Let it snow, let it snow- just don't let it ice...

It has been snowing and sleeting on and off for a week. This kind of weather pretty much paralyzes PDX. There just isn't the equipment or manpower to manage the snow and ice. 

They closed work at 1pm on Wednesday because the weather was ramping up. By Friday I didn't even attempt to go into the office and worked from home. It snowed straight through Saturday evening. 

I had a hair appointment on Saturday that I was going to make no matter what the weather. It took 3 hours to get home and I didn't even have to cross the river! I still had a walk a couple of miles in howling wind and face-stinging ice. At least I was properly attired. I saw so many people yesterday without hats,  gloves or appropriate footwear. I documented my winter wanderings with photos and videos.

When I finally made it home, I made myself a cup of tea and watched the storm outside through my living room window. With the outdoors illuminated by the streetlights, it was just like watching a movie.

Now, on Sunday afternoon, I can hear the brittle, tinkling sound of frozen rain against the windows over the Christmas music on 'American Routes' on NPR. I'm in for the night and plan to make latkes for dinner.

I have a feeling I won't be going into work tomorrow.

I painted something that isn't a wall

This is a straight-up rip off of a wallpaper print that I fell in love with done by a studio in North Adams, MA. I have a link to NAMA Rococo.

Mine! It's all MINE!

It has been a year today since I took possession of Alder Street. Not to seem possessive and greedy, but ever since I was a wee child, my fantasy was to possess my own space. 

At ages 5-10, to have a bed that was not attached to another's was my yearning, as bunkbeds were de rigueur. Yes, visiting friends thought B-beds were exciting and exotic. They actually thought the the top bunk was the choicest sleeping spot! Amateurs...

My pre-teen years revolved around competing for personal space with my brother Yogi. After it was determined that a 11 year old boy shouldn't have to share a room with 2 infants in cribs, the parents decided to build what was essentially a book-shelf through the center of a 11'x10' room, thereby creating two 5.5' x 10' "bedrooms" (thankfully, the closet was on my side) for the aforementioned boy and his older-by-11-months sister- me.

The next creative solution for configuring humane living space for 6 children, 2 adults and assorted pets with only 850 sq. feet, was to convert a section of the cellar (that's what we call a "basement" in Olde New England) into 2 bedrooms and a bathroom.

The 'cellar' of this post-WWII tract house had originally been tricked-out with knotty-pine panelling, a fake fireplace, a bar, and swinging, cowboy-style doors! This was the setting in which I first observed "grown-up parties."

My first recollection was when I was around 3 or 4 years old. I was wearing a pale blue nightgown with a puppy applique and was graciously mixing drinks for the amusing grown-ups who seemed completely enraptured by anything I said or did. My bar back was Yogi. Afterall, he was just 11 months younger, so he was just as qualified as I was to make drinks and entertain.

My father's best friend was this guy Herbie. Yogi and I thought Herbie was the greatest thing ever. I really don't know why when I look back. I suspect it may be because my parents got so excited when anticipating one of Herbie's infrequent visits. I recall he lived an exciting, faraway place called "Ohio." In retrospect, I bet he was one of those guys who, after getting all his mates whipped up about his upcoming visit and all the riotous fun that would be had, would flake out. I think Yogi and I got caught up in it all of the excitement and anticipation. 

Years later my mother told me how Herbie would coax and cajole me into telling escalating tales of tragedies and injustices that were inflicted upon me, reducing me to a whining, sobbing, toddler tragedy. Yeah...that sounds really fun...

On this particular night I remember Herbie bellying up to the bar upon which Yogi and I were perched. Giddy from all the attention we were receiving and the fact that it was probably hours after our bedtime, Yogi and I concocted a drink for Herbie consisting of: left over booze from various abandoned glasses, maraschino cherries, ice, and...cigarette butts. Hey, this was 1965, and everyone smoked. We simply emptied an ashtray into a highball glass and presented it to a very drunk Herbie. 

He took a nice, big, gulp. Then did a reverse gulp. Ewwwwww.

Next thing I know I'm waking up in my bed the next morning. As I enter the kitchen looking for breakfast, I see my mother looking apprehensive. I then turn to climb into my 'youth' chair (not really a high chair; more like a bar stool for children) and immediately notice the foot rest- essential to boosting my toddler body into the seat- is completely sheared off. Only slivers of splintered wood remain. My lip starts quavering and tears well up.

"Herbie sat in your chair and broke the footrest", my mother tried to explain. Being an emotional child, I just looked at her and started bawling. The Lady looked annoyed (though I now understand she must have been totally hungover) and emphasized that it "was an accident."

So now, years later, I'm going to have my very own bedroom in the basement! Woo-hoo! I knew the bar would have to go, but I'm thinking- fake fireplace! My parents had promised me this space since I had started puberty, and it was finally going to happen. I was 14 years old.

Hold on. Change of plans. Yogi is going to get the bedroom. 

Why? He's never here. He never talks or interacts with the family. I know he is just biding his time until her can escape (as am I) but he doesn't give a crap about this house. All he cares about is hanging out with his friends, torturing teachers that are dumber than him (which means most of them) and smoking pot. Fuck. Sure, my family engagement consists of screaming and fighting, but at least I talk to them. I, too, am just biding my time until I can get away and all I care about is my friends and smoking pot. But I also really, sincerely, cherish a room that I can call my own. I'm 14 and I need a place for my clothes and my shoes and my journals, and my mental solitude. All Yogi needs is a bed to chain his bicycle to so someone in the family won't steal it.

So Yogi gets the former 60's swinging party basement room with the fake fireplace and I get the other room. The room with the oil tank. The room that smells like petroleum. And mold. Yep. 

I think it is a testament to my popularity that until high school graduation I actually maintained friendships and had admirers even though my clothes, my skin, my books, bed sheets- everything I owned- was permeated with an oder that conveyed smelly men working in a garage while wearing old, moldering sneakers.

Since then, I've lived in some horror shows. But I almost always had my own room. And I never shared a room with an oil tank- ever.

But now I am here at Alder Street. One year in my very own house. I have 2 bedrooms to pick from- neither of which smells disgusting. When I get up in the morning, I find everything just the way I left it. (though, if I ever get a dog, that might not be the case). I have all I ever wanted. Some might think I should want for much more but they would be wrong. 

Crafty like a Foxy Crafter

Well over ten years ago, Tante H. found a pair of 1950's Danish, teak chairs that someone had placed in the street for trash collection. The cushions and upholstery were worn, but the chairs themselves were mint. This is the kind of find one would only encounter in CT, right? With PDX hipsters' penchant for all things mid-century I have had many people ask about purchasing them, but I think they are wonderful and don't plan on parting with them.

I finally bought new foam rubber cushions and had originally planned on having them professionally re-upholstered, but I really can't afford that after paying $100+ for the cushions and because of the economy. So, I decided my only option was DIY.

I wanted to add a coral-like color to the living room and found some fabric that was at least in the orange family that was approximately what I wanted. But since the color was off, I wanted something else to make the cushions more interesting.

I then took a photograph of my living room curtains (which are in fact shower curtains from Target; am I cheap or what?) which have a toile pattern and made fabric transfers from the details. 

Since I am a terrible seamstress and didn't work from a pattern, I'm pretty pleased with the results. I even have zippers for each.

What do you think? 

Am I ready for ApartmentTherapy?

Beast? Fish? Fowl? Republican?

'A' was ill and Christo-pee decided to stay home with her. So 'L', Betsy Ross and I headed for Yuki's- a good but not great Japanese restaurant that has become one of our comfortable favorites. 

Not long after we arrived a man in a wheelchair came in from the rain.He had longish, snow-white hair, a very prominent nose and enormous eyeglasses with thick, black frames. He was wearing a bohemian beret, tuxedo pants and a pair of orthopaedic shoes of which the right had a sole at least 3 inches thicker than the left. He appeared to be an "artsy" sort, perhaps a musician or poet.

 He wasn't a regular, as he was asking the waitress basic questions about the menu. He was very frail and had been recently ill, as there was a hospital bracelet hanging from the arm of his chair and I noticed a "dot" band-aid on the back of his right hand, just like the ones nurses apply after you've received an IV. I'm telling you, this was a made-for-Lifetime-TV movie in the making. 

This vignette was killing 'L.' Though she may come across as an unsentimental, emotionally hardened bitch, this was a scene that could reduce her to a soggy heap of weeping guilt and shame. I, too, felt for this man who was alone on Thanksgiving and probably every other day of the year as well.

We told the waitress that we would like to pick up his tab. It wasn't as if we thought he couldn't  afford his dinner; we were hoping that when he discovered our plan, it might determine wether we should invite him to join us or if it would be clear he wanted to be by himself. We also told the waitress to tell him  that we would like to buy him  a drink, dessert or anything else he would like.

After he had eaten his entree, the waitress told him we had taken care of the check. He turned to us and said, "But why?." 

I replied, "Because it's Thanksgiving!"

He accepted my explanation and later ordered a dessert, thinking that he would buy it himself. When the waitress informed him that we had taken care of that too, he turned to our table and asked,

"But why would you do that?"

He wasn't offended but rather perplexed by the idea that total strangers would pay for his meal. I told him that our Thanksgiving plans didn't exactly work out the way we planned so we thought we would try to extend our 'Giving of Thanks' to more than our party of three. He seemed satisfied with that explanation, thanked us warmly, and headed out into the gloomy, rainy, Portland night.

It was only after he pivoted his motorized chair towards the exit that I saw the bumper sticker applied to the back of his chair:

'VOTE REPUBLICAN'

God DAMMIT!

Vegan Schmegan

As Thanksgiving 2008 approached, it seems I heard more than the usual discourse on the ethics of food, and in particular, meat-eating. Maybe I am just more attuned to these discussions, as lately I've been doing a lot of examination of my food consumption and have been contemplating vegetarianism and even veganism. I then start adding back in animal based products that I don't want to live without, namely fish and cheese. God knows, there is probably a name for that kind of diet! If not, I'm open to suggestions.

There were several stories aired on NPR regarding the vegetarians' dilemma during the holidays. I heard about people that were just as conflicted about what we choose to eat and how that food produced. 

We had decided to go out for sushi for the Thanksgiving. (As I write this, NPR is broadcasting a story about the threatened Atlantic Blue-fin Tuna, an impressive and beautiful fish that is a threatened species because of high demand for, um, sushi.) No birds were harmed in our holiday feast, however tuna, yellowtail, razor clams, shrimp and eel all suffered great carnage.

As both 'L' and I expected 'A' to be participating in our holiday plans, we both made vegan desserts. 'L' did her usual vegan pumpkin pie, which is damn good and almost indistinguishable from the kind made with animal fluids (mmmmm, fluuuuuuu-ids...). I, having only one dish to make, characteristically became very ambitious and decided to create a vegan version of one of PDX's dessert landmarks, the Pear Rosemary Tart from Pix Patisserie.

I made a pate sucree and added first a layer of almond cream. I placed sauteed pears second and topped the tart with a ganache made with Valrhona 70% chocolate infused with rosemary. I was fairly happy with it but next time want to make the ganache creamier.

I think I do not want to be a vegan, but want to be a vegan chef because of the challenge.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

He looks better than Genocidal Jackson*, don't ya think?

My garbage and recycling are collected on Friday mornings. They arrive at 6AM, so I can usually bring in the bins as I head off to work.

Last Friday in the dim, pre-daytime savings dawn, I went to the curb and noticed something in the gutter next to the garbage can. It was a soggy $20 bill, folded in half and nestled in a pile of leaves. Picking it up I found it was actually $40. I put the money in my pocket, put away the bins and headed to work.

I kept thinking about the money and who lost it. Was it the garbage collection guy? Someone collecting bottles and cans from the recycling bin for the deposit money? As an absent-minded kid and a disorganized adult, losing money was something of which I have extensive experience and felt sympathy for whoever was cursing themselves, frantically pawing through every bag, pocket, sofa cushion, book, drawer and wallet they can find hoping to find their misplaced money.

I did check Craig's list and found no notices of missing money. By the next day I wasn't feeling as concerned and broke one of the bills at Ikea. I know, I know, of all places! At least it wasn't Starbuck's.

Tonight, Monday, it was a battle getting home. The evening was very dark and very rainy. There were power outages all over the east side rendering traffic lights useless. It took forever to even get close to my neighborhood. After getting a partial ride from a coworker, I managed to catch a bus the rest of the way and arrived home- wet, tired, hungry and oh-so-thankful to be in my cozy, comfortable house. Before I even took off my coat, the doorbell rang. Arrrgh. 

At the door were two high-school aged girls collecting bottles and cans for the Portland Rescue Mission, an organization that provides food and shelter to the homeless in Portland. On this evening these smiling, wholesome teenagers were going door to door collecting 5-cents a piece containers for the most desperate and under-served members of our community. Such a contrast to me- a grumpy, middle-aged frump concerned only with what I would have for dinner that night.

I told them I had nothing and that since our garbage collection was only 2 days ago, they might not find much in our neighborhood. They thanked me "so much for explaining that!", wished me "a terrific evening!" and went to the next house.

In an irrational, superstitious moment of illogical thinking, I made a quick deal with the universe, or God, whatever you want to call it. I felt that if I gave $20 to these kids, Barack Obama would win the election. I grabbed the bill and dashed back out into the rain and caught up with the girls.

They were a little astonished and I felt too embarrassed to give the impression that I was actually so generous, so I- maybe a little too emphatically- made it clear that I had found the money.

We all make deals. Promising, wheeling and dealing, thinking we can control the outcome of some event that was set into motion a fraction of a second before it careened completely out of our control. That's when most of us start praying. 

There are a lot of prayers being said these days. You can almost hear it every time you read a newspaper, watch the news and go to work, attend church. It is being chanted by those who have lost their jobs, their homes, their money, their freedom and their country.

Anne Lamott wrote that there are just two prayers in the world: "Help me, help me, help me..." and "Thank you, thank you, thank you...".

Hopefully, after tomorrow's election, most of us will be saying the second.

*Andrew Jackson is my second least-favorite president, after you-know-who. (Millard Fillmore was such a douche bag)  Sarah Vowell brilliantly describes Jackson's brutal slaughter of the Demoratic Cherokee Nation on This American Life.

All Hallowed's Eve-PDX style

There was another quirky, charming but slightly menacing event here in PDX last weekend unlike anything that would have occurred in the other places I have lived. Sure, Vermont has heifer parades and llama festivals, Boston has the Marathon, Wethersfield has Ye Olde Wethersfield Days, Hartford has, um...drive-bys?

But along with the clowns jousting on 10' bicycles, people creating "parks" in a parking spots, naked bike rides (public nudity is legal in PDX as it is considered "artistic expression"), an adult soapbox derby race down a dormant volcano dubbed 'The Olympics of Drunk Driving', we 

just had the 3rd Annual Zombie Walk. There are Zombie Walks in other cities, but I like to think Portland's is exceptionally gruesome and fun.

There were Zombie families

with their Zombie dogs

and Zombie clowns, of course- because it's Portland.

There were Zombie business men. On unicycles- because it's Portland.

and Zombies clawing at restaurant and department store windows, leaving smears of blood.

Imagine 700+ blood-splattered, undead staggering around a city and gathering at a public square to perform the dance from Michael Jackson's video 'Thriller'. Can't picture it? Check out this video.

But my favorite part of all was a quote in an article written by Melissa Navas published in the Oregonian:

"He saw some zombies pound on Nordstrom's glass doors, leaving behind streaks of red. And blood somehow landed  on his violin case, though it'll eventually come off, he said.

He wasn't shocked by the scene because he's seen theme-parades before.

'The same thing happened last year when the army of Santas came around,' he said. 'Only they didn't have fake blood.' "

Magic Mushrooms

My former neighbors Flo & Randy are master mushroom hunters.   Flo is a Frenchwoman transplanted to the Pacific NW. Being married to the outdoorsy, bike-riding, PDX native Randy, the union has produced an elite team of chanterelle foragers.

Once when I lived next door to them, I invited myself to one of their mushroom sojourns. The take was a paltry 3 slug-nibbled mushrooms. I believe I am a curse, as it seems every other outing they embarked upon yielded generous amounts of lovely orange fungi.

I received an email a few days ago from Randy asking if I could take some Cantharellus cibarus off their hands. Seems they hit the mother lode, finding so many mushrooms they could barely transport them from the forest back to the car. They had the equivalent of 4 brown-paper grocery bags stuffed full of the fragrant, orange morsels.

I replied that of course I would love some and I would also like the recipe for the buttery, flaky biscuits they would make every fall using our Oregon chanterelles. We made arrangements to meet at their house (my old 'hood) to prepare and enjoy lunch.

I decided to bring dessert and this morning made a pear tart using local Comice pears, local hazelnuts, local butter, local rosemary and local flour. The "quick" puff-pastry recipe came from the Silver Palate cookbook I've had since the '80's and it was brilliant. I have made authentic puff-pastry before, and the meticulous, precision-like technique suits my style. But you need quite a bit of time and the weather has to be just right to make a successful batch. On short notice I decided to take a chance on this faster, more convenient recipe. I added a bit of sugar because this was to used for a dessert, but I plan to make some more without sugar and freeze them for savory tarts and appetizers.

Once I arrived we set about preparing our meal. The weather has been spectacular, and today was another incredible sunny, chilly, blue-skied autumn spectacular (normally at this time of year we would be in the midst of winter rain, clouds and gloom). F & R have a virtual farm-in-the-city: apple, hazelnut, Asian pear trees; garlic, onions, leeks; kale, chard, arugula, romaine, green & red-leaf lettuces; end-of-season basil and tomatoes- and that's just what they have in the garden right now! I was assigned to prepping the mushrooms, which I love! Put me in a corner with a good knife and a pile of produce and I will slice, chop, dice, julienne, mince, chiffonade, etc. happily for hours. Randy prepared the biscuits and Flo did a bit of everything: cleaning, prepping, and- most importantly- harvesting the salad.

Why do French people make the best salads? Simple assemblages of greens, oil and vinegar become sublime compositions of textures and tastes. So different from the bland, flavorless watery greens doused in gluey, overly-sweet "dressings" that Americans call "salad." Of course, the fact that every salad I've had at Flo & Randy's house has been comprised of vigorous, healthy plants enjoying sunshine, water and rich soil that were picked and gently baptized with perfectly proportioned oil-to-vinegar vinaigrette seconds before being placed on my plate has something to do with the superior texture and flavor. But still... there is something in the genes of these Francs that understands how a salad should taste an feel and they make it look effortless.

Just as we had decided lunch would be biscuits, salad, Black Butte Porter Ale (a divine local beer product), and pear tart, Flo decided we should also make chanterelle risotto and bestowed upon me the honor of preparing it. Woohoo. Though she had a recipe, we pretty much winged it and the creamy rice dish turned out beautifully- savory,  creamy, toothsome bites of rice infused with mushrooms, garlic and wine. 

Because the weather was just too nice to stay indoors, we set the table in the midst of their garden of eatin' and enjoyed yet another local, seasonal, communal feast in this place that I am so happy to call home.

Cop & Robbers

This being Saturday, I slept in for  bit. Not too late, as I was summoned to end 'The Great Kitty Famine of October 18th,' a tragic piece of feline history. Unfortunately, this event is doomed to repeat itself over and over as 'The Great Kitty Famine of October 19th' and then 'The Great Kitty Famine of October 20th', and so on.

After turning on the radio (damn you, pledge week) and opening the blinds and curtains, I suddenly realize the dog being walked by the 2 men across the street is a serious looking German Shepherd and the 2 men are dressed in the same dark blue outfits and carrying guns. Big guns. Big guns that are drawn. The police are looking for someone.

I immediately check my doors, as I am pretty casual about locking the place up. Don't need any criminals using my house as a hideout, 

holding starving cats as hostages. Yikes, the back door is unlocked, making my house accessible by simply applying a bit of pressure with your pinky finger. 

The little feral cat I have been feeding is waiting patiently by the side of the house staring at my window waiting for breakfast but I don't want to go out there just yet. I don't know what the police are looking for and would feel very silly getting caught in a crossfire while wearing a torn sweater, black "comfy" pants, yellow Crocs and no bra. Sorry, little cat, you'll just have to wait.

I saw they had our street blockaded on either end as cops in cars and on foot wandered up and down. This went on for about 30 minutes. Finally, they removed the blockades and my neighbor, a retired man across the street, pulls into his driveway in his Crown Vic. He has a huge radio tower in his backyard and between that and his car I always took him as a retired cop and figure he'll know what is going on. But he doesn't. He did, however, have to wait down the street before he could come home.

Two more cops walked by and told us they were after a robber and the K9 unit caught him hiding in the blackberry brambles at the bicycle path edge of our street.

Now that the bad guy is gone, our block has exploded with activity by residents that were either stuck in or stuck away from their homes. The teen-age skateboarders, the home-improvers, the spandex-clad bicyclists, the leave rakers, the dog-walkers and the autumn gardeners are all out to take advantage of what looks like a beautiful, October Saturday.

All, that is, but for one alleged felon with dog bites and bramble scratches.

I'm in love! Again!

For those of you who have known me well the past few years, what you probably suspect is in fact- true. Since the 'Great V-Neck Obsession', the objects of my affection have been of the "electronic" type. NO, not that that kind of electronic- get your mind out of the gutter for cryin' out loud. Anyway... following my adoration of my Apple PowerBook G4 and then the iPhone, I have finally fallen for another. A bicycle named A2B. A2B is electronic and style-y and comfortable and easy to ride. All relationships should have such qualities...

The manufacturer did a demo at work today so I had a chance to give it a spin. I'm hooked and really want to buy one. It costs $2,500 and some of you have already given me your opinion.

So what do you think? Please post a comment and weigh in!

Cute or Creepy?

Animals that act like people...

You decide...

"I'll be back."

Tante H., 80-years old, decided to pay Alder Street a visit. Wanting to avoid the delights of air travel, she chose to come by train. Her trip was, quite literally, across the entire North American continent. She arrived in fine spirits- equipped with hilarious stories about her travels- and has been making the most of Portland ever since.

Since she arrived last Thursday, she has:
(make sure to click the links below for the ultimate Tante H. in PDX experience)

• Visited the Classical Chinese Garden and had lunch at the Tea House
• Dined at Pho Van, a Vietnamese restaurant
• Toured Edgefield and had lunch at the Black Rabbit
• Became a regular at Monti's Cafe
• Had lunch at No Fish, Go Fish
  
• Had Sunday brunch at The Country Cat
• Visited the 'Old House Dahlia Farm' & the Montavilla Farmer's Market
  
• Went to the Pittock Mansion
• Bargain shopped at the Nike Employee Store, where she bought two pairs of Sportswear sneakers
  
• Went shopping at Fubonn, Asian retail paradise
• Visited The Grotto, a Catholic retreat and meditation center
• Drank at The Moon & Sixpence
• Saw 'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull' at our neighborhood theater, 'The Academy'
  
• Dined at The Farm
• Attended a cocktail party in her honor at A & L's house
• Had a farewell dinner at Oba!
• A good-bye lunch at Wilf's, the old-school, well-appointed restaurant at the train station.

And yes, she does plan on coming out West again for a visit. Maybe not next year, but definitely the year after that...

'Cuz this old lady kicks ass.

I Heart Ramadan! But not 911...

BAD NEWS: Because of my narrow cultural POV and lefty, white-guilt, politically-correct leanings I pretty much made an ass of myself.
GOOD NEWS: Perhaps because of others' narrow world view and insufficient understanding of historical events, my social gaff went unnoticed.

You decide.

Aisha and Asya brought me my Ramadan food on Thursday. Finally. It was 9:30 pm and I was hungry. As we stood in my kitchen and I oohed and aahed over the holiday left-overs, Asya said (as if I was as ignorant of historical events as I was of Islamic holidays), "You know, today is 911."

Um, yeaaaah. My friends and I make jokes about "how the world changed" and send each other cards like this. "Yes, I've been hearing a lot about it on the radio and TV today," I say lamely. What else do you say to 2 head-scarved Paki Muslim girls?

Aisha went on describing what she remembered that day and it wasn't much. Or accurate. She told me how her cousins were flying in from Pakistan that very day and were on 'The Plane.' Luckily they were "sitting in the back" and survived the crash, because- according to Aisha- when a plane goes down the front hits first so leaving the back intact. When the cousins arrived at Aisha's house later on September 11th, 2001, her family had a big party for them. To celebrate their arrival or survival? I'm not sure...

"Wow, they were so, um, lucky..." I stammered.

She was 6 years old when this event happened and of course she only has a child's comprehension of what actually occurred. But I couldn't help speculating on what discussions (if any) took place in her home or in her private Muslim school. Then she said:

"My father wouldn't let me go outside to play after that happened."

Oh- so I guess her family did have a socio-political understanding of what was happening that day- I thought to myself.

"Well, of course your Dad wanted to keep you safe. A lot of Americans didn't understand that someone being Muslim didn't mean they had any thing to do with being a terrorist."

Aisha and Asya looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. I realized that she meant that there was so much danger- planes crashing, buildings collapsing, people dying, etc.- that her father just wanted her safely inside because America was under attack. It was beyond her her realm of understanding that her greatest threat was posed by some idiot "patriot" that saw a dark-skinned girl in a head scarf. I had the distinct impression that these girls had never heard the words 'fundamentalist', 'Islam', 'extremist' or 'terrorist' associated with the events of 911.

Am I some kinda a-hole, or what?

But our conversation quickly turned to the issue of people who have birthdays that fall around September 11th and how that must suck. I'm sure both girls went home thinking I was some American idiot rambling on about something I knew nothing about and just totally dismissed me and my inaccurate theories about Islam.

Phew.

Happy Ramadan!

Because of the work I'm in and because of my shoe size, I tend to accumulate a lot of sneakers. That may sound like an understatement to those who have seem my closet, but not to those in the footwear industry. Everyday we are literally surrounded by piles of shoes in every color and material imaginable.

About a week or so ago I mentioned to my Pakistani neighbors that I sometimes can get free shoes, and if they tell me their shoe sizes I would keep an eye out for some freebies for them. Well, the usually reserved 14-year old Aisha rang my doorbell not long after and gave a piece of paper with her, her 3 siblings and her mother's sizes.

I know a few details about the family: the 4 children and 2 parents live in a house exactly the same size as mine; the father works the nightshift at 7-Eleven; the parents did not go to school and the father speaks limited English and the mother almost none; the parents consider any grade less than an 'A' "bad" and desperately want their kids to have an education; that after the age of 10 they send their children to a private Muslim school; they don't have a car; they buy clothes and toys from local yard sales. They are by no means living in abject poverty but their lifestyle is so basic and lacking in all the extras and self-entitlement of most American families that I find the contrast to my life startling.

So, desperately trying not feel all fancy and magnanimous and charity-like, I decided I would go to the employee store and find some bargains to buy for my friends and neighbors. I found shoes for the youngest last week. They tried them on in my front yard. As Afzl tried his flashy Dunks on, (and immediately insisted they fit perfectly before he barely got his toes in...) a young guy walking his dog past said, "Those are some really cool shoes!" He and his sister clutched their boxes in arm and rode their bikes one-handed back home home after sincerely thanking me.

Tonight I gave the 12-year old and 14-year old girls their shoes- just in time, as the 1st day of school is tomorrow. I know Asya was nervous she wouldn't have a pair in time. Aisha is so polite and reserved she would never let on if she was nervous or disappointed, but since she is 14 and is starting her 1st day of high school, I think having a new pair of shoes meant more to her than any of them.

Asya (12 year old) was so earnest when I asked her to try on the shoes to make sure they fit. She didn't want to see them until tomorrow morning when she put them on for school, so she tried them on covering her eyes! I hope she isn't disappointed when she finds she got the same exact pair as her little sister Eqra. Aysha wasn't home, but her brother said he would give her pair to her. He opened the box and said with all seriousness, " Oh, these are really cute." It is so obvious he is surrounded by girls all day long.

Later this evening the doorbell rang and there I found Asya and Eqra. Eqra is a pistol- wedges herself in the door, asks a million questions simultaneously, makes strange statements her sisters have to translate, a daredevil on a bike. Asya held a plate of food.

"Today is a holiday and we had to fast all day. Because we are Muslim. But we get to eat at night. Did you eat dinner yet?" she explained setting down the dishes on the kitchen counter. "Is it Ramadan?" I asked. Her eyes widened and she just grinned, pleasantly surprised that I had any inkling of her family's traditions. They had brought me a bowl of liquid-y fruit: halved grapes, bananas, apples, tamarind. On the side was a samosa filled with a spiced meat. I have no idea what kind of animal the meat came from, only that it was a delicious animal. Aysha showed up and we talked about how it must be easier for them to go to a Muslim school during Ramadam than to attend a public school like her cousin, who has to sit in a cafeteria surrounded by food and people eating for a whole month. Aisha seemed to genuinely like her shoes and thanked me as well.

Last week after I gave the little ones their shoes they came buy with a plate of rice and some raita. The following Saturday they gave me 4 leftover pastries from 7-Eleven. Asya told me her father had about a dozen he wanted to give me but she convinced him I wouldn't be able to eat them all- thank goodness! I really hope that they don't feel they have to re-pay me in any way for the shoes. On the other hand, I love the homemade food they give me, so I guess it's OK if they feel just a little indebted... They probably think I'm this lonely, American woman heating up TV dinners and eating with my cats for company and never know the pleasures of a good, home-cooked meal.

If they only knew how wrong they are. Except for the single, American and "eating with my cat" parts...

Gazpacho

I found the perfect recipe to capture the flavor and feel of summer before it slips away. Those of you who listen to the Splendid Table on public radio may have already heard David Rosengarten describe an authentic, Andalusian gazpacho. It differs from what Americans typically call "gazpacho" as it is a smooth, pureed soup with the addition of stale bread.

Yesterday I acquired all the vegetables and the bread at the Montavilla Farmer's Market and went to In Good Taste, cooking school/kitchen supply store downtown and splurged on a $21 bottle of sherry vinegar. There was a $60 bottle that the saleswoman said "...you could pour it in a glass and drink...", which I don't doubt, but if I'm going to lay down that kind of money it would for a Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

Well, I just made a batch and it is incredible. I didn't use David Rosengarten's recipe (though I did put it in a pitcher as he recommends) but another recipe by Anya von Bremzen which can also be found on the Splendid Table website. Use the juiciest, freshest, vine-ripened tomaotes you can find, as the flavor of this cold soup utterly depends on it.

So go- now, while you can still get some good tomatoes and make this. It looks like a lot of work but it really is just some chopping and pureeing and well worth it:

Classic Andalusian Gazpacho

Adapted from The Greatest Dishes: Around the World in 80 Recipes © 2004 by Anya Von Bremzen. Published by HarperCollins.

Serves 6

A fruity Spanish olive oil, preferably from Andalusia, is important, as is a good sherry vinegar, preferably aged. Both can be found at specialty groceries or mail-ordered (see Resources). If you can spare the time, garnish the gazpacho with tiny bread croutons fried in olive oil.

• Four 1-inch-thick slices day-old coarse country bread from a round loaf, crusts removed, torn into small pieces
  
• 3 pounds ripest, most flavorful tomatoes possible, washed and quartered (do not use Beefsteak tomatoes)
  
• 4 tablespoons good-quality sherry vinegar, preferably aged
  
• 3 medium garlic cloves
  
• Small pinch of cumin seeds or ground cumin
  
• Coarse sea salt
  
• 2 firm medium-sized Kirby (pickling) cucumbers, peeled
  
• 1 medium green bell pepper, cored and seeded
  
• 1 medium red bell pepper, cored and seeded
  
• One quarter of a medium red onion, peeled
  
• 1/2 cup fragrant, fruity extra-virgin Spanish olive oil, preferably from Andalusia
  
• 1/2 cup bottled spring water, or more to taste
  
  Garnish
• 2 to 3 tablespoons each finely diced cucumbers, peeled green apples, slightly
  underripe tomatoes, and green bell peppers
  
• Slivered young basil leaves

1. Place the bread in a large bowl, and squeeze out the seeds and some of the juice from the tomatoes over it. Crumble and massage the bread with your fingers. Add 1 tablespoon of the vinegar and let it soak for 5 to 10 minutes.

2. Using a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic to a paste with the cumin and 1/2 teaspoon of salt.

3. Transfer the bread mixture to a food processor along with the garlic paste, and process until completely smooth. Leave this mixture in the food processor while preparing the next step.

4. Chop the tomatoes, cucumbers, red and green peppers, and onion into medium dice. Place the vegetables in a bowl, stir in three large pinches of salt, and let stand for 15 minutes so that the tomatoes throw off some liquid.

5. Working in three batches, process the vegetable mixture in a food processor until as smooth as possible, adding a third of the olive oil to each batch. (The first batch will be processed with the bread mixture.) Transfer each finished batch to a sieve set over a large bowl.

6. Pass the gazpacho through a sieve, pressing on it with the back of a wooden spoon. Whisk in the remaining 3 tablespoons vinegar and the water. Adjust salt to taste. Chill the gazpacho for at least 3 hours before serving. (If making the gazpacho a day ahead, add the garlic 2 to 3 hours before serving, lest it overwhelm the other flavors.) Serve in glass bowls or wine glasses, with the suggested garnishes.

Public Radio makes me smart. And sad.

Is there such as thing as knowing too much? Is there a point where too many facts damage the psyche? As if I don't have enough reasons for getting into good physical condition I hear a this story today on NPR.

Apparently, those who are not physically fit are more likely to be bitten by mosquitoes. Yeaaaaah. All my life I have whined and complained about how after an outing my companions might have 5, 6 bites while I would sustain 37! From now on, I'm keeping my mouth shut. And I'm not going to scratch. All those hot, scabby, itchy bumps will now broadcast that not only am I riddled with unsightly blemishes, but that these bites are all my fault for being a fat, weak, lazy, undisciplined slob. This is science that could have stayed in the box, thank-you-very-much...

Yep, Summer is leaving us

I'm getting that anxious feeling that one has when your realize summer is coming to a close and you haven't done half he things you fantasized about during cold, grey, depressing February.

Things I did not accomplish this season:

• never threw the fabulous cocktail party
• vegetable garden didn't thrive beyond early June
• I planted no flowers
• only went to the beach once
• didn't install rain barrels
• didn't make jam or pickles or "put up" anything
• didn't paint the kitchen cabinets
• haven't eliminated any ivy since the great "Battle of the Invasive Plants" in January
• and on and on and on...

But today wasn't so bad. I got up fairly early, did some cleaning while listening to NPR. I then scrounged up all the semi-wrinkled, not-the-peak-of-freshness fruits I had on hand (blueberries, strawberries and apricots- all local) and made a delicious, moist coffee cake. I enjoyed a slice with a pot of French-press Stumptown coffee.

My current favorite coffee is "Los Planos" from El Salvador. The card included with the bag of beans contains the location of the grower (latitude and longitude & elevation); the varietal (Pacamara) and describes the flavor as: "Heavy bodied with notes of pear compote and fresh sqeezed orange juice in the flavor profile and an aroma of maple & sweet herbs." Makes you want a cup now, doesn't it?

As if this weren't enough, on the other side of the card is a detailed story of the grower:

In 1996, Sergio Ticas Reyers began cultivating Pacamara on Los Planos which he inherited from his grandfather. He provides land for his workers for food crops and donated land to the Chatalatenango community for construction of a water tank. Sergio Ticas also maintains a natural lagoon, spring and shade trees for local fauna. This coffee is washed processed in his wet mill with spring water and dried on patios.

If this coffee was a man I'd marry it. Only if it was grown down the street could this be more politically, socially and environmentally correct. Some of you non-Oregonians may now understand why I am so dismissive of Starbucks. I'm not a snob (OK, maybe I kinda am); I'm just lucky enough to have access to such amazing food.

Today was a cool & windy just reeking of autumn so I decided to get some yard work done. For dinner I made a pizza with the dough I had made yesterday. I topped it with basil pesto I made with ingredients from the Montavilla Farmer's Market and used hazelnuts instead of pine nuts. I added no cheese in case I make some food for 'A.' I added thinly sliced Brandywine and German Striped heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. It baked up perfectly with lots of bubbles in the crust, nicely charred on the bottom but with enough tenderness. It looked so good that I started in on it seconds after I pulled it from the oven and neglected to take a picture. Too bad- it was quite the beauty.
So as I sit on my comfortable deck at the house that I call my own, eating yet another satisfying meal made from impeccable local ingredients, admiring the Maxfield Parrish sky, and fondly recalling the all the visitors that made their way to Alder Street this season, I'm thinking that maybe this summer wasn't such a bust after all.

Dahlias=End of Summer

Summer seems so short here in Oregon. Actually, it's probably much longer than, say, Vermont summers. But because spring is indistinguishable from winter and autumn is about 2 two weeks long, summer feels very fleeting. When dahlias make their ostentatious debut at the farmer's markets, than you know the end is near.

This specimen I bought today at the Montavilla market from a guy that has this amazing dahlia farm in his yard at his home very close to mine. Another example of the urban farming trend here in Portland. This flower is called a "dinner plate" dahlia because it is over 10" wide.

Cool Kettle, Hot Lunch @ 110 degrees

I've been looking for a new kettle. The one that I currently have was purchased at Marshall's in 1998. It is copper and in the British Georgian style. It was cheap, and I suspect, manufactured for "decorative use" only in China. For years I've held the belief that it has it has been poisoning me with toxic soldering and non-food grade metals. But it looks cute...

I've been on the lookout for a healthier replacement for a while, but couldn't find an affordable kettle that I could bear to look at. But yesterday after receiving a flyer from Macy's in the mail, I found this from the Martha Stewart collection on Macy's website and it is exactly what I've been looking for. Plus it is on sale for $26.99 from $49.99. Me likes a bargain! So, despite the extreme temperature, I decided to head downtown to the least-skanky Macy's and buy myself a beautiful, non-health-threatening kettle. By the way, I decided to take the day off today; too hot for even me to take Trimet home.

I got to Macy's a little after 1pm, and quickly located the object of my desire. But wait a minute, the price within the plastic sleeve attached to the display model says it is on sale for $39.99. Huh?

I started rifling through that plastic sleeve and found 2 more prices, both of which were higher than the $26.99 being advertised. Crap, did I read it wrong or miss the small print? I see signs all over the place: 'One Day Sale!' 'Morning Sale!' 'Weekend Special'. I have no idea which sale- if any- applies. All I know is that this kettle was clearly marked $26.99 on the Macy's website. Time for some haggling. And this time I have my secret weapon...my beloved phone!

I log onto Macys.com and bring the kettle up to the counter. After showing the saleswoman the online price, she hesitantly gave me the online price. What else could she do?

On my way out of the store I saw this creepy mannequin. I hope this wasn't a finished display...

I happily left the store and decided to have lunch as South Park. I enjoyed 1/2 doz. raw oysters and King Crab cakes with a lemon aioli on watercress with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. I had David Sedaris' new book 'When You Are Engulfed in Flames' and laughed out loud several times in the restaurant. Oysters, wine, Davis Sedaris and air-conditioning- it was the perfect way to spend a 110-degree day off.

Montavilla Farmer's Market

I'm really smitten by our neighborhood farmer's market. This is a picture of today's purchases. Yes, the market is tiny, but that is one of the things that makes it enjoyable. There are an adequate number of legitimate farm stands that sell produce and a minimum of crafty, non-food items. There are at least 2 bakeries, a place to get seafood and free-range organic meats. There are 2 flower vendors and some interesting prepared food stands- barbecue, tamales, sausages, lemonade- just to name a few. I also like that it is on a Sunday and doesn't start until 10am.

I never go to the downtown market at PSU on Saturday's anymore unless someone is visiting from out of town. It is way too crowded and you have to get there early- 8:30am- to get some of the high-demand items. Plus, it is like a freakin' dog & stroller show.

Now, I understand that small children and babies can't be left at home alone and most grow to a size that makes it impractical to carry them or strap them to an adult body, so I concede that strollers are a necessary evil. (Though, it may seem darling to you parents as you allow 2 year-old Sofia, Ava, Henry or Jackson push the designer, Italian-made, produce laden, wheeled baby-container into the back of ankles but in doing so you are slowing down the flow of humanity and I'm from the East coast and move fast through crowds and have other things to do this Saturday so please- this is NOT cute but annoying. GET THE KID OUT OF MY WAY!!!)

But I beg of you, leave the dogs at home. I make this request not because I don't like dogs but because I care for them a great deal- a heck of a lot more than I care for your human spawn. Hey, this is summer time and it is hot and your poor dog is standing on asphalt and isn't wearing shoes like you are. They can't run or even walk at a normal pace. They are slowly wandering around in circles, having their leashes jerked every time they smell something interesting and go in for a better sniff. They are surrounded by human legs and baby-containers on wheels with kids grabbing for their faces and tails. The little one are getting stepped on and the big ones are getting challenged by other dogs. Yes, your pup may act like going to the Farmer's Market is the most exciting, enjoyable thing a doggie could ever do as you headed out the door, but believe me, your dog is miserable. I can see the disappointment in their eyes when they realize they aren't headed for a park, or a hike, or a simple drive in the car. Kind of like the expression they have at the vet.

The Montavilla market is very small but there is plenty of space between the booths. So even though there is a fair number of posers with their canines they are easily avoidable. But I still feel bad for the dogs...

After the market, I stopped by Bui Natural Tofu deli to pick up some- yeah, you guessed it- tofu. I was hoping the lemongrass tofu would be coming out fresh from the oven but the freshest was the green onion and mushroom. Well, I 've been trying to eat more "cruelty free" food but their tofu stuffed with seasoned pork was also fresh-from-the-oven and was beckoning me with its sizzling, porky tastiness. Mmmmmm, delicious cruelty...

I pedaled over to A and L's house. They were recovering from a Timbers game the night before and were watching soccer and the Olympics on TV. I hung out for a few minutes then headed home to get my sunflowers into some water. 'L' commented that I looked like a "Portland Girl" with my produce and flowers in my bicycle basket.

While I waited for the green light at Washington and 82nd, a guy in his twenties rolled up on his bike. He appeared like a typical Outer-Southeast inhabitant: pasty complexion, baseball cap backwards, erratic pedaling. He started talking about the sunflowers:

"You know why they are called sunflowers? Because they follow the movement of the sun, supposedly. They are such nice flowers- so pretty and happy. They are like great, big smiles."

The light turned green and off he went.
Awwwww... I love this town.

Dinner from the Neighbors

There are are 4 kids- 3 girls, 1 boy- who live a few doors down on Alder Street. Typical kids, they stop to chat and tell me all kinds of things about themselves and the the neighborhood. Their's is a very traditional Pakistani family. Everyday the youngest girl asks me how old I am and the middle girl Asiya (maybe 9 years old?) asks me if I have had a wedding or if I'm married. The eldest, a 14-year old named Aysha, earns money doing yard work for the neighbors. Today I hired her and her sisters- it seems they come as a package deal- to do some weeding and raking. They went right to work and did a great job and are coming back tomorrow to bag up the ivy vines I cut back 6 months ago.

As they were working I learned that Ayisha does much of the cooking at home. Of course, I start interrogating her about ingredients, techniques, etc. Well, this evening after they went home, Ayisha sent Asiya over with 2 foil-covered plates of food. On one were 2 pieces of flat bread, very similar to a whole wheat chapati. On the other was a potato-cauliflower dish. Asiya showed me how to tear off a piece of bread and use it to scoop up the vegetable. Of course, I would have done this instinctively but it was so sweet that she thought of explaining this to a demonstrating how to eat this food to me, a middle-aged American woman.

The hand-made chapati were wonderful: slightly spongy and glistening with a thin sheen of oil, they had blackened, raised bumps and were the perfect combination of tender/chewy. The accompanying potato-cauliflower dish was a brilliant yellow from what I assume was turmeric. The cauliflower was silken yet held its form and the chunks of potato were creamy. It had all been seasoned with lots of salt, (which I believe is what makes food from India/Pakistan so delicious) as well has spices or seasonings which lent the dish the exact amount of heat: enough to get your taste buds hooked on the addictive burn.

It was the best meal I've had all week. I think I'll hire Ayisha to give me cooking lessons!

Time Machine

I've finally started archiving my photos. I'm scanning them and storing them on DVDs and plan to put the "best of the best" on Flickr. I'll have the link on this blog so stay tuned; it should be up soon.

In the meantime, I'm posting some of my favorites. These are mostly Fehrenbach photos that I received when Gramma-Grampa-Down-The-Street died. I would love to record some photos from The Lady's family as well. If you have any, send them to me to archive and I'll return them.

"If I were a rich man..."

This is the oldest "photo" I have. Gramma-Down-The-Street told me it was 1860's and is of her Grandfather- one of the guys in the center. I'll find out from Dad's sister The Matriarch which one he is.

Kind of a cross between 'Fiddler on the Roof' and Ken Burns' 'Civil War'.








Where's Ludwig?
Grampa was born in Triberg, Germany in the Schwarzwald (Black Forest). Many fairy tales that featured the "...deep, dark woods..." originated here, such as Goldilocks, Hansel & Gretel, etc. During the pre-Lenten festivities, the pagan psyche comes alive in Triberg. Here, in a post card from 1910, is a parade float depicting Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Can you pick out 10 year old Ludwig?

Miss Helen Glass & Company

I love the fact that Gramma had a rich social life- before and during her life as a married woman. You can just tell from pictures how much fun she had with her friends and sisters.

Here they are dressed in lovely gauzy dresses and wide brimmed hats:

There they are sleeves-rolled-up and hair a-mess:

Here's to you, Trimet!

TGIFF! No, that extra 'F' is not a typo. It's been a hard week but I don't really know why. Maybe work is more demanding than I will admit. As I look back upon the many, many jobs I've had, I do see a pattern- I tend to deny when I'm under extreme pressure and attribute my stress, anxiety and feelings of inadequacy to my being, um, well...inadequate.

But maybe I'm not inadequate! Maybe my job is difficult and challenging! Nah, that can't be it...

So yesterday I got very frustrated with one of the people that reports to me. He and I have been really good friends almost since the day I started. He has been with my division for something like 8 years. He doesn't have any burning desire to climb the corporate ladder as he finds his current position gratifying. Frankly, it's refreshing to work with someone who isn't ambitious, as my place of employment is teeming with Type-A overachievers that are compensating for their feelings of inadequacy. Oh, there's that 'I'-word again...

Anyway, "Sandy" can't accept when he does something wrong. If you point out an error, he counters with an argument about how the rule that he broke is wrong, or that since he does something right most of the time this instance shouldn't matter, or the person that is accusing him of an error has issues...blah, blah, blah.

Sandy is the result of parenting of this type: "My baby is perfect" "The teacher is wrong" "The other kids are mean" "How dare the other parent criticize my baby?" "Don't worry baby, I know YOU DIDN'T DO IT" "IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT, BABY!" Please, do the world a favor and call your kid out when they screw up. You'll be doing them, and the world, a favor. Look at George W. if you don't believe me!

Luckily, Sandy "Baby" is a really nice guy. Smart, funny, definitely a stoner, but a kinder heart you could never find and I genuinely value our friendship.

But we are so different. To me, work is work, friends are friends, and when dealing with work- especially when I'm your boss- I'm going to call it straight. So, Sandy drops by my cubicle just because he was in the neighborhood and we start chatting. The conversation topic ends up being about a deadline our group recently had to meet. Sandy confesses that he knowingly completed a task after the deadline because he had left work early and then took a PTO day. I was pissed, as I was in the midst of crafting an email defending our team against another that seemed to feel that our group wasn't taking this deadline seriously. My point to was that I was putting my neck out on behalf of our team yet apparently the accusations from this other organization weren't far off, considering what Sandy just admitted.

Sandy couldn't handle my abrupt shift from "friends chatting" to "manager calling it like it is" and predictaby set about arguing how he really didn't do anything wrong because he does it right most of the time and why is he being persecuted for ruining the whole process and generally martyring himself for sympathy and to deflect criticism, etc.

Me? - "I'm too busy for this argument. A deadline is a deadline is a deadline. End of story. If you do 99% on time and deliberately do 1% late and expect me to sanction that, then you will be disappointed- you don't get a cookie for doing "most" of it right. You are supposed to do 100% right. NO COOKIE. I'm done. Conversation over." OK, maybe a little agro...

Hurt puppy face. Shoulder shrug. "I just came by to say 'Hi'..."

Yeah, see ya. I'm not your Work Mommy.

But as we always do, we reconciled the next day. While emailing about an entirely different subject, I sent the message-

ME: I told my manager that your manager was acting like a real bit@h yesterday

SANDY: LOL! Yeah, well one of your employees was acting like a real pri@k!

ME: I guess we deserve each other!

SANDY: WTF! Why don't we just get married?

(now we have a weekly staff meeting and one of the other managers loves to probe members of our group about personal events such as weddings. Recently she had one of the guys on the ropes about his impending nuptials: "When is it? Where? Where is the honeymoon? What are your colors?" For crying out loud, you don't ask a guy about the freakin' colors!)

So I reply-

ME: It would be totally worth getting married when "Ms. X" asks us about our wedding! Where? San Siro. Colors? Black. And red. Honeymoon? Oh, Sandy is going to Amsterdam. I'm going to be in Paris.

After this email dialog the reality of what just transpired slowly washes over me and I am seized in that feeling of dread when you realize you have just totally fucked up.

I AM THIS GUY'S MANAGER AND I AM ENGAGING IN AN EMAIL ABOUT US GETTING MARRIED!!!!! Yeah, it's just a joke and yes, he instigated the conversation- but I am a manager and I can not even joke about this stuff. If I were a male manager engaged in this very same discussion with a female subordinate it would be considered really, really bad.

At least I described a seperate honeymoon...

Finally it is Friday and I'm going to leave work early so I can get tickets to Live Wire for tomorrow night. I'm so spent. I take the Max train into the city and jump on a bus so I can get the tickets at the theater box office. Yes, I could have just bought the tickets on line through Ticket Master, but after all those gouging "handling fees", 2 $15 tickets would have cost me $46 bucks. Fuck that! I am way too cheap and way too outraged to give them all that money. So, like a good citizen I go way out of my way to get to the Aladdin Theater box office to buy tickets in cash and pay only a $1 handling fee per ticket (which still kind of pisses me off- I mean, it's a freaking "Box Office", and by definition their sole purpose is to "handle" tickets, so now I have to pay you an extra buck to buy a ticket which is the only thing you are supposed to do? Yeah, that's like me asking for a "handling" salary to do what I'm expected to do at my job.) But I give it to them without rant and rave because the theater is cool- a shabby independent venue and hey, if freakin' Ticket Master can gouge huge profits by being a middleman, why shouldn't they hustle a few extra $.

I buy the tickets and now have to catch a bus all the way back across town to get home. It's only about 83 degrees, but on a skanky, urban intersection pounded by unrelenting sun-on-asphalt it has got to be 95 degrees. Luckily, the bus to take me from south to north (a challenge in SE Portland) is due in 5 minutes. Or 10 minutes? 15? 20- maybe 25...

I check the schedule online, call Trimet to see when the bus is due, check the posted schedule: All say the bus is scheduled for 4:15 and it is 4:36 yet there is no bus. I call Customer Servise and leave my usual "...I'm an annual pass holder, this is it- I'm buying a car...blah...blah...blah" The bus finally arrives and there are no seats, of course, but I should just be happy that it came within 40 minutes of the scheduled time, right? Plus, the air-conditioning seems to be working- yipee! But why is there no one sitting in those seats, I wonder...?

Oh, I see.

You might be thinking that by now I am in a full-bore rage, but seeing this mysterious styrofoam box set upon a pile of fluid-soaked paper towels with such a simple and succinct message- DONT SIT- well, it just about made me cry.

Because not ever, EVER, since I've been a Trimet rider- have I seen a warning to a fellow passenger that they should avoid some undesireable fluids. Not once in 7 years.
Things are looking up!

After such a roller-coaster day, I decided upon arrival at Alder Street that I needed a cocktail. My liquor-inspiration follows the same pattern as my food inventiveness: concept>composition>assembly. As I am car-less and usually too lazy to head to the store, my best innovations come from using what is already in "the pantry." Following this pattern of creation, I debut my original cocktail.

As I prefer everything have a utilitarian purpose, so does my poison. Here are the ingredients and why they were included:

TRIMET ANTIDOTE

• 2 oz. vodka (or 4-6 oz, I don't know...)- because of it alcohol and "forgetting" properties

• 1/2 fresh squeezed lemon juice- to prevent scurvy; also to *reduce acid in the blood. *see, Yogi! I'm being healthy!

• 5 shakes Angostura bitters- to aid in digestive disturbances that riding public transit induces

• 1 teaspoon sugar- to counteract the healthy qualities of the lemon juice

• 5 leaves fresh Moroccan mint- the spicy, aromatic herb helps "cleanse" your spirit from the polluting effects of human piss, sweat, snot and yes, poo, that you knowingly-or unknowingly- came into contact with on Trimet

• 1 sprig fresh lavender- the antiseptic qualities will help keep your immune system healthy and the aroma will aid your imagining that you are actually in an ancient farmhouse in Provence. You are overseeing the building of a limestone patio by some local men. Young, dark, muscular men, lifting stones, glistening with perspiration...mmm...

Oh yes, I digress...

Add all of the above ingredients to a cocktail shaker with lots of ice. shake, shake and shake some more. Pour into a martini glass and garnish with mint or lavender.

Ahhhhhhh. That's much better....