Blueberry Cake

Getting started. Generously greased pan.

This butter was not soft enough-- had to mix it in with my fingers.

Batter before blueberries is like a very wet cookie dough- thick but still spreadable.

After adding frozen blueberries, a very stiff dough, looks and feels just like cold chocolate chip cookie dough. Make sure you've mixed it thoroughly before adding the frozen berries, and then press it into the pan as much as you can. It will continue to fill in the holes as it bakes.

An Easy Summer Tea Cake

Another nice little breakfast cake that's fairly foolproof. It is not too sweet, and comes out somewhere between a scone and a cake. If you'd like it a little sweeter, a glaze similar to the one on these scones would be lovely. I liked that the recipe was simple and could be made with a bowl and a fork (as long as your butter is already soft), and uses ingredients that I typically have on hand.

Shenandoah Valley Blueberry Cake

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups AP flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 cup softened butter
3/4 cup plus 2 T sugar
1 egg
1/3 cup milk
1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries (do not thaw frozen blueberries)

Directions
Preheat oven to 375 and generously grease a 9 inch round or square cake pan.

Combine flour, bp and salt in a bowl, stir with a fork to combine.

In another bowl, combine butter and sugar and beat (with a mixer or fork) at high speed until well combined. Add the egg and beat well for 1 to 2 minutes, scraping down the bowl, until the mixture is smooth and light.

Stir in half the flour mixture, then half the milk, mixing just enough to keep the batter fairly smooth. Add the remaining flour, then the rest of the milk, mixing gently. Stir in the blueberries. (Note: if the blueberries are frozen, you are going to want to mix them in quickly and get the batter into the pan right away, as it will chill the batter to an almost solid.)

Scrape the batter into the pan and bake at 375 for 30-40 minutes or until the top is golden, springs back when touched gently in the center and is pulling away from the sides of the pan. (Note: my cake took 40-45, using frozen blueberries. I thought that my oven was running slow, but I checked it with a thermometer and it was 3 degrees warmer than it read, so FYI.)

Serve a square cake right from the pan, warm or at room temperature, cut into small squares. IF it's round, let cool in the pan on a wire rack, then turn it out to finish cooling, top side up. (From Nancie McDermott's Southern Cakes)

My grandfather would love this warm with a nice fat slab of butter melting into it. (Hi Grandpa! Maybe you can get the Viking Queen to make you one!)

Didn't get any pictures of the first one because we gobbled it up so fast, so I'm going to go make another one right now-- pictures up shortly.

*******
While you're waiting, check this out: I discovered this pink caterpillar on my magenta geraniums yesterday morning. Cool, huh? I don't think I've ever seen a pink caterpillar before.


By this morning, the pretty pink bud on the right was completely devoured. I wonder if the caterpillar started out pink, or became pink from eating all of those flowers?

What It Was Like

Pre-race: I couldn't sleep past five a.m. for the four days before the race, so on race day, I got up at quarter to five and took a shower. Wasn't planning on taking one, but though I was up, I wasn't awake, and I needed the hot water. Fed the dogs. Made a smoothie, drank it, even though my stomach was jumping with nerves. Took my vitamins. Contemplated coffee. Made some, but didn't drink it. Thought through my race gear. Finally woke up Mike and Grandpa at 5:30 and we were out the door by 5:50.

Grandpa and I made it to the gates by 6:36, and the parking lot was already 3/4 full. As we drove in slowly past the "LOT FULL" signs, racers pushed their bikes like pilgrims through the rain to the check-in, lining both sides of the road. No smiles yet. I had to leave him at the car to wait for Mike while I made the long, long walk with my bike and gear to the transition set-up area. On the way, I heard someone say, "Are we crazy? Yes, we are."

Set up as best I could in the transition area, considering it was raining and nothing could be laid out neatly as planned. Checked in. Shared my extra safety pins and with a fellow racer. Chatted with the nice competitors next to me, male and female. Everyone was in a good mood in spite of the weather. Everyone except for the late arrival who shouted, "This SUCKS!" and ran, presumably, the two miles back to his car for the cursed missing piece of gear. And the woman who was sure that she could hang just one more bike on the teetering rack next to us and it would be just fine. (It wasn't.)

Wetsuit went on fairly easy. Wearing socks helps it over the feet, and having shorts and a rash guard on underneath allowed it to slide up much easier than that first naked, sweaty try-on at home when I was sure it was too tight and the wrong size. Cap, goggles, chip. Ready!

The Swim: 58 degrees. I still feel just a tiny bit sick to my stomach when I think about the start of the swim. Gray sky, drizzling rain, hundreds of yellow-capped penguins all standing barefoot on cold, squishy mud, hopping from foot to freezing foot. Thinking about stretching but shivering instead, chanting, Start, Start, Start inside our heads. Then, according to the rules at this particular race, we ambled forward in rigid and reluctant groups toward the shore and walked in, starting in "waves".

I was in the third wave, having waited just long enough to see which buoy to swim to first (and watch one freezing, Speedo-clad contestant back-stroking back to the shore). All I could think of for the first four minutes was "WHAT the hell am I doing? WHY did I get myself into this? This is NO FUN. This is STUPID. I am STUPID. This is f**&%%ing COLD." But I kept telling myself that it was a fifteen minute swim and no matter what, it would be over in fifteen minutes. As I neared the first buoy, I started to get out of the crowd and into a rhythm. It still felt like it was really far from one marker to the next. Time was slowed way down. It was reassuring to hear my watch go off at the first five-minute interval and realize that I was swimming the first leg of the triangle steadily and hadn't frozen or hyperventilated. I passed people, and people also passed me. I felt strong for the rest of the swim.

A tri-curious friend asked if I got "beat up" on the swim. I did not, and I don't think anyone else did either. Because of the wave starts, the more aggressive, time-driven people have a chance to go out first. Everyone in the wave gets the same start time, so everyone starts when they start, rather than feeling that they are losing time by not leaving the shore immediately. So yes, people touched each other, ran into each other a little, but it was good-natured and thinned out by about midway. It clustered up a little around each buoy and at the end, but no one got hurt as far as I know. A couple of people got too cold and had to be towed or escorted back in. Did I mention that the water temperature was 58 degrees? When I was out, I was just glad to be out and headed for the bike. My feet were so cold as I trotted up the ramp (wasn't really a run, but faster than a walk) that I didn't notice the rocks, the bruises from which a massage therapist found on the bottoms of my feet on Monday.

Later that day, I wondered if I could have gone harder or faster, but it was hard to tell exactly how hard I was working, between the water temperature, the people, and the adrenaline. My muscles told me the next day that I worked plenty hard.

Bike: In retrospect, this was the most fun part. Probably because I feared it the most, and I took it easier because of the wet pavement. Took me a little longer to get my wetsuit off and get geared up than I'd hoped. I missed the neatly laid-out towel o' gear that I had planned for, due to the still-drizzling rain, and I had to fish a couple of things out of my bag. But all went well for the most part, and off I went, loaded up with enough snacks and fluids for an ironman.

I got a tip prior to the race that I should wear a nylon swim cap under my helmet to prevent the cold wind from whistling through the holes. I popped it on as soon as I took off my yellow race cap, but forgot to readjust my ponytail from "goggle-holder" position. This is the reason I look like a total loony toon in all of the pictures of me on the bike.

I had a really good time riding, knowing that the dreaded cold-water portion of my day was over, and there was nothing but dryness and a shower in my future, so first of all, I am smiling in all of the pictures. But the black cap is creeping forward over my face, and the helmet, which never quite settled over the button of my wet ponytail, is following it. So I look a little like a kid who takes the short bus, minus the elbow pads, plus the fancy bike and neon yellow windbreaker. I was one of, I think, three people in the race in a neon yellow wind-breaker. (I love that damn windbreaker. It's light as a feather, rain-proof, and keeps cars from hitting me.) Mike photographed all of them approaching, just in case it was me.

About halfway out, I saw the leaders zooming back down the hill to race central. They all looked like lean, powerful, biking machines. I beamed encouragingly at their blurs as they passed and tried to keep my cadence up.

There were a couple of women who made little circles with me, falling back or moving ahead of each other according to our strengths. A big girl in red zoomed by me on the flats, then fell back on the hills. Another woman in a black one-piece tri-suit huffed and puffed and dropped and ascended, eventually leaving me behind. At one point, I was overtaken by a jingling, squeaking, clanking apparition of a man on a very old bike-- in a tri-suit so worn and threadbare that it could have been painted on. From the back at least. Thank goodness I didn't see the front.

Except for the helmet slowly slipping over my eyes, and the constant debate about whether or not to disobey Mike's specific request NOT to take my windbreaker sleeves off without stopping the bike, I had a great, steady ride, not falling down (goal number 2) and coming in, in the end, in just about the time I'd estimated. There were a couple of times I started thinking that I actually liked triathloning, and wondering what I'd do differently in the next one, and I had to remind myself to BE HERE NOW, doing this one.

The Run: This was my shortest transition, as it only required the removal of the helmet and windbreaker, and the change from biking to running shoes. Got a little stuck getting the windbreaker off, since in my indecisiveness I had partially unzipped it and disconnected the sleeves from the body. Note to self: do not do this in the future. Much easier to get sleeves off if attached. I was momentarily trapped in just the sleeves, which would have meant running in a fluorescent yellow shrug. Stylish, but not necessarily practical. Eventually I got it off.

I should mention that Mike had (amazingly and skillfully) successfully located and transported Grandpa to a spectating spot less than ten feet from where all this is taking place. The two of them coached me brightly through the transitions from the sidelines under their umbrellas, through rain and shine. Mike reminded me of the items in my checklist (Got your water? Gloves? Want a Coke? Did you eat something?) and Grandpa just beamed and said, "Good job, Tamara!" (About the time I came in for the run, the event winners were being announced over the loudspeakers. Such is sprinting.)

It felt good to be near the end, but time was still going slowly and fast at the same time. I had done a few bike to run transitions to practice, so I expected my quads to feel numb and stump-like. But I had taken the uphills in such low gears, with such high cadence, (and so very, very slowly) that they felt ok. It was my calves that started to complain and wimp out on the first long hill. I stopped briefly and stretched. People were conking out around me. I soon discovered that the energy gummies I had stashed in my back pocket were slapping around and annoying me, so I tried to give them to anyone who even hinted that their pace might slow. I gave a few to an older woman who seemed to have a half-walk, half-fun strategy, and finally handed them off to a nice man who told me I was a lifesaver. Each time I stretched, I could not get my calves to fully un-knot themselves. (This is not an excuse.)

As we approached the last hill before the turn-around, I fought the urge to stop or to walk. Until I saw everyone else (at this point, it's everyone else who is in the middle of the pack) slow down and some walk. My goals at the start were: 1) finish, 2) don't fall down, and 3) have fun, so although I had thrown some last-minute sub-goals on there, like 3a) no walking, I decided that I had a better chance of making the first three if I threw that one back out. The battle really is in the head more than in the body. So I walked, very fast, mind you, and while attempting to stretch my calves, the last ten yards to the water station, took a cup of water, drank half and dumped the rest on my head, and turned to run all the way back to the finish line. How thoughtful of the race organizers for making sure the last portion of the run was downhill.

The Finish: Rather than encouraging zooming all the way in to the weirdly off-kilter finish line via the smooth and downwardly sloping pavement, the organizers also thoughtfully eliminate potential speed-related accidents by adding in a section of up and down, twisting, soft-soiled pathways en route. So in the pictures, you can see me running picturesquely through the dusky countryside, sort of unevenly thumping and bumping. I was wishing I had the juice to finish spectacularly and sprint in with big strides eating up the distance, but it wasn't going to happen. I kept running, though. As I approached the line, I DID IT! I DID IT! started to ring in my mind, and I saw Mike behind the line, behind the camera, and I couldn't stop smiling. I was so proud of myself for doing something that I've always wanted to do, but never believed that I would, or could.

I can start belittling myself, for the short distance, or the fact that I took the hills easy or walked a little, or any number of things, but the fact is, I did it. I never thought I could, and I did. It wasn't easy, it was hard. The training up to that point took commitment, and faith that if I just did a little bit, every day, I could do it. And I did. And that is something to be proud of.

Logjam!

Mike and I zipped over to Santa Cruz last Sunday for the annual Big Stick Surfing Association "Logjam". This is a really cool surf event-- all longboards and only longboards, 1970's or prior, minimum board weight 20 lbs, and no leashes allowed. It's held at Pleasure Point, which is a nice, steady break, so it seemed like everyone got some waves. Someday that'll be me. (Except that water is FREEZING.) I love the longboard style, not so shreddy, and more about enjoying as long a wave as possible than about carving it up into little bits. Plenty of women out, too.

I don't know if you know this, but my grandfather used to paddle a wooden paddleboard around Capitola as a boy, and my dad used to surf here at Pleasure Point and all around Santa Cruz. Hi Dad!

Raffle prizes. Tell that guy to stop touching my board! Bummer, we didn't win the Arrow!

PS- I just know with that previous post that I've jinxed myself to have an ITB relapse and an ear infection by Sunday.

Online Eye Candy Link-O-Rama

One of my favorite Sunday afternoon activities is leafing through a link-rich publication like Bust or Readymade, and then checking them all out on line.

Here are some links for your day off perusing pleasure: airbedandbreakfast (rooms for rent in private homes all over the world), sharesomecandy.com, ffffound.com, photojojo.com, domestic-construction, theselby, thedesignfiles, truefilms, duluthtimber, lavender and limes, jensiska, smart girls at the party. These are just a few of the sites I noted last night. I also love to surf Bust's entire music section, including the music ads, looking for and listening to things I never would have found in my own plodding progression through Amoeba.

PS- 26. I collect vintage train cases. If anyone has one lying around, or comes across one cheap at a yard sale, I'll take it. I lean toward the older, straight-sided cases in cool, natural colors like aqua, cream, yellow, caramel, green and modern prints that will look good in my bungalow, but I have cases of all shapes and colors. I envision a wall of them someday.

27. I am not interested in scrapbooking.

Sunday Morning

I realize that this is only the second post since the election. I've been catching up with friends since then, and as I talk with or email each person, I'm sweetly surprised by the reaction to our new president. Still processing. So relieved.

While bloghopping over the weekend, I stopped off at Orangette and somehow wound up in the archives, wrapped around this lovely post about popovers. So this morning, I got up and made some. Here is the recipe I use, from my mother's red-checkered cookbook. Mom used to make these quite often. The ingredients are simple and usually on hand, and the directions are few. These are yummy piping hot out of the oven for breakfast, with Grandma's strawberry jam and scrambled eggs. (Not on the same popover.) 35 to 40 minutes seems like a long time, but if you set a timer and have something else to do, like drink a cup of coffee and read, or catch up on emails while you let someone else sleep in, it's nothing.

Popovers
1 1/2 tsp shortening (try Spectrum Organic vegetable shortening)
2 eggs, beaten
1 c milk
1 T cooking oil (olive is fine)
1 C flour
pinch salt

Tools
Muffin tin or preferably a deep popover tin
Whisk
Bowl

Method
Preheat oven to 450. Grease a muffin tin or popover tin with the shortening. Preheat pan with oven. Beat eggs, add liquids. Sprinkle in flour, beat until smooth.

Divide evenly in muffin or popover tin, no more than 2/3 full.
Bake at 450 for 20 minutes, reduce heat to 350 and bake for 15-20 minutes more

Adding herbs and finely grated parmesan cheese to these makes a tasty, savory accompaniment to breakfast or dinner. The more cheese you add, the less puffy they'll be. The Orangette recipe is a little more involved. PS- All of my popovers were mile-high with great big perfect bubbly hollows inside EXCEPT the one I saved to photograph.

Just the Right Size Batch of Oatmeal Cookies

Just the Right Size Batch of Oatmeal Cookies
10 minutes max to prep using a stand mixer, 20-30 minutes to bake

Ingredients
1 stick butter
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed

1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
2 tblsp molasses

1 1/4 c flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup slivered raw almonds
1/2-1 cup raisins
1 1/2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream butter (room temp if possible) with sugars until light and fluffy or well-mixed (if your butter is cold). Add egg, molasses and vanilla, mix again thoroughly. Mix together dry ingredients in a separate bowl, add slowly to wet ingredients. Once combined, add oats, nuts and raisins, mix until just combined.
Using two teaspoons, drop onto parchment-lined baking sheet (press down with spoons to flatten slightly). Bake +/- 10 minutes, cool on rack completely before moving to a plate.
Tasty, chewy, molasses-y, not too sweet, and full of oats and nuts that aren't so bad for you.

Two Quick Summer Recipes

Due to a host of circumstances, my posting has slipped a bit in the last two weeks. These past few days have been about getting things back in order around here, and yesterday afternoon I took a walk out to the big garden for the first time in weeks to see what was happening. I found myself in the midst of glorious summer. On top of the fragrant cantaloupe, fresh corn, skinny Japanese eggplant and tangy zebra and green grape tomatoes I found there, we also discovered a little nectarine tree in our backyard, laden with fruit. Here is what we made from the bounty:

Frozen Nectarine Margaritas
16 oz sliced fresh nectarines
2-3 shots tequila
Juice of 1/2 large lime or 1 small lime
1-2 tablespoons agave syrup, as needed, depending on sweetness of fruit
1 cup ice cubes
1/2- 1 cup water, if necessary to thin to drinking consistency

Blend until smooth, adding water to thin if necessary. To freeze nectarines, slice and arrange in a single layer on a parchment or plastic covered sheet pan. Freeze until solid. Store in zipper bags. Great in smoothies too. I keep these in the freezer throughout summer, adding new fruit as the supply is depleted. These are also good defrosted just a little bit for dessert, with ladyfingers and cream or by themselves. Frozen peaches and nectarines also work for pie and cobbler.


Gazpacho- basic recipe
4.5 lbs tomatoes
1 cup vodka (I'm assuming this is optional)
2 T lemon juice
1/2 T horseradish
1 T worcestershire
kosher salt to taste
1/2 to 1T tabasco (Can be added later to each serving)
1 gypsy pepper, diced
1 avocado, diced
fresh cilantro, basil, or parsley, chopped

Divide tomatoes in half. Roughly chop 1/2 and place in blender with ingredients up to kosher salt. Puree and strain. Dice the remaining tomatoes and gypsy pepper very small, and add to strained puree. Chill.

To serve, ladle into small bowls, making sure to get both soup and diced tomatoes, and add tabasco to taste. Top with avocado and fresh herbs. Creme fraiche would also be nice on top if you have it. I like this soup best topped with chilled crabmeat or shrimp. This time, I used the full tablespoon of tabasco in the whole batch of soup to be chilled. It was not too spicy for me, but I would have left it out if I had guests, because I think children would eat the soup without it. Too hot otherwise. Also substituted wasabe for horseradish. Either works.

Gone Fishing

A couple of Sundays ago, our friends invited us to spend the afternoon at Smith's Trout Farm. The sign in Alexander Valley is one we've passed many times, but it wasn't something we would ever have chosen to explore on our own. In fact, I would have said fishing was close to last on the list of things I like to spend time doing.

As it turns out, we had a pretty darn good time. Smith's Trout Farm is a quaint green oasis that probably hasn't changed much since it was founded in 1940. Little kids can still grab a willow dipper pole for no charge and pretend to fish or actually fish all day long. It's only open on Saturdays and Sundays. Fly-fishermen can practice, but the worm-and-bobber types are in the majority. Everybody catches something. No catch and release: you pay by the fish, and take what you catch, cleaned and iced for you on the spot. So, in addition to the cheeses and myriad snacks we brought, and the hot dogs on the grill for lunch, we had fresh-caught grilled trout. (You kill it; you eat it. Period.) Yes, they're farmed, and no, I don't think they are organic. The adults (ok, just me) seemed far more traumatized than the kids about the whole catching a fish and then killing it routine. Mike proved himself to be a quick and humane fish dispatcher.

I was taught to fish by my dad. After graduating from the plastic toy fishing set in the wading pool in my grandparents Aptos backyard, we were given little kid's poles, which were kept in a closet in the garage with the skis. Sitting by the side of the fishing pond, with a kid in my lap and a pole in my hand, showing her how to cast the line and reel it in slowly, and watch for other poles-- and hooks-- as she walked, I couldn't help but think of fishing in Alaska with my family. My grandparents lived there when I was in elementary school, and when I was 7, we went up for a visit. It is there that I discovered my love of all things shellfish, especially shrimp and crab--king crab and snow crab, with giant spiny legs as long as my arm, full of sweet meat. Now that I think about it, it was probably as much about getting to dip everything in melted butter as it was about the crab itself.

There is a picture somewhere of my sister and I, holding a string of a dozen or so trout, by the side of an Alaskan trout stream/pond. I don't remember being particularly traumatized by the killing of the trout, though I do remember trying to resuscitate some big, beautiful, silvery fish my dad brought home and put in the garage sink some time later. Dad hunted--birds, mainly-- and fished, so there was often something interesting to check out on the back porch or in the garage sink. The cats thought so, too. They demolished a pair of pheasants Dad had waiting on the steps, leaving a trail of beautiful multi-colored feathers, feet and beaks. Pulling the tendons of the severed feet would cause the feet to grip, providing an interesting if slightly gruesome early anatomy lesson.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the act of fishing. I don't know if I could cast a fly, though I think I could, but I can still throw a baited hook pretty darn well. And though I don't fish for fun as a rule, there was something not primal, but certainly fundamental about it. A generation taking long-standing survival skills from the generation before and handing them down to the next.

Stealth Toad

I was digging some holes for new plants in the narrow strip of backyard dirt that satisfies my urge to garden, when I came across a gopher hole. The gophers have created the equivalent of a small city under our back lawn. Compared to the way it looked when we moved in, it is a mess. My little garden strip is their supermarket. I have seen them drag whole basil plants into their lair, one at a time, leaving just the leaves hanging out of the entrance while they munched contentedly on the roots and stems. Most plants do not survive, but I've built up a repertoire of flowers there that are apparently not as tasty as basil.

So, thinking that I had located the back door to the pesky rodent's home, I gave the gopher hole a big chop with my shovel, and missed this toady little guy by a millimeter. I think I saw his skin move as the shovel passed over it, it was that close. Of course, I dropped to my knees, afraid that I'd chopped this poor toad, but he/she was still nestled in the dirt. I carefully slid the shovel about four inches under him and tried to pick up the whole clod with toad intact, eliciting a frightened squeak. Back down on my knees, I carefully dug Mr. Toad out and took another picture before he used my hand as the springboard onto the concrete, hopping away relatively unharmed.

More Leaping

Zucchini-Cheddar Breakfast Biscuits

Once again, from the Garden Fresh Vegetable Cookbook, by Andrea Chesman.

Zucchini-Cheddar Breakfast Biscuits
2 cups shredded zucchini
1 tsp salt
4 oz high-qualit bacon, preferably applewood smoked (I used diced Niman Ranch ham)
3 cups unbleached AP flour
1 T baking powder
2 tsp baking soda (I skipped, by accident)
1/2 tsp black pepper
4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut up
1 c grated cheddar
3/4 c buttermilk

Combine the zucchini and salt in a colander and set aside to drain for 30 minutes. Squeeze out any excess moisture (inside a towel or paper towel) and place in a small mixing bowl. You should have about 1/2 cup zucchini.

Cook the bacon until crisp, drain and chop.

Preheat oven to 400.

Sift dry ingredients. Cut the butter in until the mixture resembles coarse cornmeal. Add the cheese, bacon and zucchini and toss with a fork to mix well. Stir in buttermilk to form a stiff dough.

Transfer to a lightly floured board and knead briefly until smooth. Pat out or roll out to 1 inch thick. Stamp with 3 inch round cutter and place on a baking sheet about 1 inch apart. Bake for 15 minutes, until golden. Serve hot out of the oven.

This time, I followed the recipe only vaguely. I was halfway through my regular biscuit recipe when I spied the remaining zucchini and remembered that I wanted to try this one, so practically everything is different. They still turned out tasty, and I will try the real recipe soon. I even skipped rolling these out and made drop biscuits instead. Good for breakfast, lunch, or savory snacks.

I really enjoy this cookbook, and it has become one of my standbys.

Little Visitor

We've had a little disruption in our usual routine.

As I was leaving for work on the Fourth, I came upon this lost little girl. I whistled for her and she came right to the car and jumped in. I couldn't take her to work with me, so Mike took care of her until I got home. She was skinny, dirty, covered with yucky fleas, and had a collar on that was so tight that her little neck was red and chafed. (None of which I noticed, except the dirty part, when I invited her to jump into my car to get her away from the road. Ew.) She was so dirty that we thought she was black and tan! You couldn't tell that she was actually a tri-color with white markings on her feet and chest.

We put up signs around our street, and Mike took her to all of the neighbors to see if anyone thought she looked familiar, though considering the condition she was in, we'd be reluctant to give her back. We are trying to help her find a good home, and have a couple of leads. But she is a sweetie. Now that she has been thoroughly de-flead, bathed and is wearing a fancy new pink collar, she has been able to accompany me to work at the winery and seems to be a very good companion and love bug.

Here's tired, skinny dirty dog three days ago (still smiling, though!):



And here's fancy clean dog:

In the City

Happy Birthday Grandpa and Remembering Those Who Have Served

Today is my Grandfather's birthday! Happy Birthday, Grandpa!

Unexpected rain and snow, and a long, long day yesterday are keeping them at home today, but there will be cake for sure. Grandpa has always had a sweet tooth. A day without cake, or something sweet, is not a day at all! Even better with butter!

I wrote about my grandpa around this time last year, as he has always been involved in preparations for the annual Memorial Day service at his local cemetary. I think that post deserves a re-read today.

******

Yesterday, I heard this story from Susan about a plane trip she was on last week:

Just before departing from Chicago for Detroit, the plane's captain came out from the cabin and tucked his hat underneath his arm.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today we have the honor of transporting Staff Seargeant ____ to his final resting place in his home town of Detroit. Please join me in extending our deepest gratitude and condolences to his family, who are also with us on the plane in First Class. When we land, I would ask for your patience in remaining seated and allowing them to exit the plane first so that they may accompany their son."

When the plane landed in Detroit, there was not a sound as the family quietly deplaned. A military battalion came forward on the tarmac to receive the casket. The lines of soldiers in their pressed, gold-trimmed uniforms saluted in turn as it passed.

Every single passenger on the plane waited and watched, silently, many crying softly, as the family walked slowly, quietly along with the soldiers, their arms draped over one another's shoulders.

This took about a half an hour. Not one person complained, tried to make a cell phone call, or shuffled their luggage. Each and every passenger on the crowded flight waited quietly and reverently. All the whirling details of their lives stopped for just a short while, as they contemplated the sacrifice that this soldier and his family had made.

The captain returned to face the passengers, hat once again tucked under his arm. He thanked everyone for their patience and cooperation. Susan couldn't tell this story without once again being moved to tears by the sadness and tenderness of the scene: the quiet dignity of the family, the respect of the captain, and the hushed reverence of the people on the flight. We couldn't help crying with her. I still can't tell it without choking up.

On Memorial Day, for just a few minutes, put aside the little things that make up the day and consider our national "holiday" on the most personal level. Each life lost is a son, a father, a brother, a sister, a wife: a family grieving. Whatever the "reason" for a war, if there is one, whether it is just or unjust, whether it is for oil, or land, or power, brave people go to fight for their countries, their families and their homes. Some never see home again.

This day is for them.

Rain, Rain...

It's raining today. This is pretty typical for us, a long stretch of almost-summer temperatures that reminds us just how hot it's going to get soon, and then a weeks-long dip right down to the frost level just as the tender new leaves and baby grape flowers are reaching out from the vines. Just cold enough to require the use of vineyard fans and heaters. And then we get the obligatory sprinkling of spring rain.

Thank goodness for a well-insulated house, both from the cold, and from the pre-dawn helicopter sounds of the fans. Mike is especially grateful, as he was the one who had to crawl from his warm bed in the frozen darkness to start up those fans at the other property.

I mind the rain just a little bit because I don't like to swim as much in the rain as the sun, but there are plenty of other things to do at home and at the gym. I've got some strawberry-almond-coconut granola baking in the oven right now. Smells fantastic.

I picked up a few different types of protein powder packets at Whole Foods yesterday to try to get a little more protein in the morning. This morning I tried this whey-based protein powder to add to my regular morning smoothie. The color, combined with the blueberries and strawberries that I usually add, was an unappealing greenish-gray. And oh my gosh, the flavor was VILE. The sweetener (stevia?) that they used was sweet at first taste, but the aftertaste made me grimace for minutes afterwards. Medicinal. Gross. Surprisingly, the selection of organic protein powders was very limited there. I'll try one of the two hemp-based packets (reluctantly) tomorrow. I used to pick up an organic pure soybean powder at Trader Joe's that I felt ok about since it was organic and soybeans were the only ingredient. I'll try that when I'm done with these.

In spite of the rain, and the bad taste in my mouth, today is a great day. Because today I am getting my computer back. I have been working on the "craptop"-- an old Dell Latitude (isn't that French for "the attitude"?) still running Windows 2000, while the G5 was in for upgrades and a superdrive replacement. I've remained platform bilingual throughout my career, so it's no trouble for me to pick up a pc or a Mac and just start working. But this screen is so tiny. And it doesn't really offer the portability of a laptop at this point, because the battery won't charge fully, so it just sits here on the desk. I do like the snap of the keyboard keys. The craptop is good for one thing, and that is testing PowerPoint presentations that I create on the Mac. I use it to troubleshoot so that I can deliver problem-free presentations.

On Sunday, I went with my mom and 11-year-old nephew to Berkeley, to celebrate his birthday and visit the Lawrence Hall of Science, a childhood favorite of mine. I've been wanting to go back forever. LHS has hardly changed in 30 years. This is not necessarily a good thing. It is frozen in time, and apparently in budget. A popular destination for local schoolchildren, who are led through demonstrations and math games, it was fairly deserted and spare on a Sunday afternoon. I don't want to dissuade people from going, because they clearly need the funds, but I wouldn't say that it's the most exciting place to be on a Sunday. It is a place to go with little people, where they can touch things and climb on things. If you live nearby, and need something to do, it is something to do.

I remembered being dazzled by all of the animals in the Biology Lab at nine, as our class peered into tank after tank, led by the perky lab staff, learning about and petting each and every creature. I loved reptiles and amphibians. And crustaceans. And mammals- especially the rats. They used to have a three-level ratquarium with at least a dozen rats in it that you were allowed to take out and hold. The ratquarium is still there, but the extended rat family has moved to the suburbs. Mama and Papa rat watch TV by themselves in the evening and have hobbies to keep them busy when they're not napping. The dwelling sits in a quiet corner downstairs across from the math puzzles and around the corner from the cockroach tank, inexplicably cordoned off like a precious museum bust. The crayfish tank was another highlight. I remember it as a sparkling man-made creek with glass sides, running the entire length of one wall. The crayfish lived in a naturalistic environment, pumped water creating a burbling current across shiny multicolored river rocks from one end of the tank to the other. This time, it took us a while to locate the tiny crawdads, hiding under (intentionally) broken flowerpots in a plexiglass tank full of large goldfish.

I think everything seemed so big and so cool because I was so small. Maybe everything seemed so big and so cool because there was more of it then. Or because the volunteers were a little less... bland back then than they were on Sunday. We did see a cool Bearded Dragon (I'll post a picture later when my computer is back online), an Axotl named Goldilocks, and we petted a chinchilla that was so soft you almost couldn't tell you were touching him. My nephew and I worked on a wooden puzzle together that we thought was really fun, and played a game of tossing colored sticks. He made a paper helicopter. I think we enjoyed spending the time together as much as anything else. He's a nice boy, very easy going. Next time maybe I'll take him to the comic book shop.

Happy Easter!

My mom made this brown-eyed panda bear for me for Easter about 35 years ago. My sister got a blue-eyed panda just like it. Mom is very creative. She must have stayed up all night sewing these and putting little goodies in our Easter Bunny baskets. Her artistic endeavors are always outstanding, and she has great skill at giving character to the things that she makes.

I remember walking into the kitchen in the morning, light shining into the room and illuminating the glass-block wall that divided the kitchen from the dining area. These little handmade bears were propped up against the glass wall on the table with their baskets. It was positively magical. I don't remember now whether the dog that de-eyed this bear was my dad's "hunting" dog, Cid, who was notorious for mangling fuzzy things (and the reason my sister's favorite toy was a dog named "Patches"), or if it happened much later at the paws of another dog.

And this is Lambie. A gift from my grandparents, from the year that we visited them in Alaska. The year that I fell in love with shrimp and crab of every kind. I believe I was seven, which would make that about the same year Mom made the pandas. I remember holding onto Lambie in the front seat of my grandparents Ford station wagon. Until my Uncle sold them the Hummer, they have always driven a Ford station wagon, a Country Squire, with the wood panels on the sides. (They still have one just in case Grandma has to drive.) And in it was small, a greenish gold garbage can, weighted with little sandbags, that sat on the hump where the axle goes down the middle of the car floor. And for a long time, a little red booster seat for me, and later, my sister.

So Happy Easter to everyone: the things that you do for little children today will not be forgotten, and may inspire and reappear when you least expect it!

Enoteca Next Door

Today I took a little break and Mike and I went on our usual Sunday excursion, this time to Sonoma square. Lately we've gotten bored with the fare on the square, and we were feeling like branching out, but didn't know where to go.

It turned out to be a gorgeous, sunny day, and there were tons of people on the square. We popped into the lobby of the Swiss Hotel, read the menu, found some familiar sounding Italian fare and had a satisfying, if fairly ordinary lunch. The wines by the glass list was Sonoma-centric, as is usually the case in this town. I am certain that the price I paid for the Bargetto Pinot Grigio (the waiter mysteriously corrected me "Pinot Gris.") would have paid for the whole bottle-- at retail. It tasted pretty cheap. Sorry, Bargetto. Food was just fine-- we ate everything, but we weren't raving about it. The plateware was embarrassingly scuffed*, and the service was relaxed. To the point of being slow. Our server was weeded, as they say, but we really didn't care. I don't want to dog the S.H., because it was a pleasant atmosphere, the food was fine, and we had a nice time anyway.

*Restaurant owners and chefs: Black marks on your plates are inexcusable! Black marks on plate rims come from plates being tossed into the same dish tubs as the saute pans and pots. Look at your plates, and if there are gray and black marks around the edges, these plates do not belong on the tables! Buy new plates, (if you're cheap, maybe you can scrub the marks off with Bon Ami) and while you're at it, buy two different colored dish tubs and never, ever let pans (or sheet pans, or anything metal) and plates (or cups, or bowls) sit on top of each other or go through the dishwasher together. No matter what you are serving at your restaurant, no matter what price level, your chef's food looks like garbage on a dirty plate. Allowing these plates out into the dining room advertises to your customers that you are lazy and to your staff that your standards are low, and they will behave accordingly. Do I make myself clear? Later we can talk about dirty windows and pepper shakers.

So, glad I got that off my chest. Back to the rest of the day in Sonoma. Next stop was the kitchen store, to comparison shop Le Creuset and other French/Dutch ovens. And to look for a kitchen timer and a new salad spinner (wore mine out). The selection was surprisingly limited in the kitchen timer department. I just want an old-fashioned, white metal timer that goes ding. Ding-a-ling. Whatever. No such thing. Ladybugs, birdies and egg-shapes, all made out of plastic, some digital. My plastic timer rang itself right off the counter and onto the floor and now it doesn't ding anymore, so I'm looking for the Studebaker of timers.

Next stop, the reason for this post: Della Santina's Enoteca "Next Door". Though the signage is a little confusing (I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to open the door, or go to the next one) this new "wine bar" half a block off the square and next to Della Santina restaurant, is such a neat find. It just opened recently, in the spot that used to house a cheese shop.

I don't know about you, but when I think of a wine bar, I think snooze. I'm not really interested in a lot of California wines, and I don't care who got what in the Wine Spectator. I don't want to sit around a bar with a bunch of yahoos comparing cellar size and which verticals of Robert Parker's 90-pointers they have in them.

When I think of an enoteca, I'm a little more intrigued. Maybe they'll have cheeses and charcuterie; maybe they'll be pouring something different and interesting. Enotecas in Italy can be such fun spots to find out about unique wines and have a bite of something savory to eat. Enoteca Next Door was just what I was hoping for. The person pouring was the owner, Ron, who greeted us from the other end of the room when we walked in. The wall behind the bar was loaded with a selection of wines from, oh, ten or eleven different countries. Grapes I'd never heard of, regions I'd never seen. Reasonable prices. Fun stuff. I chose a glass of Argentinian Torrontes, a grape I'd never heard of before two weeks ago, when I had a taste from a bottle that a foodie friend brought home from a recent trip there.

This wine is so incredibly aromatic, tantalizing and floral that you don't know whether to drink it or dab it behind your ears. I know when I say that, that you think two things: sweet, and yuck. You are probably suffering from viognier or gewurztraminer-induced backlash. I was, too. I was very suspicious of the beautiful aromas, thinking they might lead to a flabby, overly-alcoholic or insipid palate. This wine is nearly as zingy and tangy as a Sauvignon Blanc, but with more delicacy and less gooseberry, and those pretty aromas linger through the whole glass. If you find it, try it. Now. Did I mention it was $12 a bottle? That's right, t w e l v e. It tasted like $30.

Mike had another Argentinian wine, a Malbec. He said it was just what he was looking for, but I couldn't break away from my new love affair with the Torrontes long enough to care. Ron gave us a couple of tastes of some other wines, a super-fragrant (again) low-alcohol Moscato, and another weird varietal mashup white that we also enjoyed. He was friendly and informative and we enjoyed talking with him. We're not big wine shoppers, because we have access to a lot of wine at home, but we bought six bottles (two of the Torrontes) and picked up information about their wine club. I think it will become a regular stop. Especially since Mike forbade me from opening one of the bottles we bought with dinner tonight, because they were "to share with our friends".

If you are in Sonoma and looking for something different, definitely check it out.

Ron also recommended the following restaurants:
La Salette
General's Daughter
Della Santina
Cafe de la Haye
Eldorado Kitchen
Harvest Moon
The Girl and the Fig

By the way, Della Santina's Enoteca is not to be confused with Enoteca Sonoma a few blocks away, which is, in my opinion, actually a California wine bar.

PS- Grandpa, don't let on to Grandma that I was out drinking wine again today. It'll be our little blog secret.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Unfortunate Turkey + Live Power Lines = Early Morning Power Outage + Turkey Dinner for Coyote

This morning, we (meaning Mike) were awakened by a loud boom, close to the house. Mike went to take a drive around the property and saw poor, pretty, dead Mr. Turkey in a pool of blood just under and past the power lines, with a big singed hole in his/her chest. Ah, life in the country.

While Mike drove around the property checking on breakers and guests, I whipped out the camp stove and got the coffee pot ready. Mike made coffee and eggs for breakfast at the picnic table, and I took a shower then walked the dog, who was extremely interested in checking out the dead turkey. PG&E was here in a flash and got everything turned back on.

Today is the Napa Valley Marathon, which started at 7 am. (Did you hear about the new "No Headphones" rule?) I don't know how long it takes, but I think just about this long, so I think if I walk down to the road now, I'll just be able to see them. Beautiful day today, fairly windy but sunny and cool. Just about perfect for running. It's really quite nice, because there are no cars on Silverado Trail--very quiet and peaceful this morning. Except for the wind... and the occasional exploding turkey.

This Week in the Garden

I was pleasantly surprised to find all of these flowers amid the gray today. It still seems like we're in the middle of winter. In spite of the battering of rain and wind last night and this morning, there were still some pretty blooms. If it's cold and gray-- or white-- where you are, I hope this brightens your day.