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.

Half-birthday, favorite books, red nails…

December 3, 2010

I have a thing about numbers and dates. December 3 is yellow, because of the “3.” It’s also a fine day because it’s Friday, and my half-birthday. When I wake the words and numbers float past my consciousness like an old-fashioned ticker tape.

The half-birthday is a great excuse for getting my nails done. New gel polish that is supposed to last two weeks – unlikely on a woman who thinks with her hands, but I can always hope.

April’s great writing authors’ blogpost today (http://www.teachingauthors.com/2010/12/beware-of-books-books-that-have.html) mentioned Bookprints, a kind of Facebook place for book lovers. They’ve been asking folks to post the five books that influenced them. I can’t do it because I won’t join Bookprints, which requires access to one’s friends/contacts on FB or gmail. But I’ll tell you some of my favorite books…

* The Once and Future King, T.H. White (‘58), based on the Arthurian legend. White reinterprets it in relation to WWII - and reviewers say he wrote it the way he wanted the world to be. I read it in 5th grade and treasured it. Really liked the title.

* Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger. It's a good thing I didn't know what a lech Salinger was because it would have taken away some of the identification and utter enjoyment I got out of reading this in 9th grade. The wry humor - I saw me.

* How to Talk Dirty and Influence People—An Autobiography, Lenny Bruce. (’65). When I was 14, I read the book that was making my mother laugh like a banshee in her bed. I still remember the first line to this day, but I can’t share it. For a tall skinny girl who wore prim dresses, reading a provocative obscenity-filled book by a man whose stand-up comedy act challenged free speech limits in the 1950s and 1960s was a way to differentiate myself in junior high school. I also thought Bruce was hilarious and poignant, and as my family knew writers and musicians who were blacklisted during that period, I appreciated his bravery. I never thought of trying to write like Bruce, but I learned how humor can lighten a message.

* He/She/It, Marge Piercy. This woman is a versatile writer - poetry and fiction, I love it all. This was the first semi-science fiction book I liked. Loved the golem.

* Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx. Dense, hard to get into, but the payoff was huge for me.

* Caught Inside, Daniel Duane. Duane's 1997 memoir-ish book of a year surfing on California's north coast, was just what I needed - a thoughtful California view of the world tied into one of my favorite sports. Read it on the recommendation of my son Josh and still think about it.

* The Outlander, Gil Adamson. 1903 Canadian Rockies setting – mentally ill young woman escaping for her life after she kills her abusive husband. Stunning prose, amazing story. One of my favorite spur-of-the-moment book buys - the Honolulu airport.

* Granny D—You’re Never too Old to Raise a Little Hell, Doris Haddock ('03, with Dennis Burke). The 89-year-old who walked across the country to call for campaign finance reform. She died in 2010 at age 100. What a powerful woman and what a fine and thoughtful writer. I keep the book beside my bed, and when I feel empty, hopeless or just in need of a kick in the pants, I pick it up for real dynamite. Talking about why she did her walk, she says," There is an urge to just walk into the desert, away from the road and be done with it. There is also an urge to have some ice cream with chocolate sauce. Life is what we patch together between those competing desires." And how about this one? "Your life is not trivial. It is real." And another, "We are all dying, and we might as well be spending ourselves in a good cause." My kind of woman.

Read on!

Frost on Evelyn’s roof, Thanksgiving back-up house, April is my bodyguard…

Alan says it was warmer last night, above freezing at least, and the thermometer on our deck just outside the kitchen window says a whopping 36 degrees. But there is white frosty stuff on the shingles of Evelyn’s roof that I see from my upstairs office, and boy, am I glad I covered my succulents!

I covered the most delicate plants with some new-fangled frost cloth made in India that I got at Davis Ace Hardware Store yesterday. I also used one of the very light tablecloths we got from Aunt Rose’s house after she passed last year – makes a lovely plant protector and she would have gotten a kick out the pale green and white cloth lovingly draped over the tiny rosette plants.

We learned the key to a mostly stress-free Thanksgiving – have it at our house at the last minute. Alan’s brother Frank and his wife Pam were so looking forward to hosting the extended clan at their beautiful Grass Valley house and showing folks the almost-completed airplane in their comfortable shop. But it snowed last week and the heavy wet snow broke branches that struck power lines, and even with an adorable five month old named Jolee in the house the power went out. They called us and warned that they might need our house as Turkey Day backup, which is exactly what transpired.

We bought a lovely 17-pound turkey on Wednesday afternoon and Thursday were the hosts of 21, counting the awesome Jolee. Loving family, delicious food – how to host without any pre-banquet worries!

And now the part about “April is my bodyguard.” She and I worry about Mom. We hope the sadness Mom feels as her health gradually fails and her beloved companions die won’t overwhelm the spice, talent and delight that has been Saralee for 88 years. April wisely counsels that we “stay neutral,” and try not to get too worried, in spite of Mom’s quiet voice on the telephone, the joyless musings. Well, we find that she is quite cheerful with most others, and once again, are reminded that she does take care of herself. Us loving daughters would do well to learn from her…

Caption: Me and the lovely Jolee