Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
So here we are in Carmel. And it's Christmas. We're on our own, with Todd & Christopher on a cruise in South America, Carole (Todd's lovely sister who has been part of our Carmel Christmas expat group) at home in Orange County, and Shirley, Billy's mom, at her home in Phoenix. My mom is at her board and care in Los Angeles. She isn't really aware of the holidays the way she was in the past. She will do fine with us out of town. Only I will be remembering the holidays past.
I'm not complaining. It's lovely to be here in this beautiful place. The house is wonderful, and we are comfortable in it. We had a nice dinner last night at Montrio, where we have spent the past few Christmas Eves. We went together to Mass at the Mission today. The new pastor is fine, but I miss Father John immensely. Still, weather is good. We took a walk this afternoon. We will stay in tonight, and enjoy the clam chowder which we take out from Flaherty's restaurant in town.
As I've written about before, one of the things that I enjoy the most about being here in Carmel at Christmas is that you really feel the holiday spirit. You don't get that much at home. Here, everyone seems quite into the cheer of the holiday. People smile, people say Merry Christmas. It's much more It's A Wonderful Life, than The Ref (though, truth be told, The Ref has been my favorite Christmas movie for the past several years. Watch it, and you'll grasp my concept of the Christmas spirit...).
Brendan and Diana will arrive on Sunday to celebrate New Year's Eve with us. We're both looking forward to it. Carmel is a wonderful place to be on your own, which is one of my favorite ways to enjoy it. It's also good when we are here a doux, but more and more I find that I look forward to the time we spend here with my fristers and frothers. I think what is most special to us all is what we want to share with the people we love. How is that for Christmas spirit?
And so I close both this post and the year with the following. If you are lucky, you can hear Judy Garland singing this...
From now on we all will be together
If the fates allow
Hang a shiny star up on the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now...
Thank you for reading my blog. And merry Christmas!
Showing posts with label Carmel Mission Basilica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Carmel Mission Basilica. Show all posts
December 25, 2013
December 15, 2013
All Are Welcome
Los Angeles, California
I can't recall exactly when I first attended Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, but I remember that Billy and I went with Sandra and John. They were staying with us at the little rental we had on the north side of town. I had attended Mass with them once while I was staying with them at Glenbrook in Tahoe, after attending the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at South Lake Tahoe Community College (I attended this three times and did manage to gain a superficial knowledge of spanglish). But, back to Mass at the Mission...
We were late arriving and ended up sitting in rather ornate wooden chairs making a row ahead of the first pew at the very front of the church. Sandra leaned over and whispered to Billy, lapsed Catholic that he is, Sorry. She didn't have to apologize to me. I was in awe. I'd been in the Mission before as a tourist. And I had attended Mass a handful of times throughout my life. But from that moment, with the music and the choir and the colors and the incense and all in that beautiful structure, it all came together for me.
But that is not to say that it all came together for me in a way that informed me that Catholicism was what had been missing in my life. There were and are aspects of Catholicism to which I have always felt drawn. But I have had an ongoing problem with organized religion since adolescence, and I disagree strongly with some more political aspects of the Church -- it's position on women's issues, LGBT rights, and allowing priests to marry. But politics disapparated on that day.
After that experience I began to attend Mass regularly when I was in Carmel. There was already a lot going on with my family and in other private areas of my life. Increasingly, I was feeling an absence of and a longing for some spirituality in my life. And, I didn't even know exactly what I meant by that. I just felt something was missing and believed that I would know it when I felt it. And I did.
Mass in Carmel provided me with quiet, prayerful space which, in turn, jumpstarted my growing connection to God. Prayer, and the repetitive responses in the order of the Mass, allowed my mind to focus and pare away all of its usual clutter and noise. It allowed me to do something I can very rarely do, and that is to be still. With my mind focused and alert, I felt something else in my being. A conviction that I needed to have that stillness, that focus in my life. It filled a void that I knew had been there. But how it was filled is still a mystery to me, though clearer as time passes. I don't think it's something that I even need to articulate to myself, and even less so here. It's just something that I know, and what I understand about it is becoming more succinct as my journey progresses.
And in 2010, when my Las Chicas fristers were visiting me there, Lydia accompanied me. Lydia was raised RC but converted to Judaism during her first marriage. Unlike my stammered articulation on this drifting path of spiritualism, she was able to articulate her shift quite well -- saying that the conduit to faith was not as important to her as her faith per se. Also that she liked the fact that Judaism was more about the questions; whereas she felt that when she was growing up in Catholicism you were not supposed to question; rather just accept what you were being told.
And on that first Sunday in 2010 when Lydia and I attended Mass together, the homily was based on a hymn we sang which is entitled All Are Welcome. The homily was given by someone who I believe was a deacon, not a priest. In fact, he mentioned that his children were attending school there at the Serra School. In the course of the homily he implored us to question what was our purpose in life. And to faithfully follow that purpose. I found it a good and interesting message. But Lydia came away with a lightbulb over her head. I think I've figured out what my purpose is, she told me as we were leaving the Mission. I think my purpose is my work to maintain the two families together. After her first marriage, Lydia married a man with grown children. She brought her young son to that marriage, and now there is a third generation of young children. Lydia is the glue. I could have told her that, but, like Dorothy in Oz, it was important that she realize it herself. She also has a career in special education, and other interests (see post here entitled Shopping, Shopping, and Shopping). But, as she realized that morning, her purpose is clear.
And that is what works about those times. I think going to Mass (or services at your temple or meditation at a Transcendental Meditation center or whatever) is much like purchasing a cookbook. It doesn't even have to be your kind of cooking. But if you acquire one recipe from it that will become a lasting addition to your cooking repertoire, it was worth the purchase price. Lydia got that recipe that day, as I had received it the first time I attended Mass there, and several times since. And that makes it worthwhile.
There is commentary somewhere on line about that hymn, All Are Welcome, which raises the issue that the Church, as well as many other denominations, do not really welcome all. And that is a point well taken. But I have to believe there will be changes coming. And, in the meantime, an epiphany or two on my own spiritual path gives the journey purpose and meaning. And that is a recipe worth repeating again and again.
I can't recall exactly when I first attended Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, but I remember that Billy and I went with Sandra and John. They were staying with us at the little rental we had on the north side of town. I had attended Mass with them once while I was staying with them at Glenbrook in Tahoe, after attending the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at South Lake Tahoe Community College (I attended this three times and did manage to gain a superficial knowledge of spanglish). But, back to Mass at the Mission...
We were late arriving and ended up sitting in rather ornate wooden chairs making a row ahead of the first pew at the very front of the church. Sandra leaned over and whispered to Billy, lapsed Catholic that he is, Sorry. She didn't have to apologize to me. I was in awe. I'd been in the Mission before as a tourist. And I had attended Mass a handful of times throughout my life. But from that moment, with the music and the choir and the colors and the incense and all in that beautiful structure, it all came together for me.
But that is not to say that it all came together for me in a way that informed me that Catholicism was what had been missing in my life. There were and are aspects of Catholicism to which I have always felt drawn. But I have had an ongoing problem with organized religion since adolescence, and I disagree strongly with some more political aspects of the Church -- it's position on women's issues, LGBT rights, and allowing priests to marry. But politics disapparated on that day.
After that experience I began to attend Mass regularly when I was in Carmel. There was already a lot going on with my family and in other private areas of my life. Increasingly, I was feeling an absence of and a longing for some spirituality in my life. And, I didn't even know exactly what I meant by that. I just felt something was missing and believed that I would know it when I felt it. And I did.
Mass in Carmel provided me with quiet, prayerful space which, in turn, jumpstarted my growing connection to God. Prayer, and the repetitive responses in the order of the Mass, allowed my mind to focus and pare away all of its usual clutter and noise. It allowed me to do something I can very rarely do, and that is to be still. With my mind focused and alert, I felt something else in my being. A conviction that I needed to have that stillness, that focus in my life. It filled a void that I knew had been there. But how it was filled is still a mystery to me, though clearer as time passes. I don't think it's something that I even need to articulate to myself, and even less so here. It's just something that I know, and what I understand about it is becoming more succinct as my journey progresses.
And in 2010, when my Las Chicas fristers were visiting me there, Lydia accompanied me. Lydia was raised RC but converted to Judaism during her first marriage. Unlike my stammered articulation on this drifting path of spiritualism, she was able to articulate her shift quite well -- saying that the conduit to faith was not as important to her as her faith per se. Also that she liked the fact that Judaism was more about the questions; whereas she felt that when she was growing up in Catholicism you were not supposed to question; rather just accept what you were being told.
And on that first Sunday in 2010 when Lydia and I attended Mass together, the homily was based on a hymn we sang which is entitled All Are Welcome. The homily was given by someone who I believe was a deacon, not a priest. In fact, he mentioned that his children were attending school there at the Serra School. In the course of the homily he implored us to question what was our purpose in life. And to faithfully follow that purpose. I found it a good and interesting message. But Lydia came away with a lightbulb over her head. I think I've figured out what my purpose is, she told me as we were leaving the Mission. I think my purpose is my work to maintain the two families together. After her first marriage, Lydia married a man with grown children. She brought her young son to that marriage, and now there is a third generation of young children. Lydia is the glue. I could have told her that, but, like Dorothy in Oz, it was important that she realize it herself. She also has a career in special education, and other interests (see post here entitled Shopping, Shopping, and Shopping). But, as she realized that morning, her purpose is clear.
And that is what works about those times. I think going to Mass (or services at your temple or meditation at a Transcendental Meditation center or whatever) is much like purchasing a cookbook. It doesn't even have to be your kind of cooking. But if you acquire one recipe from it that will become a lasting addition to your cooking repertoire, it was worth the purchase price. Lydia got that recipe that day, as I had received it the first time I attended Mass there, and several times since. And that makes it worthwhile.
There is commentary somewhere on line about that hymn, All Are Welcome, which raises the issue that the Church, as well as many other denominations, do not really welcome all. And that is a point well taken. But I have to believe there will be changes coming. And, in the meantime, an epiphany or two on my own spiritual path gives the journey purpose and meaning. And that is a recipe worth repeating again and again.
February 10, 2013
I Smell Rested
Los Angeles, California
When, inevitably, the time came (as it always does) when we were forced to leave Carmel and return to Los Angeles, we took a pilgrimage drive down to the beach, and around the point for a last look at River Beach. I count River Beach as one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. And that list of seen beaches would include beaches in Hawaii, Bermuda, Mexico, the Caribbean, Tahiti, Sardinia, etc., etc. Trust me, my eval of beaches is worthy. I have heard that portions of that rolling-around-in-the-surf scene with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity were filmed in Carmel, and I have to imagine they were filmed on River Beach. While I've never gone to the trouble of researching this, and probably never will; I know that if you squint out the cypress trees you could think that you are in Hawaii, as the water and sand are of that color. After River Beach we continued on past Mission Ranch, winding around to drive by Carmel Mission Basilica, before landing at the intersection of Highway One and Rio Road. One turn, and we were enroute to Los Angeles.
Reentry, after the long stay in Carmel, is always a trial. I look forward to seeing my mom, and my fristers. I look forward to resuming salsa dancing. But there's a whole host of things I dread, though I am going to spare you that list. Aren't I just the nicest?
The hard part of reentry hit me the day after we drove home from Carmel. I was catching up on laundry and paperwork, and with my newly-restored vigor and vim I visualized myself plowing right through those tasks and about a dozen more after. Though I made it through the laundry, I did not, of course, make it through all of the paperwork (home, business, and my mom's mail could have comprised about a four-foot stack). I got demoralized. Then discouraged, which we all know from It's A Wonderful Life is worse than anything.
The next day I felt better, and the following one marked my return to salsa. I had to go to a club that I rarely frequent, Olivia's, as my favorite club, Bogie's, had closed while I was away (though rumor has it that it will reopen shortly -- wi-fi has nothing on the salsa gossip and news network).
At Olivia's, I saw a lot of salsa people I know--a few close friends and more acquaintances. Two people complimented me by saying that I looked rested. I took this to mean: A) I was clearly looking like something the cat dragged in the last time they saw me, or; B) they thought I'd had cosmetic surgery, or; C) both of the above? I mean, isn't that the classic compliment that follows a face-lift? You look rested? Don't get me wrong, I always hope to look good, but not surgically enhanced--especially since I'm not. I know that I am someone who shows stress in my face and eyes, so perhaps I was just looking markedly less stressed after almost six weeks in Carmel.
Later, while I was dancing with a man who told me he was from Peru, he very politely complimented me on my perfume (my new signature perfume that I swore I'd only wear for Billy, but have since broken that silly vow). So, I left the club that night with the impression that I both looked rested (artificially or otherwise), and smelled good.
The following Saturday was spent with my fave fristers, Las Chicas, at The Grove. We were celebrating Lydia's birthday, shopping and lunching at Short Order. I took the opportunity to recount the story about the compliments, afterwards deciding to jumble it up and declare that I smell rested! I used that phrase all day, i.e.: Do I smell rested? Have you by any chance noticed that I smell rested? Enough about me do you think I smell rested? We played other variations on this theme while we enjoyed our fun frister birthday celebration which included running into Debra's daughter, Lindsay, when we were all shopping at Anthropology.
So, all things considered, I guess you could say that this year's reentry wasn't so bad. And I decided that my 2013 reentry motto is (wait for it): I smell rested. And, you know, I could do a lot worse, coming home after a long stay in beautiful Carmel, than to be able to say this. Now, I just have to figure out how to stay in that condition. The perfume part I can always nail. The rested part, unfortunately, may require a bit of diligence. That's the thing about looking rested, naturally or otherwise. It just ain't easy. Thank you for reading my blog.
PS The perfume is the very yummy Blue Agava by Jo Malone.
When, inevitably, the time came (as it always does) when we were forced to leave Carmel and return to Los Angeles, we took a pilgrimage drive down to the beach, and around the point for a last look at River Beach. I count River Beach as one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. And that list of seen beaches would include beaches in Hawaii, Bermuda, Mexico, the Caribbean, Tahiti, Sardinia, etc., etc. Trust me, my eval of beaches is worthy. I have heard that portions of that rolling-around-in-the-surf scene with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity were filmed in Carmel, and I have to imagine they were filmed on River Beach. While I've never gone to the trouble of researching this, and probably never will; I know that if you squint out the cypress trees you could think that you are in Hawaii, as the water and sand are of that color. After River Beach we continued on past Mission Ranch, winding around to drive by Carmel Mission Basilica, before landing at the intersection of Highway One and Rio Road. One turn, and we were enroute to Los Angeles.
Reentry, after the long stay in Carmel, is always a trial. I look forward to seeing my mom, and my fristers. I look forward to resuming salsa dancing. But there's a whole host of things I dread, though I am going to spare you that list. Aren't I just the nicest?
The hard part of reentry hit me the day after we drove home from Carmel. I was catching up on laundry and paperwork, and with my newly-restored vigor and vim I visualized myself plowing right through those tasks and about a dozen more after. Though I made it through the laundry, I did not, of course, make it through all of the paperwork (home, business, and my mom's mail could have comprised about a four-foot stack). I got demoralized. Then discouraged, which we all know from It's A Wonderful Life is worse than anything.
The next day I felt better, and the following one marked my return to salsa. I had to go to a club that I rarely frequent, Olivia's, as my favorite club, Bogie's, had closed while I was away (though rumor has it that it will reopen shortly -- wi-fi has nothing on the salsa gossip and news network).
At Olivia's, I saw a lot of salsa people I know--a few close friends and more acquaintances. Two people complimented me by saying that I looked rested. I took this to mean: A) I was clearly looking like something the cat dragged in the last time they saw me, or; B) they thought I'd had cosmetic surgery, or; C) both of the above? I mean, isn't that the classic compliment that follows a face-lift? You look rested? Don't get me wrong, I always hope to look good, but not surgically enhanced--especially since I'm not. I know that I am someone who shows stress in my face and eyes, so perhaps I was just looking markedly less stressed after almost six weeks in Carmel.
Later, while I was dancing with a man who told me he was from Peru, he very politely complimented me on my perfume (my new signature perfume that I swore I'd only wear for Billy, but have since broken that silly vow). So, I left the club that night with the impression that I both looked rested (artificially or otherwise), and smelled good.
The following Saturday was spent with my fave fristers, Las Chicas, at The Grove. We were celebrating Lydia's birthday, shopping and lunching at Short Order. I took the opportunity to recount the story about the compliments, afterwards deciding to jumble it up and declare that I smell rested! I used that phrase all day, i.e.: Do I smell rested? Have you by any chance noticed that I smell rested? Enough about me do you think I smell rested? We played other variations on this theme while we enjoyed our fun frister birthday celebration which included running into Debra's daughter, Lindsay, when we were all shopping at Anthropology.
So, all things considered, I guess you could say that this year's reentry wasn't so bad. And I decided that my 2013 reentry motto is (wait for it): I smell rested. And, you know, I could do a lot worse, coming home after a long stay in beautiful Carmel, than to be able to say this. Now, I just have to figure out how to stay in that condition. The perfume part I can always nail. The rested part, unfortunately, may require a bit of diligence. That's the thing about looking rested, naturally or otherwise. It just ain't easy. Thank you for reading my blog.
PS The perfume is the very yummy Blue Agava by Jo Malone.
December 30, 2012
Party Like It's 1999
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!
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!
January 12, 2012
Thar She Blows!
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy flew home this morning. Although, home is an ambiguous term at this juncture. He flew back to Los Angeles, to take care of some personal and business business (does that make sense?) for both of us. He'll be back in ten days. I suppose I could just as honestly say that he will be flying back home (here) at that time. For more and more, Carmel feels more like home than Los Angeles does.
Yesterday morning we took a long walk along the point, then around and up Scenic Drive. Then, in the late afternoon, we drove down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was slightly chilly, so we stayed in the car, looking for parking where we could watch the dogs playing on the beach. We didn't find parking where we wanted it, so we wound our way towards the point. And that was where Billy saw it -- the spume of water in a 90-degree trajectory from the ocean surface. Whales! As we watched, we conjectured that there were two of them -- one larger as evidenced by the larger spout of water. We stopped the car to watch, then crept along as they moved further south, into the cove between Carmel and Point Lobos.
Other people gathered at the ocean's edge to watch and point, including two men dressed in jeans, wearing athletic shoes -- one whom I recognized as Father John, the pastor at the Carmel Mission Basilica. I have heard him say Mass about, let's see, four times since I have been in Carmel this year, and many more over the past few years. He has a resonant speaking and singing voice, and it was kinda cool to see him in civies, enjoying a walk and the sight of the whales.
Finally, the sun had set, and, in the dimming light, we were losing track of the whales. So, we headed over to Rio Grill. Rio Grill is usually our first night spot (as those of you who have been following along should know, and this will be on the final), but we didn't get there on our first night after our return this week, as that was our wedding anniversary, which necessitated a different, more romantic (read: Italian) restaurant. So here we were on Billy's last night of Carmel -- for awhile, anyway.
We walked into the crowded bar (Happy Hour equals house cocktails priced at $3. Are you kidding me?), where we've been enjoying martinis for a decade or so, and happily spotted a few empty stools at the bar. But before getting to them, Billy noticed someone we know from town at one of the tables. We stopped for a brief schmooze. See! One more thing I love about this town. We spend only four to six weeks a year here, and yet we know people. We know Dennis, who used to work at New Masters Gallery. We know Celeste, who works at the cool tapas restaurant, Mundaka, and we know Gabe who owns it. We know Erica and Katie at Mission Ranch. It's all just, I don't know, kinda sorta perfect.
We had our martinis, shared an artichoke, a duck tamale, and another thing or two. When we left to go home (see! home!!!), I thought about what a perfect night it was. And how much I wished Billy wasn't flying to LA the next morning, and how very much I wished that we lived in this magical place ALL THE YEAR LONG.
We are not so naive as to think that the experience of year-long residence in Carmel would be the same as our annual retreats here. I mean, there probably are rude people here, and even some traffic. Probably not all people here say Merry Christmas or Happy New Year or even just good morning when they pass you on the street. If you worked hard at it, you could probably find a waitperson or a shop clerk who is in a bad mood. I know that living here wouldn't be all bliss all the time. But it would be better.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for the very large favor of being here now. People here often ask us if we live in town, and I always say for six weeks, we do! So, on my own here today, in the afterglow of a beautiful sunset with whales migrating in the foreground, and those good martinis at Rio Grill, I am thinking that, maybe, if the new year is really, really good to us, we will somehow find the way to be here for good. For that would be better than good. That would be very, very fine. The whales and I thank you for reading my blog. Really they do!
Yesterday morning we took a long walk along the point, then around and up Scenic Drive. Then, in the late afternoon, we drove down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was slightly chilly, so we stayed in the car, looking for parking where we could watch the dogs playing on the beach. We didn't find parking where we wanted it, so we wound our way towards the point. And that was where Billy saw it -- the spume of water in a 90-degree trajectory from the ocean surface. Whales! As we watched, we conjectured that there were two of them -- one larger as evidenced by the larger spout of water. We stopped the car to watch, then crept along as they moved further south, into the cove between Carmel and Point Lobos.
Other people gathered at the ocean's edge to watch and point, including two men dressed in jeans, wearing athletic shoes -- one whom I recognized as Father John, the pastor at the Carmel Mission Basilica. I have heard him say Mass about, let's see, four times since I have been in Carmel this year, and many more over the past few years. He has a resonant speaking and singing voice, and it was kinda cool to see him in civies, enjoying a walk and the sight of the whales.
Finally, the sun had set, and, in the dimming light, we were losing track of the whales. So, we headed over to Rio Grill. Rio Grill is usually our first night spot (as those of you who have been following along should know, and this will be on the final), but we didn't get there on our first night after our return this week, as that was our wedding anniversary, which necessitated a different, more romantic (read: Italian) restaurant. So here we were on Billy's last night of Carmel -- for awhile, anyway.
We walked into the crowded bar (Happy Hour equals house cocktails priced at $3. Are you kidding me?), where we've been enjoying martinis for a decade or so, and happily spotted a few empty stools at the bar. But before getting to them, Billy noticed someone we know from town at one of the tables. We stopped for a brief schmooze. See! One more thing I love about this town. We spend only four to six weeks a year here, and yet we know people. We know Dennis, who used to work at New Masters Gallery. We know Celeste, who works at the cool tapas restaurant, Mundaka, and we know Gabe who owns it. We know Erica and Katie at Mission Ranch. It's all just, I don't know, kinda sorta perfect.
We had our martinis, shared an artichoke, a duck tamale, and another thing or two. When we left to go home (see! home!!!), I thought about what a perfect night it was. And how much I wished Billy wasn't flying to LA the next morning, and how very much I wished that we lived in this magical place ALL THE YEAR LONG.
We are not so naive as to think that the experience of year-long residence in Carmel would be the same as our annual retreats here. I mean, there probably are rude people here, and even some traffic. Probably not all people here say Merry Christmas or Happy New Year or even just good morning when they pass you on the street. If you worked hard at it, you could probably find a waitperson or a shop clerk who is in a bad mood. I know that living here wouldn't be all bliss all the time. But it would be better.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for the very large favor of being here now. People here often ask us if we live in town, and I always say for six weeks, we do! So, on my own here today, in the afterglow of a beautiful sunset with whales migrating in the foreground, and those good martinis at Rio Grill, I am thinking that, maybe, if the new year is really, really good to us, we will somehow find the way to be here for good. For that would be better than good. That would be very, very fine. The whales and I thank you for reading my blog. Really they do!
December 20, 2011
I'm Dreaming of a Carmel Christmas
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Not surprisingly, for those of you who have been following along (seriously, what is wrong with you?), launching ourselves on this trip to Carmel was not easy. We have issues. We have Mom issues. We have business issues. And, increasingly, we have issues getting ourselves organized for travel, and just about everything else. Adding to the stress of this is the fact that we are staying in Carmel for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Yes, you (and I) read that right.
It all started last year in the little house we have rented since 2005. We arrived in early January, picked up the keys, and entered the house. I immediately became excited, as usual. It was the start of our month-long stay, and the stress of getting ready for it was over. We stowed all of our gear, then hied ourselves over to Rio Grill for our first celebratory martinis of the trip. All was well. Then, something funny happened. A couple of days into our stay, I started to feel discontented with the house. A few days later I remarked upon this to Billy. And guess what? He thought maybe it was time for a change as well. We asked the rental agency to email us a list of other homes for consideration. We thought that we might step down, from three bedrooms to two. We perused the list but didn't find a thing that we liked.
A couple of weeks later, while Billy was back in LA, I went online and started looking at other available rentals. I found one that looked good and drove past it on my way home from Safeway later that day. Called Billy. When he returned that weekend, we walked over to look at it. It was on the opposite (south) side of Ocean Avenue, not far from both the Carmel Mission and Mission Ranch (Clint's place, where we often go to enjoy cocktails on the patio at sunset). As we were walking by it, we noticed a man in the driveway removing his golf clubs from the trunk of his car (which had Minnesota plates on it). Approach and inquire. No, he wasn't the owner. He and his wife had just commenced a two-month vacation rental at the house. We told him that we were interested in renting the house the following year. He talked to us about the owner, and about the house and about . . . you know what? It didn't matter what we were talking about. The point was that I was going to stand there talking to this very nice man until he invited us in to see the house. I know this fact is not pretty, but there it is. And, finally, he did. Mission accomplished, but now Billy and I were both suffering from house-lust.
We talked about the house all the way back to our rental house, and I broached the subject of Christmas. My mom was stable then, but family holidays were pau (see previous post for definition of this Hawaiian word. Oh, never mind, it means done, finished, over). I not only saw us at this house, I also saw us celebrating Christmas Eve at the Mission. I have never been to a Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Could my first be in Carmel, at the lovely Mission Basilica with the awe-inspiring acoustics and choir? Billy, who, if caught at the right time, can operate out of the creed happy wife, happy life, and who, not incidentally, loves Carmel just as much as I do, immediately agreed to a six-week rental which would get us in before Christmas, if the property was available. When we phoned the owner, he told us that the time was fine, and that 800 thread-count bed linens would be on the beds by then. He requested that we send him a deposit. And, the deal was done.
Now, I should let you know that, even though I insinuated myself into being invited into this house, we were not overly nosy about it. We took a quick spin, in and out in less than five. So when we arrived here Saturday night, just a few minutes before midnight, we discovered that the house wasn't exactly what we remembered. It was better.
But, back to the getting-on-the-road part of the story. Sparing you details, let me just write that Saturday was a heinous, evil day. At one point, I dissolved into tears in front of my mother's caregiver. Throughout this really miserable day, I kept thinking . . . if we could just GO. Our rental wasn't to commence until Sunday the 18th, but we knew the house was ready for us. I had suggested to Billy that maybe we could drive up Saturday night. If we arrived that night, at 12:01, it was Sunday, right? Billy was working all day, but he thought it was possible. On Friday, I didn't think so, but by Saturday afternoon, I thought that, just maybe, we could do this.
Billy arrived home just after five o'clock, and at exactly 5:59 we drove down our driveway. We tuned our radio to KPCC; Prairie Home Companion was just starting, and we were on our way up Highway 101, the former Camino Real mission trail, towards Carmel. It was a miracle.
We stopped at In and Out in Santa Maria for animal-style burgers and fries. Then, back on the road. At eleven o'clock we turned off onto Highway 68, and a short while later came down Ocean Avenue into town. The first thing we saw was the enormous tree which is at the top of town, on the median of that street. It was decorated in red, green, and white lights, with its trunk wrapped in red lights. And all the other trees and shrubbery on that street divider all through the town's center were draped in white fairy lights. Ooohhhh look! -- we both exclaimed. Bruno's Market had Happy Holidays in lights on their roof. Many of the storefronts were trimmed with white lights. It was magical.
Although we were tired, we drove down to the beach, then wound our way back through town. We picked up the Monterey Herald, a Carmel Pine Cone, a Carmel Magazine, and a few real estate magazines (Billy) from a newspaper dispenser/stand. Then, we found the house.
We didn't get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. But when we awoke on Sunday, we were in Carmel, in this beautiful house, and we were mostly unpacked. Billy took off for a long walk, and I made it to 11:00 Mass at the Mission. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. The altar was filled with poinsettias, and carols were sung with the choir. We had arrived.
Being in Carmel, calls to mind Dickens' A Christmas Carol. After coming from a nightmare day in LA, then waking up here, in this village next to the sea, I want to cry out -- God bless us everyone! But instead, I will wish you a happy and merry holiday, be it Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice --whatever you celebrate. And, once more, in this holiday season, I thank you for reading my blog. Merry Christmas!
Not surprisingly, for those of you who have been following along (seriously, what is wrong with you?), launching ourselves on this trip to Carmel was not easy. We have issues. We have Mom issues. We have business issues. And, increasingly, we have issues getting ourselves organized for travel, and just about everything else. Adding to the stress of this is the fact that we are staying in Carmel for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Yes, you (and I) read that right.
It all started last year in the little house we have rented since 2005. We arrived in early January, picked up the keys, and entered the house. I immediately became excited, as usual. It was the start of our month-long stay, and the stress of getting ready for it was over. We stowed all of our gear, then hied ourselves over to Rio Grill for our first celebratory martinis of the trip. All was well. Then, something funny happened. A couple of days into our stay, I started to feel discontented with the house. A few days later I remarked upon this to Billy. And guess what? He thought maybe it was time for a change as well. We asked the rental agency to email us a list of other homes for consideration. We thought that we might step down, from three bedrooms to two. We perused the list but didn't find a thing that we liked.
A couple of weeks later, while Billy was back in LA, I went online and started looking at other available rentals. I found one that looked good and drove past it on my way home from Safeway later that day. Called Billy. When he returned that weekend, we walked over to look at it. It was on the opposite (south) side of Ocean Avenue, not far from both the Carmel Mission and Mission Ranch (Clint's place, where we often go to enjoy cocktails on the patio at sunset). As we were walking by it, we noticed a man in the driveway removing his golf clubs from the trunk of his car (which had Minnesota plates on it). Approach and inquire. No, he wasn't the owner. He and his wife had just commenced a two-month vacation rental at the house. We told him that we were interested in renting the house the following year. He talked to us about the owner, and about the house and about . . . you know what? It didn't matter what we were talking about. The point was that I was going to stand there talking to this very nice man until he invited us in to see the house. I know this fact is not pretty, but there it is. And, finally, he did. Mission accomplished, but now Billy and I were both suffering from house-lust.
We talked about the house all the way back to our rental house, and I broached the subject of Christmas. My mom was stable then, but family holidays were pau (see previous post for definition of this Hawaiian word. Oh, never mind, it means done, finished, over). I not only saw us at this house, I also saw us celebrating Christmas Eve at the Mission. I have never been to a Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Could my first be in Carmel, at the lovely Mission Basilica with the awe-inspiring acoustics and choir? Billy, who, if caught at the right time, can operate out of the creed happy wife, happy life, and who, not incidentally, loves Carmel just as much as I do, immediately agreed to a six-week rental which would get us in before Christmas, if the property was available. When we phoned the owner, he told us that the time was fine, and that 800 thread-count bed linens would be on the beds by then. He requested that we send him a deposit. And, the deal was done.
Now, I should let you know that, even though I insinuated myself into being invited into this house, we were not overly nosy about it. We took a quick spin, in and out in less than five. So when we arrived here Saturday night, just a few minutes before midnight, we discovered that the house wasn't exactly what we remembered. It was better.
But, back to the getting-on-the-road part of the story. Sparing you details, let me just write that Saturday was a heinous, evil day. At one point, I dissolved into tears in front of my mother's caregiver. Throughout this really miserable day, I kept thinking . . . if we could just GO. Our rental wasn't to commence until Sunday the 18th, but we knew the house was ready for us. I had suggested to Billy that maybe we could drive up Saturday night. If we arrived that night, at 12:01, it was Sunday, right? Billy was working all day, but he thought it was possible. On Friday, I didn't think so, but by Saturday afternoon, I thought that, just maybe, we could do this.
Billy arrived home just after five o'clock, and at exactly 5:59 we drove down our driveway. We tuned our radio to KPCC; Prairie Home Companion was just starting, and we were on our way up Highway 101, the former Camino Real mission trail, towards Carmel. It was a miracle.
We stopped at In and Out in Santa Maria for animal-style burgers and fries. Then, back on the road. At eleven o'clock we turned off onto Highway 68, and a short while later came down Ocean Avenue into town. The first thing we saw was the enormous tree which is at the top of town, on the median of that street. It was decorated in red, green, and white lights, with its trunk wrapped in red lights. And all the other trees and shrubbery on that street divider all through the town's center were draped in white fairy lights. Ooohhhh look! -- we both exclaimed. Bruno's Market had Happy Holidays in lights on their roof. Many of the storefronts were trimmed with white lights. It was magical.
Although we were tired, we drove down to the beach, then wound our way back through town. We picked up the Monterey Herald, a Carmel Pine Cone, a Carmel Magazine, and a few real estate magazines (Billy) from a newspaper dispenser/stand. Then, we found the house.
We didn't get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. But when we awoke on Sunday, we were in Carmel, in this beautiful house, and we were mostly unpacked. Billy took off for a long walk, and I made it to 11:00 Mass at the Mission. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. The altar was filled with poinsettias, and carols were sung with the choir. We had arrived.
Being in Carmel, calls to mind Dickens' A Christmas Carol. After coming from a nightmare day in LA, then waking up here, in this village next to the sea, I want to cry out -- God bless us everyone! But instead, I will wish you a happy and merry holiday, be it Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice --whatever you celebrate. And, once more, in this holiday season, I thank you for reading my blog. Merry Christmas!
February 1, 2010
When In Rome
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
The Carmel Mission Basilica was built in 1771. Do the math, people. That's five years before our forefathers signed the Declaration of Independence. It is the burial site of Father Junipero Serra who founded the California Missions. It is an awe-inspiring edifice which provides me with a sacred space when I am here in Carmel. Now, I just reread that sentence and fear that it sounds a little too touchy-feely, or worse, like I'm proselytizing. But I'm not. I am not a Catholic. I'm really nothing, I guess. I was half-heartedly sent to a Sunday school of a rather odd denomination. Casting no aspersions here, I will just say that the vaccination scar on my arm did little to endear me to my Sunday school teacher. My parents did not follow the tenants of this religious organization in which my mother had, also half-heartedly been raised. My dad was Episcopalian. I remember his story that when he was in the Navy (OK, Village People, get out of my head), he attempted to attend services that were labeled "protestant." It turned out to be on the low end (not meant pejoratively, but rather low versus high) of the protestant spectrum. Finding that service unfamiliar, he instead attended Mass with the Catholics for the rest of his tour of duty. So, that's the story on my father's side. My mother must have forgiven him for that. However, when I announced to her, when I was about ten, that I wanted to convert to Catholicism, she replied that she would "disown" me if I did that. I was ten! Doesn't that threat seem a little excessive? Anyway, later on, after a lot of shopping churches while I was growing up, my parents finally landed in a middle-of-the-road protestant denomination. I was already in college at this time, but I thought their choice was suitable. They chose a church to which you could apply the joke that whenever you find four of those parishioners, you will find . . . a fifth. It's good when your faith doesn't dictate how you spend your cocktail hour.
Now, back to the Mission. This is where I attend Mass when I am in Carmel, which started when house guests brought me along one Sunday a few years back. It was the end of Advent, and the altar was filled, filled with poinsettias. The Mission has the most beautiful choir, and we sang a hymn of Gloria with the sopranos soaring over the top of us. That first visit meant a lot to me, so I now go to Mass each Sunday when I am in Carmel. My mom still doesn't approve, so I tell her it's about the music and the architecture. But it's not. It's about having a sacred time and place where for an hour each week, I can be clear on what is truly important. For some reason, the Mission provides this for me.
Last week we sang the hymn whose melody Cat Stevens used for his song Morning Has Broken. That was pretty cool. And there was a collection for relief in Haiti. But mostly it was a rainy Sunday when residents and tourists filled the space, and the experience filled my heart. When I go home, I will not attend church, and on most Sunday mornings I will pick up my gardening trowel instead of my car keys. I will stay home, and if weather is good, we will spend the morning gardening. But most of the year my heart yearns for what I experience each Sunday in January, here in Carmel.
Carmel Mission Basilica was restored back about seventy-five years ago, and today is once again in need of repairs and restoration. If you are interested in helping, or just interested in the Mission, you can find more information here.
What would Sandra do? Sandra was the house guest who took me to the Mission the first time. I baked her this cake as a thank you. And thank you for reading my blog.
Mission Cake
3/4 cup sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
pinch salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bosc pears, peeled, cored, and sliced into eighths
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1-2 tablespoons turbinado sugar (one brand is Sugar in the Raw)
powdered sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cream 3/4 cup sugar and butter. Add flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla, and salt. Beat to mix well. Place in a 9 inch ungreased springform pan. Cover the top with a single layer of the pears, in a decorative spiral fashion or not. Mix the cinnamon with the remaining sugar and sprinkle over the top.
Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, give or take (I've had it take only 30 minutes, but I suspect my oven was born under the sign of Capricorn -- it's rather moody, which causes me to regularly attempt to calibrate it. That day it must have been running hot). At any rate, give it the ol' toothpick test. Remove, cool before removing sides of pan. Place on a plate and give it a good dusting of powdered sugar. Excellent when served with dulce con leche ice cream or frozen yogurt when presented as dessert. Also good for Sunday breakfast or brunch -- skip the frozen cream bit.
Note: This is a year-round cake which can made with peaches, plums, berries or a mix of all. I made it for Christmas this year with cranberries. This required the full two tablespoons of raw sugar in the topping. You can also vary the extract or eliminate it entirely.
8 servings
The Carmel Mission Basilica was built in 1771. Do the math, people. That's five years before our forefathers signed the Declaration of Independence. It is the burial site of Father Junipero Serra who founded the California Missions. It is an awe-inspiring edifice which provides me with a sacred space when I am here in Carmel. Now, I just reread that sentence and fear that it sounds a little too touchy-feely, or worse, like I'm proselytizing. But I'm not. I am not a Catholic. I'm really nothing, I guess. I was half-heartedly sent to a Sunday school of a rather odd denomination. Casting no aspersions here, I will just say that the vaccination scar on my arm did little to endear me to my Sunday school teacher. My parents did not follow the tenants of this religious organization in which my mother had, also half-heartedly been raised. My dad was Episcopalian. I remember his story that when he was in the Navy (OK, Village People, get out of my head), he attempted to attend services that were labeled "protestant." It turned out to be on the low end (not meant pejoratively, but rather low versus high) of the protestant spectrum. Finding that service unfamiliar, he instead attended Mass with the Catholics for the rest of his tour of duty. So, that's the story on my father's side. My mother must have forgiven him for that. However, when I announced to her, when I was about ten, that I wanted to convert to Catholicism, she replied that she would "disown" me if I did that. I was ten! Doesn't that threat seem a little excessive? Anyway, later on, after a lot of shopping churches while I was growing up, my parents finally landed in a middle-of-the-road protestant denomination. I was already in college at this time, but I thought their choice was suitable. They chose a church to which you could apply the joke that whenever you find four of those parishioners, you will find . . . a fifth. It's good when your faith doesn't dictate how you spend your cocktail hour.
Now, back to the Mission. This is where I attend Mass when I am in Carmel, which started when house guests brought me along one Sunday a few years back. It was the end of Advent, and the altar was filled, filled with poinsettias. The Mission has the most beautiful choir, and we sang a hymn of Gloria with the sopranos soaring over the top of us. That first visit meant a lot to me, so I now go to Mass each Sunday when I am in Carmel. My mom still doesn't approve, so I tell her it's about the music and the architecture. But it's not. It's about having a sacred time and place where for an hour each week, I can be clear on what is truly important. For some reason, the Mission provides this for me.
Last week we sang the hymn whose melody Cat Stevens used for his song Morning Has Broken. That was pretty cool. And there was a collection for relief in Haiti. But mostly it was a rainy Sunday when residents and tourists filled the space, and the experience filled my heart. When I go home, I will not attend church, and on most Sunday mornings I will pick up my gardening trowel instead of my car keys. I will stay home, and if weather is good, we will spend the morning gardening. But most of the year my heart yearns for what I experience each Sunday in January, here in Carmel.
Carmel Mission Basilica was restored back about seventy-five years ago, and today is once again in need of repairs and restoration. If you are interested in helping, or just interested in the Mission, you can find more information here.
What would Sandra do? Sandra was the house guest who took me to the Mission the first time. I baked her this cake as a thank you. And thank you for reading my blog.
Mission Cake
3/4 cup sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
pinch salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bosc pears, peeled, cored, and sliced into eighths
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1-2 tablespoons turbinado sugar (one brand is Sugar in the Raw)
powdered sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cream 3/4 cup sugar and butter. Add flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla, and salt. Beat to mix well. Place in a 9 inch ungreased springform pan. Cover the top with a single layer of the pears, in a decorative spiral fashion or not. Mix the cinnamon with the remaining sugar and sprinkle over the top.
Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, give or take (I've had it take only 30 minutes, but I suspect my oven was born under the sign of Capricorn -- it's rather moody, which causes me to regularly attempt to calibrate it. That day it must have been running hot). At any rate, give it the ol' toothpick test. Remove, cool before removing sides of pan. Place on a plate and give it a good dusting of powdered sugar. Excellent when served with dulce con leche ice cream or frozen yogurt when presented as dessert. Also good for Sunday breakfast or brunch -- skip the frozen cream bit.
Note: This is a year-round cake which can made with peaches, plums, berries or a mix of all. I made it for Christmas this year with cranberries. This required the full two tablespoons of raw sugar in the topping. You can also vary the extract or eliminate it entirely.
8 servings
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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.