Melting Pot, plus More Dumpster

I hear that putting comments on this blog is very difficult – that Google doesn’t recognize the passwords you’ve created, etc. How annoying. I’m sorry. It’s so much fun to read each other’s responses. Let’s hope Google gets their act together... Meanwhile, if you can’t figure this out, you can send your witty(or not) responses to my personal email if you want, and I’ll address your comments either there or on here.

So this weekend The Electrical Engineer Who Shares This House With Me got to play with the electrical work for the new kitchen. He was practically drooling over being able to see inside the walls: all those delicious-looking cables and wires and switches and stuff. He was up on a ladder peering into the attic when I asked how it was going. His reply, verbatim, was, “Still got some circuit 17 things to disconnect to figure out where the hell they go.” He has a degree in this stuff. I’m sure he actually knows what he’s doing. But I find that kind of ambiguity a bit disconcerting.

I spent the weekend trying to fill the dumpster from the storage dump that is our basement. The old cookie tins and wooden hangers and bent candles were easy decisions. But the 33 rpm record albums from the 60's were more agonizing ones. Peter, Paul and Mary and Harry Belafonte and, would you believe, Nancy Sinatra. I actually had an album by Nancy Sinatra. The Man Whose Taste Runs To Beethoven convinced me that no one would have the equipment to play these relics anymore. So, with much angst, I pitched 37 of these gems into the dumpster. If you tell me that today they are worth hundreds of dollars, I’ll just have to shoot myself. Or get a ladder and climb into the dumpster...

We showered before we headed off to the next restaurant on Bluemound, a Thai place that turned out not to be open on Sunday. Next was the Melting Pot, so I’ll write a few words about that establishment. We had eaten there a couple of weeks ago, and The Man’s wallet would not, ungrudgingly, open again for fondue. He and I can well remember when fondue pots became all the rage. Probably this was in the Peter, Paul and Mary, mini-skirt- and- lime-green- patent-leather- boots stage, when I wore my hair teased up into a ski slope. Though the music was great (in my opinion), neither the fashions of that era, nor the fondue, need to be revived.

The tiny, expensive menu of the Melting Pot is what first stuck us. Mostly there are meals for 2 people, which require that 1) you are dating and trying to impress each other with how similar your tastes are, or 2) you are twins. The man who describes some foods as Funky (like broccoli or cilantro) and I do not share all food tastes. Besides, the meals for 2 are $54- $86. Rather pricey for a blue jeans kind of chain restaurant. The remainder of the menu consists of cheese fondues and a few entre items, of which only two would appeal to The Red Meat Man.

Then there’s the ambiance. It’s dark. Is this meant to attract lovers? People who don’t wish to shampoo their hair that day? And the tables are high, with low bench seats in the booths. Not ideal for families with children, which most of the customers seemed to be.

We settled for a simple cheese fondue, as it said this came with vegetables to dip. Well, darned few of them. So a pot of melted cheesey stuff (and not very cheesey tasting at that) with a few carrots cost $7 per person, plus $9 each for a glass of wine (my rioja tempranillo was very good, by the way) and $5 each for an unexciting caesar salad. We won’t be back.

Kitchenless in Brookfield