scale independent exploration (because you can't get around Kansas City, especially the suburbs, without a car) might have stifled my personal development (and led to my repeated decisions, once I turned 18 and moved out on my own, to throw myself, head first and unprepared, into unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous situations), but at the time it was all I knew. When you're 16, you're still just a kid with a drivers' license, and you'll find mystery and excitement in even the most sterile, oppressively-mauve shopping center, or the neon-lit aisles of a 24-hour Wal-Mart. You'll find it even if it's not there.

My friend E. and I would occasionally hang out in a small, wooden gazebo located in the middle of an office park called Corporate Woods. We called it "gazebo time," which meant little more than sitting on the bench smoking cigarettes and talking about boys, whining about our parents, and growing nervous about the future, maybe having a quick dash through the lawn sprinklers if they were on. There was something almost romantic about gazebo time, even if, twelve hours later, corporate drones who decided to brown-bag it would be chowing their wonderbread sandwiches in our very seats.