Happy Monday! Hope everyone survived the weekend and is ready to melt because apparently Mother Nature looked at Minnesota’s weather forecast and said, “Let’s see what Florida in July feels like.”
We made it to the Twins game on Sunday, and thankfully it was just before this heat wave rolled in. The Twins pulled out a 3-2 win, so that was a good day at the ballpark, although it wasn’t a thriller of a game. Byron Buxton, however, apparently decided to take the afternoon off at the plate and I didn’t spot him in the outfield at all. Unless he got a hit during one of the many stretches where the people in front of me were standing around having the world’s longest conversation while blocking my view. I suppose that’s possible. We did have great seats though, and everybody got a free Royce Lewis jersey, so I’m certainly not complaining too much.
Getting to Target Field turned into a little adventure. I had absolutely no idea the Pride Parade was Sunday, so pretty much every road through downtown on the side I was approaching from was closed. Hennepin was a maze, traffic was everywhere, Google Maps was basically shrugging its shoulders, and what should have been a simple drive turned into a scavenger hunt. We got there eventually, which is really all that matters.
One thing I still don’t understand is why Target Field has decided you can’t just buy a hot dog anymore. It automatically comes with chips and a drink. Why? Who asked for this? I just want a hot dog. I’m already spending enough money at the ballpark without involuntarily adopting a bag of chips. Speaking of spending money, it’s amazing how quickly what used to feel like a perfectly reasonable baseball budget disappears these days. You buy tickets, a couple drinks, a snack or two, and suddenly you’re wondering if you accidentally financed a small yacht.
Of course, I still had to get the peanuts. I don’t know what they do differently there, but Target Field peanuts just hit different. Maybe they’re saltier and peanuttier. Whatever it is, they taste better than the ones anywhere else.
Today I had an appointment up in the north metro, and on the way home I made what I consider to be an excellent life decision and stopped at Portillo’s. I still think Portillo’s is wildly underrated by Minnesotans. Everyone gets so excited about Culver’s, which is fine and all, but people seem to overlook the fact that we now have a place that used to require an actual road trip to Chicago. That’s a pretty big deal if you grew up making pilgrimages for Italian beefs.
The only obstacle standing between me and my Chicago dog was… a revolving door and my apparent orbitagoraphobia.
I’m not generally known as a claustrophobic person, but revolving doors and I have never exactly been friends. Something about being trapped inside one while hoping the person ahead of you understands the basic mechanics of walking just stresses me out. Maybe I watched too many cartoons as a kid where someone got flattened by a revolving door for comedic effect. Usually I just take the regular door next to it and avoid the whole situation. Not this time. The regular door was closed for maintenance.
So there I stood, weighing my options.
Option one: walk through the revolving door and question every life choice that led me there.
Option two: turn around and drive home without a Chicago dog and a Chicago cheesy beef covered in those incredible hot giardiniera peppers.
Reader, I survived the revolving door.
Every once in a while someone says, “Well, I can get a Chicago dog at Sonic.” Excuuuuse me? Baking powder? No. You can get a hot dog at Sonic. You cannot get a Chicago dog at Sonic. Wrong relish. Half the toppings are missing. That’s not a steamed poppy seed bun. That’s an imposter. Respectfully, sir, you are eating a hot dog, not a Chicago dog.