Twisted Wicker

Fête Grand Opening at The Silos

January 5, 2026 By Lisa Grigsby

Local chef & entrepreneur Whitney Kling opens Fête at The Silos Sun, Jan 4th from 11am – 6pm.⁣

Fête — meaning “party” in French — brings the colorful, flavor-forward food that made her previous business, Top Knot Salad Delivery Service, a Dayton favorite. Fête celebrates bringing people together with meals coming over food. Expect fresh bowls, fresh salads, crave-worthy sauces, and signature new dishes like enchiladas verdes (which Whitney says is her favorite menu item). ⁣

Expect beloved bowls, fresh salads, crave-worthy sauces, and signature new dishes like enchiladas verdes. Designed for everyone, the menu features vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free options, celebrating food as a moment of joy, flavor, and connection.

The self taught cook, who is also a recipe developer, writes a weekly food column in the Dayton Daily News, “”But First, Food.” In just a couple weeks Kling will add a
to-go cooler, so you can pick up meals to take home. Also their online ordering will be set up very soon.

With Fête’s opening, The Silos now features its full lineup of local food vendors, including Chef Dane’s Nood Bar, Kung FuBBQ and The Burger Bistro, making it the ultimate destination for eating, sipping, and gathering.

Fete at The Silos

Tues – Thurs: 4–9 PM

Fri: 4–11 PM

Sat: 11 AM–11 PM

Sun: 11 AM–6 PM

On Becoming a Bad Ass

February 23, 2012 By Dayton937 Leave a Comment

Kristen Wicker and Amelia Robinson spar at Drake's Downtown Gym to prepare for Dayton Knockout. PHOTO COURTESY OF TOM GREENE.

“Girl, the jig is up,” my best friend is telling me on the phone as I’m freaking out about my recent discovery that I am not, after all, a born fighter. “Your shit is totally exposed.”

She’s right, and I know it. I rappelled off a 27-story office tower. In the bazaars of Cairo, Egypt, I’ve nonchalantly weaved through cow carcasses hanging from their hooves and dripping blood. I’ve chased a group of punk kids in my former inner city hood. I have a bunch of big tattoos and own three genuine leather jackets. I’ve hiked through the Grand Canyon on trails forged by mountain goats and swam with sharks and barracuda in the Red Sea. (OK, I admit that last one was by accident, but it still didn’t faze me.) I will walk right up to a sketchy-looking somebody hanging out downtown and tell him to move it right along.

But my bad ass credentials have never before been tested as they have in the past three months as I’ve trained to box some of my best friends as part of Dayton Knockout.

I signed up for this charity boxing event ― which will be held this Saturday, Feb. 25, at Memorial Hall ― to be part of something super cool, help a good cause, get in shape and maybe lose a few pounds. I’d been boxing at Drake’s Downtown Gym for nearly two years, and I’ve yet to encounter a workout that makes me feel like more of a bad ass than giving a punching bag a hefty one-two.

Immediately, it was on. My girlfriend and I started trash talking. And texting. And posting.

I hope your bucket list is wheelchair accessible.

They’re gonna find your torso in a corn maze.

I hope you enjoyed your smoothie because after I knock all your teeth out, you’ll only be able to digest soft foods.

I’m gonna snack on your kidney on a stick.

I hope you liked wearing head gear because soon it will be a permanent fashion accessory for you.

I hear they make software now that can help you re-learn how to walk.

Halfway through our training, I missed nearly two weeks of practice after some complications from what was supposed to be minor surgery. She sent me flowers ― a beautiful bouquet of roses, actually ― with a card reading, “Sickness will not protect you.”

Then we sparred for the first time. And she rattled my teeth as if they were shells in a wind chime.

Which took the muscle right out of my trash talking. Truth is, I’m not a bad ass. I’m just really good at pretending.

I even had my friend fooled.

“What do you mean, you’ve never fought before? I thought you said you were some kind of crazy, black-haired punk rocker in high school!”

“Those Barbies wouldn’t fight me,” I explained. “Their Aqua Net puff bangs would have gotten flattened.”

“Didn’t you fight your sister?” She was incredulous at this point.

“My sister is eight years younger than me. The worst thing I ever did was put peas in her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

***

Monster Truck Rally at Hara Arena. Bad ass grade: D

I did try to up my bad ass quotient after my first Saturday-practice skull crushing. I figured it would help me find my inner fighter.

A friend and I went to a monster truck rally at Hara Arena. I imagined it just like in the commercials: big ass trucks crushing cars and motor bikes daredeviling over piles of dirt. Whoopee! We picked out the perfect outfits, complete with cowboy boots and denim and plaid flannel and bandanas. I insisted we arrive early to have a cocktail at the Hara Pub and spotted an extra five bucks for VIP tickets so we could gain access to a pre-party and obtain a complimentary skull and crossbones flag.

Commercials can be misleading.

“We don’t open the bar for family events,” the woman scanning our tickets tartly replied at my dismay that the pub was closed. The VIP tickets must have stood for Very Ignorant Person, because everyone seemed to be enjoying the “perks” of said tickets. The skull and crossbones flags appeared to have come from one of those little plastic cups in a pizza parlor vending machine. The cars were already crushed, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt (unless you count the grime coating all that is Hara Arena). Some of the drivers couldn’t even get their trucks to spin in the donut competition. Some dude in an ostrich costume as raggedy as an old shag carpet came out and did a 10-minute skit that nearly made us peel our eyeballs out of our skulls.

The best part of the night was when a kid in the row behind us recognized Hell’s Bells two gongs into the song. “Your mother would be so proud,” sighed the woman with him.

We left at intermission. I think my bad-assery actually dropped in value that night.

Rock Star Wrestling in Dayton. Bad ass grade: A

Then I took the grand opening of Rock Star Wrestling on East Third Street for a spin. Now, this was some bad ass I could get behind ― men in singlets and Captain America-esque costumes jumping on the ropes around the ring and tossing each other like salad. Hell, YES, that’s what I’m talking about! Complete with kids heckling the wrestlers from the front row!

I definitely ingested a nice womp of bad ass that night. Problem was, I drowned it in beer and Long Island Iced Teas and was left with only blurry pictures on my phone.

***

I have been humiliated by the realization I’m lacking in the bona fide bad ass department before.

The first time I went to a Gem City Roller Girls bout, I was convinced it should be me out there zipping around on skates, hunched into the breeze created by my own speed, elbowing and snarling and falling-but-getting-right-back-up. Oh, the girl power! The striped socks and black skirts and skulls! The clever yet sinister names!

Then I went to Skateworld of Vandalia with my rock star girlfriend. She’s trotted the globe playing searing guitar with bands and always has been much cooler than I am. It was the same in the skating rink.

Gem City Roller Girls. Bad ass grade: A+

My feet had not known a pair of roller skates since Members Only jackets were in style, you did the Hokey Pokey and Space Invaders was the game to beat. I decided I should warm up with a spin in the kids’ practice area.

At first, I figured the floor was warped in weird ways that were preventing me from getting my Pac Man Fever back. Then, I decided I was just too tired and sloppy from an exhausting week. Next, I concluded that I was just being sensible, as the place was jam-packed with little kids’ birthday parties. If a big girl like me fell on one of these 3-year-olds, that youngster could be smushed like a cupcake. Why risk it?

Finally, my friend ― skating backward and doing spins ― convinced me to make my way to the big kids rink. By then, I was too paranoid to let go of the side railing. As I clunked and slithered my way around the ring as if I were walking on an oil spill, I felt a poke in the small of my back.

I turned to find a little girl, probably five years old, her hair in pig tails. “Excuse me, miss,” she asked in her pip-squeak voice. “Can you move? You’re blocking my way.”

“No,” I said, the word falling from my mouth like a brick. I grabbed her hand and ― still desperately clutching the railing ― swung her around me.

I then proceeded to get the hell out of the rink and take off those damned skates as fast as I could. On our way out, my friend handed me a brochure about skating lessons. I shoved it in the bottom of my purse.

***

Twisted Wicker in the blue corner psyching herself up to bust some jaw. PHOTO COURTESY OF TOM GREENE.

I haven’t given up on becoming a boxer as I did with becoming a Gem City Roller Derby Girl. I have been practicing my jab to the point where my knuckles are bruised. I’ve watched Rocky I, II and III, along with YouTube videos of real-life boxers, to observe in-the-ring moves. I’ve been listening incessantly to “We Are the Champions,” “Eye of the Tiger” and the song I chose to play as I make my way to the stage at Memorial Hall, “Mama Said Knock You Out.”

And I’ve been spending a lot of time envisioning myself as a fighter. Faking it. Which I know I can do. After all, these days, when I tell people I’m clinically shy (I am! Like turning a bowling ball in your stomach to talk to a stranger kind of shy!), they don’t believe me. They are totally faked out.

I realize now that becoming a bad ass is like aging: It’s less about the number of times you’ve toasted your birthday or the number of years you’ve been giddy about the arrival of spring. It’s just a a thought you create and control in the mechanics of your brain.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I walk into that ring. I may be wearing a costume of sorts, but it’s genuine boxing garb, the same the pros wear. And I will be feeling like a genuine boxer ― and bad ass.

JAB!

Dayton Knockout benefits AIDS Resource Center Ohio and Dayton History. The event takes place at 8 p.m. this Saturday, Feb. 25, at Memorial Hall. Doors open at 7 p.m. Buy advance tickets online or at Drake’s Downtown Gym, Ghostlight Coffee, Lucky’s Taproom & Eatery, Brixx Ice Co., Square One Salon, and the Dublin Pub. Food and drinks will be available, and an after party featuring live music by Funky G and the Groove Machine will be held in the Memorial Hall basement after the fights.

Click here to read J.T. Ryder’s article on the history of boxing in Dayton. Click here to listen to a radio story Amelia Robinson and I produced about the fight.

Forever Loving Your Crazy Self

October 5, 2011 By Dayton937 1 Comment

This photo, taken during that infamous home-ec class at Centerville High School, is perhaps my favorite of us.

Dedicated to Jason Braman.

Things I want to remember: Hissing “yesssss” at each other through the phone. Listening to “Arnold Layne” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” at full blast in your room with the strobe light flashing. Drawings created with ball-point pens and colored pencils ― your doodles. Hippie beads, scarves and that cape I made you from a red velvet bedspread we bought at the Goodwill in the Oregon District. The way you carried one of those ’70s flowered suitcases as a book bag at Centerville High School, circa 1988. Songs you wrote and played for me on the guitar. Trudging along in the snow-covered golf course behind my parents’ house admiring the sun’s glint in the ice-covered trees. You, an almost constant passenger in my red Chevette.

Remember how we could read each other’s minds? People thought it was something we, the wacky and iconic couple, made up. But we knew it was true. I wonder if you’ve been reading my mind in the weeks since you’ve been gone.

I’ve been wearing that silver and opal ring you gave me, on a chain around my neck. My body has spread a bit since that day in high school when you got down on one knee in home-ec class and proposed to me. It doesn’t quite fit my ring finger, but on the chain it lays right on my heart. Back then, we had read books about soul mates, astrology and numerology checked out from Woodbourne Library and we knew we’d be connected forever. Back then, forever was a philosophical concept we also discussed for hours while hanging out at Denny’s or in David’s Cemetery. I’ve been wearing this ring to remind me I once had that kind of connection with another human. Even though it has been years since I last saw you, I miss you so much now. Like crazy. You left me way too soon.

Homecoming 1988.

Things I want to forget: Visiting you in the psych ward at Grandview Hospital and Twin Valley Medical Center. Having to tell you I can’t see you anymore because you stole beer and over-the-counter medication from my house. The vague sense of relief I felt when you canceled plans for us to get together because you were “sick,” although I was sure it was because you’d had too much to drink.

All these memories I want to crumple up. After all, you are my coming of age story. We were inseparable for nearly three years during that time when we lurched through poems and art and music and books, grabbing pieces of who we would become. Pieces of me are swimming with your ashes in that Wisconsin lake, and I feel pieces of you in me like lumps under my skin.

You are the person who convinced me I could write, even though you, too, could cook words into a gourmet meal. I remember reading you a piece on the phone that began with a letter to you. At the end, you were crying. I doubt I’ll ever publish that piece. It’s about such a dark time in my life ― geesh, it’s titled “100 Days of Winter” ― but I reprint the letter to you here:

A piece of your artwork, titled "The Fear and the Struggle," from 1991-1992.

Dear Jason,

Sorry I’ve been out of touch this past year, but I’ve been really busy going crazy. Burying my I-can-hold-a-day-job self in a morass of self-loathing has taken a lot of my time.

I know I’m not supposed to say I’m “crazy.” Or “nuts.” I know those aren’t politically correct terms. They offend someone. But I am crazy now. Here’s how I know: Sitting in my doctor’s office, in the windowless basement of some rectangular brick building, I started to cry because some soft-serve song about “remembering people” played on Lite 99.9 FM. It’s supposed to be nothing more than the background noise in the office, dimming the buzz of the florescent lights, but this song was on a DVD played at Kier’s sixth-grade graduation featuring smiling portraits of all the kids who were moving on to junior high and lives of teenage malaise. I started sobbing ― guttural cries that made me double over and start choking. I freaked the receptionist, who took me right back to an exam room. My blood pressure was something nearly unheard of, like 100 over 200, and she told me to breathe, panic spreading across her face like a wine stain on carpet.

I also know I’m crazy because of what happens to me at night. The hand of a ghost reaches into my brain and turns up the volume to 10. Boosts the bass, too. I’ll think it’s time for bed, and all of a sudden the cells in my body are humming a catchy show tune and tap dancing. Some nights, my head is an engine running full speed with no oil, metal scraping metal, a pain so intense I am almost paralyzed with fear that I’m dying, for real this time. Still other nights, I’m sent scampering to my journal, freestyling verse like some hot shot hip hop from the big city.

At our perpetual high school hangout, Denny's.

The moments when I can’t breathe remind me I’m crazy, too. It’s always something trite that gigs me out. Like thinking about a meeting and I haven’t written my stupid weekly activity report. Or because of a kitchen cabinet, like when someone goes on a search for hot chocolate mix and then puts everything back in the cabinet pell mell. I have to pull out everything, check for sticky spots on boxes and crumbs, wipe down everything, and put it neatly back in the cabinet the way nature intended.

Now, you know normal people don’t do these things. So I say I am crazy.

But enough about me. What was it like when you went crazy? Did you know it in one flash, like the Three Kings seeing the Star of Bethlehem? Or did it creep up on you? Was it like the feeling you have when a wispy Daddy Long Legs crawls up your leg?

Remember when you wanted so badly to be Syd Barrett, the madcap laughs, be crazy just like him? We used to make fun of you and call you “Syd the hairclip,” remember? So it was kind of funny at first when you really did go crazy. We thought you’d snap out of it, that it was one more of your eccentric experiments in living. But as time passed, it seemed a trap set in your brain was clutching you tighter and tighter. We would sit around my dining room table with somber faces, clutching glasses of wine as we discussed your latest antic or despair. “What happened to Jason?,” we’d ask, shrugging. Not everyone believed you were crazy, but I did. I believe it about myself now.

One of your poems, this one published in our high school literary magazine.

I should have gotten in touch with you sooner. I know you understand me. You always have, and you have never judged me no matter what. I can’t say the same about anyone else. Please write back soon.

Love you,

Kristen

I wrote that so long ago, but it’s still tinged with truth, at least from my version of this story that was your life. In my version, your life seemed utterly tragic at times ― so tragic that one of the most intelligent, thoughtful and creative people I will ever know was smudged with medication and booze and schizophrenia and pancreatitis. Really, though, you lived through a bullhorn, lived on your own terms. In moments, it may have felt a bit pathetic that you hadn’t quite found your niche when the rest of us “adapted” ― I wear high heels and blazers to work sometimes for chrissakes ― but I wonder now who is pathetic and who is true and free. If you were here, we would talk for half a day about this alone.

I have rewritten this piece 276 times. Waited a month to publish it. Only tonight, during a discussion at my book club about a memoir that reminded me so much of the terror and raw beauty that was you, did I realize it’s a dishonor to not put it out there. And so I do, even though I feel as if nothing I could ever write will serve your memory justice.

One of perhaps a million "artsy" photos I took of you in high school.

I hear you were truly in love when you collapsed on your couch. This makes me happy, because that is what you deserved. And regardless the pieces we remember, regardless of the way we choose to fit them together, those of us who knew you will never forget Jason Braman.

I promise to remember you as the tortured genius, the effervescent teenager I so deeply loved, with that laugh and skip and wry humor.

See you on the dark side of the moon.