Echoes

Los Angeles, California

We left Carmel yesterday, after a few days of intermittent packing (to avoid that last day marathon thing). We always try to visit some favorite restaurants in the last week, and to have drinks at favorite watering holes. We did a bang-up job of this including a dinner at a local fave Mundaka, an operation manned by our favorite local proprietor, Gabe Georis. For years we rented a house across the street from Gabe's parents -- this during the time that Gabe and his brother were growing up. The house looked a lot like the restaurant Casanova, which the family owns.

Driving away from our home-away-from-home is hard, but, after five and a-half weeks it was time to return to LA. Not that there was much I was missing there besides my mom, my friends, and my salsa community. Didn't miss my house, much. Didn't miss my community where everyone is pretty cranky and aggressive. Didn't miss Ventura Boulevard which is ugly and congested.The Valley was never like that, but it has changed a lot.

We will return to Carmel in less than eleven months, and have some other travel plans loosely coming together for the coming seasons. In the meantime, I will spend forty days observing Lent commencing shortly. There will be a full baseball season, one in which I hope the Dodgers do better than last year (they should, with that payroll). We will do some work and some updating on our home. Some gardening. And we'll enjoy our pool during the summer months. All good things, though you never know what is around the corner.

Meanwhile, life for the people here in Carmel will go on, but Carmel will cease to exist for us, much like the village of Brigadoon. Except in this case, our village comes to life once a year, thankfully, rather than once each century. On Sundays, parishioners will attend Mass at the Mission, and men, mostly, will play golf at Pebble Beach. The Bench will fill up on both sunny and not-so-sunny days, and people will drink wine and Bloody Marys by the fire pits. The bagpiper will play down the sun each night at the Inn at Spanish Bay. Happy hours will continue at The Rio Grill, and a ton of artichokes will be fire-roasted and sent out from the kitchen. Tourists will walk around the Plaza, and up and down Ocean Avenue, over sidewalks raised and cracked by tree roots, past the shops with the water bowls set outside for dogs. Surfers will surf at Carmel Beach then change out of their wetsuits behind the screen of their open car (or truck) doors. Sunsets will come and go, some brilliant, some not so.

The house that we rent will hold other occupants. Christine will come to oversee any necessary repairs and do the weekly cleaning. We will be a memory, just part of the cycle of each year. The owners will come in and out between other renters. Will any of these people hear our echoes? We spent New Year's Eve here with Todd and Christopher, and Christopher's parents, Marge and Jerry. Will they hear the echoes of that evening, or of the afternoon when Carole and Todd came by to pick up something that Christopher needed for Christmas dinner, and we cracked open the BIG bottle of Christmas Anchor Steam ale? Will they hear Lydia, Debra, and I who, while sitting in our accustomed spots on the sofas by the fireplace talking and laughing, complained just the tiniest bit about our respective husbands' foibles? Will they hear the residual echoes of my iPod playing samba and Bach and American songbook standards and some contemporary hits, always, always mixed with as much salsa and now bachata as I can sneak in? We leave our echoes behind, but they ride down Highway 101 with us as well. Back to Los Angeles, where the memories of the weeks we spent in our favorite place will be warmly recalled throughout the year; right up until we drive back into town next December. We'll drive down Ocean Avenue, just after midnight, where the Christmas tree will be blazing, and we will joyfully know that we have weeks ahead of us to spend with each other and with special friends in this magical place that we love. Le sigh. And, thank you for reading my blog.

Ecological Anorexia

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

I nabbed a crew member at Monterey Trader Joe's recently to ask if they had any of those tortilla chips that you can heat up by throwing the bag in the microwave. The crew member checked it out and reported that their store wasn't moving them fast enough to keep up with the expiration dates, so they were no longer carrying them. Did I want her to order them for me? I told her that I was only going to be in the area for a short period of time, so no thank you. She asked where I was from, then volunteered to recommend some local restaurants. Very local. Like, walking distance from Trader Joe's. In the brief conversation that followed she told me that she doesn't have a car, so she lives close to work and walks everywhere. Then went on to say that she doesn't believe people should have cars that they are harmful to the environment in a variety of different ways, and people should stop driving them. Hmmm. Ok, she was young, idealistic, and had latched onto a worthy cause. Except. Except she got this glowing fervor in her voice and eyes as she reported this. And it reminded me of people I had known from high school who had taken a lot of drugs, and then gave up the drugs and became evangelical Christians. It's the fervor thing.

But it's also the extremist nature that some people bring to joining this conservationist cause. Remember the young guy with aspergers who set fire to a gaggle of SUVs for a similar reason? Not that I don't get the importance of ecology and the delicate balance in which we now live with regard to resources. That's why we recycle. Our limited resources should be used with discretion (here in Carmel where water is precious, they've got the low-flow toilets practically down to no-flow, and you have to run around in the shower to get wet). We already know about conservation, and you don't have to hear it again from me. But I get bothered by the posturing about environmental issues. We were recently invited to a wedding where the gift listing site stated that the wedding had been designated by the bride and groom as a green wedding so no gifts would be wrapped in paper. But it was a destination wedding two hundred miles away from where the bride and groom and their families and most of their friends live. How green is it to require that gifts not be wrapped, yet attendees must drive or fly that distance? Kinda contradictory, I thought (not that we didn't enjoy ourselves - invite us to a wedding out of town and we will be there, fossil fuel be damned).

I probably have no business tying this ecological fervor to population control, but how many of these environmental zealots are willing to not add more people to the planet in order to conserve resources? When I was trying to talk Billy into getting a Prius, he mentioned this to our dentist, Lynnette. She told him that if I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint I should get the Prius (like I'm going to give up German engineering), and he should be able to get the car that he wants. The next time I saw her, I mentioned that, just when I thought I had him convinced on the Prius, Billy had gone off the idea. The carbon footprint thing came up again. And that was when she reminded me that our personal use of resources is already way ahead of the game because, not having had children, we never used diapers, never drove carpool to school and soccer games, never had little people in our homes tearing through reams and reams of paper, gizallons of water, food, etc. I had never thought of this. I always thought I was a moderate user of resources, but she was right. By not having children both of us had way slowed our footprints on the carbon trail. It makes you think.

But, here is the more important, existential question of the day, one which I will ponder for a great many days to come: Why don't people in the Monterey area consume more tortilla chips? I just don't get it. It's nearing Superbowl Sunday, and there are 49er fans living here. What is the deal with the tortilla chips? These Trader Joe's chips were really good, restaurant-quality which you could heat in the bag so they were hot AND crispy. Ahhh, wait a minute. Do you think it was the bag? Or, the microwave? Should I suspect there's some non-driving, non-microwaving cult in this area who try to live without using any elective resources? Kinda crazy. I mean, I believe in moderation in all things including moderation. Except where tortilla chips are concerned. And of course, french fries. And onion rings. And salt & vinegar-flavored potato chips. Hold the presses: popcorn! And...Oh, I don't care how green you are, I thank you for reading my blog.

Very Nearly Four Thousand Hits

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

As of this writing, I am just under four thousand hits on my blog. Again (because I like to recap and recap and recap), I started my blog here in Carmel, in January of 2010, in the kitchen of the cottage called Tucked In, which we used to rent for the month of January. Two years ago, we found this house. This year, I've been here since just before Christmas, and our stay is fast coming to a close.

After a brutal cold spell, the weather has turned warm, and the beach is even more stunningly beautiful. We took a long walk yesterday past River Beach and all the way up to Carmel Beach. It was Martin Luther King Day, and the beach was filled with people and dogs. The waves were high and there were surfers way far out, riding and wiping out -- the essence of surfing which is why I quickly gave up on it as a teenager. Water=cold.

Later, we went to Mission Ranch for cocktails. It was packed. We had wrongly figured that it wouldn't be crowded because the weekenders would have left town. But, at this time of year, Carmel's population is greatly comprised of snowbirds and other retirees. And they all came out to drink last night at Clint's place. I brought an extra sweater, and a coat which I left in the car. I immediately peeled off the top sweater and was warm in the turtleneck I was wearing below. Cold snap so over.

There was a splendid sunset, then it did begin to turn cool so we left for home where we prepared dinner, and watched some of the inaugural festivities (though it's hard to actually watch these things anymore, since programs seem to be made up of people telling you about what you would really like to be watching without commentary. But that's just me...).

So (she rambles on), about those four thousand hits...It took me fifteen months from my first post in early January 2010 to get to one thousand hits. Nine months later I celebrated two thousand hits. It was another eight months before I hit three thousand, this occurring last September when we were here at this house. And now, a mere four and one-half months later I am quickly approaching the four thousand mark. Pretty cool I think, though I hear of blogs which receive as many post per day and even per hour! No delusions of grandeur here. Truth is, I would be writing even if no one was reading (besides Billy...and Lydia...and Max...my small and deeply demented following). After all, no one reads my journal (shivers and shudders), and I write a lot more there. So there you have it.

For the last year or two, I have been working on the outline of a novel about a woman who committed suicide after entering into a loveless, eleventh-hour ticking-biological-clock marriage, then failing to accomplish her dream of having children, and subsequently embarking on a failed romance with a Peruvian salsa dancer. Seriously. It's actually humorous in spite of the topic, but these days I have a hard time working on it. And (as my friend Lydia says, and I now also like to say a lot) that's ok. I've never really had dreams about being a famous writer nor a famous anything. I just like the process of writing. I like the blank page. I like to see my thoughts thrown up there for better or, more usually, for worse. It feels good. And that's ok.

So, here is the part where I thank all two or two hundred, or maybe even more, of you for however many times you have visited my blog and read my posts. I don't get a lot of comments (you know who you are), but I fervently hope that at least some of you are finding at least some of the posts entertaining. Fervently. Hope. It has truly been a labor of love for me, in spite of the occasional stumbles and that collection of whining and complaining posts (wait until you read one of those in the pipe, entitled: Ecological Anorexia. It's coming soon, right here to this blog, and I, for one, can hardly wait!). What began as a loosely-organized, mediocre-in-design blog written by a resistant-to-the-medium blogger, about cooking, dancing, and life as I know it, has taken off and traveled a path of its own. I am gratified to the max (Hi Max!) that I've been accompanied on this meandering journey. So, as always, to those of you who have been on the entire trip, and those of you who have just dropped in for a leg or two, I thank you for reading my blog.

See You In The Funny Papers

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

Here's the newspaper routine while I am here in Carmel. Each Friday, The Carmel Pine Cone is distributed all over town, though, of course, not delivered to homes, as even mail is not delivered to homes here in Carmel. The Carmel Pine Cone is a free, local newspaper which occasionally has articles or interviews that get picked up by other news services and newspapers, say like, The New York Times. This most often happens when Clint Eastwood has done something noteworthy (or stupid), as he graciously grants interviews to his hometown newspaper. One of the best things about The Pine Cone is its published log of police, fire department, and sheriff's reports. Here is a sample of same from last week's edition:

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Carmelo Street resident was concerned for her neighbor's cat who she believed may have an infection. She was advised to contact the neighbor who owns the cat.

Having lived in a big city most of my life, I don't think I ever conceptualized a community where people can call the police to report barking or loose dogs, or someone ringing their doorbell at an unexpected time, and, be still my heart, the police will beat a path in a timely response to their door! I thought this was sorta like a Brady Bunch fiction, until I spent time here. I live in LA, people. If I want the police to quickly appear at my door...well, the truth is, I can't think of something that would get LAPD to my door quickly. Luckily I have a bit more faith in LAFD.

But, back to the papers. I buy The Monterey County Herald every afternoon. It is a rather skinny newspaper, but aren't they all these days? It is basically two or three sections, depending on the day of the week. Weather is now a part of the front section; TV listings part of the Sports section. I can read it from the front page to the last, without wasting a lot of time doing so. Sunday's edition is a little fatter, thanks to a couple of added sections, and all of those CVS, Rite-Aid, and Target ad inserts. Sundays, I also purchase The San Francisco Chronicle (more about this below). It's a good read. And, last but not least, I purchase The New York Times on Wednesdays so that I can read the Dining section. The Times, like all of the other newspapers, has been on a diet over the last few years. I read it daily online, as do a lot of other people which I know accounts for the diminishment in the volume of the print edition.

Now, about The Chronicle. I've always been under the impression that the Chronicle doesn't have proof-readers on staff. This impression began with the summer I was staying with my cousins in Santa Cruz and a headline of the Chronicle reported a bank robbery. Within the first couple of sentences of the article (high school journalism classes taught me that the first sentence was the who/what/where/when lead) it stated, and I am paraphrasing, that:

police were seeking a 200-year old college student in connection with the robbery.

Even back then, college students would do more or less anything to get out of commencing payment on their student loans, including staying in school for as long as possible. Still, that statement strained belief.

On this trip I have enjoyed the food section of The Chronicle, and even clipped a recipe for:

White Bean Brandade With Crispy Breadcrumbs

2 tablespoons    butter + add'l for greasing dish
2                              leeks, white + lt. green parts, only
                                       cut into medium dice
3 cloves                garlic, minced
1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh thyme
6 cups                   cooked white beans such as 
                                       canellini beans + 1 cup cooking
                                       liquid
1/2 cup                  whipping cream
1/2 - 1 teaspoon  kosher salt, depending on saltiness
                                        of the beans
Freshly ground   black pepper
1 8-ounce                      baguette, 1-2 days old and left to dry
                                         or 2 1/2 cups fresh breadcrumbs
2-3 tablespoons   melted butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Butter bottom and sides (to the rim) of a  large gratin dish.

Melt the 2 tablespoons butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add leeks; cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and thyme; cook 1 minute. Stir in half of the beans (about 3 cups), the bean cooking liquid, cream, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and pepper. Bring to a simmer and cook until thickened, about 10 minutes.

Pour the bean mixture into the bowl of a food processor and process until pureed. Transfer back to the skillet or a bowl, and fold in the remaining 3 cups beans. Adjust seasonings.

Remove the crust from the baguette and cut the bread into 1/2-inch cubes. Place in a food processor and pulse to coarse bread crumbs. Add the melted butter, and pulse a few times to combine. (You can prepare both the beans and breadcrumbs up to one day ahead and store separately, in refrigerator).

Pour the beans into the prepared pan. Pack on the breadcrumbs. Bake until the beans are bubbly and the breadcrumbs are golden, about 30 minutes.

Let sit 15 minutes before serving. Or, let cool completely, cover and refrigerate. Reheat for 15 minutes in a 375 degree oven before serving.

Serves 8-10

Now, this is all well and good, I suppose. I mean, I must confess I haven't actually prepared the dish, but it sounded enticing to me. Of course, anything with crispy breadcrumbs is going to appeal to me, being a crispy sort of gal. I'm on a big creme fraiche thing, so I might just try to sub out the heavy cream for that cultured cream which I'm discovering tastes yummy in almost everything I've prepared with it. And I'm kinda wondering about throwing in some...cheese (you knew that was coming, didn't you?). But none of these musings are the point of this post.

This recipe was printed in the December 23, 2012 food and wine section of The Chronicle, with a correction (and I've copied the corrected recipe above) printed a week or so later. Here is the text following the word CORRECTION at the top of the recipe:

The recipe instructions for White Bean Brandade that appeared in the December 23, 2012 Food & Wine section omitted when to include the pureed garbanzos. Here is the recipe again, with complete instructions.

Garbanzos? Any even quasi-experienced cook worth her salt knows that garbanzos are not white beans. The word garbanzo was not in the original recipe nor the corrected one. Not to put to fine a point on it but cannellini beans are NOT garbanzo beans. Not the same texture, not close in appearance, only similar because they are both BEANS. So this is what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that where The Chronicle is concerned, the only way you could improve upon this recipe would be to have it prepared by a 200-year old college student. If you run into one, please give them the recipe for the White Bean Brandade with garbanzos. And, thanks for reading my blog (btw: I know there are both grammatical and typographical errors in my posts. Problem is that proofreading is a one-man job, and I'm a girl...)

Ain't No Sunshine When They've Gone

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

My two comrades-in-arms, Debra, whom we call DG, and Lydia, whose monogram is LOL (as a group I refer to the three of us as Las Chicas) left Sunday night. They left very slowly. I saw them through security at Monterey Airport; we all waved before I turned to walk to the parking lot. I called Billy on the way home to mitigate the damages of girlfriend separation. Once home, I poured myself a glass of wine, finished off what was left of the macaroni and cheese (made with truffle cheese, rosemary fontina, gruyere, cheddar, AND creme fraiche), and settled in for episode two of this season's Downton Abbey. I didn't hear my phone ring, nor check it for calls/texts, until after ten o'clock. Turned out their flight had been inexplicably delayed by at least an hour. Not the way you want to end a fun weekend, especially since both of them had to be up at 5:30 Monday morning. I got up at 7:00 yesterday, in a half-hearted gesture of solidarity. Seriously, I'll do a lot of things for my friends, but disrupting my circadian rhythm is above and beyond the call of duty.

Regardless of the travel-debacle ending, it was a fast, furious, and fun weekend (I just threw in furious to boost the alliteration). I picked them up at the airport on Thursday night. I had prepared a sign -- a big, red, hand-lettered Las Chicas, done on the cardboard back of a letter-sized lined tablet. I stress hand-lettered. Art is not my strong suit. When I got to the gate, there was a guy, in a suit, holding a paddle that read The Lodge at Pebble Beach. Now, I am more or less known for my ability to do just about anything that is FUN or FUNNY, even if it is in the grey margins of embarrassing myself. But I felt plainly stupid to pull out my sign while that guy was standing there. Not, I will write, because I believed I was the first person to make a silly sign. But it was only the two of us meeting the flight (did I mention how small - like bus-station small, the Monterey Airport is?). Luckily, his passengers deplaned before the girls, so I pulled my sign out as soon as I saw them. And they laughed (as did I, but more from the relief of not looking like an idiot to strangers -- I frankly don't mind so much looking like an idiot to friends -- I always, for right or wrong, figure they're laughing near me, not at me).

We hung out at the house that night and each of the three subsequent evenings, talking and laughing. We are so good at this. During the day we walked and shopped in town in spite of the freezing cold (west coast freezing cold = temps in the high 40s). We went to Pebble Beach Spa for massages. Lydia and I went to Mass on Sunday, after which they treated me to lunch at The Bench in The Lodge at Pebble Beach on a brilliantly beautiful Sunday afternoon. It was, as always, a pleasure to spend time with them both, and to have the ability to do this in such a perfectly comfortable house in one of the most beautiful places in California. This was, I think, our fifth long weekend together in Carmel, and I consider it a gift that these two fristers have never missed an opportunity to join me in sharing the beauty of Carmel, and the celebration of our Las Chicas friendship.

So, today, I am hunkering down for the remaining four nights that I will be here on my own. They are prognosticating a warming trend. I even heard the word seventies invoked with regard to the coming weekend temps. Each trip takes on its own life in a way, and I haven't been walking as much as usual this year. Rather I am using my time alone to write in my journal and ponder the coming year and the changes it might bring. That can be heavy stuff, so I appreciated the distraction my fristers brought to me. No matter what comes, having close girlfriends can be the absolute best thing a woman can have in her life. I think even more so as time goes on. So even though it has been stunningly sunny and gorgeous since they left, a part of me feels bereft of their company. And in that part of me that always looks forward to the time that we spend together, there just ain't no sunshine when they've gone.Yikes! Someone read this post, and reported back to me that I had forgotten to...wait for it... Thank you for reading my blog!!!

Company

Carmel-by-the Sea, California

Billy flew home last night. I drove him to Monterey airport, driving back in the dark to our rental home, letting myself in to the now-empty but well-lit house (he made sure of that before we left) and standing for a moment. I took a deep breath.

If you have followed along at all (and I reiterate, why would you?) you know that the time we spend in Carmel is split between time together with friends; time we spend alone together; time I spend with my fristers, and the time when I am here by myself. It all sounds lovely, but last night, with Billy still in the air enroute to Los Angeles, I felt lonely. We had such a great time here with our friends, Todd and Christopher, and their family entourage. And I had so looked forward to Christmas and New Year's here with them. It was over in a the blink of an eye. On January 2nd, we returned to LA to check on our business (good) and my mom (stable). We drove back up on Saturday night -- the second rainy night drive from LA to Carmel in a fortnight.

I usually enjoy my time alone here in Carmel. It's pretty much the only place where I have been completely alone since we married. When Billy has needed to travel for business, I almost always go with him. I don't think I have ever spent a night alone in our present home. But I've spent lots of time alone in Carmel, especially since we lost our irrepressible Aussie who accompanied us on the early trips when we stayed at Tucked In (see January blog posts from 2009, available here subject to fees and disclosures).

Being alone is important because it allows you to focus on yourself, and in doing so, you realize how much you want and need to have people in your life to throw that focus off of yourself. You need to give; you need to compromise; you need to put other people's needs ahead of you own. Just as role models or whatever can provide us with our moral compass, being alone can help you to reset your community compass. We are all but a small part, somewhere in the midst of concentric circles. It's important to be aware of who else those circles contain--family, friends, neighbors, your community both small and at large, and to be aware of what you can and should do as your part. But it's not bad to be on your own occasionally, to indulge yourself and recharge your battery. Here in Carmel, I am able to bask in the universe of my own Bronteness. But, the truth is, having had our time here with our friends, I missed Carole after she left. And I miss Todd and Christopher. And, most especially, I miss Billy. Not that we spend every waking moment here together. On the contrary. Billy sometimes walks alone, preferring to leave the house early before I even want to think about it. And I usually go to Mass alone on Sundays, though he will accompany me once or twice during our time here together.

Most Sunday afternoons, Billy goes to open houses to look at homes that are currently up for sale here. Don't ask me why he does this. In the years that we have been coming here, he has always spent time driving around looking at real estate and attending open houses. Not once, during that time, has he said to me that he has found a house he would consider purchasing. It is purely recreational. I've struggled to understand the point of this, but one day I realized that it is a lot like my reading cookbooks and food magazines. I probably don't prepare five percent of the recipes I mark with Post-it tabs, but while I am doing it I am awash in the fantasy of the wonderful dinner parties I will have, feeding my friends with this new clever and astoundingly delicious dish which I will prep, prepare, and plate perfectly. But when it comes to it, I'm often too scattered by stress and too fatigued to actually plan and execute this fantasy dinner party. Not that I don't have the energy, but, these days, it is a different kind which tends to go out on the dance floor rather than in a marathon of cooking. And maybe Billy's interest in the houses is similar -- imagining himself working in a well-appointed home office, or gazing at the sunset from the window of his living room which overlooks Carmel beach. I'm just guessing, as he's never really explained this to me. And that's ok.

Marriage. You don't always explain. You don't always understand. But you have someone there with whom you can curl up on the sofa in front of the fire and watch the third season of Downton Abbey. Steven Sondheim called it Company. And with Billy back home in Los Angeles, I am bereft of that company for the moment. However, my Las Chicas fristers arrive tomorrow night for a weekend of chatter, laughter, deep conversations, and intense girlfriend silliness. DG's father-in-law passed away last weekend, and she will be coming here just after traveling to Boston for his funeral. As she wrote in her email to tell us that she would still be able to make it for our weekend...and I will need it more than ever. But we always need this company, frister-style.

So for today, and for tomorrow, I am alone. I'm doing a bit of cooking in preparation for their time here. I'm gathering together a few surprise treats that will be waiting for them on their beds. And I'm looking forward to their visit, and to Billy's return the following Saturday night. We will have ten more days here together before we pack up and return to LA. We've had an especially good time here with our friends. The first half of our stay was stellar, and I am joyfully anticipating our remaining time here together. We'll enjoy the peaceful beauty of the beach and this community, as well as the more slowly-paced life we share here. But what I am looking forward to the most is simply the pleasure of his company, here in this beautiful place that has grown to feel so much like home to us both. Thanks for reading my blog. Welcome Las Chicas Fristers, and safe trip back, Billy!