Hats off to The Hat: Or, Why I Still Prefer Tofu

I've been a naughty, naughty girl and I'm paying the price.

I've been a vegetarian most of my life. For various reasons (including traveling to Italy for two months where I knew food and dinner invitations were going to be an issue) I decided to start eating some meat protein. I decided I would try chicken - for starters.

I started with Chicken Salad figuring the mayo, celery, onion, would cover the taste and make it easy to add it to my repertoire at least once a week.

I was right. The mayo especially made it easy to eat chicken - too easy. Then I discovered fresh, free range chicken and did other things with it: grilled over onions, baked, chicken soup. After Italy, I came back with a few signature chicken dishes. Then I remembered the barbecue sauces -- and barbecue chicken sandwiches, barbecue wings, baked chicken in barbecue sauce. It became too easy.

Never trust a chicken - it's a slippery slope, like marijuana: the gateway to bigger and badder, stuff. Next thing you know, you're meeting the chicken dealer in dark alleys at 5 in the morning for the cream of the crop before he hits to the deli circuit.

And like Marijuana, I did move on to harder stuff - I started dabbling in protein fixes from shrimp, hamburgers (hormone free - I have my standards), tacos al carbon, a lamb tamal, a piece of prime rib (the very end slice), salmon appetizers, tuna, and a bit of carnitas en chile verde. In my defense, it's never more than a little bit for fear I'll go into cardiac arrest (a vegetarian's paranoia) - just enough for some protein and variety, and okay, the memories that's in it.

But tonight, I can't explain tonight. All I can say is I had a total break in reality - I disassociated or something - right about the time I hit the intersection of Valley Blvd and Garfield. Anyone who has grown up in San Gabriel Valley/Los Angeles knows this corner -- The Hat has been there FOREVER working its magic.

Tonight I found myself at that intersection after a writing workshop (memoir writing, so of course, I have to write about this - as I remember it!) hungry, tired and disillusioned, wondering if I will ever be able to 'go deeper' in my writing, when the aroma of the steaming pastrami and warm buns wafted through my window. Nevermind the green light, I never made it across the intersection.

Next thing I know I'm wafting across the parking lot, effortlessly finding my place in a line of Hat regulars as if I've been doing this every weekend -intoxicated with the aromas of my childhood jaunts with my dad to the local hot-dog and pastrami dives. The Hat was a family staple. My mouth was watering. I was famished.

I'm up next. "A pastrami and onion rings"

Anything to drink?

"A root beer - do you have root beer? I need a root beer."

Holy crap. I just ordered a pastrami and onion rings. I couldn't stop the words from coming out. I was thinking, this is not right - you're gonna be sorry, you haven't had a pastrami in over 30 years.-- Snap out of it! But I couldn't stop. The aroma. The urge. I felt like my dad was right there in line with me, pushing me on saying 'andale mija, lo que quieras.'

Really? Whatever I want?

It was like that with my dad and food. No matter how broke he was, when ever I was with him he let me eat whatever I wanted. I think it was his way of showing me how much he loved me - even if he had no money. I wanted these days to last forever. I didn't want to let go of my dad's hand - ever - on days like this. They were so few.

People liked my dad. I wonder now if he paid for all the food, or did he barter, going back later to fix a car, cut hair, bake a cake or make some donuts in exchange for the food we got. My dad loved to barter, and my dad was a jack-of-all-trades, and a sought after baker -when he was sober. And I loved him. When he was sober.

I went to my car. I ate it. I could have stopped at any point, but I didn't. I ate the whole fucking pastrami, followed it with a few onion rings, washed it down with root beer (it was always root beer) and felt good. I felt like that little girl, happy to be with my dad, hitting some of the best pastrami and hot dog dives -- and with my dad, the sky was the limit. I was content.

For all of 10 minutes.

Jesus Christ! The ride home was one of the fuzziest ever. I felt like I was under water, my stomach telling me "Te dije pendeja que I would pay you back, but you didn't listen to me. No, you have to listen to your nose, that god damned olfactory - you know where that leads you - memories and trouble. Always the memory and troubles. Pendeja."

I'm awake at 2:37 am. I can't breathe. My stomach is messing with me, being a real pain in the ass, my head throbbing and not from sweet memories - I got a god-damned pastrami rush headache. I can't stand this conversation I'm having with this pastrami - I hurt! Did I really think I could wash it all down with a root beer? Did I think I could keep it all down?

The workshop was fun, and one I plan on going to again. Except from now on, I'm taking San Gabriel Blvd - creeping into town from the Eastside, where I'll have vegetable and tofu options should I get the urge to satisfy my needs with food; safer, none of my childhood memories attached to tofu - these are all my own and nothing to write about.

I have to tip my hat to The Hat though, it brought me back to my blog - even though it's not Wednesday.

I just wish I could get some relief - and some sleep.

Playing For Change | Peace Through Music

Playing For Change | Peace Through Music

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Recordando, Mama, Papa y un poco de poesia

Too lazy to show my face on the 4th, I put my mom through hours of extra labor, deciding finally to make my appearance at 10:05 am 50 years ago today, July 5 - no doubt to the relief of my exhausted mother (to be able to put an end to the whole business of birthing and babies behind her. And her their prayers for a baby girl).

As it turns out, after 6 boys my mother didn't know what she would do with a girl. She didn't believe her prayers would be answered. She was actually shocked that I was in fact a girl. I was a source of worry and consternation for my mother from the day I was born. My dad was excited to finally have a daughter.

My mom knew what to do with boys - from caring to dressing, and from which toys to loving them. She wasn't so sure how to be with me. And, she would much later admit, she was afraid for me - what lot would be my lot, what cross (or crosses) would I carry. She worried about the minefields I'd have to navigate.

Since my mom knew boys, needless to say, I got treated much like the boys. This turned out to be a blessing in so many ways; in an era of Roe v. Wade and all the upheavals of the 60's, defining oneself, both inside and outside of the home, growing up in a household of mostly men, learning to speak up and fight to be heard was a good life lesson - this was just how it was.

My parents had no idea that their hopes for their first daughter would never materialize - all the subtle training to be a good daughter, wife and mother would serve only to make me an understanding human being and good (albeit, willful) daughter -- the wife and mother part never happened (well, not yet anyway). At some level, even from the very beginning, I think they knew it never would.

They knew life wasn't going to be easy or typical (at least not in the eldest-daughter-in-traditional-Mexican-family sort of way) - they knew I would be a fighter; she knew I had to be in order to survive: my mother took as a sign that I was born on the 7th month, the 7th child on a day when 6 other children (boys) were born , and I the 7th (the only girl), going home to a family of 6 older brothers - and a mother who wouldn't know what to do with a daughter (not until a long time later did my mom get used to the fact that she had a daughter); she was used to her sons. She knew boys. She wasn't sure what to do with a daughter. My mother knew I would forever be up against a current - having to cry the loudest and fight the hardest. My father was happy 'cause he finally got his girl. My dad was always quietly proud that I was his daughter - he quietly admired the fighter I was becoming.

That I was born in a hospital named for Santa Marta - patron saint of lost causes, a strong (in some beliefs, known as a dominator) saint who drove evil from the world, who stood for justice and what is right was also a sign - on the day of my birth, my mom was certain of only one thing: I would need strength -- so my mom named me after the saint.

And so it came to be - I came to be. I can never quite kick things into gear until 10 am or so - I longed learned that I cannot have government job, or any other 9 to 5, because I cannot get myself to work on time -- if being on time means being there by 8 am or 9. I just can't do it. I decided against law school because what good would I be to a client if I couldn't get to the court on time? And why all the pain and suffering of law school if I wasn't going to practice law? I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. If I'm being honest with myself, I cannot do anything that is truly structured -- it just goes against my grain. So much for law and justice. But it wasn't all for not. Church and organized religion -- forget about it.

So, it's my birthday and I'm spending it in quiet reflection at home - reading - enjoying the flowers I just put out to honor the memory of my mother - it was she who did the work after all, and a cup of coffee put out to honor my father as well - he did half the work (okay, maybe not half, but he was there).

I owe them the world for giving me mine - for choosing, afterall, to let me create my own world, to let me be.

So here's a poem, on this day, a poem so apropos of my current life arrangement of splitting my time between Long Beach, where I live, and San Francisco to earn a living - to pay for this lavish life I live in Long Beach.

I checked into the office and I was teased about how nice the weather has been in San Francisco these last few days; seems like my perfect sunny SoCal days have packed up and replaced the rolling fog of Noe Valley - it's been gorgeous tomato growing weather there while I've been left to face excessive June gloom weather in July. When the day is beautiful in San Francisco, there is nothing like it.

And so, of course, I've had San Francisco on my mind a lot recently - the morning breeze at the Ferry Building, chasing my morning coffee and croissant. The incessant call of the seagulls - and all the early morning people, who like me do their own non physical version of Sun Salutation or Sunday morning meditation -- accompanied by our ever present cups of coffee in hand -- as we lean over the rails to feel closer to the ocean breeze - or God.

I'm in Long Beach right now. But I thought this was a perfect poem to share on this day - a poem rich with imagery, ripe with sweetness and recollection -- on my birthday - a great birthday poem, in fact, the perfect birthday poem.

Gracias mama y papa - poesia para ustedes este dia y siempre. Todo salio bien -- deberas.

A Warm Summer in San Francisco

by Carolyn Miller

Light, Moving) --

Although I watched and waited for it every day,
somehow I missed it, the moment when everything reached
the peak of ripeness. It wasn't at the solstice; that was only
the time of the longest light. It was sometime after that, when
the plants had absorbed all that sun, had taken it into themselves
for food and swelled to the height of fullness. It was in July,
in a dizzy blaze of heat and fog, when on some nights
it was too hot to sleep, and the restaurants set half their tables
on the sidewalks; outside the city, down the coast,
the Milky Way floated overhead, and shooting stars
fell from the sky over the ocean. One day the garden
was almost overwhelmed with fruition:
My sweet peas struggled out of the raised bed onto the mulch
of laurel leaves and bark and pods, their brilliantly colored
sunbonnets of rose and stippled pink, magenta and deep purple
pouring out a perfume that was almost oriental. Black-eyed

Susans
stared from the flower borders, the orange cherry tomatoes
were sweet as candy, the fruit fattened in its swaths of silk,
hummingbirds spiraled by in pairs, the bees gave up
and decided to live in the lavender. At the market,
surrounded by black plums and rosy plums and sugar prunes
and white-fleshed peaches and nectarines, perfumey melons
and mangos, purple figs in green plastic baskets,
clusters of tiny Champagne grapes and piles of red-black cherries
and apricots freckled and streaked with rose, I felt tears
come into my eyes, absurdly, because I knew
that summer had peaked and was already passing
away. I felt very close then to understanding
the mystery; it seemed to me that I almost knew
what it meant to be alive, as if my life had swelled
to some high moment of response, as if I could
reach out and touch the season, as if I were inside
its body, surrounded by sweet pulp and juice,
shimmering veins and ripened skin.

"A Warm Summer in San Francisco" by Carolyn Miller, from Light, Moving. © Sixteen Rivers Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. (borrowed from Garrision Keillor's Writer's Almanac)

Netflix And The New Normal

I'm going to be out of commission for a few weeks - laid out.

I don't have a television - well, I do, but the reception is virtually non-existent, and I refuse to get cable - so I was wondering how I was going to keep myself occupied during the long hours of recovery.

Twice in my life I had surgeries - each time the recovery was hell. Not the pain or discomforts, and inconveniences, as much as the residual effects of the anesthesia and getting back to 'normal' sleep habits. This has a way of working on your head and taking you deep into the realm of existentialism in ways you never knew it before. In short, it sucks.

I know me, and in my head - in the wee hours of the night, when the rest of the world is in deep REM, not feeling my best - is a bad neighborhood to be cruising in alone.


Out of the blue comes my life line. My friend has been enjoying Netflix for a few years now. We joke around about my 5-for 5-for 5 habit at my local video shop - 5 videos, for 5 days for $5 - I think that's a pretty good deal - until I have to return them. And heaven forbid I accidentally pick up a new release -new releases are not part of the 5-5-5 deal. Late fees and I have become pretty familiar.

She's been gently pushing Netflix. So, anticipating my temporary incapacity, and looking out for my sanity I suppose, she sent an invitation to sign up for one month free - that's about the time I'll be laid out - how cool is that!

So I signed-up. Lord have mercy. I completed my registration at 9 pm. I discovered a 'watch instantly' option. As a member, I can download some movies, in addition to my plan, and watch them - instantly, on demand - and I was oh, so demanding last night. I didn't stop watching movies until 5:30 am.

This does not bode well. This can become a pretty nasty habit.

I suppose the luster will ware off soon. I hope. And I can get to watching a movie on occasion like most normal people. But then, what is normal. I like watching movies. It's what I do. It's a guilty pleasure. Just like my wine.

And like my wine, I might go a spell without a glass, even with dinner, then I want a glass each night; or I'll crave a nice jammy Syrah and will make sure I treat myself to one. That's how it is with movies. I can go for a long stretch without watching one, then BAM! it's all I want to do - which is why I loved the 5-5-5 plan. So Netflix will be my new normal. It'll save me time, fuel, late fees - and, except for that little watch movies instantly thing, waiting for my dvd's to arrive in the mail, will help me relearn the art of delayed gratification once again..

It's all good. And it's nice knowing my time will be well occupied as I lay in bed, keeping myself from wondering into those bad neighborhoods.

At Last...

It doesn't seem possible, but it is: my event has come and gone.

After all is said and done, it was good fun. Planning like a wild woman up front pays off. This year I actually had time to talk to folks, notice the flow of things, and enjoy some of the music - instead of running around like a lost looking for her mommy. Guess that's why they call it planning.

I look for miracles in most things these days. On Sunday, I found my miracle in the weather; miraculous or not, the cold, windy fog of the week prior, folded into a beautiful, sunny, picturesque day - ideal for margaritas and sailboats.

I have some photos of the event I can post later. The one posted is credited to Steve Sando from Rancho Gordo. Steve has been with us since the beginning of the event. And since the beginning, he's believed in it, in its' potential-- in us. We like Steve.

The folks who shared their goods with the public on our behalf were amazing - too many to name.

The day after. It's always an achy day, one I spend in disbelief -- amazed that I, someone who doesn't even host dinners, or my own birthday dinners for fear no one will come, put together a third annual event - and about 300-400 people show up! I walk around the next day, ecstatic that its over and resting. I can't wait until we're a large enough event, grossing enough money that we can splurge on hired help to schlep things around.

I spent my Monday at the Sutro Baths -- the salt water baths created for the folks with discretionary money of the old days. Huge, beautiful cliff front property. The wind was blowing, but I was so tired to care. It actually felt good; it kept the aches away. I was warm enough with my jacket, and the sun was just warm enough to compensate. I felt alive. Suffice to say - the afternoon was perfect. Really.

Here's the thing -- there were swallows flying all around me, I discovered a new mallow tree (which I'm going to go back to and steal some cutting from in the cover of night), the crashing waves was just loud enough to hear from where I stood, but not enough to drown out the swooshing of the grasses and songs of the birds; the sound of gravel under my feet reminded me of the simple things I enjoy. I could nap under the sun, wind on my face - to hell with caring about hyper pigmentation. I was feeling blessed.

Just to be able to move in slow-mo, my god that was a good enough reason to bask in the sun. An easy, calm place to sit and imagine the sounds, conversations and music '20's, '30's and '40's - the energy is still there. It's palpable.

Well, now off to wrap up the details of the event so I can start heading home. I'll see who my traveling companion will be - I'm thinking Stevie Nicks. I love listening to her on Hwy 152 - especially as the sun is just before the setting time.

Belladonna at dusk feels good.

This can't be happening...

It's been like heaven, it was so bloody beautiful these last three days.

And it was so blimey hot - yesterday, I forgot I was in northern California for all the profuse sweating of my face and constant wiping. It felt like I was home. In SoCal. But I wasn't. I was in San Francisco - and it was Bloody Beautiful - you'll have to take my word for it.

It felt good, like my annual fundraising event was destined to be a success. How could it be anything but with this gorgeous weather, and people anxious to get out and explore the city and its happenings.

So why couldn't it continue?!

Because even the weather is out to make me crazy, cause me heartache and headache - and stress me out. It went from 98 degrees beautiful, to 60 and ugly, cold, windy and ridiculous in less than a day -- windy, like wicked witch of the west windy. This isn't even funny or amusing.

I need the nice weather back for the next 4 days for crying out loud.

I'm tired now. I'm working on this event, and I'm tired. Out all day, errands, negotiating, settling, taking care, placating -- all in the name of raising funds for our organization - through this event.

But I have a minimum word count to make tonight. Wednesday almost gone, and I've no words to impress with, no musings to tell about, no thing exciting enough to wonder on. But I'm not inclined to give up and go to bed just yet. I know this is the lazy man's way, the path a less resistance - pictures - since they're worth a thousand words and all like that. Actually, it's quite brilliant!

So, some pictures to show how beautiful it was on Sunday. Enjoy, these 'words' from me to you!

All three thousand of them.

On this day in San Francisco, Saturday, April 18th...

I have several email domiciles - my pied-e-terre on a budget, and the only way I'll ever afford a second home, or vacation home, anywhere other than this one bedroom flat in the suburbs of good old Long Beach, CA.

As usual I was going through my poetry email - Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac is the first thing I read each morning - with my cup of coffee (the coffee helps me with the European countryside or Italian piazza affect) - when I came across this entry about the San Francisco earthquake of 1906.

Since I'm actually in San Francisco on this very day, at this very moment, I thought I should post it even though it's not Wednesday -- in it's entirety. All credit, of course, to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac.

Mr. Keillor, please don't sue me. I've no deep pockets, not even my own house, for you to attach - only several virtual pied-e-terres you'd have no use for -- unless you have the imagination, good sense and good coffee to imagine big - in which case the view from my window by the lake can be very nice:

It was on this day in 1906 that one of the worst natural disasters in the history of the United States occurred: the San Francisco earthquake. The shaking started at 5:12 a.m. on a Wednesday, and lasted just over a minute, with the main shock 42 seconds long. It erupted along the San Andreas fault, which runs the length of California. The epicenter was two miles off the coast of San Francisco. It was probably about a 7.8 on the modern Richter scale.

In 1906, San Francisco had a population of 410,000 people. The earthquake and resulting fires left about two out of every three residents of the city homeless. The earthquake ruined many buildings, but historians estimate that 90 percent of the destruction to the city came from fires that followed the earthquake, rather than the earthquake itself. The initial fires were caused by ruptured gas lines, and then firefighters decided to blow up buildings with dynamite, hoping that they would create firebreaks. It didn't work, and it's estimated that half of the buildings blown up by dynamite would have otherwise survived. On top of that, since insurance covered fire damage but not earthquake damage, people started setting their own homes and businesses on fire. But as it turned out, insurance companies could not cover the massive disaster, so people didn't get their money anyway. About 500 people were shot and killed by police and federal troops who had been called in to keep order. Some of the people who were killed weren't actually looting — they were trying to rescue their own possessions.

The city of San Francisco hurried to rebuild in time for the Panama Pacific International Exposition in 1915. In the rush, many building codes and regulations were ignored, and buildings built after the 1906 earthquake were actually less seismically safe than those built before.

The beauty just outside my window makes it difficult for me to imagine the horrors of this very day, at exactly this hour, 100 years ago. I'm told Noe Valley, where I stay, was essentially unaffected by the earthquake because of the bedrock it's situated on, and the fires never made it up here - but I find it impossible to believe that it was 'unaffected.'

About 3 short blocks from where I sit, at Dolores and 22nd, sits the fire-hydrant used to keep the fires from burning down Noe Valley - it was the last remaining functioning fire-hydrant -- one working fire-hydrant, that stopped the fire. It sits bronzed, and well attended to on the exact spot where it helped folks that day feel some measure of success.

Each year a ceremony is held to commemorate the heroes, and remember the lost. Each year the numbers of those in attendance dwindles; earlier this year the last living survivor of the disaster of 1906 left this world - he was only a child when it happened -taking all living history of that day with him.

But the fire-hydrant remains.

Seventy Five Words

When the sun is out of sync
out of lock step, out of rhythm,
when water does not cool,
sun does not warm,
and sunflowers forget to reach
up, tiptoe to god and songs silent;
when salmon rush down river
down river down river
desperate for an end,
straight into the arms,
and mouths of Great Browns -
crushing spines, crushing pain -
(where is my consoling crush, my Great Brown?)
languidly I try to breathe you in
but you are gone - and for the first,
and like a child
morning scares me; I'm afraid
of what sunrise will feel like on my skin
without yours, warm, on mine.

Sorry.
So, sue me.

I'm trying to write 75 words a day each day in April

it's the 12th, and it doesn't take a genius to see that I'm about 825 words short.

W.S. Merwin got me thinking about this. I reviewed his comments about Ezra Pound - about writing 75 words each day - that's all you have to do to be a poet.

But you have to have something to write about. Hmmmm.....

Anyway, translation was the next thing. I do that - to gain something to write about. And not only in Spanish, but I translate Italian poetry - and that is useful - getting rhythm of words in three languages, and to increase my understanding and ease in three languages.

So, mi dispiace...you'll have to put up with this for about 1,350 more words...this hurts me more than it hurts you ---honest. Just know, te voglio bene, and April 30 is not too far in the distance.

Don't blame Mr. Merwin, but do check out the video links....great stuff.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QQ1aCS6Pbw

Poetry on Sundays:

I've been thinking about what to write about this morning. Stuck. Nothing new. Nothing interesting, nothing except problems - and who wants to write about that. Maybe some fresh air will help.



I open my front door, and, almost like a synchronized dance, a beautiful, green throated humingbird flew down to drink from the purple blossom trumpets of the Mexican Sage bush. The swoosh of the door, quietly dancing with the swoosh of his wings.



Yesterday I was wondering whether to get rid of the Mexican Sage bush. Even though it's finally blooming, it needs more soil, more room to grow, and so I was thinking of getting rid of it - of giving it to my brother who has a big yard with plenty of elbow room for roots.



Was it for his benefit? Or was it for mine?

Was he telling me "I need this plant as much as you neeed an idea"



Maybe this is the agreement -
the two-birds-with-with-one-stone agreement.
purple blossom trumpets
in exchange for an idea,
maybe even a poem.

National Poetry Month

So, here we are, April 1st and it's National Poetry Month...but that ain't no joke - it really is!

I'm taking these morning hours just for me - and poetry. I admit that while I've been working in San Francisco I've not been anywhere near my poetry - well, not like I'd like to. I'm so involved in other work that I don't get around to giving it more than a cursory glance.

But starting today, and every day in April, I am going to spend time with poetry even if I don't get to work on my own poetry, new or revisions, and even if I only blog about it on Wednesdays.

So you all (I flatter myself here - do I think anyone is even reading this blog? But just in case...) get to suffer my indulgence.

And to get it started, I'm focusing on Sandra Cisneros today I admit I have not read a lot of her work. I've enjoyed every interview I've been fortunate enough to listen in on, a lecture she gave at Cal State Dominguez Hills and write-ups about her books in Books and Author sections in local papers, but I don't know much of her work first hand and this exercise will actually get me to do what I should have done a long time ago -- read her collection of poetry (and reread others) that's been sitting in my bookshelf.

I came across a poem this morning (I'm ashamed to say its been sitting on my bookshelf for the past two years!) that cracked me up because the experience is familiar to me and it happens often, un no se que - and it's usually brought to my attention by others, in fact, it's always brought to my attention by others. It's much like having an accent: you don't know you even have one until someone points it out. It's like that, a curiousity about my being Mexican.

I think it's mostly due to the fact that I confuse a lot of people - I think I have one of those faces that can be anything: Hawaiian, French, Italian, Filipino, Samoan - I've even been asked if I'm Black - in my travels. When folks find out I'm Mexican, they all have questions, a story or want to talk politics. It's mostly funny - sometimes frustrating, sometimes sad, sometimes infuriating ("I like Mexican woman because they're all so sweet and docile"), but mostly it cracks me up. And Sandra captured the experience beautifully here, in her poem Mexican in France:


He says he likes Mexico.
Especially all that history.
That's what I understand
although my French
is not that good

And he wants to talk
about U.S. racism
It's not often he meets
Mexicans in the south of France.

He remembers
a Mexican Marlon Brando once
on French tv.

How, in westerns,
the Mexicans are always
the bad guys. And -

is it true
all Mexicans
carry knives?

I laugh.
--Lucky for you
I'm not carrying my knife
today.

He laughs too
-- I think
the knife you carry
is
abstract.


This makes me think of questions asked, and situations encountered in my travels, in Cuba, in the Dominican Republic, in Italy, in England - about Mexicans. I guess we're an abstract lot. I also remembered a time one of my brother's friends wanted to meet me: he wanted my brother to introduce us because he wanted to marry a Mexican woman because he likes Mexican food and he likes that Mexican women are sweet, family oriented and soft spoken. My brother had to disabuse him of that notion where I was concerned.

I don't try to hide my 'Mexicana-ness' but it's interesting how people interpret it -react to it. Most times I don't get angry. It amuses me most time, actually, it cracks me up - it often says more about the other than me. What else can you do but respond, laugh and then write about it? But it's also an opportunity - I chose to take this approach - to shed some light, to teach.

This poem makes me think, too, of Porky and a day in my life that I hadn't thought of in ages - 15 to 20 years or so.

Porky was a cholo who became a part of my life for an entire day on what was probably one of the worst Saturdays of my angst filled, late bloomer (I was 19) life.

It was supposed to be a fun weekend with my only two friends. My parents were strict and would never have let me spend an unsupervised weekend with friends, so I I did what any good daughter would do: I lied. I told my mother I'd be with my best friend Olivia and her parents (who my mother had met) on a family camping trip.

It turned into the weekend from hell that wouldn't die. Through no wish or fault of my own -only my own making - I was dragged through the worst slapstick, keystone cop, Rebels without a Cause B movie.

Porky nearly got us nearly killed twice, nearly arrested once, made us have to outrun L.A.P.D. through Echo Park, made us crash through a wedding party taking the requesite bride-and-groom-on-grassy-knoll pictures. I wasn't told until later that Porky was under strict orders, by his probation officer, to not be anywhere near the park, or general Echo Park area.

Porky, who 'borrowed' a cigarette from some veterano he'd never seen before, who, instead of thanking him for 'lending' him said cigarette tells him instead 'a rato te mato'. this set the tone for the day.

The veterano didn't take too kindly to being threatened with death by this mocoso - especially not after just having given him a cigarette. As I'm getting into the back-seat of Silvia's car I see him signal to two cars filled with his homies (Silvia was our driver - she was the only one of us with her own car -- a green camaro -- and Porky was her friend). The veterano and his buddies jump into their cars as we jump into our...and chase us...yes, I was in a car chase through the streets of downtown L.A. - me, Olivia and Silvia - and Porky, chased by two cars filled with angry cholos, badder, older and meaner than Porky, with weapons - and scarier than shit.

Scarier because they had their respect to regain.

In the car Porky is laughing, not understanding why this guy is so pissed, sticking his head out the window yelling maricon for getting pissed off - baiting these guys. Me, I'm yelling at Silvia for bringing Porky along in the first place - and I'm seriously praying. Olivia, she's got a frozen look on her face, staring straight into nothing, saying over and over shut up Porky, Shut up Porky. I know she's scared. Olivia grew up in quiet, calm suburbs - this was entirely new to her. I didn't. I was familiar. Because I was familiar, I feel I had a better handle on the situation, and more fear -- because I was familiar.

I never liked Silvia very much, but despite that, on this day I admired her incredible driving skills.

We out ran them.

Between Silvia's driving and my familiarity with L.A. streets, we lived to tell about it, only to have to run again when Porky decided he would treat us to hamburger, except Porky doesn'have money for hamburgers so he orders Silvia to drive to the First Street Mercado.

I thought, okay, maybe he has a Tio or Tia who owns a little taqueria who would feed us - I realize I haven't eaten all day long and I'm starving. Thank god for Tio's and Tia's. But when we get ther, I find out there is no Tio. There is no Tia. Only Porky who proceeds to rob a guy - stabs him once in the shoulder - for hamburger money. I refused to eat. Especially when we have to run again because the sirens are getting closer.

But wait, there's more!

It was almost the longest, most frightening day and night of my life to that point. I just wanted to go home. I prayed it would end - I promised never to lie - ever again, at least not to my parents.

When it all ended, so did my friendship with Silvia - a friend who could introduce me to someone like Porky, who held me hostage with the situation for an entire day, unable to get away from them unless I called my family and outted myself for having lied to my parents about where I really was - and with whom - a friend, who I discovered, knew many more Porkys than I suspected - and I didn't care to know a single one.

Anyway, Sandra's poem, her line "Lucky for you/I'm not carrying my knife/today" took me back to that weekend with Porky.

Porky, who in between bouts of laughter as we tried to outrun the veteranos, told Olivia he loved her...that he loved her so much he would tattoo his ass with "son tuyos" (they're yours) ...there's no higher compliment that some bad ass cholo dude saying his ass is yours....I guess.

Did I mention Porky was funny.

Bastard.

Orale Sandra, keep 'em coming.

Wednesday Fog

I'm looking out my 'office' window, It's 9:07 a.m., and from my perch, I can see Noe Valley, part of Diamond Heights, and points, the highest ones, of Bernal Heights - normally. Except today, the fog sitting over Noe Valley has yet to wear off. It shows no sign of wearing off today.

There's something insistently comforting about fog - it demands stillness, reflection.

I've got tons of work to get through, media outlets to contact to publicize my event, volunteers to organize, vendors to secure - still vendors to secure. And what do I do? I stare out my window and contemplate my dream where I saw my mother, she was being whisked into a door for a doctor's appointment, and I followed, seconds behind, but no one could tell me if she was there. I know she's there - I saw her go in. I want so badly to see her. I search and search, no one can confirm that she was there. I so want to see her. I'm angry and confront medical staff, I spent the rest of my dream trying to find her, angry that they could not manage their caseloads, nor track patients - and angry that they kept me from my mother.

I woke up feeling sad, knowing I'll see her only again only if my dreams open up to me. And I hope this time I can find her, and sit with her and chat, and ask her if I was a good daughter - I feel like I failed her, at the very end when she needed me most, needed me at my best, and my most resilient, my strongest - her advocate - I failed her.

I feel like a child. I need that blanket the fog is offering me. I want only to go back to bed, bury my head beneath the blanket, and dream.

I hope the fog lingers at least a bit longer.

Spring Wednesday...

I'm still in San Francisco, feeling detached because I've been away from home so long - often feeling like I'm just waiting for the next day to get more work done, then the next, and the next. Until I my work is done up here, and I finally get to go home - until I have to come back up.

I got up ready to tackle my computer, and noticed I hadn't taken out one bag of trash - and the trash trucks were due any minute. I ran outside and ran head on to the sounds of Spring. I know it's not spring just yet - but don't tell that to the birds.

It was glorious. Trees line this street, up and down this hilly street in Noe Valley, there are trees. Needless to say, there are leaves all over the street, the sidewalk -- everywhere (my car)- and it seems each tree had a different chirping or birdsong coming from it.

The chill is mild as San Francisco mornings go, so, in essence, the morning is glorious. God, I love mornings like this.

And, my coffee is good - almost perfect. I think I found the trick to a good home-made cup of coffee. The coffee is from Bernie's on 24th Street in Noe Valley. I'd been struggling for the last 5 months to get it right. Alas, I think I've gotten it. It's been hard getting measurements just right, blends just right and the ground just right. I thought it was the coffee, but it turns out it's the metal coffee filters my hosts use in the coffee maker. Perfection happened for the first time on Sunday, when I was headed to a Quilt Show at the convention center - ah, what a glorious cup of coffee.

Anyway, my coffee is good, the morning is good, I got to write this morning, Wednesday, which I hadn't been doing....so it's all good.

A presto!

What's a girl to do?

Life's tough. That's all there is to it.

But what can I do? Nothing else to do, except suck it up and keep going.

Like tonight. I spent a two hour evening at the opening of Reposado, a fantastically designed, Mexican cuisine restaurant, in Palo Alto.

None of this Latin Cuisine stuff. This was pure and simple Mexican Cuisine straight up --done up a notch. And I mean Cuisine. The planning team on this restaurant got it right. From concept to menu, it's amazing.

I always thought I hated Salmon - not after tonight. What I hated was poorly done salmon. The salmon I had tonight was light, slightly flaky, rolled in a light (oh, so, so light) crust, which I couldn't quite discern, then grilled in light oil, which didn't detract from the flavor of the salmon, and just enough to cook it and transfer the grill flavor onto the crust.

Now, for someone like me who generally dislikes seafood, for whom even the smell of cooking fish triggers gag reflexes, a definite turn-off is the 'ocean taste,' whose idea of seafood was canned tuna with a ton of mayonnaise to mask the seafood taste (until I finally gave up on it altogether - I mean, what was the point), a detraction from the seafood taste is what I always hoped for. Through no fault of their own, the very unique seafood feature is the very thing that turns me off. A friend of mine, D, has been trying to convince me for the last four years or so, that fish done right, does not taste like the ocean. Tonight I discovered what she meant.

I tried it (to my credit, I've been broadening my palate and trying seafood and meat dishes, mostly because my upbringing makes it difficult for me to say No once a dish has been placed before as a gesture of welcome - more on that later. But it's good to note a childhood defects can sometimes work in our favor.) I pick up the crust with my fork, with a small bit of the salmon and placed it on my tongue. Surprise. To be sure I was tasting what I was tasting, I picked up a larger second piece, mostly salmon this time and let it linger on in my mouth for a bit. Dear god, is this what I have been missing because I believed I didn't like salmon?

I love it when I'm happy because I was proven wrong.

Then there were the Tamalitos - mushroom with guajillo chile sauce, and a chicken in green tomatillo sauce - I can't describe this tamalito other than to say, it's as if the chicken were the foundation, but without ever overpowering the masa - and a corn masa on both tamalitos, was to die for. I am a corn fanatic - trust me when I say, this masa was excellent.

I was at Reposado with a colleague for the formal restaurant opening. Deagon, the restaurant's consultant who had invited us, asked if we might suggest which tamale Reposado's chef might enter for the tamale tasting event I help organize. That, I'm sorry to say, was not possible. I was of no help. Each was delicious, each for its own reason. But as small as they were, they were 'tamalitos' afterall (small/appetizer size tamales.) they packed a world of texture and flavor - Chef Arnulfo will have to decide on the entry on his own. Either way he goes, it'll be a good choice.

The design concept was incredible. The designer, Brian, did an amazing job by maintaining the integrity of the focal points of the building, high beams, exposed cement, and upstairs seating with an incredible point of view - over the entire restaurant, and kept the ceilings high, exposing wood-beams, giving the space a modern feel, but managing somehow to allow it to work in traditional ways with deep, rich colors of Mexico (again, done up a notch - new in a modern sort of way.) I notice lighting. So many restaurants ruin the feel they tried to create with bad lighting. With so much care that goes into the design of a place, why do people stop short at lighting. Brian, I'm happy to say, didn't. the lighting is amazing, with the right touches, and concentrated upward, not recessed lighting, it's literally focused upward so that the diners are washed in the light that cascades from the high beamed cieling.

A private dining space is to be found on the second floor. Large enough for a wedding rehearsal dinner, small enough to feel intimate - with your own bar up on the second floor. Dios mio!

There are several focal points in this restaurant - the one front and center tonight, was the family style Chef's Table located in front of the glass encased kitchen. It's a 12-14 foot long table, about four feet high - a table designed for comfort, but also with relaxed interaction between thorse diners in mind. This is accomplished by the use of stools instead of chairs. The height also facilitates standing -- a come as you wish table, just come and be with us, is what this table tells me. This concept felt very much like the mexican restaurants I had occasion to visit on a visit to Mexico - and also very European - I love this concept.

I'm telling you, life is tough. But I'm not a quitter. I'm determined to make a go of this new career - fundraising through events for my organization, chopping my way through new dining experiences, trying dishes I never even knew I liked.

But, I don't know how much longer I can tolerate all this tasting I have to do, and discovering, and exploring and sampling, oh yeah, and vino, then there's the vino. You see what I'm saying?

Tell, me, what am I supposed to do?

I know what I will have to do though, hazards of the job: I caught a glimpse of the back side of the bar and noticed some pretty high-end Tequilas - this girl is going to have to make a second trip to Reposado - for a full dish of that salmon I didn't know I liked, and a shot or two of that top shelf tequila - just to be sure, you know?!

The Pay Off

Shift in attitude. That was my goal when driving up to San Francisco, and my aspiration on my return trip.


I'm not yanking my own chain, or anyone elses, when I say that I think I'm doing pretty good. The trip to and from were both pleasant. In fact, the trip back was beautiful.


I said I was going to notice. And I did. I noticed that there's little wild life to speak of anymore on the 5. Except for the cattle near Bakersfield and Coalinga, the occasional Red Tailed Hawk is about it - very occasionally.


The heat on the way up was horrendous. I found myself at a liquor store, just before I the 405 becomes the 5 - water break. It was so hot, all I could think of was cold water. I didn't care that water was $2.29 a quart (Thieves!), I was thirsty. The thought of the 5 without cold water was not exactly my idea of pleasant.


But after getting my water needs were met, the ride was good. I enjoyed myself, sang most of the way up - a little bit of Salsa, a little bit of Italian music, some Stevie Nicks, Eros Ramazzotti, and all the way up took notice of things - anything. I noticed the bleak, barren fields and wondered if it always looked like this. Research is needed - I need to know what this area was like before we stripped it.



Anyway, after I settled into myself and the road, next was settling into the music. One of the CD's I listen to a lot on the road is my friend, Carlos Lopez' Echo Park Project, a CD of New York big sound salsa - the old stuff. It's a tight, old school, booty shaking CD - there's no dozing off with this CD.

So the trip down was just as lovely - snow capped hill tops. The wind was brutal, but made for an exciting ride. No dozing, both hands on the wheel.

In noticing, I'm saddened by what is not there. But I have to remember that even still, there is beauty. I have to create the moments, but the beauty is there. I just have to open up and let in in. Even if it's just the beauty of time to give to my learn my third language - Italian.

The coldest day I ever spent...

...was not a summer in San Francisco. The coldest time I ever spent is tonight, Saturday, February 14th in San Francisco.

No, not because it's Valentine's Day and I'm alone, with no chocolates, cards or dinner date to speak of - no it has nothing to do with that. I've got better things to do -- I'm working.

The wind is so brutally cold right now. It is whipping the trees, batting at windows, battering the house foundation - already chased all the clouds outta town. It is bone chilling how brutal this wind is right now.

Anyway, just had to get that out of my system - warm my fingers on the keypad. Now, back to work -- for there is much to do before I head back home tomorrow.

ci vediamo.

On the road again

Well, here it is. Another Wednesday and I'm packing up my bags for yet another trip to San Francisco.

I'm thinking I need new bags, some pretty, colorful ones that will add excitement to this process. Until now, I didn't understand the fascination with beautiful luggage. To my way of thinking, luggage was luggage --a utilitarian, hand-held vehicle to you help get your from one point to another all. And nothing says this best than a practical, often black, nylon mesh on wheels.


Not so. Boy was I myopic - there's always a bigger picture, even when it comes to luggage.


In keeping with Joan Didion's guiding principle, Why not? Everyday is all there is, I am adding beautiful to describe what I need from my luggage. That's a shift in my thinking. Instead of merely utilitarian practicality, I now have a need from my luggage. Why not? This road trip is all there is.


Since luggage doesn't come cheaply, I'll have to satisfy myself with adding beautiful things to my luggage pieces - scarves, handles, stickers (ah, maybe). At least to start with a dash of color.


So, keys in hand, luggage at the door, I am off.


A presto tutti.

Keeping it fresh

Driving home from San Francisco yesterday, I realized something that made me sad, something I hope to change.  

Because I travel so frequently to San Francisco,  I often want to get there quickly.  Air travel is not an option because I need my car once there.  I've started taking highway 5 for it's speed and efficiency.  It has little to offer in the way of beauty - therefore, no distractions, no compulsion to stop.  All you really want to do on highway 5 is put the pedal to the metal - especially when you get to Coalinga.

Anyway, this last trip back home was fast - real fast.  That's when it hit me.  I'm taking for granted time spent on travel, ignoring the time in my desire to be home home - yesterday.  

Lately, I've even started traveling at night so that I wouldn't see the markers, the signs and posts that make you say to yourself 'god, I'm only here?'  

Highway 5 is not the easiest ride.  It can be depressing.  It can be dangerous.  It can be boring - ugly even.  It can definitely be stinky.  But it can also be a time for reflection or learning.  It can be anything I want it to be - and yet, all I've done so far is lament those hours traveling, wishing each mile that I were anywhere else but on highway 5.  

That attitude must change.  Nothing can be so ugly that I will myself to block out chunks of time that I will not get back - because I don't want to 'see the markers?'  what's so wrong with being reminded of where I am in my journey.  

I started writing because I want to remember.  I've started defeating myself with this attitude; all my journeys should be observed and experienced - even the stinky ones.  I have to remember that next time I'm on the road - I haven't so much as paid attention to details like I used to, details that help me work out lines in my head, rhythms, patterns.  Now, I just drive. Fast.  

I'm going to be on that road anyway - why not make something of the time.  

That was a paradigm shift for me.   Begin with the end in mind - the wonderful things that wait for me, just outside my windows - north and south - and enjoy the time in the middle.  

I'll be on the road again next Wednesday - this time I'll pay close attention to how I'm spending my Wednesday on highway 5 - if I look, I'm sure I'll find a thing of beauty, or at least, of interest.    

Happy National Apricot Day!

Lately, serendipity is rampant in my life.  Like last night when I learned that January 9th is National Apricot Day.  

That I should find this out this week, last night January 8th - is priceless.  It's as if a little tug moved me to pick up my copy of Practically Useless Information, Food & Drink, by Norman Kolpas.  A book I hadn't picked up in maybe two, maybe three years.  A book that was still under other books, unshelved, since my move. 

Talk about serendipity.  Not only is the apricot probably my most favorite fruit, earlier this week, and completely unaware of the significance of January 9th, I pulled out a poem, an ode if you will, I'd written to this delicious little cultivar about two years ago.  

I'd been thinking about apricots lately.  I think it has something to do with the fact that it's been so cold in my house, and apricots represent everything summer is for me, summer's short lived gift - warm, sweet juicy little sun sponges. If summer had a mascot, it would be the apricot.  

I knew I had this poem somewhere in my files, so I pulled it out as my submission for my poetry workshop this weekend.  Who knew?   

For me, the apricot is a world unto itself.  It's a sensual fruit, a fun, smack dab in the middle of summer fruit - a fruit small and sweet and to the point.  A fruit that ages well.  It's a holder of Mediterranean mystery and sensuality.  But apricots are also poetic, known by more evocative names like Gluthearly, Goldcot, Goldrich, Goldstrike, Haroblush, Harogem, Rival, Velvaglo, Vivagold - names that roll off the tongue like like it's juices.  

Wow.  Congress, or the bloody president, actually went took the time and effort to declare this little compact warrior of a fruit worthy of it own national day of recognition.  

Well, here, here!   

So, in honor of this day, I'm sharing this poem - my homage to apricots.  

Stone Fruit

Ephemeral seasons, 

transient beauty;

You leave me wanting more.  

Oh, early bloomer! 

Your fruit survives early frosts

only to be dried.   

Parched and wrinkled, 

you are sweeter now than in youth.

All this serendipity only adds to the allure of the apricot for me - I think me and apricots are pretty connected.  I only wish I had learned about this on a Wednesday. 

 © Stone Fruit 2006 - all rights reserved  

Did someone hit the Spring button by mistake?

So this is what it feels like to be writing my very first entry of the first full week of the new year.   

It doesn't bode well that I forgot yesterday was Wednesday.  After all, Wednesday was supposed to be my motivation.   I have to admit that I haven't been very good at managing my days lately.  Actually, I've been forgetting my days.  Must be a dilemma faced by people who work from home, people without children to keep them on some sort of school schedule, holidays, pediatric appointments and such.  I actually forgot it was New Years Eve last week - and was trying to conduct business, wondering why I was batting zero, when I realized that no one was answering phones because, for crying out loud, no one was really working.

Except Moi - by reason of insanity.    

I used to joke with my 'mommy' friends, that my only dilemma each morning was whether to add cinnamon to my coffee, or to not add cinnamon to my coffee.  Cinnamon, no cinnamon.  It was simple.  Oh, what a difference a few years make.  Ask them now, and I'm sure they can tell you what day of the week it is.  Me, I'm stand there in my kitchen, wondering is it Sunday and "should I put coffee in my cinnamon?"

I'm sure it's nothing more than not having children to keep me honest with a schedule. That's it. I'll pay more attention to the rhythm of the neighborhood - other people's children.  And I'll add cinnamon every morning to my coffee - make it easy on myself.

I'll just need to be sure I remember Thursday and Friday - street sweeping. (no free lancer big bucks to cover the parking tickets.)    

So, last week was freezing.  I was sitting at my computer, freezing (remember no free lancer big bucks) trying to stay focused on the task at hand - work.  Now, yesterday and today, it's as if the big guy upstairs missed the snooze button and hit the Early Spring button instead!  Thank you Jee-zuz!

The birds were outside my kitchen and bedroom window, like little feathered sirens, willing me out of bed with their sweet spring songs.  Actually, they just wanted me for the seeds I put out each morning.  They won. So I did.  I climbed out of bed (I now climb out of bed).  

And I'm so glad I did because it is beautiful outside.  I'm sitting here, at my computer fully caffeinated, entirely content because I can move freely - not having to wear four shirts, a sweater and a shawl and hand warmers and old lady socks over my long trouser socks.  I'm in a sweater.  A single light spring sweater.

And I'm loving it.  

But it made me remember my old apartment, where the heat of the units below mine wafted up into my unit, and ne'er a heater I needed.  I remembered my writing space - and I miss it.  

As far as I'm concerned, the big guy upstairs can miss his snooze button any day - I wish he would.