1. Sent Sam to programming camp this year for what's likely going to be his final time. He'll be 17 next year and he's going to need to get a job next summer. Last time to be a kid. There were no spaces left at Berkeley (his camp of choice) by the time we decided he should go, so he ended up at Stanford, making this the one and only time I'll ever be able to lift my chin and say, "Oh yes, we had to drop our son off at Stanford…"
2. Sam wants to follow the traditional path to world domination. Liberal arts undergrad degree, law school, state senate and then governor. I'm anticipating an insider trading charge somewhere along the way. He's very charming though, and likely will be able to talk his way out of it.
3. I miss him. There's nobody around to come into my room every night and ask for money. "Mom, you got any money?" Eye roll, fetch wallet, hand over the cash.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Morning Commute
Driving down Highway 1 on Thursday morning, dropping the older off in Monterey. Conversation as follows.
Me, looking at the ocean: You ever feel like going and taking a walk in nature?
Him, shaking his head slowly back and forth: Noooooo.
Me: Me either. What's wrong with us?
A few minutes pass.
Me: But don't you feel like you could walk five miles through San Francisco?
Him: Of course. It's setting, mom. Setting is very important.
Me, looking at the ocean: You ever feel like going and taking a walk in nature?
Him, shaking his head slowly back and forth: Noooooo.
Me: Me either. What's wrong with us?
A few minutes pass.
Me: But don't you feel like you could walk five miles through San Francisco?
Him: Of course. It's setting, mom. Setting is very important.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
14Q
Totally stolen from the New Yorker.
Where do you get your coffee?
If I'm getting a cup in the morning before I go to the office, it's the Cherry Bean. If I have to wait and get it later, I go to ACME in Seaside.
Name: Mary Duan
Age: 45
Neighborhood: Oldtown, Salinas, CA
Occupation: newspaper editor, columnist, writer, mom.
Who's Your Favorite Salinan, Living or Dead, Real or Fictional?
John Steinbeck, duh. And I dearly wish he was still around today, because he would not believe the shit that goes on in his name. Also, former Salinas Mayor Dennis Donohue, for his relentless optimism (he campaigned on the slogan "Imagine a Great City," to which I always added, "Then move there") and steadfast refusal to wear a tie to 99 percent of the functions and meetings he attended. I love Will Devoe and Imelda Suarez for bringing street art to the masses and introducing me to my new favorite artist, Cryptik. And finally, Todd Williams, owner of the Cherry Bean Coffee House, because he's angrier than me.
What's the best meal you've ever eaten in Salinas?
Look, Salinas might be known as "the salad bowl of the world," but this is not a town known for its culinary genius. Having said that, I miss the old Hullaballoo restaurant, because the did amazing burgers and great ribs and you could count on the quality, always. Our go-to place on Friday nights is Eagle Chinese, where the hot and sour soup comes with an angry red glow and the owner rolls the mushu tableside using a fork, a spoon and only one hand, always with a little smirk on his face. And Gutierrez Market, where the parking lot sometimes resembles an open-air drug bazaar (they can't help it--the neighborhood is a hellhole), does the single best take on carnitas this side of the border, and maybe outside of Michoacan. Crispy, salty, slightly fatty pork. And at Gino's Italian, the cannelloni is to die for. Very good red sauce.
Patria just opened in the former Hullaballoo space. Their cheese plate and a cocktail and I am a happy human. It has one of the most beautiful restaurant interiors I've seen anywhere, and that includes Europe.
Patria just opened in the former Hullaballoo space. Their cheese plate and a cocktail and I am a happy human. It has one of the most beautiful restaurant interiors I've seen anywhere, and that includes Europe.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
I am an air traffic controller/hostage negotiator. I keep the trains running on time. I teach reporters how to be better reporters.
Where do you get your coffee?
If I'm getting a cup in the morning before I go to the office, it's the Cherry Bean. If I have to wait and get it later, I go to ACME in Seaside.
What was your first job in Salinas?
I was freelancing when we first moved here. For a short time, less than a year, I was the Salinas coordinator for a program which sheltered and fed homeless adult men in conjunction with the local "faith community." I was ill equipped to handle the very real problems these men had been experiencing, in some cases, for many years. I was even less equipped to handle the treachery that went on among the staff and management at the program. I left after I was asked (told, really) to take the blame for the fact that one of the guys stole the keys to all the Salinas churches involved in the programs—the churches were unaware the policy was to keep the keys on the bus in the first place, and one Lutheran minister read me the riot act. I wasn't being paid enough to get yelled at by Lutherans.
What's the last thing you saw at Maya Cinemas?
So, confession: We stopped going to Maya Cinemas about three months ago because the COO signed on to a letter being driven by a bunch of Oldtown property owners demanding the city prevent the downtown Methodist church from providing services to the homeless. This despite the fact that the church is nowhere near the Maya. The Maya is, however, just two blocks away from Chinatown (home of Gutierrez Drive In and the open-air drug market.) Chuck has refused to step foot in the Maya since. But we broke down and went there to see Her, because it's nominated for an Academy Award and we try to see all the nominees in the major categories.
What's your favorite medication?
Ambien.
Ambien.
What's hanging over your sofa?
Nothing, because it's not against a wall.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
$90. $90 is too much for a haircut. And don't get me started on a good colorist and what they charge.
When's bedtime?
Whenever the Ambien kicks in. If I had my way and could set my own schedule, bedtime would be 3am, but I wouldn't have to wake up until 11am.
Do you prefer the old Oldtown or the New?
I didn't really live here when Oldtown was Old. I imagine I would prefer the new, though.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
I almost never carry cash anymore, but when I did, yeah. Now that I'm all debit, all the time, I will usually offer to buy them a cup of coffee or a donut.
Brunch: Pro or con?
Pro. I love brunch. I'd rather eat brunch than any other meal.
What do you hate most about living in Salinas.
The racism. The violence. The us-against-them mentality. The fact that a small handful of good old boys still run shit.
Brunch: Pro or con?
Pro. I love brunch. I'd rather eat brunch than any other meal.
What do you hate most about living in Salinas.
The racism. The violence. The us-against-them mentality. The fact that a small handful of good old boys still run shit.
The List
First, I know, I know. Bad blogger. Bad.
Lots of things coming up at house226. Here's a fast list of some of the stuff.
1. Floors!
When we moved in, we moved into a space with the original subfloor—clear redwood—covered by layers of filth. We removed the filth. They still look like crap. There are strange holes drilled into strange places. They're warped in some areas. Our idiot contractor (I'll get to him a bit more further down the list) had one of his guys do a half-assed job on refinishing half the floors. He was drunk at least part of the time he was working on them, and he subcontracted some of the work out to our then-13-year-old son. It's become an issue of refinish or refloor, and we've opted for refloor. At the end of the month, we'll be receiving 47 boxes of dark birch flooring. It will have to sit in the house to cure and acclimate for about six weeks, and then Chuck will commence with the installation—my sister's room, the entryway, the living room and the dining room. (There are things he can do, and things he can't do. Flooring he can mostly do.)
2. Floors, Part 2!
The soft redwood extends into the kitchen, and it's here where our idiot contractor's subcontractor subcontracted our kid into sanding certain areas. The kitchen floor looks horrible. Always. Freshly washed, it looks horrible. It has nothing to do with Sam's sanding abilities. They just look bad. So, tile it is. (There are things Chuck can do and things he can't do. Tile, he can mostly do.)
3. Plumbing!
Speaking of our idiot contractor, we get decent hot water nowhere in the house, except in the master bathroom toilet. No, not the sink, and not the bathtub. Actually IN the toilet. We have a number of little plumbing projects (and a few larger ones, like moving the washer and dryer hookups) that need doing, so today, Big Angelo came over. In Big Angelo's estimation, our idiot contractor crossed the hot and cold water lines, which is why we don't get hot water anywhere but the toilet.
Big Angelo is moving the washer and dryer hookups because we're moving the laundry into a corner of the kitchen. (The kitchen is large enough to allow this happen. As to whether I want this to happen, the answer is yes. I've decided kitchen aesthetics are mostly an invention of the Home Depot Industrial Complex—kitchens are meant to be places of work and function.) And we're moving the washer and dryer hookups into the kitchen because we're expanding my sister's tiny bathroom and putting a shower in there, which means combing the laundry room with her existing half bath. Taking the stairs to the second floor to use the shower facilities up here is becoming increasingly difficult for her -- she's 65 and her knees are bad. This will make it easier on her.
4. To Wall, or Not to Wall?
Chuck and I are currently, ahem, negotiating whether or not to wall off the access that currently exists to that laundry room. I say yes, wall it off and we can turn that back hallway area into an actual, functioning pantry. He says no because he thinks we need a downstairs toilet and my sister's is it.
"What about when we have guests?" is his argument. Our last three big parties have been disasters—think drunken bad behavior, people falling down the stairs, etc. I say, "fuck entertaining." But since I know we're not actually going to do that, I say guests can climb the stairs and use the toilet up here if they need to.
How much of a fight is this one going to be? Probably a big one. It will take much finesse on my part. Finesse, and costumes and getting into positions I haven't gotten into since I was in my early 20s.
5. On the Yard
In what appears to be a game of telephone that might turn into a great idea, I was contacted a few weeks ago by a woman representing a youth consortium. She had heard I wanted to turn my yard into a community garden. I didn't, but it actually seems like a good idea. The consortium, I believe, wants to use some of our garden beds to grow veggies. We frankly have more space than we can handle, so I think this might work out. I'm not entirely happy with the appearance of the beds right now. I'd like it to look more like the Lafayette Greens in Detroit—modern design against the Victorian backdrop of the house, I think, will be really cool. Partnering with this group might also allow me to concentrate a little bit on the urban chicken ordinance I'm going to try to muscle through the city council this year. Or w might say pluck the ordinance, and get chickens anyway.
So that's what's going on at the homestead. Other plans for the year:
1. Just got over a bout of the H1N1, which was cut short because my doctor gave me tamiflu on day two. "I'm dying," I told her when she walked into the exam room. "You're not dying. Well, I mean, not right now," she said. I'm still pretty exhausted, and didn't leave bed much in the past week, but the fever and headache and body aches seem to be gone. It was a wake up call, though; gotta take my health more seriously. Now I just have to figure out what that looks like and how to be realistic about it. One thing I know; I think 60 hour work weeks have to become 50 hour work weeks.
2. Speaking of healthy lifestyles, we're going to Las Vegas for my birthday. I'm one of those people. I love Las Vegas.
3. I'm trying to plan a long weekend this spring to visit my friend Robin in St. Louis. As her "about" section on Facebook says, she's a recipe developer, cook, writer, music-lover, alt-Mom. I made the alt-Mom part up.
Ok. It's not much, but it's a start. More to come. For reals this time.
Lots of things coming up at house226. Here's a fast list of some of the stuff.
1. Floors!
When we moved in, we moved into a space with the original subfloor—clear redwood—covered by layers of filth. We removed the filth. They still look like crap. There are strange holes drilled into strange places. They're warped in some areas. Our idiot contractor (I'll get to him a bit more further down the list) had one of his guys do a half-assed job on refinishing half the floors. He was drunk at least part of the time he was working on them, and he subcontracted some of the work out to our then-13-year-old son. It's become an issue of refinish or refloor, and we've opted for refloor. At the end of the month, we'll be receiving 47 boxes of dark birch flooring. It will have to sit in the house to cure and acclimate for about six weeks, and then Chuck will commence with the installation—my sister's room, the entryway, the living room and the dining room. (There are things he can do, and things he can't do. Flooring he can mostly do.)
2. Floors, Part 2!
The soft redwood extends into the kitchen, and it's here where our idiot contractor's subcontractor subcontracted our kid into sanding certain areas. The kitchen floor looks horrible. Always. Freshly washed, it looks horrible. It has nothing to do with Sam's sanding abilities. They just look bad. So, tile it is. (There are things Chuck can do and things he can't do. Tile, he can mostly do.)
3. Plumbing!
Speaking of our idiot contractor, we get decent hot water nowhere in the house, except in the master bathroom toilet. No, not the sink, and not the bathtub. Actually IN the toilet. We have a number of little plumbing projects (and a few larger ones, like moving the washer and dryer hookups) that need doing, so today, Big Angelo came over. In Big Angelo's estimation, our idiot contractor crossed the hot and cold water lines, which is why we don't get hot water anywhere but the toilet.
Big Angelo is moving the washer and dryer hookups because we're moving the laundry into a corner of the kitchen. (The kitchen is large enough to allow this happen. As to whether I want this to happen, the answer is yes. I've decided kitchen aesthetics are mostly an invention of the Home Depot Industrial Complex—kitchens are meant to be places of work and function.) And we're moving the washer and dryer hookups into the kitchen because we're expanding my sister's tiny bathroom and putting a shower in there, which means combing the laundry room with her existing half bath. Taking the stairs to the second floor to use the shower facilities up here is becoming increasingly difficult for her -- she's 65 and her knees are bad. This will make it easier on her.
4. To Wall, or Not to Wall?
Chuck and I are currently, ahem, negotiating whether or not to wall off the access that currently exists to that laundry room. I say yes, wall it off and we can turn that back hallway area into an actual, functioning pantry. He says no because he thinks we need a downstairs toilet and my sister's is it.
"What about when we have guests?" is his argument. Our last three big parties have been disasters—think drunken bad behavior, people falling down the stairs, etc. I say, "fuck entertaining." But since I know we're not actually going to do that, I say guests can climb the stairs and use the toilet up here if they need to.
How much of a fight is this one going to be? Probably a big one. It will take much finesse on my part. Finesse, and costumes and getting into positions I haven't gotten into since I was in my early 20s.
5. On the Yard
In what appears to be a game of telephone that might turn into a great idea, I was contacted a few weeks ago by a woman representing a youth consortium. She had heard I wanted to turn my yard into a community garden. I didn't, but it actually seems like a good idea. The consortium, I believe, wants to use some of our garden beds to grow veggies. We frankly have more space than we can handle, so I think this might work out. I'm not entirely happy with the appearance of the beds right now. I'd like it to look more like the Lafayette Greens in Detroit—modern design against the Victorian backdrop of the house, I think, will be really cool. Partnering with this group might also allow me to concentrate a little bit on the urban chicken ordinance I'm going to try to muscle through the city council this year. Or w might say pluck the ordinance, and get chickens anyway.
So that's what's going on at the homestead. Other plans for the year:
1. Just got over a bout of the H1N1, which was cut short because my doctor gave me tamiflu on day two. "I'm dying," I told her when she walked into the exam room. "You're not dying. Well, I mean, not right now," she said. I'm still pretty exhausted, and didn't leave bed much in the past week, but the fever and headache and body aches seem to be gone. It was a wake up call, though; gotta take my health more seriously. Now I just have to figure out what that looks like and how to be realistic about it. One thing I know; I think 60 hour work weeks have to become 50 hour work weeks.
2. Speaking of healthy lifestyles, we're going to Las Vegas for my birthday. I'm one of those people. I love Las Vegas.
3. I'm trying to plan a long weekend this spring to visit my friend Robin in St. Louis. As her "about" section on Facebook says, she's a recipe developer, cook, writer, music-lover, alt-Mom. I made the alt-Mom part up.
Ok. It's not much, but it's a start. More to come. For reals this time.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Kitty Kitty
My column from this week's paper.
Mary Duan is the Weekly’s editor. Reach her at mary@mcweekly.com.
Dead Cat Drama
One deceased feline in one cheap sweater makes for one lunatic encounter.
By Mary Duan
Those of you following along may have noticed that from time to time, I use this column as an ongoing piece on the rough theme of tales from the hood. I live in Oldtown Salinas, in an egregiously large Victorian we bought out of foreclosure, and the remodel of it will never, ever be complete. There’s a funeral home on one side of us that occasionally hosts parties with bounce houses, and an office building across the street where a religious-driven success group meets all hours of the day and night. (Did I mention they’re rhythmically challenged? The clapping, bass and drums are never in sync.)
Among the stranger things that have happened since my husband and I bought the complete wreck of a home: We were finishing dinner one Sunday night, heard gunshots and I opened the door to find the Salinas police had shot a pit bull that had gone on a runabout through the neighborhood; the pit bled out on my lawn in front of the pomegranate bushes. Twice, when my kids have forgotten to lock the doors while they’re inside, they’ve found obviously stoned people wandering through the dining room. One of my tenants intervened in a screaming match a local restaurant owner was having with someone trying to drive down the shared alleyway, and the owner then turned on him (this will become important later).
And then there were the two guys who used my porch as a party pad early one morning, blasting banda music at 3am, before the party turned bad and the two got into such a loud fight that the police were called, a taser was used and I’ve been subpoenaed to testify.
Nothing, though, could have prepared me for the most recent adventure, or as I’m calling it, “The Curious Case of the Dead Cat in the Sweater.”
My oldest kid was home from work and walking his girlfriend out to her car so she could go to her own job when a woman wearing a uniform from the aforementioned restaurant approached and started shrieking. “Do you even care there’s a dead cat laying here? It’s been here for three days! When are you planning on taking care of this?
“You people,” she hissed, “are despicable.”
Sure enough, there it was: a dead cat, wrapped in a dark blue polyblend cardigan, laying in the gutter, one lone paw sticking up in the air. It may or may not have been there for three days—I have no idea—but it was definitely there now.
I called the restaurant and not-so-calmly suggested they keep their unhinged waitress on a leash, or at least away from my kid and my newly acquired dead cat. And that’s when the Facebook message came in: “Have you seen THIS?” a friend wrote. The woman had taken a cell phone picture of the dead cat with my house looming in the background, written a narrative using my name and address, pointing out that the house belonged to me and that clearly my tenants (she thought the guy she was screaming at was the tenant who had the alley encounter with her boss) have turned a blind eye to the poor dead creature.
“Despicable!” she intoned.
Suddenly, I went from being the neighborhood sucker where all the hard-luck-case dogs come for a free meal to a blood-thirsty abuser of dead cats. One of her friends wrote, “I never liked the Coast Weekly anyway, now I boycott!”
Aside from the obvious question—if the waitress knew the cat was there for three days, why didn’t she call animal control herself?—we now faced the issue of what one does with a dead cat when it’s past 5pm and animal control is closed.
I did what I always do in crisis: Called my friend Carmela Moreno. She’s like Wolf from the Quentin Tarantino film Pulp Fiction. She came, examined the situation and said, “I need a shovel and a contractor’s garbage bag. Go.”
The cat was shoveled as gently as possible into the bag, the bag was tied and Carmela drove off with it in her trunk.
The next morning, Saturday, she walked into Salinas Animal Services to tell them she had a dead cat that needed proper disposing. One of the nice little old lady volunteers piped up and asked, “Is that the cat from 226 Pajaro St.? I heard all about that on Facebook.”
Mary Duan is the Weekly’s editor. Reach her at mary@mcweekly.com.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Blaising Saddles
10 Surreal Things About Today:
10. I started the day by representing the Weekly at a symposium on homelessness. I was one of the "subject experts" in a breakout group on framing homeless issues in the media. There were about 250 people there and I had to present to the entire group at the end. The only thing I hate more than speaking in front of large groups is...well, there's nothing. Nothing more I hate than speaking in front of a large group. Also, because of my job, I just assume that at some point I've pissed off at least 80 percent of the policymakers in the room, and will piss off the other 20 percent sometime soon. One guy there asked me if I was coming to a private meeting next week held by a group of private individuals who are trying to put together a ballot measure for a public-safety tax in Salinas. I told him I didn't think I was invited because I tried and failed to get into their last meeting. He smiled and said, "Well there was some discussion about it. Frankly, you scare people."
9. Just as the symposium was ending, I received a text message from my boss offering me his tickets to an event this evening, a sold-out, celeb-studded dealie with lots of food and wine. We were a media partner in the event, but still, those tickets ran $180 each. And I hesitated because I knew I would have to talk to people and frankly, people scare me. But a woman at the symposium overheard my angst and talked me into going. I am glad she did, because...
8. This is Richard Blais, winner of Top Chef All Stars, restaurateur and cookbook author.
You know how some people seem great on TV and end up being douchey in real life? He is not one of those people. I am taking a picture of him taking a picture of a picture of himself (we threw down at the table next to his station) at the Monterey Plaza Hotel. He was completely self-deprecating and funny and genuinely nice. He wanted to be there and he was happy to talk to people and he laughed at himself taking a picture of a picture of himself. Also, he served geoduck rolls, i.e., lobster rolls only with geoduck. And the guy next to him, whom I believe was Chef Tim Wood of Carmel Valley Ranch, was dishing up (ladling up?) the most amazing clam chowder.
7. And then there was this:
That's Carla Hall on the left and Chris Cosentino on the right. The event tonight was Carla Hall's "Street Food Extravaganza" at the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Cooking for Solutions event. I've interviewed Chris a few times for different things, but this week we featured him on the cover of the Weekly. The little dude in the rhino hat Chris' and Tatiana Graf's son. He loves chocolate.
6. Also, there's Carla and Michele Ragussis.
Michele was serving arancini, traditional arancini, stuffed with ragu and cheese and I swear to God it was only my sense of shame that kept me from eating more of them than I did.
5. Also, there's this.
From left, Cindy Pawlcyn of Mustards and Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen, along with Carla, Carmela Moreno and Rick Moonen.
What's that? You've never heard of Carmela Moreno?
She was my date for the night, as Chuck had a previous engagement. Carmela is our dog whisperer. Carla asked if anyone wanted to come up and talk to her, and Carmela strode right up, "strode" being a relative term because when you're 5 feet tall, have had five glasses of wine and your kitten heels keep getting caught in the cobblestone, striding isn't really what happens. Carmela, who is an original red diaper baby, explained that street food has always been the food of her people. (I kept waiting for her to raise her right hand in a power salute, cry out "si se puede" and try to unionize the hotel workers. "I checked," she told me. "They're already union.") Note that Pawlcyn and Moonen, of RM Seafood in Vegas, came up AFTER Carmela. Moonen planted a kiss on Mela's cheek and told her he liked her passion. "Who is he again?" she asked me on the way home.)
4. This is where my phone apparently stopped taking pictures. Other perfect bites from tonight were Mary Sue Milliken's and Susan Feniger's churros with chocolate sauce. ("I swear this is my last one," I told her. Art Smith, Oprah's own, thought that was funny.) Also, I talked to Susan Feniger about Real Housewives of OC. Apparently she was on it at some point, and she said nobody ever admits to watching it. "I watch it," I told her, "and I don't care who knows it."
3. I had the opportunity tonight to run over someone who caused a dear friend a great deal of pain. He stepped RIGHT in front of my car. I didn't take the shot. Earlier at the event I had seen him ogling, in a most unseemly way, a group of Real Housewives of Monterey County. They were digging the attention, and I wanted to tell them, "Ladies, only if you want an incurable chronic disease." But I didn't. Didn't run him over either. Probably for the best.
2. I've learned to light the charcoal grill. Tomorrow, after I'm done sleeping for 12 hours, finding the perfect aqua blue pashmina (I have a coupon! For Beverly's! One of the Real Housewives of Monterey County was wearing one and I'm feeling covetous), I am going to light the grill and grill flank steak. I will probably forget to take a picture of it.
1. Nigel is woofing in his sleep. Oliver has the worst gas ever. Also, I need to vacuum.
10. I started the day by representing the Weekly at a symposium on homelessness. I was one of the "subject experts" in a breakout group on framing homeless issues in the media. There were about 250 people there and I had to present to the entire group at the end. The only thing I hate more than speaking in front of large groups is...well, there's nothing. Nothing more I hate than speaking in front of a large group. Also, because of my job, I just assume that at some point I've pissed off at least 80 percent of the policymakers in the room, and will piss off the other 20 percent sometime soon. One guy there asked me if I was coming to a private meeting next week held by a group of private individuals who are trying to put together a ballot measure for a public-safety tax in Salinas. I told him I didn't think I was invited because I tried and failed to get into their last meeting. He smiled and said, "Well there was some discussion about it. Frankly, you scare people."
9. Just as the symposium was ending, I received a text message from my boss offering me his tickets to an event this evening, a sold-out, celeb-studded dealie with lots of food and wine. We were a media partner in the event, but still, those tickets ran $180 each. And I hesitated because I knew I would have to talk to people and frankly, people scare me. But a woman at the symposium overheard my angst and talked me into going. I am glad she did, because...
8. This is Richard Blais, winner of Top Chef All Stars, restaurateur and cookbook author.
You know how some people seem great on TV and end up being douchey in real life? He is not one of those people. I am taking a picture of him taking a picture of a picture of himself (we threw down at the table next to his station) at the Monterey Plaza Hotel. He was completely self-deprecating and funny and genuinely nice. He wanted to be there and he was happy to talk to people and he laughed at himself taking a picture of a picture of himself. Also, he served geoduck rolls, i.e., lobster rolls only with geoduck. And the guy next to him, whom I believe was Chef Tim Wood of Carmel Valley Ranch, was dishing up (ladling up?) the most amazing clam chowder.7. And then there was this:
That's Carla Hall on the left and Chris Cosentino on the right. The event tonight was Carla Hall's "Street Food Extravaganza" at the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Cooking for Solutions event. I've interviewed Chris a few times for different things, but this week we featured him on the cover of the Weekly. The little dude in the rhino hat Chris' and Tatiana Graf's son. He loves chocolate.
6. Also, there's Carla and Michele Ragussis.
Michele was serving arancini, traditional arancini, stuffed with ragu and cheese and I swear to God it was only my sense of shame that kept me from eating more of them than I did.
5. Also, there's this.
From left, Cindy Pawlcyn of Mustards and Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen, along with Carla, Carmela Moreno and Rick Moonen.
What's that? You've never heard of Carmela Moreno?
She was my date for the night, as Chuck had a previous engagement. Carmela is our dog whisperer. Carla asked if anyone wanted to come up and talk to her, and Carmela strode right up, "strode" being a relative term because when you're 5 feet tall, have had five glasses of wine and your kitten heels keep getting caught in the cobblestone, striding isn't really what happens. Carmela, who is an original red diaper baby, explained that street food has always been the food of her people. (I kept waiting for her to raise her right hand in a power salute, cry out "si se puede" and try to unionize the hotel workers. "I checked," she told me. "They're already union.") Note that Pawlcyn and Moonen, of RM Seafood in Vegas, came up AFTER Carmela. Moonen planted a kiss on Mela's cheek and told her he liked her passion. "Who is he again?" she asked me on the way home.)
4. This is where my phone apparently stopped taking pictures. Other perfect bites from tonight were Mary Sue Milliken's and Susan Feniger's churros with chocolate sauce. ("I swear this is my last one," I told her. Art Smith, Oprah's own, thought that was funny.) Also, I talked to Susan Feniger about Real Housewives of OC. Apparently she was on it at some point, and she said nobody ever admits to watching it. "I watch it," I told her, "and I don't care who knows it."
3. I had the opportunity tonight to run over someone who caused a dear friend a great deal of pain. He stepped RIGHT in front of my car. I didn't take the shot. Earlier at the event I had seen him ogling, in a most unseemly way, a group of Real Housewives of Monterey County. They were digging the attention, and I wanted to tell them, "Ladies, only if you want an incurable chronic disease." But I didn't. Didn't run him over either. Probably for the best.
2. I've learned to light the charcoal grill. Tomorrow, after I'm done sleeping for 12 hours, finding the perfect aqua blue pashmina (I have a coupon! For Beverly's! One of the Real Housewives of Monterey County was wearing one and I'm feeling covetous), I am going to light the grill and grill flank steak. I will probably forget to take a picture of it.
1. Nigel is woofing in his sleep. Oliver has the worst gas ever. Also, I need to vacuum.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
One Bullet
My sons engage in a Friday night ritual known as Magic: The Gathering. I don't pretend to understand it—it's a game, it's a game involving cards and there are points and some events are held solely to build decks and some cards can be worth a lot of money, but I'm not sure how since this isn't a betting game and I swear the next time they drop cards on the floor and leave them there I'm going to hurt somebody and sometimes their friends come to play but Friday night they go to the comic shop for Friday Night Magic.
They get there by 6, they're home by midnight. I miss them because they used to hang out with us on Friday night, but they're past that point in their lives. Even the owner of the Chinese restaurant comments on it: "Only two? No boys?" he asks and I say, "No boys. They don't like us anymore," even though I know it's not true. This Friday, though, Sam stayed home because he's on restriction—the kid has one job—school—and he has been pretty half-assed at his job and gaaaah! just do your homework why don't you—and so Bobby went on his own.
He came home much earlier than normal and came straight to our room, also not normal. He knocked so as to avoid seeing us doing something embarrassing and then came in and sat on the bed. "I'm going to tell you something because you're going to find out anyway and then you're going to be pissed off at me for not telling you." (As an aside, it must be a pain in the ass to have a parent, specifically a mother, who's a journalist because there is just no way to keep a secret from a mother who's a journalist.) And then he told me the place he plays Magic, Current Comics, had been robbed at gunpoint. Two boys, two hoodies, two ski masks and two guns. They came in and demanded the register take, and the wallets of the dozen or so kids hanging out. And one of them pointed a gun directly at my son's chest while they were robbing the store. He was standing less than four feet away.
They got away with the register take, about $300, cash from some of the players' wallets and a laptop.
"Were you scared?" I asked my son, because how could you not be. "Not really," he said. "Nobody tried to fight them, nobody resisted, there was no reason for them to shoot anyone." But I know, and he knows, that if you're the kind of guy who takes a gun to commit a robbery you might not need a reason, a provocative action on the part of the victim, to shoot.
Which is why I'm awake at 3am and writing this. My son and his girlfriend went to a movie tonight and when he came home he came straight to our room, knocked so as to avoid seeing anything embarrassing and asked if it was normal to feel on edge after having a gun pointed at you. "Totally normal," I told him, but more importantly, so did his father, also known as the calmest man in the world. Chuck told him that he, too, was upset about it. We all know I was upset about it because, hello, that's my function in the family. Bobby said he thought he had a panic attack after the movie when they were going to 7-11 to get ice cream. The new guy who moved in across the street was staring at him and it put him on edge. My stomach has been in knots all day and I can't sleep either. I'm doing this instead.
Have you ever had a gun pointed at you? I have. Similar circumstances. I was 17 and working at a fast food place on the South Side and a guy came in late one Sunday night and robbed us. I was working the register; I took his order, I turned around to make the order and next thing I know he's yelling at me, "Hurry up, get it in the bag!" I turn around saying, "Sir, I am going as fast as I can," and that's when I see the gun. I freeze. I forget how to open the register. We don't bother locking the drop boxes below the registers, so I pull the money from there and hurry up and get it in the bag.
They get there by 6, they're home by midnight. I miss them because they used to hang out with us on Friday night, but they're past that point in their lives. Even the owner of the Chinese restaurant comments on it: "Only two? No boys?" he asks and I say, "No boys. They don't like us anymore," even though I know it's not true. This Friday, though, Sam stayed home because he's on restriction—the kid has one job—school—and he has been pretty half-assed at his job and gaaaah! just do your homework why don't you—and so Bobby went on his own.
He came home much earlier than normal and came straight to our room, also not normal. He knocked so as to avoid seeing us doing something embarrassing and then came in and sat on the bed. "I'm going to tell you something because you're going to find out anyway and then you're going to be pissed off at me for not telling you." (As an aside, it must be a pain in the ass to have a parent, specifically a mother, who's a journalist because there is just no way to keep a secret from a mother who's a journalist.) And then he told me the place he plays Magic, Current Comics, had been robbed at gunpoint. Two boys, two hoodies, two ski masks and two guns. They came in and demanded the register take, and the wallets of the dozen or so kids hanging out. And one of them pointed a gun directly at my son's chest while they were robbing the store. He was standing less than four feet away.
They got away with the register take, about $300, cash from some of the players' wallets and a laptop.
"Were you scared?" I asked my son, because how could you not be. "Not really," he said. "Nobody tried to fight them, nobody resisted, there was no reason for them to shoot anyone." But I know, and he knows, that if you're the kind of guy who takes a gun to commit a robbery you might not need a reason, a provocative action on the part of the victim, to shoot.
Which is why I'm awake at 3am and writing this. My son and his girlfriend went to a movie tonight and when he came home he came straight to our room, knocked so as to avoid seeing anything embarrassing and asked if it was normal to feel on edge after having a gun pointed at you. "Totally normal," I told him, but more importantly, so did his father, also known as the calmest man in the world. Chuck told him that he, too, was upset about it. We all know I was upset about it because, hello, that's my function in the family. Bobby said he thought he had a panic attack after the movie when they were going to 7-11 to get ice cream. The new guy who moved in across the street was staring at him and it put him on edge. My stomach has been in knots all day and I can't sleep either. I'm doing this instead.
Have you ever had a gun pointed at you? I have. Similar circumstances. I was 17 and working at a fast food place on the South Side and a guy came in late one Sunday night and robbed us. I was working the register; I took his order, I turned around to make the order and next thing I know he's yelling at me, "Hurry up, get it in the bag!" I turn around saying, "Sir, I am going as fast as I can," and that's when I see the gun. I freeze. I forget how to open the register. We don't bother locking the drop boxes below the registers, so I pull the money from there and hurry up and get it in the bag.
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