There's One Born Every Minute

One of my husband's most poignant memories happened long, long ago, when he was just a small boy in a hamlet called Hound Green (in Hampshire, England), not too awfully far from Rotherwick (where his mean granny lived). A place then so remote that just for fun that poor little boy would watch for motor cars passing on the main road and when one finally came along, he'd enter it into a little book; name, model, color and any other info he could glean as it whizzed by. You see, he was an occasional car spotter... because the motor car was that rare and he is that old and the train tracks were that far away.

One day he and his sister were frolicking in the fields near their home, probably scrumping for apples or some other rural pursuit, when they heard the unmistakable but faint gurgle of the mobile fish and chip van way on the other side of the common, at least 1/2 a mile away. They had become so engrossed in their play that they'd forgotten the thrupenny bit (three pence old money, pronounced thrupknee bit) they'd been given for this special treat. But upon hearing the greasy thrum thrum of the mobile lard wagon, they screamed "RUN" to each other and took off through the fields, hoping it hadn't been there too long already. Blackberry brambles caught at their bare legs but it bothered them not whit. They were salivating and grinning and already tasting the rare treat of hot chips slathered with salt and malt vinegar from the chippie. "Maybe he'll give us a pickled onion for free," screamed one of them, giggling in excitement. They could smell that unmistakable aroma of glorious hot oil, redolent with a light fish and chip overlay and it was getting stronger and stronger with every stride they took.

But as they were halfway across the common, almost tasting the vinegar-soaked, golden chips, they stopped mid-stride and watched, disbelievingly, as the chippie van lumbered away down the village lane, still too far away for them to catch. And all they were left with was the smell, enticingly strong and constantly reminding them of just what they had missed. That and the hot thrupenny bit clutched safely in my husband's tiny hand. So although the noble chip is hardly a regular part of his diet, his judgment of just what makes a chip good has been long in the making...that and he's an opinionated man about lesser things than the quality of his fried tatties.

And because of this history, I bought these...


So I could do this:

to these:



I don't normally have a pan full of oil on the boil so the exhaust fan was working double-time and you woulda thought Santa had just come down the chimney and offered us his first-born elf...the level of excitement was that high in our kitchen and it was all because we were fryin', deep fryin', baby!

And why were we deep frying? Well, it had something to do with the mitts that I'd bought at TJ Maxx that afternoon. I'd never really thought of myself as someone P.T. Barnum would look upon as an easy touch…a sucker, but c'mon, look at them! I couldn’t help it. I looked at the box, the price, the end product and I was hooked. Completely. They're Tater Mitts! Yah, tater mitts, quick peeling potato gloves in case you've never heard of them before and they were advertised on TV, too! Yes, as seen on TV and I have no doubt that if I'd seen them on the telly I no doubt would have bought them (and paid shipping costs) long before they were sequestered to some dusty shelf at TJ Maxx. I wasn't really looking for Tater Mitts when I went to the Maxx, but when I saw that box on the sale shelf I couldn't help but snatch them up quickly, devouring every word.

Peels a Potato in 8 Seconds! (screamed the box)

"Ohmygod, I must have thought (my memory is a little clouded). That's amazing."

I looked at the picture, Gloves that looked a little like my Mrs. Mop gloves but covered in hard blue bits. I read further. And what I read must have convinced me. They're easy to use, comfortable and safe (I won't cut myself, yay) and, ohmygod, there's a free bonus gift...a chip cutter. So now, only the second or third time in my 40 years of marriage that I'd actually cooked chips, I could cut them evenly. Praise Jebus.

So, they came home with me and he laughed a bit (maybe at me, not sure) and then stopped and started reading the box intently. I didn't really plan on cooking chips that first night. My intent was just to zip peel a few tatties for that dinner, throw them in the steamer with some mint and boom, done. It was Roger, the chip connaisseur, who started rooting around in the pantry for the right oil.

"It needs to tolerate high temperatures," he muttered as he peered into the back of the liquor cabinet, which is where I store tall bottles of anything that won't fit in the slidey drawer next to the stove.

"Oh look, one size fits all!" I said, anticipating him spending many happy minutes shredding the skin off with OUR new Tater Mitts.


Blue lava-like chips of something that I think would be dangerous to eat are embedded into the rubber of the glove, more or less semi-permanently. They're rough and tough and can peel spuds, maybe a few seconds more quickly than I can conventionally peel them but they only really work well if you keep the water running while you do the job. Just like the picture on the box! CLUE! So using these things when you live in a Canyon where water's at a premium and you pay over $300 a month in conservation mode just makes no sense.

But use them we did. And I'd sort of forgotten about them until last night when Roger was looking for something (liquory) in the liquor cupboard and he muttered, "What's this?"

We half-smiled as he shoved them back in the cupboard, both no doubt thinking, "I'll toss those out when the other isn't watching." But, and here's a confession, those fresh chips were so good that I'm secretly envious of folks who casually keep their electric chip makers on the countertop (Roger's uncle and aunt in Wales) in their own kitchen, confident enough to not worry about what anyone thinks.

But we live in Southern California and it's common knowledge that deep frying for your own personal consumption, while not exactly a crime, is most certainly a misdemeanor.

9/11

Today I am remembering New York and specifically Kristen Gould...a beautiful and gracious woman who loved life, travel, the beauty of words and her husband Jim. Kristen died on United Airlines Flight #93, 9/11/01 and will never be forgotten.

Because it Feels Better

Paella et Adieux

Mon professeur de français et son mari se déplacent à Antibes le 31 août...or perhaps it should be mon professuer de français et son mari se démenagent à Antibes le 31 août. Or perhaps both of those are wrong and I just need to follow them to the South of France so I can figure out what's correct.

But to celebrate the summer and our class, last night we had a paella dinner chez nous. I know, I know, it's Spanish, but look at a map. Antibes, Toulon, Marseilles, Nimes, Montpellier, Béziers, Perpignan and then you're almost in Barcelona. OLE! And The Gypsy Kings...Spanish? Nope, French. Well, their parents were gitanos from Catalona who had fled to France during the Spanish Civil War. So, yeah, technically Spanish, but un peu français aussi, non? So we had them stomping and riffing and partying in the background and every now and then I'd throw my arms up in a distinctly meant-to-be but ultimately non-flamenco move, overwhelmed by the heat and the Spanishness of it all.

The food was good fun with everyone contributing. I made a couple of paellas, Dan & Martha made the sangria (the best ever), Paulette made a great roasted red pepper dish (fantastico), Nadia brought Spanish cheeses, Andrea and Neal brought a superb salad, Ellen & Steve brought brownies and ice cream, Buzz brought minted melon, Janaki came bearing wines and rendered ice pack therapy for my neck (and elsewhere) and Arlette and Andrew had wines and plenty of sparkling water and, as always, were enormous help. One of the paella pans was so big it had to be cooked in our oven (HOT), while Roger manned the other out on the grill.

It was enormous fun and enormously hot and a little poignant. Fun because of the people. Hot because the living room zoned part of our AC was fried by a leak onto the compressor and woo hoo...needs to be replaced. The estimates to replace it begin this afternoon. Nobody seems hungry enough to cut me a deal in July so if I have to wait until November, I will. I'm stubborn like that. And poignant because of Antibes's lure and also because Ellen and Steve are headed back to Minneapolis. Nothing remains the same, but sometimes moments demand capture and this was one of them.

Fans were blowing everywhere, ensuring that our (especially mine) sweated brows were dried to a degree acceptable in company. I wish I'd thought to capture a few of the other food and friends moments but these will have to suffice.

Always teaching...Arlette with Neal and Martha in the background

Un autre professeur, Buzz with Ellen and Steve

Arlette encore, mais où est-Andrew, son mari? Neal, Martha and Andrea in the background

After the dinner. Sangria glasses emptying quickly, post-prandial collapse to follow.
Dan to the right of Andrea

Paulette, Nadia et Janaki

The MEAT paella

And the overly musseled fish and meat paella. This paella pan is 3" deep by 16" across

Fourth of July

July 4, '08...white blobs in black sky...those would be fireworks

Happy Fourth, everyone and remember...safety first!

http://www.arsonwatch.com/

Mothering Sunday

A beautiful day. Lots of fragrant flowers, Roger, granddaughters, daughter and son-in-law. Son Colin, in faraway New York, sent flowers which apparently arrived Friday but the $%^&* FedEx delivery guy left them sitting in a box on our stone wall at the bottom of the drive and who knew until as the kids were heading down the drive this evening, Jane spotted them. Fortunately, the chocolates were in a chill pack and hadn't melted. The flowers, while beautiful, hadn't fared so well.

The day started with breakfast in bed. Sophie beside me munching on dry French bread. Offered butter and jam she said, 'No sanks, Nana.' She prefers her bread neat. Note to self: vacuum bed before thinking about sleep.

Big Sunday lunch...organic roast chicken, fresh herbs and lemons shoved unceremoniously inside, minted tatties, carrots not long pulled out of the earth and a huge salad, followed by brownies and fresh berries.

And lots of pool time. A good day.

Revlon Run/Walk for Women

No one can forget where he or she was on 9/11. Roger and I were in California, anxiously awaiting the birth of our first grandchild. We spent one week trying to process the horror of that September day before Charlotte was born, healthy and beautiful, and filling us with joy once more. And then the day after her birth we flew back to Milwaukee where I had my final chemo cocktail on September 20th.

Bye bye ovarian cancer, hello life. And so this year, as in others, my daughter Jane and I will walk to celebrate life and to remember others who haven't been so fortunate. If you can help in any way, I'd so appreciate it. Thank you. xoxo







When Aioli is Not Just Aioli

Mon professeur de français, Arlette, et son mari Andrew sont les hôtes fantastiques. And last night was no different. Arlette is from Antibes, near Nice, and thus knows a thing or two about regional cooking, southern French style.

In Provence, an aioli is not just a home-made mayonnaise, deliciously heavy on the garlic, but an entire meal that honors the bounty of spring/summer. A room- temperature meal, the preparation happens before the heavy heat of the day turns cooking into a dreaded duty. Then you call friends. "J'ai fait un aioli. Allez plus." Or something like that (my class is tonight so I'll find out if that really is what they'd say).

Our aioli included cod that was poached most deliciously, langoustine and, well, here are a few pictures that convey the meal far better than my words.

The cod

Langoustine

Magnifique, n'est-ce pas?

The aioli

The location (the view, the view!), the home and the company conspired to make this a special evening.

Hummer Mum

The last few weeks have been magically cool, for the most part, with some fairly high winds. We've kept an anxious eye on the hummingbird's nest which has been built with great skill and sophistication in the low-hanging and weedy-thin branches of the Chinese Elm on the patio just outside our kitchen. We've tiptoed in and out to the grill and finally moved our main outdoor dining table to the back patio to discourage anyone from sitting within 10 feet of the nest. Then we fixed the screen door to stay in the open position just because we were tired of yelling at one another for letting the door slam. And then we kept a close watch.

We started pointing out some of the nest's materials, the minute twigs and fluff and spidery web lashings that she gathers. There is this obviously artificial, plastic-looking stuff which she has favored with this nest and which renders it near artificial, almost as if an artist wanted to create the most perfect hummingbird nest ever and stooped to use non-natural materials to achieve her goal. We've finally figured out what that fake material is, clever sods that we are. A couple of years ago we'd had a shoot at our house for this green, yoga(y) type catalog that actually has some wonderful things in it. It was only April but this was for their annual Christmas catalog. Our Topanga Canyon home was turned into a rustic and cozy Maine cottage. Organic, flannel sheets were lovingly Army tucked into our bed which was moved into our little family room, right off the kitchen. Christmas wreathes were hung and dusted with snow. Fake snow. Plastic stuff that even months after their departure we were still finding in the oddest of places like the inside of a camellia flower or dusted along the ledge of a rarely opened window. Grrrrrrrr, I would think and then promptly forget it. Until the nest presented itself in all its snow-dusted glory.




Were there eggs in it? We didn't dare get close enough to look in case some of our garlicky human breath left an unfavorable impression on the hummer mum.

What if the nest falls? The winds are so high. Jesus, what kind of hummer mum is she to build her nest in such an obvious spot. I'll tell you what kind of mum she is, she's a good one. Only a hovering bird could raid the nest and hummingbirds leave one another's young alone. There is no way any scavenger bird could perch on the willowy branches of the Chinese Elm, try as they may.

She sat patiently on the nest for what felt like weeks, disappearing every now and then for some nectar or the odd bug but flying back before I began flapping my hands in baby worry. If I happened to go out the kitchen door and lingered too long in the vicinity of her nest, she'd swoop up and around me, leaving the fast thumping flutter of her wings echoing in my head for tens of seconds after her erratic switch-back departure. Gradually she became more and more comfortable with our habits and would just hang on her nest staring at us as we went back and forth, always giving her a wide berth.


And then she stopped sitting there. Oh Christ, has she abandoned her babies? Should I call the Hummingbird Rescue folks? Should I climb up there and...? And then she started flying around my head and I knew everything was okay. I came inside and got my camera and oh...babies! See their little beaks? Those black things aren't so cute (fecal sacs) but a necessary part of keeping the nursery tidy.


And then they just started growing and growing until the nest was beginning to look decidedly too small. (Hah, I thought it looked small at this point)


But now, half the time they're just draping themselves over their snug roost dreaming, no doubt, of flying. Oh Christ, please be careful (and tell your Mum to clean up that fake snow that's loosening and making your perfect home look a little shop-soiled...like any nursery, I guess).



And now look at them...I turn away for two days and this happens. They're almost ready to fly the nest, I can just tell. It happens so quickly. So very quickly...just like with our own babies. So fleeting.

Happy Endings

A couple of weeks ago when I was wiping down our kitchen/dining room table, I got a small splinter in my palm. It wasn’t the first time and I silently reminded myself to be more flippin’ careful at that end of the table. I looked at my hand, back at the table and thought idly about what grade sandpaper we’d need to smooth it down and fill the knotty holes that over time had started to deepen and, because Santiago was at that moment sanding down our outside doors (that take a terrible beating from the sun), I wondered if he could do the work, lazy cow that I am.



Then I wondered if maybe we should just polyurethane the table after we’d made the repairs. Would that change the look? We bought this table in part because it had an aged patina to it and it wasn’t a formal dining room table. Our kitchen/great(ish) room is where we have casual family meals and also dinner parties. When we’d moved from Milwaukee seven years ago, I sold our large mahogany dining room table to the folks who bought our house. The transaction went something like this:

Her: Ohmygod I LOVE your dining room. The table is beautiful and I can’t imagine anything else in here.

Me: Wanna buy it?

Her: What? Really?

Me: Yep. (unsaid…I don’t want it and it won’t work in our Topanga house).

Her: I’m sure it’s more than I can afford. Just buying this house is stretching us to breaking point.

Me: Hey, I may have paid a lot for this table, but I’ll sell it for next to nothing (unsaid: because I’m a lazy cow and who the hell cares about the table…you bought our house for almost full asking price).

Her: How much (said with absolute fear that it would be too much),

Me: $250

Her: What? Are you kidding?

Me: No. Want it? If not, I’m going to advertise.

Her: (Whipping out checkbook) Yes, Yes…I want it! Ohmygod, I can’t believe it’s mine.

Me: I’m so happy it’s going to stay here (unsaid: Hoofuckingray!).

And that’s how it came to be that when we moved to Topanga we had no dining room table. The owners of this house had a big wooden table that I thought could probably work for us but it never occurred to me to ask them if it was for sale. Their real estate agent had told us its story, as well. No need to sit down, boys and girls: it’s short.

One day, the owners (hereinafter referred to as the morons) were having a dinner party and, apparently on the very day that 10 people were coming to their house to dine, they thought, “OHMYGOD, we have no table upon which to serve the dinner.” At that point, the male moron proceeded to whipstitch together a dining room table. Boom. Done.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said to the agent. Skull cinema was thinking, “They didn’t realize they had no table until the day of the dinner party?”

And so it came to pass that they had a very large table (10 feet long and almost 5 feet wide) which, while it fit this kitchen fairly well, probably wouldn’t ever fit any other kitchen again.

And then they put their house on the market and we offered to buy it and then the moron said, all casual like, “Would you be interested in buying the table? It fits the kitchen so well.” (Unspoken: it won’t fucking fit in any room in our new house in the Palisades, please buy it).

And I said, “Sure, we’d be interested. While it’s a little bigger than we wanted, it would probably work for us. How much?” (I’m remembering, of course, that I charged $250 for a pretty nice mahogany table with two leaves and full table pads just a few weeks prior).

And that fucking moron looked me straight in the eyes and said without blinking, “I was thinking $1,500.”

And I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No thanks.”

And so he went from having a sale in his pocket to nothing and so said, “We could negotiate.”

And I said, “No we can’t. You made the mistake of starting too high and I’ve seen a table I like at Restoration Hardware that is just under a grand.”

And he said, “ We could go below a grand.”

And I said, “No thanks. I’ll stick with the table at RH.”

And you know what? I’m really, really glad that I did because after I got that second splinter I sent an email to customer service at RH telling them the issues I was having with this seven-year old table. They listened hard and I sent them some photographs illustrating the problems and then, last week, they said, “We are happy to replace the table. We stand by our products at RH and while we do not stock your table any longer, we are pleased to offer you either the Gun Barrel Salvaged Wood Table or our Trestle Salvaged Wood Dining Table…whichever you prefer. Just go to www.restorationhardware.com and make your choice and we'll deliver it at your convenience.

I’m still reeling that they have been so responsive to one of their customers and I know one thing for very certain…I will continue shopping at Restoration Hardware and if you think I haven’t already told this story one hundred times…

Location, Location, Location

Tightly lashed to a low-hanging limb of our Chinese Elm, this Hummingbird's nest has survived high winds, rain and us creeping back and forth for weeks now. One, maybe two chicks have been hatched so we'll be giving her a wide berth for a few more weeks.

Grace in Small Things 2

And today, because I needed a reminder of what beauty there is in the world, I'll share with you what I made myself see, inside and outside.

An appreciative goldfinch

A nesting Hummingbird who's built her baby house in the Chinese Elm right
outside the kitchen door. Low to the ground. So trusting.

Model of a roman head that I bought in Conimbriga , nr. Coimbra, Portugal
Magical ruins

A beautiful heart-shaped, ceramic bowl that the Malones gave us filled with mint-shaped pieces of marble I found on the beach in Nerja, Spain at least 15 years ago.

Our house in Milwaukee, under a typical winter's snow. I loved the house and miss my friends but I am grateful to be living in a different climate...a different state.

My Tiffany paperweight heart. Thank you, Elissa. xox

A Ceanothus Silk Moth hanging on my front porch light fixture

A Thinking Seven Year Old

My granddaughter Charlotte thinks...a lot. And when she gets to thinking, she normally puts pen to paper, as you'll see in this letter she wrote to her best friend, Violet. Marriage, exploding sun, angint (ancient) times...lots of stuff. She wrote this letter before going off to sleep the other night.

God I love this kid.

March at the Huntington

I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong with Flickr, but clicking on this pic will take you somewhere.

IMG_5271
Originally uploaded by lililsley

2. Grace in Small Things at Home in Topanga

Sweet Olive Blossom
(each blossom is no bigger than an infant's fingernail)

Brand New Fig Leaf

The Sweetest Little Climbing Yellow Roses

Solitary Almond Blossom

Sunset Outside my Front Door

Grace in Small Things

Miz Pickles' Grace in Small Things. Such a simple idea. Since I received Schmutzie's first email asking me to join her in this positive movement, I've thought of it. Almost every day, but it was only tonight that I decided to copy and paste the Gracie logo and like all ideas that I embrace later rather than sooner, I'm overthinking it.

What I daily feel most thankful for is my family and so I shall start with them.

1. I am forever grateful that I married the man I'd only known three weeks and that now, 40 years later, I still feel such relief that we made the right decision...to spend our lives together.

2. It makes me so very happy that aside from loving my children with the love that every mother knows, I really, really like them as people. They are smart, funny and sassy.

3. My granddaughters. Who knew such joy could exist. I didn't.

4. My mother. She is 83 and still rides her bike to the shops each day and walks it home, when the panniers are filled. She is a proud and independent woman who has a wonderfully active silly streak.

5. My mother's husband who is 10 years younger than her. Because of him I can go to bed at night, knowing my mother, thousands of miles away in England, is well cared for and loved.

A Nobel Peace Prize for Pete Seeger

Maybe some of you are too young to remember Pete Seeger and his incredible contributions through music and protest to the peace movement, but I hope not. Pete remains as incredible and vital as ever, witnessed by his performance at Obama's Inaugural Concert, We Are One.

And now something that to me is long overdue...the nomination of Pete Seeger for a Nobel Peace Prize.

Barbara Lee, Congressional Representative from the 9th District, California, has agreed to carry the nomination of Pete Seeger for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The petition has grown to over 21 thousand signatures. If you go to this website, you'll see where you can click to sign the peitition and also see what moving and sincere comments people have made about how Pete opened their consciousness in so many ways. The petition will hopefully be kept open until the end of the year so that the final document will be sent to the Smithsonian Institution, or whereever Pete's archives will eventually be housed, as a document for posterity.

Thanks for signing.

A Big Day for All of Us

A lot of folks claim the District of Columbia as their home and those who claim native Washingtonian status are asked one question and one question only. It isn’t what high school did you go to. It isn’t where’d you live. It remains to this day, "So, where were you born?" Hint: It doesn’t count if you were born in Maryland or Virginia, no matter how close your hospital was to the District line.

It's a city that's full of transients…folks who are there for a brief idealistic while after college, for the four to eight years of a new administration or working in one of the departments and bureaus that are scattered throughout the City and into Maryland and Virginia. But, to this day, a rarity is the native Washingtonian.

When I was a kid, Washington was a small, Southern city, easy to navigate and laid out on a pretty logical grid by L’Enfant in the eighteenth century. I first lived in the Adams-Morgan area of Washington, close to the National Zoo, but my family became a white flight statistic in 1956 when we moved to Silver Spring, Maryland. The City remained familiar, though, and Christmas and back-to-school shopping all happened downtown on F Street. Woodward & Lothrop (Woodies), The Hecht Company (Hecht’s) and Garfinkels…these were our big department stores. Sure, a few suburban branches existed but they were nothing like the downtown stores. There was even a Best & Co., in Chevy Chase as I remember.

And because it was Washington, DC and politics is the main game in town, most kids had family or family friends who were involved in the business of government or reporting on the business of government. May Craig, an important journalist and frequent panelist on Meet the Press, was neighbor Buzzy’s Claggett’s grandma, and frequently in the neighborhood for Sunday dinner, regaling all with insider tales. I can remember parties where young Al Gore, one of David Brinkley’s sons (can’t remember his name now) and various embassy kids were regulars. I guess it’s like L.A. Sooner or later you’re going to be partying with someone who doesn’t know you but you know all about him.

And elections always were big deals in Washington, even to kids. Most children knew the names of the players at a pretty young age. "I Like Ike." That’s what I remember about Eisenhower. That and a black and white photo at our neighbors, the Rowe’s house. In the picture, my friend Jere's mom, Mary Lou Rowe, one of Eisenhower’s secretaries, is sitting on the corner of a desk (Ike’s?) with a coke bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other and in the background, there’s the president. The first presidential race I vaguely remember was the 1956 (I was eight) election. I had an "Adlai Stevenson…The Thinking Man’s Candidate" button. Secretly I wished I could wear an "I Like Ike" button. Much catchier. More fun and punchy. Hard for a kid to talk up Stevenson’s superior intellect. I was disappointed that the guy on my button didn’t win, but it didn't run deep.

And then it was 1960 and though I wouldn’t be able to vote in a Presidential election until 1968, John F. Kennedy energized American youth, including elementary school children, similarly to Barack Obama today. A week or so before the inauguration one of our very liberal neighbors asked my parents if I could come with them and their daughter, Ellen, to the Inauguration and the parade. They’d moved to the area the year before from Washington State and would only be in DC for two years while Ellen’s dad was a visiting professor at Georgetown. That connection somehow secured tickets in the stands and transportation (from the University) to the Mall. Because a lot of dignitaries hadn’t been able to make it to Washington due to the winter storm the night before, people were encouraged to sit pretty much wherever they wanted so if you were able to make it through the snow, you could pretty much be assured of a decent seat in the stands.

I remember being pretty excited about missing school and am ashamed to say that most of my memories of that very special day involve the bitterly cold weather. We’d had heavy snow the night before, although you’d never know it by looking at the parade route. Pennsylvania Avenue and any important access roads along it were clean and dry, the snow having been plowed, shoveled and dumped into the Potomac by what I now know to be thousands of members of the military. Grassy areas were piled high with snow that hadn’t been moved and Ellen and I spent most of the parade climbing the frozen mounds, doing cartwheels, making snow angels and running around having snowball fights with other random kids under the bleachers.

But what do I remember of the important stuff? Not much. Even the entreaty from Ellen’s parents to hurry up, the President’s limousine is almost here fell on deafish ears. We got there in time to see the black convertible’s tail lights disappearing slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue, the President and Jackie barely visible. Can I tell you how disappointed I am in myself?

And then years later, my daughter Jane, who was asst. press secretary for Wisconsin in the first Clinton-Gore campaign (and we have the picture of her with the President to prove it) drove off to Washington after the election to work on the Hill for Wisconsin Representative and now Milwaukee Mayor, Tom Barrett. She went to an Inaugural Ball (I don't remember which one) and lived the DC life for seven years, until she and her husband moved to Los Angeles.

And now the Obamas!

This morning my best DC girlfriend, Kathy, sent me this email.

"I am on my way down to the Inauguration. Wind chill 8 degrees! Help! Hardest part so far has been finding someone to go with me. One of our former law clerks. A really sweet guy whose wife said no way. John is going, but is biking down the canal. That sounded a little bit too ambitious for me, so we will be taking a train/bus and will then walk. Look for me on your telly!

Isn't it all just too much?!?!?!

Love, K"

And then later on she made more to say...

"Okay, so I was dressed in so many layers I looked like a kid in a snow sujit, but did it ever pay off. I never got cold. Did get a little stiff standing on the frozen ground for 4+ hours. Getting down to the mall was a breeze. Left on Metro at 7 this morning and got down there on the mall in about 45 minutes. We were halfway between the Capitol and the Monument watching the whole thing on the jumbotron with the Capitol straight ahead of us. Close enough to see the bunting. It was cool staring at the Capitol in the distance while we watched Obama take the oath on the big screen. Getting off of the mall took a lot longer. Abut 2 hours to get to the Metro, but then it was clear sailing. Linda, the whole experience really was incredible. We were hugging strangers. Lots of tears. Everyone around so jubuliant, and hopeful and happy, happy, happy. Every time they showed Bush's stupid face on the Jumbotron the crowd would start singing "na, na, na, goooood byyye!" Great to be with millions of like minded people! As we were standing around trying to get home we actually saw Bush's helicopter fly away. Isn't that neat? Later, Jeremy and I got separated -- the crowd was so huge -- but we already agreed that if that happened we would just go it alone. I think I made better time. Got home at 3:15. Not bad.

I am so sorry that you couldn't text me. I just got a new phone and that would have blown me away! Gosh, I would have loved having you with me! What did you think of his speech? Wasn't it great when he took those shots at the past administration? I couldn't believe that Michelle did not wear a coat! She looked kind of bulky, so I'm hoping that was long underwear. And why didn't those girls have on hats? Linda, you can't imagine how cold it was today (yes you can, you lived in Milwaukee for all those years). By the way, Amy Holmes is talking now. I can't stand her. Can't they find someone less Republican?

Okay, I've got to take a hot shower. I've been watching the parade, but I am stiffening up. I think I walked about 10 miles today!

Love to you, and aren't we all incredibly lucky to have that wonderful family in the White House? Yippee!!!!

XXXKathy"

This is not a woman prone to multiple exclamation marks. To me, she says it all with..."aren't we all incredibly lucky to have that wonderful family in the White House."

Yes, Kathy, we are.

And, in case you’re interested. I was born in Sibley Memorial Hospital…the old one, in Washington, DC.

Sosie's Third

The party hours were specific: 10 AM to Noon and the castellated bouncy house was delivered and inflated shortly beforehand. No games were planned but there was a picnic table disguised as a craft table where butterflies could be decorated with glitter and style. Numerous mini wheeled vehicles and balls of every hue and stripe were at the guests' disposal while bowls of goldfish nibbles and a cooler filled with water and juice boxes were there for the taking. As we cast our collective eye over the set-up, checking for last minute omissions, the doorbell rang and the first of the 30-odd folks, ready to party, arrived.

It was as though each child had an entourage: This one had two parents and a brand new sibling while that one came with an older brother, younger sister and a dad but the mom was in hospital recovering from pneumonia. Daughter Jane wisely decided not to exclude anyone and just to make it a loose affair with good food. She made four terrific quiches, a big green salad, a fruit salad and good bagels and cream cheese. Odette, a darling three-year old who is going through some asthma issues (hold the dairy), told me that she couldn't have keem tzeez but liked buddor on her bagle. Everyone loved the food and because the kids just aren't given as much sugar as kids of yore, when the cake came out they were psyched!



Sosie (our Sophie who can't pronounce the 'f' sound on any word) was happy and then overwhelmed...every 15 minutes or so. She changed her outfit at least four times so all our pictures look like they're from different days. And here's the day as I saw it, in no particular order.






















Uncle Colin getting things moving in the bouncy house.























Best friends, Charlotte and Violet.

















Birthday girl (wearing one of two cake cutting outfits) and Mommy

We were then entertained with an après-dîner extravaganza of dance and music.

























The day couldn't have been more perfect.

Choccy Treats

Good chocolates, who needs ‘em? I do, but not at Christmas.

We’ve eaten our share of lofty chocolate over this holiday. Michel Cluizel from Paris, oui, fantastique. B. Castellain (Macaibo and Coffee-flavored), Bonnat and (if you get real lucky) Utopia are all merveilleux. The spicy, chili flavored Vosges bars are amazing. Our son introduced us to Alma chocolate, out of Portland, endearingly shaped into squirrels and owls. Delish. Hell, even Trader Joe’s has Vahlrona Noir Amer and even sometimes 70% Ecuadorian and/or Venezuelan chocolate bars by Chocovic…for a great price.

But at Christmastime, when I drape my home with yard after yard of tack, my taste buds search the familiar. Quality Street…I bought you in England and hauled your sweetness westwards to my Canyon and then gluttony forced me to hide you somewhere in this not-so-vast house in September when I couldn't stop plunging my hand into your jolly, foil-wrapped tin of excess. And now Christmas and New Year’s have done their thing, my tree droops ever more, pinging needles and tinsel across the floor every time the slightest of breezes hits it, and I can’t fucking find you. Quality Street, where are you? Talk to me. Give me a clue. Quickly. My family is beginning to suspect I ate the whole tin.




Magical

Some days I need to remind myself just how lucky I am to wake up every morning to this view. Taken from my bed. Camera in one hand, mug of tea in other.

And below, at night.






Some days I need to remind myself just how lucky I am to wake up every morning to this view. Taken from my bed. Camera in one hand, mug of tea in other.

Waiting for the Boy

Before our dinner guests arrived last night I called my son to see if his delayed flight from Madrid/Heathrow/NY had arrived but his cell went immediately to "Hi hi you've reached Colin..." and I knew no such luck.

He'd gotten stuck in Madrid when one-third of the poxy air traffic controllers decided that Saturday was as good a day as any to not show up for work, resulting in two of four runways being shut down and a missed connecting flight out of Heathrow to NY for him and his partner, Anne. In itself, none of this is that big a deal except that Colin has to be in LA tonight on business. He's got a shoot out here and just called us from JFK...where he's waiting for another flight to wing him even further westwards.

The Year in Wild Things

All in my back garden...

All Bright and Shiny and New

I tried reflecting on New Year's Eve, but Lottie & Sophie came over and all I could think about was what if they wake up at 6 and how I would be pitifully weak and exhausted if I didn't get more than six hours of sleep and so I insisted we go to bed NOW, minutes after watching the ball drop in Times Square. And Roger fell into a deep and heavy sleep within 15 seconds of his head touching the pillow but at 2 AM, with him snoring and snockering away, I was still awake, unable to tell him to roll over or shut up since he's had some back issues of late and it would be unkind of me to tell him to move, what with him being comfortable and all. I grabbed my duvet in a huff and left the room, thinking unprintable, non-jolly thoughts. And the girls woke up at 7! YAY! This year went as quickly as any other and each month had its share of memories. Here's my lame attempt at remembering this past year.

I just had a look at how all these pictures 'took.' They didn't. It worked for the first few months. Pictures all lined up tidily with captions...and then it just got all untidy. Captions and pictures all over the damned place. Oh well...much like my year!

January

Sophie’s Second Birthday

January Hikes. Winter in Socal suits us just fine.

February

Dear Friends, Betsy y Lee’s Going Away Dinner

They’re in Portland now, which suits them just fine but is still causing some adjustment by those they left behind!








Winter Rains Bring Color to the Canyon Which otherwise have a barren beauty

March

A Bumper Crop of Meyer Lemons on one of our trees

And fabulous produce from our local Farmer’s Market

And Easter

May

Lee’s Birthday in Portland and Uncle Colin's Visit from NY

Jane's Birthday. So wonderful to be in the same city so we can celebrate together

June

We're always celebrating something in my French class and
always with a princess cake


July

Fourth of July Watching the Fireworks

I celebrated a BIG birthday

We pimped our house, taking pictures of it from the best possible angles for
a house exchange.

August

We went to France and all the pictures
are on the other computer and I'm too lazy to get them.

But we also went to England to visit Mum.
No, she doesn't live in Canterbury

September

Charlotte’s Seventh Birthday
Wearing a Crown of Flowers from Betsy

No photos, but another September highlight was bloggity friend, GrannyP's visit. We packed a fair amount into a few days and we just finished the wonderful cardoman fig jam she brought with her from Lanzarote.

October

Soccer Games

Roger’s uncles visiting from Wales. Hoover Dam, Vegas and Riding the Waves in Malibu.

Colin's Birthday

November

Yes!

Birthday Boy and his Bride of, gulp, 40 years.

December

Chinatown, Brooklyn, with Colin and Anne post Dim Sum

Dancing in the New Year

Thanksgiving

The company and food were great. Susan and Buzz joined us for the first time bringing a memorable sweet potato, carrot and ginger dish. Bridget, Clark, their two children Charlie and Annie and Clark's mum Judy joined us as well. They brought a great apple crisp and pumpkin pie and plenty of whipped cream and ice cream. There was a Chicago connection between Buzz and them which was great. My daughter Jane, her husband Matt and my granddaughters, Charlotte and Sophie were also here. Jane brought a fabulous sausage outsidethebird stuffing which was yummy and provided kitchen backup through the day.

Turkey unbrined by choice and roasted per Martha Stewart's instructions turned out better than normal. Didn't use the convection oven. Just roasted the damn thing and ignored all the to brine or not to brine, convection or regular oven, stuffing in or out (both...who can have enough stuffing...ever?), how many cranberry relishes (one, Mama Stamberg's full stop) ad nauseum advice that fills the airwaves the week leading up to the day. Meant to take pictures of the food. Didn't. Barely got the following snaps due to who knows what. Because I'm the official family photographer, one would think I was somewhere else on the day!

Charlotte, aged 7, in all her gap-toothed glory.


Sophie, three in January...a rare moment of stillness.

This shoe thing went on for a while, as I remember.

Baby Annie, minutes after she snagged Bridget's phone, chattering away.

Charlotte and Charlie (4 1/2)

Grub's up!

Anyone would think Sophie actually had plans to eat. "I don't yike turkey, Nana," and then she got down from the children's table and let us all know that she really isn't quite ready to give up her nap!


Tickle, tickle, tickle...and then me saying..."Um, that table, it's glass...and the edges look tetanus shot worthy. Be careful!

Hiking behind our house. I love November in Southern California.

Birthday Boy. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64...
Babu's glasses askew, looking at one of his new books.


And that was our day. Wonderfully simple.

A Little [too much] Sitar

Turkey's about ready to be committed to the final indignity...the penultimate, the stuffing, just recently completed. As is my want, I was watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and trying not to cry over every marching band from the country's midsection while prepping for the feast to follow. I like it and folks who know me well understand the sorry, sentimental side of me. The parade finished and Roger asked me if I'd like a little music while I was finishing up. I said sure and he chose a little, light sitar music for me. Maybe that works when you're tripping, but right now...Ravi is doing no more than making me want to throw my oven mitt at the ipod. SHADDDDDDUP already.

Happy Thanksgiving

How I know It's Almost Thanksgiving and why I Probably Won't Ever Buy An Appliance That Starts with a V again

How long do you think a gas stove should last that cost around $7,000? Five years, 10 years, 15 years, 20? I think it should pretty much last for flippin' ever, but the reality is this.

We moved into this house seven years ago. We love the house, we love the look of the kitchen. We've replaced the fridge and that's when we discovered that the entire kitchen had been built by a high-end W. Hollywood kitchen design firm located in The Pacific Design Center. When the fridge was shimmied out of its snug, we found the designer's label stuck on the side of the cupboard. They did a good job with this kitchen and I'm sure listened to the client and did what she wanted. Apparently, she wanted her whole kitchen built around a white Amana refrigerator that was already about 20 years old. Don't ask. So, a year ago we replaced that fridge. We knew we were limited in what we could do because the cupboards had been built around this ancient appliance. I'm still shaking my head about that. Anyway...old fridge out, new fridge in...but no, it was about 5/8" too wide. I blogged about this so I won't go into the details except to say I had to empty ALL the cupboards that abut the fridge while the Pacific Design Center hotshots came in and reconfigured the cupboards. Okay, so now I have a stainless fridge...nothing fancy...still an Amana because that's all that fits, even with the fancy design team adjustments.

Then there's a stainless dishwasher. Asko or something. It works fine. The racks could be better, but I'm not complaining and I'm also knocking on wood.

And now on to the V appliances...seems I'm not alone. The stoves: one electric and one gas. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when we moved here. I had a stainless steel, gas, restaurant quality V range with a great extraction system. AND, I had a V electric convection oven, full-size and mounted under the counter. Two full-sized ovens. Two full-sized ovens that have had the V repairman here at least four times in the past seven years. Each visit by Vlad, the smooth-talking Russian repairman, is progressively more expensive.




And today, since the gas stove wouldn't start and it's almost Thanksgiving, he came back. Vlad is here right now and he just gave me the estimate. $597.00. One hour's work to make Thanksgiving possible.

And what are my options? Replacement isn't an option right now, but when it happens, I guarantee that the applicance will start with the next letter of the alphabet. I'm going for a Wolf.

Oh, and guess what Vlad just told me. Her heard my fridge make a weird noise and he turned around and said, "Oh, Amana. Das iss med by Viking."

The Thanksgiving Recipe Post

Thanksgiving Recipes (that are good)

I post these recipes every year at Thanksgiving. They're so good that the turkey will become incidental (lies, lies, lies). Here at Chez Dotty, we don't eat canned vegetables with fried canned onions on top. We just can't. It's not allowed. It's a violation of some law I cast in stone when the kids were little. Frozen peas, they're okay. Canned peas. Not okay. The list goes on and frequently makes no sense. It's not that we're such enormous food snobs that we don't eat this stuff at someone else's table, because we do, so just in case I ever don't cook Thanksgiving dinner in the future, I'm up for the canned beans combo dish. But, if you feel like trying something outside your normal repertoire and if you like some flavor surprises, try one of these.

Mashed Sweet Potatoes with
Maple Syrup and Chipotles

adapted from Bobby Flay, Bolo and Mesa Grill

This recipe is fantastic and fortunately, or unfortunately, a friend is bringing her own Sweet Potato surprise to our gathering this year. I love this one and usually add more chipotles than called for. I like the way the smokey and spicy heat of the chiles tangos with the sweetness of the potatoes. This can be made a day or so ahead of time, put in a gratin dish, dotted with butter and reheated at the annointed time at 350 'til hot. Yield 6 to 8 servings. Most people don't eat huge quantities, so you can stretch this to serve 12 if you have the traditional mashed potatoes with the Thanksgiving meal, as well. I always make a small mashed sweet potato and marshmellow dish for any children joining us (and any adults who still love that wonderfully Elvissy dish).

5 lbs (about 10 medium or 5 large) sweet potatoes, scrubbed
1/3 to 1/2 cup maple syrup (the real thing)
3/8 cup creme fraiche (can't be dealing with french accent marks so forgive)
4 tsp purée from canned chipotles (some I mince a bit, too if you want it spicier hotter)
1 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
Salt to taste and some ground black pepper

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 375 degrees. Place potatoes on large backing sheet and bake until soft, 35 to 40 minutes for medium potatoes, up to an hour for large.

Or...use a fork and poke some holes into the raw tuber. Wrap in a paper towel and throw in the microwave until soft.

Meanwhile, combine syrup, creme fraiche, chipotle puree, cinnamon and salt in a small bowl. Whisk until smooth.

When potatoes are tender, remove from oven, slice in half lengthwise. Scoop hot flesh into a potato ricer or food mill, puree into bowl with other ingredients. Stir with rubber spatula to combine. Potatoes should be light and fluffy. Taste for seasoning and if serving immediately, transfer to warm serving bowl. Otherwise pop into the fridge and feel smug that you've done something in advance.



Now onto the Brussel(s) sprouts. For ease of pronunciation, I'll say Brussel sprouts. Some of us have brussel sprouts every Thanksgiving, and some people don't like to even be in the same house where a sprout has been cooked in the last week. We're the former. We like small, round, green things. So, here's a recipe for every person who has ever said, "I hate brussel sprouts." I assure you, if they don't like these, they're philistines or young.

This is for four...we generally have to at least treble this recipe since even the brussel sprouts haters will eat it.

Brussels Sprouts Leaves cooked with
Pancetta and Mirepoix

1 lb. brussel sprouts
2 tbsp. rendered duck fat or olive oil
Mirepoix (dice one small carrot (2 oz or so), 1/2 large stalk of celery (2 oz) and 1/2 yellow onion (3 oz or so)
2 oz. pancetta, thinly sliced, diced
1/3 cup water
1/2 tsp salt
freshly ground white pepper
white wine vinegar

Working with one sprout at a time, remove as many of the outer leaves of each sprout until you reach those firmly attached to the core. Trim the stem end, freeing more leaves and repeat until you reach the dense center. Slice the center thin.

Warm the olive oil or duck fat in a six-quart non-corroding saucepan. Add the mirepoix and pancetta and cook over medium heat for 6-8 minutes, without browning the vegetables, until they have softened. Add the water and the Brussel sprouts leaves, sprinkle with the salt and stir well to combine. Cover the pan and cook 15-20 minutes, stirring every so often until the leaves are tender. Season the leaves with freshly ground pepper, correct for salt and add a dash of vinegar. Serve while the color is still vivid...this is not a dish to make ahead of time. Do the prep earlier, but cook just before serving. It's a good thing to cook while the turkey is being sliced.

Hint: The brussel sprouts take for flippin' ever to prep. I usually do it a day or two before Thanksgiving because doing it on the day is more than I could bear.


Mama Stamberg's Cranberry Sauce

So easy, so delicious, it easily trumps any other cranberry relish in my book. I was given this recipe by dear friends, George & Kathleen Malone, formerly of Milwaukee, WI, then Apalachicola, FL and now Asheville, NC. People either love it or hate it. Dotty's family loves it.

2 cups raw cranberries
1 small onion (not tiny like a pickling onion, but not huge like a vidalia)
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup sour cream
2 tbsp white horseradish (prepared) I generally use double the amount the recipe calls for

Grind the onion and cranberries together in a food processor or blender. Pulse and stop before it turns into mush.
Add the other ingredients and mix well. Put in a plastic container and freeze.
One hour before servicing, move to the refrigerator to soften. It always takes me longer. I take it out of the freezer at least four hours before dinner. And THAT'S IT! Let someone else bring the favorite relish, but watch which one people try...a small amount at first and then great dollops on their plate. A wise cook doubles this recipe.

And now the history...Susan Stamberg, former co-host of NPR's "All Things Considered" used to recite this recipe on air every Thanksgiving, giving full credit to her mother. Turns out her mother copied it from an old Craig Claiborne column in the NY Times. Whoever claims it, few are neutral about this wonderfully Pepto Bismally,shocking pink, strongish relish. We love it. If you have young children who don't like horseradish, put a little aside for them without the horseradish. If we're coming to dinner, put lots more horseradish in it.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The Atascadero Grade

It isn’t called the Atascadero Grade, but that’s what Roger called it as we committed to the climb in the pitch-blackness of the 101 on Saturday night. A foreboding freeway sign could well have read OUTTA GAS? YOU ARE FUCKED instead of Next Exit 10 Miles.

“Did that sign say the next exit was 10 miles?” I asked Roger.

“Yeah, what’s the gas gauge say now,” he asked calmly. It had dinged to tell me I had 40 miles left in the tank in what only felt like minutes before and now it was, wait, now it was empty?

Looking down, briefly, because after all how long does it take to read one fucking number, I grimly read, “ZERO, it says zero.”

We were on this road and in this place because we’d both awakened to a strong smell of burning that morning. Even in the dim early morning light it was apparent that the opposing hills were under smoke, just like us. Pretty sure that it wasn’t drifting smoke from the Montecito fire in Santa Barbara, I ran into the living room and turned on the TV and my computer. Every station was filled with news about the firestorm in Sylmar, just across the Valley and East from us. The wind was obviously blowing in this direction and the air was dense with smoke and ash.

It didn’t take Roger long to make the call that he wanted to leave. Not because he feared we were in fire danger, although thinking back, everyone was in fire danger at that time, but because he didn’t want to breathe the air for the next couple of days if we could be somewhere else. It sounded good to me, so we packed [very] lightly and were out the door by 10:30. An adventure.

Stupidly, we didn’t bring our insurance papers or computers or the file drawer with copies of everything we’d need in case our house burned down and I’m still not clear why we were so casual about it all.

But, change of underwear and toothbrushes packed, in case we wanted to overnight somewhere, we headed down the hill to Malibu where the air was thick with smoke. Driving a little further north, we pulled over to look at some shore birds this side of Port Hueneme. Still smoky. So we headed over to the 101, continuing north, and thought about lunch in Santa Barbara, wondering if the air would still be fouled by the two-day prior and not yet fully contained fire in Montecito. The further we went, the sweeter the air and so Santa Barbara was our first stop. Their smoke was obviously blowing south and not bothering the town at all. It was one of those bright blue days, just perfect. We picked up some apples and dates at the Farmer’s Market and then found a good little restaurant on State Street.

After eating and mulling over our next move, we decided to press on to the north, thinking San Luis Obispo, a favorite little town of ours, would be a good place to spend the night.

It was such a perfect afternoon that we pulled into the State Park beach at El Capitan, nosing our car under a tree and with the waves crashing below, contentedly read for half an hour or so before wandering down to the beach. The shore birds were all hungry and feeding and the air and light couldn’t have been more perfect.



We were in no particular hurry, except to find some good restaurant in San Luis Obispo and somewhere to stay.

I drove this leg of the trip while Roger called for reservations. “You want HOW much for a room at the Hilton?”

“You know, I’m a Hilton Honors Gold Club member…don’t I get some discount?”

“It’s not a Hilton…it’s an Embassy Suites…uh, no, we’ll check around and get back to you if we can’t find anything cheaper.”

“They want $220 a night for a room at the Embassy Suites in SLO,” he said with total amazement in his voice.

We were both remembering that we’d stayed in an Embassy Suites last year, the one near the site of the Twin Towers in Lower Manhattan…and I think our room was $345 a night, so $220 did seem a little steep.

Eventually we settled on a Ramada which, tax included, came to about $82. SCORE!

Directions from the nice, but kinda stoned-sounding desk clerk were simple. “Stay on the 101 and exit at Santa Rosa Street and boom, there it is, dude.” Roger dutifully wrote it down. He’s like that…thorough. As we got off the 101 to turn back northwards, I noted a 76 gas station and then hopped back on the freeway. And then the exits: Madonna, Marsh, Walnut (or something like that), but no Santa Rosa.

And so there we were, on the Atascadero Grade, running on fumes and betting the bank on the next exit. And nothing but blackness and the Los Padres National Forest to our right and left. “Do you think there will be a gas station and why didn’t they mention gas on that sign. Did they mention gas on that sign?” I worried.

“Oh fuck, what if there isn’t one?”

“Go more slowly. Put your flashers on.” He was full of advice (and pissing me off), as I drove up the long grade with an ominous zero flashing on my gas gauge.

“Oh fuck,” he intoned, just to make me feel even more comfortable. I continued cursing myself and wondering why, why, why I hadn’t pulled into that 76 Station just five miles back when we’d taken the wrong exit. Jesus, anyone would think we were looking for a hotel in Rome and not the Ramada Inn off the Santa Rosa exit in San Luis Obispo. We’d already driven north (not far enough), then south (too far) and were now committed north again but this time I didn’t get off at the ‘last’ exit for SLO. This time I truly fucked up.

Big rigs whizzed past me as I did a sedate 55, remembering the days when the gas shortage gripped America and I queued weekly in the Washington suburbs with my newborn baby sleeping in the back and my tiny girl in pre-school. And as much as I missed them being tiny, I was really happy I didn’t have two little kids in the back of a yellow Pinto as we lumbered up the hill in our far more comfortable ride.

“Bugger. Why didn’t I stop at that 76 station at that next to last wrong exit we took.”

“Slow down,” barked Roger.

“If I go any slower I’ll be stopped…I’m not going any bloody slower. Just shut up.”

And so it went, back and forth, as we crawled up the Atascadero Grade, emergency flashers winking crazily and the pair of us sniping sharply. We’re both pictures of calm in a crisis. No, really. Give us a true crisis and we’re good. This kind of bullshit, though, leaves us just pissed off, collectively and individually.

Every now and then there’d be a left-turn lane that seemed to appear suddenly in the dark and Roger would yell, “There, on the left, turn left and head back to San Luis Obispo.” But I wouldn’t. That just seemed nuts to me.

“Okay, let me get this right. You want me to drive across two lanes of freeway traffic, RIGHT NOW, so I can then turn left going south on the 101 with downhill, fast-moving traffic bearing down on me from the right when there’s the odd chance that I may run out of fucking gas and get T-BONED???? That’s what you want?” I screamed inside my head.

What he heard was, “No fucking way.”

And then we crested the hill. “Praise the Baby Jesus,” I muttered.

Roger said, “Put it in neutral and coast.” And I did…gathering speed as we hurtled downhill doing at least 50 mph. And then in the dark, a sign.

“Santa Margarita. Maybe they’ll have a gas station,” the voice of doom intoned.

“Of course they bloody will. It’s illegal for any town not to have a gas station in America, isn’t it?” I sniped.

Heading down the exit ramp I slipped the car out of neutral and into drive, against the advice of the Grim Reaper and we both said, “Oh fuck.” Total, sodding blackness. Nothing. There was not one flipping light welcoming us to Santa Margarita.

“Maybe we should have turned left,” he worried

“No, no, they would have told us if that were the case,” she said not having the slightest idea if she was right or not.

If our dashboard could have screamed, “YOU NOW HAVE NEGATIVE GAS IN YOUR TANK YOU MORONS” it would have.

We continued another three miles or so and joy of joy, houses. Not many, but some and then a hand-painted sign that said, simply. GAS, one mile ahead!

Sweet relief. At this point we knew that even if we ran dry, we’d be okay. And we were. Because Pintor's was open. Pintor's. Heard of them before? They're not big, but are very important.





Back on the freeway headed South, up and down the Atascadero Grade was a snap. Our moods were light. “Pass the Bolly sweetie darling!”

And 10 minutes later we saw the sign for Santa Fucking Rosa Roadand were able to tell the nice young man at the front desk at the Ramada Inn that actually, one can only exit on Santa Rosa Street if you’re going south…there was no way we would ever have seen it heading north because it wasn't bloody there.

But we didn’t scream because now we were the happy clappy couple who were just so bloody jolly and ecstatic that we weren’t sitting on the side of the 101 on a Saturday night, emergency flashers mocking us in the pitch black, waiting for AAA to come to our sorry rescue.

And the next day was all sunshine and surfers and sea otters and satisfaction.




And, luckily, when we drove home Sunday night, our house was still standing. And all we have had to deal with us black ash everywhere. And that's a lot more than can be said for hundreds of other Southern Californians. We got lucky.

When you wish upon a star...

Dream hard...sometimes they do come true.

Obama Meets With Dangerous World Leader Without Preconditions

Birthday Boy

Originally uploaded by billifornia

Taken by a friend of Colin's...my birthday boy.
Brooklyn, NY late October '08.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today (times two)

Yeah...so I got lucky 40 years ago and met this guy in England at a party and then I went back home to Washington, DC but before I flew home my mum invited this guy and my godparents' son (they were good friends) to visit us for a few weeks in Washington, DC and they did and we fell in love (the guy, not my godparents' son) and we were 'intime' and then he went back to England and I sobbed at the airport and we declared unending love for one another and his plane took off from Dulles and I sobbed some more and then we decided that I would drop out of college and go and live with him in London and then I found out I was pregnant even though I was on the pill (I double ovulated but didn't find that out for another five years) and so I (an only child) told my shocked parents my plans and, well, they were not happy, but this was August of 1968 and it was a selfish time so I flew to England in October of 1968 and we married in November of 1968...as a matter of fact, we married on 9 November 1968 in Hampstead at a registry office which is no longer used and I was having a few problems with morning sickness but made it through the perfunctory ceremony and then we ate Greek food with some friends and my godparents and threw plates on the floor and then we were on a train...bound for glory.

Here I am, newly 20 and wearing a tourquoise blue maternity dress that I'd bought at Lady Madonna in Golder's Green and there is my husband, almost 24, wearing a brown suit he'd worn to his stag party the night before, feeling all hung over and probably a little 'oh shit i'm married' and stuff and me feeling another wave of 'oh shit i'm pregnant' and stuff.

Like I said, we got lucky. I am one lucky woman.

British Rail...on the way to Cornwall


Forty years later...Malibu, this afternoon, November 9, 2008