I'm reposting the one below one as a minor remembrance to the "Really Famous Musician" referenced in it. Bill Bennett, all-around nice guy, a man of great and wry humor and principal oboist for the San Francisco Symphony, was stricken by a massive brain hemorrhage during a performance on Feb. 23. He never regained consciousness and died on Feb. 28. He leaves behind one of my favorite people—his wife, Peggy, one of the funniest women I've ever met—and two teenage sons.
This YouTube clip will give you a little idea of what Bill was all about.
And here's the post from 2010:
This morning my husband and I drove our eldest son Bobby to San Francisco International Airport for a flight that will eventually land him in El Salvador. To the question, "Why is your son going to El Salvador," my standard answer is officially, "Because I am an idiot."
I guess the real answer is somewhat more difficult to figure out. My son has parents who are overeducated overachievers who way the hell oversheltered him for the first 14 years of his life. And then we moved to Berkeley two years ago and it all went to hell. Sort of. I think the best thing about Berkeley is that it's a great place to raise free-range children. Our youngest, Sam, started taking BART by himself when he was 11 because his best friend moved to the other side of the Caldecott Tunnel. We would drop him at our end, they would pick him up on their end. We armed both of them with bus passes and let them head off to Eudamonia in downtown Berkeley. Or to the ledges outside of Berkeley High where the skate punks gather. And every time they walked out the door, my heart would seize until they came home.
And then I moved them back to Salinas and pissed them both off.
I think I'm hoping Bobby will figure out his life during a few weeks in Central America. He's a low-ambition kid, a smart as hell, exceedingly eloquent 16-year-old kid who has no interest in performing for his parents or for his teachers. He always has a few books going, he loves theater and music and baseball. He thinks he wants to join the Peace Corps, but that could change by tomorrow.
Our friend Max has been planning this trip to El Salvador, Guatemala and Belize for months. His wife, Feliciana, needs to be in Guatemala for the next nine days to ... celebrate? mourn? the first year anniversary of her father's death. Max is going to take his boys, Bobby and a fourth teenager--the son of another set of friends--surfing and hiking and for Spanish lessions in El Salvador before they head to Guatemala on Thursday, where they will work at a clinic sponsored by Max's congregation and hopefully help out with any work that needs to be done at Feliciana's house. She was raised in the mountains, three hours away from electricity, and with both of her parents gone, the small farm and the house now are hers.
We met all of them at the airport this morning, where Dr. P, the mom of the fourth teen, asked me how I was doing with the trip. Because her husband (we'll call him RFM, for Really Famous Musician) was freaking the hell out. Dr. P will be joining them on Thursday, when I will start freaking out a little less.
"I'm freaking out too," I said. "Do you have your prescription pad? Can I have some valium?"
She didn't and I couldn't. But we sat in a lounge area while the boys got their boarding passes and talked about our worries.
Chuck: Dengue Fever. You're on your back for eight days and you can't take care of your own basic needs.
RFM: Nodding. Yeah, that's a bad one.
Me: I'm worried about kidnapping, illegal organ harvesting and Central American jails.
Dr. P: You can't be worried about organ harvesting. That's not a legitimate fear.
Me: It's my fear and I'll worry if I want to.
RFM: Condoms. I forgot to tell him about condoms.
Me: Yeah, we went over that one last night.
Dr. P, eyes widening: Condoms? You don't think ... really? Condoms?
Me: They're teenage boys.
RFM, sighing: I'll go tell him.
We lingered on as the boys and Max wended their way through the security line. I wrapped myself around my baby's neck and hung on until it was embarrassing for both of us.
And then I let him go.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
The Fine Art of Puttering
I last had significant time off of work in June 2012, when I went back to Chicago to be with my mother as she died. That was three weeks: the dying week, the funeral week and the drive back to California with my sister and all of her possessions in a U-Haul week.
I'm on vacation this week and I'm strangely defensive about it. People ask me what my grand plan is, and I have no answer. I just kind of want to be in my house and putter. And eat cheese—good cheese, the expensive stuff, not like the fistful of discount pepper jack I just hoovered. I want to plant some plants. I have about 70 tulip bulbs that need to go in the ground, and I have an entire succulent frame that needs to be planted and hung. I want to create some art. I help create a really cool newspaper every week, but I haven't created anything using paper and paint and brushes in a long time. I want to take a few day trips. Read fiction. Go to the city council meeting for my own amusement, because they're funnier than any sitcom on TV right now. (Except Girls. Holy hell, have you seen Girls? Funniest thing going. I am fully aboard the Lena Dunham train.) I thought I might go to Chicago this week, but fuck, it's like 22-degrees there right now and according to the forecast, when it's not snowing in the next few days, there will be freezing rain. I'll wait on Chicago.
I've technically been on vacation since Friday, but it doesn't really count since the office holiday party (which always takes place about a month after the holidays) was Friday night. And even before that, during the day, my boss kept emailing me with, "Hey, I know you're on vacation, but what do you think about blah blah blah." Good party. Excellent party. I have to be drunk to dance in public and boy did I dance. Woke up Saturday and my hair hurt. Ate waffles with my husband, walked over to the homeless encampment at City Hall (or, as I like to think of it as, an object lesson in what happens when the city dismantles a homeless encampment and leaves the denizens with nowhere else to go). Last night, a cocktail party at our friend Nate's house. This morning, sleeping, reading and puttering. I puttered and Chuck made David Chang's steamed pork buns
I puttered here:
I also puttered here:
And then I puttered here too:
Puttering, for those unfamiliar, is the fine art of rearranging stuff.
I'm on vacation this week and I'm strangely defensive about it. People ask me what my grand plan is, and I have no answer. I just kind of want to be in my house and putter. And eat cheese—good cheese, the expensive stuff, not like the fistful of discount pepper jack I just hoovered. I want to plant some plants. I have about 70 tulip bulbs that need to go in the ground, and I have an entire succulent frame that needs to be planted and hung. I want to create some art. I help create a really cool newspaper every week, but I haven't created anything using paper and paint and brushes in a long time. I want to take a few day trips. Read fiction. Go to the city council meeting for my own amusement, because they're funnier than any sitcom on TV right now. (Except Girls. Holy hell, have you seen Girls? Funniest thing going. I am fully aboard the Lena Dunham train.) I thought I might go to Chicago this week, but fuck, it's like 22-degrees there right now and according to the forecast, when it's not snowing in the next few days, there will be freezing rain. I'll wait on Chicago.
I've technically been on vacation since Friday, but it doesn't really count since the office holiday party (which always takes place about a month after the holidays) was Friday night. And even before that, during the day, my boss kept emailing me with, "Hey, I know you're on vacation, but what do you think about blah blah blah." Good party. Excellent party. I have to be drunk to dance in public and boy did I dance. Woke up Saturday and my hair hurt. Ate waffles with my husband, walked over to the homeless encampment at City Hall (or, as I like to think of it as, an object lesson in what happens when the city dismantles a homeless encampment and leaves the denizens with nowhere else to go). Last night, a cocktail party at our friend Nate's house. This morning, sleeping, reading and puttering. I puttered and Chuck made David Chang's steamed pork buns
I puttered here:
I also puttered here:
And then I puttered here too:
Puttering, for those unfamiliar, is the fine art of rearranging stuff.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Farm to Table
So last Saturday, we went and did this.
And had she been alive to see it, my mother likely would say this:
It was a breathtakingly expensive turkey. We named him Carl, in honor of the irritating kid on The Walking Dead. (He has has his own twitter hashtag— #killcarlalready.) Here's what he looked life before:
And here's what he looked like after 12 hours in brine and nine hours of smoking on the Weber:
No, Carl isn't burned. That's just what the skin looks like after nine hours of smoking. The tradeoff for not having the crisp golden skin is probably the juiciest bird we've ever had. Seriously good turkey.
I came home from work last night to find Chuck in the kitchen, scalding and peeling Carl's feet. The feet went into a stockpot with celery, carrot, onion and some herbs; Carl's neck went into the oven to roast. I chopped up the neck meat and used the drippings and foot stock to make gravy. Seriously good gravy too.
And then we ate. The complete menu: cold cracked crab, crab cakes with homemade remoulade, the world's most expensive turkey, mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes (because as much as my friend Carmela says she doesn't like children, she knows my youngest loves her roasted potatoes more than anything), my mother's bread dressing, cornbread dressing (because Chuck doesn't like fruit in his dressing and you can't make my mother's recipe without the dried fruit) and green bean casserole. Dessert: caramel apple cake, cheesecake with pineapple compote and vegan pumpkin pie (don't ask). The guest list: fun people we love.
Apropos of nothing, here's my friend Koly with a crab claw shoved up her nose.
And just in case you were wondering, it's been 10 days since Nigel's last escape.
And had she been alive to see it, my mother likely would say this:
“Your grandmother didn’t haul her ass from the mountains above Krakow, land at Ellis Island and go to work in a Chicago slaughterhouse so her college-educated granddaughter could kill her own food. Get your head out of your [expletive] and go to the grocery store like a normal human being.” And then she would utter a few curses in Polish while shaking her head in disgust.
It was a breathtakingly expensive turkey. We named him Carl, in honor of the irritating kid on The Walking Dead. (He has has his own twitter hashtag— #killcarlalready.) Here's what he looked life before:
And here's what he looked like after 12 hours in brine and nine hours of smoking on the Weber:
No, Carl isn't burned. That's just what the skin looks like after nine hours of smoking. The tradeoff for not having the crisp golden skin is probably the juiciest bird we've ever had. Seriously good turkey.
I came home from work last night to find Chuck in the kitchen, scalding and peeling Carl's feet. The feet went into a stockpot with celery, carrot, onion and some herbs; Carl's neck went into the oven to roast. I chopped up the neck meat and used the drippings and foot stock to make gravy. Seriously good gravy too.
And then we ate. The complete menu: cold cracked crab, crab cakes with homemade remoulade, the world's most expensive turkey, mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes (because as much as my friend Carmela says she doesn't like children, she knows my youngest loves her roasted potatoes more than anything), my mother's bread dressing, cornbread dressing (because Chuck doesn't like fruit in his dressing and you can't make my mother's recipe without the dried fruit) and green bean casserole. Dessert: caramel apple cake, cheesecake with pineapple compote and vegan pumpkin pie (don't ask). The guest list: fun people we love.
Apropos of nothing, here's my friend Koly with a crab claw shoved up her nose.
And just in case you were wondering, it's been 10 days since Nigel's last escape.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Frailty, Thy Name is Turkey
In about 10 hours, Chuck and I are going to a harvest party. What's being harvested: the main course at Thanksgiving dinner.
For some reason, getting a turkey raised with organic TLC by someone we know sounded like a great fucking idea two months ago. But now that I received the Facebook message from a friend advising us to wear clothes we don't mind getting bloody, it seems like less of a good idea.
It's part of next week's cover package. The Silence of the Turkeys: Sometimes to make a killer holiday dinner, you have to kill your holiday dinner.
For some reason, getting a turkey raised with organic TLC by someone we know sounded like a great fucking idea two months ago. But now that I received the Facebook message from a friend advising us to wear clothes we don't mind getting bloody, it seems like less of a good idea.
It's part of next week's cover package. The Silence of the Turkeys: Sometimes to make a killer holiday dinner, you have to kill your holiday dinner.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Random Facts
Or, ten things most people don't know about me.
10. I read every single thing I can get my hands on about Mt. Everest and the climbing of it. I get altitude sickness if I'm more than five feet above sea level, but I love reading about climbing.
9. I have a Chandler & Price 1904 treadle-action letterpress and two job boxes of type. I like to think of it as, "What I'll do when I retire."
8. I become obsessed with certain music based on the season. Right now, it's the Tomasz Stanko quartet, Spoon, and Gorillaz. In January, I will obsessively listen to Sting. Food obsessions take place based on season too. Right now, it's soup and cheese.
7. My sister is 20 years older than me; she lives with us and we take care of her. If anyone messes with my sister, they will end up wishing they were dead. NOBODY messes with my sister on my watch.
6. I work for two men who have really empowered me to speak my mind when it comes how the workplace operates. I'm sure there are days when they regret it, like when I told them they were hypocrites for taking vacation the week between Christmas and New Year's while the rest of us are at work.
5. I get nutty if my house is messy. This means I'm mostly nutty all of the time.
4. My idea of perfect happiness--Chinese food and a movie with my family--takes place almost every Friday night. Tonight the eldest teen joined us for the food, and the youngest joined us for the movie.
3. My best friend became my best friend by stumbling on an early blog I had and making me a sock dog named Fergus. The BFF can do anything she sets her mind to and is a good counterpoint to my approach of neurotic laziness.
2. If I feel a relationship is doing me more harm than good, I have no qualms about ending it, and once it's done, I will never think about it again. This has given me a reputation for heartlessness, but really I just figure life is too short to be with people who suck the life out of you.
1. I miss my mother something fierce.
10. I read every single thing I can get my hands on about Mt. Everest and the climbing of it. I get altitude sickness if I'm more than five feet above sea level, but I love reading about climbing.
9. I have a Chandler & Price 1904 treadle-action letterpress and two job boxes of type. I like to think of it as, "What I'll do when I retire."
8. I become obsessed with certain music based on the season. Right now, it's the Tomasz Stanko quartet, Spoon, and Gorillaz. In January, I will obsessively listen to Sting. Food obsessions take place based on season too. Right now, it's soup and cheese.
7. My sister is 20 years older than me; she lives with us and we take care of her. If anyone messes with my sister, they will end up wishing they were dead. NOBODY messes with my sister on my watch.
6. I work for two men who have really empowered me to speak my mind when it comes how the workplace operates. I'm sure there are days when they regret it, like when I told them they were hypocrites for taking vacation the week between Christmas and New Year's while the rest of us are at work.
5. I get nutty if my house is messy. This means I'm mostly nutty all of the time.
4. My idea of perfect happiness--Chinese food and a movie with my family--takes place almost every Friday night. Tonight the eldest teen joined us for the food, and the youngest joined us for the movie.
3. My best friend became my best friend by stumbling on an early blog I had and making me a sock dog named Fergus. The BFF can do anything she sets her mind to and is a good counterpoint to my approach of neurotic laziness.
2. If I feel a relationship is doing me more harm than good, I have no qualms about ending it, and once it's done, I will never think about it again. This has given me a reputation for heartlessness, but really I just figure life is too short to be with people who suck the life out of you.
1. I miss my mother something fierce.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Heidi Chronicles
Ruthlessly stolen from someone who ruthlessly stole it from Heidi, creator of The Heidi FAQ.
Q. What is Mary wearing?
A. Honestly, who gives a shit? It's almost midnight and Mary is in a mood. The country's going to hell-in-a-handbasket, and Mary doesn't even know if that phrase needs to be hyphenated or not, that's how grumpy she is.
Q. What kind of mood is Mary in?
A. See above.
Q. What are the factors currently affecting Mary's mood?
A. Desperate need for three days of absolute solitude and quiet and not worrying about anyone else's needs.
Q. What is Mary's situation vis-a-vis coffee?
A. Mary is looking forward to a peppermint mocha in the morning.
Q. What is Mary wearing?
A. Honestly, who gives a shit? It's almost midnight and Mary is in a mood. The country's going to hell-in-a-handbasket, and Mary doesn't even know if that phrase needs to be hyphenated or not, that's how grumpy she is.
Q. What kind of mood is Mary in?
A. See above.
Q. What are the factors currently affecting Mary's mood?
A. Desperate need for three days of absolute solitude and quiet and not worrying about anyone else's needs.
Q. What is Mary's situation vis-a-vis coffee?
A. Mary is looking forward to a peppermint mocha in the morning.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
There's Always Something To Do In Salinas
Two weeks ago Sunday night, this happened in my front yard.
One week ago Sunday night, this happened down the block from my house.
It's Sunday again. So far, my friend Heather,
who is visiting from Virginia, was almost killed—KILLED, I tell you—by a hipster driving a shopping car erratically through the condiment aisle at the Whole Foods in Monterey. A condiment aisle where, I might add, I was forced to buy hipster wing sauce for our planned hot wing pizza (shredded chicken, wing sauce, blue cheese and mozzarella, shredded carrot and celery leaves) because they don't have low-rent Frank's Red Hot Sauce.
(Why shop there at all? It's not an unreasonable question. I've just grown very fond of their prepared whole grain pizza dough and as I had 20 lbs. of tomatoes—a case of dry-farmed Early Girls and a case of heirlooms from my favorite farmer, Jamie Collins, owner of Serendipity Farms
—to process and can this afternoon, I wanted to make the dough easier ...) (Take note: we finally, after 18 months of living upstairs in the main house, have kitchen counters.)
So far, it's been a quiet day and I'm hoping men and dogs make it through the night without bullets flying around the hood.
One week ago Sunday night, this happened down the block from my house.
It's Sunday again. So far, my friend Heather,
who is visiting from Virginia, was almost killed—KILLED, I tell you—by a hipster driving a shopping car erratically through the condiment aisle at the Whole Foods in Monterey. A condiment aisle where, I might add, I was forced to buy hipster wing sauce for our planned hot wing pizza (shredded chicken, wing sauce, blue cheese and mozzarella, shredded carrot and celery leaves) because they don't have low-rent Frank's Red Hot Sauce.
(Why shop there at all? It's not an unreasonable question. I've just grown very fond of their prepared whole grain pizza dough and as I had 20 lbs. of tomatoes—a case of dry-farmed Early Girls and a case of heirlooms from my favorite farmer, Jamie Collins, owner of Serendipity Farms
So far, it's been a quiet day and I'm hoping men and dogs make it through the night without bullets flying around the hood.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)