Contact Paper - Devil's spawn

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY PROFANITY

The devil invented contact shelf paper. It's evil stuff and I defy anyone, no matter how pious, to try laying it on a shelf without finding themselves cursing everyone and everything in ear shot.  I came close to a nervous breakdown today trying to keep that crap from sticking to itself, to me and to the walls of the cupboard instead of the shelves. The damn stuff stretches, on top of all the rest of the engineering problems; when you pull it to straighten, a big bulge forms which they suggest you prick with a pin. A dumb prick must have come up with this solution because if you prick that bulge, it's going to tear -  for sure, no doubt about it.

Fortunately I learned to swear from my father who was a master at it. Assisting him remove the screens from the windows in the fall provided me with a very colorful collection of curses appropriate for any construction or maintenance related situation. Dad was not exactly handy -  in fact, he had a hard time arranging the forks in the silverware drawer. My mother, a farm girl, was a fearless do-it-yourselfer so she took care of all the maintenance in the house.  When fixes were necessary, Dad fell naturally into the job of supervisor, cheer leader, curser extraordinaire (when necessary) and above all, bartender.  I failed to really appreciate the value and originality of his cursing when I lived in the parental home...only now in my dotage can I really put this part of my education to full use. 

But my rant digresses: Surely someone could come up with a better shelf lining product!! I spent about an hour on the first shelf and the result was kind of OK. Unfortunately I didn't get better as time went on. Finally I was just slapping it on any which way, cutting off the excess with an exacto knife and considering using the thing to slit my wrists just to end the misery. The cupboard shelves are an embarrassment and look like they've been lined by a deranged child. How about someone inventing a spray of some kind - which sets up into a rubbery kind of mat that you can remove when you move on?

The whole experience put me in such a foul mood that I was more than irritated when I read the word "prick" in the instructions. In the food business we avoided this term, even though it is a legitimate culinary term and very meaningful in a utilitarian way to most cooks. Men seem to find the word discomforting when used in package instruction or recipe copy and I was never able to slip it past anyone I worked for. Instead we used the unnecessarily convoluted and weird instruction to "pierce the surface with the tines of a fork". 

And now the devils of contact paper just let it all hang out and tell us blatantly to prick. Well, same to you  - you sticky morons. Get thee to the lab and develop a better product! 

In other rooms, other wonders

The beautiful Abby Finwall contemplating July's book

In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, by Daniyal Mueenuddin was Kathy's excellent choice for July's book club reading. Everyone enjoyed the book, a collection of short stories with a common thread subtly linking them together. The stories cover many aspects of the Pakistani feudal system with the over- arching character being the primary land owner, KK Harouni.  Characters from one story show up in another, albeit in a minor way; you read a name and it rings a bell. The recognition draws you further in the story.

The opening story in the book, my favorite, was about Nawabdin, the electrician who exemplifies the cunning people on the lower end of the feudal scale, who scrape out a living by wheedling, begging, giving and taking favors, cheating, persuading and out and out graft. The people on the upper end of the scale have their own problems trying to do something with their lives. We discussed the particular plight of the women in the book whose lives, whether they are rich and poor, are ultimately in the hands of men. They don't get much support from each other either: as an example of mother love - when Saleema, pregnant, went home to her mother, Saleema catches her stealing from her money pouch. Saleema's mother says to her, "You owe me, you gravid bitch, coming here puffed up after your whoring. This isn't a hotel". Whew....I tried to imagine any woman I know saying such a thing to her own daughter. Life is tough for women, self-determination is simply not possible. It's every man and woman for his or herself.

All of us being word lovers enjoyed the title "sweepress"  - one who sweeps. Saleema refers to a woman as the "slut sweepress", an eye-catching alliteration on the page. The book was well written and many of the paragraphs were good enough that you could go back and read them over several times, if not for content then for the clever wordsmanship.

Ironies abound. In the final story, "A Spoiled Man", Rezak an elderly man who works as a gardener, lives in a box which he has rigged up ingeniously to meet his needs. He has a funnel and pipe spittoon, a mirror and shelf that allow him to shave without getting out of  bed and carefully chosen photographs of actresses on the walls and ceiling to keep him company. Cupboards and drawers are set into the outside walls for his tools, clothes and kits. There's a skylight made of red glass and cleverly engineered evaporative cooling. Guests (this class of people are frequently bored) on the estate where he lives tour the place for fun and one states that "The poor man should have electricity for a radio and for lighting. He lives all alone here, imagine how bored he is." Harouni, the estate owner, says "Are you kidding? These guys don't get bored."

As usual, we ate well. There was humus and pita chips, a delicious ratatouille made from the "end" of Lori's garden, a summer vegetable pasta salad, goat cheese on cucumber appetizers and a goat cheese log wrapped in cranberries. Roxanne served a delicious potion made of an Italian aperitif, Aperol and prosecco, light, refreshing and perfect for a summer meal. Dessert was Susan's rice pudding laced with cardamom which is used frequently in Indian and Pakistani cuisine.

Earlier in the week, Barbara posted some great pictures on her blog http://banardesigns.com from her years at  Hixson and Jorgensen and a discussion of fashion from that era ensued. One of the women in the group office pictures wore an eye catching get-up which included harlequin horn rimmed glasses and elbow length black leather gloves and I think a hat.  It's a long way from there to "casual Fridays" a concept that would have been shocking in that time frame when even  women wearing pants was controversial. Barbara and Nancy recalled wearing shorts and boots and going to a dance at the Ambassador hotel where the group Chicago was playing. They were admitted free of charge because they were female and wearing shorts (I hope I have this right). They arrived late but heard the last set and were able to go around to all the tables and eat the left-over appetizers and drinks. I would have loved to have been there....but wait, maybe I was!!! Well, maybe not at that particular event but being of the same vintage, one like it, no doubt.

The conversation jumped from short shorts to dress shields -  Kathy recalled them being permanently attached to better clothes. Our "madwoman" Barbara talked of her time working as an art director with a photographer who was shooting a model wearing very expensive clothing. The model perspired on the clothes and Barbara was chastised for not telling her to wear dress shields, something she'd never heard of. Dress shields and perspiration opened the way for Beth to tell us about her experience modeling at a nudist colony. And that's another whole hilarious story involving naked sky divers dressed in native
American costume and MORE.

There were more interesting conversations on-going but unfortunately I can hear only one end of the table so if I've missed something pithy, I apologize.

Rox picked the book for August,  Summer at Tiffany, by Marjorie Hart -  a light summer read. She has contacted the author, who is former chairman of the Fine Arts Department at University of San Diego and a professional cellist. She lives in La Mesa and is now over 90 years old.  

It's India!

The cavernous show room at the rustic furniture store in Escondido dwarfs the proprietor, an Indian man whose phone never stops ringing. "It's India" he said as the ring interrupted our conversation for the fourth or fifth time." It's India" he said, the sixth time. "Family?", I asked. "No - business" he replied. It was none of my business, but you could hardly ignore either the ringing or the loud conversation.  I was hoping my phone would ring so I could say, "Fallbrook" and then turn away and shout into the phone.

Wagon wheels, iron gates, iron pot racks and huge light fixtures hung ponderously over head. Everything in the store is covered with layers of dust; cobwebs loop and twist around furniture and objet. What would happen if there was an earthquake?  

Though the light was murky, there was enough for me to see that Mr. India had particularly beautiful blue-grey eyes. While I was admiring his eyes, he told me he spends much of his time traveling around  Indonesia, primarily Jakarta; in Thailand and in Spain, searching out furniture, antiques and home decor items to sell retail and wholesale. Spain is his source for old doors.  He has the feral look of a skilled treasure hunter, who buys low and sells high. I'm sure at some point he would sidle up and whisper a lower number in my ear.

The store is dark with the lights wired on a sensor of some kind  - they turn on as you walk further and further back into the bowels of the place. Visually sorting through the sea of darkish looking antiques is difficult for me. The beauty in each individual piece is lost as everything is crammed together. You can't see the legs on the tables, or appreciate the lines of the chairs.  

In my humble opinion, I think he would benefit from hiring a stylist to stage some of that furniture in the front of the store. If it were lit well and set up in tableaux, he'd probably sell more. 

I liked a long, authentically antique, sturdy looking elm dining table that he told me he would re-stain to match whatever sample I brought in. The table was close to what I want, but expensive and hard to see properly because it's buried in a sea of other tables and chairs. I probably won't go back.

Freeway day

Driving north on the 15 Thursday, the outside temperature was reading 73 degrees at 9:00 am and the air was clear as a bell. Another perfect day in a summerful of perfect days. Billboards along the route, while ugly, provide entertainment for the cruising brain: K9 training for your dog; We'll pay money for your old spa!; Obscene radio.com; PUS. PUS???? PUS = Precision Utility Services. This company locates underground utilities and provides other complicated engineering services related to utility operations. What an acronym! The type style used was straight forward and serious. The bill board is small and simple, black on white. It doesn't look like any kind of levity was intended. Still, PUS?

One hour 15 minutes of driving and I had brunch with a vivacious friend at Mimi's in Yorba Linda - she's very excited about moving to Sedona and in the throes of house hunting, flying back and forth every couple of weeks.  I'm helping her recruit a speaker for an IFT meeting. A short visit with Shari followed where I scored a jar of her latest batch of apple butter. I brought along a piece of bacon from brunch as a treat for her dogs but they are far more interested in having a ball thrown than in bacon. One of dogs has a knotted rag he likes to catch. He brings you the rag and drops it at your feet - if you don't get the hint, he picks it up and puts it in your hand, then fixes you with the most intense stare until relent and throw for him. After 40 or 50 tosses, he's panting but he won't give up - he's relentless. Shari is flying to Salt Lake City tomorrow to help her son get settled in an apartment for the next school year and then drive back to Yorba Linda with him where he'll have a few weeks off. Kevin is 18 and this car ride together is a rare opportunity for conversation - he communicates by with text her, but she's looking forward to hearing some actual words from her quiet, thoughtful son. Shari is an excellent parent and has always had an uncanny ability to foresee that a great moment - one of the big pay-off moments- might be in the offing.

To finish off the day and wait out the traffic I spent an other half hour driving to South Coast Plaza where a cluster of stores are located shoulder to shoulder: Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, Z Gallerie, Napa Style. Another stop at IKEA for more shelf paper and the Swedish pancake mix to try with a jar of their lingonberry preserves. Once again I'm impressed with the shopping convenience - the little measuring tapes they provide, the shopping lists and the grids for laying things out. Their kitchen design section is set up with computers on which you can plan your kitchen using their various cabinets in combinations. Too bad about the self-retrieval of items from the warehouse - I find this part utterly impossible and such a barrier to purchase. I wonder what their sales would be like if they actually delivered furniture to your car. Maybe they do, although all I see are people navigating big carts with huge heavy cartons through the cash registers.

I hit the freeway at 6:30 expecting the worst but made it home by 8:00 just at dusk. Like a reverse vampire, I have to make it home before dark or driving is too dangerous. My speedometer was nudging 90 at one point which was just barely "keeping up" in the fast lane; for a dizzy dame that's too damn fast. My foot lightened up, I moved over to the right and cruised home at a more conservative 75.

Traffic in Fallbrook

Driving along De Luz Road

Our neighbors moved to Palm Springs because the traffic was getting so bad in Fallbrook. Today I drove up to the rancho and from the turn onto De Luz Road all the way to Dailey I didn't pass a single car. Traffic and our lack of it has been on my mind since I read the August 2nd New Yorker article "Stuck" by Keith Gessen about traffic in Moscow.

How would you like to face this every day?

Or every night.

It's a nightmare and universally acknowledged as the worst in the world. 300,000 cars were on the roads in 1992 and there are 3,000,000 today. The number of cars is a problem but even worse is the hi-jacking of the roads by those in power. All day, cars speed around with blue sirens on top - the mark of an official - and they bring whatever movement there is in the traffic to a stop. Officials and their body guards battle over who has more right of way status. Last November there was total grid lock for days. People talk about living the traffic...they're stuck in it so often that they cease to merely endure it to get where they are going - they actually live their lives while stuck. "The cars standing in endless lines on the crowded Moscow streets resemble nothing so much as the people who used to wait in endless lines outside the Moscow stores."


There are no solutions in sight. The incompetent and impotent Mayor keeps traveling around the world and coming back with solutions such as bike travel...all Muscovites should ride bikes. Uh huh.

On Yandex, the Russian search engine, red lines indicate stopped traffic.

The author of the article calls it a classic Hobbesian dilemma. I had to look this up - Hobbes State of Nature postulates that in the "state of nature", that is a state without government  "each person would have a right, or license, to everything in the world. This, Hobbes argues, would lead to a "war of all against all" (bellum omnium contra omnes), and thus lives that are "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short" (xiii).

The alternative is the metro.

I've always wanted to see Moscow but I've changed my mind.  

Bye Bye Bowling Trophies

There are two of them sitting on my book shelves - modest little things with no inscriptions. Representing my sole sport achievement, they've been with me for 52 years, lugged from here to there. And I was a terrible bowler.

How did I win the trophies? A team of three splendid bowlers picked me as the fourth for my handicap and endured my poor performance for the sake of higher aggregate scoring. I rode the victory in on their coattails, but they couldn't have won without me. We were in junior high school and there wasn't money for fancy trophies but I was very thrilled to get the two I did. One of them was probably for something like "most improved bowler". 

I was a small and wimpy teenager and couldn't bowl the ball very fast. With time, I learned that accuracy can make up somewhat for speed - one of the better bowlers in the league had a tiny mother who showed me a few tricks. Mostly on how to deliver a kind of screw ball. She showed me how to bowl down the right side of the alley with a twist on the delivery so that the ball would curve in at the end and hopefully hit the strike spot.

But when I made a strike, the pins would topple over very slowly. The ball had to be accurate because there were no pins jumping over or flying up and knocking the others down. My ball had to be strategic and land just right for a "house of cards effect" with the pin drop - and it's harder with 5 pins which we played. Five pin bowling was invented in Canada. The ball is bigger than in duck pin bowling; the pins are slightly bigger too.

My brother-in-law who likes to win at everything he does was very impressed and surprised when he learned about the trophies. He was so surprised that he made the time to come to the alley to watch me. He couldn't believe how bad I was! Jim says I'd drop the ball on the alley with barely sufficient force to keep it rolling down the whole length. You could go get a drink, go the bathroom and come back just in time to see my ball tap one pin, destabilize it and start another slo-mo show as it teetered to the ground. 

Despite my lame game, I had fun and can still remember the bowling alley's festive mood. The sounds dominated the scene - pins and balls crashing; the swooping whoosh of the balls coursing down the alley, the cheers and bravado of the boys after slamming a ball down and getting a strike. The air smelled like french fries and cooped-up feet just released from rented bowling shoes. Various kinds of flirting was on-going - primarily boys showing off. The girls had to take off their boyfriends rings as we wore them with a big wad of tape on the back to keep them on. The tape interfered with the ball grip so they were removed and I can remember seeing them sitting on the table with the score pads. The setting was sort of theatrical with the lane all bright and light but the seating area darker with a desk lamp to light up the score pad. I can remember feeling a sense of drama encompassing the whole scene.

I don't remember anyone owning their own bowling ball. Only after I moved to California did I realize it was possible to bring your ball to the alley and actually own your own shoes. I looked this up on Wikipedia and found that you could not bring your own ball to a 5 pin alley in Canada until after 1990.  There was some sort of lock of ownership on the balls.

Now that I've written this and had a chance to think about it, I've changed my mind about tossing the trophies...they're small and don't take up much storage room. Maybe I'll get another walk down memory lane out of them.  

Family Reunion - 2010

Allie, our youngest family member with mom Sandy

Our annual family reunion was held in Nipomo and Paso Robles this weekend. On Saturday we have the traditional tri tip bbq in Nipomo and on Sunday we gather for the morning and then a pizza lunch in Paso Robles at our cousin's Bob's vineyard. The oldest family member is Uncle Kelly at 90 and we have a new baby Allie who is 10 months. Fun was had at both ends of the age spectrum. Most of the people we see only once a year and it's really fun to get together.

Cousin Bob readying the BBQ

New generation of pizza makers

Our oldest family member Uncle Kelly, 90 July 16th. 

Rolling fields of grapes at Pretty Penny Vineyard

The Pretty Penny Vineyard House 

The great pizza oven

All that Meat and no Potatoes

We're up to our necks in avocados right now. The heat wave caused a minor fruit drop and we're making a lot of guacamole. Fresh flour tortillas slathered with the stuff and dunked in salsa constitutes the current lunch du jour. Add some fork tender pork and the combination is delicious.

We buy a cheap hunk of pork, put it in a pot with a can of chicken broth, some sliced onions and bits and pieces of produce we have left over. Bring it to a boil, then cover and simmer, checking now and then to be sure it doesn't dry out. Add more chicken broth if necessary. After a couple of hours the meat should fall apart with a poke. Discard the liquid and store the cooked pork in the  refrigerator.

While preparing this small feast a good song to sing is All that meat and no potatoes.

New lyrics for the season:
All that meat and avocados

Tastes just right, like ripe tomatoes

Yeah, we're waiting,

Palpatating

All that meat and avocados

All that meat and avocados

All that guac and chips, oh yeah

Hold me steady

I am ready

With all the meat and avocados

I don't think that peas are bad,

Next to guac they're kind of sad

Even though they are both green,

One is kind and one is mean.

All that meat and avocados

Tastes just right, like ripe tomatoes

Yes, I'm steamin'

Really screaming

All that meat and avocados

The original line, "all that meat and no potatoes", so some speculate, referred to women with big butts and small breasts. Others say it refers to men who are all bravado and no substance. The above version refers to nothing more and nothing less than meat and avocados.

Michelle's company

GoCharmz, our niece's company, made it's first official sale yesterday. Michelle has been working on the business for about 1 1/2 years, designing the product, testing, working on the web site and getting all the elements in place. She has over 9000 "likes" on the Facebook page and her fan base is growing fast.

Michelle with the GoCharmz Tube

The product is a tube which attaches to a scooter. You can affix any of the 100+charms onto the tube or you can use the charms on bracelets or zippers. They have a line of stickers as well which you can, well, stick anywhere you'd like. Her very talented brother did all the charmz designs.

Read all about her in this article: MIchelle

We're moving!

One box at a time, we're getting shifted from one house to the other. The office is almost done - 42 file cabinets (whoops - file drawers) of information on old jobs and old clients bit the dust. After two or three sorts my info is down to 3 or 4 drawers full of information I'd like to use in a sensory handbook - a project for a later day. There's room left in the new house for Richard's grove information and his files.  Pictures are being consolidated but we still have far too many - boxes and boxes of pictures and memorabilia. It's tempting to shove them onto the top shelves and leave them until ?  

We carry over about two carfuls a day, which is a nice pace. I do the packing in the morning and the unpacking and stowing in the p.m. At this rate it will take a month which is just about right. 

Hello Sambuca

The irresistible Sambuca would be my choice if I had to pick only one liqueur to drink for the rest of my life. The tight blend of licorice with basil and rosemary enhanced by the alcohol bite is delightful, appetizing and doesn't get boring. It stays fresh and intriguing to the palate every time I try it. If my throat is sore or scratchy I pour out an ounce and sip it slowly letting it linger on the back of my tongue and the palate. Although many sources recommend it be served ice cold, I like it at room temperature or even warmer, sipped from a brandy snifter or a wine glass with the bowl warmed in my hands. 

The liqueur is enjoying a revival as an ingredient in many cocktails weirdly (in my opinion) named and obviously created for a new generation: black bitch, Freddy Kreuger, dirty nipple, boot-to-the-head, urine sample, brain hemmoraghe. These names evoke pain and torture, not pleasure and certainly not something for which you'd shell out 8 dollars. The flavors in these drinks are just as bizarre and torturous sounding as the names.

I'll stick with the straight stuff.

Lurching toward lunch

The hostess scrutinized me with a long hard look as I lurched in the restaurant door, correcting my trajectory just enough to miss crashing into the check-in podium. As she led me tottering along to the table I got a couple of curious glances. Once seated, I took off my glasses...OMG I still had on the "car only" bashed and battered pair I try to remember never to wear in public. Pranged and twisted, lenses scratched and barely hanging together, these glasses work for driving but they look like a joke! Sitting askew on my face they authenticate my current drunk bag-lady look.

For a fleeting moment, I thought perhaps the glances might have been admiring ones aimed at my butt, the subject of some recent attention (goslings on the rear) by fellow book club members*. Of course, I've lived long enough to know better. Apparently the neural connection all of us jack-asses have in common - the one which clouds over actual facts with unreliable information (known world-wide as having one's head up one's butt) is still operational.

Despite the delusions, lunch was good.

*A short story but better told elsewhere. 

Book Club Meeting July

Free roosters! In this morning's paper 4-5 month old roosters are on offer for free. My respect for roosters has increased since reading Birdology, our book club's selection for the month. According to author Sy Montgomery, "the Talmud praises the rooster and its writers advise Jews to learn from him courtesy toward their mates". But the dark side of roosters outweighs this one small strength - there's the damn crowing, the inevitable attacks and for the hens, the "jumping on your clean back with his dirty, scaly feet...whether you felt like it or not". Montgomery pronounced the hen house a "feminist utopia" once it was rooster free. We'll take this cue from the chickens and pass on the free roosters for now. 

Last evening was gorgeous here in Fallbrook - the reward for enduring a very hot afternoon. We feasted at the Book club meeting last night both on the food and conversation. The creative cooks were inspired by the egg theme. Laurie prepared Beluga lentils (lovely tender little morsels - for more info see the website zursunbeans.com)  with spinach and eggs; Rox contributed a frittata; there was a foccacia (I didn't catch the source); Beth brought a lovely flaky dessert pastry with various fruit and cheesecake fillings; Susan presented stuffed celery on a plate graced by a beautiful ceramic chicken. The Book club food phenomenon is ceaselessly surprising. One minute the table waits, covered with a cloth, wine glasses arranged down the center - a blank canvas. Turn your back for a second, people start arriving and the table is suddenly crowded with delicious dishes. There are no work assignments yet tables are set, dishes are cleared, plates are passed, glasses filled and above all the easy, interesting conversation flows. We drank a good chilled white wine and a couple of bottles of red.

The group agreed that Birdology was fact filled but not well written. Everyone came away with a scrap or two of new fact from the book, but little reading satisfaction. Several people thought that taken chapter by chapter it might make a good magazine series. None of us understood the inclusion of the chapter of hawks and falconry. While thematically correct it seemed inconsistent for the author who loved animals and birds to get so involved in blood sport. Actually the author herself seemed puzzled by her own fascination.

Laurie was surprised to learn that birds do not have a sense of smell. As children, she pointed out, we were all told not to handle birds, in particular, small birds because the mother would reject them if they bore a human scent. The subject of smell and the ability to perceive smells followed.  Rox waxed eloquently about growing up in the San Joaquin valley and knowing her location, even with her eyes closed, by the aromas in each area: packing houses, groves etc. She regrets that her sense of smell is less keen because of allergies. On the subject of smell, Laurie brought a bunch of beautiful aromatic basil that she'd grown from seed - heady stuff which made the room feel like summer. Beth had a stinky tale to tell*.

A fascinating corollary story was told by Rox whose favorite chapter was on pigeons. She started by explaining the small pigeon statue perched on the table. After her grandfather died, she was asked if she wanted something from his house. He had trophies which she admired, which were awarded for winning pigeon races, but as she couldn't travel with a large trophy she requested the pigeon statue topper from one - what a great unique keepsake. Her colorful grandfather, from Belgium, was one of the first people to race pigeons in the US and she has been researching and collecting information about him. 

The indefatigable Beth, though exhausted and dehydrated from dragging and burying a dead goat earlier in the day* seized on the opportunity to give us a demonstration of the egg separator "Bugger Boy Boris". She brought two pale greenish blue eggs from her neighbor's araucana hens.  The two fresh eggs had fragile yolks and didn't work well in the demo but Barbara found an antique beauty in her refrigerator dated, "Enjoy by 1/11/10". Well, we really enjoyed it on 7/14/10. Beth cracked that well-aged baby into Boris' skull and the thick, viscous white oozed through his ceramic nostrils in an appropriately disgusting fashion; one large clump, like a quivering transparent sausage hung on for a spectacularly long time. We laughed and laughed again while Beth read us the punny copy from the instruction sheet packed with the BBB. Kathy remarked that Bugger Boy Boris reminded her of a seat mate she'd had in elementary school!

The section on crows was discussed - I forgot to mention a TED lecture I saw and enjoyed which is available here: http://www.ted.com/talks/joshua_klein_on_the_intelligence_of_crows.html

We all agreed that crows and ravens get a bad rap and none of us mind the "murders" we have around Fallbrook.

In our grove I'll hear the whoosh of a crow or hawk's wings occasionally as they take a low swoop overhead which is always a thrill.  I try to imagine what was described in the book about passenger pigeons being so plentiful a century ago that when a flock flew overhead the sky would darken from horizon to horizon for hours and the roar of wings sounded like the winds of a hurricane. It must have been amazing!

*Contact me by email for the whole story which involves rappelling, ravines, devil worship, mountain lions, respirators, picks and shovels for starters.

Photo credits:
Rooster: jackdickersonrooster.blogspot.com
Pigeons: daisymaerach.com

Orangecello from Sicily

When a good friend died last year, his widow gave me some of his liqueurs. Nick had been a bartender at the Brown Derby in his youth and was a superb mixologist, always ready with a drink surprise. We miss him and I think of him every time I look at the liquor shelf.

The bottle of Caravella Orangecello is particularly beautiful. It's a 750 ml. smoky glass bottle and the label is a sunny yellow and orange. It's described as "from the fragrant orange groves of Sicily in Southern Italy". The label suggests a couple of drinks to make with it including a martini (I hate the comic book martinis) and a Cosmopolitan which I loathe - for the name alone. 

The best applications for the Orangecello that I've discovered are a sprinkle over fresh fruit - almost any fruit - and a drizzle on French Toast, just after the maple syrup. Leave it at room temperature for these applications. For any other application, keep it ice cold.

I wondered about the 7 pointed star on the label and looked it up. It appears on the Australian flag (one for each state and two for the territories); on the seal of the Cherokee nation; and as a symbol of the Trinitarios gang of New York City. This star has a "c" in the middle which makes it slightly different.

I'll have the ear plugs please

"Unquiet meals make ill digestion" William Shakespeare

I guess restaurants were noisy in Will's day too! We ate at a restaurant in Temecula on Friday where the noise was incredible -  music from the bar, people talking, dishes clattering, cell phones ringing, kids crying. We couldn't talk, couldn't think and certainly couldn't enjoy our food. 

Once a restaurant starts to get noisy, the noise itself begets more noise. Everybody starts to speak louder. The waiters were yelling at each other and at us. With my hearing disability which combines deafness and acuity, I was toast. We hesitated when we walked through the door and usually we turn around and leave if the noise level is high. But we were hungry and the restaurant was convenient and so we suffered. 

When I worked on restaurant concepts noise was frequently a design factor. Johnny Rockets with their juke box and singing servers cultivated the noise to create the ambience they were shooting for. It can be an important component of a vibrant and exciting atmosphere. Noise means action and energy but in my opinion it has a negative effect on flavor. All sensory experience is enhanced by concentration and noise is distracting to say the least.

Some level of masking music is perfectly acceptable to me as long as I'm not under a speaker. "Background music" should be just exactly that - in the background and an enhancement to comfort and conversation -  not the main event. 

Drink a glass of wine standing at a crowded noisy bar; then drink the same glass of wine in a quiet environment with all of your focus and they are two entirely different experiences. 

Celery Stalks at Midnight

It was a damp sort of midnight. One where you know the car is going to be dripping in the morning and the sidewalks will be wet. The dew was heavy enough to feel almost like rain. But it was spring and with the air so soft and balmy, we cranked the windows down.

A flood of aroma filled the car, so heady we almost swooned. Breathing deeply, he said, "It's garlic". As he slowed the car, I was leaning out the window trying to catch a glimpse of the plants in the fields, sniffing all the way. "No ..it's dill or something, maybe basil?". "Wait a minute, he said, It's celery!"

We wanted to stop the car, get out and roll in it, wear it, eat it up.

A stalk at a time, it doesn't smell like much. We double checked ourselves in the supermarket the next day. Even the big bin displays only emit a minor aroma. You'd hardly feel like wearing it! In great field-size patches, with the temperature just right, it's stunning - like perfume and  food and wine all mixed together in one marvelous snootful.

It was a genuine nose thrill, that field - and the smell lingered on and on. Next morning, you could still catch a little trapped in the upholstery, the glove compartment, the drink holder. Every time we shifted positions in our seats a little puff would waft on by. Memories of celery-rich dishes were conjured up - turkey stuffing at Thanksgiving dinner, Waldorf salad, cream of celery soup, crudites, Blood Mary.

By day celery just sort of lies there but by God it's true. Celery does stalk at midnight. Here's a link to the jazzy tune and the lyrics are below if you want to sing. Celery Stalks tune

Celery stalks at midnight

Lurking in the moonlight

What's this funny nightmare

All about.

Celery stalks at midnight

Mounted on their broomsticks

Lighting through the tree tops

In and out.

It's like a bad dream

A crazy kind of nightmare

Must have been something that I ate

No doubt.

Celery stalks at midnight

Lurking in the moonlight

What's this very funny nightmare

All about!

If you have celery to use up here's one way.

Stuffed Celery

1 (8 oz.) package cream cheese, softened

3 tablespoons prepared horseradish

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 teaspoon lemon juice

8 oz.dried beef, chopped 

1 bunch celery

In a small mixing bowl, combine cream cheese, horseradish, black pepper and lemon juice. Mix until well blended. Stir in the chopped beef, cover and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Remove leaves and ends from celery and cut stalks in half. Spread the cream cheese filling in the stalks. Sing and dance. Serve at midnight. 

Arrivederci Backowsa

The biffie, backhouse, port-a-potty - whatever you choose to call it - is going (pardon the pun) at last. For two years the thing has been resident in the driveway and has served its purpose. Ugh. But now we're saying goodbye, good luck and good riddance!

I worked with an Italian man years ago who told me that as a child, in his family "backowsa" was the Italian word they used for toilet. Many years later in conversation with other Italian speakers,  he realized "backhowsa" was his Italian families fractured version of "backhouse".  And so new words get incorporated into the language.

While we were traveling in Syria our friend Abdul speculated that the crescent moon on the front of the backhouse door might be a kind of subtle slap at Arabs. I've done a little Googling and can't find any associations of the symbol with this. Most sources say that the crescent moon stood for women while the men's outhouses sported a star. Men's outhouses usually fell apart or became impossible to use, so everyone eventually used the women's and the crescent came to mean "outhouse" - for everyone. 

Our Australian friends call us Seppos from time to time. Why? During WW2, when the American troops set up a camp anywhere the first thing they did was dig a latrine. So our friends say is how the expression started. Looking the origin up on line I found that it has a cockney origin. American were "yanks" and the Brits rhymed it with septic tanks which in Australian baby talk slang (sorry guys) morphed into Seppos.

My friend Beth was responsible for the port-a-potties at an event and always unique in her approach, she decorated them with handful of herbs. I admired this creativity which is typical of her - she will make the extra effort to do the very best job she can - no matter how shitty it is.  

Which brings to mind (why?) the famous brick shithouses that some women apparently resemble. This horrible sounding but complimentary expression had its origin in the fact that the brick back house was  outstandingly well built in comparison to the flimsy wooden variety. Ergo, if she is built like a brick shithouse then she is fantastic. 

Does "having your shit together" have it's origin in having a neat and tidy backhouse?

Warning: Girl with the Dragon Tattoo contains smoking

Our book club read and enjoyed this book. I thought it would make a good film and have been watching for it. Released a few months ago, the reviews for this Swedish work are generally good - 87% on Rotten Tomatoes. Turns out it's scheduled for video release soon so we can order it from Net Flix. I was surprised at the rating information from the Washington Post review.  "'Smoking"?  I've never seen that warning for a movie before and it's listed right after rape!


It's probably not a bad warning for a movie intended for a younger audience. But this one? 


GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. 

** Unrated. At area theaters. Contains obscenity, violence, grisly crime scene photos, nudity, sex, rape and smoking, all in large quantities. In Swedish with English subtitles. 152 minutes.

Burning your bra

A really hot chicken, my mother at 85 burned her bra - two generations after it was the "in" thing to do. On NBC this morning they showed a segment on kitchen fires and how to handle them. My mother and sister's oven fire caper came to mind.

Eilleen was visiting mother's house in Winnipeg and decided to roast a chicken for dinner. She turned my mom's oven on and stuck the chicken in to roast. They were doing the usual pre-dinner routine, chatting away, probably having a cocktail, when they realized the house was filling with smoke. Eilleen ran to the kitchen to see flames coming out of the oven. She called 911 and she and mom ran outside. Several minutes later, sirens screaming, the fire department arrived, crashed into the house and extinguished the fire.

The fireman came out a little later holding the unfashionably blackened chicken and the remains of a bra by a shred and said, "Ladies  - you'll be eating somewhere else for dinner tonight!".

Mother, it turned out, had been keeping her underwear in the oven and forgot to inform Eilleen about her unconventional storage arrangement. As she didn't use the oven at that point, it seemed logical to her to use the space for something else. Why not groceries or plates or cooking equipment? I'll never know.

Oven Fire Safety Tip Number 1. Keep your Maidenform out of your General Electric!

But can you make a margarita with it?

At the ENT's office Thursday at UCSD, I snagged the huge volume of New Yorker cartoons that lives in the waiting room. Usually someone else has it and I watch them laughing; enjoying the humor second-hand as it were. Today, I got to laugh first. You can laugh as loud as you like in that office without disturbing anyone because many of the patients are deaf or partially deaf.

When people check in the receptionists have to repeat almost everything.  It's beyond me why they don't speak LOUDER IN THE FIRST PLACE. Or have an amplification system. I was unnecessarily distracted by the snippets of fractured conversation I could hear. "You want me to do what with my hair?" No, Mr. Jones - we just want you to sit in the chair.

I checked out the BAHA (bone anchored hearing assistance). They put a simulation head piece on me and the doctor spoke softly into my deaf ear. I could hear him but he sounded like an weird alien speaking into an echo chamber. Directional sound is not usually improved with the BAHA nor are the problems associated with too much noise (hyper acuity) and tinnitus. Is it worth the surgery to get the alien speaking in the left ear? The surgery, which they say is easy (easy for who?), consists of having a hole drilled in the skull and a titanium screw piece inserted. The bone and titanium fuse, just like a tooth implant, and after three months you can wear your BAHA device or screw on various attachments like a phone assist unit or an MP3 player.

The margarita blender attachment is still in the prototype stage.