As much as I love Florida, there are times when those steaming summers can seem a tad bit overbearing. Between the hundred degree temps and the hair -frizzing humidity, the last thing I want to do is go outside. Something about it being eighty degrees at eleven PM is just wrong.
So when I have the pleasure of escaping to the Rocky Mountains for even a weekend, I want to do nothing but breathe in that fresh mountain air.
Oh, and eat. Because that seems to be my forte lately.
Today was a stunning day for food. After a mid-afternoon arrival in Steamboat, Colorado, my posse of hulking brothers (who work out religiously and look like Abercrombie models while I literally do nothing but cook and eat 24/7) and I had lunch at The Paramount at the foot of the slopes. A sleek, modern ski-rustic atmosphere with loud funky music and chalkboard menus, The Paramount was the perfect welcome into the midsummer ski town. My sandwich was beautiful, served on a wooden plank with thick toasted slices of bread, copious amounts of goat cheese, cucumber slices, walnuts and fresh sprigs of dill.
As if that weren’t enough, we later hit up the bookstore downtown for some coffees. Well, actually, I had a steamer that came recommended by the barista. I have a weird habit of taking advice from locals, no exceptions. It was delicious, albeit a bit filling.
And then, not two hours later, came dinner.
The ribs my dad had so carefully prepped and slow-cooked were so mouthwateringly tender they fell off the bone. Fresh corn on the cob, light pasta salad and a bleu cheese pomegranate salad played supporting roles. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
But it does beg the question: was the food so good because of the fresh Colorado air? Because it was eaten surrounded by the people who mean the most? Or was it simply that my dad makes the best ribs?
It must have been all of the above. Because that’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time.