I'm Dreaming of a Carmel Christmas

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California


Not surprisingly, for those of you who have been following along (seriously, what is wrong with you?), launching ourselves on this trip to Carmel was not easy. We have issues. We have Mom issues. We have business issues. And, increasingly, we have issues getting ourselves organized for travel, and just about everything else. Adding to the stress of this is the fact that we are staying in Carmel for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Yes, you (and I) read that right.


It all started last year in the little house we have rented since 2005. We arrived in early January, picked up the keys, and entered the house. I immediately became excited, as usual. It was the start of our month-long stay, and the stress of getting ready for it was over. We stowed all of our gear, then hied ourselves over to Rio Grill for our first celebratory martinis of the trip. All was well. Then, something funny happened. A couple of days into our stay, I started to feel discontented with the house. A few days later I remarked upon this to Billy. And guess what? He thought maybe it was time for a change as well. We asked the rental agency to email us a list of other homes for consideration. We thought that we might step down, from three bedrooms to two. We perused the list but didn't find a thing that we liked.


A couple of weeks later, while Billy was back in LA, I went online and started looking at other available rentals. I found one that looked good and drove past it on my way home from Safeway later that day. Called Billy. When he returned that weekend, we walked over to look at it. It was on the opposite (south) side of Ocean Avenue, not far from both the Carmel Mission and Mission Ranch (Clint's place, where we often go to enjoy cocktails on the patio at sunset). As we were walking by it, we noticed a man in the driveway removing his golf clubs from the trunk of his car (which had Minnesota plates on it). Approach and inquire. No, he wasn't the owner. He and his wife had just commenced a two-month vacation rental at the house. We told him that we were interested in renting the house the following year. He talked to us about the owner, and about the house and about . . . you know what? It didn't matter what we were talking about. The point was that I was going to stand there talking to this very nice man until he invited us in to see the house. I know this fact is not pretty, but there it is. And, finally, he did. Mission accomplished, but now Billy and I were both suffering from house-lust.


We talked about the house all the way back to our rental house, and I broached the subject of Christmas. My mom was stable then, but family holidays were pau (see previous post for definition of this Hawaiian word. Oh, never mind, it means  done, finished, over). I not only saw us at this house, I also saw us celebrating Christmas Eve at the Mission. I have never been to a Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Could my first be in Carmel, at the lovely Mission Basilica with the awe-inspiring acoustics and choir? Billy, who, if caught at the right time, can operate out of the creed happy wife, happy life, and who, not incidentally, loves Carmel just as much as I do, immediately agreed to a six-week rental which would get us in before Christmas, if the property was available. When we phoned the owner, he told us that the time was fine, and that 800 thread-count bed linens would be on the beds by then. He requested that we send him a deposit. And, the deal was done.


Now, I should let you know that, even though I insinuated myself into being invited into this house, we were not overly nosy about it. We took a quick spin, in and out in less than five. So when we arrived here Saturday night, just a few minutes before midnight, we discovered that the house wasn't exactly what we remembered. It was better.


But, back to the getting-on-the-road part of the story. Sparing you details, let me just write that Saturday was a heinous, evil day. At one point, I dissolved into tears in front of my mother's caregiver. Throughout this really miserable day, I kept thinking . . . if we could just GO. Our rental wasn't to commence until Sunday the 18th, but we knew the house was ready for us. I had suggested to Billy that maybe we could drive up Saturday night. If we arrived that night, at 12:01, it was Sunday, right? Billy was working all day, but he thought it was possible. On Friday, I didn't think so, but by Saturday afternoon, I thought that, just maybe, we could do this.


Billy arrived home just after five o'clock, and at exactly 5:59 we drove down our driveway. We tuned our radio to KPCC; Prairie Home Companion was just starting, and we were on our way up Highway 101, the former Camino Real mission trail, towards Carmel. It was a miracle.


We stopped at In and Out in Santa Maria for animal-style burgers and fries. Then, back on the road. At eleven o'clock we turned off onto Highway 68, and a short while later came down Ocean Avenue into town. The first thing we saw was the enormous tree which is at the top of town, on the median of that street. It was decorated in red, green, and white lights, with its trunk wrapped in red lights. And all the other trees and shrubbery on that street divider all through the town's center were draped in white fairy lights. Ooohhhh look! -- we both exclaimed. Bruno's Market had Happy Holidays in lights on their roof. Many of the storefronts were trimmed with white lights. It was magical.


Although we were tired, we drove down to the beach, then wound our way back through town. We picked up the Monterey Herald, a Carmel Pine Cone, a Carmel Magazine, and a few real estate magazines (Billy) from a newspaper dispenser/stand. Then, we found the house.


We didn't get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. But when we awoke on Sunday, we were in Carmel, in this beautiful house, and we were mostly unpacked. Billy took off for a long walk, and I made it to 11:00 Mass at the Mission. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. The altar was filled with poinsettias, and carols were sung with the choir. We had arrived.


Being in Carmel, calls to mind Dickens' A Christmas Carol. After coming from a nightmare day in LA, then waking up here, in this village next to the sea, I want to cry out -- God bless us everyone!  But instead, I will wish you a happy and merry holiday, be it Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice --whatever you celebrate. And, once more, in this holiday season, I thank you for reading my blog. Merry Christmas!

Skating

Los Angeles, California


It's time for a recipe. And I will get to that, down below. However, if you're expecting haute cuisine (but why would you be, here?), you should exit, stage left, pronto. This post isn't about what we take in, at least not food-wise. 


Thanksgiving has come and gone. It was good. We gratefully accepted an invitation to break bread, and turkey, with our friends, Bonnie and Marty. In reverse order of importance: their home is beautiful; the food was fab; other guests were interesting and friendly; we felt warmly welcomed. No small thing when you are changing out holiday celebrations. We spent the afternoon with my mom. Her caregivers, who we think are heaven-sent, took her to afternoon dinner in the dining room of her retirement facility. Hard to write that, but it was ok. Especially for her.


For many years we spent Thanksgiving on the road. Our family celebrated Thanksgiving at a relative's home in Long Beach. After 1998, it was our job to collect the widows -- my mom and aunt, who lived at diagonal opposite ends of the Valley where we live on a middle edge. This was cheerfully done, more or less, though it meant we were on the road for hours -- one year, exactly five. We could have driven to Carmel. But it was my family's Thanksgiving, and we have always been pitchers-in. Plus, I always looked forward to this first holiday celebration which kicked off the season. I enjoyed being with my family. And I miss them.


However, apart from the heavy commute, the unfortunate thing about this annual Thanksgiving celebration was that the relative hosting it was not open to adding anyone in to the celebration -- even those we call splinter relatives, the ones not exactly on the main branches of the family tree. And, like the Shakers, we are a barren lot -- there were no babies who grew to children who grew to adults through the years, either. No cousins' table. Once I asked if I could bring along a friend who was freshly separated from her husband. No, was the reply, to which was added, I don't have enough matching wineglasses. I offered to bring wineglasses, but it wasn't a problem that welcomed fixing. As a result, Thanksgiving turned into a tontine with the older guests disappearing from the table at the end of their lives, including, first, my father, then my favorite aunt. I had promised Billy that when my mom was gone and we were down to four, we would stop going. It was getting more depressing by the year, with the numbers diminishing and the dining room looking dim and brown, like something from Arsenic and Old Lace. Then, something unexpected happened. One of our generation died, and shortly after, my mom needed to move to a retirement village. The Long Beach relatives didn't want to host Thanksgiving that year. And that, was that.


During the years when we carpooled the ladies there, we would sometimes leave my mom in Long Beach to spend the weekend with the relatives. When we left to take my aunt home, she and I always rode in the back seat, talking all the way home. Billy would act as chauffeur. Once we dropped her off at her pretty house in Toluca Lake, we would head for home. Our route took us past St. Charles Borromeo, the Catholic church that Bob Hope and Bing Crosby attended (and helped build) while they lived in Toluca Lake. On the ride home from my aunt's, now late on Thanksgiving evening, I would take A Charlie Brown Christmas from it's jewel case and insert it into the CD player in Billy's car. The first hearing of Christmas music (except in stores since mid-October!). It was our tradition.


I like A Charlie Brown Christmas. I like the spirit of it. I like most of the Vince Guaraldi music. But the main reason why I listen to it is for the tune, Skating. I love this. I have told Billy that if I am ever in a coma, this is what he should play next to my bedside over and over again. It will bring me back to this earth. It's not just the title, though, as a former figure skater, I do like the title. But more than that, I love the evocative nature of it. It does sound like skating -- something that I loved to do beyond anything else in my childhood.


My family started listening to this music back when I was growing up. We also listened to To Wish You a Merry Christmas by Harry Belafonte. Music is, and always was, an important part of the holidays for me. My parents never watched much TV, and so there was often music on in our home. My dad had built our stereo system. Fine fun for a former radio engineer who ended up in aerospace. The receiver tubes were all exposed behind a cabinet door, and I remember once placing a stack of records on top of these tubes where they melted into something that looked like it could be found in outer space. My dad wasn't angry (even though I was taking HIS records off to put MINE on). I had often seen him do this, but hadn't understood that you couldn't do it when the tubes were hot.


I had a similar lack of understanding when I once put a Playdoh ashtray, which I had made for my grandfather's pipe, into the kitchen oven to fire, as I had seen done in school (but with, uh, real clay). The Playdoh dripped through the rack and into a smelly pool at the bottom of my mother's new oven (which came with her new kitchen). Not a similar response to my dad's, when I melted the records. My mother dissolved into hysterical tears, railed at the Gods and asked what was to become of a dangerous person like me? Parents. You really get the yin and the yang there.


But back to Skating, and Christmas music. For the first time in, well, forever, we have not put up a Christmas tree. And, for the first time in, also forever, we will be spending Christmas away from home. We will be in Carmel. Neither Billy nor I have ever spent Christmas anywhere away from Los Angeles. As in, never. We do have some Christmas decorations placed around our house right now, but even those will be packed up and taken up to Carmel. We plan on buying a small tree there, and a wreath. I'm bringing Christmas tableware-- napkins and place mats, and some of our collection of large Christmas mugs which appear the day after Thanksgiving and disappear the day after New Year's.


All our Christmas music will come with us -- CDs and iPod. It wouldn't seem like Christmas without it all, and, of course, without Skating. And, maybe too, there will be actual skating. I haven't laced on skates since I was just out of college, and that's a couple of decades without being in boots and balancing on blades. But I still carry the feeling within me. It's one of the reasons why I love salsa dance. A couple of my partners in salsa know how to spin both of us around quite fast. One of them, Marvin, does this the best. It's the one move that gives me that feeling of wind-in-my-hair flying that I loved the most about skating. That, and your first glide onto the rink from the boards. Feeling the smoothness, or not so smoothness, under your blades. Getting your skates under you, and your body accustomed to the familiar feeling of it all. Whoosh . . .


But now (lots of digressions here), back to that small tree which we plan on buying in Carmel. We won't have many decorations. I have some tiny Italian rooster pitchers, and also Emile Henry pitchers in various colors. They will go on the tree with ribbon, and maybe we will even string popcorn -- one of the very few things I am able to do with a needle and thread. And if we do string popcorn, we will pop some extra for eating. Because one of the things I like almost as much as Skating (and skating) is popcorn. Yes, I know, I'm afraid that's it for this post. I should be ashamed. But, it IS a really good popcorn recipe. I gave up on microwave popcorn at least a decade or so back. This is so much better:


Casa Healy Popcorn


1 tablespoon chili or red pepper olive oil*
1/2 cup good-quality popcorn**
salt (or flavored salt), only if desired


Heat olive oil in 2-quart saucepan over medium heat. I find lighter-weight pans work best. I've tried this in my Le Creuset with lesser success than a plain stainless steel one. And I like a glass lid so I can watch the magic.


In a minute or so, when the oil is beginning to really heat, throw in your popcorn. Place a lid, cocked to allow for steam to escape. When corn starts to pop, gently move/shake pan over the burner. Keep lid very slightly cocked, or hot kernels will find a way to fly out. When popping slows down, take pan off burner and let the popping continue until it is just about stopped (invariably a couple of late boomers will pop while you are pouring the popcorn into a serving container). I use two baskets lined with cloth napkins or paper towels, depending on mood, or the movie we've chosen to watch. They are of differing sizes. I get the largest one. It just happens that way in our house, where popcorn is concerned.


*I've used both Consorzio Roasted Pepper olive oil, and Lucini Fiery Chili Extra Virgin Olive Oil. I've also tried it with Asian chili oil which is way too hot. I learned how to mix that with regular olive oil to tame it. I've also made this with lemon olive oil or a mix of the lemon and chili.


**I like White Cat Corn which I used to purchase at Williams-Sonoma, but they no longer carry it there, at least in my area. I did without for awhile, then found it at Whole Foods on a treasure hunt. More about treasure hunts in a later post . . .


So there it is. The belated first December post complete with music, family remembrances (both good and bad as they always seem to be), skating, and popcorn. A virtual potpourri of what is swirling around me as I begin to pack for Carmel. Hope your holidays (whatever they are) are warm. Hope they are merry and bright. Hope we skate through to a New Year with much happiness, and peace. See you in Carmel and thanks for reading my blog!

Wild Kingdom

Los Angeles, California


Billy was over at the rental house a couple of weekends ago, and I was left with the chore of doing the outside watering. Our house is comprised of four quadrants of areas which have potted plants requiring occasional deep-watering (insert hose, let drip into pot for ten minutes utilizing timer, move hose). Why all of these pots are not on a drip system, I know not. Someday maybe they will be. The project list is long.


Anyway, as I was saying, I grabbed the hose from the garage and began to walk out across the driveway toward a large pot which contains a red bougainvillea. The pot is nestled into a corner of the retaining wall that supports our back hill. There is a square bump out in this wall, where we have a Meyer lemon tree, and that creates the corner where the pot resides at the top of our driveway (there is also a front hill). Got that? So . . . as I approached the pot, I could see the ground behind it, where some leaves and dead bracts had accumulated. And I also saw . . . the snake. The funny thing was that it registered as Oh, a snake. And I continued my approach. Then my brain hollered A SNAKE!!! I made a hasty decision (despite the pounding of my heart, and burning desire to drop the hose and swiftly escape) to woman-up and water the thirsty plant. As I got closer, the snake, evidently, sensed my presence and moved towards the corner of the wall, then proceeded (ok, here it comes: EEUUUWW . . .) to slither up the wall under the rosemary that trails over the wall (again, eeuuwww) and disappear. Shudder, shudder, shudder.


I don't like snakes. Even small garter snakes, as this one appeared to be. We live in the foothill suburbs of Los Angeles, and share our neighborhood with owls, hawks, lizards, squirrels, mice, rats, opossums, rabbits, coyotes, and, until recently, one mountain lion (Officer Trulik reported this at a Neighborhood Watch meeting -- evidently they track the mountain lions and they know, to some extent, where they are). Unfortunately for our one mountain lion, he tried one of those Rusty's-in-the-club crossings of the 405 freeway, and didn't quite survive his initiation.


We see many of these animals, especially lizards and squirrels. After we lost our beloved Australian Shepherd, the bunnies showed up within about forty-eight hours. Word travels fast in the animal world. Billy told me early on that where there are rodents, there will be snakes. I suppose I thought that was fine, as long as I didn't see any of them. But now I have, and I fear that the one I saw may have been a scout.


Billy has sole responsibility for any lizards who get into the house. I'm not up to the task of capturing them, and neither is Ana, who helps us with housekeeping. But I have responsibility for relocating spiders. Billy hates them, but for some reason, I don't mind them so much. Maybe it's the Charlotte's Web thing. Though a voracious reader throughout my childhood and adolescence, I don't recall reading a lot of children's classics, except Alice in Wonderland. Then, in college, I took a class entitled Children's Literature; also known as Kiddie Lit. And that was when I read Charlotte's Web, and when I first read the wonderful Wind in the Willows.


But, let's get back to the spiders. If Billy is left to his own devices, his method for dealing with a spider who has made the ill-advised decision to share our home, is to take off his shoe and smash the poor thing wherever he stands -- like on a freshly-painted wall, for example. This bothers me on three counts:


1) Let the poor thing live. Spiders are beneficial insects. They eat the bugs that you really don't want around the house.


2) If you need to get rid of a yucky bug, you man-up and use a tissue or two: grab bug with tissue wad; deposit in toilet; flush twice (am I the only person who pays attention to the education provided in early Woody Allen films?)


3) Uh, hello . . . big smeary spot on the wall?


So, I get to do spider duty. The way I handle this is like so: I ignore them. But if I have to, I relocate them to the garden. Seriously. As long as they don't get into my bed and bite me, I pretty much let the garden spiders live. We do have black widows in California. They can give a nasty, poisonous bite. But honestly, I've never met or even personally heard of anyone who has been bitten by a black widow, and neither has Billy (I just asked him). So, it would seem to me that the risk is not large (about akin to children eating toadstools, and oh my, isn't this turning into a Halloweenesque post? Charles Addams has nothing on this girl!).


So I might as well tell you my spider story. A few months back I was doing some feeding of plants using a large watering can. The liquid wasn't coming through the spout easily, so I peered inside the spout and saw that there was debris blocking the hole. The watering cans are mostly of the attractive Smith & Hawken variety which I leave outside, displayed in picturesque fashion (I can hear throwing up as a result of this quaint visual. Sorry.). As a result, leaves and other debris sometimes collect inside the watering cans. In this case, the debris had been forced a bit out of the spout by the liquid, so I was able to grasp it with my fingers and pull it out. As I did this, it started to move between my fingers, and I realized that it was a very large spider. Even with my generally benevolent attitude towards spiders, this was a bit much: drop watering can; go into house; wash hands; get gardening gloves out of drawer; take deep breath; return to garden.


Truth is, if you're going to maintain a garden, sometimes you're going to come into contact with the wildlife. Generally I don't mind the spiders. And I always enjoy the discovery of a prehistoric-looking praying mantis in my garden. My father pointed one out to me when I was young, and told me never to destroy them -- a childhood experience which reminds me of To Kill A Mockingbird. My dad moved his finger next to the praying mantis, and it turned its head to look at it. Did you see that? my dad asked. And I always stop to appreciate these creatures when I see them in my garden, and I always think about my dad.


Dad was the only male and official spider-killer in our family home. And maybe that's why I stepped up to the plate as an adult. Though I usually don't kill them, I'm not that kind with other critters I find in my garden. I dispose quickly of any grasshoppers I can catch. They can eat their way through a patch of basil and go on to strip leaves from a rosebush in record time. A plague of locusts! They go out of my garden the moment I get my hands on them. Snails, too. I can be ruthless.


I don't know if snakes are creatures of habit, but I do now check that spot behind the pot every single time I am out on the driveway. And, I'm a little cautious about approaching any pot which creates a good hiding place for slithering creatures. My friend, Joan, who had a large ranch up in the Santa Ynez Valley once told me that she thought it was all the mythology about snakes which create our animosity towards them. You know, the serpent in the origins of Judeo-Christian tradition. Could be. I just know I don't like them, and am probably in pretty good company in that. Snakes, Indiana Jones said. Why does it always have to be snakes? And even though it was the first snake I had seen in fifteen years of living here, that was exactly what I thought.


Happy November from the wild kingdom, and thank you for reading my blog.

Exception to the Rule

Los Angeles, California


While life has been kinda sorta difficult of late, I do take heart in what I see around me. Fall has arrived, and there are pumpkins about, including a perfectly-shaped one, about the size of a cantaloupe, which is sitting on my front porch. If you've been following along (and really, why are you doing this, I ask you?) you might know that I love this season. My birthday falls smack in the middle of it, which kicks off a progression of celebrations I love, including Halloween and Christmas. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.


I know I've let everyone know that I've been a bit blue, so I'm going to cheer things right up by getting on to the topic at hand which is . . . my funeral. Now don't be alarmed. I don't think it's right around the corner, though frankly, one never knows. I've written and said to a lot of people lately that I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel; the tunnel being all the work that we have been doing on our rental property and in the care of my mom. On the other hand, I like to add, it could be a train coming right at me at full speed. But seriously, the issue at hand isn't when my funeral will be, but rather, what will be served, because, really, as with all things in life, it's all about the party. Billy and I once tried to have the cremation vs. burial discussion, but I just couldn't choose an option that felt, well, comforting,. Finally I told him that if I went first, he should make the decision and just . . . surprise me. One thing I do feel quite strongly about, however, is the food served to my mourners (the two or three of them). I once wrote a wake into a novel I finally finished, and it was exactly what I envisioned for myself. Well-dressed people milling about holding cocktails and/or champagne (yes, both, always) with lots of good finger food. OK, I know I'm describing a scene in The Big Chill, only I had eliminated those '80s hairstyles. Truthfully, it's not so much about what is served, so much as what is NOT served. I don't want casseroles at my funeral, but I don't really trust Billy to block them at the door. He's just too easy about these things. And, frankly, his family hails from Minnesota which is the center of the tuna hot dish universe, as anyone who knows their Garrison Keillor could tell you. So, not trusting Billy on this, I have placed some of my fristers on alert. What kind of food do you want? one of them asked. Real food. I've got the hate on for casseroles because I grew up eating them. Not a fond memory . . . mostly. However, I do want to make one exception (not to the no-casseroles-at-my-funeral rule, but to the above statement that I don't have pleasant memories of any casseroles).


That exception is Tamale Pie. And the truth be told, it is a guilty pleasure, as it isn't made with very good ingredients. A lot of it comes from cans. And then there is the ground beef. I suppose it could be modded up somehow, but why? It's Tamale Pie. It was what my mom used to make for Halloween. And I still make it occasionally. I know I'm dancing around here on a filament of rationalization, but the truth is, that's the funny thing about food. Sometimes we like things that don't make sense with our food philosophy. And, this is one of those times (Big Chill again).


Tamale Pie


2    tablespoons canola oil
1    onion, chopped
1    lb. lean ground beef
1/2 teaspoon salt
1    15 oz. can of fire-roasted tomatoes, chopped
1     tablespoons chili powder*
1     teaspoon ground cumin
1/4  teaspoon oregano
dash of Tabasco
1      clove of garlic, minced
1      15-oz. can corn
1      15-oz can pitted, ripe olives
2      cups yellow cornmeal
2      eggs, lightly beaten
1      cup whole milk


In large skillet, saute onion in oil until soft. Add beef, and salt, allow to brown up a bit. Add tomatoes, chili powder, cumin, oregano (crushed up by rubbing between your palms), and Tabasco. Simmer 20 minutes. Add garlic, corn, and olives. Let cool.


Combine cornmeal with eggs and milk. Add to cooled meat mixture. Pour into casserole (I use a square baking dish which is about 10x10, but don't dare hold me to that measurement).


Bake at 350 degrees, 30-40 minutes. Serve with Tamale Pie Sauce (see below).




Tamale Pie Sauce


1   15-oz. can tomato sauce
1    cup water
1/2 teaspoon salt
2    tablespoons canola oil
2    tablespoons chili powder*
1    tablespoon cornstarch
2    tablespoons water


Combine first six ingredients in saucepan and blend with a whisk. Heat over medium low heat. Combine cornstarch and water. Blend into hot sauce. Cook until it bubbles and thickens to consistency of enchilada sauce (mas o menos).


*Note: I use Gebhardt chili powder, which dates back to my earliest apartment shared with girlfriends. There are fancier chili powders on the market and you should feel free to experiment here. A chipotle-based one would add some smokiness to the recipe, which would be a particularly nice addition to the sauce.


All you need with this is a salad; greens tossed with pumpkin seeds, slivered dry, aged Monterey jack cheese, and a sprinkle of pomegranate seeds would be nice. The casserole is, well, a bit stodgy as Nigella Lawson might say. So serve it with something less so. We always had mini Snickers bars for dessert on Halloween. The Halloween house treat of choice.


Now here's the thing about this recipe: It's really not very good. I mean, it's ok. But it may very well fall into what Billy calls Spaghetti-O's Territory. One of those tastes of childhood, which when revisited, isn't at all what you remember. This can also happen with movies, but that's a whole 'nother post. On the other hand, I didn't make this for years, and when I wanted to make it again, I got the recipe from a sibling -- a sibling who is notorious for fussing around with recipes, adding way too many disharmonious seasonings, often to the detriment of the dish. I want to say that the original recipe may have come from Joy of Cooking, and I do have a copy of that cookbook around here somewhere. But I am faithfully recreating the recipe as I last made it in late October. It's not bad, just not as good as I remembered. So, here is my challenge to you. Try it. And please leave me a comment if you do. Let me know what you think, and, if you like, throw me some suggestions for improvement. If I hear nothing, I'll assume it's a dud. This happens in Spaghetti-O's Territory. Sometimes you're better off with the Proustian experience of just remembering when, while enjoying a couple of Mallomars. After all, it's Mallomar season. And, you can always count on them not to disappoint. So, thank you for reading my blog. It's November already! Can you believe it?

Octoberfest?

Los Angeles, California


Life ain't been easy. There has been no salsa dancing in my life for several weeks. Cooking has been a last-minute affair at best. And, well, you can see how writing is going. This is my first blog post this month. So much for the big three (if you don't know what I'm talking about you can find out by reading previous posts, available here, for free!).


For those of you following along (and, for the love of heaven, why would you be?), life at Casa Healy is currently about caring for my mother, who has just been discharged from a skilled nursing facility after seven weeks, and trying to put our rental property right, after a deranged tenant (ok, I exaggerate, he was only a degenerate slob) destroyed it. Frankly, one could say there is very little life at Casa Healy.


But, in spite of all of this, I had to, HAD TO, get in at least one post in this month of October. It is, after all, my very favorite month. And, my birthday month. But what to write about? A recipe is due, but forget about it. You won't find that here, not now. Interesting anecdotes? Not so many. What to write about . . . what to write about?


And then. And then I went to Trader Joe's. Now, I had just been to Trader Joe's, say, maybe last week. But, they had thrown the Fearless Flyer into one of my shopping bags, and I read it, cover-to-cover, when I got home. I realized I'd missed a couple of things: like Halloween Joe-Joe's (knock-off Oreos shaped like Jack O'Lanterns with orange-colored filling); frozen Vietnamese Pho (I know, I know, we're not about frozen food, except right now we are). And Mango-Chile Popsicles, a new addiction of Billy's. And Buttermilk Biscuits in a tube (seriously, have I no shame for revealing this?). And Crispy Spicy Chicken Wings. I resisted the frozen onion rings, which really are pretty good. But was unable to resist my own renewed addiction to Red Tail Ale.


I couldn't fit the Red Tail Ale six-pack into the shopping cart (I also had flowers and a potted rose for my mom taking up a lot of room), so I was carrying it in one hand, while trying to maneuver my cart, backwards, down a narrow aisle in the wine section of the store. Did I mention the aisle was narrow? I ran my cart, a mere glancing blow, into a display of Oktoberfest Authentic Bavarian Festival Lager. Big bottles. Stacked high. Top-heavy. Am I making my point? They started to sway, then they started to pitch over. I only had one hand free (Red Tail Ale) which didn't help in rectifying a swaying city of beer. In retrospect, I thought it was kinda like bowling pins. Except they weren't on the floor. Yet. Crash and splash. Yes, I broke at least two of them, in a loud explosion of beer. But you know Trader Joe's. Someone was right there, no problem, happens all the time, don't worry about it. I was mortified. I apologized over and over (still holding my six-pack of Red). Then I scurried away like that rat in the Harry Potter books.


In the checkout line, the checker inquired whether I had found everything I was looking for. I responded that yes I had and I had also knocked over a display of beer and was so sorry for that . . . etc. (there's no stopping me). The bagger and the checker assured me that this was no problem, happens all the time, don't worry about it. Jeez. They're so nice, it's like they welcome you to go and have another whack at it. Feel free. I paid for my stuff, slunk out of the store  and wheeled it all out to my car.


Then, as I was loading three bags of Trader Joe's good stuff into my trunk, I noticed something that I hadn't recalled putting into my cart. Yep. It was a bottle of Oktoberfest Lager. Evidently, in addition to the ones that toppled over, and the ones that broke on the floor, one bottle had made a run for it . . . right into my cart. Nice, soft flowers had cushioned it's fall. So, there by the trunk of my car, I had an LOL moment, which is rare and welcomed these days. 


When I unloaded the bags at home, I smiled at the hitchhiking bottle before I stowed it in the fridge. Lager happens, I thought. Or, more accurately, into each life a little lager must fall. Not bad for a cosmic message. So, to all of you, celebrate October, have a Happy Halloween and thank you for reading my blog. Back on track in November, so help me!

Beginnings

Los Angeles, California


Though not yet at two thousand posts, I feel it's time to reiterate my blog mission statement. Except, I don't have a blog mission statement. When I started WWSD, I made a flexible commitment to myself that I would write at least two posts each month. I would include a recipe in roughly every other post. The recipe part came about as I was following a rather famous food blog, which is this one, and I had some inclination towards homage (polite term for blatant imitation) of it. Then, of course, there was the advice angle -- presenting some moral, ethical, practical, whathaveyou, problem and postulating what Sandra would do about it. Interesting, but could I always be accurate in what I presented? And, God forbid, what if someone acted on my advice, even if it was unsolicited? Probably not a good thing. So, blogwise, that leaves salsa dance. But writing about an activity, any activity, is just not the same as doing it. Though that hasn't really stopped me from writing about it (there's no stopping me . . . don't even try, I'll just drag you down with me). And one more, I think very important, thing. I wanted my posts to be humorous. At least most of the time. And, therein, lies the crux of the problem of writing this post.


These days, I'm just not in a funny mood. Without going into much detail, and thereby losing the remaining readers who didn't peel off in previous posts or the last paragraph, Billy and I are plain, damn tired at the moment. Billy's been working ten hour days, each weekend, at our rental property, trying to repair all the damage done by our evicted tenant. I've been running back and forth, daily, to the rehab facility where my mom has been placed, and which is not close to us. Between time, regular life and regular work continue, after a fashion. Following a sorta kinda busy summer, with lots of recreation and celebration, we find ourselves pretty much stuck, with our pair of noses to the grindstone. I don't mind the work. In college, when I was working two jobs and carrying seventeen units, I wrote in an independent study journal that I could take on anything as long as I knew that there was a finite end to it. And, more or less, there will be an end to both of these things -- the house will be rented; my mom will be placed in assisted care, and I will eventually cut back on the daily visits to her. But, right now, we're both exhausted all of the time. There just isn't enough time to recoup our resources. And that makes it difficult for me to attempt to be funny (attempt, because even though I think I'm being humorous at times, I may be the only one who is laughing . . .).


Now, to switch to another subject, today is the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Even though I am not Jewish, I have many friends who are, including my close frister, Diana. She once told me that I was welcome to observe Rosh Hashanah, even if I'm not Jewish (perhaps this is reformationist thinking?). Anyway, her philosophy of this is that everyone should get two start-overs for the year. First Rosh Hashanah, then January 1st. I like this idea, and, especially since I am not a big fan of New Year's Eve, I like the idea of a start-over in Autumn. Fall has always had that new-beginning feeling related to the change of season, and I suppose, the new school year. I also like what I read this morning on a blog I sometimes visit, which is called goop. This was written by Michael Berg, who is a Kabbalah scholar and author. He writes that an . . . important connection is how we think and behave during Rosh Hashanah . . . we should act in only ways of sharing, forgiveness and care. No anger, no doubt, no jealousy, no sadness, at least for these two days. How we are during these two days will influence the next 363. A worthy goal, indeed. And perhaps my observation of this could be in the form of thinking of these friends of mine who check up on me, and send me good thoughts, and have given me an education in Yiddish that is part of my daily vocabulary (and more often than not, the only word that fits a situation -- these days, in particular, farklemt). And to wish them all peace and grace in the year to come.


As for my year to come, I hope to get back to the mission of my blog. I hope to send comfort food recipes out, and humorous anecdotes. I would like to veer away from the collective groan I imagine I hear, when readers land on a post and find my mood hovering over them like a gray cloud. Not my intent, I must assure you. It's just the nature of things at the moment.


So, in the spirit of chasing my blues away, let me close by sharing a story regarding my friend, Susan. For a long time, Larry and Susan were our movie buddies. On Saturday nights, we often went together to see a film, and to dinner afterwards. Often L&S picked the movie, as Billy and I were either too busy or too stupid to read reviews regularly (NPR has helped a lot on this front, but now we're too busy or too stupid to get outselves out to see movies...). Now, the really good thing about that arrangement, was that we often saw films we probably wouldn't have seen on our own. One of those was a film entitled Golden Door, written and directed by Emanuele Crialese, about Italian immigrants coming to the US around the turn of the twentieth century. It depicted a horrific crossing with graphic scenes of turbulence and strife. In the style of a Bertolucci film, the scenes were visually panoramic and lengthy. The steerage-class immigrants were thrown out of their bunks during an interminable storm which ravaged their primitive quarters. Passengers were injured, and inconsolable. A baby died and had to be buried at sea. This was a brutal, rough crossing. But near the end of their passage, there were these wondrous scenes which included scores of nude men in communal showers, and a multitude of women in a line, one behind the other, combing and pinning each other's hair. And more scenes followed, showing all of these bathed and coiffed men and women dressing -- obviously putting on their poor, shabby-best clothing to greet the new world. At this point, Susan, who was sitting next to me, leaned toward me and whispered . . . Looks like tonight's the Captain's dinner . . .


I laughed till I cried. And that is one of my favorite things to do. Wishing that for you all in this new beginning of the Autumn season. And to those of you celebrating, Shana Tova. And thank you for reading my blog.

Anniversaries

Los Angeles, California


My mom started taking us on a Girls' Cruise each summer, starting back in 1995. That first cruise to the Caribbean was transformational, as both my sister and I started off not liking the experience at all. This just isn't my thing, my sister said to me just a day or so out of Miami. I suspect I replied, me neither. But as the days went by, we were seduced into the relaxation of traveling on what was, essentially, a moving hotel, and we kinda sorta started to enjoy ourselves. As the years passed and we cruised each summer, we learned to zig when the rest of the passengers were zagging. We learned to stake out opposite ends of the ship from where activities were going on. We learned to return to the ship early, when most people were still ashore. We found the adult pool. But, in truth, even that first year, we got into the cruise experience, even as we began to adapt it to fit us. Good grief, I said to my sister at one point. We'll probably be playing bingo by the end of the trip. Can't remember if that happened. But, it might have . . .


One of the best things about that first trip was that we made friends with two of our table mates. They were also a mother and daughter traveling together. We went on to cruise three more times with them, and, the daughter, Diana, and her husband, Brendan, are now both close friends, and our favorite house guests who come to stay each July 4th.


I think my favorite of what turned out to be about a dozen of these trips was in 2001, when we cruised to the island of Bermuda out of New York Harbor. We flew to New York on Delta, in first class -- this when first class more closely approximated, well, first class. The day before we left, my friend, Max, sent me an email from New York, writing that the weather was going to be beautiful -- around 80 degrees with puffy clouds and a light breeze. And it was. We stayed at The Essex House on Central Park South, and after unpacking, I suggested that during the three days we would be in New York, we might make a plan to do a lot of touristy things. And that is what we did. We had coffee (tea for me) and a bagel or pastry each morning from a kiosk in Central Park. My sister and I walked all through the park on at least one of the days, coming out on the west side where we walked past both The Dakota and Lincoln Center. We went to see the renovated Grand Central Station and ate lunch at The Oyster Bar there. We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and toured the Jackie Kennedy Onassis exhibition of her wardrobe collection (a very girly thing to do). We had drinks in the Rainbow Room at the top of Rockefeller Center (30 Rock), and had dinner at Tavern on the Green. We saw a Broadway show, and had a late dinner afterwards at Esca. My sister and I walked a significant portion of Park Avenue, and ducked into both St. Patrick's Cathedral, and (veering over to Lexington) Bloomingdale's. On our last morning, it rained. We took a cab to the harbor and boarded The Nordic Empress.


Now, the Nordic Empress had experienced an engine fire during a cruise just a few weeks before ours. It was out of commission while repairs were completed (or almost completed, as it would not run on all engines while we were aboard -- which meant it was a slow boat to Bermuda). While it was being repaired at King's Wharf in Bermuda, the entire crew were given a week's shore leave. They still resided on board, and ostensibly became passengers. They ate in the passenger dining rooms, lounged around the pools, and were entertained in the theatre each evening by the on board performers. In other words, they were serendipitously brought out of their chronic exhausted state. We were on the second cruise after the ship resumed service, and that crew was rested and HAPPY. That was when we learned that a happy crew makes for even happier passengers. We called it the little ship that could, because it was a ship on the small side (Bermuda limits the number of ships that can visit at one time, and the number of passengers on those ships). It took us a full day and half to get to Bermuda, and our first port was King's Wharf. After a day or so, our ship moved over to dock at Hamilton, and that was where I fell in love. No, it wasn't a crew member (this was not the cruise where we had the attractive Turkish waiter named Ishmael), it was Bermuda, the most beautiful island I've ever seen. And, by the way, I've seen a lot of islands -- Moorea, Bora Bora, Mallorca, Sardinia, Cozumel, and almost all of those in both the Hawaiian and Caribbean chains. I've been to Prince Edward Island, and Friday Harbor, and do I even need to mention Catalina? I've even been to what was once called Christmas Island (famous to those of you who are fans of the Andrews Sisters -- are there any of you out there?) which is now part of the Republic of Kiribati. I mean, seriously, I collect islands. And Bermuda has all of them beat. The combination of an ocean that is the clearest color of turquoise that I have ever seen, with the pink sand and pastel, white-roofed houses, and the abundant red and purple bougainvillea means that everywhere you look is a visual explosion of color. And all those knees! Yes, businessmen wear suit jackets, shirts, ties, and Bermuda shorts to work. You see this everywhere, and I think I was always smiling because of it. Hamilton was like a combination of Lahaina, Cornwall, and the Caribbean (Bermuda is not Caribbean and the climate is not classified tropical but rather temperate, like the Mediterranean). What, I mean to ask you, WHAT is there not to like about this place?


A few days later we cruised back into New York Harbor, the same way we had cruised out a week earlier -- past the Statue of Liberty, past lower Manhattan, which reminded us of the aerial view at the beginning of the movie West Side Story. Past the World Trade Center towers. It was late July, 2001.


We returned to New York again in 2004 -- a very different trip. At that time, we made a pilgrimage to Ground Zero. We got out of the cab at St. Paul's Chapel, the small Episcopal church across from the site. Immediately, you could smell the residual smoke. Visiting Ground Zero was controversial. Some people felt that if you went there, you were contributing to it being turned into a tourist site, and it was, frankly appalling to see people hawking tee shirts and the like there. But visiting the church where George Washington had once attended services, and the volunteer rescue workers and firemen had gone for rest and respite, meant a lot to me. And, I had to see where the towers had been. In spite of what we all saw on TV, in some sense I could not accept that the soaring edifice, that Billy and I and our friend, Curt, had gone to the top of when we were in New York together in the late '90s to attend a wedding, could simply cease to exist. I just couldn't conceptualize this, until I saw where they had been.


Last Sunday, on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, Billy and I had dinner with the friends with whom we had traveled to New York for that wedding back in the late 90s. We couldn't think of a better way to spend that evening than with old friends. And, it kept us away from the TV -- always a good thing, but, we thought, even better on that night.


A lot has changed. Ok, you could say everything has changed. Certainly, travel will never feel as secure as when we flew to New York that summer before 9/11. And neither will our sensibility about the safety and cohesiveness of life, in general. The Girls' Cruises ceased in 2004, ironically after a return to Bermuda with our mother-daughter friends whom we had met on our first cruise. Emma, the mother of my friend, Diana, has since passed away. My sister, whom I had to convince (beg) to not disappoint our mom by refusing to go on a cruise each summer, has ceased all communication with me, ostensibly so that she doesn't have to help, in any way, with my mom's care. And my mom is now in a skilled nursing facility. She has dementia.


Perhaps, on an anniversary like this, besides mourning the loss of lives, the greatest lesson of 9/11 is to acknowledge what is important, and who is precious in our lives. I've written a lot about passion and how I feel about cooking, dancing, and writing. But, while I do have that fire for those things, they are still just pastimes. My diminished family, my mom, my friends, and in particular, my fristers, AND BILLY are who and what I cherish the most in this changed world. How many of those individuals who perished on 9/11 used their cell phones to reach out one last time to those who were most important to them? We are admonished to never forget, and the importance of that almost goes without saying. But along with not forgetting, I try to not take for granted all that I have in this good life. I remember feeling helpless after 9/11, and finally realizing that it was because I felt I couldn't make a change in a situation so large. But what I could do was make a difference in my circle. That I could make a greater effort to be kind, patient, and generous in my community, and in my home. I always try to think about balance. And, as this anniversary passes, and I think about the pervasive darkness it recalls, I try to balance that with the light: family, friendship, compassion, and tolerance for those who are different from us. I am a long way from achieving this balance, for anger and frustration reside within me. But when I am feeling those emotions, I try very hard to think about what is meant, in a larger sense, by love. I want to believe that maybe the Beatles were right. Maybe, in the last analysis, it really may be  . . . all you need. Wouldn't that be something . . . Never forget. And, thank you for reading my blog.

Taped to the wall of FDNY Engine 10/Ladder 10

Ground Zero - 2004

Danger UXBarbecue Sauce

Los Angeles, California


Yes, there's been lots of fun this summer. But it hasn't all been fun. There have been a couple of breaks in the force: the situation with my mom, of course; the freakin' economy and stock market (at this rate, we may never be able to retire. I mean, who knows?); and, last but not least . . . the renter.


Billy and I own a rental property, which was the first home we bought the year after we were married. We kept this house as a rental, in spite of the fact that Billy did not want to do this. I did. So, when we moved away after purchasing our second home, we put the house on the market with the understanding that if it sold, it sold. If it did not sell, we would rent it. Billy set the price a bit higher than was recommended, and it was a soft market (ha! We now know what soft markets really are, eh?), so I was pretty much assured that we would have it as an income property. And, being in business for ourselves, it made sense to do this. Diversification for retirement purposes, I loftily thought. And, in retrospect, it has been a very smart thing. Until this year, when the renter who has lived there for over a decade conned us on his rent (check is in the mail . . . check is lost in the mail . . . someone cashed check that was lost . . . bank will make good on check in 45 to 60 days . . .). Now I, with my impeccable bulls^#* detector, did not believe any of this. But Billy and our property manager went with the half-full glass theory and waited this out. At the point where he owed two full months of rent, we proceeded with eviction.


This is where owning a rental property turned into a worst-case scenario. He fought the eviction, then filed bankruptcy just before our court date. By the time we actually got him out, he owed us a lot. And, let me say (in case I sound as if I am lacking in compassion), this guy was always a nightmare. He fought us over maintaining the yard and lawn, his ex-wife got a restraining order against him for emotional cruelty, he harassed our gardener, and, last but not least, he virtually destroyed the house. So, since mid-July, we have been in the process of setting it straight. This involves: bringing in our contractor to do painting; much of Billy's free weekend time to do repairs; a lot of cold, hard cash; and requisite amounts of regret, anger, and fatigue.


So, on Monday, after we ran around in close to triple digit heat all day buying a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, a hose, a broom, and a ton of bedding soil at Lowe's -- which, incidentally, was a welcome change from the many trips to Home Depot we have made over the last month (carpeting, toilets, plumbing fixtures), we ran a couple more errands then took ourselves out to happy hour at Kate Mantilini's. We are not usually happy hour people, though I suppose we could be, if the timing worked out a little better. But on Mondays, this can work. We each had a pretty good-sized martini, and split a roasted artichoke, some oxymoronic jumbo shrimp, a small order of ribs, and a Caesar salad. The ribs came with a ramekin of barbecue sauce, which we did not use. When the waitress cleared, she tipped the plate, and the sauce fell off the plate, hitting the floor in a manner which caused it to arc up in a spray that more or less covered me in red spots like instantaneous chicken pox. I was wearing a strappy little dress with my shoulders exposed (red spots), just a little bit of make-up (more red spots), and my hair half pulled up into a ponytail (and again, some more red spots). It was all over my dress from my lap up. And all over my arms. I was still finding barbecue sauce on me when I got ready for bed that night. Of course the server was mortified, but we pretty much laughed about it (did I mention BIG martinis?) and reassured her that accidents happen . . . but so does dry cleaning. The manager gave me a card to bring back with my dry cleaning bill. I look forward to another martini when we come back. And an artichoke, and maybe some shrimp. Not so much with the ribs, though. Think this is the cosmos way of telling me I should be a vegetarian? Nah.


And, by the way, with the debacle at the rental property, do I regret that we kept the house as a rental? Not for one nanosecond. There is little that can be done to a house that can't be repaired, and in the long run solid investments always make sense. Especially in an uncertain world of flying barbecue sauce. My only word of caution would be to screen prospective renters carefully. Oh yeah, and on that other front, don't forget to duck. "Spotty" thanks you for reading her blog!

Two Bowls of Cereal

August 5, 2011


That was a bit of a long respite, but trust me, I was not lounging around on a chaise complaining about the summer heat a la Daisy Buchanan. We was busy. After house guests over the 4th of July, we scurried around, got our best outfits together and hied (again, with the hying!) ourselves down to Rancho Valencia for Jenna and Todd's wedding.


Jenna is a previous pilates partner, and daughter of Bonnie who is my current partner and frister extraordinaire. Bonnie is the go-to person amongst all her friends. Need a tree-trimmer, as we did recently? Call Bonnie. Contractor? Ditto, Bonnie. Planning a wedding? No one, I repeat, no one will do it better than Bonnie. It was fantabulous, and we had the proverbial time of our lives, including dancing our legs off -- even Billy!


After the wedding weekend, I had a multiple of salsa events including a salsa birthday party for Christina Haggarty, who is half of my favorite teaching duo. I also hosted Las Chicas, the frister trio, at my house for a day-in-the-country (tongue firmly in cheek) pool day. Then, we attended an anniversary party with music provided by a Beatles cover band. Again, with the dancing. The following morning we left for Glenbrook.


Now, Glenbrook is one of my favorite places. It is nestled at the east end, on the Nevada side, of Lake Tahoe. I would love Glenbrook no matter why we were there, but what made this visit so special was that we were going to see Sandra and John. And Sandra is doing GREAT! So, more about Glenbrook. Glenbrook is one of those idyllic places where the kids can still run free all day. It is private and enclosed. People live there year round, or like Sandra and John, have summer/weekend homes there. It's out of the hubbub of the South Shore, quiet, contained, and stunningly beautiful. While studying Spanish at ISSI (see previous post entitled Paella and Caesar, available here . . . . . . la la la la la) three years ago, I stayed in one of the guest rooms in the guest house on Sandra and John's property there. Sandra and I drove to South Lake Tahoe Community College each morning, arriving on campus just before 8:00 and hurrying to our class. Each day when we returned around 4:00, we would arrive at Glenbrook and hook around on the road that leads to their home. When we would first see the lake, I would feel myself sigh and relax. It's one of those places.


But, what does all this have to do with two bowls of cereal, you might very well ask. Well, last summer, when we were at Glenbrook, Sandra and John's son and his family were there. We were all staying in the main house together, and each morning I noticed that their daughter-in-law, Tracy, would prep breakfast for the kids, then quietly pour herself two bowls of cereal. She would pour milk into one of the bowls and proceed to eat from it. But before she finished it, she would pour milk into the second bowl, and switch to eating from that one. What was up? Turns out that she doesn't like soggy cereal, and this is what she has figured out to make sure all the cereal she eats stays crisp. I like this method of problem solving. No muss, no fuss.


Recently, I poured milk over my daily mix which is comprised of two cereals with something extra added on the weekends, usually La Brea Bakery granola, but sometimes cinnamon graham crackers from Trader Joe's. I run my bowl of cereal all over the house. It sits next to the computer while I am working. It travels with me to the bedroom, keeping me company while I make the bed. It even accompanies me to my bathroom dressing table where I apply make-up. Cereal for me in the morning? A soggy, movable feast. And I like it like that.


Which brings me to: Graham Cracker Mush. I know that, strictly speaking, it is time for a recipe. But with all this running around, plus a recent onslaught of humidity here in LA whilst our air conditioning struggled with a bout of ennui, I'm frankly too tired and hot to even think about recipes and cooking.
However . . .


I deem Graham Cracker Mush to be a perfectly legitimate dish, it having once been written up in Gourmet magazine (I also have a clipped recipe from the selfsame Gourmet, for Frito Nachos, which originated at the lunch counter of the now-defunct Woolworth's which was located on the plaza in Santa Fe, NM. This dish actually served in a butterflied Fritos bag. Yep. You should fully expect that I will get back to that sometime in a later post!) Both recipes came from the old Gourmet, not the last incarnation which would have demanded that you could provide documentation as to where the graham flour was grown and milled, and further, that you had been introduced to the cow before it was milked (milk being one-half of the ingredients in Graham Cracker Mush.


Graham Cracker Mush was one of those Tracy-style methods of problem solving. Ostensibly, it started with dipping graham crackers into milk. Sometime after, it was determined that, for some, the dipped soaked-in-milk part was better than the still-crisp part that you, by necessity, were holding. If you threw the whole graham cracker into the glass, you would need something like a fork to pull it out. And drippiness would probably be an issue. So, someone (not my grandmother, though she was the one who introduced me to this) figured out that the best way to do this was to throw the grahams into a bowl and douse them with milk. The way my grandmother did this was by breaking the crackers into, say, nickel and quarter-sized pieces. But in the Gourmet article (was it the wondrous Laurie Colwin who wrote it? Probably not, but it was in her era), they tried buying a box of graham cracker crumbs and cutting right to the chase with that. I believe it was decided that it worked better with the formerly-whole, but now sharded crackers. My adapted version entails breaking the crackers and sprinkling them on top of my mix of shredded wheat and Fiber One cereals. In truth, I like it even better than my other weekend add-on of granola. And, I never do both. That would be gilding the breakfast lily, or so my grandmother might have said. And speaking of that, did I mention that there is also always half a banana, diced, a handful of blueberries, and one of the following added to the bowl: strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, or a half of a white peach, peeled and cut up (my favorite)?


So there you have it: Graham Cracker Mush. A worthy, and frankly, time-saving recipe for these hot August mornings. And should you happen to have some Oreos in the house . . . ok, best not to go there. You're only asking for trouble, with the liability of dragging me down with you. So happy August to you! Stay cool, and thanks for reading my blog.

CARMAGEDDON !

Los Angeles, California

It's here, and will the world stop? For those of you living out of the Los Angeles basin (or east of Fairfax, as the current joke goes), Carmageddon is the word, reputedly first used by Councilman Zev Yaroslavsky (though there is a computer game by the same name) to describe the anticipated chaos of this weekend's closure of the 405 freeway.

Now, the 405 freeway was called the San Diego Freeway when I was growing up and freeways all had names and off ramps had no numbers (actually, I find the off ramp numbers quite helpful, especially when navigating to somewhere new, worrying that I might have gone too far, and not trusting my navigation system as she led me astray once in an appalling fashion). Anyway, the ol' 405 was cut through Sepulveda pass way back when, and it used to be a lot less congested than other freeways in the area, but no more. All of our freeways are clogged with cars, most of which have one person in them, and that would be the driver. And, more and more people keep pouring into Los Angeles. They are young. They are hip. And they ALL want to work in the industry. Don't get me started as I've covered this sufficiently in a previous post entitled The One-Year Anniversary of Neighborhood Chaos (and available here for a very small cost).

Here are the two big preguntas about this weekend's closure: Will it be a chaotic nightmare beyond all imagining? Will they get it reopened Monday morning on schedule? Will it solve the problem? Ok, I know, that's three questions. I threw in the middle one for the fun of it. But the big question as discussed on my local NPR station which broadcasts from Pasadena (an area that shouldn't be affected by Carmageddon anyway, so why are they getting involved, I ask you?), is the latter one: Will it solve the problem? They are adding additional lanes, including a car-pool lane (once called a diamond lane, I suppose for it's preciousness?). Will more people double up in their cars in order to take advantage of this? Doubt it.

I did come up with a solution to this some time back. I thought that we could solve the problem of traffic in Los Angeles, if everyone who was born in a different state had to return to that state. That's it. Simple. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine, she protested that she and her husband (New York) would have to leave California, in that case. "Well," I said. "I have to make sacrifices as well. My mother (Ohio) has to leave. And Billy (Minnesota) has to leave." She wanted to know what I wanted to do with people who were born in other countries. I didn't have to ponder that. I kinda sorta like the multi-culturalism of Los Angeles, especially as reflected in the Latin-American origins of California. And I don't want to appear ethnocentric. So, basically, they all get to stay. "But," she said. "This would be something a totalitarian government might do!" I had a ready reply. "Sweetie, this isn't about politics. It's about traffic . . !"

We used to really love our cars here in Los Angeles. At least before they became movable containers of anger, angst, and anxiety (the real Triple A club of motoring). I have carried on a pretty good relationship with most of the cars I have driven, since learning to drive in my dad's Alfa Romeo. In fact, I got on quite well with that first car, much to my dad's dismay. You see, my much-older sister wasn't much of a driver, and didn't learn to drive a manual shift. So, my dad decided he was going to teach me to drive in his manual-shift, red, convertible, Italian import. Guess whose car I wanted to take to the beach on Saturdays when I got my license the day after my sixteenth birthday? An Aristotelian tragedy, that! I piled girlfriends into it (it had a shelf backseat), and motored through Malibu canyon as often as I could wheedle the loan of it. This was an experience so memorable, that the first car I bought with my own cash was a brand-new, white, convertible VW bug. My third in a long succession of all German automobiles, and probably my favorite to date. But I digress . . .

So, Carmageddon. This weekend. How will it all end? Gridlocked misery or trumped-up doom-prophesying, much like the anticipated hell of the '84 Los Angeles Olympics (which turned out to flow perfectly in all manner of ways including southland traffic)? But, just in case, we are sticking around our neighborhood, as advised, for the duration. A little gardening, a little cooking, a little hanging out by the pool. As I always say, when the cosmic trafficmeister hands you a lemon, it's always smart to spike some lemonade. Thank you for reading my blog. Vaya con huevos!

Frenemies

Los Angeles, California

Yes, it's come to that, and you must have known it would. I've been on a bent of bitching, complaining, and whining -- in spite of my annual observance of Lent, and my code of doing what Sandra would do. I do try. I really do. Seriously. But sometimes things, and people, get under my skin. This is one of those times.

I'm pretty nice. I know that word gets a bad rap, but it really shouldn't. My goal in dealing with family and friends is to try to do the best I can do. My philosophy is that it is daunting to try to change the world at large, but making a difference in my circle, in my home and with my family, friends, neighbors, and community, is doable. I am polite in the marketplace and on the road. I think I am friendly. And I am tolerant . . . to a point.

One of my fellow Scorpio friends (who is also, incidentally, Sicilian) once told me that her instantaneous response to sever ties, when a situation has become intolerable, is not her favorite trait in herself. Survival instincts rarely are, I think. But I know what she is talking about. I call it the wall. It's that thing that happens in your mind and soul, that thing that, for me, drops down, impenetrably, and says enough. It's that thing that lets me know beyond a shadow of a doubt, with nothing I can do to change this, that I am done.

What causes this chasm to open? Usually a profound breach in the golden rule. Again, I am kind, I am thoughtful, I am polite and friendly. But I'm not inert. I expect that flow to come back at me, more or less. Some flow, anyway. And when people are short-tempered or rude, or worst of all, can't handle their own issues and act out, I am outta there. I do allow people a second, and even a third chance. But once the wall comes down, it is over. Not my favorite trait in myself, but there you have it.

Life is so short, and people are so cranky! I am often astounded by the abundance of lack I encounter all around me. Lack of concern, lack of empathy, lack of manners -- it is hard enough to do business or to be a consumer when encountering these cranky types. But what about coming face-to-face with this in your family and friends? I suppose for all of us it is sometimes a struggle to contain the caustic comment or the remark precipitated by irritation, but shouldn't we at least try?

Some years back I spent a few months screwing up my courage to confront a friend about her odd habit of eating off of my plate. She is an actress who lived in Manhattan when we first became friends. Still, we saw her often as she would fly to LA to work in the TV industry.

She kept her bad habits under wraps during that time, but once she moved to LA, it was open season.The first time I saw her with her uninvited fork in someone else’s food was at a dinner party at our house. She mostly picked at the food on her own plate, and ostensibly had finished eating when she suddenly lunged with her fork toward our friend Christopher, spearing up some pasta from his plate. After that, no one's plate was safe.

At a restaurant brunch gathering, she ordered asparagus. When it was served to her, she picked up a stalk, then wandered down the long table dipping into sauces on other people’s plates. I was reminded of that dramatic scene in The Miracle Worker, when Anne Sullivan first sits at the family dinner table, and experiences Helen blindly snatching handfuls of food from the plates of other family members.

Now, if you've been reading along or at least have read some portion of my fiftyish posts, you might garner this piece of info about me. I don't mind sharing my food. In fact, I like to share and often when out with people we share "small plates", or order one dessert with four forks. But this is a totally different thing. This is much like the high school girlfriend who goes after everyone else's boyfriend. Just because she can. This is serious boundary-crashing.

One night, after about six months of experiencing her eating off of my plate and the plates of others, we were dining at an Italian restaurant together, when, without warning, her hand darted across the table into my plate where she grabbed a large fistful of dressed salad greens from my plate, then, dripping a trail back across the table, she crammed them into her mouth, all the while continuing to talk. I knew right then that I had hit the wall.

It had taken me several months of internal debate to realize that I could either stop eating with her, or else I had to apprise her that she was in violation of my comfort zone. So after much rehearsal, I did just that. It did not go over well. Evidently, for her, having free rein to invade the plates of others was an entitlement that must stand, at all costs. As a result, we parted as friends. Billy boiled the whole thing down to its essence by casually stating that he wondered how long it would take her to realize she had lost a good friend. That made me ask myself whether I was willing to lose a friend over something like this. I wasn't, but, evidently she was.

I would like to think of this as an isolated instance, but I have learned that there is a whole world out there of boundary-crashing for sport. The challenge is to be someone who is generally nice, and kind, thoughtful, polite and friendly, yet still protect your boundaries, and with fortified armaments when necessary. Because some people, and let me not allude to their upbringing, simply won't observe any etiquette with regard to interpersonal relations. And I had a hand print in my salad to prove it.

So, sadly, I have occasionally found myself done. And, like my Sicilian, Scorpio friend, done swiftly and permanently. Even when it is a friendship that I valued or hoped would evolve to fristerhood. For being nice doesn't mean I don't respect myself, nor that I do not expect to be treated with respect. There is a definite line between friendship and frenemies. I don't like to cross it. But given the right circumstances, I can. And will.

So, don't cross me. The temperature is climbing, and we currently live in a world of earthquakes, war, and continued economic upheaval. I'm still worried about the sea turtles at The Kona Village (in the wake of the tsunami disaster there). Yet, even in light of all this, I have trust in my proven ability to make lemonade out of lemons. So if you have lemons, feel free to share. Just don't lob them at me, unless you are prepared for me to permanently disappear as your target. Thank you for reading my blog, so nice of you!