tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47946181509549225962024-03-12T20:55:30.848-07:00Little Fish TaleVivid stories from the eating life, where food intersects with just about everything. Usually funny. Always revealing.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-68424378850897900032011-07-24T18:43:00.000-07:002011-07-24T18:52:30.871-07:00Eating Alone But Not LonelyWhen my friend, K.C., wrote me that her husband had bilked the bank account and left her and their five-month-old son...well, it was a kick to the belly. Literally, I had to close my eyes and sit back in my chair. Focus on breathing. When she asked for words of wisdom, I had to chew on that one for a bit, because I'm not sure that I have wisdom. The crows feet around my eyes speak of experience, but wisdom...the jury is out on that one. Here is all I have, for you, K.C.<br />
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<b>Feel The Grief.</b> Your friends and family love you and hate to see you in so much pain so they will do whatever they can to distract you, to cheer you, to make you laugh, to point you towards a brighter future, to help you "buck up." All good stuff. But stay present. Put on your rubber boots and sink into the mud of sadness, disappointment, anger, and billowing pain. Walk through it. Slog. Eventually, you'll get to the other side, solid ground, but there's no other way around. Mourn. The life you had just died.<br />
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Yes, there's reality to think about: caring for your son, paying the bills, hiring a kick-ass attorney. But take time to be completely grief stricken, to not be strong or sturdy, stoic or positive. Be pissed off and sad. And don't let anyone get in the way of that. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivO8QRTui08iQIwkHQ-cRtqtFIloYkoqGGf8lQWvXA6rHJqVMbAGGUBRSnuZoeTH1MvgcCdMJipHHQNmyGHwrRVdA5s_4Z3D4Dy9F_X_F_cgj7_F4w6SNkwKxXPGKwnW-G3Z-f3wMoQnun/s1600/IMG_1274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivO8QRTui08iQIwkHQ-cRtqtFIloYkoqGGf8lQWvXA6rHJqVMbAGGUBRSnuZoeTH1MvgcCdMJipHHQNmyGHwrRVdA5s_4Z3D4Dy9F_X_F_cgj7_F4w6SNkwKxXPGKwnW-G3Z-f3wMoQnun/s400/IMG_1274.JPG" /></a></div>Here in this house, on an island, far, far away, I fell apart. Didn't leave the sofa for two weeks. Bagged the tooth brushing, hair combing, armpit shaving. Sat in my underwear and watched every single episode of Sex and the City (twice) while sucking gummie bears and papaya slices. I imagine there was a doobie or two involved. The only reason I finally left the house was a tooth abscessed. The young dentist, I couldn't help notice, was totally Hot. I knew I must be on the upswing. I was lucky; I had resources (aka: family.) You do, too.<br />
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<b>Care For Yourself.</b> Whatever that means to you. For me, that meant massages, yoga and good food. Meals that I cooked myself. For one. Here's a favorite comfort food: soba noodle soup with vegetables and tofu. Topped with dried nori and sesame seeds. I ate alone often. And I still do because the Ranger works nights. But I'm never lonely, because I can taste the labor of love from hands to mouth. And I know that whatever happens...I can sustain myself. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqp43WMqSofG975PZZJkH9QX0t8T08KBA2sS5DAWuX9rOswWfr2LSBopzgypyJft-XBZ9qx5Z7DevJK0nbBs98ejb_T8VMy3EiuIEswINHcJLURsMIHVgrxGuRhmJH5QcdGED_g47BTKFj/s1600/IMG_1770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqp43WMqSofG975PZZJkH9QX0t8T08KBA2sS5DAWuX9rOswWfr2LSBopzgypyJft-XBZ9qx5Z7DevJK0nbBs98ejb_T8VMy3EiuIEswINHcJLURsMIHVgrxGuRhmJH5QcdGED_g47BTKFj/s400/IMG_1770.JPG" /></a></div>Yoga saved my life. And that's not hyperbole. Just the truth. It took me out of my sad head and put me back in my strong body. It gave me confidence and community, a quiet spiritual center and a noisy welcome back to the world. Find your yoga.<br />
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<b>Believe In Good Men.</b> After The Surgeon and I split, I spit on the shoes of romantic love. What shit, I told myself. Never again will I share my secret self, or let a man crawl into the deepest recesses of my life, take his shoes off, scratch his balls and call my tender heart home. Meaningless sex...that's the ticket. A platinum card helps, too. And that certainly worked for awhile...even after The Ranger started calling me his girlfriend, and I called him, "this guy I know."<br />
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But there are good men. Who wait patiently for your bitter edges to wear away. And help that along by grilling you the most perfect piece of salmon at night and kissing your forehead every dawn before announcing, "good morning to you, sugar pie." Good men who take one look at your grumpy face and know that talking is out but foot rubbing is in. And good men who who say things like, "I will never let you down" and then don't. You'll see, K.C...he may not come in the package you dreamed of as a sanguine young girl (or in my case, he wasn't yet born) but he's there. Somewhere.<br />
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He might even show up with a very, hairy dog.<br />
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Hopefully, you'll be better prepared to meet him for the first time...not wearing pajama bottoms and bedhead in a fishermen's bar, drinking beer and blogging bitter tomes about your ex-husband in the middle of the day. Learn from my mistakes. Keep the bitter blogging to a minimum.<br />
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You are loved. And well on your way to wisdom.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-33704013826913265962011-07-10T15:34:00.000-07:002011-07-10T15:36:36.501-07:00Spotted Prawns...or, How To Make Your Sweetheart Late For WorkSummertime means the end of Sunday Supper and the launch of Sunday Lunch because by 3 p.m. The Ranger must strap on his gear and spend swing shift protecting the campers around Fish Town from overcooked marshmallows, the stench of dead sea lions, black labs gone arwy and City Folk complaining of sand in their new Keens.<br />
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Today, one of our favorite food sources, <a href="http://www.localocean.net">Local Ocean</a>, suggested spotted prawns, simply cooked without fuss or muss. I love it when the Fish Goddess wrinkles her nose and whispers, "no Teriyaki sauce, for Godsakes," with the same hiss usually reserved for chewing gum at the table and men in argyle socks.<br />
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We quickly snapped up a pound of the spotted lovlies and turned them on the flame after a brisk rubbing in olive oil. Pink and grill marked, they swirled for a bit in a bath of butter, garlic and cheap Chardonnay (you know THAT bottle a dinner guest brought, hastily procured from the discount bin at Safeway -- good for prawns, but not for palate). Finished with a pinch or two of Piment d'Espelette because it's the crack we put on everything from scrambled eggs to T-bones. <br />
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Once, a neighbor, while walking his Akita, stopped by with wrinkled brow, "It seems you people grill every day, rain or shine." True. Even when the maniac cop shooter, David Durham, was on the loose, we broke quarantine and continued to grill. Not even a man in full-body camoflauge prepared to battle aliens (the space kind, not the apple picking kind), with a snapping blue heeler and an automatic weapon can keep us from our hot coals. But I digress.<br />
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A chilly Sauvignon Blanc (three blueberries at the bottom of each glass for good luck) and an easy salad completed the circle. As a yogi, I must bow to the many contributors to this luscious mache: The Ranger, of course, for growing the peppery greens and grilling the corn, <a
href="http://www.gatheringtogetherfarm.com">Gathering Together</a> for the tomatoes and herbs and my Mexican family for inspiring the dressing of fresh-squeezed lime, cumin, splash of apple cider vinegar, garlic-chile sauce, sea salt and olive oil. Ay carumba!<br />
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Maybe it was the heat of the day here at the beach, or the heat in the dressing, or the fact that spotted prawns must be eaten with fingers, buttery and salty, garlicy and spicy. But time slipped away. <br />
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Those happy campers will have to wait.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-38647435037173283652009-06-21T22:08:00.000-07:002009-06-21T23:45:44.805-07:00And Then There Was CakeI've always been afraid of cake. There. It's on the table. Second Edition decided, early on, never to bake because, well...measuring cups are involved. Precision. You can't call it in. You have to show up and do the job without fudging or improvising or sloshing a martini glass to and fro. So I always left baking to others. In fact, just last month I hired a woman to bake the Ranger's birthday cake, a lovely chocolate confection with crumpled toffee and whip cream icing. It was stunning. Before that...let's just say I'm shameless when asking friends to pony up a pie, a cake, cookies or gin. Isn't THAT what friends are for?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUq4u32yjoC1ugHuftykLxLAEYZKCTpPnXZpRh9kz3jwcjjBZLDUN_o0sUJRFpL0uqV0z2xjUElSTLrr6zH8cpUBJe1IALPczcTdmIn5xiXpTCliQJucIeEC7Ev1bJ-hWMyuMk0mUgGir_/s1600-h/IMG_0744.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUq4u32yjoC1ugHuftykLxLAEYZKCTpPnXZpRh9kz3jwcjjBZLDUN_o0sUJRFpL0uqV0z2xjUElSTLrr6zH8cpUBJe1IALPczcTdmIn5xiXpTCliQJucIeEC7Ev1bJ-hWMyuMk0mUgGir_/s400/IMG_0744.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350015117303856978" border="0" /></a><br />But then I saw these apricots at the Farmer's Market and was quickly smitten by their sunny little butt cheeks. So I bought a half dozen, fondled them a bit and pondered the possibilities. Fortunately, I just finished reading <span style="font-weight: bold;">A Homemade Life</span> (yeah, I gave it <a href="http://www.bookbuzznw.blogspot.com/">a bitchy review</a>, but some of the recipes are appealing) and the pistachio cake with honeyed apricots looked like something even I could manage. Except I didn't have pistachios so hazelnuts had to do. And I added fresh grated ginger because I do that to everything, no questions asked.<br /><br />It turned out divine. And made me wonder what I'd been afraid of all these years.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyT9IZpo3G1sZ8F-bzGR_QFtkWJD2M7_q6G40aKwvyjexHCn30YiooyE7VRrvU4nnIHvfuI_o_1gwy8pWZGzK0zAm5q3hdWKQZzQmGTSXpMzMqavb9DFCHpbXqYjA_ImBJa7AbIO3CI7rS/s1600-h/IMG_0752.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyT9IZpo3G1sZ8F-bzGR_QFtkWJD2M7_q6G40aKwvyjexHCn30YiooyE7VRrvU4nnIHvfuI_o_1gwy8pWZGzK0zAm5q3hdWKQZzQmGTSXpMzMqavb9DFCHpbXqYjA_ImBJa7AbIO3CI7rS/s400/IMG_0752.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350015131283821330" border="0" /></a><br />I took it to a garden party where it paired beautifully with a golden Sauternes. Thanks to the Wine Guy. On the way, however, I was stopped for speeding (58 in a 40), but the Nice Deputy merely poked his head in the window and smiled, "Why is my yoga teacher hauling ass through town, may I ask?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UyqTJCK2QlUwS9jjeJnniGbvIE1iLrUH64xBiuGT8llkDENhHP3SDryt8ce8-z-NBmicsBRueaii4uDu1W20M-LAHE_QrljMI1zsvIEE8o5Ns6hwaf9iWy9zOs10jqlzACXtp7bUr0th/s1600-h/IMG_0759.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UyqTJCK2QlUwS9jjeJnniGbvIE1iLrUH64xBiuGT8llkDENhHP3SDryt8ce8-z-NBmicsBRueaii4uDu1W20M-LAHE_QrljMI1zsvIEE8o5Ns6hwaf9iWy9zOs10jqlzACXtp7bUr0th/s400/IMG_0759.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350015611378616194" border="0" /></a><br />The earthy, sweet goodness of my first cake made me wonder about all the other things I've been afraid of: microwave ovens, swimming in the ocean, cat attacks, my father dying, becoming just another dog-hair covered Coastie in Keens, a tree falling on the Ranger, losing my hair, being laughed at, wrecking my car, losing my teeth, becoming irrelevant, Fox News, hot dogs, forgetting my brother's voice, bee stings, the clown under the bed, grandma panties, Marcel Proust, crying in public, Jeb Bush running for President...plus, so much more.<br /><br />And just when I can't bear the thought of how long my list of fears might become if I truly allowed myself to single them out...I remind myself that I was the girl who, two summers ago, packed her car and drove away. From everything. Everyone. Not because I was lost, unmoored, afraid or on the run. Not because I was searching for something or someone. But because I was found.<br /><br />Sometimes you have to hit the road to realize where home is. And when you arrive. You bake a cake.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-73529814410101207372009-05-22T21:02:00.000-07:002009-05-23T16:59:49.505-07:00No One FoundSometimes you have to throw caution to the wind. And Just Go. Even though the timing is less than perfect. Even though funds are depleted. Even though all those vigilant voices in your head whisper, "No, stay the course because this nice black man you voted for wants you to buck up, dust yourself off, be a good citizen and make some sacrifices so that we can all be better people."<br /><br />Or, you can just spend a ridiculous amount of money to have unprotected sex in the wilderness.<br /><br />Here's the thing: the Ranger and I work with the public all day long. It's a hard, sometimes joyless slog, even if its work we love. So escape for us means, no whining, no customer service, no sucking it up, no "thank you, ma'm, may I have another." That's why the Ranger's first instinct when he needs to get away is to go camping. Nature. Silence. Beauty. Peace.<br /><br />Yeah. Yeah.<br /><br />This time, however, because it's his birthday, the Ranger put me in charge of the camping arrangements. And let me just say, Second Edition Camping is a different mode of transport compared to Ranger Camping. Kinda like Singapore Airlines v. TWA. Lobster raviolis meets dry roasted peanuts.<br /><br />While I certainly enjoy the character building involved in throwing down a sleeping bag on a bed of pine needles under a starry sky (I was once a Girl Scout, after all), roasting wieners on sticks over an open fire and serving them on a frisbee with cold beer, an Eddie Bauer sleeve as napkin...I chose for us a somewhat different route into nature. Let's call it <a href="http://www.wildspring.com">Wild Spring</a>.<br /><br />Imagine....500 thread count Frette linens, a chandelier, room service, French press coffee, Persian rugs, chenille blankets on the porch, handcrafted soaps in the walk-in shower, a hot tub, in-room massages, a yummy bottle of Pinot Noir. NOW THAT'S CAMPING. Our hosts, Michelle and Dean, were perfect. They never spoke to us. Not once. Wouldn't be able to pick them out of a line-up if we had a D.A. pointing a gun at our head. We communicated via mail. Left breakfast requests and other administrative tasks in the front porch mailbox and these were mysteriously picked up when we weren't looking and fulfilled to the letter. Yes...it's true...I am now at a point in my life where I will pay a princely sum to make sure people do NOT talk to me.<br /><br />We checked in at a gazebo which hugs an expanse of privately owned old growth forest that would make any good Republican pee his pants. In Drawer #4, we found a cabin key, a map to get us there, a flashlight to light the darker corners and a silver whistle to scare off lions, tigers and bears.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-19_yE_FpJj01dwpf_qwiPu2h2aqCHU2eqJ6Y3-VbGoUemE9lR692KUoS-M-fIa3LVz98xkOY9g6HlZb0yyKgw3HKPPvXlktVVpmJJU-grNkMbOcpe4c_wt1C-93YwjRnJQjgpN5OZVD9/s1600-h/IMG_0651.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-19_yE_FpJj01dwpf_qwiPu2h2aqCHU2eqJ6Y3-VbGoUemE9lR692KUoS-M-fIa3LVz98xkOY9g6HlZb0yyKgw3HKPPvXlktVVpmJJU-grNkMbOcpe4c_wt1C-93YwjRnJQjgpN5OZVD9/s400/IMG_0651.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338903233516157650" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Turn right at Bliss.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15RHMK0PCNHtUxnK4Zonm6Ziti1lMz6kENJLMza7cpwZouQ_KRbiNWoMCxVvgTscQmRDBq_cY9c2SLMRCdTV0PtKoVhQRs-kZsT67IjbgeyKm7wrCIDv4F0JxhuzgzDLW9M0rzx8YAwv0/s1600-h/IMG_0655.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15RHMK0PCNHtUxnK4Zonm6Ziti1lMz6kENJLMza7cpwZouQ_KRbiNWoMCxVvgTscQmRDBq_cY9c2SLMRCdTV0PtKoVhQRs-kZsT67IjbgeyKm7wrCIDv4F0JxhuzgzDLW9M0rzx8YAwv0/s400/IMG_0655.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338903242319455538" border="0" /></a><br />Another right at the Buddha.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2boVgrH7SedxFQ6htWJazOlUM9k5_RPIpx4vUbRfHYbyjj-EWi2_Yxl0v9SG4QqBHbSAO0TtCf019KbBRdVzPs09nE9Ww-AWs5gxO7yefnH4LpLJleasEC1pJMWNa70_34fdhw9ozw1-V/s1600-h/IMG_0668.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2boVgrH7SedxFQ6htWJazOlUM9k5_RPIpx4vUbRfHYbyjj-EWi2_Yxl0v9SG4QqBHbSAO0TtCf019KbBRdVzPs09nE9Ww-AWs5gxO7yefnH4LpLJleasEC1pJMWNa70_34fdhw9ozw1-V/s400/IMG_0668.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338904854415534514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Past the random hammock.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeIk7tgfa8ffTMfv5_jQNy54M-CgdYkTYtmvzfEX8MIn9WeWdLg_FA4xrmWpmOHNhewe6LZs7NOpThtAVA84qr_IHAIovjLeS-CFYCVBEgXYSZ-GF_MrjAbVgnAIeArEeUKCekrmBgE1n/s1600-h/IMG_0628.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeIk7tgfa8ffTMfv5_jQNy54M-CgdYkTYtmvzfEX8MIn9WeWdLg_FA4xrmWpmOHNhewe6LZs7NOpThtAVA84qr_IHAIovjLeS-CFYCVBEgXYSZ-GF_MrjAbVgnAIeArEeUKCekrmBgE1n/s400/IMG_0628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338902285775506450" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Left at the Virgin Mary.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2CDTKSE9XXCErcUPbl2TriOVpWXUExqt_1tIO9uHUZRq7oXJO4O2BNI_3NVkIIWeKspX1EINdjOAfESi96JRKkJU3nYLnoa6_q4jgcu4GUIOz7LTK6EYp_ghJu0BtikdPJf8YITRaJd8/s1600-h/IMG_0643.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2CDTKSE9XXCErcUPbl2TriOVpWXUExqt_1tIO9uHUZRq7oXJO4O2BNI_3NVkIIWeKspX1EINdjOAfESi96JRKkJU3nYLnoa6_q4jgcu4GUIOz7LTK6EYp_ghJu0BtikdPJf8YITRaJd8/s400/IMG_0643.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338902290753675186" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And here we are.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgq9kXTccNOXa3zwHAI7pMeBLaSGqmLwLVEwYJBkL9lG67RerDPPlYXis6yzPLBP0J6QQcf9OvSfatqG5e94qHRWpraVZb173zCBGGIO-aCFq74e1a1m90Ow9eILg2wcVBAR1dxu3ObOC/s1600-h/IMG_0652.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgq9kXTccNOXa3zwHAI7pMeBLaSGqmLwLVEwYJBkL9lG67RerDPPlYXis6yzPLBP0J6QQcf9OvSfatqG5e94qHRWpraVZb173zCBGGIO-aCFq74e1a1m90Ow9eILg2wcVBAR1dxu3ObOC/s400/IMG_0652.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338902300203130370" border="0" /></a><br />Dinner was at a local joint named Paula's Bistro, a surprisingly French little gem smack in the middle of a boarded up Port Orford (the recession has not been kind to this Coastal town). And even though our waitress, Paula herself, was charming and her husband, Random French Dude, was a delight, our experience was marred by having to sit at the bar (restaurant was booked) next to the Town Drunk, Richard.<br /><br />He is an artist. Of course. His art hangs in the dining room. Found objects off the beach spray painted lime green and glued onto particle board. Yum. He talked. About his ex-wife. Fishing. His girlfriend. His rabble-rousing days in L.A. (everyone in Port Orford is from L.A. as it turns out) His current, unabated rash. And then he talked some more. Midway through, I took a serrated knife and killed myself.<br /><br />As we approached the end of our lamb chops (me) and scallops (the Ranger), Richard held up his Coors Light and announced to the room, "Well now I guess you'll be going back to your room and making love all night long, huh." Nothing...and I mean NOTHING throws cold, Artesian water on your romantic notions like a staggering blowhard with a bloody bandaid strapped across his bulbous nose and food particles dangling from his scrappy beard. Yup. That night, after dry cheek kisses...we slept a chaste slumber.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-mqZ859GCex98JVhV87I65_CY8ecK2hFMDEdTj7AzNpwEwVwxs6jJneUIwOBsIxqWiuNvatyiGQAWit1pmOml8fiPZTosHPewQnc0fll61osBlIZ-pGanIL4GWLGXvKGEH2yZqfn_SUa/s1600-h/IMG_0665.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-mqZ859GCex98JVhV87I65_CY8ecK2hFMDEdTj7AzNpwEwVwxs6jJneUIwOBsIxqWiuNvatyiGQAWit1pmOml8fiPZTosHPewQnc0fll61osBlIZ-pGanIL4GWLGXvKGEH2yZqfn_SUa/s400/IMG_0665.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338907495655299506" border="0" /></a><br />So, it's true. I collect Police Blotters from small towns because I think they tell you a good deal about the character of a community. This from the May 13th <span style="font-weight: bold;">Port Orford Daily Register</span>:<br /><br />"Police received a report of an audible alarm at Driftwood Elementary School. Police responded and found an open door. Curry County Sheriff's Deputy also responded, and the two officers checked the building for intruders. No one found. Door secured."<br /><br />And that right there. The title of my autobiography: No one found. Door secured.<br /><br />The next day, we explored the Land Of The Lost, the most remote stretch of Oregon Coast we've ever stumbled upon. Miles and miles of no people. Stunning.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqL9FvFEqIGQgJuDgW6ri0KBDqfAcyyBQQNmRPEJtui4IcKVKIIFnTImeHhazVjxvrcoIr7Sl10wXt27k3No4IuXMww8h_IfL_xkVu5RnMmDMOkZPhsEdawaHG1HaBdbqy_uz0oOvk2iR/s1600-h/IMG_0690.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqL9FvFEqIGQgJuDgW6ri0KBDqfAcyyBQQNmRPEJtui4IcKVKIIFnTImeHhazVjxvrcoIr7Sl10wXt27k3No4IuXMww8h_IfL_xkVu5RnMmDMOkZPhsEdawaHG1HaBdbqy_uz0oOvk2iR/s400/IMG_0690.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339029834382278290" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbpKCC-Vl3B5SsEDl7Rm-hfdpPwzc5LbhGWUM6H_XMY5Q3huql47frsyhudqKeiyAGNDaXcMwB6vLEEAo6v-zFKCoL5JdI2R3-EVIrmjWpLhsfXEwBZJIvX9OtutAlla2XeGlexuLWmuL/s1600-h/IMG_0669.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbpKCC-Vl3B5SsEDl7Rm-hfdpPwzc5LbhGWUM6H_XMY5Q3huql47frsyhudqKeiyAGNDaXcMwB6vLEEAo6v-zFKCoL5JdI2R3-EVIrmjWpLhsfXEwBZJIvX9OtutAlla2XeGlexuLWmuL/s400/IMG_0669.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339029829387380082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On the drive home, we held hands for the first time in a long time. All better now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozZ8Z-sYb9byWmrud_C0eniqZo7IjUPXgiON8nNCgQxURYWnzOVyEV_W0PS-uHHLiBo3kVNSOLKTl3owi9K-_N6yypOhtOpERyfo7qIc0tU7aVpnykAdRjTjabxmQdAD3SgV7SzOb07uY/s1600-h/IMG_0634.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozZ8Z-sYb9byWmrud_C0eniqZo7IjUPXgiON8nNCgQxURYWnzOVyEV_W0PS-uHHLiBo3kVNSOLKTl3owi9K-_N6yypOhtOpERyfo7qIc0tU7aVpnykAdRjTjabxmQdAD3SgV7SzOb07uY/s400/IMG_0634.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338907490030961714" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heads UP:</span> Second Edition will be undergoing stressful and time-consuming testing towards her certification, but will return in full force after June 7th. Thank you very much.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhN96N8qQ7Joxc7DVPqS2Ic6gqHofgDdTd15bs5y78ESgr0U4JO-z9UMM6alEleFylXYTeY5OLE67qQGnN6xvUcDwL6e5wkEnCvZc1wQAVc6cONeyz2tbxUaKBEv0apD4YZFFgyeo1RO8q/s1600-h/IMG_0712.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhN96N8qQ7Joxc7DVPqS2Ic6gqHofgDdTd15bs5y78ESgr0U4JO-z9UMM6alEleFylXYTeY5OLE67qQGnN6xvUcDwL6e5wkEnCvZc1wQAVc6cONeyz2tbxUaKBEv0apD4YZFFgyeo1RO8q/s400/IMG_0712.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338904858301475602" border="0" /></a>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-84906972192870646502009-05-11T07:37:00.000-07:002009-05-11T09:15:49.300-07:00The Spring of DaysBill paying Monday. I still write checks that have my brother, Edward's, address on them. I told myself I was being wise with a penny, saving a tree, that really it didn't matter. But now I'm down to my last book of checks and I realize I'm going to have to order new ones, with my real identity, my real location.<br /><br />When I drove out of Albuquerque nearly three years ago, I needed an address -- Homeland Security doesn't like you checking into a hotel without one -- so of course I chose Edward's because the plan was that when I returned from "clearing my head" (I said three months, Edward guestimated a year) I would live with him and his family until I got my own place. He was an engineer, remember. He liked the future mapped out.<br /><br />Edward wrote me this email exactly three years ago today. He was helping me get the house fixed up so the soon-to-be-X and I could put it on the market.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You know, I'm a little worried about the float valve on the a/c unit that</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> sits over the living room. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">It was dripping ever so slightly. Take a moment to see</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> if that one is overflowing. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">That valve got all twisted around and the little lever that shuts off</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> the water got bent in the process. It's dripping and overflowing the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> drain. It should take a few minutes to replace the thing. All we need</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> to do is remove the copper pipe, remove the nut on the outside of the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> a/c and it should come right out. It's a standard a/c part. If you</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> want, turn off the water in the basement so it doesn't drip and I'll</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> help you replace tonight after work.</span>"<br /><br />Yeah, I know, kind of pedestrian. Most of our emails back and forth were about daily things. But here's the rub. Edward couldn't fix my broken heart because he knew enough to realize that the big stuff had to find its own way, that it was out of his hands, even out of mine. But the small stuff...that he could fix. He had a tool box. And he'd always make me sit up there on the roof with him and hand him the wrenches while he explained exactly what he was doing and why. Then he'd sit back on his heels, satisfied that repairs had been made and ask, "so what's for dinner?"<br /><br />It was spring. So no doubt it was something good and fresh. The Farmer's Market was just starting up in Downtown Albuquerque, thin yet optimistic. Just like here in Fish Town. Some details are the same everywhere, because Nature only worries about the dailiness of things.<br /><br />Saturday was the first day and although my <a href="http://www.gatheringtogetherfarm.com/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">favorite vendor </span></a>didn't make an appearance, I still scrambled and found a tiny head of kale, delicate spring onions, a handful of fragrant basil, thin sticks of asparagus and the most amazingly tender yet hearty-tasting spinach. It was good to see folks we hadn't seen all winter: organic farmers with dirt under their nails from early morning picking, the pig and sheep growers in the clap-trap circus trailer, the bearded salad lady who's still convinced the world is going to end even though George Bush isn't running it anymore, the Chinese guy with the buckets of tulips, and Katie the bread lady. Mostly, it was just nice to hug our friends and neighbors on a blustery day under a blue sky, the salt air whipping our scarves, tilting our hats.<br /><br />So yes...even though I've been a bit melancholy lately, missing my brother...May was always the start of rock climbing season...I feel the itch in my arms and fingers...I know that spring always clears the webs. Just ask my 83-year-old uncle who got married yesterday. Yup, the bride wore white.<br /><br />And we stirred the greens. That lovely spinach topped with steamed asparagus bits, crispy pancetta and shallots, cannelini beans, and chives clipped from the garden. Tossed with a grassy green olive oil, ground pepper and red wine vinegar that had been whisked with pancetta grease. Ooops. Forgot the hard boiled eggs. The mushrooms. But then that's why we do it again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m2FHWaVVsr75O6Ov_hL_KVjip6v36Fe1pKBySSRYOatLm4nUBXAyUKrWewl3bBaCUqzNoPn7VVlGRzl4LVbP-g-T1igBZrXtnBLz9DMwMUR76PqfLC-SgahMUM1i3iLZ0v_TncmENFsI/s1600-h/IMG_0623.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m2FHWaVVsr75O6Ov_hL_KVjip6v36Fe1pKBySSRYOatLm4nUBXAyUKrWewl3bBaCUqzNoPn7VVlGRzl4LVbP-g-T1igBZrXtnBLz9DMwMUR76PqfLC-SgahMUM1i3iLZ0v_TncmENFsI/s400/IMG_0623.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334598606352381474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Other signs of Spring...Mia puts on her backpack and hits the trails.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWG6_U2vVbKvWZOJcr-Aw2hFSOb-ManYnIQdmkXzxyHvzzeb-WbbtnzDwCGTgS4TdL1V9AJWSZx8RRollBqFz2PDE6Efm7V-mS0rdGSFTjPpQmogmN87ovyYIxl8j4ptybXsdgKtbO9NP/s1600-h/IMG_0564.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWG6_U2vVbKvWZOJcr-Aw2hFSOb-ManYnIQdmkXzxyHvzzeb-WbbtnzDwCGTgS4TdL1V9AJWSZx8RRollBqFz2PDE6Efm7V-mS0rdGSFTjPpQmogmN87ovyYIxl8j4ptybXsdgKtbO9NP/s400/IMG_0564.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334598602100528802" border="0" /></a>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-52355699584477588642009-04-19T22:22:00.000-07:002009-04-19T23:16:44.027-07:00It's not easy to live artfully. With grace and reflection. With real imagination. Sometimes, art is simply wishful thinking, a desire to stretch beyond the quotidian rounds of dailiness: working, buying bread, pumping gas, paying bills, walking the dog. When I come home at night, sometimes it's all I can do to be a good wife and ask after the day, stir onions in a pan, fold the laundry. Sometimes, I simply ask, "can we not talk for awhile?" Which makes the Ranger wonder if aliens have taken over my body.<br /><br />But just when we think art is gone for good, that we will never have enough time or get enough sleep to write something worthy, shoot an interesting photo or cook a meal that will perch in the blurry edges of memory, someone knocks on the door and delivers. Their own art. We have been supremely gifted this past week. For no particular reason. By friends. Neighbors. Co-workers. Moms. A jar of homemade BBQ sauce that transported us to the silky hill country of Tennessee. A pork roast with a savory walnut, raisin stuffing. A surf board with Mexican pesos pressed into it. Cookies shaped like bunny rabbits. Homemade beef jerky. A purple, ribboned blouse that screams, "take me to a party right now!" A tall, lanky bottle of garlic infused olive oil. A CD of MP3s we might have never discovered on our own, a little bit country, a little bit of rock and roll. A pretty, pink camisole that makes my boobs look young again. A silk scarf. A snapshot of a blazing sunset. A story about sheep and cheese making in Northern Spain. A bottle of Malbec.<br /><br />To celebrate our good fortune, we packed our camera and some sandwiches and took to a stretch of beach we haven't visited in a long time. In the cracking surf, we remembered what it was like when things were still new. And tried to look with fresh eyes. This is what we saw.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjl-4Snf1vEX0vVv8SueVS5TktC1WqXuJdw-O_IBrSlKR1tccX0QsWRnMFdVCpLSPfk6d0WANohXwHYQ-tD5s7czHZhqMPSSmoP6X9MV3hCbv6eaMATyV0f1_zyx-AQJoXJROrVNdRRMnD/s1600-h/IMG_0555.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjl-4Snf1vEX0vVv8SueVS5TktC1WqXuJdw-O_IBrSlKR1tccX0QsWRnMFdVCpLSPfk6d0WANohXwHYQ-tD5s7czHZhqMPSSmoP6X9MV3hCbv6eaMATyV0f1_zyx-AQJoXJROrVNdRRMnD/s400/IMG_0555.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326642139412331346" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6TYIl2KHDwzzwOIwPAog06sqdxKNQfn9sYFGalsWaWu1QO28iSKB1B35IEUQvD2Np36iTK_ukYU2aKojeJylRB-bzrYtGttAVZs9Hxy95VVgjXWYYf69be_kK6EuY1TBCqnCAd8kBIFv2/s1600-h/IMG_0551.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6TYIl2KHDwzzwOIwPAog06sqdxKNQfn9sYFGalsWaWu1QO28iSKB1B35IEUQvD2Np36iTK_ukYU2aKojeJylRB-bzrYtGttAVZs9Hxy95VVgjXWYYf69be_kK6EuY1TBCqnCAd8kBIFv2/s400/IMG_0551.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326642131842558466" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOk41mjC4CMSlUK0f6YmfsC_Z1Za52DR6frGFDDwaLBpjuvPtqsLOA8o_QfSa-5ezjlxa2VmAADOa_Kes2RuiIqCsOSq8isRCHbCdXIjwChaamtCw7xSjJ09jdqierTIETguJPXIQigTN/s1600-h/IMG_0550.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOk41mjC4CMSlUK0f6YmfsC_Z1Za52DR6frGFDDwaLBpjuvPtqsLOA8o_QfSa-5ezjlxa2VmAADOa_Kes2RuiIqCsOSq8isRCHbCdXIjwChaamtCw7xSjJ09jdqierTIETguJPXIQigTN/s400/IMG_0550.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326642119459624402" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrlzAeESpR1ZYjrBxHmcDFR7b9a0Y08uwB49H6cRY_wH-SYnW0JQdZf6RC05MneDZeFluvaobDKHE_nlGDmAL11eVvHe-UyA9KIaBCmT_-PE28E8lBq4Z3dRSQWPsv6qgOLvBg8gmRbDe/s1600-h/IMG_0549.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrlzAeESpR1ZYjrBxHmcDFR7b9a0Y08uwB49H6cRY_wH-SYnW0JQdZf6RC05MneDZeFluvaobDKHE_nlGDmAL11eVvHe-UyA9KIaBCmT_-PE28E8lBq4Z3dRSQWPsv6qgOLvBg8gmRbDe/s400/IMG_0549.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326642117225778082" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByGuEKLW3xbG2CR5OevSpa1iUtYq99N_D2pd1epONh0ts-PLaKFWkUjCn6F2x37QVP8NiGvFgw3DaW9i2hD9Yd-GH8bqBSTp7TlVUK5ieI9Lehhj3wCYUygBNA8cDO_Q1VTeD_jL1eRit/s1600-h/IMG_0541.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByGuEKLW3xbG2CR5OevSpa1iUtYq99N_D2pd1epONh0ts-PLaKFWkUjCn6F2x37QVP8NiGvFgw3DaW9i2hD9Yd-GH8bqBSTp7TlVUK5ieI9Lehhj3wCYUygBNA8cDO_Q1VTeD_jL1eRit/s400/IMG_0541.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326641106601741810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSMFei4_lj0h970M2X_KmaIMte2_t6ncJaRuX2mbDU2P7xQu0WnIdhwA3P4cE7N7ndk27rLZr9Ctwo0-NKq0XOVrfJexQnRxlYwySkgvgjydzvuwTiqqaTrEwt36MbaqX4fs_prpAqgKd/s1600-h/IMG_0539.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSMFei4_lj0h970M2X_KmaIMte2_t6ncJaRuX2mbDU2P7xQu0WnIdhwA3P4cE7N7ndk27rLZr9Ctwo0-NKq0XOVrfJexQnRxlYwySkgvgjydzvuwTiqqaTrEwt36MbaqX4fs_prpAqgKd/s400/IMG_0539.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326641102377076098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7x3YxI1ZrO2qfVPzhOY5s3p4sspPeQn5a7npDTlXaUa0fr6kw5kZO8OAT7akR-7ruYaVuCmcfrWw3hPBYSziqfcMZuA063q7z84i-fByQM5nTFrWXiy7E1jAm4pTJcXgQLfXp-p-CUgj/s1600-h/IMG_0521.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7x3YxI1ZrO2qfVPzhOY5s3p4sspPeQn5a7npDTlXaUa0fr6kw5kZO8OAT7akR-7ruYaVuCmcfrWw3hPBYSziqfcMZuA063q7z84i-fByQM5nTFrWXiy7E1jAm4pTJcXgQLfXp-p-CUgj/s400/IMG_0521.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326641098660441762" border="0" /></a>And then we kept going.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-9261715720038415092009-04-10T08:00:00.000-07:002009-04-10T15:19:06.106-07:00Sunday Supper: Not Your Mama's Enchilada<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk0iD_oLpAF9bzTifsIgNygrBrBjR0rcClorRnKDy_llODDBg00Lc5foYaHaVToYuAeFvKwE7EI40exX6PA6ouAuoy-sYrnJuWm-YOIvRuvDlu3taMwFANZKoAJ0M4IBaqwPnlkEeZq06/s1600-h/IMG_0500.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk0iD_oLpAF9bzTifsIgNygrBrBjR0rcClorRnKDy_llODDBg00Lc5foYaHaVToYuAeFvKwE7EI40exX6PA6ouAuoy-sYrnJuWm-YOIvRuvDlu3taMwFANZKoAJ0M4IBaqwPnlkEeZq06/s400/IMG_0500.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323082183878400146" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Enchiladas in Sunlight<br /></div><br />Recently, at Sunday Supper, The Chef and his girl chose a daunting and somewhat risky task: reinventing the enchilada, a kind of New Mexico-Meets-Morocco jamboree. Sans the meat but with plenty of spice. Seemed reasonable. After all, North Africa and Spain did enjoy the same Braun hand mixer called the Inquisition, which is what drove so many Spanish out of the home country and to the sandy shores of Nuevo Mexico. Throw in a pinch of Native American culture (who do you think invented the tortilla?) and you have not only a tasty meal, but a ripe symbol of colonialism.<br /><br />Remember though, when you approach the enchilada not only are hundreds of years of cultural history at stake, but much family lore as well. The enchilada, at Second Edition's birth place, is nearly mythical. Whenever I return to the high desert to pay homage to Los Padres, the first meal my Mama makes upon my arrival is a large tray of blue corn chicken enchiladas slathered with BOTH red and green chile. Every serving has a fried egg on top. And in the old days...a handful of cornflakes. What can I say. Life-changing delicious. It's how she says, "Welcome home. We missed you. Even though you drive us crazy and by the time you leave, we're exchanging high fives all around. Even though that blog of yours is such a massive invasion of privacy, we can't understand why someone hasn't shot it out like a certain street lamp that made the mistake of peering through your window. Even though we find your taste in religion, food, friends, clothing, books, movies, and pets questionable at best, pornographic at worst. But we love you anyway because Jesus told us to so we're gonna weigh you down with a brick of history. Here you go."<br /><br />The enchilada has also served as a test for any Man date brave enough to come home with me. My college boyfriend, Brian, got his ear drums blown out by the fire of red chile, heavily laden. And I couldn't help but notice how sllloooowwwwly my mom walked to the refrigerator to fetch him yet another glass of icy water. She enjoyed watching him suffer. Later she told me it was the pink Izod shirt with the snappy turned up collar. So white boy. So preppy. So not-one-of-us.<br /><br />The X loved Mama's enchiladas, but was a little concerned about the glob of cheddar cheese on top so he'd scrape much of it to the side. A detail that did not go unnoticed. My brother, Bird, enjoying a respite from handcuffs, his chin shiny with grease, would shout across the table, "Hey bro, you want to scoop that cheese over here. It's a shame to waste food." Everybody nodded knowingly. True. Those bastards are always so tight fisted with the prison cheese.<br /><br />The Ranger, on the other hand, had no such cardiac concerns. And he likes his food hot, without water, only beer. Like a man. After the third helping, Mama nodded approvingly. "After you get done eating, maybe you can put up some fence posts, finish the dry wall in the living room and then corral the sheep for the night." You see...just when you think you've passed, there's always another test waiting for you. They come with increasing difficulty, not unlike Trivial Pursuit.<br /><br />But back to Sunday Supper. These enchiladas were stuffed with...wait for it. Cabbage and Carrots. What! Vegetables? Fiber? WTF? Cabbage? Oh, Mama Ranger would have been so proud. Those sneaky Polish are everywhere.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK82D0cPcKphnrQqw-B80dgNsHGTqFYPbCew7GEdtfwWLQDplw6JG4V7S2faNE6NhmLVinpe-ROUUnYGe2coFzQ_eiWfMLOkl1Xai30VxmPYHDO-i3IM5WDskRj-HVDuea6lyWbLpIKUX9/s1600-h/IMG_0502.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK82D0cPcKphnrQqw-B80dgNsHGTqFYPbCew7GEdtfwWLQDplw6JG4V7S2faNE6NhmLVinpe-ROUUnYGe2coFzQ_eiWfMLOkl1Xai30VxmPYHDO-i3IM5WDskRj-HVDuea6lyWbLpIKUX9/s400/IMG_0502.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323082188562616562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I admit, the first bite was a little jarring. The heat of the chile sauce combined with the sweetness of the carrots and the clear smokiness of cumin. Hmmm. Had to ponder that one...it's just not what I'm used to, not how I grew up. Everything I know about enchiladas got thrown into question. But after a third savory bite, they were declared delicious. Evolution always finds its place at the table doesn't it? Life never stays the same so why should the food. Or maybe it's the other way around?<br /><br />Traditions are good, don't get me wrong. Blue corn tortillas. Cheddar cheese. Shredded chicken. Beans and chicos on the side. Iceberg lettuce and anemic tomatoes for garnish. Marriage to a nice boy.<br /><br />On the way home from the Chef's Place, I got a call from my Tio Eliu announcing his upcoming nuptials. His second marriage. At 83, I think that shows an incredible amount of optimism. He's marrying a doctor nearly 30 years younger...thinking ahead. Better than a 401K. When he ribbed me about taking the leap a second time myself, I demurred.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDAu-_smXv2phtbMfvG9DT0AdkEDgoPbFmzWa2kbQ6xpwSNV-IudiiJzT3E7ncFBrQx9vRh614ah7KnB645FgVCDTavSUk1ZbbLuACbeEw0MUtxt41f2LM6Mvrw3YGIuI-5htEk0asE1z/s1600-h/IMG_0508.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDAu-_smXv2phtbMfvG9DT0AdkEDgoPbFmzWa2kbQ6xpwSNV-IudiiJzT3E7ncFBrQx9vRh614ah7KnB645FgVCDTavSUk1ZbbLuACbeEw0MUtxt41f2LM6Mvrw3YGIuI-5htEk0asE1z/s400/IMG_0508.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323082199949333746" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and the Ranger, I declared, are like carrots and cabbage. A different kind of enchilada. Bite after bite.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-15309660764790063332009-04-05T09:19:00.000-07:002009-04-05T21:07:14.833-07:00A Child Is Born<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-93ZEkab-nbQFM05qUA2UaF25xla5ouvZHxzqZt6Y0uZ4Oh9iZNUIeBuA2tXXB3d9i0SY2lu08qq1bcjITRWb6s5odhxawTShcuT1GCvlOKG8Dp4X6bwE9VuglDbZkpgy5ou05cOyrzh/s1600-h/Isabela+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-93ZEkab-nbQFM05qUA2UaF25xla5ouvZHxzqZt6Y0uZ4Oh9iZNUIeBuA2tXXB3d9i0SY2lu08qq1bcjITRWb6s5odhxawTShcuT1GCvlOKG8Dp4X6bwE9VuglDbZkpgy5ou05cOyrzh/s400/Isabela+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321242930832172674" border="0" /></a>See what happens once you hit the dating scene after a painful, financially debilitating divorce? The birth control fails and ooops...out pops a baby. My niece. Her name is Isabela...an auspicious name: the main character in my master's thesis (aka: 476 page novel) which remains safely tucked away in a shoe box somewhere in a damp garage.<br /><br />So welcome to the world, Isabel. You picked an interesting time. Or should I say my brother, R, did. Along with his rose, a thorny girl, but we love her because really, is there anything sexier than a woman with an opinion. About everything.<br /><br />Now, you're going to get a lot of advise from my family: eat your peas, don't play with your food, get good grades, don't talk to strangers and let Jesus be your savior. But your auntie Second Edition here will occasionally offer up a different perspective. Because as my father recently told R upon your arrival, "You're screwed now, son. Once you have a daughter, she'll spend every damn day of her life breaking your heart." Ahhhhh.<br /><br />Let us begin.<br /><br />1. Most definitely talk to strangers. Ask them for a bite of their food, a sip of their wine. No one will refuse you. Seriously. I've tried this from Coast to Coast and have never been turned down. Not only is this an excellent way to expand your palate, but you will discover that you're surrounded by some interesting, slightly dangerous folk who will tell you stories that will simultaneously blow your mind and make your wish you could live forever. The world is very, very big and the best way to explore it is through the hearts and minds and appetites of her inhabitants. Plus, your Uncle Ranger was a stranger once. And after he gave me a sip of his beer, he offered to show me a lighthouse and well...life as we know it changed forever. So go ahead, sidle up to that bar stool, look someone in the eye and say, "howdy."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9CpmSIO658PYI4ELpg_5uy5S9vNCUni2jOD-1JUapcOg5tJJ7jIcxQzgVl-WY3nx3xD-P2YoBx17qCHIJOi4w3E1eJdaqzPbst09fhZlz2Q04cEfkEgAksopfJ7-KZlKuld6YN3_DGFT/s1600-h/IMG_0471.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9CpmSIO658PYI4ELpg_5uy5S9vNCUni2jOD-1JUapcOg5tJJ7jIcxQzgVl-WY3nx3xD-P2YoBx17qCHIJOi4w3E1eJdaqzPbst09fhZlz2Q04cEfkEgAksopfJ7-KZlKuld6YN3_DGFT/s400/IMG_0471.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321338931290801746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc4d29s9zrHEUL1vLslLZP5xjGONMhkTqEPuVPnX32DB2p3igMMr4HFngAtkg8qaj21WfDB7Kj2DbUTV5fqaxIo8t4VCHPzltdNZdSimAo760fZ1mhJETet8R21kLaS5_TrKC4N66xF6L/s1600-h/IMG_0491.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc4d29s9zrHEUL1vLslLZP5xjGONMhkTqEPuVPnX32DB2p3igMMr4HFngAtkg8qaj21WfDB7Kj2DbUTV5fqaxIo8t4VCHPzltdNZdSimAo760fZ1mhJETet8R21kLaS5_TrKC4N66xF6L/s400/IMG_0491.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321338940746387426" border="0" /></a><br /><br />2. Find a Spanish or Italian shoe designer and stick with them forever. Your feet are your crowning glory and beautiful shoes are a worthy reflection of your love for beauty. Sadly, Americans still know nothing of leather, stitching, or how the arch of a woman's foot must be caressed like a lover. So travel abroad. Forget the cathedrals. Shop.<br /><br />Admittedly, your auntie spends her days barefoot or in Keens which is the shoe equivalent of a mallet, what with that huge rubber tip, yet they're remarkably handy when tramping after a Ranger. Every now and then, however, I still break into the gallery and slip on a supple pair of burgundy suede boots that transform me from exhausted yoga teacher to Smokin' Hot Yoga Teacher.<br /><br />3. Speaking of lovers (sorry bro...stop reading NOW). When you are old enough to choose a lover (your father will peg this as being somewhere in the mid-30s), show him how to please you. Don't tell him. Show him. It's shocking, I know, but most men know squat (no pun intended) about the female anatomy. That's why God invented those teeny-tiny little flashlights that hang on your car keys or live in your desk drawer. So yes...Jesus CAN save.<br /><br />Understanding ones own anatomy makes a strong argument for choosing another woman. BTW -- if you do opt to be a lesbian or play for both teams (this seems wholeheartedly reasonable since, mathematically, your odds go through the roof), I support your decision. Just remember #2. Don't let your lesbianism compromise your taste in footwear. There's some great butch boot designers out there. Mostly in Germany.<br /><br />4. And yes, while you should eat your peas, try them blended with a hearty broth and dash of wasabi powder, topped with a lemony dollop of kefir cheese and cilantro. Play with your food. Learn to cook for yourself before you cook for others. And drink good wine; don't be afraid to spend money here. Those people who tell you they found this "excellent Cabernet and it was only nine bucks" are standing in your kitchen doorway waving a cheap-ass bottle of bitter brew trying to convince you they deserve your finely cooked, four-course meal because they are such exquisite bargain hunters. These people are not your friends.<br /><br />5. Find a sport that you love and stick with it. Play it forever. It will keep you healthy and make your hair shiny. Soccer. Baseball. Badmitton. Just not golf -- those little carts are so silly. This is one regret I have. My lifetime sport was hand-blended margaritas. And I'm spending a lot of my middle years making up for that.<br /><br />6. Do your research and find a top-notch gynecologist you can stick with forever. Would you trust your turbo-charged, V-6, 24-valve, Japanese designed sports car to Jiffy Lube? Of course not. So why would you send your Happy Place to some amateur with a speculum. I found the perfect mix of smarts, humor and empathy in Dr. Urban. Sadly, he was killed by an avalanche while mountain climbing. But I keep a picture of him (a snappy tuxedo photo which was handed out at his memorial service) in the map drawer of my turbo-charged, V-6, 24-valve Japanese designed sports car so I never forget, "if you have to die young, make sure you're doing something you love." I'm wondering, however, if sitting on the front porch scrapping the plastic creme off Oreos and replacing it with creme fraiche while drinking a crisp, pear-like Sauvignon Blanc and having my feet rubbed by a whipper-snapper who was in utero during my high school prom...I wonder if that counts?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eBowS7LXs1jgEuLHl6eaVSosev1hG8ZjWjYxTeqUKY7e_l3heVPzlqKLYgTyHGCCMm977IWGHOEGVvCTSJ7wLcW5VmtdOw8-I0ZEDHD9ckqgDU23v8VZLTpylmMSoKxVtOviHmPjK5qF/s1600-h/IMG_0472.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eBowS7LXs1jgEuLHl6eaVSosev1hG8ZjWjYxTeqUKY7e_l3heVPzlqKLYgTyHGCCMm977IWGHOEGVvCTSJ7wLcW5VmtdOw8-I0ZEDHD9ckqgDU23v8VZLTpylmMSoKxVtOviHmPjK5qF/s400/IMG_0472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321338933971330946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />7. Speaking of dying young...ask me about your Uncle Edward. You have his squinty eyes. By the time you develop any curiosity about him, he will have been dead a long, long time. Even now, nobody talks about him except me and your grandpa because everyone is tired of being so sad. Although I will never take you to his grave (your dad can do that), I will take you up to the mountains, rope you up and show you why your uncle loved the wilderness so much. How he learned to live without fear by scaring the shit out of himself on the side of a rock. Then I'll tell you everything. Just not his secrets. Because those are going to <span style="font-weight: bold;">my</span> grave.<br /><br />8. Chicks. Gather yourself some female friends and keep them close. While the post-feminism backlash has taught us that women are the enemy and we must claw our way past our sisters for men, promotions and timely salon appointments...well, that's simply not true. Women will save your life. They will wash your hair when you're too depressed to get out of bed. They will tell you you look great in those jeans even if your muffin top has popped. They will fly across the country to save you from another dumbass decision involving a handsome Cuban and his promises of happily ever after. They will loan you money, no questions asked, when your X cleans out the bank accounts. Chicks rule. Boys drool.<br /><br />9. Floss. As soon as you have teeth. I was a late bloomer, but now I can't get enough. If I'd only known.<br /><br />10. I can't help but notice your furrowed brow. Are you worried already? Was the camera flash too bright? Or are you simply pushing out a little dooty. Live large, little one, live!<br /><br />Travel to countries where you don't speak the language. Read Hemingway (ignore your lesbian friends on this one), eat sea urchin, make some brutal mistakes then man up and apologize. Fight the power. Look out for hope. Forage for mushrooms. Don't bite your nails; don't bother with polish. Pick a dog from the pound. Buy cashmere, but never in sweater sets. Pearls only on rings. Salt without iodine. Vegetables without pesticides. Shave your head at least once. And I'm thinking a little waxing between the brows. <br /><br />I know just the place.<br /><br />Good luck.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuALXhfxppXQ2_9YRKL1rYPX0I447GXN-8Xq5K269Z2sozlSLW43XqbKmoK47fUMtVUNubiNbq4et18Gu9qor4mqXtH-z7nXA2LCO6cl7T3ATtVowurXDCD6LT_GGOIxtab2gGsQHFX9A9/s1600-h/Isabela+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuALXhfxppXQ2_9YRKL1rYPX0I447GXN-8Xq5K269Z2sozlSLW43XqbKmoK47fUMtVUNubiNbq4et18Gu9qor4mqXtH-z7nXA2LCO6cl7T3ATtVowurXDCD6LT_GGOIxtab2gGsQHFX9A9/s400/Isabela+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321242924926394050" border="0" /></a>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-67344711308983193402009-03-22T09:42:00.000-07:002009-03-22T15:01:11.727-07:00Pay Attention To The Carrots<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgui3URYb98IE5KCQju0x4qH-41Ak2UHXw30dNg3doYKQsDVYOPOXCsEa41ftyo1C-mFUTGP5cpEwEsr-_dnM9AuCin546OrIQ3aPwfR73FYn1SlY5GKbrT_RcwGtepmpwx9TrO_aCbRNnU/s1600-h/_MG_3334.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgui3URYb98IE5KCQju0x4qH-41Ak2UHXw30dNg3doYKQsDVYOPOXCsEa41ftyo1C-mFUTGP5cpEwEsr-_dnM9AuCin546OrIQ3aPwfR73FYn1SlY5GKbrT_RcwGtepmpwx9TrO_aCbRNnU/s400/_MG_3334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316057356334576466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsu7zEUU_mzNE2Sa9GmC3xFMelIUG2DZ-hPqmcUtssjhJbKn1hYXNqUAyWOpM5WWdyDCkJoAyxx63dLrq2QoaaKquFxLl4ZHoKb2UELTgcOTPiqC8LrtS8SzTGUSDachkNGD2dXnWoVtT/s1600-h/_MG_3380.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsu7zEUU_mzNE2Sa9GmC3xFMelIUG2DZ-hPqmcUtssjhJbKn1hYXNqUAyWOpM5WWdyDCkJoAyxx63dLrq2QoaaKquFxLl4ZHoKb2UELTgcOTPiqC8LrtS8SzTGUSDachkNGD2dXnWoVtT/s400/_MG_3380.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316057362360032962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBoJT2XwvplQvOZ-ud2toZawAL6ntn8WeCZFyH4SgUuTfz67ITe4Af1Xo4Xjkafg5xn28CaNTV7o0Nr6G6S1Y7tdmttRu9j5ikAJbO-vRX9RWebNLwc65gva25baS4gdvgq1oGNY1Jrp8/s1600-h/_MG_3386.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBoJT2XwvplQvOZ-ud2toZawAL6ntn8WeCZFyH4SgUuTfz67ITe4Af1Xo4Xjkafg5xn28CaNTV7o0Nr6G6S1Y7tdmttRu9j5ikAJbO-vRX9RWebNLwc65gva25baS4gdvgq1oGNY1Jrp8/s400/_MG_3386.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316057344682649890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Mia and her best friend, Denali, as photographed by his Pop, the scientist. Sometimes the things you love most in the world are a little rough. They grab you by the neck and don't let go. What can you do? But grab back.</span><br /><br /><br />I tried, but I couldn't. I tried to stop writing.<br /><br />Told myself work was too stressful, I was too exhausted, other demands were more, well...demanding. This little hobby of mine would have to go by the wayside. I couldn't even bear the relentless prodding of Facebook with all that poking, and gifting and grabbing by the lapels. The pressure of having to refresh a one-liner on my status (in the 3rd person, for Godsake) sent me over the edge. So I bowed out. Completely.<br /><br />Then I realized, when I lose touch with my fictionalizing, my words, this abstract hunger to "say something" I lose my connection with everything else. Friends. Books. Art. Humor. My favorite slippers. Even food. Yet strangely, not liquor. Gin truly is the drink of writers not writing. Explains why the Lost Generation was so lost.<br /><br />I can't remember the last time I cooked a meal I was truly proud of. In fact, last night, while trying to respond to a hoard of work-related emails AND glaze carrots, the emails won and the Ranger's shouting brought me back to the kitchen as black smoke billowed and the smell of defeat dug in its boot heels. Those poor little carrots now resemble turds. Angry turds. And my favorite pan is crusted with charcoal.<br /><br />Speaking of ashes. Recently, my father and sister-in-law, separately, but thankfully in agreement explained why my brother's ashes would soon be interred in the Santa Fe National Cemetery, next to war vets, with a sweeping view of a shopping mall and a Radisson Hotel.<br /><br />"Dad, this isn't exactly what he wanted," I suggested softly, not wanting to pick too hard at the scab.<br /><br />"I know, mijita," he said. "But he's dead now. And he doesn't get a vote."<br /><br />So the moral of that story...while it may be true the dead DO in fact get to vote in Northern New Mexico, apparently only during presidential elections. Yet a more resounding truth settled in here at the Treehouse...speak up while you still can.<br /><br />So yeah...I'm back. And just as cranky.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-46252656869024590212009-02-05T07:42:00.000-08:002009-02-05T16:54:08.042-08:00Rewriting Flannery O'ConnorA good man is like a pair of Italian leather boots. Pricey. But usually worth the craftsmanship and fit. Wears well over the years. But sometimes the pointy toe, or square toe, or chunky heel, depending on the context, is a bit...well, embarrassing. Makes you wonder what you were thinking.<br /><br />Take the Super Bowl. Apparently, it's a pretty important sporting event. Never really paid attention because football, for me, is like String Theory. I know it's out there, but it's too esoteric for consideration. One only has so many brain cells at this point so they must be used wisely. I keep mine in a tidy Tupperware container which I only pop open for hockey games.<br /><br />The Ranger, on the other hand, lives for the Super Bowl, especially when his beloved Steelers are in play. So we threw a Super Bowl party. Which involved fried food items, sticky dips, an obscene amount of beer and thankfully, because of my creative friend, M., pitcher after pitcher of pretty pink vodka cocktails dubbed, "pantie droppers." I drew the line, however, at face painting. Black and gold in combination are so Dallas. So Falcon Crest. All that's missing are the shoulder pads and flammable pants. Wait...does that mean Linda Evans is a Steeler? Or that football players dress for 80s television? I digress.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XCF6i8p2RIW71h5kg-_Bfa1Z7axE_hxPiMDMeYtVGIPEKie0VmiQev2tcGdI9Wv3qzciak0MZdSfLOhl1sFXdbFdGt_1bwOEOOiy8ZeBO1XPAG9uC0vYUk_K75JBd1G8cTepW3NJpJYC/s1600-h/IMG_0337.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XCF6i8p2RIW71h5kg-_Bfa1Z7axE_hxPiMDMeYtVGIPEKie0VmiQev2tcGdI9Wv3qzciak0MZdSfLOhl1sFXdbFdGt_1bwOEOOiy8ZeBO1XPAG9uC0vYUk_K75JBd1G8cTepW3NJpJYC/s400/IMG_0337.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299473222222942498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhsxLtMzVvWvkxvXTYvnFG3aTSUtgz6jAZjzVLL8WzQcw2sFw9r0MLEIssWBDAAU5m0TDwxKKHVcFy1NrMgZoL5f9XKfs8WOy97icNBdTeBhf49dRf9SnvDySoR4LVVXWMl9EGiN1uRZ3/s1600-h/IMG_0316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhsxLtMzVvWvkxvXTYvnFG3aTSUtgz6jAZjzVLL8WzQcw2sFw9r0MLEIssWBDAAU5m0TDwxKKHVcFy1NrMgZoL5f9XKfs8WOy97icNBdTeBhf49dRf9SnvDySoR4LVVXWMl9EGiN1uRZ3/s400/IMG_0316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299473208957739954" border="0" /></a>Steel Town Basket Steaks Before The Fire<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6tRUzSECMq61j7kpGs1fH8HPkpAj_FCZoXxA7mWA9HQslYyavr8WnT3s2RXK5wi71zJwT4sXg_wz5-wGM1jHr-VUg5R3NT0wdHv90zBAvdsFm3J-cgO_i_T7BDbYOQpmHujgsXd_a1Qc/s1600-h/IMG_0328.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6tRUzSECMq61j7kpGs1fH8HPkpAj_FCZoXxA7mWA9HQslYyavr8WnT3s2RXK5wi71zJwT4sXg_wz5-wGM1jHr-VUg5R3NT0wdHv90zBAvdsFm3J-cgO_i_T7BDbYOQpmHujgsXd_a1Qc/s400/IMG_0328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299472476647647042" border="0" /></a>Steel Town Basket States After The Fire<br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">(accidentally dropped on the ground, but we told guests the prickly things<br />were rosemary, not pine needles)<br /></div><br /></div>After the nail biting victory in the last seconds of the game, The Ranger was ebullient, buoyant, beside himself. Like when I agree to scratch his back, cook enchiladas wearing only an apron AND listen to the Grateful Dead (shoot me already)...all at the same time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCvItrVCgjf8uhKFs6BBjf3z1FHB7aG2m0NHbC2RhZMVR24rXgUPy8bkEsMFfpEhUkyNV0zkoVVmQmn9xNAlzwjTCvj3krcJnQydlTQDkDynK07qByb6lfcJOjqwd_DnoXptDNEpHiQww/s1600-h/IMG_0318.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCvItrVCgjf8uhKFs6BBjf3z1FHB7aG2m0NHbC2RhZMVR24rXgUPy8bkEsMFfpEhUkyNV0zkoVVmQmn9xNAlzwjTCvj3krcJnQydlTQDkDynK07qByb6lfcJOjqwd_DnoXptDNEpHiQww/s400/IMG_0318.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299472468260758642" border="0" /></a>Yes, more bacon. Always more bacon. This time wrapped around jalapeno poppers.<br /></div><br />With his head swimming in Victory and Fat Tire, The Ranger drew a long breath then gave a 20 minute speech about friendship, winning and losing, the roll of the dice and something about respect for one's fellow man. Then he handed over his Steelers Terrible Towel. That's right. HE GAVE IT AWAY. To The Neighbor. Who, to his credit, clutched it to his breast and swore never to disrespect it. It was the boy version of a public make-out. I didn't know whether to snatch the towel back or insist that the two of them get a room. There was hugging. Back slapping. Promises made. And a pre-nup.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhla79x4DqhHjEK6cKwplWVglyCgP_yvmSOEjuzFTMAM7mc0o8L5hJVU9kja3EW8SyeF3y2mgBUC0Gs5GHCtk8DmfT9AIPHDMf910FrZ4X6WAnMcLcUSyC0pHhyphenhyphenjQ0UnxHrk7kHSBnexPGd/s1600-h/IMG_0329.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhla79x4DqhHjEK6cKwplWVglyCgP_yvmSOEjuzFTMAM7mc0o8L5hJVU9kja3EW8SyeF3y2mgBUC0Gs5GHCtk8DmfT9AIPHDMf910FrZ4X6WAnMcLcUSyC0pHhyphenhyphenjQ0UnxHrk7kHSBnexPGd/s400/IMG_0329.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299473218519031810" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The dregs of the cheese dip</span><br /></div><br />The next morning, before coffee even, The Ranger wanted to know WHERE EXACTLY his Terrible Towel had gone to. When I explained that he gave it away and that the accompanying speech was so sentimental, so over-the-top lovey-dovey he couldn't possibly ask for it back...he buried his throbbing head under a pillow and didn't get out of bed for 24 hours. Yes, he slumped into a post-towel depression. I had to wonder...a man who gives away his Terrible Towel...is that the man for me?<br /><br />A little history if you please. This Terrible Towel has been in Ranger hands since 1996 (nope, wasn't yet shaving) and he's waved it at many a Steeler game in Heinz field and twirled it to a froth during every televised game for as long as I've known him. It used to hang in our bathroom. And it was only after I agreed to move to Fish Town that he even let me touch the damn thing. Now, it lives next door. With any luck, there will be visitation, possible joint custody. The Neighbor is reasonable about these things because, after all, if anyone knows the ramifications of drunken foolishness, it's him. He's still trying to explain how he "accidentally" nailed the Taco Bell girl.<br /><br />A few nights later, however, The Ranger proved that Italian (in his case Croatian/Polish) craftsmanship always pays off. We were at a blind wine tasting (the bottles were wrapped, not the people) hosted by le creme de Fish Town. Reidel stemware. Invitation only. Two flights of four. Walla Walla reds. Which means there was a good deal of pashmina, third-world jewelry, useless graduate degrees, small wire-rimmed glasses and talk of the Tour de France. The Ranger began rolling his eyes immediately.<br /><br />When we hit Wine #3 of the first flight, the till-then-silent Ranger was plied for a response by our lovely hostess.<br /><br />"Come on, Ranger, tell us what you think of this one. I taste an arid mustiness, a hint of pencil lead, a botched attempt at a Bordeaux blend, perhaps. Too much ambition. Or maybe it's impatience I taste. And definitely a heavy hand with the French oak. You?"<br /><br />The Ranger: "Tastes like bad breath to me. You know like when you go out for Chinese food and order the Hot and Sour soup and they put too many of those slimy water chestnuts in it and afterwards you have this really nasty bad breath. It tastes like that."<br /><br />And there, right then, was the big AHHHAA moment when everybody clutched their pearls (even the men) held up their glasses, swirled and nodded in agreement. Yup, bad breath. Exactly right.<br /><br />And that's why I love him so.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-35842434024057862352009-01-25T14:18:00.000-08:002009-01-25T15:34:43.307-08:00Dreaming of Rescue: A ParableYes. I have become one of those fleece wrapped, wiry-haired, middle-aged women who shoots snapshot after snapshot of...wait for it...her dog. Because she's so puuurrrtty. Took her bouldering this weekend. Although nimble on her feet, Mia's skittish about the crashing surf, especially when there might be sure-death-plummeting off sea stacks involved. But we do crazy things for the ones we love. So she bucked up. And followed me straight up and over. It probably helped that I had beef liver treats in my pocket. Works on the Ranger every time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJE9eCg-k9hn_9c6TCtno7SpatEOfmVgKr0qj_Q-RMnPUeEz8D4h0-uX1_PR4W4UQSfzzHp2-lL3w-pJQz1NpdN17gcrORTHSUOJKo11aanMjKBTiN_iNiEfD4KFNLg1BNj1cjuHXSt67/s1600-h/IMG_0274.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJE9eCg-k9hn_9c6TCtno7SpatEOfmVgKr0qj_Q-RMnPUeEz8D4h0-uX1_PR4W4UQSfzzHp2-lL3w-pJQz1NpdN17gcrORTHSUOJKo11aanMjKBTiN_iNiEfD4KFNLg1BNj1cjuHXSt67/s400/IMG_0274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295360139503867410" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxU6H1IA4yYRYj_OXl77Q9g_p4UX4WTLFWcFSSkr03PlT0U_0yNuCw6zdaVs-ntxl_RiPPLijqVxH8ANAZo2j9eCzBgdMeg4xv4RRGdM-1ABAUX01U5a_8_ESPE_KSvveEFKaUyftFhBv/s1600-h/IMG_0269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxU6H1IA4yYRYj_OXl77Q9g_p4UX4WTLFWcFSSkr03PlT0U_0yNuCw6zdaVs-ntxl_RiPPLijqVxH8ANAZo2j9eCzBgdMeg4xv4RRGdM-1ABAUX01U5a_8_ESPE_KSvveEFKaUyftFhBv/s400/IMG_0269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295360135866528946" border="0" /></a>And then she got stuck. Looked towards land, solid ground. Dreaming of rescue. Thirsty. Exhausted. Wishing she were home, curled up on a warm rug licking her Happy Place. The tide was coming in. Our base camp was now under water, so we needed to shimmy down the back side which was a sheer wall of volcanic rock. Sharp as a razor's edge. Easy for my two feet. A different kind of negotiation for four paws and a shifting center of gravity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGb1a0oDgTOKiiMa3ZtUNRXjt6fHezFZeKHEcXZqBvbu2Yg-JDKeJn1SUaaNHtaDKhJs8w0YCQ-q_szV9h5LCHI_nU1ZUn4p5aG7WknthixDw8Yot4AOatvMVsy382DatJOAnGX3JIcZGb/s1600-h/IMG_0277.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGb1a0oDgTOKiiMa3ZtUNRXjt6fHezFZeKHEcXZqBvbu2Yg-JDKeJn1SUaaNHtaDKhJs8w0YCQ-q_szV9h5LCHI_nU1ZUn4p5aG7WknthixDw8Yot4AOatvMVsy382DatJOAnGX3JIcZGb/s400/IMG_0277.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295360142422161618" border="0" /></a>She wouldn't follow. Just looked at me with a furrow of sinking abandonment. Such bitter astonishment. How did I get here, she thought. Now what, she asked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZMgLYjxro-BnqWahwcO2CzLPCfpZFzppNmokgP-J70N7WgzENQTOcviWZ7HIvfrJ2TfpGJzHn2bsjYGNykzwXeJ0UbT_0l-yQeUefIM6-OO2VdOL3pFtLSettWcRJg3DKJsu_cexmFvk/s1600-h/IMG_0279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZMgLYjxro-BnqWahwcO2CzLPCfpZFzppNmokgP-J70N7WgzENQTOcviWZ7HIvfrJ2TfpGJzHn2bsjYGNykzwXeJ0UbT_0l-yQeUefIM6-OO2VdOL3pFtLSettWcRJg3DKJsu_cexmFvk/s400/IMG_0279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295360151226860290" border="0" /></a><br />So I did for her what so many others have done for me. I scrambled to the bottom, took a swig of beer, ate some jerky then found another route back up. With less terrifying cups for footholds. Not so vertical. Not so vertigo. Come on, girl, come on. Yes you can.<br /><br />And of course, she could.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-55014429777452093962009-01-17T18:25:00.000-08:002009-01-18T10:20:09.703-08:00Don't Worry. Be Happy.Turns out I'm going to live after all. Not that I'm disappointed. It's just a bit of a head-scratcher after having braced for the worst.<br /><br />A couple months ago, I developed a thump. In my chest. Like an extra-big heartbeat. Enough of a knock-knock against my breastbone to make me cough. At first I ignored it, because that's what I do when I'm scared. I wait for the burglar to lift up the squeaky window, step roughly on the hardwood floor and start rifling the jewelry box before I call 911. I just like to MAKE SURE disaster is imminent.<br /><br />Weeks passed. Thanksgiving came and went. So did Christmas. Then the Ranger put his big Ranger foot down. "You have to call your cardiologist. And I'm not kidding, honey bun. Not one little bit." Well, when you put it like that.<br /><br />So came the battalion of tests. Running on a treadmill strapped to an EKG machine. Chest ultra-sound. 24-hour halter monitor. That last one was really sexy. Wired up like a bank hostage set to blow. Every time one of my yoga students hugged me, she'd ask, "Why does your chest feel like there's a hard box glued to your boob." Um...because there is a hard box glued to my boob.<br /><br />Time passed. I developed a plan. For the pacemaker in my future. No more wanding at airport security no matter how handsome the guy in uniform. My parents wouldn't get the word until after the surgery because they would freak. I decided who would sub my classes. How I would tell the Ranger. Why I would ask Seattle to come hold my hand in the hospital. <span style="font-style: italic;">She's the only person I trust to hover over my bed without a trace of pity (plus, she hides fear well).</span><br /><br />Last week, the test results came back. Yeah, I have some irregular heartbeats. Everybody does. But it turns out I have "fewer irregularities than 99% of the population." In fact, my heart is an iron horse. Strong muscle walls, clean arteries, the conditioning of an athlete. The techs had to stop the treadmill because they got bored watching me run. Then Dr. Marker started rifling through my chart, pausing at my brother's autopsy: a triathlete, a mountain climber who died at 36 from arterial disease. His eyes softened. He nodded. "Listen. You might drop dead tomorrow. There's no predicting life. Or death. But it's not going to be from heart disease." He closed the chart. "Try to stop worrying. Be happy."<br /><br />And there's the rub. When I told the Ranger, he sighed a big sigh then held me tight. "I know you don't believe happiness can last. But it can. I'm not going to leave you. You're not going to die anytime soon. It's all good. Trust that."<br /><br />Honestly, I don't know where along the road I grew so suspicious. Perhaps it was the year my husband and I ended our marriage over burgers and fries, one of my dearest friends was tortured and strangled to death in his home and my brother, my best connection to my past, present and future, went to sleep on his birthday and never woke up. Could be that. Life is good. And then a match. Burns it all down.<br /><br />So my resolution for 2009. Learn to make pie crust. And to stop worrying. Or worry less. Revel in the smallness of things. The gestures. The perfect moments of happiness, no matter how fleeting. Like when the Ranger and I curl up in bed with the pup, our breathing in sync as the long night sinks in bone deep and the indifferent ocean creates then tears away, relentless, outside the window.<br /><br />Where to begin. These tiny celebrations. How 'bout...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Living on a hard, black rock, hugging a deep, blue sea.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsuA2PlJz47R5sjkKlxL10p23heiGVDXj7_vHoiA3UQvbbHo3vVhlXz-CN2SKBLIcPgCCfTtcDtkJot6jPRgzwGMqLOQz1SZG7Otz3-CYKSjHbqaYZeSaNzhZaYtJbtfX5rnSxYW8BNOu/s1600-h/IMG_0239.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsuA2PlJz47R5sjkKlxL10p23heiGVDXj7_vHoiA3UQvbbHo3vVhlXz-CN2SKBLIcPgCCfTtcDtkJot6jPRgzwGMqLOQz1SZG7Otz3-CYKSjHbqaYZeSaNzhZaYtJbtfX5rnSxYW8BNOu/s400/IMG_0239.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292455204459757442" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Fishing for dinner. With beer. Letting the cell phone ring and ring.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkus8JaOZmM3gVY3XOlPbtl6ym1Jg5wMPAiH_str8wBdsRgKyGXwN_l5M2JN0577pb_PdKbRANbp3gfWRxNHXLn6kuuqiPmU7ZwLTcGWC85SCwLEs7hlBABQWaeZCL5yknEak9GKu5bdIJ/s1600-h/IMG_0242.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkus8JaOZmM3gVY3XOlPbtl6ym1Jg5wMPAiH_str8wBdsRgKyGXwN_l5M2JN0577pb_PdKbRANbp3gfWRxNHXLn6kuuqiPmU7ZwLTcGWC85SCwLEs7hlBABQWaeZCL5yknEak9GKu5bdIJ/s400/IMG_0242.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292456447188766978" border="0" /></a>Peering into the face of a dog. Any dog.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEf47kQKIh1j7mhUAvtzjQdFyfbgPPmckyQjgnRTFdaHxTSR6QfHg3_ynZ6P-16SW-YNTwGsFY_k0L_rqhwKOk_BsLwcSyTQkVMBS156m_SqGJpxGbkuTY4dZ1qqj89RFN5APDhSPPf-p7/s1600-h/IMG_0261.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEf47kQKIh1j7mhUAvtzjQdFyfbgPPmckyQjgnRTFdaHxTSR6QfHg3_ynZ6P-16SW-YNTwGsFY_k0L_rqhwKOk_BsLwcSyTQkVMBS156m_SqGJpxGbkuTY4dZ1qqj89RFN5APDhSPPf-p7/s400/IMG_0261.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292455674643267906" border="0" /></a>Watching the pelicans make their way South.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgof-8eClB13CxnY51Uwm1qxnYzz8DUXNQtV1RZZuyHbHH_kfEgsAkd8dD9RNzbR3WngzNOhpBaMTILXBh0lOerETOqBjy5UOBLuD1__G7XLTK0MwSI0yfXP7k1rq5l9Wm0_CitygNRHCnG/s1600-h/IMG_0245.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgof-8eClB13CxnY51Uwm1qxnYzz8DUXNQtV1RZZuyHbHH_kfEgsAkd8dD9RNzbR3WngzNOhpBaMTILXBh0lOerETOqBjy5UOBLuD1__G7XLTK0MwSI0yfXP7k1rq5l9Wm0_CitygNRHCnG/s400/IMG_0245.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292455672175446114" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Listening to my own heartbeat. Anticipating the next thing.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aBsMLxeswKMSw_SQp5_vjM5bVmYna61SE9etvVwrA5VLKlb29OHXZwOevwHLxL0p8cP7rnlqrK2vExRdvFmgp6np5onFU2I8epNWi2JAiar4dNIQzSPYszSQFLzUT5wdFPlSWNPyGyrQ/s1600-h/IMG_0232.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aBsMLxeswKMSw_SQp5_vjM5bVmYna61SE9etvVwrA5VLKlb29OHXZwOevwHLxL0p8cP7rnlqrK2vExRdvFmgp6np5onFU2I8epNWi2JAiar4dNIQzSPYszSQFLzUT5wdFPlSWNPyGyrQ/s400/IMG_0232.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292455192656172066" border="0" /></a>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-47836914640385553112009-01-11T15:23:00.000-08:002009-01-14T10:03:22.279-08:00Things We Love About Hill Country...Continued<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1avI2jnF97gpNC9Hria6BkMLtmAxZwGKbhpeTcffR7NlmkNeqnrXHttpcRKA7FkO2o9iJdDaNH5SxGjXHaGV8uTSvbZV3ml4ml1yfsAKgZKjdIRobyweTw721UHVpgd3BvxTjjnBsl2o/s1600-h/IMG_0201_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1avI2jnF97gpNC9Hria6BkMLtmAxZwGKbhpeTcffR7NlmkNeqnrXHttpcRKA7FkO2o9iJdDaNH5SxGjXHaGV8uTSvbZV3ml4ml1yfsAKgZKjdIRobyweTw721UHVpgd3BvxTjjnBsl2o/s400/IMG_0201_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290181672153973538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo52B0J4yOoPP4ar3yP41Byye-y4KflvQ3F1VwHozAkHJ40B6CQHgHNg7ZXcIONoptmTOHVjOHO37nc83Xmj2uSiTlqw6i2Y9MIOXlRK1-tdUwBaTI6Ix8YTWFSeTmlxS7UM4pvEaxfu5/s1600-h/IMG_0159_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo52B0J4yOoPP4ar3yP41Byye-y4KflvQ3F1VwHozAkHJ40B6CQHgHNg7ZXcIONoptmTOHVjOHO37nc83Xmj2uSiTlqw6i2Y9MIOXlRK1-tdUwBaTI6Ix8YTWFSeTmlxS7UM4pvEaxfu5/s400/IMG_0159_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290181664674522722" border="0" /></a><br /><br />5. The Pittsburgh Penguins. And not just because we love men with high, round asses or because we never understood the appeal of a full set of pearly whites when a quick stick and a surprising puck bounce are just as important...but because this is the first group sport that we actually understand. Okay. So we didn't beat the Canadiens that cheery, boozy night in the 'burgh. But it was a hell of a good time. Especially the drinking-followed-by-urinating-in-the-parking-lot part. And eating nachos with fluorescent cheese and slimy jalapenos. Oh, and popcorn. Lots of popcorn. Followed by Tums.<br /><br />4. The discovery that the Western-Hill-Country-of-Pennsylvania isn't really in the East Coast at all. Its feet are firmly planted in the Midwest. Thus the homemade strawberry jam at breakfast and the multiple applications of cabbage and sauerkraut. Plus, the Wall of Ketchup at the local Giant Eagle...Impressive. No fig balsamic reductions here. No quail eggs riding high atop entrees. No Pinot Noir. Just good home cooking. Which brings me to...<br /><br />3. Kielbasa. The official meat of Steel Town. At least three local butchers make their own. Richly spiced and lightly smoked. Nothing like the Hillshire Farms crap we're stuck with in Fish Town.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXUV1VF1ElKlkN4POqE2Q3vq-ICRj1TZL957QgCRZkmYuQVx6JMQ3rTRT9yrJEn865BtIKZ9tiREa7QbPtMsGCO0Wx3KZp2C_9MJ8ybIVgQYNBBf3LdTGlxZQfpXe3N0Yw4PzUfrr9XuV/s1600-h/IMG_0104.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXUV1VF1ElKlkN4POqE2Q3vq-ICRj1TZL957QgCRZkmYuQVx6JMQ3rTRT9yrJEn865BtIKZ9tiREa7QbPtMsGCO0Wx3KZp2C_9MJ8ybIVgQYNBBf3LdTGlxZQfpXe3N0Yw4PzUfrr9XuV/s400/IMG_0104.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290181658107517330" border="0" /></a><br /><br />2. Pigs in a blanket (here in the West we call them stuffed cabbage) What can I say? Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Never get enough pigs. Even my mom wants the recipe. And she's a Mexican with a Grudge. Could this be the way to bring the Moms together? World peace through pigs? The end of Global Warming? The beginning of a Croatian/Polish/Mexican coalition? Sounds kinda...um, beige. A new kind of Mafia? Dios Mio!<br /><br />1. Home with the Ranger Fam. A question that has haunted us ever since we pulled out of Albuquerque in our fast car, headed for God Knows Where, hungry for change, feeling adrift yet weighted down by 54 pairs of shoes in the trunk. "What makes a place home?" Is it where you were born and raised? Is it where your parents live? Is it the town or city or farm where you filled a photo album full of snaps and stories? Is it your spouse and children? What if you don't have a spouse or children?<br /><br />Or maybe...you can be at home in more than one place. Maybe the ties that bind aren't ties at all. Not to history. Or memory. Not necessarily to folks with the same last name. Maybe you know you're home when you're not doing anything the least bit impressive and that feels just right.<br /><br />Like when you lay on the sofa with a book and blanket in the middle of the day, hair matted, feet stinky. It's sunny outside and you really should be doing something productive, but hey, there's a dog snoring nearby and in the refrigerator...pork products. And a yet-to-be-finished bottle of red.<br /><br />Yeah...for Christmas...it was good to be home.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-68891735749188346942009-01-04T10:02:00.000-08:002009-01-04T14:34:13.964-08:00Things We Love About Hill CountryHome for the holidays. Because once a year the Ranger gets a free pass to do whatever the hell he wants, it was off to Steel Town, PA for Jesus' B-day. So I packed a pinch between cheek and gum, pulled the gun rack off the Honda and checked it, popped some Valium, and off we flew. Over hill and dale, across six inches of ice on I-5.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNINQMhnNgSWu6lKSsUNo9nyVFXhfH3Ze23o1tRBekdMoPHf-TNFstYInkz8BlIyZ_FCguwrijCQDvBd9Dm5atFAh-XuEKAJLRWcpgorneDCPxqTIvvRGcgmPFcKASZvQagAq1FaXGkudL/s1600-h/IMG_0101_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNINQMhnNgSWu6lKSsUNo9nyVFXhfH3Ze23o1tRBekdMoPHf-TNFstYInkz8BlIyZ_FCguwrijCQDvBd9Dm5atFAh-XuEKAJLRWcpgorneDCPxqTIvvRGcgmPFcKASZvQagAq1FaXGkudL/s400/IMG_0101_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287546517492042850" border="0" /></a><br />And while it might surprise you to know that Second Edition attended Christmas mass with the Fam and NO, the steeple didn't snap off and the Virgin didn't cry tears of blood, let me just say I enjoyed the sermon very much even though it was a little hard to hear (Divorced people have to sit in the back. Behind a screen. And wear Halloween masks.)<br /><br />The hymns were sung in Croatian (Papa Ranger's roots), a much perkier language than the Spanish songs I grew up with which sound so mournful and persecuted. Croatian has more bounce to the ounce, like we're off to fight the Huns. Or is it the Serbs?<br /><br />Now Father Charles is a sober, articulate speaker, yet I couldn't help notice the twinkle in his eye. Still, I was surprised when, at the end of the service, he shook my hand and said, "I'm sorry I stared, but you're such a beautiful woman. I kept trying to figure out what TV show I've seen you on." Seriously. A flashback to when the Ranger and I first met and he asked if I was the Maybelline girl. Now, I know where the Ranger learned all his smooth moves. Church.<br /><br />Sorry, Padre, but you could have only seen this mug face down at a wine bar, pressed against the glass of a pastry shop or getting passed hands over head at a certain Rose Bowl game in the late 80s.<br /><br />So #10 in our countdown of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Things We Love About Hill Country</span>: Flirty Priests<br /><br />#9: The Wi-Fi at Dunkin Donuts. By the time the Ranger and I drove all over town looking for THE SPOT, we weren't speaking to each other and I was tired of him muttering, "Jesus Lord, woman."<br /><br />#8: Tailgating before the Penguins game at Pittsburgh's Mellon Arena. Okay, so it was a little awkward, clinking bottles with six 20-something boys from Steel Town. I felt more like the Homeroom Teacher or Hockey Mom than the Girlfriend. But they were very wholesome young men and politely turned their backs when I, too, took a whiz on the grassy knoll.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_wYGBuP4rMvAT7dcW6ag44eB8_t2vcUnM8X-3jxcu1lQbzhp6mFxOaap4xIDY7CyfbwU8I1u-ntFEzJLxVJChAHfXJ4f54E0cCHmGdTUjzew7x87w5VEiXJfaI-bqRuUivgM9xXilZn1/s1600-h/IMG_0109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_wYGBuP4rMvAT7dcW6ag44eB8_t2vcUnM8X-3jxcu1lQbzhp6mFxOaap4xIDY7CyfbwU8I1u-ntFEzJLxVJChAHfXJ4f54E0cCHmGdTUjzew7x87w5VEiXJfaI-bqRuUivgM9xXilZn1/s400/IMG_0109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287543307085095986" border="0" /></a><br />#7: Chicken Wings. Here in Steel Town, each bar has an entire MENU of chicken wings. I chose Parmesan garlic and hot chile garlic. Washed down with Blue Moons. And shots of whiskey. All I remember is waking up the next morning with red sauce under my nails and my tongue tasting like the walk of shame.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFnBOoSKzJ510GVyRzjIuuul7Glm1GJ9MMlvMNRB_lyzoN9holyqCF-dU27wRkLtvZsRHaKG55WKrYNQ5wNynsBNEYbMbQrCX7sFwLvZucGm6WIi9VO_opUElze3f4R8eJRIp_P9ooHRC/s1600-h/IMG_0222.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFnBOoSKzJ510GVyRzjIuuul7Glm1GJ9MMlvMNRB_lyzoN9holyqCF-dU27wRkLtvZsRHaKG55WKrYNQ5wNynsBNEYbMbQrCX7sFwLvZucGm6WIi9VO_opUElze3f4R8eJRIp_P9ooHRC/s400/IMG_0222.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287542384719390322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzB4fpyhbtFzv25LpzpIzicAuvxUdCmQzg_oq2qIoW457aK3o6Ue8ybOBrB_uBwz16A4a9gXtXAC12-mCW1w3eXTxfEHNgFzmWO6wwgfSKCJfBfu5AwqsdQyHNHhmfCFZh-IOtyWrccVE/s1600-h/IMG_0221.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzB4fpyhbtFzv25LpzpIzicAuvxUdCmQzg_oq2qIoW457aK3o6Ue8ybOBrB_uBwz16A4a9gXtXAC12-mCW1w3eXTxfEHNgFzmWO6wwgfSKCJfBfu5AwqsdQyHNHhmfCFZh-IOtyWrccVE/s400/IMG_0221.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287544557747126210" border="0" /></a>#6: Steeler Bars (pronounced "Stiller" in Hill Country)<br />It was Sunday afternoon. The Steelers were playing some team in brown. Everyone in the bar was wearing the jersey of their favorite player (I had Jimi Hendrix splayed across my boobs), so it probably wasn't the wisest move to wait for the tense quiet moments between innings to pump my fist in the air and shout, "Go Seahawks!" <span style="font-style: italic;">I did it for you, Seattle, I did it for you!</span><br /><br />At first, I just got a few dirty looks thrown at me. Then chicken bones. But three times a charm. One last hurrah for the Seahawks got me bound and gagged with Terrible Towels, thrown in the back of a pick-up truck with giant Steeler flags flying and driven to a swampy bog for disposal. I was saved by Papa Ranger, who spit some chew juice, shook his head and sighed, "For crying out loud boys, put her down. She might be a dumbass, but she's our dumbass."<br /><br />On a high note, Ranger Brother met his own Cougar that night. After exchanging THE SECRET COUGAR HANDSHAKE, she settled down on the bar stool next to me where we discussed the pros and cons of Social Security and of course, the ins and outs of menopause: chin hair, night sweats, a craving for meatballs. Then we both took naps.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSBTT5wAq_UabCTk8vTFcysYLsgolzpHTlra5tP3u_CLiCQTIm60oeyxRkcwW6ahJC7VeXFSeE_cXIOgysjHoJVuIkhCCTev8qx5e5CYZk9leDzP1vOAs-2UmR6Z8qY-pH_2FX2g1yXBC/s1600-h/IMG_0223.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSBTT5wAq_UabCTk8vTFcysYLsgolzpHTlra5tP3u_CLiCQTIm60oeyxRkcwW6ahJC7VeXFSeE_cXIOgysjHoJVuIkhCCTev8qx5e5CYZk9leDzP1vOAs-2UmR6Z8qY-pH_2FX2g1yXBC/s400/IMG_0223.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287540884642643714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To be continued...</span>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-81302275047627484932008-12-14T20:03:00.000-08:002008-12-14T21:13:39.455-08:00Is Dating Really Dead?Today's <span style="font-weight: bold;">New York Times</span> has declared that dating is dead. That we now live in the age of the "hook up." Folks fuck, then go out for pizza. Not the other way around...like the good ole days. No more dinner and a movie. Art show openings. No more cups of coffee or walks through the park. Nope. That comes later. After the condoms get rolled out and the lube jell warmed up. We're talking first names only, people.<br /><br />At first, I was astonished by this news, but then the Ranger, in his no-nonsense Ranger way asked, "Do you honestly think we'd still be together if the sex hadn't been great right out of the gate? If, when you first met me, you hadn't considered me a nice piece of ass?" Well, there's that. It WAS, after all, my birthday. There was a lot of champagne involved. And who REALLY cared what his last name was anyway...not like I was EVER going back to Fish Town. At 43, I felt I deserved to unwrap my own present to myself. Plus, most importantly, hadn't I learned a lesson the last go-around...marrying a nice man I dated for weeks before the nasty, a man full of urbane conversation, a proponent of cloth napkins - only to sleep with him back to back. Kiss. Kiss. Night. Night. Look how that turned out.<br /><br />But is the buck really in the bang? Is it THAT simple? And if so, why did no one explain this to me in my 20s when it might have actually changed the course of my life? Here I was searching for artfulness, a kind heart, and witty repartee when I should have been checking the thread count on his sheets, the bulge in his uhum...pocket, and the breakfast fixin's in the frig.<br /><br />Maybe this is why I'm heartened by the fact that The Chef is now head over heels with someone he's actually DATED. Yes, that dirty word. Okay, so they dated on the Web before dating across a table, but I think that certainly counts. They exchanged words, ideas, dreams, weirdness, fears, phobias. And still, they managed to steam up the windows when we dropped by the other night for peanut soup and dumplings. What is it with The Chef and his dumplings anyway? I think he enjoys the metaphor. Everything perfectly tucked and safe in its own world. And why not.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgYdMmgB-_hakGTG34rA3b6gZHG3mXNn4ISudn0z-n889AC7mhp8KdLrW8YO6EqQwE0zYHMSv2P9mqCYn8K8HfFg9-3sytFjjFdzDVbxnbQRqaqqpry37zILCuAjGlX_gmf_hdZgSUfkh/s1600-h/IMG_0095.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgYdMmgB-_hakGTG34rA3b6gZHG3mXNn4ISudn0z-n889AC7mhp8KdLrW8YO6EqQwE0zYHMSv2P9mqCYn8K8HfFg9-3sytFjjFdzDVbxnbQRqaqqpry37zILCuAjGlX_gmf_hdZgSUfkh/s400/IMG_0095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279874607531175282" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We liked The Archaeologist quite a lot. We like that she's funny. And that "on site" she probably wears khakis with extra pockets and loops, carries a pick ax and brushes and has to don a big, floppy hat to ward off additional freckles. Accessories, ladies. It's all about the accessories. So sexy. Even the Indiana Jones kind.<br /><br />And there we were for the first time -- The Ranger and Second Edition -- acting the old married couple at the table. Recognizing all the signs of early love. Under the table grappling. Sly glances. Whispered innuendos. Jack Johnson on the IPod. Jack Johnson, for the love of God! Yeah, they couldn't wait for us to leave. "Here's dessert. Enjoy. We've wrapped it up for you so you can savor it IN YOUR OWN HOME!"<br /><br />Indeed, we slunk home, the Ranger and I. At the crack of 8:15 p.m. And enjoyed our own date.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-44849562693031948682008-12-06T17:48:00.000-08:002008-12-06T19:16:01.578-08:00The Killing Fields<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UO0-YcuIsOLF8-pMBLeTuspXhVPDLfwAIlFMTjoMJ5_Xwc3dMyby01AbGiu6r84m9BT77LoB4GYx294ukqtBq9-oPIpZVg3KFOFXg6-0FEcbv5Kwh6Dv2AOVpaFvKo_CYkFOqE_3_6Ze/s1600-h/IMG_0068.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UO0-YcuIsOLF8-pMBLeTuspXhVPDLfwAIlFMTjoMJ5_Xwc3dMyby01AbGiu6r84m9BT77LoB4GYx294ukqtBq9-oPIpZVg3KFOFXg6-0FEcbv5Kwh6Dv2AOVpaFvKo_CYkFOqE_3_6Ze/s400/IMG_0068.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276860793597540546" border="0" /></a><br />Make no mistake, I've taken very few men home to meet the parents. Mostly, because my dad usually makes them shoot guns, help him castrate a pig, or climb 20 feet up a tree to chainsaw a precarious branch. It's his twisted way of running them through their paces. They always fail.<br /><br />Every one of them found the Ranch quaint, rustic, even nostalgic in a Wild West kind of way. But all were quick to wipe the chicken shit from their Corinthian leather shoes and return to the city. Except the Ranger. He loves the Ranch. Frankly, more than I do. For me, it's a bit...well...embarrassing. The rusty bathtub used as watering trough, swimming pool pump used as flower pot (we've never had a pool), toilet seats hanging on the side of the barn, various pick-up trucks half-buried and in various states of disrepair, stacks of oil pipeline (?), old lunch boxes (Fat Albert, Wonder Woman, Blondie) filled with used nails, screws, and bolts. Let's not forget the discarded fragments of broken mirrors that outline the garage, storage shed, and garden hut (the peacocks like to look at themselves in the mirror), or the piles of scrap metal used to create a fence line (cheaper than barbed wire). With a peck on the cheek, I turned to the Ranger and declared, "Someday, honey, this will all be yours. After I croak." To which he said, "Cool."<br /><br />But I digress. You see, people, I think you should know...because of this Ranch, I'm not the least bit sentimental about my food. I know there's killing involved and as long as it's done humanely and not in a factory, I'm down with that. Do I ENJOY tossing live crab in boiling water. Well, of course not. But that's the price of crab cakes. So I think it's my duty to man up. Slip on my big girl panties.<br /><br />Growing up around livestock, we spent the early days of spring throat slitting, head snapping, bleeding, skinning, plucking, butchering and wrapping. I never named a cow Bessie, nuzzled a baby chick or imagined that sheep pondered the larger questions. The animals we raised were free range, well fed, antibiotic free and received first rate medical care long before these ideas were popular.<br /><br />Even now, when I return to help out my dad, unlike the Ranger, I'm not charmed by sheep and their peaceful faces, chippy little tails or the way they all turn their heads in unison. Nope. What I see is more pedestrian: lamb shanks, chops, car seat covers. "Leg of lamb, take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."<br /><br />And to think I was once a vegetarian.<br /><br />Americans are, for the most part, squeamish about their animal proteins. If it looks like what it once once, we're uncomfortable, even disturbed. Thus fish fillets, boneless chicken breasts and pork loin strips. We've gotten farther and farther from the killing, only honoring the eating, the fussy preparation. And somehow that feels wrong. As if erasing the face, legs, wings or tail absolves us of our duty to eat consciously, mindfully. To acknowledge, with a certain reverence, that someone (not something) died for my filet mignon. So The Chef and I are hatching a plan: to chronicle the life and death and damn good eating of Geraldine, the pig. Stay tuned.<br /><br />I am, however, sentimental about sheep dogs. My dad's new pup is Chester, a Great Pyrenees. And already the Ranger and I are gathering our resources for some serious dognapping.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWRJVVlb0hSM7Id5q8wCIcfgxzgO9Wlg01Ny1Sqmu5MPpiGUFII6IX6MNn3YwK-OLav0-NI9l-YrYR1ug_keC1lDKM4NU0QPxxWkfZy96xdDRbi3K-JyWwsm3ghuXHXZiLVgl2C7iBQ4X/s1600-h/IMG_0078.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWRJVVlb0hSM7Id5q8wCIcfgxzgO9Wlg01Ny1Sqmu5MPpiGUFII6IX6MNn3YwK-OLav0-NI9l-YrYR1ug_keC1lDKM4NU0QPxxWkfZy96xdDRbi3K-JyWwsm3ghuXHXZiLVgl2C7iBQ4X/s400/IMG_0078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276859733962655346" border="0" /></a><br />Now my dad has always been good to his sheep dogs, but make no mistake...they aren't pets or family members. They're employees. They have a job to do. So when he busted us giving Chester a rubbing, he scowled. "You're making him soft. You think when a stranger shows up or a coyote, he'll be able to defend himself or the flock if he rolls onto his back for a good scratch?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7U9LgPJwwUic7iK2fkTidC0iiE6-kjXvWBp4j7EzaU4yGwyokqMiYg2uJVUkODtHAcFEYAgDaeKVKkX0Xo3S4iTIN-bhj0i14vttIV8Um68-EcC39Lm3lZItApQcPjh6k2xruIrvqEeNr/s1600-h/IMG_0074.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7U9LgPJwwUic7iK2fkTidC0iiE6-kjXvWBp4j7EzaU4yGwyokqMiYg2uJVUkODtHAcFEYAgDaeKVKkX0Xo3S4iTIN-bhj0i14vttIV8Um68-EcC39Lm3lZItApQcPjh6k2xruIrvqEeNr/s400/IMG_0074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276859729137079938" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Okay. He has a point. I'd hate to lose a freezer full of lamb chops to feral dogs. But what's a little lovin' between friends?Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-56024691249751190522008-12-02T09:45:00.000-08:002008-12-03T09:47:48.244-08:00Hey, Mr. Pizza Man!Maybe this has happened to you. You make a friend. The kind that would lie to the IRS for you. And would ask you to dance but not complain when you started flailing. Someone you could casually show your tan line. You listen to each other speak and it all makes sense, this common thread, this shared laughter and you can't imagine your life without this friend because somehow they've become woven into this tapestry that is your life, a way in which you identify yourself... <span style="font-style: italic;">I am so-and-so's friend.</span> You pinkie swear nothing will ever come between you. And then something does. Not a fight. Or an affair. Or a suitcase full of money. Nothing quite that HBO. But you grow apart, and that slight, shivery crack becomes a gap, a canyon and then you find yourself, after one too many martinis, wondering "what ever happened to so-and-so."<br /><br />Passing through Albuquerque, on the way home to the parents, I couldn't resist. I had to find out what happened to one of those friends, who for years was high on the phone tree, part of the first wave of calls for a party or movie night, the guy whose girlfriend eyed me with a mix of curiosity and death threat because, yeah...we were that close.<br /><br />Turns out, Stewart the Wine Steward has put his money where his mouth is and launched <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.farinapizzeria.com/">Farina Pizzeria</a> </span>hands down the best pie in Albuquerque <span style="font-style: italic;">or Corrales</span> (yeah, I know there's some marinara snobs out there in the country.) Back when I was a Barfly and Stewart was the wine guy at <a href="http://www.artichokecafe.com/">Artichoke Cafe, </a>he used to polish the Reidel wine glasses and tell me his dream of someday owning a little somethin-somethin of his very own. Well, he must have been hiding a serious set of balls behind that long, woody bar because sure enough...smack in the middle of what may well be a long and painful recession, the man pulled the trigger. Cheers to fearlessness. And following your dream. And ignoring the naysayers.<br /><br />By the looks of the crowd on a recent Monday night, I don't think the joint will have to worry about diminishing portfolios because we were lucky to get a table. And in a tip to tradition, Stewart trotted out a delicious bottle from his private stash, a 2002 Don Marcello from Puglia. We were, however, tempted by the beer since Farina carries our new favorite IPA from <a href="http://www.marblebrewery.com/">Marble.</a> Sorry <a href="http://www.rogue.com/">Rogue </a>Beer People...consider yourself humbled.<br /><br />In no time, the pizzas arrived, their crusts perfectly thin and lightly blistered. The <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bianco </span>-- fresh mozzarella, parmigiano, ricotta, truffle oil, sage and the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Fungi</span> -- wild mushrooms, fontina, tellegio (<span style="font-style: italic;">I think it's a cheese named after a sex act</span>), thyme, roasted shallots. Wow. Really. That's all I can say. His apprenticeship at Portland's <a href="http://www.apizzascholls.com/">Apizza Scholls</a> paid off. He's now officially Mr. Pizza Man.<br /><br />We will, however, miss our Wine Whisperer. When the girls and I hunkered down in the corner booth on any given Friday, clutching beaded bags and showing off our new slingbacks, Stewart the Wine Steward always used his mojo. Most wine guys ask you what varietals you like or how much you want to spend. But Steward would ask for the details of your day, take your temperature, measure your emotions..."<span style="font-style: italic;">I can't believe I make my living helping corporations sell useless shit, that Camus was right when he said there is no meaning in meaning, and my back hurts just thinking about it while I lie awake next to a very nice man who is my husband yet somehow I am so desperately lonely even though I own a closet full of fabulous shoes. How did I get so far from what I thought I would be?" </span>He'd take this in, duck into the wine cellar and return with a sweet little gem from Piemonte. Or South Africa. Or Napa. Or New Zealand. Or Israel. That tasted like, "I hate advertising (minerals, clay), but I'm still hopeful that good change can happen (soft tannins, velvety finish) and love will find a way (slightly fruit forward). He never picked wrong. He always knew our mood. And didn't judged us for it. No wonder Wine Spectator loves him.<br /><br />Plus, let's not forget his life raft qualities. Not only did Stewart make us eat our meat and be nice to our vegetables when we were blue and trying to disappear by not eating, he never flinched when we sobbed bar side or needed a lift home after riding the wave of a nasty divorce by swimming in a Sea of Syrah. He just handed us a tissue and regularly told us what we needed to hear. "This is a bump, sweetie, a bad bump, but not the end, just a different beginning. You got it all going on. And someday, you'll see that, too."<br /><br />Thanks, Hon. We do and we have.<br /><br />And although I'm quite certain our friendship is no more, Mr. Pizza Man, I love you just the same. It's one of those dog qualities you always admired.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-47336614101073057542008-11-30T13:44:00.000-08:002008-11-30T13:51:12.850-08:00A Case of Mistaken Identity<span style="font-weight: bold;">Black Friday -- Scene I, Take I: </span>Drinking WORLD FAMOUS MARGARITAS at <a href="http://www.taosinn.com">The Taos Inn.</a> Two middle-aged women, after sheepishly spying on our table, finally grab their coats and squeeze past tightly knit tables, drink coasters in hand. Shyly, one of them taps The Ranger on the shoulder.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Excuse me, sir. Are you Johnny Depp? Because you look EXACLY like him. And if you are, would you mind giving us an autograph?”</span><br /><br />Not really an outrageous question when you consider that George Clooney and Kevin Spacey have recently been spotted in Albuquerque bars while shooting a movie.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad:</span> Who in God’s name is Johnny Depth?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cousin Lia:</span> Depp. Two Ps. Not depth. Edward Scissorhands?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad:</span> Who has scissor hands?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Jesus, here we go. This happens. The Johnny Depp thing.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aunt Cooky:</span> Does that mean you get mistaken for Johnny Depp’s mother?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>Hey, that’s not funny. A nurse once thought I was his mother. She wrote it on the damn chart.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aunt Cooky:</span> It’s the neck waddle. The women in this family are all cursed with a waddle. It’s genetic. Were you not wearing a scarf? You know you should always wear a scarf.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad: </span>What in God’s name is a neck wabble?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cousin Lia:</span> It’s what happens when you get old and you can’t hold your head up anymore. You know. Like newborn babies.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad:</span> I was once mistaken for Julia Roberts. You see…we have the same initials and go to the same massage therapist and one day the lady at the front desk…<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Dad. Come on. You really think anyone believes Julia Roberts is hiding in plain sight disguised as a short, Mexican man with thinning hair and a gold tooth.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad: </span>Don’t make fun of the tooth. Someday, it’ll be worth something. You have to pull it before they close the casket. Remember? It’s in the will.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aunt Cooky:</span> We might need to pull it NOW. Have you seen how much the drinks are here?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cousin Lia:</span> Hey, if he signs your coaster, will you buy us a round of drinks?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ranger:</span> No. No. No. No. I’m sorry M’am. I’m not Johnny Depp.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aunt Cooky: </span>And do you really think Johnny Depp hangs around with a bunch of Mexicans?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad:</span> We’re not Mexican. We’re HISPANIC. There’s a difference.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>What exactly is the difference?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad: </span>Well…for starters…Mexicans wear cowboy hats. And they only drive Fords.<br /><br />This might explain why, when the airplane was delayed at the gate while preparing to fly to Portland, the Ranger...he got out and pushed.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-42942903019450786662008-11-16T08:14:00.000-08:002008-11-16T13:06:11.842-08:00Things We LoveTaking a moment here in Fish Town to ponder a few things our new home has to offer. Yeah, I know we poke some fun...how flossing is a lost art, yellow Gortex is the new black, teen moms rule, the irony of the "neighborhood watch" captain also being the neighborhood drug dealer, and when you say "fishing boat" you inevitably get a fisherman screaming from the other end of the bar, "it's fishing VESSEL, dammit, VESSEL, not boat. Any ass can own a boat, any jerk-off rubbing two sticks together can build a boat"...but hey, there's also much to love in this rainy secret town.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Wine Guy:</span> We've been frequenting this local wine shop that specializes in Italian and French gems because the selection is well-edited and the young duke behind the counter wearing city spectacles and a sardonic grin always makes us laugh: "You look like a woman still mourning her suede boots while drinking herself into an Edith Piaff kind of haze. Cheers to that, my dear."<br /><br />On a recent visit, he ducked into the back and came out holding a jar of snow white, purely rendered pork fat, hands carefully cupped as if securing a puppy or a priceless sculpture. "I just had a pig slaughtered and I couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate this more than you." Apparently, I have pig fat written all over me. But really...I was touched. Because yes, this is exactly the gift I love, that keeps on giving, that taps into my deepest hunger. I promptly went home and made raviolis.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Random Acts of Nut Giving:</span> While running the pup through the forest, we stumbled upon The Chef on his hands and knees (no, not THAT part of the forest) sniffing out mushrooms for supper. After a brief chat, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of chestnuts, "Here, roast these and make some salad dressing." Excellent idea. Eating a bag of warm, roasted chestnuts while walking the December streets of New York...a memory worth repeating.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Cheese Shop</span>: Stinky, dirty sock, green-gilled, thick-rind cheeses with funny names and crusty edges. While my co-workers at the gym tap their Tupperware lunches for tofu and brown rice, steamed vegetables and boiled eggs, I sneak down the street for a plate of greasy salami and heady smelling cheeses. Good for building strong muscles. Plus, I find salami makes my butt nice and round (<span style="font-style: italic;">see August 18th post</span>). The owner comes to my yoga class every now and then and afterwards slips me a modest wax paper bag -- airy thin slices of mortadella.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gas Pumpers: </span>Here in Oregon, it's illegal to pump your own gas. We're all about job creation here in the corner. So every time I fill up, I get a free dog biscuit for the pup scurrying around the back of the Honda, anxiously licking the window and whimpering to be let loose so she can ferret out yet another dead sea lion or pelican for lunch, and if nothing has recently succumbed and rotted and festered, there's always dog shit. She ain't the smartest...but she sure is pretty.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Local Hardware Store: </span>We go in for sheets of insulation and walk out with a bag of fresh pepperocinis and yellow hots, courtesy of the counter guy with his less than toothy grin. Yup, it's written all over me...Mexican Who Loves Pig Fat.Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-40970267486998092132008-11-08T17:45:00.000-08:002008-11-12T19:13:09.101-08:00Fleeting PleasuresIt's all anybody is talking about these days. In diners. At the gym. While straddling bar stools. Even walking the dog. No...not the fact that forty years after Martin Luther King was assassinated we have a black president. Boletes, People! Boletes! And not just any mushroom, but King Boletes! And we're at the end of bolete season so I have to write fast and get back out there before they're all gone.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dictionary definition:</span> "A bolete is a type of fungal fruiting body characterized by the presence of a pileus that is clearly differentiated from the stipe, with a spongy surface of pores (rather than gills) on the underside of the pileus. "Bolete" is also the English common name for fungal species having this kind of morphology."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oregon definition:</span> "Obsession spanning just a few short weeks. Harvested near pines, in loamy soil, and often tucked under tall blade grass. Their brown caps make them a pain in the ass to find, but they're worth the hunt."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP88i-DzphijjAcEhnyCrP7N06W8Q1_m_WGXQJAsVd6tLumg8qL74p91nHWi7BjqEcdgguMLLEMaNjIAMW4_H4QVqOfukHgYVjrMx7pM5xwC4QRho7r2nR6QoU6InKuuGxpYRocEeGrAU/s1600-h/IMG_1753.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP88i-DzphijjAcEhnyCrP7N06W8Q1_m_WGXQJAsVd6tLumg8qL74p91nHWi7BjqEcdgguMLLEMaNjIAMW4_H4QVqOfukHgYVjrMx7pM5xwC4QRho7r2nR6QoU6InKuuGxpYRocEeGrAU/s400/IMG_1753.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266350954550653122" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Recently, we were granted an audience with<br />King and Queen Bolete.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our knees are still shaking.</span><br /></div><br />Bottom line...they are weirdly giant (small bearded men with red, pointy shoes should be living underneath their boastful prow) and deeply coveted. They can turn friends into enemies and normal, well-balanced personalities into sneaks. <span style="font-style: italic;">For example,</span> last Sunday after brunch, The Chef tipped his fedora goodbye and scuffled out the door, saying he was anxious to return to work. YET, an hour later, we see the Toaster Oven (one of those boxy Scion/Honda Element fixtures) cruising out of the forest. Seems The Chef was working his secret bolete patch. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Note to reader: He shared so all is forgiven.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">In fact, The Chef whipped together some amazing pork and bolete tacos topped with a radish and carrot relish that made us throw him down on the floor and tickle his belly.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rLNBBPW0qz9ZliNlqaZ9Rud11UAXTf42w5qoYJ9Ncp3sHSiut7tTqls2pCUFuHyRsGl21M2EmpBecfSVeYAGAhmc3sPtmcSgzVpxqcwhd7ku70LCHLcB-imZ-fGAillVgcAPr3AM3Av3/s1600-h/boletetacos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rLNBBPW0qz9ZliNlqaZ9Rud11UAXTf42w5qoYJ9Ncp3sHSiut7tTqls2pCUFuHyRsGl21M2EmpBecfSVeYAGAhmc3sPtmcSgzVpxqcwhd7ku70LCHLcB-imZ-fGAillVgcAPr3AM3Av3/s400/boletetacos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266360174247759778" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9DKUsPFlKcSYWwAdscIUlcyvBKksLRTNqN3lNWsJB3RfSTKD8s6DEAiDFkGOB0ZSqV2BykWsrTX_wYcN_qSb1wgMvchlPOzIz-O0fE-OTHMuKqkmocFWS31xlnWx8ACMGyouLco-J-8l/s1600-h/boletetacos2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9DKUsPFlKcSYWwAdscIUlcyvBKksLRTNqN3lNWsJB3RfSTKD8s6DEAiDFkGOB0ZSqV2BykWsrTX_wYcN_qSb1wgMvchlPOzIz-O0fE-OTHMuKqkmocFWS31xlnWx8ACMGyouLco-J-8l/s400/boletetacos2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266360185037567170" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">Tomatillos, jalapenos and carrots all joined the ground pork and boletes with a secret spice mix (New Mexico red chile, cumin, Vietnamese cinnamon, Spanish smoked paprika and powdered ginger). But mostly, I wanted to show off The Chef's precision chopping.<br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;">Yes, he carries a measuring stick.<br /></div><br />Good mushrooms change everything. Even the Ranger...our till-death-do-us-part Ranger...is mum when it comes to the exact location of his chantrelle patch. He just saunters in the door after work and casually plops down a pound or ten of those golden trumpets before cracking open a beer, acting like he didn't just drop fifty bucks worth of booty in my lap. I've used all my feminine wiles and an unusual dose of sexual gymnastics to try and work it out of him, but he's being very James Bond, sealed lip about it. Perhaps, I should take this as a cautionary tale to work on my seduction techniques if I can't even make a mushroom patch rise.<br /><br />Okay, full disclosure...one of the Scientists took me bolete hunting and she actually found them all and was generous enough to hand them over. Second Edition isn't a good hunter; she gets a little distracted in the great outdoors...you've seen puppies chasing bumble bees across the yard...well, that's me. "Look at the sky, pelicans everywhere! Huckleberries! I love huckleberries. Hey, is that a beer bottle under that tree? I wonder if there's anything left in it?"<br /><br />I was, however, in charge of pulling and trimming. And those puppies grow deep. The first King Bolete...I stuck my hand into the black, loamy soil but the stem kept going and going, and since that's the best eating, so did my hand till I was nearly up to my elbow. I had a flash of terror, remembering that as a child I never used to let my arms and feet hang over the edge of the bed for fear the Evil Clown living underneath would pull me down, drag me under and suck my blood before transforming my body into yet another Evil Clown that haunted the beds of other children. At least that's what I thought about while my fingers closed around a huge fungi. But I digress.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUFq8DS7MzoW2UGcJRjnqarin2SWuJiLzExgx3E5PjZVxDCC4KjBPjS_z18wYLQM55tmr5uMNtNRfLDPy89K8L-uXCN3U4Vdl3WUBC_ZZ66WtTiqaaTAL-XUAPJFNM1xK1pOJpuCtEg4M/s1600-h/IMG_0005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUFq8DS7MzoW2UGcJRjnqarin2SWuJiLzExgx3E5PjZVxDCC4KjBPjS_z18wYLQM55tmr5uMNtNRfLDPy89K8L-uXCN3U4Vdl3WUBC_ZZ66WtTiqaaTAL-XUAPJFNM1xK1pOJpuCtEg4M/s400/IMG_0005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266465962296905538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />See, you thought I was exaggerating in that "Second Edition" sorta way. Thanks, Neighbor, for helping us clean and cook these Three Ways: Sauteed in butter in garlic, brushed with olive oil and grilled; dumped into creamy chicken soup with wild rice and carrots.<br /><br />When you consider that we live in a world of Whole Foods and Wal-Mart, where blueberries and tomatoes can be had year around, it's nice to know that some pleasures are fleeting, hard to find and passionately pursued on hands and knees. That some things transcend the world economy. When the boletes are gone, they're gone. Till next year.<br /><br />Leaving us with our unrequited yearnings. As in romance, that's impossible to resist.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx98gB_HqlJm4Cu9VKr5bszu3cR2pUEo6rsoENFZ8ME1ROVmsFFg6Fut1Co2i18xY5DgHYD3tlOfJH0SJJTAXO_OKACjrJWmjBhA_-BYUcgtl1LSEGHgNWyKjnHAsc54s_WDbPt8OcV-e/s1600-h/IMG_0008_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx98gB_HqlJm4Cu9VKr5bszu3cR2pUEo6rsoENFZ8ME1ROVmsFFg6Fut1Co2i18xY5DgHYD3tlOfJH0SJJTAXO_OKACjrJWmjBhA_-BYUcgtl1LSEGHgNWyKjnHAsc54s_WDbPt8OcV-e/s400/IMG_0008_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266468395793179618" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">Saute anyone?<br /></div>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-9992373414527383072008-11-05T14:20:00.000-08:002008-11-06T14:34:16.411-08:00Oh Brother...Here Art ThouSometimes brothers are born into your family. And sometimes they just show up, hiccuping, sprawled on your living room sofa surrounded by crumpled Taco Bell bags and mumbling, "Can you help me up? My stomach hurts." No matter how many times I tell him not to eat spicy tacos and wash them down with rum and Pepsi at 10 in the morning...still, he doesn't listen. And that's how I know, The Neighbor and I, we're stuck with each other.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu5FH5kMwDDfwRPpCPCWqSV9jJdPcBpOmfMrutr6T33nYlCAPApqb9wm-qM3ovyewPw8nfV-iRqIJPekohGZJ-FiwOA8OsylNitjm5YDiNiCt6JDQN-8-Fk3zdZfad0QfZv9Xk8izrM2yc/s1600-h/DSCN0991.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu5FH5kMwDDfwRPpCPCWqSV9jJdPcBpOmfMrutr6T33nYlCAPApqb9wm-qM3ovyewPw8nfV-iRqIJPekohGZJ-FiwOA8OsylNitjm5YDiNiCt6JDQN-8-Fk3zdZfad0QfZv9Xk8izrM2yc/s400/DSCN0991.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264464072823181778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Last week, he told me that before Second Edition pulled up in her fast car and decided to stay, those were days filled with both darkness and light. Light? Okay, I get that. Because although we take turns cooking, climb trees together, walk the beach searching for agates and buy matching t-shirts at rock concerts, we also argue about which brewery makes the better beer, who gets to be the black kid on Wii, taking out the trash and getting fat <span style="font-style: italic;">(he is, I'm not...na, na, na, na, na)</span>. It wasn't that much different when my brother, Edward, was alive. I big sistered him. And he ignored me.<br /><br />Now, of course, I still have my brother R, and together we have another brother...one he loves and I don't. Let's call him Bird. Because he's always high and shitting on others. Oddly, when we were little, Bird was my best playmate, the one closest in age and just as cunning, as full of small town itch as I was. While R was at football practice and Edward was locked in his room listening to music and strumming his guitar, Bird and I were shooting each other with BB guns and blowing up ant hills with firecrackers. He'd hold me down with his knees and smear snot on my face; I'd use his toothbrush to clean the toilet. Yeah, we were tight.<br /><br />And then something happened when we got to be teenagers. He couldn't stop being bad. Drugs. DWIs. Jail. Emergency rooms. Impregnating a minor. Guns. Car wrecks. Jail. Rehab. Theft. Jail. Alcoholics Anonymous. Seventh Day Adventists. More emergency rooms. Jail. Now, he lives with R who keeps an eye out, feeding and watering him, but impossibly, can't keep him out of Jail. He was last arrested September 28th. How our father managed to stay in public office all these years is a miracle...or a tribute to his unflappable ability to change the subject. Bird is our Billy Carter. Gary Hart's yacht, Monkey Business. Geraldine Ferraro's husband's family. A Mexican Monica Lewinsky.<br /><br />When R and I had dinner together two weeks ago in Portland and he was giving me the update on Bird, I realized something rather stunning. For the past 20 years, I've carefully managed the 12 steps of Coping With A Family Drug Addict: disappointment, sadness, anger, resentment, pity, embarrassment, repulsion, disappointment...rinse, repeat. The last time I spoke to Bird, he was draped over Edward's coffin, sobbing and sputtering, "It should have been me. It should have been me." Without hesitation, my fists clenched, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Yes. Yes. It <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> have been you."<br /><br />But now. Now. I'm on Step 13. Nothing. I feel Nothing for the man. Less than if he were a total stranger. I'm done being angry and disappointed. I don't wish him ill or wish him better anymore. I don't wish. I'm a white sheet of paper. It's as if someone crawled inside my head, my heart with a bucket of bleachy water and a sponge and scrubbed me clean.<br /><br />Probably I should be worried that a neighbor is more dear to me than my own blood. Maybe I inherited Dad's unflappable ability to change the subject. Or maybe The Neighbor has shown me that sometimes...your faith...can be restored.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoXdRR1kZkdVPeRRwLRMozXJGaDKQ9Il2mckLrbnJdiX8lJRgWbql-J4isyFTiV0EKdnmWoHDD9kSq0UOAAd-144i0VRjvdDzmdhBQ2VdvmJ6R6URArWJXCT3b0RU1FMLi6Wzz3LGa3rv/s1600-h/DSCN1001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoXdRR1kZkdVPeRRwLRMozXJGaDKQ9Il2mckLrbnJdiX8lJRgWbql-J4isyFTiV0EKdnmWoHDD9kSq0UOAAd-144i0VRjvdDzmdhBQ2VdvmJ6R6URArWJXCT3b0RU1FMLi6Wzz3LGa3rv/s400/DSCN1001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264464086905057202" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-28322365675855082102008-11-04T08:00:00.000-08:002008-11-04T00:33:33.652-08:00The Beginning of an Era<span style="font-weight: bold;">This morning over oatmeal:</span><br /><br />Ranger: Hey Hon, can you drop off my ballot today when you drop off yours?<br />Me: You voted? You gotta be kidding.<br />Ranger: I did as a matter of fact.<br />Me: But you never vote. In fact, you're always so proud of not voting.<br />Ranger: I was bored.<br />Me: You voted because you were bored? Usually when you're bored, you just go into the bedroom by yourself and...<br />Ranger: Just drop it off, will you. Jesus Lord, woman, a simple request.<br />Me: Wow!<br />Ranger: Wow what? What's the big deal?<br />Me: I'm just...I'm just stunned. I mean...we're in the worst financial crisis since the Depression and embroiled in a war that rivals Vietnam. Yet, you voted because you were BORED!<br />Ranger: I thought you'd be happy! Why all the shit?<br />Me: Was it the mushrooms, Honey? The ones we ate last night?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdHhA8ZHm-jXysy09beRgFZ8VuxJPWQRL3u4cY7gRwY5Hsd48ldnjmjc-VGwWd7XSZOqWQ9rC8DCMpDqIypmC7lupMXhFX8l1gCqlmbPaQUEZ66JiMRPZwmKlafJ9HTFFmf4bS-ZWiuGH/s1600-h/DSCN1110.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdHhA8ZHm-jXysy09beRgFZ8VuxJPWQRL3u4cY7gRwY5Hsd48ldnjmjc-VGwWd7XSZOqWQ9rC8DCMpDqIypmC7lupMXhFX8l1gCqlmbPaQUEZ66JiMRPZwmKlafJ9HTFFmf4bS-ZWiuGH/s400/DSCN1110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264587646117786722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oregon Chanterelle compared to Common Cheez-It</span><br /></div><br />You see, dear reader, the Ranger, while marching through his quotidian rounds in the forest, stumbled upon a hillside covered with Chanterelles. Huge ones. After emailing photos to our Scientist friends for confirmation (would hate to die the night before the election...I always need to know how the story ends), we ate 'em up. Not all ten pounds, but a good chunk. Considered several fancy-schmancy recipes before caving for the tried and true. Sauteed with butter and garlic. That's it.<br /><br />Amazing. Intoxicating. Transformative. Especially with a 2006 Chateau de Trinquevedel Rose.<br /><br />Ahhhh, the wilderness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowdFpdR5cK_fees3nB2e676hSZ8gLd6L8xxfR-onHJevAkwwdVMEC49CkdFBcZy49taQjktPX6A2tfiOADQPLXrPDatwcCNt5bFyL6AwAU9EK8XT2cJq4qWDqQkoMwhyePSb3TEDQcojP/s1600-h/DSCN1109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowdFpdR5cK_fees3nB2e676hSZ8gLd6L8xxfR-onHJevAkwwdVMEC49CkdFBcZy49taQjktPX6A2tfiOADQPLXrPDatwcCNt5bFyL6AwAU9EK8XT2cJq4qWDqQkoMwhyePSb3TEDQcojP/s400/DSCN1109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264587642291627458" border="0" /></a>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-56050145348423401142008-11-01T17:56:00.000-07:002008-11-01T20:38:49.235-07:00Campaign 2008 EndorsementsWith only a few days remaining till the election, it seems like a good time to take a stand, to pump my fist in the air and give you my bumper sticker support of the issues. Oddly, 6.4% of American voters are still undecided on who they want to run this country, 67% of those are women...to which I can only say WAKE THE FUCK UP! So here's what I'm endorsing:<br /><br /><ul><li>Sex in the morning (like voting...early and often)</li><li>French and Italian wines (yet another reason why the Old World is making more and more sense compared to the New World)<br /></li><li>Hugging total strangers (a good way to check for concealed weapons)</li><li>Extra-crispy chicken wings with hot sauce (don't let those vegetarian, Marxists have their way. Eat meat, People! Eat meat!)</li><li>New Mexico. (Si se puede. Or at least that's what we used to say. You decide, Red or Blue.)</li><li>A pillow-top mattress. (not only good for sleeping, but for stashing cash when the financial system fails)</li><li>Hockey. (moms, dads...everyone is welcome. But you best take your glasses off and prepare to get your ass kicked.) </li><li>The Power of Storytelling. (where would we be, as a democracy, without it?)<br /></li><li>The Great State of Pennsylvania. (Home of the Ranger, the pirogi and 2,348 ways to eat cabbage. No wonder it's a battleground.) </li><li>Committing to a younger man. (Forget what the naysayers mumble about youth and inexperience. When the chips are down, passion, fearlessness and idealism...get my vote.)</li></ul>What do you endorse?Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-45849381199207370412008-10-22T20:03:00.000-07:002008-10-22T20:18:33.428-07:00The Whole Truth<span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Things have been a bit hectic around the Tree House this past week, so I'm compelled to dip into the Letters to the Editor (Second Edition) for a bit of wisdom.</span></span><b><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Thank you, Aus</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">sie Girl, for this contribution and to Andy Rooney, the author. When I read this out loud to The Ranger, he threw up his hands, eyes fixed on heaven and said, "Jesus Lord, welcome to my life." So now you know.<br /></span></span><b><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: Verdana;"><br /><br />As I grow in age, I value women over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:<br /></span></span></b><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">A woman over 40 will never wake you in the middle of the night and ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think. If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do, and it's usually more interesting. Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it. Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 40. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her younger counterpart. Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk or if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her. Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 40, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.<br /><br />For all those men who say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?', here's an up date for you. Nowadays, 80% of women are against marriage Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!</span></span>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4794618150954922596.post-60375448220448274242008-10-12T19:09:00.000-07:002008-10-12T20:45:02.008-07:00Sunday Supper: Hunters and Gatherers and Gremolata<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wild</span>: living or growing in the natural environment;<br />not domesticated or cultivated<br /></div><br />As much as I miss city life -- wine bars, Sephora, fancy haircuts and the tap, tap, tap of high heels on polished wood -- I love the idea that I live in a place where the folks are just a little bit wild and not in a whoo-hoo, upside down margaritas, tight jean skirt and making out with your best friend's wife (yeah...you know who you are and of course there's ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT)...but a different sort of wild, the kind that demands you live a little closer to the earth, press your cheek firmly against the mossy surface and dip your hands into the freezing ocean. Because that's where supper lives. Today, the three of us divided and conquered. The Neighbor hit the docks (secret spot...if I tell he'll pull my plug and not in a friendly way) while the Ranger and I hit the forest.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7EKR44qe4fNv26Mm5fEf-s0wsU_NBl4BkBm17axSeGsg-B31BBdWjdWFR7vcVs8pys7cmKoApqhOw0rM67iEWFV9TNPVd6KVX4786VKnSPEgGeF2eNPM2CwbULo_4JIT5byN4eF44XRk7/s1600-h/DSCN1028.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7EKR44qe4fNv26Mm5fEf-s0wsU_NBl4BkBm17axSeGsg-B31BBdWjdWFR7vcVs8pys7cmKoApqhOw0rM67iEWFV9TNPVd6KVX4786VKnSPEgGeF2eNPM2CwbULo_4JIT5byN4eF44XRk7/s400/DSCN1028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256456664348392754" border="0" /></a>Pulling up the crab pots (at the end of 30 feet of rope) takes strength, stamina<br />and tight butt cheeks. That's why I like to watch.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2dBEkZRGoom2pNTcTkiG3IcvIwNLwJ1Vw5PmFsg4Km4CcrEJTe7X_MFVuldF91jIIvJ1x9B9tXAVBLsSjG_yRJdvw8gFOlcIjXOQO_J8fsf3Lwuy9FmLuVxU_BMF_ruGwfaqbgOZZbn5/s1600-h/DSCN1015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2dBEkZRGoom2pNTcTkiG3IcvIwNLwJ1Vw5PmFsg4Km4CcrEJTe7X_MFVuldF91jIIvJ1x9B9tXAVBLsSjG_yRJdvw8gFOlcIjXOQO_J8fsf3Lwuy9FmLuVxU_BMF_ruGwfaqbgOZZbn5/s400/DSCN1015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256455923735167410" border="0" /></a>Cooked, cleaned and ready to pick. The meat is so sweet and juicy, you don't need butter, lemon or anything but a bucket, some wine and old recordings of Cream.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2bQGSjxIBKKi0w6c4M-pnfZWlP9JhyphenhyphencoffFTwx28gCUXvPMtyktyKHnWZpNVaczpnnHsxc6ljEaWUAcn4B85BarhFzmSp3MwwXzqA485_nV_gwqkZAW8hDlSdQzyVGPwv26uL-KMsMCHy/s1600-h/DSCN1016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2bQGSjxIBKKi0w6c4M-pnfZWlP9JhyphenhyphencoffFTwx28gCUXvPMtyktyKHnWZpNVaczpnnHsxc6ljEaWUAcn4B85BarhFzmSp3MwwXzqA485_nV_gwqkZAW8hDlSdQzyVGPwv26uL-KMsMCHy/s400/DSCN1016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256455932064220706" border="0" /></a>The word "lump" has never been a favorite. Good things don't come in "lumps," not in oatmeal, or on breasts or your lover sitting on the sofa. But lumps of crab! Now we're talking, people!<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYque4KsU8x3fgQH6A_LgCm7PeZBCbImK6f3DkjCRbofeq_Q1igLhAMoaLLnuCnfVwzwo6fRXFdAUigelrRiHDp1HxEz3tkXUJB_6y8B2-vXzDMIIAASpFG9MAMrdb4q0FCDMKZZr-IS6Z/s1600-h/DSCN1019.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYque4KsU8x3fgQH6A_LgCm7PeZBCbImK6f3DkjCRbofeq_Q1igLhAMoaLLnuCnfVwzwo6fRXFdAUigelrRiHDp1HxEz3tkXUJB_6y8B2-vXzDMIIAASpFG9MAMrdb4q0FCDMKZZr-IS6Z/s400/DSCN1019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256455937548594786" border="0" /></a>And then of course, there were the mushrooms. Oyster, chanterelles, shitakis and butter caps. Although there was talk of adding magic mushrooms to our soup, we resisted. Some of us work in the morning and need to find our pants and not wake up with rug burns on our face.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1SVSbLK8b-NjA7dtAHdgYAQPGv-R3K99ZSDNql_GkoQWzCGQ-evVt7IzVvqW-n3tet7JiRRxCQWpHXWbXUECEXA6f99S9VlJd6n8ngFpqcXUh7PnapZg1r5Xa-cSvbTn3eXVAYYHsj2U/s1600-h/DSCN1029.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1SVSbLK8b-NjA7dtAHdgYAQPGv-R3K99ZSDNql_GkoQWzCGQ-evVt7IzVvqW-n3tet7JiRRxCQWpHXWbXUECEXA6f99S9VlJd6n8ngFpqcXUh7PnapZg1r5Xa-cSvbTn3eXVAYYHsj2U/s400/DSCN1029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256456668615362498" border="0" /></a>Okay...not to brag...but this is perhaps the BEST mushroom soup I have ever tasted. Sorry Chef. I know you made a delicious soup for my birthday and I much appreciate it, but as your favorite TV Chef, Bobby Flay (NOT) would say, "Are you ready for a throwdown?"<br /><br />The broth simmered all night in the crockpot -- chicken, ham hocks, ginger, shallots, garlic and dried thyme -- then the mushrooms, gently sauteed in butter with leeks and white wine, were added. A generous sprinkle of fresh thyme. More simmer. And then the Secret Ingredient. A wicked Gremolata -- toasted hazelnuts, roasted garlic, lemon zest and arugula, chopped and blended. A dollop on each serving. And on top of the dollop...shitaki mushrooms sliced and flash-fried in a mixture of olive and sesame oil. Here at the treehouse, we call them bacon bits because that's exactly what they taste like. We eat them on salad, on fish, off the Ranger's biceps.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BRR5hyQFzVetTvzzOdRVbzI2hMwRfNKLRuEci4mouacuR9GsorOkV3kpNq6Rrz-ni3YWO3SzyJuqk15Sek40piDScTSy8z2SBD136XDA2qjFcQhZj57ZMiVN_rcrFul9i5QwdK5GkdnP/s1600-h/DSCN1035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BRR5hyQFzVetTvzzOdRVbzI2hMwRfNKLRuEci4mouacuR9GsorOkV3kpNq6Rrz-ni3YWO3SzyJuqk15Sek40piDScTSy8z2SBD136XDA2qjFcQhZj57ZMiVN_rcrFul9i5QwdK5GkdnP/s400/DSCN1035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256456678416650194" border="0" /></a>Jesus. Look at that sheen of butter. So sorry Dr. Cardiologist. I know you're doing your best to change my eating habits...but think of it this way. My arteries might be clogged, but my hair...it's SO SHINY.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8EhqejxF4SxasP0xXjlp0qlHc13NxWjm_bIlDyH6R_51UJ-HgLcnHP9PJd1EvKaS-bDeC40fERtYomrlSI0DyMZvo9hIXIZoQxNwq8jkpU50QPV2U4dvh-X72skw4BKUEu1rWRD_TFaT/s1600-h/DSCN1037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8EhqejxF4SxasP0xXjlp0qlHc13NxWjm_bIlDyH6R_51UJ-HgLcnHP9PJd1EvKaS-bDeC40fERtYomrlSI0DyMZvo9hIXIZoQxNwq8jkpU50QPV2U4dvh-X72skw4BKUEu1rWRD_TFaT/s400/DSCN1037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256456683403842082" border="0" /></a>The little Gremolata that could.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Sorry I can't write more. Died and went to heaven. Wait a minute. Heaven? Hmm. Nope. Don't believe in heaven. You have one shot at goodness. At the reward of bounty. And this is it.<br /><br />So eat up.<br /></div></div>Second Editionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13297358340767181661noreply@blogger.com6