Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
And so, we came to Carmel, driving up late last Saturday night in a fairly light rain. We drove out through Westlake Village and Thousand Oaks, passing the off ramps for both salsa clubs where I regularly dance. I would be leaving salsa behind me, mas o menos, as I concentrated on taking long walks with Billy, working on a writing project, and spending as much time as possible with good, close friends. Truly the object of the exercise, and starting with Todd, Christopher, and Carole who arrived earlier on Saturday.
Billy and I hit the ground running on Sunday after I attended Mass, getting our Trader Joe's and Safeway marketing out of the way before we all went to an early happy hour at Rio Grill, then back to their house for an improvised salmon dinner. Christopher's parents are also here, staying in the guesthouse of the home Todd and Christopher rent. The guesthouse is called The Dog House (the big house being called, The Big House -- don't blame me I don't make this stuff up).
Todd & Christopher's older black lab, Cole, took the next morning off, while the rest of us watched Frenzy, their indomitable goldendoodle, steal as many balls as she could get her paws on while running and jumping on the leash-free dog beach, in the brilliant sunshine of a post-rainy day in Carmel.
On Christmas Eve the seven of us had a celebratory dinner at Montrio in Monterey. Billy and I stayed up late watching A Christmas Story until we fell asleep. We raced out of bed in the morning and off to Mass. The first carol was a Latin-themed one which I loved, this and all the rest of the music with the choir augmented by ten or so pieces of strings and brass. Afterwards, we went home to bake two cakes (really) and roast a ham (seriously). We brought those three items to their home, plus a balloon-modeling kit and the Christmas crackers which I was supposed to bring to the restaurant the night before. A lucky oversight, as the crackers contained numbered whistles in different pitches which we used to play a variety of Christmas carols according to the numbered score which was enclosed. This conducted, quite competently, by Todd. Imagine the extra accompaniment of howling laughter. Christopher had prepared poached halibut osso bucco with gremolata and whipped potatoes with herbs. I'm not kidding. His composed roasted pear and frisee salad with hazelnuts and blue cheese was amazing. My chocolate ganache cake (minus the ganache) and Mission Cake made with cranberries (recipe available here in a post entitled When In Rome -- while supplies last so hurry) rounded out the meal. The balloon-modeling kit came with instructions so that you could create animals. Carole and Christopher actually accomplished this, while others twisted together the long balloons into hats, creating headpieces worthy of The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. More laughter, of course.
We saw Lincoln (the movie, not the late president as that would be creepy) at the Del Monte cinemas the following day. It was raining again, so the theaters were heavily populated. Afterwards, as Christopher's parents stayed home that evening, and Carole had already left for her home in Twain Harte earlier in the day, T&C brought dinner which Christopher cooked at our house -- lobster ravioli with brown butter and parsley. Billy and I had picked up a loaf of sourdough bread, and, as usual, good wine was flowing (and a bit of vodka at the start). The following day, we went to The Bench at The Lodge at Pebble Beach for lunch before Todd, Christopher, and I repaired to the Spa at Pebble Beach for massages.
And now we are approaching the end of the year, New Year's Eve, and the following day departure of Todd and Christopher. What a really great time we have had here both hanging about in the two rental homes, and going out to some really fun and fine restaurants. I am so grateful that the four of us, like many of our friends, are of the same mind about memory-making. There cannot be anything more important to the feeding of our souls than to spend time creating memories with friends who have become our family.
John and Sandra will not be able to visit us on this trip, as Sandra is undergoing a difficult course of treatment during this time. She is the first person in my mind when I attend Mass here. And, I am sure, in Billy's mind as well. But my list is long, with myself at the bottom asking on my own behalf for understanding, comprehension, and peace. I don't want for much, but can always use a little more of those things with regard to our planet, mankind, and my own complicated soul.
Lastly, and luckily, I have my favorite girls returning to Carmel later in January. This year they are flying up, which I applaud. Why waste time on the road when you can fly in the night before, even if late the night before? It's the 21st century, after all! After they leave, Twain Harte Carole will be returning for a few nights so that we can check out the Monterey salsa club scene. I was hoping my salsa friend, Carol(without an e) could also come, but she has a pesky court date to settle things with her soon-to-be-ex. If not, I bet she would come in a shot. She's another one of us memory-makers.
I know how fortunate we are to have the friends we have, and to spend time with a few of them here. I know how lucky I am that when I am out of town, my salsera friend, Carol, texts a photo of herself and three other salseros to let me know I'm not forgotten. I am so grateful that Lydia and I text and talk regularly, even though both of our present days are full. And I am thankful that I am here, in this beautiful place, staying in this wonderful house. I am writing this in the great room by a roaring fire, while Billy watches Young Frankenstein for the bizillionth time. And so, I wish you all health, happiness, safety, and peace in the new year. I wish you lots of opportunities to make memories with the friends and family you love. And don't forget the best memory-maker of all--don't forget to dance, and to party like it's 1999! Happy New Year, and thank you all for reading my blog!
December 30, 2012
December 20, 2012
The End of the World As We Know It
Los Angeles, California
Yes, it's that time again. Winter solstice us upon us, and all the druids and new- agers (who I wish would just go take a place together in the country) are hopped up in the way that druids and new-agers get. And, on top of that, the Mayans are weighing in with a prognostication of...wait for it...the end of the world. That old chestnut.
Temperatures were in the thirties here in sunny So Cal. Last night, I was dancing at Bogie's in Westlake Village and this was the talk of the dance floor. People coming in saying...it's thirty-eight degrees outside. I should have been thinking about all the bougainvilleas we have here at Casa Healy which whither in a frost, but no...I was dancing for the last time of the year. Or maybe even...ever?
We're leaving for Carmel Saturday night, so I find the timing of this Mayan thing a bit problematic. Not that I would wish for the end of the world at any other more convenient time, it's just that the rental is fully paid for and I would hate to not be able to get my money's worth.
And if the world doesn't end, we still have to contend with a rain forecast in Carmel -- hell (pardon the expression) a rain forecast all across the state. I track weather on my iPhone in a variety of places; the region in Los Angeles where we live, Santa Monica, Carmel, Fair Oaks (Sandra's town), Thousand Oaks (where I dance), and New York City (where my friend Max is, mas o menos). Looks like rain and snow just about everywhere. Not only am I not dreaming of a white Christmas, but I'm also not dreaming of a wet Christmas. But, alas, I will take what I can get in Carmel.
As I've written before, we've had some crazy weather while we've been staying in Carmel, but last year... last year, le sigh... the weather was perfecto. It must have rained a bit, but over the holidays it was gorgeous and pretty warm. I was hoping for a repeat of that, but that was before the Mayans got into the act. So I guess I should just be appreciative that the world won't end and we will get to Carmel and whatever weather shall occur. Besides, there's a lot to be said for lounging around by the fire in pajamas. I haven't done much of that lately (like, at all).
So as the boxes and luggage continue to fill, I hang up my dancing shoes for the year! Hard to believe, but there you have it. Still, I'm looking at this as a half-full, not half-empty, glass. After all, if the Mayans had their way, I'd be hanging them up, like, forever. Thank you for reading my blog. Beware of flaming asteroids...
Yes, it's that time again. Winter solstice us upon us, and all the druids and new- agers (who I wish would just go take a place together in the country) are hopped up in the way that druids and new-agers get. And, on top of that, the Mayans are weighing in with a prognostication of...wait for it...the end of the world. That old chestnut.
Temperatures were in the thirties here in sunny So Cal. Last night, I was dancing at Bogie's in Westlake Village and this was the talk of the dance floor. People coming in saying...it's thirty-eight degrees outside. I should have been thinking about all the bougainvilleas we have here at Casa Healy which whither in a frost, but no...I was dancing for the last time of the year. Or maybe even...ever?
We're leaving for Carmel Saturday night, so I find the timing of this Mayan thing a bit problematic. Not that I would wish for the end of the world at any other more convenient time, it's just that the rental is fully paid for and I would hate to not be able to get my money's worth.
And if the world doesn't end, we still have to contend with a rain forecast in Carmel -- hell (pardon the expression) a rain forecast all across the state. I track weather on my iPhone in a variety of places; the region in Los Angeles where we live, Santa Monica, Carmel, Fair Oaks (Sandra's town), Thousand Oaks (where I dance), and New York City (where my friend Max is, mas o menos). Looks like rain and snow just about everywhere. Not only am I not dreaming of a white Christmas, but I'm also not dreaming of a wet Christmas. But, alas, I will take what I can get in Carmel.
As I've written before, we've had some crazy weather while we've been staying in Carmel, but last year... last year, le sigh... the weather was perfecto. It must have rained a bit, but over the holidays it was gorgeous and pretty warm. I was hoping for a repeat of that, but that was before the Mayans got into the act. So I guess I should just be appreciative that the world won't end and we will get to Carmel and whatever weather shall occur. Besides, there's a lot to be said for lounging around by the fire in pajamas. I haven't done much of that lately (like, at all).
So as the boxes and luggage continue to fill, I hang up my dancing shoes for the year! Hard to believe, but there you have it. Still, I'm looking at this as a half-full, not half-empty, glass. After all, if the Mayans had their way, I'd be hanging them up, like, forever. Thank you for reading my blog. Beware of flaming asteroids...
December 12, 2012
Emotional Velcro
Los Angeles, California
The holidays are upon us, and, as can happen at any time of year, the planets in my universe are not aligned. Holidays can bring their own out-of-whackness, but other things are random and can happen whenever. We can rail about the unfairness of that, if we like. Or accept it as one of the vagaries of life. I write that, but I still struggle with it.
Recently I wrote to my friend, Max, that I was feeling like emotional velcro. He wrote back that he thought I had coined a great name for a rock band. In the course of tussling a bit about claiming this terminology, I knew I would use it as a blog post. I'm surprised I didn't come up with it earlier as it describes an aspect of my nature to a T. Tell me that you've got a migraine and I will instantly feel a throb in my temple. My mom is currently dealing with skin lesions, and I am now itching all over. When Billy's back goes out, I find myself hobbling with low back pain even though I never have any back problems as a rule.
We all take our place in our family's structure, and Billy has often said that I am the sin-eater for my family. But my family barely exists anymore. There is only my mom and she has been dwindling for several years with blessedly slow-progressing dementia. So now, with my frister Lydia suffering from an interminable bout of vertigo, I find myself dizzy and disoriented. Or maybe that is the state I would find myself in anyway, given recent news.
Sandra, my frister especial and blog namesake, meets the challenge of a second go-round of difficult treatment starting late this week. She got through the first round two years ago, and was still recuperating from that and putting weight back on when this news hit. She is the strongest and best woman I know. She is in so many ways who I strive to be and that is the reason I named my blog What Would Sandra Do? She is the reason I attend Mass in Carmel which has put me on a spiritual quest that I have yet to completely conceptualize but that has brought a great deal of meaning to my life. And, she is the most wickedly fun person I know. She brings out the best in everyone, and I feel profoundly fortunate to have her in my life. We have a history that includes masks and funny hats, face-painting, Halloween jewelry that lights up, toys -- including wind up cars that we raced around the groove in the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village Resort. There was no stopping us at the Village and everyone gave up trying (we just dragged them down with us). We have spent ten of my birthdays together at the Kona Village Resort, and have traveled and spent time together together in Tahiti, Panama, Las Vegas, Napa, San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Carmel.
Strong girl that she is, with all the family and friend support that she has, I still think she could use some extra wind beneath her wings right now, and I ask you to think of her and send prayers, good thoughts, meditations, whatever you've got - in her direction. I believe our lives are about good work, the choices we make, and the friends and family in our circle. But at times life is also about the fight. Sandra's up for this. And so am I. So, please throw what you can her way. I believe in the power of prayer and positive thoughts, and especially in the strength in numbers. This, as much as I believe in her.
The holidays can be tough for many. They stir up all kinds of feelings and memories. My friend, Lydia, and I had a tender heart-to-heart recently when she expressed how she now felt during the holidays, after losing both her parents. It reminded me of my mom saying that every time she started to bake bread (the special Christmas bread that my grandmother, mother, and I have baked -- a photo of which you can see in the post entitled A Loaf of Bread, A Glass of Scotch, and Thou which is available here throughout this holiday season...and beyond) she would sit down and have a good cry because she missed my grandmother. Holidays can do that to you. And even with all the good in my life, and with our impending trip to Carmel, the longing, and the missing, are just barely below the surface.
So let us enjoy the season. Let us think of those we love, and cherish them or their memories. Let us make merry this Christmas and/or light the Hanukkah candles with a full heart. And let our emotional velcro collect all the joy, all the good, and all of happiness that this season holds. Thank you for reading my blog. Love you, my Frister Especial.
The holidays are upon us, and, as can happen at any time of year, the planets in my universe are not aligned. Holidays can bring their own out-of-whackness, but other things are random and can happen whenever. We can rail about the unfairness of that, if we like. Or accept it as one of the vagaries of life. I write that, but I still struggle with it.
Recently I wrote to my friend, Max, that I was feeling like emotional velcro. He wrote back that he thought I had coined a great name for a rock band. In the course of tussling a bit about claiming this terminology, I knew I would use it as a blog post. I'm surprised I didn't come up with it earlier as it describes an aspect of my nature to a T. Tell me that you've got a migraine and I will instantly feel a throb in my temple. My mom is currently dealing with skin lesions, and I am now itching all over. When Billy's back goes out, I find myself hobbling with low back pain even though I never have any back problems as a rule.
We all take our place in our family's structure, and Billy has often said that I am the sin-eater for my family. But my family barely exists anymore. There is only my mom and she has been dwindling for several years with blessedly slow-progressing dementia. So now, with my frister Lydia suffering from an interminable bout of vertigo, I find myself dizzy and disoriented. Or maybe that is the state I would find myself in anyway, given recent news.
Sandra, my frister especial and blog namesake, meets the challenge of a second go-round of difficult treatment starting late this week. She got through the first round two years ago, and was still recuperating from that and putting weight back on when this news hit. She is the strongest and best woman I know. She is in so many ways who I strive to be and that is the reason I named my blog What Would Sandra Do? She is the reason I attend Mass in Carmel which has put me on a spiritual quest that I have yet to completely conceptualize but that has brought a great deal of meaning to my life. And, she is the most wickedly fun person I know. She brings out the best in everyone, and I feel profoundly fortunate to have her in my life. We have a history that includes masks and funny hats, face-painting, Halloween jewelry that lights up, toys -- including wind up cars that we raced around the groove in the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village Resort. There was no stopping us at the Village and everyone gave up trying (we just dragged them down with us). We have spent ten of my birthdays together at the Kona Village Resort, and have traveled and spent time together together in Tahiti, Panama, Las Vegas, Napa, San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Carmel.
Strong girl that she is, with all the family and friend support that she has, I still think she could use some extra wind beneath her wings right now, and I ask you to think of her and send prayers, good thoughts, meditations, whatever you've got - in her direction. I believe our lives are about good work, the choices we make, and the friends and family in our circle. But at times life is also about the fight. Sandra's up for this. And so am I. So, please throw what you can her way. I believe in the power of prayer and positive thoughts, and especially in the strength in numbers. This, as much as I believe in her.
The holidays can be tough for many. They stir up all kinds of feelings and memories. My friend, Lydia, and I had a tender heart-to-heart recently when she expressed how she now felt during the holidays, after losing both her parents. It reminded me of my mom saying that every time she started to bake bread (the special Christmas bread that my grandmother, mother, and I have baked -- a photo of which you can see in the post entitled A Loaf of Bread, A Glass of Scotch, and Thou which is available here throughout this holiday season...and beyond) she would sit down and have a good cry because she missed my grandmother. Holidays can do that to you. And even with all the good in my life, and with our impending trip to Carmel, the longing, and the missing, are just barely below the surface.
So let us enjoy the season. Let us think of those we love, and cherish them or their memories. Let us make merry this Christmas and/or light the Hanukkah candles with a full heart. And let our emotional velcro collect all the joy, all the good, and all of happiness that this season holds. Thank you for reading my blog. Love you, my Frister Especial.
December 1, 2012
A Goose and a Duck Walk Into a Bar...
Los Angeles, California
And so, it was Thanksgiving, and this year we found ourselves, once again, at loose ends. Not that it is a bad thing to no longer have a tradition in place. It allows you a certain footloose quality that is enticing in its flexibility. There were options . . .
The decision was made to stay at home, and cook our own Thanksgiving. Something I have not done since I was back in college, and cooked a full-on Thanksgiving dinner for my boyfriend (yes, same one I referred to in my last post entitled Flying Solo, available right here on this blog for a limited time). Since we were cooking a deux, and we're truly not turkey people, outside of the ubiquitous lunchtime staple of turkey sandwiches, we decided to roast a chicken. But, need I remind you of our footlooseness? When we got to Gelson's market, we got enticed by other poultry.
Billy decided that he wanted to cook a goose. If not for Thanksgiving, then for the dinner party we were having the following Saturday. The free-range goose in question was $89. Eighty-nine bucks! I told him that if he wanted a goose, he should go over to our nearby golf course and shoot one! I wasn't about to lay down ninety dollars for a frickin' goose, unless it was that fabled one that lays golden eggs [I was pretty sure it wasn't, since this one was DYK (dead, you know)]. My first set of brackets to appear in my blog!!! But, I am so digressing...
And then. And then a duck caught my eye! Also free-range, but only about $35. And next to said duck, were fresh "petite turkeys" ranging from around seven to nine pounds. Need I go on to say we came in for a chicken, dissed a goose, and ended up with a duck and a turkey. A fowl turn of events...
As we all do, we cooked way too much food for Thanksgiving. And, for the first time since college, I baked the pie that I had prepared for my boyfriend on that long-ago Thanksgiving. That is a Shoo-fly Pie; a recipe which called for light molasses. This I could not find at my local market. So I bought the molasses I recall my mom and grandmother buying, which is Brer Rabbit. It said full flavor, and turned out to be way too much dark for this pie. Billy had a few slices and reported that he liked it. But it was a far cry from the Shoo-fly Pies we ate when we lived not far from Pennsylvania Dutch Country, one winter when I was eleven years old.
Everything else turned out quite good. We dry-brined the turkey, then roasted it. With this, we had roasted brussels sprouts; yam puree which was flavored with both orange juice and zest, and bourbon. We had the apple cranberry sauce (see recipe in previous post entitled Flying Solo available...oh, just have on at it). But the real hit of the weekend was the duck. The recipe was from Amanda Hesser's Cooking for Mr. Latte, and it was easy and delicious. Billy's mom was here with us, and we invited his nephew and the girlfriend. Girlfriend, Deanne, is a vegetarian, but she, rather ecumenically I thought, had a bite of the duck. Lucky thing she didn't eat much actually, since I had forgotten how few people a duck serves. In the future I will make it just for Billy and me. The leftover meat will be delicious in duck tacos or tamales, or in a pinch, quesadillas. The duck is cooked with ginger and soy, so I'm totally going for the fusion thing here.
The secondary gain on the duck was in that I got a lot of duck stock, and a nice amount of duck fat. I roasted potatoes in the duck fat, but I'm really jonesing for double-frying-up some frites with it, or maybe doing one of those rosti jobbers. Something with crisp potatoes, duck fat, and salt. Be still my heart...
Ginger Duck
1 duck (fresh or thawed overnight in the fridge), giblets removed
1 onion, peeled and cut in half, or 3 shallots, peeled
2 stalks celery, cut into 3-inch long pieces
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 cup sherry
1 small bunch watercress, washed and trimmed
The day before serving, stuff the duck with the onion and celery. Place it, breast side up, in a large dutch oven, and add enough water to half cover it. Add ginger and bring to a boil. Cover and reduce the heat so that it simmers gently for one hour.
After an hour, flip the guy over. Add sugar, soy sauce and the salt. Continue simmering for another hour. Turn the duck breast side up once again, and simmer for one more hour. Remove from heat and let cool. When you can handle it without scorching the digits, remove it carefully from the pot (I used a large, wide fish spatula that I rarely use for fish but find it comes in handy in other applications such as this). Use care as the duck will want to fall apart after so much cooking. Cover and refrigerate. Pour broth from the pot into a bowl and chill.
The following day, scrape off the layer of fat that has formed on top of the broth. Our friend, Amanda, says to throw it away, but I implore you not to! Set aside; freeze or use within a few days. Remove one cup of the broth to use when roasting the duck; freeze the rest. It is delicious when used to cook rice, or whisked into a 'blond roux', then adding cream, sauteed mushrooms, and slivers of leftover bits of duck or turkey and tossed with pasta (riffing on Turkey Tetrazzini here). But let's get back to the duck.
Bring the duck to room temperature, and place in a roasting pan. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Add the sherry and the one cup of defatted duck broth to the roasting pan; place in the oven. Roast uncovered for 30 to 45 minutes, basting occasionally with the drippings in the pan. The duck is done when it is heated through, and the skin is crisp and a dark chestnut brown.
Transfer duck to a serving platter lined with watercress (using the stems to disguise where legs and wings have fallen off, if that has occurred).
Four servings.
Again, as I wrote above, it was easy; it was delicious. And, it will be made again, probably soon. I haven't used the rest of the broth. When I see it in the freezer, I always think of the Marx Brothers movie, Duck Soup. Groucho said that it was a reference to their mother, Minnie's, cooking. Evidently, she was such a bad cook that when she prepared soup, all the brothers would duck soup. And, on that note... I thank you for reading my blog. Thanksgiving is pau (over, finished, done)... Oh-oh, here it comes! Happy Hanukkah and a very Merry Christmas to you all!
And so, it was Thanksgiving, and this year we found ourselves, once again, at loose ends. Not that it is a bad thing to no longer have a tradition in place. It allows you a certain footloose quality that is enticing in its flexibility. There were options . . .
The decision was made to stay at home, and cook our own Thanksgiving. Something I have not done since I was back in college, and cooked a full-on Thanksgiving dinner for my boyfriend (yes, same one I referred to in my last post entitled Flying Solo, available right here on this blog for a limited time). Since we were cooking a deux, and we're truly not turkey people, outside of the ubiquitous lunchtime staple of turkey sandwiches, we decided to roast a chicken. But, need I remind you of our footlooseness? When we got to Gelson's market, we got enticed by other poultry.
Billy decided that he wanted to cook a goose. If not for Thanksgiving, then for the dinner party we were having the following Saturday. The free-range goose in question was $89. Eighty-nine bucks! I told him that if he wanted a goose, he should go over to our nearby golf course and shoot one! I wasn't about to lay down ninety dollars for a frickin' goose, unless it was that fabled one that lays golden eggs [I was pretty sure it wasn't, since this one was DYK (dead, you know)]. My first set of brackets to appear in my blog!!! But, I am so digressing...
And then. And then a duck caught my eye! Also free-range, but only about $35. And next to said duck, were fresh "petite turkeys" ranging from around seven to nine pounds. Need I go on to say we came in for a chicken, dissed a goose, and ended up with a duck and a turkey. A fowl turn of events...
As we all do, we cooked way too much food for Thanksgiving. And, for the first time since college, I baked the pie that I had prepared for my boyfriend on that long-ago Thanksgiving. That is a Shoo-fly Pie; a recipe which called for light molasses. This I could not find at my local market. So I bought the molasses I recall my mom and grandmother buying, which is Brer Rabbit. It said full flavor, and turned out to be way too much dark for this pie. Billy had a few slices and reported that he liked it. But it was a far cry from the Shoo-fly Pies we ate when we lived not far from Pennsylvania Dutch Country, one winter when I was eleven years old.
Everything else turned out quite good. We dry-brined the turkey, then roasted it. With this, we had roasted brussels sprouts; yam puree which was flavored with both orange juice and zest, and bourbon. We had the apple cranberry sauce (see recipe in previous post entitled Flying Solo available...oh, just have on at it). But the real hit of the weekend was the duck. The recipe was from Amanda Hesser's Cooking for Mr. Latte, and it was easy and delicious. Billy's mom was here with us, and we invited his nephew and the girlfriend. Girlfriend, Deanne, is a vegetarian, but she, rather ecumenically I thought, had a bite of the duck. Lucky thing she didn't eat much actually, since I had forgotten how few people a duck serves. In the future I will make it just for Billy and me. The leftover meat will be delicious in duck tacos or tamales, or in a pinch, quesadillas. The duck is cooked with ginger and soy, so I'm totally going for the fusion thing here.
The secondary gain on the duck was in that I got a lot of duck stock, and a nice amount of duck fat. I roasted potatoes in the duck fat, but I'm really jonesing for double-frying-up some frites with it, or maybe doing one of those rosti jobbers. Something with crisp potatoes, duck fat, and salt. Be still my heart...
Ginger Duck
1 duck (fresh or thawed overnight in the fridge), giblets removed
1 onion, peeled and cut in half, or 3 shallots, peeled
2 stalks celery, cut into 3-inch long pieces
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 cup sherry
1 small bunch watercress, washed and trimmed
The day before serving, stuff the duck with the onion and celery. Place it, breast side up, in a large dutch oven, and add enough water to half cover it. Add ginger and bring to a boil. Cover and reduce the heat so that it simmers gently for one hour.
After an hour, flip the guy over. Add sugar, soy sauce and the salt. Continue simmering for another hour. Turn the duck breast side up once again, and simmer for one more hour. Remove from heat and let cool. When you can handle it without scorching the digits, remove it carefully from the pot (I used a large, wide fish spatula that I rarely use for fish but find it comes in handy in other applications such as this). Use care as the duck will want to fall apart after so much cooking. Cover and refrigerate. Pour broth from the pot into a bowl and chill.
The following day, scrape off the layer of fat that has formed on top of the broth. Our friend, Amanda, says to throw it away, but I implore you not to! Set aside; freeze or use within a few days. Remove one cup of the broth to use when roasting the duck; freeze the rest. It is delicious when used to cook rice, or whisked into a 'blond roux', then adding cream, sauteed mushrooms, and slivers of leftover bits of duck or turkey and tossed with pasta (riffing on Turkey Tetrazzini here). But let's get back to the duck.
Bring the duck to room temperature, and place in a roasting pan. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Add the sherry and the one cup of defatted duck broth to the roasting pan; place in the oven. Roast uncovered for 30 to 45 minutes, basting occasionally with the drippings in the pan. The duck is done when it is heated through, and the skin is crisp and a dark chestnut brown.
Transfer duck to a serving platter lined with watercress (using the stems to disguise where legs and wings have fallen off, if that has occurred).
Four servings.
Again, as I wrote above, it was easy; it was delicious. And, it will be made again, probably soon. I haven't used the rest of the broth. When I see it in the freezer, I always think of the Marx Brothers movie, Duck Soup. Groucho said that it was a reference to their mother, Minnie's, cooking. Evidently, she was such a bad cook that when she prepared soup, all the brothers would duck soup. And, on that note... I thank you for reading my blog. Thanksgiving is pau (over, finished, done)... Oh-oh, here it comes! Happy Hanukkah and a very Merry Christmas to you all!
November 30, 2012
Twinkies, Snowballs, and Cupcakes
Los Angeles, California
Last night I walked into Bogie's in Westlake Village, where I dance salsa on Thursday nights, and joined my friend, Joel, who was watching the class (there are always classes at the beginning of the night at almost all salsa clubs). The first thing he said to me was: No cake. At Bogie's, there is always, always cake. Birthdays are a big thing in the salsa community. And the law is, if it is your birthday, you get a birthday dance (scary thing where you are in the center of a circle of salseros and each one dances with you before handing you off to another who dances with you, then hands you off again -- with each salsero trying to top the other by the combinations he leads. I repeat: scary!), and you get CAKE. But, alas, there were no birthdays to celebrate on this rainy So Cal night. And, therefore, alas again, no cake.
It was a bad time to go without cake, as it was just after Thanksgiving and everyone was more or less so over with the pie thing -- especially me as I'm not a great fan of pie (except for pecan pie and that's another post altogether). And, as I believe I've written before, nothing, nothing, nothing tastes better than cake at the end of a night of salsa dancing. I've come to the conclusion that it is something chemical -- that you have evidently depleted your body of its essential supply of: flour, sugar, butter, and eggs, and it is rewarding you for restocking by gifting you a hallucinogenic blast of flavor. Seriously, salsa and cake go together like nothing else...except things that I should probably not write about.
But again, there was no cake. I took this as some cosmic connection to the demise of Hostess. I can't even recount all the recent conversations I have had with friends about the soon-to-be-disapparating Twinkies (or are they already gone?). It's been interesting because everyone has a staunchly-defended stance on this. We have our Twinkies people, and we have our Cupcakes people. I didn't question the Twinkies people on how they ate their Twinkies (because, frankly, I didn't care). But all of the Cupcakes people (like me) recalled eating their Hostess Cupcakes the same way -- by peeling off the frosting in one layer and eating it separately. There was no dissension from this, the way you would find in, say, the way people eat Oreos. The Cupcakes-eaters all peeled frosting. Like it was the law.
And now, a word about Snowballs. I didn't run across anyone in any of these conversations who liked Snowballs. Someone commented that the pink ones were the same color as Pepto-Bismal. Then, Billy summed it up: I didn't like Snowballs because they had that membrane. Right. Foods with membranes--not the best idea on the whole. So, it is a mystery how and why Snowballs stayed in the Hostess' business plan. Perhaps it was a regional thing -- like they were the thing in, say, Arkansas. It's a mystery.
My grandmother was an amazing cook and baker. I have probably written before, that her parents had emigrated from Prague, Czechoslovakia and she had learned to bake pastries from her mother and eight older sisters (seriously). I grew up close to my grandparents both emotionally, as well as geographically. Like, walking distance. And my grandmother was always baking. So, we didn't have a lot of Hostess (or Oreos for that matter) in either house. And had we had them, they would have been Twinkies. I have a sibling who has radar for chocolate -- responding to even the sight of it as if it were poison ivy. As a result, chocolate was rarely in the house. So my Hostess experience was about using a portion of my allowance to buy Cupcakes at our neighborhood Thrifimart, in Burbank, where my friends and I would walk home, peeling as we went, and washing them down with Tab or Diet Rite Cola. Another world.
Later, when I was in college, and working an early-morning schedule at my part-time job for Prudential Insurance, I often subsisted on Hostess Donuts, the chocolate ones, for breakfast along with coffee from the office vending machine. This was WAY before there was even the thought of a Starbuck's on every corner. And also long before I gave up coffee and became a tea drinker. The good news is that I also gave up the Hostess donuts. Surely not the best breakfast to have (though I did go through a blessedly brief Krispy-Kreme phase) in terms of health and welfare.
But none of this speaks to the lack of cake last week at Bogie's. Joel confessed that he was going to drop by Jack-in-the-Box for churros after salsa. Churros -- tempting, as they would hit the right button when it comes to the sugar. But they are fried, so probably not the best choice before bedtime. Not to mention that I have a salsa wardrobe which is substantially black, and learned long ago, the hard way (after a startling experience with beignets), that one should not mix powdered sugar with black attire. So, sadly, I went home bereft of cake. But here is the thing. There is always next Thursday! With a little bit of luck, there will be cake. I just hope it's not carrot cake. That would just be too cruel. Thank you for reading my blog. Life is short, eat cake and dance. Strike that; reverse it.
Last night I walked into Bogie's in Westlake Village, where I dance salsa on Thursday nights, and joined my friend, Joel, who was watching the class (there are always classes at the beginning of the night at almost all salsa clubs). The first thing he said to me was: No cake. At Bogie's, there is always, always cake. Birthdays are a big thing in the salsa community. And the law is, if it is your birthday, you get a birthday dance (scary thing where you are in the center of a circle of salseros and each one dances with you before handing you off to another who dances with you, then hands you off again -- with each salsero trying to top the other by the combinations he leads. I repeat: scary!), and you get CAKE. But, alas, there were no birthdays to celebrate on this rainy So Cal night. And, therefore, alas again, no cake.
It was a bad time to go without cake, as it was just after Thanksgiving and everyone was more or less so over with the pie thing -- especially me as I'm not a great fan of pie (except for pecan pie and that's another post altogether). And, as I believe I've written before, nothing, nothing, nothing tastes better than cake at the end of a night of salsa dancing. I've come to the conclusion that it is something chemical -- that you have evidently depleted your body of its essential supply of: flour, sugar, butter, and eggs, and it is rewarding you for restocking by gifting you a hallucinogenic blast of flavor. Seriously, salsa and cake go together like nothing else...except things that I should probably not write about.
But again, there was no cake. I took this as some cosmic connection to the demise of Hostess. I can't even recount all the recent conversations I have had with friends about the soon-to-be-disapparating Twinkies (or are they already gone?). It's been interesting because everyone has a staunchly-defended stance on this. We have our Twinkies people, and we have our Cupcakes people. I didn't question the Twinkies people on how they ate their Twinkies (because, frankly, I didn't care). But all of the Cupcakes people (like me) recalled eating their Hostess Cupcakes the same way -- by peeling off the frosting in one layer and eating it separately. There was no dissension from this, the way you would find in, say, the way people eat Oreos. The Cupcakes-eaters all peeled frosting. Like it was the law.
And now, a word about Snowballs. I didn't run across anyone in any of these conversations who liked Snowballs. Someone commented that the pink ones were the same color as Pepto-Bismal. Then, Billy summed it up: I didn't like Snowballs because they had that membrane. Right. Foods with membranes--not the best idea on the whole. So, it is a mystery how and why Snowballs stayed in the Hostess' business plan. Perhaps it was a regional thing -- like they were the thing in, say, Arkansas. It's a mystery.
My grandmother was an amazing cook and baker. I have probably written before, that her parents had emigrated from Prague, Czechoslovakia and she had learned to bake pastries from her mother and eight older sisters (seriously). I grew up close to my grandparents both emotionally, as well as geographically. Like, walking distance. And my grandmother was always baking. So, we didn't have a lot of Hostess (or Oreos for that matter) in either house. And had we had them, they would have been Twinkies. I have a sibling who has radar for chocolate -- responding to even the sight of it as if it were poison ivy. As a result, chocolate was rarely in the house. So my Hostess experience was about using a portion of my allowance to buy Cupcakes at our neighborhood Thrifimart, in Burbank, where my friends and I would walk home, peeling as we went, and washing them down with Tab or Diet Rite Cola. Another world.
Later, when I was in college, and working an early-morning schedule at my part-time job for Prudential Insurance, I often subsisted on Hostess Donuts, the chocolate ones, for breakfast along with coffee from the office vending machine. This was WAY before there was even the thought of a Starbuck's on every corner. And also long before I gave up coffee and became a tea drinker. The good news is that I also gave up the Hostess donuts. Surely not the best breakfast to have (though I did go through a blessedly brief Krispy-Kreme phase) in terms of health and welfare.
But none of this speaks to the lack of cake last week at Bogie's. Joel confessed that he was going to drop by Jack-in-the-Box for churros after salsa. Churros -- tempting, as they would hit the right button when it comes to the sugar. But they are fried, so probably not the best choice before bedtime. Not to mention that I have a salsa wardrobe which is substantially black, and learned long ago, the hard way (after a startling experience with beignets), that one should not mix powdered sugar with black attire. So, sadly, I went home bereft of cake. But here is the thing. There is always next Thursday! With a little bit of luck, there will be cake. I just hope it's not carrot cake. That would just be too cruel. Thank you for reading my blog. Life is short, eat cake and dance. Strike that; reverse it.
November 15, 2012
Flying Solo
Los Angeles, California
Writing a blog sometimes reminds me of those scenes in films where people happen into the mouth of a cave, calling out Hello-o-o-o? Is anybody there? Probably the one thing you surely wouldn't do if you happened to close in on a cave or mineshaft. When I was taking film classes in college, a recurring example of cinematic cliche was the young woman going up the stairs when she heard something scary happening up there. Don't go there, our brains are screaming at the hapless bimbo. But, in the case of blogging, you just keep stumbling along, hoping and trusting that someone is in the cave or even up the stairs, as long as there is someone. Somewhere.
What all of that mineshaft business happens to have in common with this post is a mystery. Except, as I've written before, writing a blog can sometimes be a lonely endeavor. But, cooking and eating alone should not be so. I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment off-campus in my last three semesters of college. What bliss! I had reached the end of my tether, roommate-wise, and living on my own enabled me to set up and stock my kitchen larder in a way that was like designing my own universe. Solipsistic beyond my wildest dreams. I bought bacon, and good cheeses, and cans of Smokehouse almonds to go with cocktails. Needless to say, I stocked a bar -- though nowhere near the extensive bar that we now run here. It was simple. It was well-thought out. It was fun.
Now, bacon and Smokehouse almonds may not seem like the epitome of good living, but again, people, this was college. It was also a time when I experimented a lot with ethnic cooking (which seems to be what we all did if we were cooking at that time). I pretty much had enchiladas down -- the story goes that I was eating them at the LA Farmers Market on Fairfax from the time I was about two, and making them since I was a teenager. But during college I acquired a paella pan, conquered a b'stilla, and polished all the rough edges off of my cioppino. I had a boyfriend who was also adventurous, food-wise, and off we went as I prepared something new and challenging, usually on Friday evenings after our week of classes and part-time jobs.
But, as much fun as that was, I also spent a lot of time eating alone. I could write about the time that I ate eleven flour tortillas with butter while I was studying for finals. But we all have stories like that, mine not much different than the rest, though illustrating my lifelong love of carbs-as-comfort. And, probably what I was eating alone in those days was not as good as what I eat alone these days -- when I am in Carmel, or feeding myself before I go out to dance.
I have two books that speak to this: Solo Suppers by Joyce Goldstein, which I gave to my mom after my dad died, and has subsequently come to me (along with more than a hundred other cookbooks which my mom had collected). And, a book entitled What We Eat When We Eat Alone, by Deborah Madison. This book is fascinating -- not a cookbook, but a collection of, well, what people eat when they eat alone. Amanda Hesser, of the New York Times, also wrote a chapter about this in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte -- a book I have been referencing a lot lately as I try out several of her recipes which are included in her memoir about meeting and marrying her husband. I find it an intriguing subject -- what we go for when no one is around, and we eat to satisfy ourselves.
Now I could confess to a dinner of Mallomars and The Macallan 18-year-old scotch, and that would probably make a better story. But, alas, I've never. Yet. It's probably more heinously boring to admit that my favorite solo meal is late breakfast or lunch, and it consists of a slice of good multigrain bread, toasted, then toasted again with a slice of fine extra-sharp cheddar or gruyere cheese, until barely melted. I slice this across diagonally, and eat the halves with cottage cheese and apples -- chunky, cooked apples (see blogpost: Come Sunday, available now for a limited time), though cranberry sauce will work in a seasonally-appropriate pinch. If I don't have the fruit, a glass of apple cider can step in. It's not perfect, but accommodations sometimes have to be made even when you are serving yourself (and, of course, more often when you are serving others).
Cranberry Sauce
1 bag cranberries (organic if you are so inclined)
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup apple cider
1 cinnamon stick
2 tablespoons Calvados
Combine first four ingredients in a medium saucepan. Cook over moderately high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. When it comes to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for about six minutes. Take off heat, and stir in Calvados. It will thicken a bit as it cools. Makes about a pint, mas o menos.
My new favorite dinner before salsa is a quinoa salad: quinoa rinsed and cooked; then tossed with arugula or chopped romaine. Add avocado, a handful each of halved Sweet 100 tomatoes and kalamata olives, and a sliced up cooked chicken breast. I toss this with lemon olive oil, a drizzle of sherry vinegar, a pinch of sea salt and freshly-ground pepper. Have also been known to substitute a roasted slab of salmon for the chicken, or some cooked shrimp. If I'm not dancing, I add a sliced scallion, maybe a handful of feta cheese or some marinated artichoke hearts. It's so easy and adaptable to your whims (the best thing about a recipe for solo dining).
My heartstrings are tugged at the thought of those who have no choice but to eat alone. Truth is, breaking bread with others is part of what makes food and dining so special. Though sometimes just the taste, along with the comfort found in the food I eat, is, well, satisfying enough. I have a frister who says that she has so little interest in food that she only eats because she has to in order to survive. This hits my heart in the same way that I feel about people going through life without dancing, though I realize that one person's joy is another person's misery (ask Billy how he feels about dancing). Still, when you enjoy something so intensely, it is difficult to accept or even comprehend that others can just take a pass. Alas, I have learned that such is life. Being smarter than me, you probably already knew that. If not, in spite of everything, you must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. Now go grab a friend and share something good to eat!
Writing a blog sometimes reminds me of those scenes in films where people happen into the mouth of a cave, calling out Hello-o-o-o? Is anybody there? Probably the one thing you surely wouldn't do if you happened to close in on a cave or mineshaft. When I was taking film classes in college, a recurring example of cinematic cliche was the young woman going up the stairs when she heard something scary happening up there. Don't go there, our brains are screaming at the hapless bimbo. But, in the case of blogging, you just keep stumbling along, hoping and trusting that someone is in the cave or even up the stairs, as long as there is someone. Somewhere.
What all of that mineshaft business happens to have in common with this post is a mystery. Except, as I've written before, writing a blog can sometimes be a lonely endeavor. But, cooking and eating alone should not be so. I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment off-campus in my last three semesters of college. What bliss! I had reached the end of my tether, roommate-wise, and living on my own enabled me to set up and stock my kitchen larder in a way that was like designing my own universe. Solipsistic beyond my wildest dreams. I bought bacon, and good cheeses, and cans of Smokehouse almonds to go with cocktails. Needless to say, I stocked a bar -- though nowhere near the extensive bar that we now run here. It was simple. It was well-thought out. It was fun.
Now, bacon and Smokehouse almonds may not seem like the epitome of good living, but again, people, this was college. It was also a time when I experimented a lot with ethnic cooking (which seems to be what we all did if we were cooking at that time). I pretty much had enchiladas down -- the story goes that I was eating them at the LA Farmers Market on Fairfax from the time I was about two, and making them since I was a teenager. But during college I acquired a paella pan, conquered a b'stilla, and polished all the rough edges off of my cioppino. I had a boyfriend who was also adventurous, food-wise, and off we went as I prepared something new and challenging, usually on Friday evenings after our week of classes and part-time jobs.
But, as much fun as that was, I also spent a lot of time eating alone. I could write about the time that I ate eleven flour tortillas with butter while I was studying for finals. But we all have stories like that, mine not much different than the rest, though illustrating my lifelong love of carbs-as-comfort. And, probably what I was eating alone in those days was not as good as what I eat alone these days -- when I am in Carmel, or feeding myself before I go out to dance.
I have two books that speak to this: Solo Suppers by Joyce Goldstein, which I gave to my mom after my dad died, and has subsequently come to me (along with more than a hundred other cookbooks which my mom had collected). And, a book entitled What We Eat When We Eat Alone, by Deborah Madison. This book is fascinating -- not a cookbook, but a collection of, well, what people eat when they eat alone. Amanda Hesser, of the New York Times, also wrote a chapter about this in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte -- a book I have been referencing a lot lately as I try out several of her recipes which are included in her memoir about meeting and marrying her husband. I find it an intriguing subject -- what we go for when no one is around, and we eat to satisfy ourselves.
Now I could confess to a dinner of Mallomars and The Macallan 18-year-old scotch, and that would probably make a better story. But, alas, I've never. Yet. It's probably more heinously boring to admit that my favorite solo meal is late breakfast or lunch, and it consists of a slice of good multigrain bread, toasted, then toasted again with a slice of fine extra-sharp cheddar or gruyere cheese, until barely melted. I slice this across diagonally, and eat the halves with cottage cheese and apples -- chunky, cooked apples (see blogpost: Come Sunday, available now for a limited time), though cranberry sauce will work in a seasonally-appropriate pinch. If I don't have the fruit, a glass of apple cider can step in. It's not perfect, but accommodations sometimes have to be made even when you are serving yourself (and, of course, more often when you are serving others).
Cranberry Sauce
1 bag cranberries (organic if you are so inclined)
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup apple cider
1 cinnamon stick
2 tablespoons Calvados
Combine first four ingredients in a medium saucepan. Cook over moderately high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. When it comes to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for about six minutes. Take off heat, and stir in Calvados. It will thicken a bit as it cools. Makes about a pint, mas o menos.
My new favorite dinner before salsa is a quinoa salad: quinoa rinsed and cooked; then tossed with arugula or chopped romaine. Add avocado, a handful each of halved Sweet 100 tomatoes and kalamata olives, and a sliced up cooked chicken breast. I toss this with lemon olive oil, a drizzle of sherry vinegar, a pinch of sea salt and freshly-ground pepper. Have also been known to substitute a roasted slab of salmon for the chicken, or some cooked shrimp. If I'm not dancing, I add a sliced scallion, maybe a handful of feta cheese or some marinated artichoke hearts. It's so easy and adaptable to your whims (the best thing about a recipe for solo dining).
My heartstrings are tugged at the thought of those who have no choice but to eat alone. Truth is, breaking bread with others is part of what makes food and dining so special. Though sometimes just the taste, along with the comfort found in the food I eat, is, well, satisfying enough. I have a frister who says that she has so little interest in food that she only eats because she has to in order to survive. This hits my heart in the same way that I feel about people going through life without dancing, though I realize that one person's joy is another person's misery (ask Billy how he feels about dancing). Still, when you enjoy something so intensely, it is difficult to accept or even comprehend that others can just take a pass. Alas, I have learned that such is life. Being smarter than me, you probably already knew that. If not, in spite of everything, you must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. Now go grab a friend and share something good to eat!
October 30, 2012
Full Moon in Scorpio
Santa Barbara, California
Billy and I left LA early Sunday morning so that we could arrive here in Santa Barbara in time to attend Mass at Mission Santa Barbara. This mission, called The Queen of the Missions, was built about a decade after Carmel Mission. It's parrish is under the Franciscan order. I had heard that it has a wondrous Parrish Choir.
Billy just plain loves Santa Barbara. I am less enamorado, though I think it is very pretty. And you can't beat the weather which seems to always be seventy-five degrees and sunny. And there is lots to do here. But still . . .
Since 1998 we have gone to Kona, to the Kona Village, for every and all of my birthdays except 1999 when I made an ill-fated decision that we should go to Santa Fe. Don't get me wrong. Santa Fe was lovely, and we both fell in love with it. The food was spectacular, and there was a lot to do there. But it was freaking COLD -- 29 degrees the night that we celebrated my birthday. On that walk home from Santacafe to Inn of the Anasazi, which was just a few short blocks, I could feel the stone cold of the pavement through my shoes. Something I remember from being in Rome once in late November when I was a teenager. Something I do not like at all.
After that Santa Fe foot freeze, I vowed to spend all the rest of my birthdays at The Kona Village. And, I believe that it was the very next trip, in 2000, when we met Sandra and John. That was when the trouble started. The trouble we caused, that is. Somewhere along the line I had picked up a fateful sentence spoken to me earlier by a waiter on a cruise ship. I had hesitated to take a glass of champagne with me as I was leaving a dining room. Go ahead, Ishmael (really -- an unbearably attractive Turkish man named Ishmael) said, It's your ship! Sandra and I used this over and over again at The Village -- enough so that we quickly came to believe it. It was our Village -- at least for the 7-8 days that we were there together. And I suppose we did sometimes stretch the outer limits of vacation entitlement. I so miss that!
But, currently, there is no Kona Village. And, Santa Barbara is not a bad place to celebrate. We spent our twentieth wedding anniversary here; a rainy weekend staying at the San Ysidro Ranch in a cottage with two fireplaces. We must have burnt through a cord of wood. I'm certain they lost money on us. This time we are at The Canary Hotel -- right in town within walking distance to just about everything.
I have celebrated thirteen birthdays at the Kona Village Resort. Last year, after the tsunami had washed away all traces of those celebrations and knocked our hale off its foundation and the resort off the map, we took off for John and Sandra's house on the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe and celebrated my birthday there. It was a perfect and lovely celebration in their beautiful home with the lake right outside their windows and a table set in harvest theme. Home, in a different place and different way, but good.
This year, on Sunday night, we watched the Giants clinch the World Series in a four-game sweep. There we were, once again, sitting in an out of town bar (the one in our hotel), perched on barstools watching the Giants run away with another game. This one being the finish of the World Series. We drank martinis, ate shisito peppers (perfect for pre-Halloween goulishness since about one out of seven are blisteringly hot while the rest are tasty and mild), and a prosciutto and shaved asparagus flatbread. I resisted an almost overwhelming temptation to order oysters, as I have a rather ridiculous agreement with myself that I won't eat risky foods when I am on vacation. Though, frankly, neither oysters nor sushi seem that risky to me anymore. In retrospect, I should have just gone for it.
I celebrated my birthday by shopping up and down State Street. We ate lunch outdoors at a little cafe, and dinner at another one. We had cocktails in the bar at the hotel. We now knew our bartender, Brett, by name, and had learned that he is a Dodgers fan. We're good at this getting-to-know-you thing when it comes to bartenders. Later, after dinner, we were walking back to the hotel down State Street. Most of the businesses were closed, and we saw no one else strolling. As we were crossing the street, I heard the opening refrain of one of my favorite salsa song: Yo No Se Manana by Luis Enrique. And it was loud! No other sounds on the street but this song, which just happens to be the ringtone on my phone. When we passed in front of the patio of a restaurant that was now closed, we saw the staff cleaning up. They had the music cranked -- a salsa version of whistling while you work. What are the odds of that song in that place on that night?
Meanwhile, while we were having all this fun in sunny Santa Barbara, Hurricane Sandy was brewing and blowing on the Eastern seaboard. A vast crushing mass of a storm. My friend, Max, texted from Connecticut to say that they were ok, but that it was a massive assault. He sent me a photo of a sign at his local Starbucks offering free water to the victims of the storm. The sign had a heart drawn on the bottom of it. Times like this can bring out the best in people and communities.
I've always known that I share my birthday with the infamous Black Tuesday when the stock market crashed in 1929. It's a volatile time of year, and this year, there was a full moon on my birthday. I am a Scorpio. And, there was a full moon on the first day of Scorpio on the night when I lost two close friends in a car accident in Pacheco Pass. I know that I've written this before. But that doesn't stop me from again writing that we buried Larry on a Monday, and Ray on Tuesday. The following day was my eighteenth birthday. It's been a long time, but I will never pass a birthday without thinking of them both.
The odds are that sometime, through the course of your life, something bad is going to happen in conjunction with your birthday. I feel I've had more than my share including a birthday spent at a hospital when my dad had been admitted into the intensive care unit. My dad survived that bout. And the next one. But not the final one. Still, I went on to celebrate many wildly happy birthdays in Kona; one at Glenbrook, plus the chilly one in Santa Fe, and this one in Santa Barbara. The weather was beautiful, sunny and mild, and I feel profound gratitude that we were lucky enough to enjoy it.
Meanwhile, Max's family is one of millions of households currently without power. And the devastation is still under assessment. This was big. Call me superstitious, but I believe that a full moon in Scorpio should never be underestimated. You must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. And East Coasters: you will know many more mananas. Hang in there . . .
Billy and I left LA early Sunday morning so that we could arrive here in Santa Barbara in time to attend Mass at Mission Santa Barbara. This mission, called The Queen of the Missions, was built about a decade after Carmel Mission. It's parrish is under the Franciscan order. I had heard that it has a wondrous Parrish Choir.
Billy just plain loves Santa Barbara. I am less enamorado, though I think it is very pretty. And you can't beat the weather which seems to always be seventy-five degrees and sunny. And there is lots to do here. But still . . .
Since 1998 we have gone to Kona, to the Kona Village, for every and all of my birthdays except 1999 when I made an ill-fated decision that we should go to Santa Fe. Don't get me wrong. Santa Fe was lovely, and we both fell in love with it. The food was spectacular, and there was a lot to do there. But it was freaking COLD -- 29 degrees the night that we celebrated my birthday. On that walk home from Santacafe to Inn of the Anasazi, which was just a few short blocks, I could feel the stone cold of the pavement through my shoes. Something I remember from being in Rome once in late November when I was a teenager. Something I do not like at all.
After that Santa Fe foot freeze, I vowed to spend all the rest of my birthdays at The Kona Village. And, I believe that it was the very next trip, in 2000, when we met Sandra and John. That was when the trouble started. The trouble we caused, that is. Somewhere along the line I had picked up a fateful sentence spoken to me earlier by a waiter on a cruise ship. I had hesitated to take a glass of champagne with me as I was leaving a dining room. Go ahead, Ishmael (really -- an unbearably attractive Turkish man named Ishmael) said, It's your ship! Sandra and I used this over and over again at The Village -- enough so that we quickly came to believe it. It was our Village -- at least for the 7-8 days that we were there together. And I suppose we did sometimes stretch the outer limits of vacation entitlement. I so miss that!
But, currently, there is no Kona Village. And, Santa Barbara is not a bad place to celebrate. We spent our twentieth wedding anniversary here; a rainy weekend staying at the San Ysidro Ranch in a cottage with two fireplaces. We must have burnt through a cord of wood. I'm certain they lost money on us. This time we are at The Canary Hotel -- right in town within walking distance to just about everything.
I have celebrated thirteen birthdays at the Kona Village Resort. Last year, after the tsunami had washed away all traces of those celebrations and knocked our hale off its foundation and the resort off the map, we took off for John and Sandra's house on the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe and celebrated my birthday there. It was a perfect and lovely celebration in their beautiful home with the lake right outside their windows and a table set in harvest theme. Home, in a different place and different way, but good.
This year, on Sunday night, we watched the Giants clinch the World Series in a four-game sweep. There we were, once again, sitting in an out of town bar (the one in our hotel), perched on barstools watching the Giants run away with another game. This one being the finish of the World Series. We drank martinis, ate shisito peppers (perfect for pre-Halloween goulishness since about one out of seven are blisteringly hot while the rest are tasty and mild), and a prosciutto and shaved asparagus flatbread. I resisted an almost overwhelming temptation to order oysters, as I have a rather ridiculous agreement with myself that I won't eat risky foods when I am on vacation. Though, frankly, neither oysters nor sushi seem that risky to me anymore. In retrospect, I should have just gone for it.
I celebrated my birthday by shopping up and down State Street. We ate lunch outdoors at a little cafe, and dinner at another one. We had cocktails in the bar at the hotel. We now knew our bartender, Brett, by name, and had learned that he is a Dodgers fan. We're good at this getting-to-know-you thing when it comes to bartenders. Later, after dinner, we were walking back to the hotel down State Street. Most of the businesses were closed, and we saw no one else strolling. As we were crossing the street, I heard the opening refrain of one of my favorite salsa song: Yo No Se Manana by Luis Enrique. And it was loud! No other sounds on the street but this song, which just happens to be the ringtone on my phone. When we passed in front of the patio of a restaurant that was now closed, we saw the staff cleaning up. They had the music cranked -- a salsa version of whistling while you work. What are the odds of that song in that place on that night?
Meanwhile, while we were having all this fun in sunny Santa Barbara, Hurricane Sandy was brewing and blowing on the Eastern seaboard. A vast crushing mass of a storm. My friend, Max, texted from Connecticut to say that they were ok, but that it was a massive assault. He sent me a photo of a sign at his local Starbucks offering free water to the victims of the storm. The sign had a heart drawn on the bottom of it. Times like this can bring out the best in people and communities.
I've always known that I share my birthday with the infamous Black Tuesday when the stock market crashed in 1929. It's a volatile time of year, and this year, there was a full moon on my birthday. I am a Scorpio. And, there was a full moon on the first day of Scorpio on the night when I lost two close friends in a car accident in Pacheco Pass. I know that I've written this before. But that doesn't stop me from again writing that we buried Larry on a Monday, and Ray on Tuesday. The following day was my eighteenth birthday. It's been a long time, but I will never pass a birthday without thinking of them both.
The odds are that sometime, through the course of your life, something bad is going to happen in conjunction with your birthday. I feel I've had more than my share including a birthday spent at a hospital when my dad had been admitted into the intensive care unit. My dad survived that bout. And the next one. But not the final one. Still, I went on to celebrate many wildly happy birthdays in Kona; one at Glenbrook, plus the chilly one in Santa Fe, and this one in Santa Barbara. The weather was beautiful, sunny and mild, and I feel profound gratitude that we were lucky enough to enjoy it.
Meanwhile, Max's family is one of millions of households currently without power. And the devastation is still under assessment. This was big. Call me superstitious, but I believe that a full moon in Scorpio should never be underestimated. You must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog. And East Coasters: you will know many more mananas. Hang in there . . .
October 15, 2012
The Confession
Los Angeles, California
Ok, here it is. I am fascinated, FASCINATED by Tim Lincecum. I recently watched him pitch in relief for the Giants in game four of the NLCS playoffs. When he pitches, I cannot take my eyes off of him. It's crazy. Something about the mechanics of his pitching, the expression on his face, just rivets me to the screen -- even when he's doing badly (his doing badly against the Dodgers should be enjoyment enough, but still I can't look at anything else going on besides his pitching). I was profoundly disappointed that he wasn't pitching when we attended the game at AT&T Park last month, though I did see him pitch (badly) at Dodger Stadium once this year. What is it about baseball and baseball players that generates this much interest in me?
My salsero friend, Joel, tells me that baseball is boring, and that the Dodgers start out every season by doing well and then they finish by losing. He taunts me about my team. And, I have to admit that, lately, this is true. And this year in a BMW (big major way). They got all of our hopes way up and then took a quarter-of-a-billion dollar freefall at the end of the season. It was pathetic. Still.
Lydia invited me to the game, on October 2nd, which was when they lost the wild card race. It was an evening I will always remember. My friend, Christopher, was also there and through his connections to an event at Dodger Stadium, we got to get onto the field before the game. A novel and heady experience for us both. I took a few photos, then froze when I saw the dugout start to fill. Andre Ethier, who for many seasons we have called TCO for the cute one (seriously, even Billy has occasionally called him that in the spirit of not beating us but joining us) started out to the field. Lydia froze not. She whipped her phone around and snapped this:
which got me unbelievably excited. So that when I saw Kemp sitting in the dugout I demanded that she take his picture, take his picture! She snapped again, then snapped at me Why don't you take it? But she is better at this than me. We work well this way with she as cameraperson, and me as the director. And I will prove it:
We were, of course, disappointed that the Dodgers didn't battle back that night, but it wasn't meant to be. And even if the Dodgers had won, they wouldn't have captured the wild card. It's a magic number thing, and don't expect me to explain it. The St. Louis Cardinals went on to win the following night, and that would have knocked us out regardless. That is baseball. You can be winning through the entire game up until the last inning; even down to the last pitch and the last out, and you can still lose. That happened to the Washington Nationals this past Friday night, and it was heartbreaking -- even though I didn't have a dog in that fight. It is so hard to see those players' faces after a stunning loss like that. Shell-shocked.
Baseball has been very, very good to me this year, even though the Dodgers took that slide. It riveted my attention away from my problems. For the first time in my life, I even paid attention to stats, checking them each night before I went to bed. It was fun, and I will miss it, though I'm happy to have it to look forward to next spring.
Last year, Lyd and I went to one of the first games of the season. When she first stepped into Dodger Stadium, she took a deep breath and said to me I'm here. It was said in a tone that conveyed that she was back home. I know that feeling. I used to feel it when we arrived in Kona. I feel it when I see the first cypress trees as I am coming in to Monterey County. And I expect I will feel it when I first set foot in Dodger Stadium next season. So, on the second to the last day of the regular season, we bid farewell to Dodger Stadium until next year. And, by the way Giants -- just wait until next year . . .
Ok, here it is. I am fascinated, FASCINATED by Tim Lincecum. I recently watched him pitch in relief for the Giants in game four of the NLCS playoffs. When he pitches, I cannot take my eyes off of him. It's crazy. Something about the mechanics of his pitching, the expression on his face, just rivets me to the screen -- even when he's doing badly (his doing badly against the Dodgers should be enjoyment enough, but still I can't look at anything else going on besides his pitching). I was profoundly disappointed that he wasn't pitching when we attended the game at AT&T Park last month, though I did see him pitch (badly) at Dodger Stadium once this year. What is it about baseball and baseball players that generates this much interest in me?
My salsero friend, Joel, tells me that baseball is boring, and that the Dodgers start out every season by doing well and then they finish by losing. He taunts me about my team. And, I have to admit that, lately, this is true. And this year in a BMW (big major way). They got all of our hopes way up and then took a quarter-of-a-billion dollar freefall at the end of the season. It was pathetic. Still.
Lydia invited me to the game, on October 2nd, which was when they lost the wild card race. It was an evening I will always remember. My friend, Christopher, was also there and through his connections to an event at Dodger Stadium, we got to get onto the field before the game. A novel and heady experience for us both. I took a few photos, then froze when I saw the dugout start to fill. Andre Ethier, who for many seasons we have called TCO for the cute one (seriously, even Billy has occasionally called him that in the spirit of not beating us but joining us) started out to the field. Lydia froze not. She whipped her phone around and snapped this:
which got me unbelievably excited. So that when I saw Kemp sitting in the dugout I demanded that she take his picture, take his picture! She snapped again, then snapped at me Why don't you take it? But she is better at this than me. We work well this way with she as cameraperson, and me as the director. And I will prove it:
We were, of course, disappointed that the Dodgers didn't battle back that night, but it wasn't meant to be. And even if the Dodgers had won, they wouldn't have captured the wild card. It's a magic number thing, and don't expect me to explain it. The St. Louis Cardinals went on to win the following night, and that would have knocked us out regardless. That is baseball. You can be winning through the entire game up until the last inning; even down to the last pitch and the last out, and you can still lose. That happened to the Washington Nationals this past Friday night, and it was heartbreaking -- even though I didn't have a dog in that fight. It is so hard to see those players' faces after a stunning loss like that. Shell-shocked.
Baseball has been very, very good to me this year, even though the Dodgers took that slide. It riveted my attention away from my problems. For the first time in my life, I even paid attention to stats, checking them each night before I went to bed. It was fun, and I will miss it, though I'm happy to have it to look forward to next spring.
Last year, Lyd and I went to one of the first games of the season. When she first stepped into Dodger Stadium, she took a deep breath and said to me I'm here. It was said in a tone that conveyed that she was back home. I know that feeling. I used to feel it when we arrived in Kona. I feel it when I see the first cypress trees as I am coming in to Monterey County. And I expect I will feel it when I first set foot in Dodger Stadium next season. So, on the second to the last day of the regular season, we bid farewell to Dodger Stadium until next year. And, by the way Giants -- just wait until next year . . .
Thank you for reading my blog. Go Dodgers (in 2013)!
September 30, 2012
Room Additions
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Share a little secret with you: I color-code my months. I've done it since college. What this means is, when I have a choice of colors (highlighting pens and ink color of other pens, kitchen sponges, file folders, etc.) I pick a color that corresponds to the month -- at least to me it does. Some months are obvious: October = orange. In the spring and summer I have to pick from the palette, but I worked this out years ago. See the Carmel-by-the-Sea above? September = blue. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I always had the blues when summer was coming to an end. Or maybe as the days shorten, I want more of that blue sky. But if you look again, you will see that the blue above is getting lighter and fainter. And my stay in Carmel is nearing its end. But, I'm not going to write about that. I'm going to write about . . . room additions.
Don't run and get the blueprints and the tool box yet. This construction is metaphorical. It started with something that I read in the newspaper recently, which reminded me of something my friend, Joan, had said about therapy. She said that engaging in the process of therapy allowed her to live in all of the rooms of her house. I knew exactly what she meant, because I have known people (and siblings) who could only live in one room, sometimes with the doors and windows fastened shut. Ending up much like Nanny Hawkins in Brideshead, Revisted, it's not unusual to slip into this as we age. Expanding and meeting challenges in life, even developing new interests can be daunting. But if you have a large, or even medium-sized house, who wants to hole up in only one room?
The genesis of the article was that marriages can suffer from one of the individuals adding on a room and denying the other access. You see this when someone develops a passion or interest which excludes their partner. So you get football and golf widows; or one person getting more devout in their religion while the other does not; or involvement in a book club and their fellow members to the detriment of the time spent together with your partner. But that's a relationship issue. What I was interested in was the concept of room additions as a metaphor for personal expansion. In recent years, I've found this concept of expanding your life, well, fascinating. I think because, in many ways, I was fearful when I was younger. And as that has dropped away, I've been able to push out in areas that are both healthy and gratifying to me, but, more importantly, this has given me more courage to push out in other areas.
I'm not going to make your eyes into pinwheels by reiterating my three-things mantra which is on the mission statement, if you will, of my blog. But I do want to attempt to convey just how important, how much it has changed my life to rediscover dance, to risk my fragile creative vulnerability by putting up my writing here, and to up the ante on a life-long culinary adventure by discovering more innovative ingredients and new trends in cooking. These are my room additions.
And btw on the marriage front, for those of you not following along, Billy cooks alongside me. I've even recently caught him perusing food magazines. He reads every post I write, and even accompanies me, albeit very occasionally, to salsa clubs. So, no locked doors on any of my room additions.
I really had to reign myself in to pick those three activities. I wanted to try to get better at them through concentration and practice. So I winnowed out all those other things that I had tried: calligraphy, knitting, baking (for the most part), though I do still garden. Book club? English majors don't do that. We did it with our professors and a whole room of other English majors all through upper division literature classes and senior seminars. No one is going to pick what I read right now, and I'm not much for the ubiquitous thriller/intrigue authors. But that's just me. Sports? I suppose I could revisit golf again, in spite of the carpel tunnel affecting both my hands -- that's why God made Advil. Art? My real weak link. I'm neither talented at visual art, nor interested in looking at it. I will walk through galleries with Billy, but I get nothing out of it. Art museums? I might as well be walking through Ikea. It's just something missing in me.
So if I were to begin to think about, let's see, bumping this wall out and adding a, let's say, small sunporch off the dining room, what would that room contain? And I paused for a long time before writing this list: volunteer work, most likely involved with reading/reading disabilities; studying Spanish (yet again) though I'm hopeless with languages; spending a month somewhere that isn't located in either California nor Hawaii; raising a puppy, but not yet. Before you start construction, you should have a pretty darned good idea of what you are doing. But, I also think it's a slippery slope where you get complacent about living in the quarters you already have, or worse, closing off some of those rooms.
I suppose the constant construction of room additions could also bring new relationships -- new friends. As my family dwindles, my friends have become even more important to me. They are truly my family. But they don't live together in the family room. They are spread out into different rooms all over my house -- my salsa friends in that room over there with the music and dance floor, for example. I am always open to welcoming new friends, but the friends I have carried through my life or at least through the last decade or so mean everything to me. You know who you are!
So there you have it! Room additions. And I don't want to get all new-agey about this, but it is interesting to ponder. If you were going to build on a new room, what would it represent and contain? How would you furnish it? I'm just asking . . . Gracias for reading my blog in whatever room in your casa.
Share a little secret with you: I color-code my months. I've done it since college. What this means is, when I have a choice of colors (highlighting pens and ink color of other pens, kitchen sponges, file folders, etc.) I pick a color that corresponds to the month -- at least to me it does. Some months are obvious: October = orange. In the spring and summer I have to pick from the palette, but I worked this out years ago. See the Carmel-by-the-Sea above? September = blue. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I always had the blues when summer was coming to an end. Or maybe as the days shorten, I want more of that blue sky. But if you look again, you will see that the blue above is getting lighter and fainter. And my stay in Carmel is nearing its end. But, I'm not going to write about that. I'm going to write about . . . room additions.
Don't run and get the blueprints and the tool box yet. This construction is metaphorical. It started with something that I read in the newspaper recently, which reminded me of something my friend, Joan, had said about therapy. She said that engaging in the process of therapy allowed her to live in all of the rooms of her house. I knew exactly what she meant, because I have known people (and siblings) who could only live in one room, sometimes with the doors and windows fastened shut. Ending up much like Nanny Hawkins in Brideshead, Revisted, it's not unusual to slip into this as we age. Expanding and meeting challenges in life, even developing new interests can be daunting. But if you have a large, or even medium-sized house, who wants to hole up in only one room?
The genesis of the article was that marriages can suffer from one of the individuals adding on a room and denying the other access. You see this when someone develops a passion or interest which excludes their partner. So you get football and golf widows; or one person getting more devout in their religion while the other does not; or involvement in a book club and their fellow members to the detriment of the time spent together with your partner. But that's a relationship issue. What I was interested in was the concept of room additions as a metaphor for personal expansion. In recent years, I've found this concept of expanding your life, well, fascinating. I think because, in many ways, I was fearful when I was younger. And as that has dropped away, I've been able to push out in areas that are both healthy and gratifying to me, but, more importantly, this has given me more courage to push out in other areas.
I'm not going to make your eyes into pinwheels by reiterating my three-things mantra which is on the mission statement, if you will, of my blog. But I do want to attempt to convey just how important, how much it has changed my life to rediscover dance, to risk my fragile creative vulnerability by putting up my writing here, and to up the ante on a life-long culinary adventure by discovering more innovative ingredients and new trends in cooking. These are my room additions.
And btw on the marriage front, for those of you not following along, Billy cooks alongside me. I've even recently caught him perusing food magazines. He reads every post I write, and even accompanies me, albeit very occasionally, to salsa clubs. So, no locked doors on any of my room additions.
I really had to reign myself in to pick those three activities. I wanted to try to get better at them through concentration and practice. So I winnowed out all those other things that I had tried: calligraphy, knitting, baking (for the most part), though I do still garden. Book club? English majors don't do that. We did it with our professors and a whole room of other English majors all through upper division literature classes and senior seminars. No one is going to pick what I read right now, and I'm not much for the ubiquitous thriller/intrigue authors. But that's just me. Sports? I suppose I could revisit golf again, in spite of the carpel tunnel affecting both my hands -- that's why God made Advil. Art? My real weak link. I'm neither talented at visual art, nor interested in looking at it. I will walk through galleries with Billy, but I get nothing out of it. Art museums? I might as well be walking through Ikea. It's just something missing in me.
So if I were to begin to think about, let's see, bumping this wall out and adding a, let's say, small sunporch off the dining room, what would that room contain? And I paused for a long time before writing this list: volunteer work, most likely involved with reading/reading disabilities; studying Spanish (yet again) though I'm hopeless with languages; spending a month somewhere that isn't located in either California nor Hawaii; raising a puppy, but not yet. Before you start construction, you should have a pretty darned good idea of what you are doing. But, I also think it's a slippery slope where you get complacent about living in the quarters you already have, or worse, closing off some of those rooms.
I suppose the constant construction of room additions could also bring new relationships -- new friends. As my family dwindles, my friends have become even more important to me. They are truly my family. But they don't live together in the family room. They are spread out into different rooms all over my house -- my salsa friends in that room over there with the music and dance floor, for example. I am always open to welcoming new friends, but the friends I have carried through my life or at least through the last decade or so mean everything to me. You know who you are!
So there you have it! Room additions. And I don't want to get all new-agey about this, but it is interesting to ponder. If you were going to build on a new room, what would it represent and contain? How would you furnish it? I'm just asking . . . Gracias for reading my blog in whatever room in your casa.
September 27, 2012
Away We Go
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy and I are packing up and will leave Carmel tomorrow. Every trip takes on its own sense and flavor. This trip is no different. We haven't spent any September time in Carmel in years, and it is somewhat different than the time we spend in January. First, there's the weather. It was foggy here for the first week. Then the sun came out and stayed out for almost two weeks. Then it got foggy and pretty cold. House guests who were coming out of 90 to 100 degrees at home were pleased. But I brought more long-sleeved tee-shirts than sweaters with me. Still, you make it work. Layers, layers, layers . . .
Second, we spent most of our time here alone. Las Chicas came in for a visit, and so did Sandra and John. But we often stack three or four sets of house guests while we are here. It's a way and time to get together with our friends who live in Northern California. And a good time to get Billy's mom out of Arizona. Except that she was in Washington with Billy's brother. John and Sandra hadn't been to stay with us in Carmel since January 2010, due to Sandra's health issues. And we no longer have Kona Village to reconnoiter each October. So their visit was a given.
We were going to invite other friends who live up in the bay area, but we learned he would be traveling a lot through the month. And, in recent months, she has dropped off on our email communication. I think she isn't currently interested in maintaining a regular dialog. And that's ok. I just wanted to make sure there wasn't something else going on. I gently questioned her about this; asking what was going on as she seemed a bit down. But she didn't respond to the query, and came back with a cheery email, so I let it be. You want to be there for your friends, and especially for the fristers (she is one). But, you can only do something about what you can do something about. I am kind; I stay in contact; I wait. While I have been known to jump in with both feet, sometimes it is better to give friends the time and space they seem to want. Hopefully she will know I am here, when I am needed.
When I talked to Lydia about this, and about the trip, she suggested that Billy and I should not have house guests on the front end of the trip. Billy was here for ten days at the beginning of our stay. He returned twelve days later and stayed until the end (ten more days). I talked to him about Lydia's advice. She thinks we need this, I said. Billy agreed with Lydia. So we went short on house guests and spent our first ten nights here all by our lonesome. It was better. It was something we needed after the strain of recent hectic and stressful years. We walked; went out for drinks and/or dinner; drove the 17-Mile Drive (yet again); relaxed and slept well. Batteries were running low on juice, but we didn't know how to recharge them. Lydia did.
And so we go. It's always hard to leave, but, perhaps easier this time, as we will be returning in late December. Billy worked straight through from late January to September 1st without a break or vacation besides Fourth of July. It was too long. Having the two one-week periods off this September was good for him. But not enough. We both know that next year he will take a few more shorter breaks, and we plan to recreate a bit more. We are getting older, and all work seems harder to do. Billy wants to work another five years, but I hope to shorten that (financial wizard that I am) by at least a year.
I return to Los Angeles to attend a Dodgers game with my frister, Lydia, the next evening. It will be the second to the last game of the season, and the Dodgers hang on by a very slender thread to the possibility of a wild card spot. I have to accept that for Dodgers baseball, the season is most likely ending. Dodgers baseball became a true respite over the past six months, even when they were nose-diving. I've learned to love baseball again, and I've been grateful for the distraction. But, its season is coming to a close with no other sport to replace it for me. Football, ugh. Basketball? Lakers are getting pretty long in the tooth, and it's so frantic. I think I will just need to hang on until April. After all, next year is a new, clean page yet to be writ. And people have invested over a billion dollars in this team! Which is crazy. But. Let's go, Dodgers in 2013.
And so, home. But again, Carmel feels more and more like home, so I get confused. Better to say that we will be returning to Los Angeles, where everyday life including our business and gardening chores await. Oh, and we will be having a new roof put on our house. That's what you do in between trips to Carmel. You take care of business. Carmel will be here, and I will think of it in the way I always thought about the Kona Village when we weren't there. Daily life goes on whether you are there or not. You just can't see it. It's like Brigadoon. Only without that 100-yearlong siesta. Wake up, and thank you for reading my blog. See you soon in Los Angeles!
September 25, 2012
Serendipity
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
I like John Cusack. Do I like him, like him? Is he equal in stature to other members of my I-really-like-this-actor club, like Daniel Day-Lewis or Colin Firth or Sam Waterston? And, is that last question reminiscent of those on tests where you have to pick the one name that doesn't fit in? Anyway, no, he doesn't get to join that club, but I like him in most of his movies that I've seen. He started out with that young, quirky face -- the wry smile and sad eyes. Then, he grew into that face. His young face was in the scene with the boom box in Say Anything. Love that scene.
So, John Cusack came to mind when I entitled this post Serendipity, because he made a movie by the same name. Actually, Billy and I kinda know the director of this movie, Peter Chisholm, as he is a customer of Billy's. I like the idea of the movie, and it is a solid chick flick, but not a favorite of mine. So, moving right along . . .
Last week I was tooling along on my morning walk in Carmel. I rarely take the same route. Carmel is like a lot of places which, unlike the neighborhood where I live, is pretty much laid out in a grid. The streets get a little wavy as you get near the point, but you can rather easily truck along in a chessboard pattern. And I walk them more or less like a knight moves across the board (kinda funny -- in a town like Carmel with a renowned Mission, you would think I'd walk through it like a . . . wait for it . . . bishop! Hahahahahahahahahaha! Oh dear). Anyway, I tend to move a block over, then a couple of blocks down, and vice versa, hitting the pattern in which a knight moves, as I recall. I don't play chess much and I'm having difficulty remembering, as well as staying on the subject. So, the walk . . .
I came down a street that Ts into Bayview, which is where the house that Sandra and John used to own is located. They lived in Carmel before we knew them, but I would bet that we crossed in a store or on the street during that time. I took a photo of the house, texted it to Sandra, then walked the remaining yards down to Scenic, which is the street that runs along the ocean. I hadn't walked too far before I came to a curve where there were a few cars stopped, and a small group of people standing around. From this point you can see all the way up Carmel beach and to Pebble Beach beyond. I had my head down, doing my version of power walking, when someone said to me: See the space shuttle? And there it was, flying low across Carmel beach. I had forgotten that it was going to fly over Monterey, but had managed to hit the best spot to see it at just exactly the right time. It flew along Carmel beach, then cut in, flying right over our heads. So close! We were like kids chattering and cheering. It looks so small, I said. No, a guy with a Carmel Fire Department tee-shirt said, It's not small (you stupid, blonde bimbo). But in contrast to the jumbo jet carrying it on its back, it looked rather, well, petite. And sleek. Wow.
I had grabbed my phone and snapped a few pics of it as it was going over, and they probably would have turned out quite well, except that I hadn't charged my phone that morning and the battery was running low. Low enough that the camera couldn't operate. As I walked on up the beach, I was supremely disappointed. But then, I thought, wasn't it enough to see it? I almost missed it, but it was serendipitous that I was right there at the beach, in the best place to see it. I was lucky. The odds of seeing a whale in the bay are pretty good (see post entitled Thar She Blows, available here right now at a close-out price), but the odds of seeing the space shuttle fly by? Well actually, pretty good if you remember that it's going to do that. In my case, I was working against the odds, but it still worked out. So I shrugged off the misfire of the camera. Not meant to be.
As this trip comes to a close, in a week, I think about serendipity. We had a perfect trip to San Francisco, and the Dodgers won the game we attended at AT&T Park. That will stay in my memory with a residual glow. I heard a homily at Mass at the Carmel Mission that made me think about something in my life in a new way. And, the space shuttle flew right over my head. Being in the right place at the right time. My friends who speak yiddish call it beshert -- meant to be. And, as I've written in my blog, ad nauseam, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about (paraphrase alert!) moments when everything goes all glimmering. Serendipity. Just when you get complacent and begin to take life for granted, it may come your way. Or fly over your head. And, in case there isn't a fireman there to remind you, here is my last bit of advice on this subject: Don't forget to look up! And, thanks for reading my blog.
I like John Cusack. Do I like him, like him? Is he equal in stature to other members of my I-really-like-this-actor club, like Daniel Day-Lewis or Colin Firth or Sam Waterston? And, is that last question reminiscent of those on tests where you have to pick the one name that doesn't fit in? Anyway, no, he doesn't get to join that club, but I like him in most of his movies that I've seen. He started out with that young, quirky face -- the wry smile and sad eyes. Then, he grew into that face. His young face was in the scene with the boom box in Say Anything. Love that scene.
So, John Cusack came to mind when I entitled this post Serendipity, because he made a movie by the same name. Actually, Billy and I kinda know the director of this movie, Peter Chisholm, as he is a customer of Billy's. I like the idea of the movie, and it is a solid chick flick, but not a favorite of mine. So, moving right along . . .
Last week I was tooling along on my morning walk in Carmel. I rarely take the same route. Carmel is like a lot of places which, unlike the neighborhood where I live, is pretty much laid out in a grid. The streets get a little wavy as you get near the point, but you can rather easily truck along in a chessboard pattern. And I walk them more or less like a knight moves across the board (kinda funny -- in a town like Carmel with a renowned Mission, you would think I'd walk through it like a . . . wait for it . . . bishop! Hahahahahahahahahaha! Oh dear). Anyway, I tend to move a block over, then a couple of blocks down, and vice versa, hitting the pattern in which a knight moves, as I recall. I don't play chess much and I'm having difficulty remembering, as well as staying on the subject. So, the walk . . .
I came down a street that Ts into Bayview, which is where the house that Sandra and John used to own is located. They lived in Carmel before we knew them, but I would bet that we crossed in a store or on the street during that time. I took a photo of the house, texted it to Sandra, then walked the remaining yards down to Scenic, which is the street that runs along the ocean. I hadn't walked too far before I came to a curve where there were a few cars stopped, and a small group of people standing around. From this point you can see all the way up Carmel beach and to Pebble Beach beyond. I had my head down, doing my version of power walking, when someone said to me: See the space shuttle? And there it was, flying low across Carmel beach. I had forgotten that it was going to fly over Monterey, but had managed to hit the best spot to see it at just exactly the right time. It flew along Carmel beach, then cut in, flying right over our heads. So close! We were like kids chattering and cheering. It looks so small, I said. No, a guy with a Carmel Fire Department tee-shirt said, It's not small (you stupid, blonde bimbo). But in contrast to the jumbo jet carrying it on its back, it looked rather, well, petite. And sleek. Wow.
I had grabbed my phone and snapped a few pics of it as it was going over, and they probably would have turned out quite well, except that I hadn't charged my phone that morning and the battery was running low. Low enough that the camera couldn't operate. As I walked on up the beach, I was supremely disappointed. But then, I thought, wasn't it enough to see it? I almost missed it, but it was serendipitous that I was right there at the beach, in the best place to see it. I was lucky. The odds of seeing a whale in the bay are pretty good (see post entitled Thar She Blows, available here right now at a close-out price), but the odds of seeing the space shuttle fly by? Well actually, pretty good if you remember that it's going to do that. In my case, I was working against the odds, but it still worked out. So I shrugged off the misfire of the camera. Not meant to be.
As this trip comes to a close, in a week, I think about serendipity. We had a perfect trip to San Francisco, and the Dodgers won the game we attended at AT&T Park. That will stay in my memory with a residual glow. I heard a homily at Mass at the Carmel Mission that made me think about something in my life in a new way. And, the space shuttle flew right over my head. Being in the right place at the right time. My friends who speak yiddish call it beshert -- meant to be. And, as I've written in my blog, ad nauseam, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about (paraphrase alert!) moments when everything goes all glimmering. Serendipity. Just when you get complacent and begin to take life for granted, it may come your way. Or fly over your head. And, in case there isn't a fireman there to remind you, here is my last bit of advice on this subject: Don't forget to look up! And, thanks for reading my blog.
September 20, 2012
The Girls Are Back In Town
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Sung to the tune of Thin Lizzie's The Boys Are Back In Town:
Guess who just got back today?
My bff fristers who can't stay away
Haven't talked in about half a day
Run out of words? We will just have to see
We know Lydia's here to shop
She does it so much we can't get her to stop
From the bottom of Ocean Avenue all the way to the top
Run out of stores? We'll have to see . . .
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town (are you kidding me, this
is the chorus? My apologies to songwriters Ynott &
Parris, but. Really?) The girls are back in town.
The girls, Debra and Lydia who are better known here as DG and LOL (see a whole bunch of previous posts including The Monogram, available here until 8:00 pm today EST), were back in town. They left Monday afternoon to drive back to their respective homes in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Their January visit to Carmel has become a ritual, and luckily they were able to come for a three-nighter on this September trip.
The three of us have been friends for a long time, since we picked spots near and/or next to each other in an aerobic dancing class. To say that we've seen each other through a lot is an understatement. And there was a space in time when we almost lost contact with Lydia. But somehow we maintained a tenuous thread through holiday and birthday cards, a call now and then. Internet made it easier.
The great thing about our friendship is that it is a successful triad. My experience with triangles (and let's not even touch upon that disasterous episode with geometry in high school, lest I confess that my best experience with angles, at that time, was playing pool) hasn't been all that stellar. But with us it works. While two of us might share something that the third doesn't, there is always another thing that shifts the conversational balance around: Debra and I are both readers; Lydia & I are both Dodgers fans; Debra and Lydia are both moms; Debra and I see more films that Lydia; Lydia and I shop more than Deb; Debra and Lydia both work in education, Lydia and I have been known to enjoy a cocktail or wine; Debra and Lydia both have kids who went to Cal; Lydia and I have identical red purses; Deb & I just purchased matching blue skirts . . . oh you get the picture . . .
There are a few rituals that we do on each trip: I cook their first-night-in-Carmel dinner; the next day we walk up and down Ocean Avenue popping into shops; on Sunday, Lydia accompanies me to Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, after which the three of us spend the afternoon at Pebble Beach Spa getting the knots and kinks of life smoothed out of us. We also make a pilgrimage to Jan de Luz for gifts and, this time, another apron for Lydia. And we often hit a couple of other shops on our way, including a we're-closing-in-fifteen-minutes spree at Anthropology, which turned into a feeding frenzy.
We spend most evenings curled up in our same spots (much as in the old aerobic dancing days, we are creatures of habit) on the sectional sofa in front of the fireplace talking and watching Lydia drift off mid-sentence when it quickly becomes late in the evening. After she goes to bed, Deb and I natter on into the early hours. This gives us the two of us a chance to catch up; they had that opportunity during their six hour drive up (until that pesky speeding ticket, Billy used to make it in five); Lyd and I have that during our almost-daily, hour-long, afternoon drive time conversations.
I think my favorite time during their visit is the mornings. I have always felt this when I am a house guest or have house guests in my home or vacation home. I love the luxury of lounging; everyone awakening at their own pace; wandering out in their pajamas or whatever; basking in their own varying degrees of vacation bliss or vacation exhaustion. Each grabs a cup of coffee or brews a cup of tea and finds a spot to settle in for conversation and laughter. It's so companionable to relax in the morning in this manner with good friends. And if you don't get this, please watch The Big Chill.
Our Las Chicas weekend always goes by way too fast. I try not to see the movie visual of the calendar pages flying off each day, but I am aware that the time is fleeting. And then the day of reckoning comes and I hear the wheels of suitcases bumping down the hall towards the front door. Saying goodbye is hard. We all wave until we can't see each other anymore. And the first evening is too quiet and still. But I know that they will be back in January; hopefully for a bit longer.
And Lydia will soon be leaving her job and taking an early retirement. I am both happy for her and excited about this prospect. I look forward to seeing what this next part of her life will be about; what activities she will embrace. She is the hub of an extended and growing multicultural family, with a son in his last year of law school. He has a lovely girlfriend who is soon to commence dental school. LOL's life will be full, but I hope neither of these two fristers of mine will ever have a life too full to spend this time with me in Carmel. I'm campaigning for a four-nighter frister weekend during the time I am here in January. There is more to do here: more conversations and fun to have; more restaurants to try; more stores to shop. And, of course, for LOL's sake, there will always be more aprons to acquire. I thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, fristers!
Sung to the tune of Thin Lizzie's The Boys Are Back In Town:
Guess who just got back today?
My bff fristers who can't stay away
Haven't talked in about half a day
Run out of words? We will just have to see
We know Lydia's here to shop
She does it so much we can't get her to stop
From the bottom of Ocean Avenue all the way to the top
Run out of stores? We'll have to see . . .
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town, the girls are back in town
The girls are back in town (are you kidding me, this
is the chorus? My apologies to songwriters Ynott &
Parris, but. Really?) The girls are back in town.
The girls, Debra and Lydia who are better known here as DG and LOL (see a whole bunch of previous posts including The Monogram, available here until 8:00 pm today EST), were back in town. They left Monday afternoon to drive back to their respective homes in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Their January visit to Carmel has become a ritual, and luckily they were able to come for a three-nighter on this September trip.
The three of us have been friends for a long time, since we picked spots near and/or next to each other in an aerobic dancing class. To say that we've seen each other through a lot is an understatement. And there was a space in time when we almost lost contact with Lydia. But somehow we maintained a tenuous thread through holiday and birthday cards, a call now and then. Internet made it easier.
The great thing about our friendship is that it is a successful triad. My experience with triangles (and let's not even touch upon that disasterous episode with geometry in high school, lest I confess that my best experience with angles, at that time, was playing pool) hasn't been all that stellar. But with us it works. While two of us might share something that the third doesn't, there is always another thing that shifts the conversational balance around: Debra and I are both readers; Lydia & I are both Dodgers fans; Debra and Lydia are both moms; Debra and I see more films that Lydia; Lydia and I shop more than Deb; Debra and Lydia both work in education, Lydia and I have been known to enjoy a cocktail or wine; Debra and Lydia both have kids who went to Cal; Lydia and I have identical red purses; Deb & I just purchased matching blue skirts . . . oh you get the picture . . .
There are a few rituals that we do on each trip: I cook their first-night-in-Carmel dinner; the next day we walk up and down Ocean Avenue popping into shops; on Sunday, Lydia accompanies me to Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, after which the three of us spend the afternoon at Pebble Beach Spa getting the knots and kinks of life smoothed out of us. We also make a pilgrimage to Jan de Luz for gifts and, this time, another apron for Lydia. And we often hit a couple of other shops on our way, including a we're-closing-in-fifteen-minutes spree at Anthropology, which turned into a feeding frenzy.
We spend most evenings curled up in our same spots (much as in the old aerobic dancing days, we are creatures of habit) on the sectional sofa in front of the fireplace talking and watching Lydia drift off mid-sentence when it quickly becomes late in the evening. After she goes to bed, Deb and I natter on into the early hours. This gives us the two of us a chance to catch up; they had that opportunity during their six hour drive up (until that pesky speeding ticket, Billy used to make it in five); Lyd and I have that during our almost-daily, hour-long, afternoon drive time conversations.
I think my favorite time during their visit is the mornings. I have always felt this when I am a house guest or have house guests in my home or vacation home. I love the luxury of lounging; everyone awakening at their own pace; wandering out in their pajamas or whatever; basking in their own varying degrees of vacation bliss or vacation exhaustion. Each grabs a cup of coffee or brews a cup of tea and finds a spot to settle in for conversation and laughter. It's so companionable to relax in the morning in this manner with good friends. And if you don't get this, please watch The Big Chill.
Our Las Chicas weekend always goes by way too fast. I try not to see the movie visual of the calendar pages flying off each day, but I am aware that the time is fleeting. And then the day of reckoning comes and I hear the wheels of suitcases bumping down the hall towards the front door. Saying goodbye is hard. We all wave until we can't see each other anymore. And the first evening is too quiet and still. But I know that they will be back in January; hopefully for a bit longer.
And Lydia will soon be leaving her job and taking an early retirement. I am both happy for her and excited about this prospect. I look forward to seeing what this next part of her life will be about; what activities she will embrace. She is the hub of an extended and growing multicultural family, with a son in his last year of law school. He has a lovely girlfriend who is soon to commence dental school. LOL's life will be full, but I hope neither of these two fristers of mine will ever have a life too full to spend this time with me in Carmel. I'm campaigning for a four-nighter frister weekend during the time I am here in January. There is more to do here: more conversations and fun to have; more restaurants to try; more stores to shop. And, of course, for LOL's sake, there will always be more aprons to acquire. I thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, fristers!
September 15, 2012
Losing My Religion
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy and I left Carmel last weekend and drove to San Francisco to see a Dodgers/Giants game at AT&T Park. We had talked about doing this for awhile, and I kept eyeing the tickets on the Giants' website. Giants were not doing well when I first started looking. Then they started winning, and the tickets disappeared. Seriously, standing room only at a stadium! Although, having now been to that stadium, I realize there are a lot of pretty cool places to stand -- like by the giant Coca Cola bottle, or over by the cable car. Or anywhere along the terrace that runs above the part of the bay, now known as McCovey Cove, where there are fanatics in kayaks and boats hoping to fish for a home run ball. And, by the way, I don't hesitate to admit that this is a beautiful stadium. But that doesn't mean I'm willing to stand around in it for nine innings. So, I bit the bullet and purchased exorbitantly expensive tickets on StubHub -- this after my friend and dentist (yes, my dentist is my friend) said, oh, just do it! Somehow that admonishment, as well as increasingly thinking that we can't take it with us, enabled me to purchase two pretty darn good tickets on the first baseline. They were on an aisle, and under the overhang. It was a day game.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Billy and I left Carmel on Friday morning, and drove up on the coast road to Half Moon Bay. It was a blindingly stunning, bright and sunny day. We had lunch at Half Moon Bay Brewing Company -- splitting a red snapper sandwich and each enjoying a pint of ale: Billy's pale; mine amber. We checked into Hotel Vitale at the Embarcadero around 3:00, dropping off our one duffle in the room, and crossing over to The Ferry Building, which was almost directly across the street.
Billy and I left Carmel last weekend and drove to San Francisco to see a Dodgers/Giants game at AT&T Park. We had talked about doing this for awhile, and I kept eyeing the tickets on the Giants' website. Giants were not doing well when I first started looking. Then they started winning, and the tickets disappeared. Seriously, standing room only at a stadium! Although, having now been to that stadium, I realize there are a lot of pretty cool places to stand -- like by the giant Coca Cola bottle, or over by the cable car. Or anywhere along the terrace that runs above the part of the bay, now known as McCovey Cove, where there are fanatics in kayaks and boats hoping to fish for a home run ball. And, by the way, I don't hesitate to admit that this is a beautiful stadium. But that doesn't mean I'm willing to stand around in it for nine innings. So, I bit the bullet and purchased exorbitantly expensive tickets on StubHub -- this after my friend and dentist (yes, my dentist is my friend) said, oh, just do it! Somehow that admonishment, as well as increasingly thinking that we can't take it with us, enabled me to purchase two pretty darn good tickets on the first baseline. They were on an aisle, and under the overhang. It was a day game.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Billy and I left Carmel on Friday morning, and drove up on the coast road to Half Moon Bay. It was a blindingly stunning, bright and sunny day. We had lunch at Half Moon Bay Brewing Company -- splitting a red snapper sandwich and each enjoying a pint of ale: Billy's pale; mine amber. We checked into Hotel Vitale at the Embarcadero around 3:00, dropping off our one duffle in the room, and crossing over to The Ferry Building, which was almost directly across the street.
The Ferry Building is where the commuter Sausalito and Vallejo ferries dock. It's also a collection of restaurants and specialty food emporiums. After buying one(1) kitchen towel, and splitting a coffee gelato, we arrived back at the hotel and were plunged into one of the most outrageous bar scenes I have ever encountered. Evidently, all those in their thirties, mas o menos, who work in the financial district collect on Fridays at the indoor/outdoor bar at our hotel. There were packs of youngish men in suits with loosened or pocketed ties, and women wearing grey or navy dresses or skirts-with-jackets and achingly high heels. Luckily, we nabbed a table, ordered martinis and enjoyed some very good tapas, including the Stone Fruit Bruschetta. It wasn't Kaya Toast (see: The Acid Test, available here while supplies last) caliber, but it still achieved light-up-your-eyes tastiness.
Back in our room, we discovered, with NO END of chagrin that the Dodgers/Giants game was blacked out. So we set out in a panic to find a local bar with a TV feed. Some kind soul at Perry's (which would have been the best choice for viewing, but they were closed for a private party) sent us down the road to Palomino, where, in the company of Giants' fans, we watched the Dodgers lose. Again, they were all Giants fans --- all except us. We maintained fan allegiance anonymity, spending a lot of time whispering (me) and muttering (Billy).
The following day, we checked out of our hotel, leaving our duffle and car in their care, and walked along the waterfront to the stadium. It was another crystal clear sparkling day with temps around 65. Stadium was amazing -- right on the water. We ended up in a little knot of Dodgers' fans, where we could see Vin Scully in one of the press booths. The Dodgers fans in front of us, two couples, were c-r-a-z-y. They snuck in a pint of Malibu Rum which the two women were liberally using to spike their Coke. The guys were more mellow and drinking beer. At one point, one of the women (we'd all made friends, Dodgers fans that we are) turned around to me and asked: Are we going to have Victorino for more than this year? I responded that I believed he would be a free agent after this season. Good, she cried, Because I HATE his ass! Harsh (and a bit rum-fueled), but they were actually a lot of fun. They would shout Let's Go Dodgers, while all the Giants fans nearby would wait until the last word then yell GIANTS in a relatively good-natured manner. Meanwhile we sipped Sierra Nevada and cheered. And the Dodgers won. We drove back to Carmel that evening, stopping for dinner on the way at a Mexican restaurant in Moss Landing.
The next morning, I got up, and went to Mass at the Mission. Among my serious prayers for my mom, Billy, Sandra, and our friend, Keith, who just lost his father, was one for the Dodgers. More of a brief fleeting wish that our boys in blue would continue to win in a streak; something we haven't seen for awhile. This went unanswered, as they have lost more games and are now dangerously close to being out of contention in even the wild card race. I'm beginning to feel much like my friend Susan who has been saying for decades: I'll give them one more season, but if they break my heart again . . .
Meanwhile, I decided to redirect my energy and throw some more money at this. I paid twenty-five bucks to MLB.TV so that I could watch home and away Dodgers games (which are not televised here in Carmel) on my MacBook, with Vin Scully announcing all of the games where he is available. If my hopes and dreams for a wild card triumph disapparates in a continuing downward spiral created by their serious lack of offense, they will owe me twenty-five bucks! Although, seriously, I'm still grateful for their winning game in San Francisco, even if our twenty-four hours there cost us about a grand. Seriously. It was well worth it, as it was a Visa experience: A Dodger win in San Francisco? Priceless. Whatever baseball colors you are flying, I thank you for reading my blog. But, Go Dodgers!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.