Non Sequitur

I went to Sears to buy a gallon of paint.  Simple enough: grab can of paint, grab paint swatch, give both to employee who uses the information on the latter to make something useable out of the former.

“We don’t mix paint at this store anymore?”

Blank expression from consumer.

“Most people buy the paint here and take it to Orchard or another Sears to have it mixed.”

Blank expression from consumer.

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Dazed, I walk to Macy’s to return sunscreen and buy lotion.  “I need to return this sunscreen as it has caused my face to break out in pimples.”

The sales associate extols the virtues of the other sunscreens available while reluctantly refunding my money. “So which of these do you want to buy instead?”

“None of them.”

“But, you must wear sunscreen—you have to think about the long-term affects.”

“I am thinking long-term; I’d rather be a seventy-year-old with wrinkles than a seventy-year-old with acne.”

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I walk to the Clinique counter for some Acne Solutions Clarifying Lotion to undo the damage done by the sunscreen.  Purchase is perfectly straight-forward: I ask for lotion, the sales associate bags and charges me for the lotion, sending me on my way with free samples.

I arrive home, feed the squirrels, check my e-mail and look in Macy’s bag to see what freebies I scored.

What precisely am I going to do with High-Impact mascara and Superbalm Lip Gloss?  Admittedly, if I wore the mascara it would make an impact.

 

Things That Strike Me

Clicking my life away . . . hopping from blogroll to blogroll . . . landing in places I can’t even remember how I got to since the blog that took there was eight clicks ago . . .

In the past two weeks I have ended up at three blogs written by someone whose child died while still an infant.  It strikes me that I only know one person (during my lifetime) who lost their infant child, and yet online I am seeing many who have.

And it strikes how much strength they must have to continue to willingly breathe.

More clicking, and I end up reading the single best thing written about the Miss USA/opposite marriage/Perez Hilton (it pains me to even type the name) non-scandal.  And I leave a comment, somehow including a soap opera reference from nearly thirty years ago.

And it strikes me that only in this most amazing country could someone be impressed that I know Elizabeth Taylor put a curse on Luke and Laura—The Cassadine Curse, which may still be working its  dark magic for all I know.

Yet more clicking, and it strikes me that half the people with food blogs are not very educated cooks.  I read old family recipes and know they are straight out of Fanny Farmer or Joy of Cooking.  And I read the author’s self-written bio;  it says they are a professional pastry chef, and I wonder why all their recipes start with 1 box Duncan Hines yellow cake mix (the kind with the pudding).

Does the Culinary Institute of America have a course on Duncan Hines?  I hope not.  Betty Crocker makes the superior cake mix.

A few more clicks . . . two women, best friends for sixty years, with a blog.  Some people think it’s a fake blog, that Helen and Margaret are aliases for some other writer.  I don’t care one way or the other . . .

Helen has a lot to say about Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter and most of it has me in stitches.  Until she points out—most astutely—that they must really hate themselves. 

When Rush is in the on-air world he has created for himself and Ann is inside one of her books, they know everything that is wrong and whom is to blame.  Removed from their element,  the self-assured facade crumbles and they are insecure teens trying to get invited to the popular kids’ parties.

That saddens me, and worries me.

So I click some more, until I find something that brings me back to a feeling of hope. 

And it strikes me that even if you don’t like pancakes all that much—maybe you prefer waffles, French toast, or hash browns— you can’t deny that a stack of them, freshly made, sitting on a plate awaiting a diner, is a very cheerful sight.

Burnt

Last week was hot.  Today was no different.  Ninety-something.  I’m not sure of the precise temperature as I have not had television or radio on to tell me. 

A few days ago (due to my forgetting to reapply sunscreen, and foolishly, well never mind) I got sunburnt.  I look like a cigar store Indian with peeling paint—that is what they are called, and changing it to cigar store Native-Americans sounds more demeaning to me since Indian is a misnomer and Native-American is not .

Despite that, someone at this morning’s brunch asked if I use Botox.  Then asked me to furrow my brow to prove I do not.  I said it was genetics.  It sounded a lot nicer than “all the people you know drink five times as much as me, and it shows.”

Plus I think genetics does have a lot to do with it; there have been some swell-looking corpses at the family funerals. 

The brunch was for a friend’s sixtieth birthday party.  I don’t know precisely how I ended up with friends who are sixty.  She’s not a close friend, but still . . . On each table was a questionnaire “How well do you know . . .”  Despite my not being among her closest friends I got all the questions right, except those involving music and movie preferences.

The final question asked what famous person we would hook her up with if we could.  She has been single for years so I have no idea what type of man interests her, but she is a big fan of coffee.  I wrote in Juan Valdez.  He’s got a job, a serape, and all the coffee anyone could want. 

In looking for this picture I discovered there is a new Juan Valdez.  It never occurred to me when the original retired they’d replace him.  He was so iconic, millions of people never even knew he was an actor playing a character—they thought he was a real-life coffee farmer. 

The new guy has a moustache and a donkey, but the similarity ends there.  They aren’t going to fool anyone like they did with all those Lassies.

Now, it is cooler.  I am going to get a couple plants stuck in pots.

 PS. I have had the song “Blister in the Sun” in my head for days so why I did not use it to title this post is beyond me.

I’m Just Playing

I heard there is a contest to guess what Mrs. Butterworth’s first name is.  When she was created, they gave her a first name, but never told anyone what it was.  (I understand this sort of thing is not uncommon for fictional characters, be they on TV, in books, or elsewhere.)

Since there are bound to be several people who guess the correct name, and Pinnacle Foods doesn’t want to award more than one prize, you not only have to tell what you think her name is, but why you think that’s her name.  I decided not to enter.

I never could have won with “I think her name is Mabel because it sounds like maple,  fits the image of a plump, grandmotherly-type, and it took me all of three minutes to come up with, and based on what I learned watching “Bewitched,” advertisers like whatever is easiest.”

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You probably heard about the kid in Ohio who got suspended from his Christian high school for attending the prom of his girlfriend who attends  public school.  His school, apparently, was the basis for the movie “Footloose”; they do not condone dancing, rock music, or teens touching one another. 

And, as a private school, they have the right to dictate their students do not engage in any of those things activities, whether or not they are on campus.  This seems rather silly to me, me being me and all.  But—and this is a fairly big but—he and his parents knew what the school’s policies were when he began attending it.

In fact, the school requires the students to sign an agreement at the beginning of the year stating they understand and will follow these rules.  As much as I like to side with heathens, I can’t on this one.  He knew what he was signing up for, and he did it anyway. 

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I got one of those celebrity gossip alerts in a pop-up—it was all about Michael Phelps having it off with women by the truckload.  And I guess a lot of people are very upset about this, about an Olympian having tons of  sex.

A young guy who probably never got a date in high school wins more gold medals than anybody else has in a zillion years, gets a whole lot of press, and exploits it for all its worth before people forget who he is.  Welcome to America, folks. 

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Under the category marked Be Careful What You Wish . . .

A couple of weeks ago I said I my dream job would be to work on an archaelogical dig, sifting dirt and debris looking for something that would re-write history.  Well, I spent three hours today seperating leaves, rock, and plant roots from soil with the aid of a riddle.

Clearly when I said that it had been a while since the last time I did it non-stop for hours;  I have a developed the posture of C. Montgomery Burns.  I need to go into training before I buy my ticket to Cairo.

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I got a phone call, which is rarely a good thing.  But this one I liked.  The child of a cousin is graduating from college and her step-mom was calling to double check that I was coming (I was going to RSVP in an e-mail tonight— I swear), and she went on to say “and, if you don’t mind, and you can say no . . .”

I thought, “Oh crap, I am not in the mood to be making a cake that people will talk about for years.” I don’t have to.  She asked if I would choose three cocktails to serve at the party,  buy everything required to make, then play bartender.  And, naturally, she will be paying for all the supplies.

I love when I get to work a party.  Some people like to work a  party, but I prefer to actually work, that way if someone annoying shows up I can say “Sorry, I’m busy, can’t talk.”   I will definitely be serving Ginger Rogers cocktails, but I haven’t decided on the others. 

 

Happy Mothers Day

Last night was the City Arts Lecture featuring Ruth Reichl.  She talked about her time as the food critic for The New York Times and her current gig as editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine, but mostly she spoke about her newest book—Not Becoming My Mother.  

The title means just what you think it does, but it goes way beyond that.   The “character” Miriam prominently featured in Reichl’s other autobiographical books is rediscovered as an ambitious, hopeful young woman, an unhappy wife, and a human being with no clue as to what her life is about.

I read a good portion of it on the train coming home; it’s a love letter to the mother Reichl never knew.  Last night, she said “I made up my mind who she was when I was young” and for years she didn’t want or need to be corrected on her version of the story.

Selfishly, I am glad it took her this long to unearth all her mother’s letters and notes and discover this other Miriam Reichl;  had she known her, she would never have written the first three books.  I recognized the Miriam in those books, and honestly (since she isn’t my mother (not precisely, anyway)), I kind of liked her.

I also recognize the new Miriam, and this one, I admire. 

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As an aside, one of the examples of good mothering administered by Miriam occured during Ruth’s “gawky years.”  She told her chubby daugher with her tangle of black curls (I cannot make a direct quote, but this was the gist) that when she found herself and was comfortable with that person, she would become beautiful.

I think it’s sound advice.  Ruth Reichl was not a pretty little girl, but she is a radiant woman.

Happy Mothers Day— to mothers past, present, and future.

Everything Aligned

So here’s the thing. I do not believe that all things happen for a reason, or that everything works out for the best— or for the greater good, or as it was meant to be, or however you like to put it.

What I do believe though, is that people and situations and opportunities, are put in front of us so that things can work out for the greater good. The catch is that we have to be paying attention, and willing.

Dorie Greenspan is one of our great food writers having authored award-winning books of her own, as well as the cookery books of others— including one of my personal heroes, Julia Child. Honestly, despite Dorie’s tremendous talent as both baker and writer, if I were not a Julia Child fan I may never have heard of her.

But I have, and for the past few months I have been a frequent visitor to her blog. I followed links in her comments section to other blogs, like you do.

 Many of her readers are quite gifted in their own right, be they cooks, writers, or anything else for that matter; but for whatever reason, only one of these people inclined me to return to their blog after my initial visit. I can’t say why for sure (although her story about her son using the word “clitoris” may have had something to do with it), but Ruth’s site Lemonade and Kidneys drew me back.

I clicked onto her site last night and read the following post:

(Note: The links that originally appeared within this post have been removed to afford Gwen privacy, and possibly safety.)

“I had trouble sleeping last night— I was thinking of Gwen.

I don’t remember how I found her blog, months ago, but she’s someone I keep coming back to. She’s lived through unimaginable grief–the loss of a baby–and has written honestly and with courage about how that tragedy has affected her life.

And two weeks ago, she wrote for the first time about being severely beaten by her husband. And this month she found the strength to finally throw him out.

So yesterday, when she received a 48-hour shut-off notice from the electric company with $800 past due owing — money that her waste of a husband said that he had paid — it nearly undid her.

And I said to myself, self, if 40 of us blogger folks could each send her $10, she’d be half-way there, and she and her two kids will not have to deal with the additional trauma and fear of losing their electricity on top of everything else they’ve been through.

So I successfully nudged her to set up a PayPal account.

I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask, but if each of you dear friends could send a few dollars her way, it would make a huge difference.  Here is the link.”

For me, today was one of those fortunate days when people and opportunities were put in front of me, and thankfully, I was paying attention.  I can’t give Gwen much but I can give something, and I’m sure other people who visit Ruth or Gwen’s sites are finding something to give as well.

When I hear detractors of the Internet list all that is wrong with it, I think of what it has given me—I have made friends, genuine friends who mean as much to me as anyone I ever met in a more conventional way,  I have read about people and things I otherwise would not have, and a few times, like this one, I have been given the chance to help someone.

Sure, there’s a lot of crap out here, but today, the Internet is a good thing.

 

I Love Talking About Nothing . . .

 . . . It is the only thing I know anything about.

I think Oscar Wilde did a better job of it than I do, especially recently. Everything I have posted here as of late has been fairly routine. Little snippets of what is going on in my life, a few pictures, a couple of sarcastic remarks.

That’s basically what I do anyway, but I like to think I do it better than this.

I just googled “writing topics” and the first link was to a website with suggested topics for writing, grouped by age. There are some damn good ideas in the third-grader section: my best birthday, my favorite family story, amazing facts I know, book characters I’d like to meet, and funny things my pet has done.

I wonder if any published writers have been to this website.  I think I have actually used most of them at some point.

I know I covered crazy pet antics, and crazy relatives antics.  I’ve said I’d like to meet some of Elizabeth Peters’ characters, and I flaunt my knowledge of the obscure any chance I get.  That leaves my best birthday, but I’m not sure which it may have been.

 Maybe the birthday that Mom bought me a cake with shreds of toasted coconut on top; she told my grandmother it was toenail trimmings.  But that’s pretty much the whole story.   Grandma droned on about colonics and apple cider vinegar for too long,  Mom made a smart-ass remark, because at thirty-nine, she finally decided to be a rebellious teen, and I ate cake.  

I thought if I started typing, something would come of it, but I guess not.   Sorry ’bout that; here’s a picture of my current-favorite squirrel to soften the blow.

Notice the steepled paws- he has a plan.

 And one of Fig too, since he is so pretty.

Figaro Thomas Rashid

 PS.  There are two young possums who show up for dinner every night.  I did some reading online, and they (based on their size) are not quite old enough to survive on their own; I’m making them salads of cut-up fruit left from the previous nights dinner, mixed with cat food.  They think I’m an excellent cook.

Relax Already

 
Sunday I visited some private gardens in my general neighborhood and in Oakland and Berkeley.  These home gardens have been given “Bay Friendly Garden” status for their having incorporated various sustainable/eco-friendly/low environmental impact elements into them.

They all have made great efforts to reduce water usage—everything from installing drip systems, to saving rain and gray water for the garden, to using mostly native plants, and most have a composter of some kind.  But many include water features and specific plants  to encourage wildlife,  use recycled materials, and grow at least some edibles.

I was very impressed at the creativity among the garderners, using broken pieces of old concrete to make “stone” walls and steps, hiding potting areas behind a simple homemade trellis covered in vines, but mainly I was impressed by the lack of perfection.

If I had hundreds of people coming to view my garden (let us pretend I have something that can be called a garden), I’d be out plucking off withered leaves, scratching the soil with a cultivator to make it look fresh and new (famously coined making the dirt pretty by my aunt), and looking to see what is and what is not visible inside from the outside.

This is what separates a real gardener from an amateur, never mind if I somehow manage to get people to pay me to do it and some of these people do not. 

They are real gardeners; they trust in the plants to shed their leaves when they want to, trust that the fallen pine needles which look like a mess are worth it since they keep the rhododendrons happy, and trust that the people visiting their garden are more interested in plants than counting the pieces of McCoy pottery stacked precariously in a window sill.

(Seriously, only in Berkeley will you see someone place a baricade around an easily-replaced sage plant to keep people from stepping on it while $500 worth of vintage vases are sitting behind a kitchen curtain where only a neighbor might see them.)

For the record, this is part of what I like about Berkeley.  And gardeners.  I dig holes, stick plants in them, water, mulch, look at them with a sense of hope and promise—all of which these people do, but I have not allowed their mindset to become mine. 

I need to do that.  I think we all need to do that.

 

If You In Cyst

 

I am hoping my mom will find that title amusing.

This is the woman who once told a college friend of my sister’s that she would be seeing both sides of her family while on vacation—the front and the back.

Mom called me after getting home from her doctor’s appointment (my dad and sister accompanied her) and told me she has a cyst.  A sausage-shaped cyst in the general vicinity of her cervix. 

I never thought about it before but medicine often uses edible things to describe cysts and tumors and things: sausage-shaped cyst, tumor the size of a grapefruit, lump the size of a walnut.  I guess it makes it easier for the lay mind to understand since most of us have seen sausages, melons and nuts.

The cyst, being a cyst, is benign, and is located outside any major organs so it should not be too difficult to get to; all in all, it is the best diagnosis she could have hoped for.   Truthfully, better than she or I were thinking it was going to be.

Tonight, she is breathing freely for the first time in weeks, and hopefully it will be a few days that she begins to think about having to undergo surgery, and then the recovery period. 

I may to have move in with her and make Dad stay here.  He gets all fidgety and helpful in a way that is not at all helpful whenever she has so much as a cold, and that does not improve her disposition any. 

Well, I’m going to enjoy my relief and worry about that albatross another day.

Humble Pie

 

First off, does anyone remember when I raved about the show Pushing Daisies?  I watched the first episode, Kristin Chenoweth said “I used to think masturbation is when you soak fruit,” and fell in love with a show.  And I went to bed knowing a show I liked that much would be cancelled.

Yeah, I’m a barometer for things other people do not like. 

Anyway, I’m making pie.  It’s 90 degrees and I am—hold on, check this out.  How funny is that?  Anyway again, it’s fucking hot (that’s what the weather website said and who am I to argue?) and I’m baking.  A rhubarb tart with slivers of dried apricots and lavender blossoms.

As previously reported, my mom had a colonoscopy, and it showed that overall she has a lovely colon (as colons go).  Which should be good, but they sent her to have a pelvic/abdominal ultrasound.  That is now being followed with a CTScan.  There is something in there.  I don’t know what or where, but something.

I’m making pie.   I grabbed three of her favorite things and combined them; I’m not sure all three belong together but I think the spirit behind it will come through.  And besides, she loves to say to me “Next time you make this, I’d . . .”

She has always said that to me.  It bothered me in grade school (usually she was critiquing my artwork), but it amuses me now.  In part because it implies whatever I made is worth making again even if I missed on the first try, but also because this is just who we are. 

Mother/child relationships can be many things—difficult, tense, impossible, friendly, but ours is all of those plus something I can’t put a precise word to.  Weird comes close.  Maybe it’s mutual bemusement at how odd the other one can be.  Whatever it is, it is.

I don’t know what ails her, and I know pie can’t cure anything more serious that a broken heart or a hangover, but it sure as hell can’t hurt.  

PS. For anyone unfamiliar with cooking terms, soaking fruit is macerating, something I’m doing right now!