Lovely, no? Longer post soon with many lovely pictures . . .
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Where I spent my weekend
This is where I spent my weekend. Campsite in Stanislaus National Forest, just outside Yosemite.
Lovely, no? Longer post soon with many lovely pictures . . .
Lovely, no? Longer post soon with many lovely pictures . . .
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Yum, Yum, and More Yum!
I made these Plump Pea Dumplings from 101 Cookbooks for dinner last night and OMG were they good! It's amazing that something so simple can taste so damn good. And they're pretty healthy, too! I have seriously been thinking all day about how soon I can go home and eat some more. YUM!
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Reading Update: July 8
Per Petterson -- Out Stealing Horses
Quiet and lovely. Not a lot happens, but I couldn't stop reading.
Mark Dunn -- Ella Minnow Pea
For my book group. After 100 Years of Solitude, The Road, and Middlesex as our last three books, it was time for something lighter. I read it in about a day, and it's both fun and serious at the same time. The book is set on the fictional island of Nollop, named after the man who invented the sentence "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog," which includes all letters of the alphabet. The trouble begins when a letter falls off the statue of Nollop in the town square. The town council decides that this is a sign from beyond the grave and bans use of that letter in all writing and speech. As more letters fall, the citizens' language is restricted further, and the letters also disappear from the book itself. It's totally clever and fun, even as it tackles the dangers of censorship.
Joan Didion --The Year of Magical Thinking
Honestly, I don't get the hype. Not at all. The book is the story of the year after her sudden death of her husband and her daughter's terrible illness. The idea, I think, is that Didion is looking death and grieving straight in the face and writing about it in a way that no one else has. I really wanted to like this book. I did. But I find Didion so freaking annoying that I couldn't even pay attention to the book. I couldn't feel even a lick of sympathy for her, couldn't empathize with her (which seems like sort of the point of the whole book). I dunno. Maybe it's just me, since the whole world seems to think this book is amazing. I've never much liked Didion's writing, though. Way back in high school, a teacher gave me a copy of Slouching Toward Bethlehem, thinking I would really enjoy it. But I couldn't even make it through the first essay there.
Quiet and lovely. Not a lot happens, but I couldn't stop reading.
Mark Dunn -- Ella Minnow Pea
For my book group. After 100 Years of Solitude, The Road, and Middlesex as our last three books, it was time for something lighter. I read it in about a day, and it's both fun and serious at the same time. The book is set on the fictional island of Nollop, named after the man who invented the sentence "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog," which includes all letters of the alphabet. The trouble begins when a letter falls off the statue of Nollop in the town square. The town council decides that this is a sign from beyond the grave and bans use of that letter in all writing and speech. As more letters fall, the citizens' language is restricted further, and the letters also disappear from the book itself. It's totally clever and fun, even as it tackles the dangers of censorship.
Joan Didion --The Year of Magical Thinking
Honestly, I don't get the hype. Not at all. The book is the story of the year after her sudden death of her husband and her daughter's terrible illness. The idea, I think, is that Didion is looking death and grieving straight in the face and writing about it in a way that no one else has. I really wanted to like this book. I did. But I find Didion so freaking annoying that I couldn't even pay attention to the book. I couldn't feel even a lick of sympathy for her, couldn't empathize with her (which seems like sort of the point of the whole book). I dunno. Maybe it's just me, since the whole world seems to think this book is amazing. I've never much liked Didion's writing, though. Way back in high school, a teacher gave me a copy of Slouching Toward Bethlehem, thinking I would really enjoy it. But I couldn't even make it through the first essay there.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Do you think it's bad . . .
. . . that I have consumed almost a full jar of jam since I made it yesterday?
What if I ate most of it standing over the sink, spoon in hand, straight from the jar?
(perhaps I should give away several of the 12 jars I made yesterday? My waistline would probably thank me later)
What if I ate most of it standing over the sink, spoon in hand, straight from the jar?
(perhaps I should give away several of the 12 jars I made yesterday? My waistline would probably thank me later)
Cookin' up a storm
This weekend was full of lovely weather, good food, and lots of cooking. What else does a girl really need?
D. and I had dinner on the Fourth at Ubuntu in Napa. It's this fancy vegetarian place, and yes, it really is a yoga studio, too. (Only in California, people. Only in California). I thought the food was decent, overall, though a little fussy (look at the menu -- you'll see what I mean). The dessert, though, was spectacular -- a corn pudding cake with grilled peaches and some sort of honey ice cream. It came garnished with this super-thin wafer sprinkled with sweet popcorn. And the best part? When the waitress came over to our table and told us that they had a back patio, and would we like to have our dessert out there so we could watch the fireworks? All the fireworks with none of the beer-swilling crowd? Hell yes!
As for cooking, on Saturday we made grilled pizzas. Yum! This might be my favorite thing I've cooked in a while, and it was so easy. We used Trader Joes Pizza dough, and then experimented with toppings. The best combo was proscuitto, gorgonzola, and figs. Y. U. M. We also made a grilled veggie version and one with caramelized onions and ricotta. Making the onions was fun -- it's totally magical to me the way the character of something can change so much just by cooking it slowly. That version of the pizza, though, lacked pizzaz. We decided that next time we'd add some gorgonzola to it and maybe something with a bit more crunch. The fig and gorgonzola pizza was the clear winner of the night, and we liked the super-thin crusts we did the best.
To actually make the pizzas, roll out the dough into thin, small pizzas, which are easier to work with. brush with olive oil and toss onto an oiled grill for a few minutes. Take off the grill and flip onto a plate so the cooked side is up. Add your toppings (pre-cooked or no-cooking needed, since they don't get a ton of heat) and then put back on grill for a couple minutes, uncooked side down. You'll want to keep the flames low, so you don't burn it. Here's directions from someone who is better at this recipe thing than I am: Grilled Pizza on 101 Cookbooks.
Yesterday, after D. had abandoned me for the cooler climes of Portland (A 7 am flight! On a Sunday morning!!) I heated up my kitchen with a great big batch of strawberry jam and, once it had cooled down enough for me to even contemplate turning the oven on again, chicken stock.
Chicken stock is such a fun thing to me. When you tell people you make your own chicken stock, they tend to be rather impressed, as if you've told them that when you were fifteen you ran away to join the circus and you are really quite good on the trapeze. It always makes me laugh a little, because chicken stock is just about the easiest thing anyone could make in their kitchen. All you need is a few hours when you don't need to leave the house, so you can keep an eye on the pot. This is cooking even my dad could do. (Sorry, Daddy! You know I love you, cook or not!)
Here's how I do it: Throw a chicken carcass into a enormous stock pot with 16-20 cups of water. (I toss the leftover bones and meat into the freezer whenever I make a roast chicken and pull 'em out when I want to make stock). Also toss in a couple scrubbed carrots, broken in half; a couple ribs of celery, a big onion cut into quarters (no need to peel), parsley, peppercorns, and a bay leaf. Add a bit of salt. Bring to a boil, then simmer very gently for several hours, until the chicken falls off the bones. Strain and freeze to use whenever. If it tastes bland, add more salt. Tada! You'll impress all of your non-cook friends to no end. (Even more so if you also feed them the chicken you roasted in order to get the bones -- another simple recipe, for another day).
I also very much enjoy making jam. I feel like my grandma would be proud of me, if she could see me canning like a pro, even though I wasn't smart enough to ask her to teach me before she passed away. I like freezer jam the best, which is convenient, as it's the simplest to make. Basically, you just mush together whatever kind of fruit you want with sugar and a packet of freezer jam pectin from the grocery store and then dump it into jars. It'll keep forever in the freezer, and it's wonderful in the dead of winter to spread strawberry freezer jam on your toast -- I don't think anything could taste more like summer. Plus, when you're making freezer jam, you can add herbs to it without them tasting over-cooked. I like a little bit of fresh mint in my strawberry jam. Sounds a bit odd, but it's SO good. And today's peach-strawberry jam got some sliver-thin ribbons of basil.
But I also like the more complicated kind of jam that you cook on the stovetop till it gels and then can in a hot water-bath. There's something very soothing to me about cooking down strawberries and sugar till they get thick and lava-like, bubbling languidly on the stove. And then the sealing process! It's like magic -- boiling the jars, hearing the 'ping' of sealing lids, popping them open with a can opener weeks or months down the line. And it's nice to live someplace now where this is not such an odd thing to do. Once, when I lived in DC, I spent an afternoon making jam. When I mentioned it later that night, one of my relatives responded, with some horror in her voice, why would you want to do that, as if I had spent my day cleaning the poop off the hindquarters of a not-so-meticulous dog. Here, people just ask when I'm bringing them a jar :-)
P.S. I've been on a regular cooking binge lately. Along with this weekend's wonders, last weekend I made a rustic plum and port wine tart (from the June issue of Bon Appetit) and pickles, for the first time ever (pretty good, but too sweet, even though I cut the sugar in the recipe in half).
D. and I had dinner on the Fourth at Ubuntu in Napa. It's this fancy vegetarian place, and yes, it really is a yoga studio, too. (Only in California, people. Only in California). I thought the food was decent, overall, though a little fussy (look at the menu -- you'll see what I mean). The dessert, though, was spectacular -- a corn pudding cake with grilled peaches and some sort of honey ice cream. It came garnished with this super-thin wafer sprinkled with sweet popcorn. And the best part? When the waitress came over to our table and told us that they had a back patio, and would we like to have our dessert out there so we could watch the fireworks? All the fireworks with none of the beer-swilling crowd? Hell yes!
As for cooking, on Saturday we made grilled pizzas. Yum! This might be my favorite thing I've cooked in a while, and it was so easy. We used Trader Joes Pizza dough, and then experimented with toppings. The best combo was proscuitto, gorgonzola, and figs. Y. U. M. We also made a grilled veggie version and one with caramelized onions and ricotta. Making the onions was fun -- it's totally magical to me the way the character of something can change so much just by cooking it slowly. That version of the pizza, though, lacked pizzaz. We decided that next time we'd add some gorgonzola to it and maybe something with a bit more crunch. The fig and gorgonzola pizza was the clear winner of the night, and we liked the super-thin crusts we did the best.
To actually make the pizzas, roll out the dough into thin, small pizzas, which are easier to work with. brush with olive oil and toss onto an oiled grill for a few minutes. Take off the grill and flip onto a plate so the cooked side is up. Add your toppings (pre-cooked or no-cooking needed, since they don't get a ton of heat) and then put back on grill for a couple minutes, uncooked side down. You'll want to keep the flames low, so you don't burn it. Here's directions from someone who is better at this recipe thing than I am: Grilled Pizza on 101 Cookbooks.
Yesterday, after D. had abandoned me for the cooler climes of Portland (A 7 am flight! On a Sunday morning!!) I heated up my kitchen with a great big batch of strawberry jam and, once it had cooled down enough for me to even contemplate turning the oven on again, chicken stock.
Chicken stock is such a fun thing to me. When you tell people you make your own chicken stock, they tend to be rather impressed, as if you've told them that when you were fifteen you ran away to join the circus and you are really quite good on the trapeze. It always makes me laugh a little, because chicken stock is just about the easiest thing anyone could make in their kitchen. All you need is a few hours when you don't need to leave the house, so you can keep an eye on the pot. This is cooking even my dad could do. (Sorry, Daddy! You know I love you, cook or not!)
Here's how I do it: Throw a chicken carcass into a enormous stock pot with 16-20 cups of water. (I toss the leftover bones and meat into the freezer whenever I make a roast chicken and pull 'em out when I want to make stock). Also toss in a couple scrubbed carrots, broken in half; a couple ribs of celery, a big onion cut into quarters (no need to peel), parsley, peppercorns, and a bay leaf. Add a bit of salt. Bring to a boil, then simmer very gently for several hours, until the chicken falls off the bones. Strain and freeze to use whenever. If it tastes bland, add more salt. Tada! You'll impress all of your non-cook friends to no end. (Even more so if you also feed them the chicken you roasted in order to get the bones -- another simple recipe, for another day).
I also very much enjoy making jam. I feel like my grandma would be proud of me, if she could see me canning like a pro, even though I wasn't smart enough to ask her to teach me before she passed away. I like freezer jam the best, which is convenient, as it's the simplest to make. Basically, you just mush together whatever kind of fruit you want with sugar and a packet of freezer jam pectin from the grocery store and then dump it into jars. It'll keep forever in the freezer, and it's wonderful in the dead of winter to spread strawberry freezer jam on your toast -- I don't think anything could taste more like summer. Plus, when you're making freezer jam, you can add herbs to it without them tasting over-cooked. I like a little bit of fresh mint in my strawberry jam. Sounds a bit odd, but it's SO good. And today's peach-strawberry jam got some sliver-thin ribbons of basil.
But I also like the more complicated kind of jam that you cook on the stovetop till it gels and then can in a hot water-bath. There's something very soothing to me about cooking down strawberries and sugar till they get thick and lava-like, bubbling languidly on the stove. And then the sealing process! It's like magic -- boiling the jars, hearing the 'ping' of sealing lids, popping them open with a can opener weeks or months down the line. And it's nice to live someplace now where this is not such an odd thing to do. Once, when I lived in DC, I spent an afternoon making jam. When I mentioned it later that night, one of my relatives responded, with some horror in her voice, why would you want to do that, as if I had spent my day cleaning the poop off the hindquarters of a not-so-meticulous dog. Here, people just ask when I'm bringing them a jar :-)
P.S. I've been on a regular cooking binge lately. Along with this weekend's wonders, last weekend I made a rustic plum and port wine tart (from the June issue of Bon Appetit) and pickles, for the first time ever (pretty good, but too sweet, even though I cut the sugar in the recipe in half).
Friday, June 27, 2008
Reading update: July 2
Despite the lack of updates on my reading, I actually have found quite a lot of time to read lately. (Funny what happens when your social life consists almost entirely of a boyfriend who is 600+ miles away most of the time and 6 or 7 friends who are currently all completely snowed under at work). Here's the list, to the best of my memory. I'm sure I'm missing some, but if I can't remember them, they probably weren't all that great, anyway.
Amitav Ghosh -- The Hungry Tide
Lovely throughout, not all that satisfying in the end. Hate that.
David Mitchell -- The Cloud Atlas
This one was a surprise to me. I normally hate super-postmodern/experimental books, and Mitchell definitely falls under that category. But after hearing several friends whose taste in books I really trust rave about how great this book was, I finally gave in. Boy, am I glad I did. The Cloud Atlas is a series of 6 or so stories, set in all different time periods and worlds, linked only tenuously to one another. Each story is a different genre, from futuristic sci-fi to 18th century epistolary novel and so on, and the book has a sort of nested set-up, in which each story breaks off suddenly, only to be resumed again in the second half of the book. Hard to explain, but lovely, lovely, lovely to read. Every single one of the stories grabbed me and pulled me in, and I am still utterly amazed at Mitchell's ability to write so eloquently in so many different voices and genres. Not a top-5 book for me, but definitely way up there in terms of favorites.
Jennifer Sey - Chalked Up
Had a brief period of minor obsession with gymnastics. Something about the Olympics coming up, I'm sure. This just came out, the memoir of a former US gymnastics champion. Interesting, not great. I found it to be a fairly typical lambasting of the gymnastics world and its negative effects on little girls' bodies, minds, and spirits. I will say that Sey places more accountability on herself than most books of this type -- she doesn't just blame all her misery on the coaches, so that was refreshing.
Joan Ryan -- Little Girls in Pretty Boxes
Not much to say about this one. Part of the same momentary obsession as the above book. (And you know what the silliest part is? I don't even have a working TV, so I probably won't watch even a lick of the Olympics this summer).
Jack O'Connnell -- The Resurrectionist
Very interesting novel. I'm struggling to even describe it. It's very film-noir, in a way, and it makes me feel like you feel when you hear the words "It was a dark and stormy night." In other words, in my head, the book is all wrapped in blue-black sky and menacing clouds. Basically, it's about a father, Sweeney, who brings his young son, Danny to a hospital where the doctors claim they'll be able to wake him from the coma he's been in since a tragic accident. O'Connell interweaves the story of Danny and his father with the world of a series of dark comic books that the boy was reading before he lost consciousness, and it's the blurring of fantasy and reality that's most interesting. I loved the way O'Connell leaves us wondering what is real and what is the grief-fueled fantasy of a devastated father. Really enjoyed it.
Lee Martin -- The Bright Forever
This book left me feeling a little . . . dirty. (No, not in THAT way!) More like . . . complicit. Basically, it's the story of a little girl's tragic disappearance and the ripples of its aftermath out into the world of those around her. Martin does a masterful job of revealing the story bit by bit so that the reader only gradually realizes that the solid ground beneath her feet, and her clear understanding of "what happened" and how the various characters were involved, is little more than quicksand. You're left feeling like you bought into the lies the characters told themselves, and like you're somehow complicit in what happens to the girl. I didn't find the characters in this story likable at all, in the end, but they were real, to be sure. And, in fact, I didn't much like the story, but I like the mastery behind it. This is not a book that leaves you feeling good when you've finished it, it's not beautiful. But it does make you feel unsettled, uneasy, and it sticks with you, and I think that takes, in fact, more talent, then just writing something that makes your reader feel good.
Lloyd Alexander -- The Book of Three
A book I loved as a kid. I still enjoyed it this time around, but didn't find it nearly as compelling. Reading it did, however, make me totally nostalgic for the Black Cauldron PC game my dad bought for me in the late 80s. Of course, he was the one who spent most of the time playing the game -- he kicked ASS at it, and I was, unfortunately, too easily frustrated.
Robyn Scott -- 20 Chickens for a Saddle
I listened to this one on CD in my car, and it was a good book for that approach. First of all, Scott has a beautiful, lilting New Zealand accent, which I could listen to for approximately, oh, forever, without tiring. But it was also a fascinating story. I've read many white-person-out-of-place-in-Africa books before, but usually they feel much more distant from my life. (The Poisonwood Bible, for example, is set in the '60s, and Out of Africa somewhere earlier, even, than that). But Scott is actually a few years younger than me, so her childhood in Africa was happening so close to my own childhood in a world as far off as imaginable. Really, really funny, but also poignant, and Scott has a real ear for description of a landscape. I've never been to Africa, but I could imagine it all in my head so easily. It also totally made me want to run away and live in a converted cowshed in the African outback for a while. :-)
Beverly Cleary -- The Mouse and the Motorcycle
For work. Never read this one as a kid, but it's cute.
Beverly Cleary -- Ramona the Pest
Also for work. I'd forgotten that Ramona's cat is named Picky-picky. What a great name! I'm totally naming my next cat Picky-picky. (Aside: I have a friend that named his cats Beezus and Ramona. So cute! I wish I'd thought of it first).
L. Frank Baum -- The Wizard of Oz.
Yep, for work. The slippers aren't ruby in the book! I feel betrayed by the movie industry!
Astrid Lindgren -- Pippi Longstocking
Yep, my job involves reading lots of kids books. Didn't like this as much as I did as a kid. Now Pippi seems sort of annoying, whereas then she was totally jealousy-worthy because of her freedom and complete disregard for the rules.
Trenton Lee Stewart -- The Mysterious Benedict Society
Best new kids chapter book I've read in ages and ages. Loved the characters, loved the writing, loved the story. Stewart's writing reminds me a bit of Roald Dahl, in terms of both style and quirkiness. I actually picked this one up from a display in a bookstore -- not for work! Can't recommend it enough, for kids of all ages.
Jeffrey Ford -- The Shadow Year
This book creeped me out. Seriously. It gave me nightmares. I made myself finish it, but I can't say I really enjoyed it that much.
These are totally not in order, and I'm positive I'm missing some, but oh well. Right now, I'm trying to plow my way through 100 Years of Solitude for my book group, and I'm also reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson.
Amitav Ghosh -- The Hungry Tide
Lovely throughout, not all that satisfying in the end. Hate that.
David Mitchell -- The Cloud Atlas
This one was a surprise to me. I normally hate super-postmodern/experimental books, and Mitchell definitely falls under that category. But after hearing several friends whose taste in books I really trust rave about how great this book was, I finally gave in. Boy, am I glad I did. The Cloud Atlas is a series of 6 or so stories, set in all different time periods and worlds, linked only tenuously to one another. Each story is a different genre, from futuristic sci-fi to 18th century epistolary novel and so on, and the book has a sort of nested set-up, in which each story breaks off suddenly, only to be resumed again in the second half of the book. Hard to explain, but lovely, lovely, lovely to read. Every single one of the stories grabbed me and pulled me in, and I am still utterly amazed at Mitchell's ability to write so eloquently in so many different voices and genres. Not a top-5 book for me, but definitely way up there in terms of favorites.
Jennifer Sey - Chalked Up
Had a brief period of minor obsession with gymnastics. Something about the Olympics coming up, I'm sure. This just came out, the memoir of a former US gymnastics champion. Interesting, not great. I found it to be a fairly typical lambasting of the gymnastics world and its negative effects on little girls' bodies, minds, and spirits. I will say that Sey places more accountability on herself than most books of this type -- she doesn't just blame all her misery on the coaches, so that was refreshing.
Joan Ryan -- Little Girls in Pretty Boxes
Not much to say about this one. Part of the same momentary obsession as the above book. (And you know what the silliest part is? I don't even have a working TV, so I probably won't watch even a lick of the Olympics this summer).
Jack O'Connnell -- The Resurrectionist
Very interesting novel. I'm struggling to even describe it. It's very film-noir, in a way, and it makes me feel like you feel when you hear the words "It was a dark and stormy night." In other words, in my head, the book is all wrapped in blue-black sky and menacing clouds. Basically, it's about a father, Sweeney, who brings his young son, Danny to a hospital where the doctors claim they'll be able to wake him from the coma he's been in since a tragic accident. O'Connell interweaves the story of Danny and his father with the world of a series of dark comic books that the boy was reading before he lost consciousness, and it's the blurring of fantasy and reality that's most interesting. I loved the way O'Connell leaves us wondering what is real and what is the grief-fueled fantasy of a devastated father. Really enjoyed it.
Lee Martin -- The Bright Forever
This book left me feeling a little . . . dirty. (No, not in THAT way!) More like . . . complicit. Basically, it's the story of a little girl's tragic disappearance and the ripples of its aftermath out into the world of those around her. Martin does a masterful job of revealing the story bit by bit so that the reader only gradually realizes that the solid ground beneath her feet, and her clear understanding of "what happened" and how the various characters were involved, is little more than quicksand. You're left feeling like you bought into the lies the characters told themselves, and like you're somehow complicit in what happens to the girl. I didn't find the characters in this story likable at all, in the end, but they were real, to be sure. And, in fact, I didn't much like the story, but I like the mastery behind it. This is not a book that leaves you feeling good when you've finished it, it's not beautiful. But it does make you feel unsettled, uneasy, and it sticks with you, and I think that takes, in fact, more talent, then just writing something that makes your reader feel good.
Lloyd Alexander -- The Book of Three
A book I loved as a kid. I still enjoyed it this time around, but didn't find it nearly as compelling. Reading it did, however, make me totally nostalgic for the Black Cauldron PC game my dad bought for me in the late 80s. Of course, he was the one who spent most of the time playing the game -- he kicked ASS at it, and I was, unfortunately, too easily frustrated.
Robyn Scott -- 20 Chickens for a Saddle
I listened to this one on CD in my car, and it was a good book for that approach. First of all, Scott has a beautiful, lilting New Zealand accent, which I could listen to for approximately, oh, forever, without tiring. But it was also a fascinating story. I've read many white-person-out-of-place-in-Africa books before, but usually they feel much more distant from my life. (The Poisonwood Bible, for example, is set in the '60s, and Out of Africa somewhere earlier, even, than that). But Scott is actually a few years younger than me, so her childhood in Africa was happening so close to my own childhood in a world as far off as imaginable. Really, really funny, but also poignant, and Scott has a real ear for description of a landscape. I've never been to Africa, but I could imagine it all in my head so easily. It also totally made me want to run away and live in a converted cowshed in the African outback for a while. :-)
Beverly Cleary -- The Mouse and the Motorcycle
For work. Never read this one as a kid, but it's cute.
Beverly Cleary -- Ramona the Pest
Also for work. I'd forgotten that Ramona's cat is named Picky-picky. What a great name! I'm totally naming my next cat Picky-picky. (Aside: I have a friend that named his cats Beezus and Ramona. So cute! I wish I'd thought of it first).
L. Frank Baum -- The Wizard of Oz.
Yep, for work. The slippers aren't ruby in the book! I feel betrayed by the movie industry!
Astrid Lindgren -- Pippi Longstocking
Yep, my job involves reading lots of kids books. Didn't like this as much as I did as a kid. Now Pippi seems sort of annoying, whereas then she was totally jealousy-worthy because of her freedom and complete disregard for the rules.
Trenton Lee Stewart -- The Mysterious Benedict Society
Best new kids chapter book I've read in ages and ages. Loved the characters, loved the writing, loved the story. Stewart's writing reminds me a bit of Roald Dahl, in terms of both style and quirkiness. I actually picked this one up from a display in a bookstore -- not for work! Can't recommend it enough, for kids of all ages.
Jeffrey Ford -- The Shadow Year
This book creeped me out. Seriously. It gave me nightmares. I made myself finish it, but I can't say I really enjoyed it that much.
These are totally not in order, and I'm positive I'm missing some, but oh well. Right now, I'm trying to plow my way through 100 Years of Solitude for my book group, and I'm also reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
What I did all weekend
I pretty much spent my whole weekend sitting on my postage-stamp-sized porch, drinking lovely icy cold drinks. This is my favorite -- a watermelon margarita. Can you see that the ice is heart-shaped? I love you, Ikea, for enabling my adorably shaped ice-making! Oh, and I also read a whole lot. And cleaned my office, which was dangerously close to being eligible to be declared a FEMA disaster zone. Woo!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Warning: Slacking Ahead
Argh. I am clearly not responsible enough to have a blog, as I don't seem to be even remotely capable of regular updates. In my defense, things have been hectic. I was in Michigan for a week, helping my mom recover from surgery, which included an oh-so-lovely day spent at the horribly over-air-conditioned emergency room at St. Joes in Pontiac, Michigan. And then when I got home, I turned right back around and flew out to Portland a few days later. And while I was in Portland, I was really preoccupied, what with the eating of enormous amounts of delicious food and the drinking of enormous amounts of delicious margaritas (spiked with watermelon aqua fresca -- TELL me who could possibly think of their blog with an icy cold watermelon margarita in their hand???) And also with the watching of my hot boyfriend racing on his bike against dozens of other cute-but-not-quite-so-hot-men in spandex. And I hiked 12 miles in one day, too, while I was there. Up hill both ways! Doesn't that count for something? Plus, I have totally written, like, eighteen blog entries in my head in the past few weeks. (What do you mean you can't read my mind?!? Slacker!) So, um, yeah. Today, I turn over a new leaf. Regular posts, at least three days a week. Yes, a new leaf today or, uh, tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Have I ever told you how I feel about otters?
This clip of a commercial from the Minnesota Zoo (from Cute Overload) totally made my morning. I'm fairly convinced that if they wanted to, otters could take over the world with their cuteness. I dragged D. to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium a few weeks ago for the otter show alone. And it was TOTALLY worth the 50 bucks it cost the two of us to get in!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Mystery Half-Solved
So the mystery of the freaking-out cat has been solved -- sort of. After more than a week, Scout has finally calmed down enough to be cuddly again. So a couple of days ago, she was curled up next to me and I realized that she has a big ol' scab on the edge of her ear. Once I held her squirmy little self down and got a good look, I could see that she has a nice notch taken out of it. It's probably only an 8th of an inch long, but when your entire ear is only an inch in length, that's a good-sized wound. I assume that she somehow got in a fight with one of the neighborhood cats when she was outside last week and that she was so horribly freaked out because she was in a lot of pain. I must have just not seen the cut when I tried to examine her then, since she was thrashing all over the place whenever I tried to hold her still. In any case, she seems to be back to normal now, and she'll have a nice war wound to show for her adventure.
In other news, doctors are trying to regrow a man's amputated finger with "pixie dust" made of tissue extracted from pigs. Seriously -- it's on CNN. How fucking cool is that? (And how much do I love the fact that these super-serious military scientist-types are calling their regrowth compound "pixie dust"?!?)
In other news, doctors are trying to regrow a man's amputated finger with "pixie dust" made of tissue extracted from pigs. Seriously -- it's on CNN. How fucking cool is that? (And how much do I love the fact that these super-serious military scientist-types are calling their regrowth compound "pixie dust"?!?)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Allowing the Cats Outside = Epic Fail
Yesterday, the obscene heat here in the Bay area finally broke. I celebrated by eating an enormous serving of French toast with homemade strawberry jam at Della Fattoria and then lounging about on my back porch, reading. So while I read on the porch, I left the door open and let the cats out -- an experiment to see if they're ready (and I'm ready) to let them out more often. They spent the better part of a couple hours poking around the back yard: chewing grass, rolling around in the wood-chipped flower bed, lounging in the warm sun. All seemed well. After a while, feeling secure about their safety out there, I went inside to do a couple chores. 5 minutes later, the cats came TEARING back into the house, Scout chasing Violet, hissing and growling. Scout actually bared her teeth at Vi and tried to take a chunk out of her ear. I mean, they play-tussle all the time, but I've never seen them like this before. At first, I was worried that one of them had somehow gotten hurt, but Vi was fine, and when Scout finally let me near her (about 30 minutes later), she appeared to be as well. I have no idea what happened out there, but Scout is currently doing a great impression of a shell-shocked Vietnam War Vet. She's been hiding under the bed, and if she could mumble and twitch and talk to herself, I think she would be doing just that. As of this morning, nearly a full day later, she is still crazy skittish hisses and growls when Vi gets within 5 feet of her. What the HELL?
Friday, May 16, 2008
Earthquake Weather
Yesterday at work someone told me that the weather we're having right now (very hot and still) is earthquake weather. This, along with all the terrible news out of China the past few days has made me a bit skittish.
There's this song I've been listening to lately and one of the lines in it is "this earthquake weather has got me shaking inside," and I must confess, I can relate to that -- I have a secret fear of earthquakes. I mean, I grew up in the Midwest. Tornadoes, I know how to deal with. We did tornado drills at school when I was a kid, lining up along the long inside hallway of my elementary school, backs to the painted cinderblock wall, waiting for the all-clear. My neighbors and I once watched a distant tornado from the roof of their house, when their mom wasn't around to make us go down to the basement. (Their dad, a pro-football player -- clearly not hired for his smarts -- thought it was just as cool as we did). So when I hear the tornado warning siren, I can mostly get away from windows and hide in the basement with the best of them.
But earthquakes are not exactly a common occurrence in Michigan. (The earthquake in Southern Illinois a few weeks ago was the first one you could feel there since, like 1850). I've already lived my first earthquake here in California-- a teensy one that rattled the glasses in my cupboards a bit and freaked the cats out, but nothing more. I didn't even realize it WAS an earthquake until like 2 hours later. It was like a baby thinking about fussing but then deciding to just settle back down, instead. But I'm worried about a bigger one. The 3-year-old's temper tantrum of earthquakes, so to speak. I mean, there's no warning. It's not like a siren goes off and you can make sure that you're not near your (ridiculously overloaded and not braced to the wall) bookshelves or anything else that might fall over and unceremoniously squash you, like Dorothy's house on the witch in The Wizard of Oz. And my office? ALL windows on 2 walls.
I guess earthquakes just go against every fiber of my perfectionist, control-freak being. There's no warning, and you sure as heck can't control an earthquake. You just get blindsided and then you deal with the aftermath. Like all those poor parents in China that I keep hearing about on the news, who sent their kids off to school a few mornings ago. They never expected to be sitting on a pile of rubble a few hours later, weeping and praying and just hoping the universe chose their child to look out for today.
This is a lot like life in general, I guess, and despite my many cross-country moves in the past several years, I've never been great at uncertainty. I like to KNOW things. I like to predict and then be proven right. As I get older, I'm learning to let go of the reins more, but I guess I'm still a work-in-progress.
p.s. It was so hot in my house last night that in addition to the ridiculous thermostat reading, that the jar of chocolate chips I keep in the pantry for . . . um. . . emergencies melted. We're talking eat-it-with-a-spoon-over-ice-cream melted -- totally liquid.
p.p.s Wikipedia tells me that "earthquake weather" is an old wives tale.
There's this song I've been listening to lately and one of the lines in it is "this earthquake weather has got me shaking inside," and I must confess, I can relate to that -- I have a secret fear of earthquakes. I mean, I grew up in the Midwest. Tornadoes, I know how to deal with. We did tornado drills at school when I was a kid, lining up along the long inside hallway of my elementary school, backs to the painted cinderblock wall, waiting for the all-clear. My neighbors and I once watched a distant tornado from the roof of their house, when their mom wasn't around to make us go down to the basement. (Their dad, a pro-football player -- clearly not hired for his smarts -- thought it was just as cool as we did). So when I hear the tornado warning siren, I can mostly get away from windows and hide in the basement with the best of them.
But earthquakes are not exactly a common occurrence in Michigan. (The earthquake in Southern Illinois a few weeks ago was the first one you could feel there since, like 1850). I've already lived my first earthquake here in California-- a teensy one that rattled the glasses in my cupboards a bit and freaked the cats out, but nothing more. I didn't even realize it WAS an earthquake until like 2 hours later. It was like a baby thinking about fussing but then deciding to just settle back down, instead. But I'm worried about a bigger one. The 3-year-old's temper tantrum of earthquakes, so to speak. I mean, there's no warning. It's not like a siren goes off and you can make sure that you're not near your (ridiculously overloaded and not braced to the wall) bookshelves or anything else that might fall over and unceremoniously squash you, like Dorothy's house on the witch in The Wizard of Oz. And my office? ALL windows on 2 walls.
I guess earthquakes just go against every fiber of my perfectionist, control-freak being. There's no warning, and you sure as heck can't control an earthquake. You just get blindsided and then you deal with the aftermath. Like all those poor parents in China that I keep hearing about on the news, who sent their kids off to school a few mornings ago. They never expected to be sitting on a pile of rubble a few hours later, weeping and praying and just hoping the universe chose their child to look out for today.
This is a lot like life in general, I guess, and despite my many cross-country moves in the past several years, I've never been great at uncertainty. I like to KNOW things. I like to predict and then be proven right. As I get older, I'm learning to let go of the reins more, but I guess I'm still a work-in-progress.
p.s. It was so hot in my house last night that in addition to the ridiculous thermostat reading, that the jar of chocolate chips I keep in the pantry for . . . um. . . emergencies melted. We're talking eat-it-with-a-spoon-over-ice-cream melted -- totally liquid.
p.p.s Wikipedia tells me that "earthquake weather" is an old wives tale.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
99 in the Shade
It was 100+ degrees here today, for the second day in a row. As a result, I've had Bon Jovi stuck in my head all day -- 99 in the Shade. (OK, Internet, stop laughing. What did YOU listen to when you were 13 years old?!? Yeah, that's what I thought.)
But, really, 100 degrees in Northern California? I've only lived here a little more than a year, but I'm pretty sure this is NOT normal. The heat even caused us to lose power at my office for a good chunk of the day. The building has a back-up generator, since so much of what we do is dependent on computers (like, uh, our entire sales department of 200+ people). Unfortunately, said generator does not power the HVAC unit. So, we had power but no A/C. Did I mention the 100 degrees part of today? Yeah -- the upstairs sales floor and hallway smelled like a locker room and one of the guys down in operations was sent around as water-bearer this afternoon, bringing bottled water to everyone so they didn't die of dehydration. Fun!
As of right now, 9:15 pm, it is still 86 degrees outside. It's so hot in my living room that my thermostat says 03. As in "The temperature in here is so high that I can't even TELL you what the temperature is." Violet is laying in the bathtub, panting, and even tolerated me dousing her with cold water earlier. I am, alas, still working, and feeling pretty damn sticky and swelterish myself. So, how many coconut popsicles do you think a girl can eat in one night without making herself violently ill?
But, really, 100 degrees in Northern California? I've only lived here a little more than a year, but I'm pretty sure this is NOT normal. The heat even caused us to lose power at my office for a good chunk of the day. The building has a back-up generator, since so much of what we do is dependent on computers (like, uh, our entire sales department of 200+ people). Unfortunately, said generator does not power the HVAC unit. So, we had power but no A/C. Did I mention the 100 degrees part of today? Yeah -- the upstairs sales floor and hallway smelled like a locker room and one of the guys down in operations was sent around as water-bearer this afternoon, bringing bottled water to everyone so they didn't die of dehydration. Fun!
As of right now, 9:15 pm, it is still 86 degrees outside. It's so hot in my living room that my thermostat says 03. As in "The temperature in here is so high that I can't even TELL you what the temperature is." Violet is laying in the bathtub, panting, and even tolerated me dousing her with cold water earlier. I am, alas, still working, and feeling pretty damn sticky and swelterish myself. So, how many coconut popsicles do you think a girl can eat in one night without making herself violently ill?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Fancy McFancypants
We got to stay last night on D's company's dime at the Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn, which is quite the fancypants place. It's this massive spa and resort right outside the town of Sonoma, and it might be the nicest place I've ever stayed. (Well, okay, maybe the nicest I've stayed in since I was nine and got to stay in the Helmsley Palace in New York City with my mom on a business trip. Although, now that I'm thinking about it, the Helmsley did have an inordinate number of homeless folks begging for change and sleeping on the front steps, so that might lose it a few points.)
But anyway, the Fairmont. For starters, they give you a complimentary bottle of wine in your room, complete with real wineglasses. (No plastic hotel cups for those who can afford 400+ bucks a night for a room!) And there were slippers and super-soft bathrobes in the bathroom -- Nicer than the 15.99 Target bathrobe I have at home by a long shot! The room was also stocked with a stack of Wine Spectator magazines, lovely peaches-and-cream scented bath products, and real metal travel mugs so you can take your morning coffee (or your free wine, I suppose) to go -- brilliant! Oh, and they give you the New York Times as your morning paper. None of that USA Today crap that you usually get at hotels. (Side note: D always says that USA Today is the newspaper for people who don't have the attention span for TV. SO TRUE! I always feel about 30 IQ points dumber after reading that drivel!) Plus, the beds are enormous and fluffy and oh-so-comfy. Let me just say, I am all for brilliant white comforters on hotel beds. I'm sure that they are just as filthy as tacky 1980s polyester floral comforters, but something about the bright white makes me feel like they MUST be clean. Surely I'd be able to see if they weren't, right. (Why, yes, Internet, I DO enjoy fooling myself. Let a girl keep her illusions once in a while, won't you?!?)
In the end, though, I'm not sure how much I liked the reality of sleeping in the lovely bed. It was so huge that I kept losing D way off in the wilderness. And it was one of those anti-motion mattresses (you know, like in the commercial, where they put the glass of red wine on the bed and then drop a bowling ball next to it), so I couldn't feel that D. was there even when he shifted in his sleep. All night, I kept on waking up, missing him, and reaching an arm or a foot across the bed, just to reassure myself that he was still there. So, the Fairmont bed gets big props if I were sleeping alone, but I think given the choice, I'd curl right back up with D. on the little twin air mattress in our tent in Big Sur. There, we slept curled into each other's bodies, sharing a sleeping bag and two comforters, each of us rolling over when the other did. On that tiny little mattress, I actually knew he was THERE. No small thing when the one you love usually sleeps 600+ miles away.
But anyway, the Fairmont. For starters, they give you a complimentary bottle of wine in your room, complete with real wineglasses. (No plastic hotel cups for those who can afford 400+ bucks a night for a room!) And there were slippers and super-soft bathrobes in the bathroom -- Nicer than the 15.99 Target bathrobe I have at home by a long shot! The room was also stocked with a stack of Wine Spectator magazines, lovely peaches-and-cream scented bath products, and real metal travel mugs so you can take your morning coffee (or your free wine, I suppose) to go -- brilliant! Oh, and they give you the New York Times as your morning paper. None of that USA Today crap that you usually get at hotels. (Side note: D always says that USA Today is the newspaper for people who don't have the attention span for TV. SO TRUE! I always feel about 30 IQ points dumber after reading that drivel!) Plus, the beds are enormous and fluffy and oh-so-comfy. Let me just say, I am all for brilliant white comforters on hotel beds. I'm sure that they are just as filthy as tacky 1980s polyester floral comforters, but something about the bright white makes me feel like they MUST be clean. Surely I'd be able to see if they weren't, right. (Why, yes, Internet, I DO enjoy fooling myself. Let a girl keep her illusions once in a while, won't you?!?)
In the end, though, I'm not sure how much I liked the reality of sleeping in the lovely bed. It was so huge that I kept losing D way off in the wilderness. And it was one of those anti-motion mattresses (you know, like in the commercial, where they put the glass of red wine on the bed and then drop a bowling ball next to it), so I couldn't feel that D. was there even when he shifted in his sleep. All night, I kept on waking up, missing him, and reaching an arm or a foot across the bed, just to reassure myself that he was still there. So, the Fairmont bed gets big props if I were sleeping alone, but I think given the choice, I'd curl right back up with D. on the little twin air mattress in our tent in Big Sur. There, we slept curled into each other's bodies, sharing a sleeping bag and two comforters, each of us rolling over when the other did. On that tiny little mattress, I actually knew he was THERE. No small thing when the one you love usually sleeps 600+ miles away.
Monday, April 28, 2008
A quick taste
My long weekend in Big Sur was absolutely lovely, and I'm dying to write more about it. However, I've got a lot going on this week, both at work and outside, and I suspect that I shall spend more time this week focused on the things that pay the bills (my job) and the things that keep me sane (soccer, running, book group . . . you get the idea) than on a vacation update. Anyway, here's a quick taste, McWay Falls in Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me why the water in Big Sur looks so turquoise and tropical compared to everywhere else in California.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Reading Update: April 22
Sara Gruen -- Water for Elephants
I enjoyed this book, but frankly, I expected a heckuva lot more from it, with all the press hype it's gotten. Basic Plot: Jacob, a 90-something man coping with the indignities of being shipped away to a nursing home by his caring-but-detached children, recollects his younger days working for the Benzini Brothers Circus. What I really enjoyed about the story was Gruen's prose -- it was quite lovely and lyrical at moments. She paints a vivid and enjoyable picture of circus life back when circuses were the height of entertainment, as well as of a man at the end of his life, grasping for meaning in what he once loved. But the narrative lacked depth, I think. I enjoyed the experience of reading it, but it didn't really make me think about anything outside of its bounds. Ultimately, I thought it was a cute story and not a whole lot more.
David Ambrose -- The Man Who Turned into Himself
Eh. Mediocre at best. The story begins on an ordinary day in the Hamilton household, with the main character, Rick, interacting with his loving wife and young son. Several hours later, he rushes out of an important meeting, suddenly sure that something terrible has happened to his wife. Rick then finds himself swerving back and forth between two parallel universes, unsure what is real and what is just a delusion brought on by a tragic accident. Ambrose clearly wants to explore some interested theories in quantum physics and their potential implications in the real world. He wants to make us question our reality and think about how we become the people we are. All he actually made me want to do, though, was get to the end so I could move on to something more well-written and interesting.
I enjoyed this book, but frankly, I expected a heckuva lot more from it, with all the press hype it's gotten. Basic Plot: Jacob, a 90-something man coping with the indignities of being shipped away to a nursing home by his caring-but-detached children, recollects his younger days working for the Benzini Brothers Circus. What I really enjoyed about the story was Gruen's prose -- it was quite lovely and lyrical at moments. She paints a vivid and enjoyable picture of circus life back when circuses were the height of entertainment, as well as of a man at the end of his life, grasping for meaning in what he once loved. But the narrative lacked depth, I think. I enjoyed the experience of reading it, but it didn't really make me think about anything outside of its bounds. Ultimately, I thought it was a cute story and not a whole lot more.
David Ambrose -- The Man Who Turned into Himself
Eh. Mediocre at best. The story begins on an ordinary day in the Hamilton household, with the main character, Rick, interacting with his loving wife and young son. Several hours later, he rushes out of an important meeting, suddenly sure that something terrible has happened to his wife. Rick then finds himself swerving back and forth between two parallel universes, unsure what is real and what is just a delusion brought on by a tragic accident. Ambrose clearly wants to explore some interested theories in quantum physics and their potential implications in the real world. He wants to make us question our reality and think about how we become the people we are. All he actually made me want to do, though, was get to the end so I could move on to something more well-written and interesting.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Home is . . . where?
Lately I've been thinking a lot about home. About what makes a place home. Is where you grew up always home? Or can you build a home just by living somewhere long enough? What if you move around a lot? Will anyplace every really feel like home then?
Despite my recent footloose lifestyle, I wasn't one of those kids whose family moved around a lot. In fact, my parents still live in the same windswept house in the Michigan woods they brought me home to 32 years ago, as a newborn. But something inside teenage me was restless as hell. I wanted OUT of Michigan, and so I went 800 miles away for college in Boston, when I was 18. I lived there for nearly 7 or 8 years, but since 2002, I've lived in 5 states for a year or more, and a few others for a month here and there. There's something addictive about moving around that much. About always having a new neighborhood to discover. About getting to start fresh every 12 months or so, whatever mistakes you may have made where you lived before. I haven't traveled for pleasure as much as many people, but I've lived in more places as an adult than anyone I know.
But lately I've been wondering -- where's home in all that? Is it just the place I come back to at the end of every day? Where's home for any of us, really, in today's world, when everyone I know has friends scattered across the globe? When we can hop on a plane and be literally on the other side of the world in less than a day? I love that about the world I live in, the possibility of it, but I also sometimes crave the kind of stability that my grandparents had, living in the same town for their whole lives. A place where everything is familiar and stable. And I've started to wonder lately if it's ever too late to build that. If you can just pick a place and decide, this is it, this is going to be home.
I've been living in California for 18 months now, if you include the first three months I lived here when I thought it was only temporary. That's longer than I lived in DC. Longer than I lived in Chicago. And almost as long as I lived in Lansing while I was getting my MA. And in a lot of ways, it's really starting to feel like home here. I have a circle of friends that's growing larger every day, many people I can call who live in the same area code as me. My office finally feels lived in, decorated with heart-shaped rocks from my hiking trips and pictures of me with friends and family, the shelves full of books. I started a book group here and our next meeting is at my house. I'm playing on two soccer teams. I have favorite restaurants and trails and "local secrets" that I can pass on to friends of friends asking for advice about a visit. I have so many things that I would be sad to leave behind.
And yet at the same time, in some deeper sense, California still feels completely foreign to me. I still feel a bit like I'm in a Dr. Seuss book every time I see a lemon tree in someone's front yard, the lemons dropping to the ground and rolling in the gutters down the street. Each time I drive into the city, coming out of the Rainbow Tunnel to a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge, I feel like I must be on vacation. This can't possibly be my life.
I still miss the first snow of the year, standing in my yard, or on the sidewalk of a city street, or in my ivy-covered back courtyard in Chicago, ears echoing with the hush of a world being coated in newborn snow. I'll probably always get a little homesick thrill every time I see Vernor's Ginger Ale or Faygo Redpop in the cooler at the candy store down the street. And my senses are oh-so-confused by California. Like right now, everything is abloom here. The wisteria is bursting off of arbors and porches, like the fizz on an exploding bottle of grape soda. The roses have thrown their petals open. The apple trees are letting loose their delicate perfume. Everything smells like flowers and just-cut grass. Like May in Michigan. And yet, simultaneously, the smell of woodsmoke hangs in the air, and the nights have a crisp dry chill to them that makes me feel like late autumn back home. And in the summer here, everything turns golden yellow and pale, crisp brown. It doesn't rain and the air is dry. And yet my body tells me that it can't possibly be summer, without the smell of the first raindrops hitting hot pavement. Without the earthy scent of lake-water in your hair after a 9pm swim on a sweltering August night. Without windy afternoons on a pale-sanded Lake Michigan beach.
At my soccer game last Thursday, I was talking to a woman who grew up in the northeast. She told me that she's lived in the Bay area for 20 years and it still feels just a little bit off every year when the weather is so warm and dry in April. It makes me wonder, will any place other than where I grew up ever really feel like home, or will something in my blood or genes or synapses always swing my heart back toward Michigan? Can you ever really leave behind the home of your childhood?
Despite my recent footloose lifestyle, I wasn't one of those kids whose family moved around a lot. In fact, my parents still live in the same windswept house in the Michigan woods they brought me home to 32 years ago, as a newborn. But something inside teenage me was restless as hell. I wanted OUT of Michigan, and so I went 800 miles away for college in Boston, when I was 18. I lived there for nearly 7 or 8 years, but since 2002, I've lived in 5 states for a year or more, and a few others for a month here and there. There's something addictive about moving around that much. About always having a new neighborhood to discover. About getting to start fresh every 12 months or so, whatever mistakes you may have made where you lived before. I haven't traveled for pleasure as much as many people, but I've lived in more places as an adult than anyone I know.
But lately I've been wondering -- where's home in all that? Is it just the place I come back to at the end of every day? Where's home for any of us, really, in today's world, when everyone I know has friends scattered across the globe? When we can hop on a plane and be literally on the other side of the world in less than a day? I love that about the world I live in, the possibility of it, but I also sometimes crave the kind of stability that my grandparents had, living in the same town for their whole lives. A place where everything is familiar and stable. And I've started to wonder lately if it's ever too late to build that. If you can just pick a place and decide, this is it, this is going to be home.
I've been living in California for 18 months now, if you include the first three months I lived here when I thought it was only temporary. That's longer than I lived in DC. Longer than I lived in Chicago. And almost as long as I lived in Lansing while I was getting my MA. And in a lot of ways, it's really starting to feel like home here. I have a circle of friends that's growing larger every day, many people I can call who live in the same area code as me. My office finally feels lived in, decorated with heart-shaped rocks from my hiking trips and pictures of me with friends and family, the shelves full of books. I started a book group here and our next meeting is at my house. I'm playing on two soccer teams. I have favorite restaurants and trails and "local secrets" that I can pass on to friends of friends asking for advice about a visit. I have so many things that I would be sad to leave behind.
And yet at the same time, in some deeper sense, California still feels completely foreign to me. I still feel a bit like I'm in a Dr. Seuss book every time I see a lemon tree in someone's front yard, the lemons dropping to the ground and rolling in the gutters down the street. Each time I drive into the city, coming out of the Rainbow Tunnel to a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge, I feel like I must be on vacation. This can't possibly be my life.
I still miss the first snow of the year, standing in my yard, or on the sidewalk of a city street, or in my ivy-covered back courtyard in Chicago, ears echoing with the hush of a world being coated in newborn snow. I'll probably always get a little homesick thrill every time I see Vernor's Ginger Ale or Faygo Redpop in the cooler at the candy store down the street. And my senses are oh-so-confused by California. Like right now, everything is abloom here. The wisteria is bursting off of arbors and porches, like the fizz on an exploding bottle of grape soda. The roses have thrown their petals open. The apple trees are letting loose their delicate perfume. Everything smells like flowers and just-cut grass. Like May in Michigan. And yet, simultaneously, the smell of woodsmoke hangs in the air, and the nights have a crisp dry chill to them that makes me feel like late autumn back home. And in the summer here, everything turns golden yellow and pale, crisp brown. It doesn't rain and the air is dry. And yet my body tells me that it can't possibly be summer, without the smell of the first raindrops hitting hot pavement. Without the earthy scent of lake-water in your hair after a 9pm swim on a sweltering August night. Without windy afternoons on a pale-sanded Lake Michigan beach.
At my soccer game last Thursday, I was talking to a woman who grew up in the northeast. She told me that she's lived in the Bay area for 20 years and it still feels just a little bit off every year when the weather is so warm and dry in April. It makes me wonder, will any place other than where I grew up ever really feel like home, or will something in my blood or genes or synapses always swing my heart back toward Michigan? Can you ever really leave behind the home of your childhood?
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Things I Learned this Weekend
1. It is a bad idea to eat three bourbon blondies with dark chocolate chunks before I go running. Even if they're really good. My run was pathetic Friday evening -- only half as far as usual, and it was misery every step of the way. But BOURBON. In BAKED GOODS. How's a girl supposed to resist that?
2. I've been gradually falling in love with Massa Organics short grain brown rice for a couple months now. I get it at the Marin farmer's market on Sundays and at first I was in too much of a hurry most days to spend the 45 minutes it takes to make. But then I made it once or twice, and found myself thinking about it for two days after eating it. And I discovered that if I make a nice big batch all at once, I can toss a scoop in with scrambled eggs in the morning, and that it reheats way better than regular rice, so it's good for several days. And then, this weekend, I discovered that it also makes damn fine risotto, and now it's totally love. Massa Organics rice and I are totally going to be together forever. :-)
I've never tried to make risotto with anything besides plain old arborio, but I'd noticed that Massa's rice cooked up pretty creamy just on its own, so I thought I'd give it a shot in risotto. Yum, yum, yum. It turned out just as creamy as any risotto I've ever made using arborio, though it did take a bit longer to cook, and it absorbed more liquid than I'd usually use. Definitely a weekend meal, not something my grumbly tummy would have the patience for on a weekday, after working all day, going for a run, etc. Anyway, I started with a base of some leeks and garlic, white wine, and the last of the homemade chicken stock I made a few weeks back. At the end of the cooking time, I added in some shitakes, sugar snap peas, and super-skinny asparagus from this morning's farmer's market. The veggies got just barely crisp-tender, and the rice was toothsome and tender and rich all at the same time. SO GOOD. I'd post a recipe here, but I don't really use them. I learned the basics of risotto from an issue of Cooking Light a few years back, and I've always just winged it (wung it?) since then.
3. It is, in fact, possible to play soccer on severely blistered feet, without dying, as long as you layer your poor heels and toes in about 18 layers of moleskin and athletic tape. In fact, I scored a really pretty goal, and assisted on two others, so it was totally worth it that I couldn't feel my toes because the tape made my feet about a size too big for my cleats. (By the way, no moles are harmed in the making of moleskin -- it's this special sticky-backed flannel blister padding, for those of you who've had the good fortune to never need it). Thanks to a tip from Jemima, I've laid off the Neosporin, and my multitude of blisters are healing pretty well. Good thing, too, as D. and I are headed to Big Sur in less than 4 days for a long weekend full of outdoorsy hiking fun. And, of course, marshmallows and bourbon next to a roaring campfire :-) Do you think bourbon blondies mix as poorly with hiking as they do with running?
2. I've been gradually falling in love with Massa Organics short grain brown rice for a couple months now. I get it at the Marin farmer's market on Sundays and at first I was in too much of a hurry most days to spend the 45 minutes it takes to make. But then I made it once or twice, and found myself thinking about it for two days after eating it. And I discovered that if I make a nice big batch all at once, I can toss a scoop in with scrambled eggs in the morning, and that it reheats way better than regular rice, so it's good for several days. And then, this weekend, I discovered that it also makes damn fine risotto, and now it's totally love. Massa Organics rice and I are totally going to be together forever. :-)
I've never tried to make risotto with anything besides plain old arborio, but I'd noticed that Massa's rice cooked up pretty creamy just on its own, so I thought I'd give it a shot in risotto. Yum, yum, yum. It turned out just as creamy as any risotto I've ever made using arborio, though it did take a bit longer to cook, and it absorbed more liquid than I'd usually use. Definitely a weekend meal, not something my grumbly tummy would have the patience for on a weekday, after working all day, going for a run, etc. Anyway, I started with a base of some leeks and garlic, white wine, and the last of the homemade chicken stock I made a few weeks back. At the end of the cooking time, I added in some shitakes, sugar snap peas, and super-skinny asparagus from this morning's farmer's market. The veggies got just barely crisp-tender, and the rice was toothsome and tender and rich all at the same time. SO GOOD. I'd post a recipe here, but I don't really use them. I learned the basics of risotto from an issue of Cooking Light a few years back, and I've always just winged it (wung it?) since then.
3. It is, in fact, possible to play soccer on severely blistered feet, without dying, as long as you layer your poor heels and toes in about 18 layers of moleskin and athletic tape. In fact, I scored a really pretty goal, and assisted on two others, so it was totally worth it that I couldn't feel my toes because the tape made my feet about a size too big for my cleats. (By the way, no moles are harmed in the making of moleskin -- it's this special sticky-backed flannel blister padding, for those of you who've had the good fortune to never need it). Thanks to a tip from Jemima, I've laid off the Neosporin, and my multitude of blisters are healing pretty well. Good thing, too, as D. and I are headed to Big Sur in less than 4 days for a long weekend full of outdoorsy hiking fun. And, of course, marshmallows and bourbon next to a roaring campfire :-) Do you think bourbon blondies mix as poorly with hiking as they do with running?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Mt. Saint Helena
Went hiking in Calistoga a few weeks ago, on Mt. Saint Helena. Crazy trails, Amazing views! The terrain there actually reminded me a lot of Yosemite. And the best part of hiking in Calistoga? Soaking in the hot springs afterwards. Ahhhhh. See if you can spot the hummingbird in this picture (he wasn't all that obliging about posing for me).
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