This was really moving to me. The first paragraph that appears is a little confusing because it relates to something I don't have context for, but give it a minute until the explanation of the picture appears. There is music, so turn it off if it bugs you.
We think of history, and life, as so big. Yet everything that has ever happened (or ever will) has occurred on this tiny pale blue dot, seen from a distance. Even now, as I add these notes, I find myself getting teary-eyed. When I see it from Voyager's perspective, I miss it already. It really is home. Our planet might be alone and silent in this glittering darkness--full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I think it frustrates my mother that I can be an atheist. But to me, things like this make our very existence magical, and every moment even more precious.
*This was another example of the strange connections that occur via the web. I was searching for the site of Robert Chunn who sold me my awesome new paintings, when I came across another link to a site where his name was mentioned. That link went to the blog of a Qabalah student (that is how he spelled it) and artist who happens to live in Turlock, where I lived and graduated from college. And on his site was the link above, to the picture of our earth as seen from the Voyager spacecraft as it exited our solar system. There were also some links to some seriously lousy art by others. I don't want to name names, but it was the kind of painting which is so bad that it is made worse by naming it.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The First Thing I Ever Cooked
Although my mother says I was a precocious egg cracker, I don't recall anything specific that I cooked or helped cook before we moved to Salinas. I have brief flashes of eating raw bread dough from my mother's fingers, and the fact that she took her rings off before kneading.
My mother used to make a "Cinnamon Bubble Ring" from the red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, which was about as close to heaven as a person can get, smell-wise: sweet, warm yeast bread, cinnamon and sugar. On one occasion, she made it for a Tupperware party, or some similar gathering, and the family dog snatched it off the coffee table and made a run for it just as the company was arriving. My mother did what any other hard-working hostess would do-- she chased the dog out into the field, retrieved the ring mostly intact, washed off the doggy bits and, I imagine, dusted it with cinnamon sugar. Here is a photo of me with the thief.
I would have liked to include another photo, one of me in my apron and potholders at about four years of age, but my sister is currently holding the family photo albums hostage. My sister and I used to mix up horrid concoctions in the kitchen when we were unsupervised. She was the one who discovered that salsa and tomato products clean copper pennies. Below is a photo of both of us. In it she is being restrained because she has a peculiar fondness for cat food. Her first word was "meow". Our palates were clearly inherited from different family members. But I digress.
I remember watching The Galloping Gourmet, and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. The first thing I ever remember cooking was a recipe Mr. Rogers featured for sauteed bananas with butter and cinnamon sugar. Mr. McFeely and a mysterious Spanish woman were involved. I made that recipe. The Galloping Gourmet showed a dish of zucchini or eggplant stuffed with a spiced ground lamb and rice mixture. I also attempted that. Not quite as successful, at least to my 6-year-old palate. If I remember correctly, the rice was underdone, and the lamb had too strong a flavor. How many elementary schoolers know how to properly cook rice? But even then, I think I realized that cooking was empowering, in a way. Decoding a secret, scientific language of ingredients and turning it into something that people would eat and like.
Later, ZOOM (does anyone else know the tones of the WGBH Boston station identifier by heart?) showed how to make "Stained Glass" cookies with broken lifesavers, and also offered a recipe for authentic pretzels. I excitedly wrote away for both recipes, and made those, too.
In junior high, much of my chubbiness can probably be attributed to after school omelettes with two-color cheese, which I made and devoured regularly. In high school, I baked a buche de noel. (Sorry again for the lack of proper French punctuation.) There was also the senior year incident of the Boeuf Bourguignon and the Alcoholic Fruit Loop Crepes, but that is a story for another time. ;-)
My mother used to make a "Cinnamon Bubble Ring" from the red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, which was about as close to heaven as a person can get, smell-wise: sweet, warm yeast bread, cinnamon and sugar. On one occasion, she made it for a Tupperware party, or some similar gathering, and the family dog snatched it off the coffee table and made a run for it just as the company was arriving. My mother did what any other hard-working hostess would do-- she chased the dog out into the field, retrieved the ring mostly intact, washed off the doggy bits and, I imagine, dusted it with cinnamon sugar. Here is a photo of me with the thief.
I would have liked to include another photo, one of me in my apron and potholders at about four years of age, but my sister is currently holding the family photo albums hostage. My sister and I used to mix up horrid concoctions in the kitchen when we were unsupervised. She was the one who discovered that salsa and tomato products clean copper pennies. Below is a photo of both of us. In it she is being restrained because she has a peculiar fondness for cat food. Her first word was "meow". Our palates were clearly inherited from different family members. But I digress.
I remember watching The Galloping Gourmet, and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. The first thing I ever remember cooking was a recipe Mr. Rogers featured for sauteed bananas with butter and cinnamon sugar. Mr. McFeely and a mysterious Spanish woman were involved. I made that recipe. The Galloping Gourmet showed a dish of zucchini or eggplant stuffed with a spiced ground lamb and rice mixture. I also attempted that. Not quite as successful, at least to my 6-year-old palate. If I remember correctly, the rice was underdone, and the lamb had too strong a flavor. How many elementary schoolers know how to properly cook rice? But even then, I think I realized that cooking was empowering, in a way. Decoding a secret, scientific language of ingredients and turning it into something that people would eat and like.Later, ZOOM (does anyone else know the tones of the WGBH Boston station identifier by heart?) showed how to make "Stained Glass" cookies with broken lifesavers, and also offered a recipe for authentic pretzels. I excitedly wrote away for both recipes, and made those, too.
In junior high, much of my chubbiness can probably be attributed to after school omelettes with two-color cheese, which I made and devoured regularly. In high school, I baked a buche de noel. (Sorry again for the lack of proper French punctuation.) There was also the senior year incident of the Boeuf Bourguignon and the Alcoholic Fruit Loop Crepes, but that is a story for another time. ;-)
Good, Fast, Cheap
Supposedly, you can only have two of these things at a time. "Good, Fast, Cheap. Pick two." is how the saying goes. Doesn't apply to this recipe:Spicy Hummus
1 can garbanzo beans, rinsed and drained
1 clove garlic, minced
(I definitely wouldn't use 2 cloves, which is what I did. I could probably roast marshmallows with this dragon breath.)
2 T canola or olive oil + a little for adjusting texture if necessary
3 T (or one lemon's worth) lemon juice
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp to 1 T sriracha or other spicy sauce, to taste. Chile flakes would also work.
Optional:
2 T ground flax seeds (I throw flax into anything I can get away with)
2 T sesame seeds + one tsp roasted sesame oil (this recipe called for tahini, which I never seem to have, so this was my substitution. Seemed to work, so if you want to try it the way I made it, this is it.)
Materials:
Food processor
Spatula
Method:
Mince garlic clove using processor
Add remaining ingredients
Blend
Scrape down sides and bottom of processor
Blend again, use oil to adjust to desired consistency
You want this to be a slightly grainy paste that can be spread or spooned with cut vegetables or pita bread.
That's it. I think kids might like it if you left out the garlic and the heat, or used roasted sweet peppers, pureed, instead of the chili paste. I think they like Action Foods: anything that requires dipping, squishing, or popping. Fries, sticks, nuggets (god forbid) and edamame come to mind.
And now I am off to breathe on my friend Kristin and her two year old at the park. I hope they survive.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Food Ephemera
This week, we went to Pearl in downtown Napa. It's a cozy, comfortable little restaurant, about 10 tables, more if it's warm enough for outside. We really like the owners, Nicki and Pete. Nicki cooks, and Pete waits on tables. Two backwaiter-helpers make the service attentive but not fawning.
The menu is short but interesting: oysters raw or baked, five or so starters and about the same number of main courses. They've honed the menu down to just the stuff that sounds really, really good, with a couple of additions each day, so even with the small menu, it's always tough to make a decision. We have friends who dine there once a week and aren't bored yet. I love the Fragrant Duck, but the Guinness-Braised Lamb Shank (a special) was delicious, and the salmon (also a special) looked great, too.
There are a lot of places in the Napa Valley to go to spend a lot more money, or feel hip and trendy, but when we just want to go somewhere really comfortable, and know that we're going to have great food and wine, this is where we go.
One thing we don't have in the Napa Valley is a decent breakfast restaurant. Many years ago, Nicki and Pete both worked at the only great breakfast restaurant the Napa Valley ever had: The Diner. I still remember the Smokey Joe omelet, with swiss cheese, spinach and crème fraîche, which I would have with homemade tortillas and salsa. (I don't remember Pete glaring through the service window as he flipped flapjacks and over-easied the eggs, but I hear that he did.) Homemade breads, scones, fresh juice, strong coffee. Potato pancakes with applesauce and sausage... Throw some fresh juice mimosas and bloody marys (maries?) on the menu and you might be able to make a decent living out of it. Blueberry walnut pancakes...
As I write this, I think of Randy and Jen in the Marshall Islands, and how it was notable when the grocery store there got ricotta. I feel lucky, and a little guilty. We are so spoiled by the choices and the quality we have in California.
Note: If you happen to pick up Gourmet magazine this month, there's a nice article about Cindy Pawlcyn and the three Napa Valley restaurants she owns. In the article, it mentions that her father was a Minnesotan potato farmer who owned a potato chip factory. Perhaps the fry issue will be brought to her attention. The article was complimentary, but it seemed the writer was a bit more fond of Mustard's than Go Fish, and I'd have to agree.
Also, Mike wanted me to note that the tonic in his gin and tonic was flat at Go Fish. I have promised not to remind Mike that gin and tonic is not a very good drink to order in a restaurant because the tonic is almost always flat, whether it comes from a gun or from a bottle. I don't know why this is, but it is. A glass of wine, or a beer on draft are always more reliable, especially when you are the sort of person who won't send a flat drink back. But the next time he orders one, I won't say a word as he sips his fizz-free cocktail.
The menu is short but interesting: oysters raw or baked, five or so starters and about the same number of main courses. They've honed the menu down to just the stuff that sounds really, really good, with a couple of additions each day, so even with the small menu, it's always tough to make a decision. We have friends who dine there once a week and aren't bored yet. I love the Fragrant Duck, but the Guinness-Braised Lamb Shank (a special) was delicious, and the salmon (also a special) looked great, too.
There are a lot of places in the Napa Valley to go to spend a lot more money, or feel hip and trendy, but when we just want to go somewhere really comfortable, and know that we're going to have great food and wine, this is where we go.
One thing we don't have in the Napa Valley is a decent breakfast restaurant. Many years ago, Nicki and Pete both worked at the only great breakfast restaurant the Napa Valley ever had: The Diner. I still remember the Smokey Joe omelet, with swiss cheese, spinach and crème fraîche, which I would have with homemade tortillas and salsa. (I don't remember Pete glaring through the service window as he flipped flapjacks and over-easied the eggs, but I hear that he did.) Homemade breads, scones, fresh juice, strong coffee. Potato pancakes with applesauce and sausage... Throw some fresh juice mimosas and bloody marys (maries?) on the menu and you might be able to make a decent living out of it. Blueberry walnut pancakes...
As I write this, I think of Randy and Jen in the Marshall Islands, and how it was notable when the grocery store there got ricotta. I feel lucky, and a little guilty. We are so spoiled by the choices and the quality we have in California.
Note: If you happen to pick up Gourmet magazine this month, there's a nice article about Cindy Pawlcyn and the three Napa Valley restaurants she owns. In the article, it mentions that her father was a Minnesotan potato farmer who owned a potato chip factory. Perhaps the fry issue will be brought to her attention. The article was complimentary, but it seemed the writer was a bit more fond of Mustard's than Go Fish, and I'd have to agree.
Also, Mike wanted me to note that the tonic in his gin and tonic was flat at Go Fish. I have promised not to remind Mike that gin and tonic is not a very good drink to order in a restaurant because the tonic is almost always flat, whether it comes from a gun or from a bottle. I don't know why this is, but it is. A glass of wine, or a beer on draft are always more reliable, especially when you are the sort of person who won't send a flat drink back. But the next time he orders one, I won't say a word as he sips his fizz-free cocktail.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Priceless
Prunes might also be helpful. Yes, I personally snapped this picture at the Shell station on Trancas in Napa today. I'd love to hear caption ideas!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Go Fish
Mike and I had our first official "date night" last Wednesday, and we decided to go to Go Fish in St. Helena. I love the atmosphere: Cindy Pawlcyn's style (or at least her designer's style) makes the place someplace I'd like to live, with all the funky art, interesting colors and finishes, and lots and lots of light.
But let's talk about fries for a moment.
We are by now familiar with the "fry-fecta," are we not? 1- Skin on, 2- crispy, 3- flavorful. Period. Excellent fries are all three. "Sean's" fries were two out of three. Surreal-y crispy (I suspect double-frying) with skins present. And absolutely no flavor. Whatsoever. I can accept this from a pub, or a diner (a diner should be ashamed to serve 2-star fries) but I cannot accept it from a restaurant which serves $12 wines by the glass and $27 entrees, with which the fries are ordered-- at an additional cost-- as a side. Perhaps it is gauche to talk about price when describing the priceless experience of dining out with one's loving companion, but when it comes to fries, a buck is a buck.
Sides aside, as I mentioned, the restaurant is a great space, a vast improvement over the three former tenants, and I've lived in St. Helena long enough to have visited all three. Our server was lovely, not to mention friendly and knowledgeable. She missed a re-mark and a check-back (restaurant folks know what this is) but I noticed later she was training a new waiter, so that is forgiven.
Sushi- delicious, despite the ubiquitous "special sauce" that seems to gloppily adorn everything I order. The octopus and squid nigiri sushi were the best specimens of those creatures I have had. (What's up with my fingers on this keyboard? They are flying. Could have been the outstanding dinner we had at Pearl on tonight's date. More about that later.)
Entrees were good, but not thrilling. As Mike says about sushi, he wants to be "wowed" and seldom is. Entrees didn't wow me at all. The Crispy Skin Snapper was crispy, and delicious, but the pool of root vegetable consommee in which it swam was almost flavorless except for a slight sweetness. Not bad, just plain.
I'd still go back, because I enjoy the sushi, the sake, and the space, but I'd steer clear of the pricier entrees. After three visits, I still haven't had anything that really knocked my socks off.
We had a nice date anyway.
But let's talk about fries for a moment.
We are by now familiar with the "fry-fecta," are we not? 1- Skin on, 2- crispy, 3- flavorful. Period. Excellent fries are all three. "Sean's" fries were two out of three. Surreal-y crispy (I suspect double-frying) with skins present. And absolutely no flavor. Whatsoever. I can accept this from a pub, or a diner (a diner should be ashamed to serve 2-star fries) but I cannot accept it from a restaurant which serves $12 wines by the glass and $27 entrees, with which the fries are ordered-- at an additional cost-- as a side. Perhaps it is gauche to talk about price when describing the priceless experience of dining out with one's loving companion, but when it comes to fries, a buck is a buck.
Sides aside, as I mentioned, the restaurant is a great space, a vast improvement over the three former tenants, and I've lived in St. Helena long enough to have visited all three. Our server was lovely, not to mention friendly and knowledgeable. She missed a re-mark and a check-back (restaurant folks know what this is) but I noticed later she was training a new waiter, so that is forgiven.
Sushi- delicious, despite the ubiquitous "special sauce" that seems to gloppily adorn everything I order. The octopus and squid nigiri sushi were the best specimens of those creatures I have had. (What's up with my fingers on this keyboard? They are flying. Could have been the outstanding dinner we had at Pearl on tonight's date. More about that later.)
Entrees were good, but not thrilling. As Mike says about sushi, he wants to be "wowed" and seldom is. Entrees didn't wow me at all. The Crispy Skin Snapper was crispy, and delicious, but the pool of root vegetable consommee in which it swam was almost flavorless except for a slight sweetness. Not bad, just plain.
I'd still go back, because I enjoy the sushi, the sake, and the space, but I'd steer clear of the pricier entrees. After three visits, I still haven't had anything that really knocked my socks off.
We had a nice date anyway.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
For My Grandpa
...and anyone else who is snow or island-bound or otherwise without daffodils so far this spring. These are my grandfather's favorite flowers. I smile every time I see them, because their color and early arrival always remind me of his unflagging optimism. He's the best. I feel so fortunate to have him in my life.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Now Playing: Tainted Horsefly of the Hetero Wind
I can die a happy woman: someone has at last created a random band name generator. While some names wind up sounding silly, like Sucking Excuse, Snot Clue and the laugh-inducing Tainted Horsefly of the Hetero Wind (I can feel the bic lighter coming of my pocket for the power ballad already), others sound vaguely possible, even slightly cool. What about Lean Character, Subtle Pressure or Feline Smile? "Waffle" pops up mysteriously all by itself, unmodified by an adjective or phrase. I'll never have to think up names like The Tin Elbows and Applesauce Collision all by myself again.
Love, the future lead singer of Gourmet Resonance and the Uninvited Prairie.
Love, the future lead singer of Gourmet Resonance and the Uninvited Prairie.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I Dream of Tony
Last night I dreamed I was hanging out with culinary bad boy Anthony Bourdain. (He has is own blog, but that's not why we were hanging out.) All in all, we had a lovely time, roaming from New York to Santa Cruz to an apartment behind the French Laundry (which had been moved to Santa Cruz). We drove, both of us in the back, Tony simultaneously smoking (he kept coughing-- I asked him if he was going to live) and driving with his back against the steering wheel (I said, "Tony! Who's DRIVING?!" Silly, naive Californian-- apparently all New Yorkers know how to drive without looking.)
We explored city streets. Tony: "You are never going to get across the street in New York if you keep waiting until it's completely safe." (All sorts of implications there.)
Suddenly I realized that I didn't have a home. I said "Tony- I don't even know where I LIVE. I don't know if I have a home. I can't remember. I moved out of my apartment two weeks ago, but I don't remember if I moved into a new one yet. Want to see my old apartment?"
And with that, we were off through the streets of the entire rest of America, to the French Laundry. This time no one drove. (Edited here for propriety.) Tony is the Anti-Keller, but he was comfortable at the Laundry, unintimidated. I went around the back, up the wooden steps to the tiny apartment. On my way, I peeked in the back window of the restaurant's kitchen, where I saw a small asian woman (the sous chef of Le Bernardin in NY) wearing a small white cap and a chef's uniform--except it was completely see-through-- standing on a high ledge barking out orders to the staff. Apparently this was the "expediter"-- the most closely-held secret of the Laundry's success. Aha! Semi-naked expediting, I thought to myself. It all makes sense now.
My old apartment was full of baked goods. I was approached by a staff member dispatched to check me out, and explained my situation, then returned to the restaurant to meet up with my tall, chain-smoking consort. The restaurant was more like a 1900's club inside. All of the women were wearing long, straight dresses. The men were in tuxes. We got the hell out of there.
When I used to do improv, which I did in college for a couple of years, we talked about "leads". It's the point on a body that seems to be in charge of pulling the body forward. The lead does a lot to create character. Tony Bourdain seems to have a "knee lead". If you can picture the silhouette of him walking in the opening credits for "No Reservations" I think his knees break the front plane first, like a giraffe's or a camel's would. Check it out. Most people's knees do break first, but sometimes other parts of their bodies--chins, chests, pelvises, or bellies-- seem to be trying to beat them forward, creating the lead. If you want to try cracking yourself up, next time you are walking in front of a mirror or shop window (and you are all by yourself, because you are going to look pretty stupid) try changing your lead, as though a string is attached to whatever the body part is, pulling it forward. If you're short on laughs, you could also try what I think my mom called "walking stupid" which is swinging both arms forward at the same time. Kids crack up.
NOooooooooooo Reservationssssssssssah
We explored city streets. Tony: "You are never going to get across the street in New York if you keep waiting until it's completely safe." (All sorts of implications there.)
Suddenly I realized that I didn't have a home. I said "Tony- I don't even know where I LIVE. I don't know if I have a home. I can't remember. I moved out of my apartment two weeks ago, but I don't remember if I moved into a new one yet. Want to see my old apartment?"
And with that, we were off through the streets of the entire rest of America, to the French Laundry. This time no one drove. (Edited here for propriety.) Tony is the Anti-Keller, but he was comfortable at the Laundry, unintimidated. I went around the back, up the wooden steps to the tiny apartment. On my way, I peeked in the back window of the restaurant's kitchen, where I saw a small asian woman (the sous chef of Le Bernardin in NY) wearing a small white cap and a chef's uniform--except it was completely see-through-- standing on a high ledge barking out orders to the staff. Apparently this was the "expediter"-- the most closely-held secret of the Laundry's success. Aha! Semi-naked expediting, I thought to myself. It all makes sense now.
My old apartment was full of baked goods. I was approached by a staff member dispatched to check me out, and explained my situation, then returned to the restaurant to meet up with my tall, chain-smoking consort. The restaurant was more like a 1900's club inside. All of the women were wearing long, straight dresses. The men were in tuxes. We got the hell out of there.
When I used to do improv, which I did in college for a couple of years, we talked about "leads". It's the point on a body that seems to be in charge of pulling the body forward. The lead does a lot to create character. Tony Bourdain seems to have a "knee lead". If you can picture the silhouette of him walking in the opening credits for "No Reservations" I think his knees break the front plane first, like a giraffe's or a camel's would. Check it out. Most people's knees do break first, but sometimes other parts of their bodies--chins, chests, pelvises, or bellies-- seem to be trying to beat them forward, creating the lead. If you want to try cracking yourself up, next time you are walking in front of a mirror or shop window (and you are all by yourself, because you are going to look pretty stupid) try changing your lead, as though a string is attached to whatever the body part is, pulling it forward. If you're short on laughs, you could also try what I think my mom called "walking stupid" which is swinging both arms forward at the same time. Kids crack up.
NOooooooooooo Reservationssssssssssah
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Recent Purchases
Recently, I decided to invest in art. There are all sorts of gadgets and doohickeys I can buy, but art is so much more lasting and satisfying. It makes me happy to surround myself with things I like to look at.I just bought these two gorgeous paintings from Robert Chunn. They are small paintings, about 5 x 7. The fact that I found these paintings at all illustrates what I love about the internet. (Hunker down, this is going to be a Link-O-Rama.) I was reading one of my favorite blogs, dooce, and Heather (as if we are on a first name basis) mentioned purchasing a piece by Ben Schlitter on etsy, which is an artist's sales site. I took a look at Ben's stuff, which is really neat and modern and cartoony, and then I cruised around and came across this guy, who lives in Sonoma and paints a painting each day.
Kris had a link on his blog to a blog of the artist who painted my paintings. I loved the colors and the composition and the use of ordinary objects. He was offering these two on ebay, so I clicked on another link and now I'm the proud owner of two original pieces of art. At least I will be, when the paint dries enough to wrap them in bubble wrap and ship them.
The internet facilitated a journey of discovery that led me to find something that another person in some other place created. Something that is so unique and so new that the paint isn't even dry yet. I will have these paintings for a very long time, in fact, they will most likely outlive me. A technology that is so impersonal and distant has not only enabled an artist to connect with me, but it has allowed me to share this with one to four other people (you know who you are) and that is really cool.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Oh, yeah...
I have no idea if one, three, four or zero people are reading this blog on a regular basis. If you pop in, would you mind sending an email? Just one time, not every time. Thanks.
I Hate Flowers
"I hate flowers. I paint them because they are cheaper than models and they don't move." Georgia O'Keefe
Thursday, March 8, 2007
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
I'm totally in love with these little bright orange bowls. The flower is an incredibly fragrant blossom from a scraggly little tree in the back yard-- among many in full bloom on the property right now. Hooray Spring!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Remembering
I learned an important lesson this birthday about remembering.
There have been times when I've put off calling my friends or relatives on their birthdays until the last minute. Due to my unreasonable phone anxiety, combined with the fact that after a long separation, first phone calls, even birthday phone calls, can be awkward. All I want to say is Happy Birthday, but what it means is, you are my friend and I will always remember your birthday, because it is special to you, and you are special to me. Doesn't make for a very long conversation. There is sometimes so much to catch up on that one doesn't know what to ask. I don't know the characters in my friend's play anymore, though I long for their presence and their company, just to talk about nothing. In a world of email, the familiar scrawl of a friend's long-awaited letter is rare. Phone calls are few and far between. There is so much to catch up on, but it all seems unimportant, surface. All that is in my mind as I think about calling all day long, and then finally do, half hoping to talk to them, half hoping for an answering machine.
I really had a lovely birthday weekend. Friday night, Monty baked me a gorgeous coconut cake, and we had butter-soft filets-- preceded by the much anticipated weekly martini. Saturday, we had cake and bacon and eggs for breakfast. Man that cake was good. I walked the dog, read my book and had a facial. Just what I wanted to do, and at my own pace. Sunday, the actual day, we went to San Francisco, visited an orchid greenhouse, ate meaty crab melt sandwiches and had a few glasses of wine at the Ferry Plaza. Afterwards, we walked around a bit in the perfect sunshine by the ocean, and finished up with a brew and a sausage at the Toronado for old time's sake. My husband is awesome.
My phone was with me all day. No messages. Not one. Odd. My dad is usually the first one to call, because he's in a different time zone. I suspected he was responsible for the "missed call" on my phone, but since my phone often shows me yesterday's already answered missed call today, I can never be sure. I got home and checked my email and there was one from my grandparents with a link to a digital birthday card, which was very pretty. Nothing else.
Not getting anything-- a call, an email, a card-- from my mother was surprisingly hard. Saying my mother is not known for her promptness is a vast understatement. She usually leaves for a visit at about the time she said she expected to arrive. The more advance notice she has, the later she is. The longer the duration of the event itself, the later she is. The farther the destination is from home, the later she is. She does not discriminate on any grounds. She would be as late for the pope as she would be to a dentist appointment. So it's not unusual for birthday cards to arrive late.
Her lateness was part of the source for my philosophy that birthdays last from the first wish to the last. I can always count on her to stretch it out. My sister once sent me a birthday card completely out of season, knowing that with my mom's tardy contribution, my birthday would be almost three months long. That was when we were still speaking, of course. I haven't heard a word from her since my mother was ill over the summer and the two of us channelled our anxiety directly into stomping what was left of our sisterly relationship into the ground. I sent a card for her birthday, but I didn't call either.
Except for my beloved grandfather, no one I know has mastered the art of getting birthday cards to arrive EXACTLY on the day of the birthday, or the day before, if a weekend. My grandfather gets a lot of credit for always, always finding a card, the postage, and a check to boot, and getting to the post office in time to send the card. For forty years. Without fail. That also is another story.
As the day went on, and my cell phone didn't ring, I felt like I was crossing a line. Now comes the time when I join the ranks of adults with quiet, unremembered birthdays, who unfailingly remember to send cards to children, congratulate weddings, celebrate births, keep a Christmas list. I send cards for no reason sometimes because I find a funny card that reminds me of someone. (I realize that I was feeling sorry for myself here, and that I should get over it.) I returned a message on the home answering machine from my dad, but when I went to bed that night, it was with a pretty sad and lonely feeling.
I am often guilty of taking things too seriously. At the end of the day, there was a message from my dad on the home phone, which I returned. He and my stepmother sang their traditional Happy Birthday To You. The next morning, several emails from my mother came through, with the explanation that she'd somehow not sent the birthday message that she wrote on the birthday morning, though she thought she had. I was taken out to a long and delicious surprise lunch at work. At the end of the day, my phone elected to release to me a voice message from my mother from the previous evening that it had been saving for some reason, though I must have checked for messages 20 times. A card arrived from my grandparents. A call from my dear friend in Seattle. The following day, two cards arrived from my mother. Yesterday, one from my oldest friend in Atlanta.
I started this post two days ago, in the thick of feeling sorry for myself. I've gotten over that now, but I'm still contemplative about the deterioration of my relationship with my family. I haven't talked to my mother yet, but I will. I'm tempted to delete this whole post, but I think I'll leave it until I can think of a moral to the story.
There have been times when I've put off calling my friends or relatives on their birthdays until the last minute. Due to my unreasonable phone anxiety, combined with the fact that after a long separation, first phone calls, even birthday phone calls, can be awkward. All I want to say is Happy Birthday, but what it means is, you are my friend and I will always remember your birthday, because it is special to you, and you are special to me. Doesn't make for a very long conversation. There is sometimes so much to catch up on that one doesn't know what to ask. I don't know the characters in my friend's play anymore, though I long for their presence and their company, just to talk about nothing. In a world of email, the familiar scrawl of a friend's long-awaited letter is rare. Phone calls are few and far between. There is so much to catch up on, but it all seems unimportant, surface. All that is in my mind as I think about calling all day long, and then finally do, half hoping to talk to them, half hoping for an answering machine.
I really had a lovely birthday weekend. Friday night, Monty baked me a gorgeous coconut cake, and we had butter-soft filets-- preceded by the much anticipated weekly martini. Saturday, we had cake and bacon and eggs for breakfast. Man that cake was good. I walked the dog, read my book and had a facial. Just what I wanted to do, and at my own pace. Sunday, the actual day, we went to San Francisco, visited an orchid greenhouse, ate meaty crab melt sandwiches and had a few glasses of wine at the Ferry Plaza. Afterwards, we walked around a bit in the perfect sunshine by the ocean, and finished up with a brew and a sausage at the Toronado for old time's sake. My husband is awesome.
My phone was with me all day. No messages. Not one. Odd. My dad is usually the first one to call, because he's in a different time zone. I suspected he was responsible for the "missed call" on my phone, but since my phone often shows me yesterday's already answered missed call today, I can never be sure. I got home and checked my email and there was one from my grandparents with a link to a digital birthday card, which was very pretty. Nothing else.
Not getting anything-- a call, an email, a card-- from my mother was surprisingly hard. Saying my mother is not known for her promptness is a vast understatement. She usually leaves for a visit at about the time she said she expected to arrive. The more advance notice she has, the later she is. The longer the duration of the event itself, the later she is. The farther the destination is from home, the later she is. She does not discriminate on any grounds. She would be as late for the pope as she would be to a dentist appointment. So it's not unusual for birthday cards to arrive late.
Her lateness was part of the source for my philosophy that birthdays last from the first wish to the last. I can always count on her to stretch it out. My sister once sent me a birthday card completely out of season, knowing that with my mom's tardy contribution, my birthday would be almost three months long. That was when we were still speaking, of course. I haven't heard a word from her since my mother was ill over the summer and the two of us channelled our anxiety directly into stomping what was left of our sisterly relationship into the ground. I sent a card for her birthday, but I didn't call either.
Except for my beloved grandfather, no one I know has mastered the art of getting birthday cards to arrive EXACTLY on the day of the birthday, or the day before, if a weekend. My grandfather gets a lot of credit for always, always finding a card, the postage, and a check to boot, and getting to the post office in time to send the card. For forty years. Without fail. That also is another story.
As the day went on, and my cell phone didn't ring, I felt like I was crossing a line. Now comes the time when I join the ranks of adults with quiet, unremembered birthdays, who unfailingly remember to send cards to children, congratulate weddings, celebrate births, keep a Christmas list. I send cards for no reason sometimes because I find a funny card that reminds me of someone. (I realize that I was feeling sorry for myself here, and that I should get over it.) I returned a message on the home answering machine from my dad, but when I went to bed that night, it was with a pretty sad and lonely feeling.
I am often guilty of taking things too seriously. At the end of the day, there was a message from my dad on the home phone, which I returned. He and my stepmother sang their traditional Happy Birthday To You. The next morning, several emails from my mother came through, with the explanation that she'd somehow not sent the birthday message that she wrote on the birthday morning, though she thought she had. I was taken out to a long and delicious surprise lunch at work. At the end of the day, my phone elected to release to me a voice message from my mother from the previous evening that it had been saving for some reason, though I must have checked for messages 20 times. A card arrived from my grandparents. A call from my dear friend in Seattle. The following day, two cards arrived from my mother. Yesterday, one from my oldest friend in Atlanta.
I started this post two days ago, in the thick of feeling sorry for myself. I've gotten over that now, but I'm still contemplative about the deterioration of my relationship with my family. I haven't talked to my mother yet, but I will. I'm tempted to delete this whole post, but I think I'll leave it until I can think of a moral to the story.
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