Flowers and Food

Most exciting things in my life right now: not much. Today I cooked acorn squash, chick pea, potato, curry stew and also (managed to burn my oats--napping is always a bad idea) baked pugliese bread, banana chocolate chip bread, and moved sourdough onto its next stage of sitting and festering. Fester fester fester, rot rot rot. But there are still inexplicably delightful bits of lightness and cheer in my life, like this flower . . .

. . . from Dahlia Farms, Fulton Farmer's Market: a wild and dazzling joy.

Thanks Libby!

Annie-ranjado

Me soprendo que mi piel no ha llegado a ser anaranjado. Todo lo que como tiene lo mismo tinto: jugo de naranja, zanahorias, camote, polvo de chili, maíz (es amarillo, yo sé, ¿pero que es la diferencia?) . . .

The Beauty of Brine

Oh beautiful day in Californ-i-a!!! Yes it was hot! hot! hot! as in 107º in the valley and more or less the same in various locales throughout the county, but it is summer! And gimpy here, has a selfish post to share why it is more beautiful than the average roasting day . . .

I went swimming in the ocean! Yes, Twin Lakes Beach, right next to the harbor. I crutched out the wheel chair path from Crow’s Nest, and then crutched through the sand to the water where I plopped down on a rock and fought less than gracefully against my wetsuit (but I did win) and with the help of my dad, crutched into the ocean, dropped between waves, crawled, and swam like hell out of the surf zone and into the swells. Kicking is still a no-no, so I fought the urge to tread or throw in the occasional breast stroke while redirecting toward the buoy and swam to buoy one, then two, and almost three. 

I know, I know, “almost” sounds pathetic, and not far from there was my preferred goal, the cliff, but this is where things got exciting. Between buoy two and three something smooth and grey came into view between myself and my destination, which was still off a ways. Seal, right? That is my first instinct too but mamacita here is always up on the latest gossip (not really), such as a shark citing in Monterey Bay?! What? The goggles went up and floated, waiting for a second glimpse of grey sea critter. Finally, a seal came up, far enough away that I could sigh . . . and see a fin! One fin, two fins, three, four—oh my goodness, look at all these dolphins! No sharkies playing around here, no sir-e. Amazing. I was swimming with dolphins, in Monterey Bay. The only reason I turned around was Mr. Seal—seals are huge, and have teeth; three yards was a little too close for comfort. But it was perfect. Sea weed, dolphins, seals, salty water, my favorite view of the harbor lighthouse, even a smooth return to land via body surfing; I could not have wished for more. How is it that the ocean never ceases to give and yet, never looses itself?

Bottoms Up

Goodbye August, hello summer—but of course, goodbye California. These are the summers that I remember from years ago: fog, fog, fog, and then, halfway through August, sunshine and warmth into mid-September, ever so unfortunately overlapping the beginning of school. Maybe this summer was abnormally foggy, not sure, but there is a sadness to this final showing of the sun as the tardy bell sounds. It is a pity that school starts so early, it is not kind to teachers or students or families or businesses, especially not in this county. Of course, the child that skulked off to junior high this morning despises this heat, this true summer weather; he despises school also, but these temperatures drive him inside, where we have trapped the cool night air for midday relief.

On days like this, eighty degrees by nine and climbing, my best friend and I used to go to the creach. We would creek walk down Bean, picking blackberries and disguising ourselves with rock paint. At the merging of Bean with Zayante we would have polar bear contests, arguing over who stayed under longer. We would roll on the rocky and sandy shore, calling ourselves corndogs, then go dancing and shrieking and giggling under the weight of Ferndale Falls. Growing bored with our surroundings, or more likely annoyed at the prospect of sharing our creach with some recently arriving and long staying strangers, we would depart up the steep isle split by the creeks and race to the boat docks. If we were lucky, we would succeed in commandeering a canoe (or rather, convincing a hot and tired lifeguard to be rid of us quickly and painlessly) and paddle beyond the turn around bridge, until we lodged in shallow water near the old docks (or so we called them) where we would hunt crawdads (our kindness not fear was the only reason we never had anything to show for our efforts, of course) and sit in the water pouring over the concrete slabs. If we met a less than compliant lifeguard, we dragged our feet away, muttering about the irascibility of the situation, about twenty yards up Zayante to the bay on the brink of the water. We would stand on its sister’s stump and swing out, legs kicking wildly, letting go at the highest point, plunging into the middle of creek—who needs a dumb canoe anyway? I remember daring each other to go without board shorts; although it was momentous that we were wearing two-pieces (that showed an inch of belly), going without shorts was scandalous in our 11-year-old minds. She had, as usual, the longest, most badass sounding dare, and unable to top her, I made her agree to do it with me. We used to race to the big cement retaining wall too, swimming across the creek in front of rowboats and canoes—she always won. We loved the water without fear. There was respect, of course, one does not swim in the creek during winter, but we loved it from before memory and we both still love creeks and rivers. 

Love’s Merchant MacBeth

MacBeth is hard to be deemed lovable, and if he is a merchant of sorts, he is one of lives—kill kill kill. On that positive note:

MacBeth is quite riveting. I admit—I do love the tragedies. They are rough and saddening and I do not always love or pity the tragic hero right away or completely, but as always, Shakespeare questions an angle, an aspect of humanity. Frankly, I was waiting for MacBeth to impress me, and I was impatient with the fated fool. But he does it, somewhere in his plotting and his wife’s ranting, he runs out a discourse infused with morality and questioning.

Love’s Labour’s Lost . . . hmm, the women have the power in this comedy, and I do enjoy that. Perhaps it was the version I chose (edited by Jonathon Bate and Eric Rasmussen), somehow I think not, but this is quite the bawdy play. My guess is the Folger Shakespeare Library version would have much less explication of the sexual innuendoes in its side notes, but none the less, some of them are quite obvious. Dirty sex jokes aside, Shakespeare took a direct blow at convention and sappy sonneteers as the men are instructed that it takes more than weepy antics to capture the trust of a woman and prove love true.

The Merchant of Venice is again, a very different comedy. This is why I love Shakespeare—although there are repeated themes and events, and although he seemed to lack an imagination for names, each play is separate somehow, and owns a piece of the audience. The villain, Shylock, is difficult to despise. He is not an Iago or an Edmund, whispering plans to the audience intimately; he is not a Claudio, marked by fratricide or a Polonius, nosy and obnoxious. Although all these villains have frighteningly human characteristics, they are less than deserving of pity and fail to redeem themselves, with perhaps the exception of Edmund. Shylock, though, is not only aware of his dislike for Antonio but it is  a reasonable dislike. It is Antonio who seems to be without excuse for his behavior—Antonio’s hatred of Shylock is similar to Iago’s dislike of Othello: “I hate the Moor.” Shylock asks for respect, to not be treated as a dog, reasoning that there is no difference between a Jew and a Christian outside of belief—the two are human and equal. This is why I love Shakespeare!! His audience, late 16^th and early 17^th century England, would have been with the “heroes,” highly anti-Semitic, yet it is Shylock, the Jew, who is given the voice of reason, even if only for a moment.

Next . . . I am not sure—perhaps Romeo and Juliet, simply because I have not read it, but for sure at least a couple of live plays. Shakespeare Santa Cruz is putting on Othello and Love’s Labour’s Lost, for which I am thrilled!! 

Bored, Bummed, and Begging for “Biscuits”

Last night, I finally slept well. In fact, I slept in until 9 (yes, that is sleeping in). And I was quite thankful for it—home-oriented days can be unbearably long, and I had just cut out an entire two hours with sleep! As usual, I lounged my way through the morning: tea, slow-brewing Irish oats, and poetry. Although I was not particularly interested in changing out of my PJs or ready for the duel with my hair, I even forced myself to take a bath and wash my hair. Lunch came and went, and I really had not done much of anything. The Count of Monte Cristo? I tried. About fifteen pages. I kept crutching into the kitchen and toying with the idea of making something, then skulking out.  It is not as though I need the chocolate and butter or am doing anything to counter the buthighs they create (or the floatation devices betwixt aforesaid anatomical structure and the shoulders). But I wasn’t doing anything . . . so I did! I baked: Maple Biscotti and Chocolate, Peanut Butter, Chocolate Chip, Oatmeal Cookies.

The latter indulgence is oh so typical of me; the previous, the mixing of “American” (maple) and Italiano (biscotti), is not so typical. At least, not in baking. Why maple? Isn’t maple a seasonal flavor? Seasonal—uh, I do not know, food is food and I work with what I have. My mom had made Oatmeal Maple Scones and there was left over glaze; so I figured I could make “candied” biscotti, just drizzle the stuff over the top. Maple biscotti would not typically be my first choice, but I dislike wasting perfectly good food (i.e. watching the frosting turn into an amoeba in the fridge) and it did turn out quite well. 

The Tropes of Tea

Good Earth Tea is, well, quite tasty. It is very much like “Chai”: black tea and spices. And, like most quality, packaged teas, comes with a quote on the attached string and label. But the most recent quote, or more precisely, Chinese Proverb, made my day:

“Kissing is like drinking salted water: you drink and your thirst increases.”

Really? I would not know—although I have drunk immeasurable amounts of ocean water, I have yet to experience the tenor. How far can this be taken? Too much ocean water can make one sick, especially when the rivers are tainted (but hey—I’m still fine, and I drank gallons of Zayante and Bean water!!) that inject the salt water . . . kissing can cause mono and no doubt all sorts of other nasty infections . . . hmmm. But I have yet to get sick on account of the ocean, if anything, it is healing—so is kissing healing? Ha. This is too much fun. I might have to readdress this post when Mr. First Good Buddy stumbles into my life or I trip into his . . .