Tahoe shredder

She checked us in at the CalNeva, which straddles the California-Nevada border. Asked to see Alan’s ID. Like me, she’s been a victim of identify theft. But she got to confront her exploiter, who was in one of her college classes.

“He took my debit card, a few pieces of mail and just slipped into my identity.”

He was expelled and went to jail, she said.

“I let him know how know how I felt.”

“How?”

“I broke his nose and the right side of his jaw.” Pause. “Don’t think he likes snowboards anymore.”

Betwixt

She texts, “do you ever feel weird back in Santa Monica? Like u have a different identify there?”

Me: “BIG YES.”

I’m more open here vs. the firm responsible daughter who triggers my mother's “ignore” screen.

A problem when I want to convey something important. Better to wait for Alan; a short sentence from him is gold.

I think I know a little about how you feel in the Forever 21 dressing room, me waiting with the Latino boyfriend who’s approving his girlfriend’s shirts. Anxious? Judged? Very young?

The proverbial rock and hard place waits for us.

Writings in the Raw: one hundred word story #21: This one's true

Writings in the Raw: one hundred word story #21: This one's true

Strictly Ballroom

August 30, 2011


In an odd way, I welcome my aches and pains because they get me out of bed and to the keyboard. Tonight my toes were hurting – maybe it’s the dancing shoes I’ve been squeezing my feet into on Friday nights when Alan and I head to Barbara’s Dancing Tonight on Sycamore Lane. That’s where we go for our rumba, cha-cha, foxtrot, waltz, tango and East Coast swing dance lessons. Yes, really. We love it – Alan has the memory for patterns, we both work to recognize the rhythms, and I wiggle my butt.

It’s a pleasure when we find something we both enjoy. We like the focus of our arms around each other. It’s very intense, and the biggest challenge is trying not to step on our feet. My problem is letting my mind wander as I look at our fellow dancers or the Strictly Ballroom, Tango! and Swing Kids posters. Alan can tell when I’m not concentrating because I start stepping on him. He is very patient. He does appreciate when I try to add the flavor of the dance – singing along with the cha-cha, doing the hip moves, throwing my head back. I love knowing that Sade's "Smooth Operator" is a rumba and Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" is a cha-cha.

I’m already more than twice Julia’s magical concise 100 words that she writes and posts several times a week. The music carried me away.

Love and gravity

August 24, 2011

We had a wedding…and boy, it was some kind of wonderful! And beautiful, and tender, and the weather was a lucky 88°F, Aug. 13, 2011. Josh and Shelby’s special day dawned bright and clear, and we were cool under a blue sky with long shadows that shaded the ceremony, with a full moon for dancing when the sun went down. The ceremony was right before Tu B’Av, Jewish Valentine’s Day!

There were cries of “Mazoltov!” from Grandma Saralee, April and family and other reps from the Konigsberg Halprin gang, and happy cheers from Grandma Alice and Grandpa Fred, with echoes from Williams and Jackson clan members, including Alice’s sisters Evelyn and Rayma. Shelby’s parents, Stephen and Hannah Ho, brought their joy in smiles and beautiful leis – maile leaves for Josh hand-carried on the plane, and the gorgeous smells of ginger, ilima flower and tuberose leis FedExed from Hawaii. Hannah’s four sisters from the Loui clan were filled with smiles and love – Linda, Judy, Helen and Melissa, plus daughters and one spouse - my “lansman” from L.A. Larry. And did I mention the friends? Dozens of young people from their childhoods surrounded Josh and Shel from Village Homes/Yolo County and Honolulu, while beloved compatriots from Santa Barbara, Los Angeles and all over the world added their love.

Alan and I were speechless with joy – almost – and our smiles kept the tears in check. Josh’s smile was the widest, although Sweet Shelby was right up there. She looked like a delicate mermaid in her lovely gown. Tamara, Dahlia and Mira’s dahlias brightened the bridesmaids’ bouquets, while Annie Main’s flowers filled 60+ small vases all over the place. We used Shirlee’s baskets for wine, flowers and goodies at each picnic setting on the lawn.

Lizzy Thigpen Hunt, who grew up with Josh in Village Homes, cooked the meal. What a chef! Veggies were by fellow Village Homes kid Toby Hastings from his Free Spirit Farm. Nicole Wright Main did the luscious haupia (coconut/chocolate) pies and piña colada cupcakes, while the bride and groom cut the blackberry pie that Grandma Alice made from Grandpa’s fresh berries. A special thanks to Virginia Thigpen who built the small wooden bridge the wedding party crossed to get to the chuppa. She made it out of scraps from an old deck the morning before the wedding.

How did we get here? Albert Einstein explains relativity and gravity in a different way (thanks Katie & Matt!):

Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.
How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl [or boy] for an hour and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.

We are blessed!

P.S. To those who wondered about Alan's pesto recipe, see my last post...xxx

Pesto Pete!

Alan takes such good care of our kitchen garden, right outside the door on the edge of our common area. We like the basics – tomatoes – lots of them, zucchini, patty pan summer squash, a few peppers – hot and not, maybe a cucumber and a melon, a few eggplants, and lots and lots of basil for pesto.

Our neighbors in Village Homes introduced us to pesto; it wasn’t a sauce our families made when we were kids. We were hooked when I realized we could make our own lovely pesto with a basic recipe using Parmesan or Romano cheese, packed basil leaves, garlic, pine nuts, lemon juice and a little salt and pepper. When the kids were young, I made lots of pesto. They loved it and got me a book of pesto recipes – variations on the theme. I tried a few recipes using cilantro or parsley instead of basil. Pasta and pesto, salad with tomatoes and lovely sourdough French bread made up many of our summer meals.

The November that George W. was reelected I was sick for several weeks – probably not a coincidence. I couldn’t seem to shake the virus and started looking at my diet. I tried a vegan diet that winter and felt better. One of my favorite recipes was for vegan pesto from Miyoko Nishimoto Schinner’s wonderful book “The New Now & Zen Epicure: Gourmet Vegan Recipes for the Enlightened Palate.” (Gorgeous book, great photos, delicious recipes.) Her pesto calls for miso in place of cheese. Miso is that lovely paste made of fermented soybeans, rice or barley. I get it in the refrigerated sections of the grocery store, and prefer the lighter variety. The darker miso is very salty, but the lighter ones are sweeter. Rice is the lightest, barley is generally darker, and soybean miso is the darkest.

Alan was encouraged by the vegan recipe and started experimenting. He tried different kinds of nuts. The worldwide shortage of pine nuts (piñon nuts) helped - as our friend Jaime says, it made the price of traditional pesto as pricey as crack! Alan started drying and cracking the walnuts we picked up in Village Homes. His mother Alice was raised on a farm with a walnut orchard near Corning just off I-5 two hours north of Davis; she used a claw hammer to crack nuts. Her Aunt Helen gave bags of cracked walnuts to the family for presents. Some of them ended up in delicious batches of Alan’s pesto. He also has used pecans and peanuts, and recently had good luck with macadamia nuts, which have the texture of piñon nuts.

Here’s our favorite miso-based pesto. You’d never guess it didn’t have cheese. Fewer calories, no dairy, and absolutely delicious. I’m also including Alan’s recipe for hot pepper pesto for our friends with lots of peppers to harvest.

Bon appétit!



Vegan Pesto Sauce

From “The New Now & Zen Epicure: Gourmet Vegan Recipes for the Enlightened Palate” by Miyoko Nishimoto Schinner

Yield: 2 cups

2 cups packed fresh basil leaves
2-4 cloves garlic
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons pine nuts
1 cup extra virgin olive oil [Note: We use LESS oil—between ½ and 2/3 cup]
2 tablespoons light miso
[Sometimes I add fresh lemon juice to the leaves to help them keep their color]

Combine all ingredients in a blender or food processor. Blend until a thick green sauce is produced, but leave a little texture. Store refrigerated in a jar with a coating of olive oil on top to keep the sauce from discoloring [we usually use it up! Haven’t found the need for oil on top…].

Per tablespoon: Calories: 75, Protein .5 g, Fat 8 g, Carbohydrates .5

Use over pasta or add to soup, tomato sauce or pizza; extend with vinegar as a salad dressing, or just spread on bread. Keeps for several weeks refrigerated, or can be frozen.

AJ’s Basil Pesto

3 cups basil leaves
4 cloves garlic
½ cup nuts – piñon, walnuts, macadamia nuts or peanuts
1 cup (or less) olive oil
3 tablespoons light miso

AJ’s Hot Pepper Pesto (aka, “Hot Sh*t”)

“I make this in the food processor after making basil pesto (without cleaning),” says Alan.

1 - 1½ cup jalapeños or other chili peppers, stems cut off
4 cloves garlic
½ cup nuts
½ - 1 cup olive oil – to right consistency
3 tablespoons light miso

Farmer?

“Yeah, my dad is a farmer – want to make something of it?”

That’s what I felt the years at Franklin Elementary School in Santa Monica, where my friends’ dads were all “businessmen,” whatever that was. They wore the infamous white collared-shirts to work, and suits, or so I thought.

My mother, the pianist, caused raised eyebrows, too, but musicians somehow fit the Los Angeles demographic better than farmers. Especially when the farm was 500 miles north in the tiny Dust Bowl settled twin cities of Marysville and Yuba City.

My handsome papa, hazel-eyed and slim-bodied, wore khaki – all khaki. Long-sleeved khaki work shirts, pressed and starched (yes, by the Chinese laundry in Marysville) khaki work pants, rounded leather work boots with plain white cotton socks that came in packages of six. He topped it off with a soft white Panama hat – real Panama.

He was very particular about the hat. We drove 40 miles to Grass Valley once to find a soft new Panama at a particular haberdashery, which probably served the Gold Rush towns the previous century. He found one just to his specifications with a thin black ribbon around the middle. He was so pleased with the hat and the day was so fine, we ended up driving further east 50 miles into Nevada. I was 11, and that was the first time April and I had been out of California. It was a sunny day, but mountain air is colder, and I remember feeling the chill as we walked in our little cotton sun suits through the lobby and theater with the strip show (I saw it) to get to the fancy buffet at the Cal-Neva Lodge. Later I found out it was owned by the Mafia, or at least that’s what reporters for magazines like Look, which was as big as Life Magazine, said.

By the time I got to junior high school, the “farmer” label was beginning to sound interesting to my friends. I found out when my friend Carol saw a boy I liked while we were up at the farm for the summer. She wrote that she casually told him that I was “at the family’s ranch.” She said he asked lots of questions about it. Years later I heard he moved to Oregon to raise horses.

Highway 99 Revisited

I surprised myself with the pleasure I felt driving north on Interstate 5 to Davis after a peaceful end of the year with Mom and the family in Santa Monica. Highway 5 was built in the early 1970s just to the west of California State Route 99, known to long-time travelers as Highway 99. During my childhood in the 1950s and 60s we drove Highway 99, which stretches almost the complete length of the vast Central Valley, linking the many little agricultural towns and cities.

Alan and I were happy to be on the road, with dog Taj alert and nuzzling Alan’s ear as he drove. Conversation gently died as we passed leafless orchards already reaching for spring, with new branch growth visible. Out of the corner of my eye I was looking for that hint of pink that occurs even before the buds show, but stopped myself when I remembered it was only January 1. Maybe last fall’s plentiful rains mean the process of renewal is ahead of schedule?

Before I-5, It was a 10-hour drive up Highway 99 to our farm in Yuba City, and we often broke up the trip with an overnight stay in Fresno. The Park Motel was slightly off the main drag, across the street from the zoo and adjacent to Lee’s Chinese Restaurant. The big thrill was a visit to the zoo if we arrived before it closed, followed by a swim in the motel pool. We joined other families and truckers at Lee’s for dinner.

Fresno’s sweet and quiet zoo was the setting for one of our family lore stories. One hot June afternoon we stopped at the Reptile House before walking to the tiny savannah-like area of the leopards, lions and tigers. Nearby was the giraffe quarters, adjacent to a barn that housed the animals’ feed. A giraffe had managed to lean his (or her) long neck over the fence and reach a bag of grain through the barn door. We caught him in the act, munching on mouthfuls of grain. The tall critter decided to share the booty and began leaning into the adjoining elephant’s area, passing the grain from his mouth into the elephant’s trunk.

“Look at the giraffe sharing!” my mother said, leaning back into a big laugh.

My father broke into his trademark wide grin.

“Girls, take a look at this,” he said.

Four-year-old April was on Dad’s shoulders while I held his hand. I’m sure the elephant was grateful for the extra ration of feed; what stays with me is the warmth of Dad’s hand, my mother’s delighted laugh, and our pleasure in witnessing a scene of generosity just off Highway 99.