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?