The Last Swimsuit You'll Ever Own

Ok, it's time to fess up. I haven't been writing much lately because a) I've been working a lot, and b) I've been obsessing about my weight. I didn't want to admit it, because it's such an, oh, I don't know, ordinary thing to write about. It's boring. It's banal. It's so... common. There isn't a magazine on the stands this time of year that doesn't have a bright headline hawking the latest fad diet or product or exercise. And although I feel that the latest fad is as good as dead the minute it hits the stands, I can't help but skim the articles to see if there is some useful and heretofore unknown diet secret that will free me from my angst.

For me, the feeling that I should be just a little bit thinner has followed on my heels, lurking as lightly and as closely as a shadow, my entire life. No matter how thin I have been, I've always felt I could do better. My very thinnest college weight is a number that is seared onto my brain forever. That weight was achieved by swimming 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, and eating very little besides plain popcorn and diet coke. Maybe a little tuna. I have always dreamed of, and from time to fleeting time I have experienced, the feeling of to eating and being joyous at the same time, instead of mentally calculating the calories and where they might land, pushing the guilt back to a dark little corner of my mind, to be exhumed and worried over later in private.

Every year, about this time, like everyone else in America, I contemplate my big white self in a bathing suit and I'm overcome with guilt and dread. Sure, my clothes from last summer still fit, and I have lost ten pounds from the all-time high I hit for the second time. But I'm still not there. I have never considered myself a yo-yo dieter. I feel like I'm almost there most of the time. And I never do fad diets (ok, I tried the Atkins diet once) or starve myself (anymore). But I'm still not thin. And I still don't know if I should be.

At the beginning of the year, I sought to avoid this state. I checked my BMI online and at the doctor's. The BMI indicated that my college weight would be a better weight for me, basically. But dude, that is a lot of weight to lose! That is half a Back Street Boy, as Mike would say. It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem healthy. Or even remotely possible. So, when I got a new strength training routine from Susan, the trainer at the gym, I also had my body fat measured. That indicated a less drastic recommended weight loss of 15-20 lbs. I counted off the weeks until our upcoming Hawai'ian anniversary trip and decided it was completely do-able. It really was.

Then I panicked. Which is what I do. Every time this happens, it makes me think of Seventeen magazine, a staple for me during high school. Sometime in the spring, they'd always publish a "Countdown to Prom" issue, complete with a detailed diet plan and suggestions for what to do each week and month to look my absolute prettiest (and thinnest) by the time that special day came around. I'd read the diet, maybe start that, or if it seemed too daunting (who whips up custom diet fruit smoothies every morning at eighteen?), I'd embark on my own starvation diet of Diet Coke and fill in the blank. Diet Coke and raisins, Diet Coke and popcorn. Diet Coke and tuna. Diet Coke and Diet Coke. And of course, cafeteria food at lunch, or nothing. My crash diet would quickly crash and burn, and I'd watch the remaining days count down on the calendar, feeling like a failure.

The phrase that always comes to mind is a line from the "Wear Sunscreen" piece that was mistakenly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut years ago (but was actually written by Mary Schmich):

"In 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine."

I'd contemplate losing a limb to be the weight now that I once agonized over in high school. To have my size in the single digits again. I watch the Discovery Channel-- there are all sorts of remarkable prosthetic limbs now. Knock on wood. Or carbon fiber. Of course, I'd lose the weight, but then I'd be a one-legged fat person, not a thin person who happened also to be missing a leg.

Thin equals pretty, pretty equals happy, therefore fail at thin equals fail at happy. Right? So here I am, less than 30 days from take-off, with a theoretical 10-15 more lbs to go. And worse, I'm struggling with how I can be happy and have fun on my vacation if I'm fat. Because I failed at reaching a goal that I thought about once in January, that got closer and more impossible as each day went by. It's embarrassing to admit.

I find myself in a battle. Wanting to lose weight and not being successful at it means that I believe fat is bad and thin is good, and that I am not good until I am thin. I don't believe that. I fight against it. It seems to me that wanting so desperately to be something different, whatever it is, means that I don't think what I am is good enough. In general, that is not true, but when it comes to weight, how can it not be true?

I have said before that I don't want to be at war with food. I want to be healthy. And I am. Recently, I had an EKG, tests for diabetes and a cardiac "stress test". Because of my family's history of heart disease and diabetes, I wanted to establish a healthy baseline so that I know what's going on with my heart over time. Secretly, I suppose I wanted to be told that I could be healthy without having to go on the dreaded diet. That for once, I could relax.

It was so very gratifying to hear the doctor tell the nurse that my heart slowed down so fast after the exercise because "She's fit. That's why." In the follow up, she said my heart looked great, that I was very healthy. I asked about weight, and told her about my BMI and my body fat percentage. We talked about statistics concerning fit, slightly overweight people and thin people who don't exercise. I'll live longer. I said I have always felt fat and I wanted to know if I really needed to lose weight. What she finally said was that I would probably "feel better" if I lost 10 to 15 lbs.

The same night, I went to a belly-dancing class with my friend Lisa. There were two very thin women, and two very not-so-thin women, and me in the middle. The instructor was telling us at the end that we'd feel the workout if we weren't used to exercise. She looked at the two thin women and said, "I'm sure you exercise, and I'm sure you exercise, and...," she looked at me, "do you exercise regularly?" Of course, I just said, "yes." But what I wanted to say was, "I probably exercise more than anyone in this room. I do six hours of cardio a week, including my daily dog walks, and I lift weights twice a week. How fast can you run a mile? Because I bet I can beat you. I'm fit, dammit." And then I would prove it by kicking her belly-dancing ass.

That made me examine the fact that I don't just want to be fit, I want to look fit. I want people to look at me and think that I'm strong. That I must work out. That I'm... I hardly dare to say it... attractive. Pretty. And the desire to be pretty, combined with the fear that I may never get there, is a scary thing. If anyone knows me, you'll probably want to reassure me at this point, telling me that I AM pretty, and I AM desirable. If you're my husband, you'll tell me that I'm sexy, because that's the kind of great person that you are. (Thanks for the "For Doing the Taxes" flowers, too, by the way.) But I'll never see it in any way but that you are trying to be nice to me. Until I'm thin. Or at least, thinner.

Don't worry, I'm going to be ok. I feel better already. In a week or so, things will look rosier. I'll get over this hump, and maybe even shave off 5 more lbs before I go to the islands. Writing has helped me get to the (wide, lumpy) bottom of this, and I know that it's more important to be happy and healthy than thin. I really do seek a healthy state of mind and body on a daily basis. I'm not afraid of, or at war with, food. (As evidenced by the 102 posts on my blog about it!) I am going to continue to slog toward weight loss, and I'll get there eventually, but if I don't get there with my sanity and health intact, weight ain't nothing but a number.

Haiku High Five

Yet another reason to get over there and check out the Cleaner Plate Club again: Agribusiness Haiku. I hope she doesn't mind me posting it here, it was just so damn good. There are more.

For Monsanto
Your stock grows…in Hell.
GMOs: they’re a sin now!
Sez who? The pope, dude.

By Popular Demand

I took this White Bean Dip to work this week, and it seemed to be pretty popular. It's easy, healthy, and really flavorful. It is reported to be Turkish in origin, and meant to be served in a trio of dips for vegetable kebabs, but it's also great with chips. (I like Trader Joe's Flax Tortilla Chips, but then, I would.) You could also toast some pitas or flatbreads. If you can, make it a day ahead to allow the flavors to meld.

Turkish White Bean Dip

2 cans cooked white beans
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1/4 c olive oil
1/2 bunch parsley, leaves only
1/4 cup lemon juice (I used mostly lemon plus a little lime)
1/2 tsp salt, or to taste

Drain beans, discard liquid. Put beans and other ingredients in a
blender or food processor. Puree until not quite smooth.

New Minimalist Look?

O Header, where art thou? If you saw it, you know that there was something, um, fuzzy about the former header. I will fix and put it back up asap. Just not yet. For now, here's the quote that was on it:

"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry." E.B. White

Or writing Charlotte's Web. And speaking of fantastic children's books, take a look at the FABULOUS link on the right sidebar. The Dewey Drive is a book drive for libraries in need. You can donate books for children who need them via Amazon. It brought tears to my eyes to read that some little person wanted the book "Summer Pony," which was one of my favorites as a fourth-grader, but no one had donated it yet. Books were such an important part of my young life. Check out the drive and read the response from one of the recipient librarians here.

Ok, gotta go work on that header...

The Quote

Ok, yeah, I cut it out of Real Simple magazine, but E.B. White said it first, and E.B. White is cool. Some of the best books ever written. Martha just likes quotes that have to do with laundry.

Gorgeous

Check out these beautiful dragonfly champagne flutes I received as a birthday gift. Ooooooh, pretttttyyyyyyy.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Put These Up Yet

Chickpea (Garbanzo Bean) Falafel

Ingredients
1 can (19 oz) garbanzo beans, rinsed
4 scallions, trimmed and sliced
1 egg
2 T flour
1 T oregano (fresh preferred, use less if using dried)
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp salt

2 T olive oil
2 pitas

Optional sandwich ingredients:
sliced red onion
cucumber, peeled, seeded and sliced
yogurt sauce: plain yogurt + 1/4 cup chopped cucumber and 1 clove finely minced garlic
shredded lettuce or cabbage

Tools
Food processor, non-stick pan, spatula

Method
Place first 7 ingredients in food processor
Pulse, scraping twice, until the mixture is still coarse but holds together
Form into small balls or patties, depending on use (for appetizers, make small 1-1/2" balls, for lunch, just make 3" patties)
Heat oil, fry until evenly browned
Serve warm in pita with shredded lettuce or cabbage, tomato and onion, or by itself with yogurt mixed with chopped cucumber and garlic.

Fast, easy, nourishing and flavorful. I make these when I get a craving for falafel. To serve as an appetizer, mix the garlic and cucumber with the yogurt a few hours beforehand and serve as a dipping sauce. Put out falafel with toothpicks for skewering. I've never tried baking them, but it would probably work just fine to put them on a greased cookie sheet. I'll try it and let you know.

Mama's Got a Cheesebox

A thoughtful friend brought us some cheese papers as a hostess gift recently. I had never seen them before. They have a thin, wax paper-y layer on the inside, and paper on the outside, which apparently allows the cheese to breathe. They also come with neat little labels so you can identify the cheese later. Very fancy. And they really work to keep the cheese in perfect condition longer. It's so disappointing to find a beautiful round of expensive cheese dried out or moldy at the back of the cheese drawer. Leaving cheese tightly wrapped in plastic causes the cheese to marinate in its own expirations, which isn't any better.

It made me wonder if regular old waxed paper would work. I have a whole box of waxed paper sandwich bags that I thought would be cute for Valentine's cookies, but which were not that cute.

It turns out that these little bags make great cheese storage units, too. I just write on them with a magic marker to keep them sorted out. Most cheeses need to be within an outer plastic zip-lock or within the veggie drawer as well to keep them from drying out. Fantastic cheese blog with more cheese wrapping tips here.

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!

Posy Break

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.

Oh look!

Insert nose [A] into grindstone [B]. I am so thankful to be working so much, but my poor little blog is getting nothing these days. So I thought today I'd just blah blah blah as if you were here and we were sitting over a cup of coffee. I have to drink decaf, thank you. Not that I want to. I have to. In my coffee snob days, I used to sneer at patrons who ordered "double decaf" and said, "I like the flavor, I just can't have the caffeine." More like can't handle it, I'd snark to myself, with a nice white dollop of eye-rolling on my superiority latte. And then many years later, the day came when I was that person. Yes, I do like my coffee strong. Strongly flavored. But when I imagine the monster leaning on my chest with its big heavy fist and I'm talking like a 45 on 78, I am happy to sip my cuppa decaf.

I bought some thread and pieces of fabric at the fabric store yesterday, to attempt to repair a weird quilt that I bought a few years ago. I don't know where I thought I was going to get the time, but I thought it might be a good break from the screen now and then. It's just the top of a quilt, sewn onto scraps of cotton or muslin which are all sewn together. I will try and post a picture of it. It's a crazy quilt, with no real pattern.

I'm not sure exactly what it's made out of, but it looks like bits of ties and fancy dresses, because every single patch is that shiny tie-like material. Some of the pieces are made out of that incredibly fragile material, acetate, I think. The acetate bits are shredded and disintegrating, so that's what I'm going to replace. The more I look at this weird old quilt, the more I realize it was made by someone with lots of time, lots of shiny material, and very little skill or taste. There is absolutely no color theme. But it's mine now. But the fabric I bought yesterday is not shiny. Right colors, wrong material. Maybe I'll stick it in there anyway, to calm the thing down. There are a lot more missing pieces than I thought.

The dog is sitting below my feet, alternating between obsessively licking the carpet and whining at me. I think he wants to go for another walk. We go on a walk every morning for half an hour. In the morning, Mr. Dog. That is when we do it. Not now, not after dinner. Though it is still light out. And I could use some more break in time on my new orthotics.

Here is one sign that you are entering middle age: appliances. This morning, I went to have my retainer checked at the orthodontist's while wearing my orthotics. Sounds like a sentence from a vocabulary primer.

The retainer was my idea. I had a couple of teeth that were starting to turn inwards, and I decided that it was time that they were straightened out, to prevent them from getting so bad that I had to have expensive veneers put on later, as my mother did. Retainer: cheap; veneers: not cheap. Also, a retainer is cheaper than a Nightguard, which I should have been wearing most of my adult life, because I am a grinder. In a couple of my childhood pictures, you can see that I have worn all of my teeth completely even across the front. Now I can grind away on some plastic and save my tooth surfaces, and the retainer is completely replaceable. Unfortunately, it is also plastic. I'm afraid it's exactly the same kind of plastic that is in all of those water bottles I so righteously shun. So I drink water out of a Sigg or a Kleen Kanteen, and then make sure to put my phlalate pacifier in every night to so I don't miss any of those yummy carcinogens.

Um, then the orthotics. A few months ago, I noticed two of my toes were numb. I had been increasing my running mileage, so I didn't worry too much about it. Until my mother mentioned that her toes were tingly and numb just prior to her diabetes diagnosis years ago. I spent about a week totally freaked out that I was diabetic, bought a very good book that anyone who has diabetes or a family history of diabetes should have: Conquering Diabetes: A Complete Guide for Prevention and Treatment. Luckily, I had a doctor's appointment that included a blood test already scheduled and everything came out perfectly. I don't have high blood sugar, my cholesterols are "exemplary- A plus". All other indicators well under control. I still highly recommend the book. Finally made it to a podiatrist who diagnosed a "neuroma" and prescribed orthotics, which I picked up yesterday.

Another way to tell you are getting old: you think that talking about appliances is interesting. (Also, you reference record turntable speeds in your first paragraph.)

But back to the quilt, I guess it's not so bad. The shiny makes it pretty, even if it is completely schizophrenic.

I think I will walk the dog.

A Different Kind of Snow

I know I give Modesto a hard time sometimes. It's the Anti-New York: the city that always sleeps. Two seasons: Hot and Fog. The Midwest of California. (With no offense to the actual Midwest.)

Although I miss some of the people that are still there, springtime is the only time I really miss the Central Valley. Since I'm not there to show you, you should take a look at this Flickr search of blossoms in Modesto. And this one.

During one of our poorest times, when Mike and I first got together and he was working so that I could finish my last year of college, we lived in the only house that I could find where I could have a dog. It was in the middle of an almond orchard on the outskirts of the tiny town of Hilmar. Hilmar is most famous for its cheese factory, a facility that actually makes more money from its whey, aka protein powder, than its cheese, these days.

We lived across from and down the road from muddy Portuguese dairies that partied to tuba music on Saturday nights, and down the road from an enormous turkey farm. Turkeys, in case you didn't know a) stink in the summertime and b) frequently suffocate or perish from other causes, which c) creates a pile of dead turkeys that, well, see a). When Mike would pick me up from school in our one shared vehicle, we'd stop at the stop sign on the way home, count to three, hold our breath, and drive as fast as we could past the stench. Sometimes only to suck in a lung-full of eau de cow manure on the first breath.

It was where we learned to do the "country wave" which is holding up your hand in a sort of straight-forearm, bent elbow "how" position (think Tonto) when driving or walking towards anyone on a country road. At first, we couldn't figure out why everyone was waving at us. Finally we went with it. It's what you do in the country. In Hilmar, in Napa Valley, or anywhere. You can always tell the "city people" wherever you are, because they don't get "the wave". It's like secret handshake, or maybe a secret salute. In your neighborhood in town, you do it to your neighbors, but in the country, you do it to everyone, whether you know them or not.

Our house, humble, paneled and bi-sected as it was, was literally surrounded by almond trees in a well-groomed orchard, with levees every few rows for irrigation from the canals, (or for tripping over during late-night drunken camera-tag). Most of the year, the orchard was dusty or muddy, depending on the season. Or full of noise and tractors shaking the "L" out of the "A-mands". (Yes, that's how they get that way.)

After the seemingly endless dense, damp gray of a Central Valley winter, when the cows looked miserable and droopy and piles of silage steamed in the cold, springtime was magical. Corridor upon corridor of white and pink flowers bloomed on every country road. Our little house was surrounded by white trees snowing a fairy snow of white petals. Seen through the window, silent but for the faint singing of birds, the petals fluttered down, covering the dust. (Like this.) Mike's niece Mackenzie was born in the spring of that year. I remember going to see her when she was first born, how fragile and serious she looked, how delicate. Returning home, I sat and watched the flowers rain their quiet snow, and wrote a poem about how lovely it was that she came at such a gentle time, as though the transition from one quiet world to another had been pre-arranged. Sometime I'll dig that poem up and post it.

Happy Spring.

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.

"Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." - Mark Twain, humorist and author (1835 - 1910)

(from neatorama)