The Wandering Jew

Family Road Trip!

2009-07-10T11:41:00.008-07:00

Four days of this...

... and we made it to the Ozarks in one piece, by golly!

We've finally embarked upon the great adventure known as
"Permanent Migration".

Summertime usually finds the highways and byways full of families crammed into too confined a space for sanity, headed to visit monuments, memorials, bodies of water, campgrounds or Uncle Bubba and Aunt Tootie's place in some exotic locale.

The relative success of these annual pilgrimages is based upon one's ability to do isometric exercises in less room than coach class on a widebody airliner, cope with direct descendants or partners in smothering proximity and the gut to handle road food, and subsequently, road potty facilities.

Fortunately, Brian and I are happy being all tangled up, almost always touching, and as for our co-pilot, well, if she could have climbed up any closer to us both, we'd have been ticketed for an obstructed view of the windshield. Snoozing like a champ and not one complaint out of her, she happily let the car motion lull her into a blissful air-conditioned doze. What a champ!!

You are undoubtedly asking yourselves the following question at this moment:

"Umm... what the heck is going on with them NOW?!"

I have been working as an intern at the inn down in Central Point for a few weeks. While it was slow and we had no guests, my lovely hosts decided to let me take some time off to help Brian and Ellie make it to Arkansas safely. They are also being hugely generous by flying me back to Portland. It was a huge relief to Brian and me, not to mention a huge surprise to the folks in Eureka Springs who have not seen us in almost three years (for those of you playing along on the home game, that was when we all met for the first time and Brian asked me to be his wife).

Life for the Future Woodrings from henceforth will be as follows:

We have a legal Beaverton address,
thanks to some awesome folks at
Earth Class Mail.

We really don't live anywhere.

(Did you catch all that?)

Brian and I have the good fortune to be able to take his job on the road (for now) and I am shopping for another college to take baking and pastry education. Not that I don't adore my homies at Oregon Culinary Institute, but I want to have my blindside totally covered with a formal, thorough and traditional B&P education. Might even try for a degree, ya never know. We also declared, after last winter's totally depressing snowstorms, that somewhere that only sees a snowfall in a globe would be far more tolerable than where we were.

Ruling out any locations that are expensive, stuffy and possibly snowy will leave us with a few options in unusual places. I plan to work on deciding where to go after I finish at the Inn and return to Arkansas for a rest. I'm looking forward to some real quality time with the honey, the hairy one and the herd. We are aiming for winter start in the new city, and plan to pull out of Arkansas some time late this fall.

Life In Arkansas

So, its a little different down here. I can tell by Ellie's reaction to the new neighborhood, located on a lake in the wilderness of the Ozarks, that treading lightly and with ears at full attention is the only way to travel. One little run-in with a green snake kind of cured any want of hers to leave the apron of the garage walkway. Thankfully it was not a rattler or a copperhead, which have been known to enjoy Nicolee's garden from time to time. Just for fun, add in a few other little distractions like ballsy daylight-creeping raccoons, armadillos, foxes and buzzards- not the usual Portland critters she usually encounters. Seeing her reaction to a white tail deer is just priceless, though!

I forgot what humidity is like. Sure, laugh all you can, but even though my fingers are going to explode, my face looks like I lost ten years and my hair is HUGE. I look like hell from the neck down, and I am trying to cope. Poor Ellie is just beside herself with a full coat and a few extra pounds on her frame. Note to self: Bring diuretics on the return trip. For both of us.

I did find three farmers markets within driving distance during the week and I scored a few good ingredients. I've been happily cooking family meal (dinner in Chefspeak) and using local foods that have not come from a mega store is always satisfying. I've been shadowed by Brian's niece when I cook and she has been my sous chef for three days straight.

Passing places with odd names that one only hears of, like "Road Kill Cafe and Jerky" and local treats entitled "Whoo Hoggy Chew Fudge Ripple" ice cream, and seeing the presence of the Divine One's faithful flock all around certainly reinforces that I am not in Kansas anymore. Speaking to the farmers somehow disengages my turbo boosted tongue and I find myself elongating my own vowels and calling everyone "sir" or "ma'am" without even trying. My arm now reflexively waves like a parade queen whenever a car passes on the windy single lane road, or I see a neighbor on a front porch. I've had conversations with total strangers while standing in the shade of an oak tree in the evening on walks with Ellie. The complete racket coming from the woods at night is louder than midtown Manhattan at rush hour. Ellie walks alongside me as if she is glued to my leg as the night gets louder and darker and the lightning bugs blip around us.

I head back to Oregon tomorrow to start some serious work on cheese, chocolate, cakes and catering. I will dry out, bike up, work my ass off and then head back to the homestead on the lake with the smashing sunset view for a rest. Planning to fly this time instead of drive, of course.

(In case you are wondering, the award winner for the Best Roadside Potty By State is Nebraska.)

Home Is Where The Hard Roll Is

2009-02-26T10:11:00.012-07:00

Roll With Me.

(not my image. don't get excited)

While I was toiling away in the first part of my second term at school, my hands found themselves tending to fillets of fresh local salmon that were at the end of curing process. Carefully I unwrapped three different flavored fillets, Pickled beet and horseradish, Japanese sake' and Chipotle chili. Lox of three very different styles that I had no intention of liking very much stared me in the face.

My partner and I sliced and plated the salmon on three platters, garnished with red onions, capers, some lemon and lime twists. Out came a fresh baguette from the bake shop, chased by a tub of Mascarpone cheese. We carried the platters into the classroom for an "educational opportunity" and chowed down during lecture.

Most everyone who loves to eat has seen Ratatouille, the fantastic movie with the cooking rat who drives a human cook like a marionette from under the dome of a chef's hat. Incredibly fun movie, right down to the scene where the horsey-faced food critic takes that first bite of the title dish and WHAM! He is transported to his days in short pants at his mother's table, feeling that righteous Lovin' Feeling all over again. Okay, so I grabbed a bite of disco colored horseradish scented lox with all the trimmings and I got sent like Anton Ego. Laugh while you can, until it happens to you... it will hit you like a ton of bricks.

While the rest of my evening was taken up by other forms of Charcuterie work, I got to fixing smoked salmon mousse and other foods of my childhood. I began to remember the experience of being at the breakfast-turned-brunch table with all manner of cold foods and smiled over the forces at work to pull such a meal together.

I'll start with Uncle Bill, the instigator. Not really an uncle, as most families collect a few friends of parents over the years like we did, Uncle Bill was a buddy of my father that disappeared into the Dungeon (my father's Man Cave in the basement) and played all day until dark with electronic gizmos and radios. Once in a while, he'd show up really early and usually unannounced bearing a hot, steaming bag of breads from the Rockland Bakery on some weekend morning. Occasionally with Uncle Andy in tow, he'd deposit the warm paper bags into the arms of my mother in her nightclothes, head to the cupboard, locate his brown glazed coffee mug and start slingin down a cuppa joe while Mom got busy.

My mother is an amazing woman. She fed us like nobody's business. From god knows where in the same refrigerator I could stare into and whine about not having anything to eat, she would pull a feast to embarrass any Garde Manger chef in the world. With military precision, out would come beefsteak tomatoes, onions, cheeses of any nation, hams and other meats, the occasional smoked whitefish (where the HELL was that hiding??!!), herring, lox and bread spreads. We would go from Cheerios to "Cheerio, lets piss the day away! Whoopee!" in under a half an hour.

In my evolving love for food and the environment in which it is consumed, I have a greater understanding now of how a meal should be an experience, a long, savored one, time well spent with your food and other people to talk to. Charcuterie mornings at Chez Weisberger were no exception, only I had no words for it back then. My mother, in the midst of all the mishigas (craziness) of tending to her family, her flock of students and her own life's issues, somehow knew when it was time to put on the brakes, thrown down a spread of banquet magnitude and let us all sit together until our backsides fell asleep, feeding not only our bellies and palates, but our souls.

Long live the traditions, I say!

Hows school?

2009-01-19T21:22:00.005-07:00

This, sports fans, is what
an A on your mid-terms
looks like...

My honey is the most thoughtful, loving and generous dude. I came home from school, hit the books right away and he took off for the gym. A few hours later, I went into the kitchen and found my brand new Boos Block on the counter.

I gasped, giggled and tried not to wee myself.

I had four midterm tests: A kitchen practical, knife skills from hell, a written test and my notebook/workbook submitted for grading. I also snatched myself a few extra points for some presentations given with much aplomb, alacrity and verve... naturally.

New mid-term started last week, and we have finally been granted permission to cook protein. I can't wait to be totally poultried out. I am completely sick of Brussels sprouts.

Don't worry. Brian got the next batch of kisses.

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation '08

2009-01-05T16:52:00.006-07:00

Need I say any more?

Well, most of you know how I zoom around with my head in one place, hands elsewhere and body usually M.I.A. . Not this year. Snowbound and pretty unamused about the whole thing, I blew off most niceties and became one with the living room crash zone for two weeks.

Fireplace? Check.
Warm dog? Check.
Hunky man? Check.
Beach towels for drying oceans of snow-related tears of hysteria? Check.

Largely ignoring everything and everyone, I took some time to myself to do absolutely nothing constructive, save for belting out a few meals (I nailed my first prime rib on Xmas day, and no, I did not take any pictures- it did not last long enough). I studied a little. Cut a few potatoes. Got dragged out every hour on the hour by a very excited hound. Checked on Hoolia's house to make sure nothing fell on it or slid it off its foundation. Drank too much at a very nice dinner at Higgins with Brian, Raymondo and Pat.

Suffice to say, I am very pleased to be back in school. It was seriously too much time away for my whacked brain to cope with. You'll see the blatant honesty in that concept if you keep reading...

In my usual tradition of a year-end wrap-up,
I will begin this year's Bronx Cheer with the
Portland Mercury's List of Uninviteds
(Click this link above to read all about each award winner)

PEOPLE WHO BITCH ABOUT THEIR iPHONES

MORMON VAMPIRES

THE LOWEST COMMON DENOMINATOR/Joe Sixpack

PEOPLE WHO THROW AWAY PERFECTLY GOOD 2005 JESSICA ALBA BIKINI CALENDARS

NUTRIA

TWEENS

UNDECIDED VOTERS

LIVE THEATER INVOLVING PUPPETS

"REALLY?"

NAKED BICYCLISTS

CANVASSERS

STANDING OVATIONS

WHOLE FOODS

$6 BEERS AT THE CRYSTAL BALLROOM

CLUBS WITHOUT COAT CHECKS

BARS/RESTAURANTS WITH ONE-WORD NAMES

DOGGIE DAY CARES WITH PUNS IN THEIR NAMES

THE WORDS "BLOGOSPHERE" AND "YAY"

STATUS DRESSING

BEARDS

UPTALKING? SO THAT EVERY STATEMENT SOUNDS LIKE A QUESTION?

BLAMING HIPSTERS

PAPOOSES IN GROCERY STORES

EMPTY CONDO BUILDINGS

"GREENWASHING"

12-LANE BRIDGES

THE SIT/LIE AND ANTI-CAMPING ORDINANCES

TASERS

RESTORATIVE LISTENING CIRCLES

NEWSPAPERS IN OTHER CITIES ALWAYS WRITING ABOUT PORTLAND

PORTLAND MEDIA USING THE WORDS "BREAKING NEWS" TO DESCRIBE A STORY BROKEN A DAY, WEEK, OR MONTH EARLIER BY THE PORTLAND MERCURY

PRINT MEDIA

Pay attention, Hollywood. The Fashion Sucks portion of this year's list...

FASHION CHOICES NOT INVITED BACK TO 2009

Stay tuned, the next post will be the annual 2008 Year In Pictures edition!

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-24T11:31:00.003-07:00

From snowy Portland, Brian, Pixie and I wish you all
a very happy holiday season.

May the coming year bring joy, health, happiness
and good things to all.

It Sucks To Be Snowed In

2008-12-23T14:14:00.017-07:00

Getting snowed in and resisting the urge to drool all over ones self in a corner and chew on a dishtowel is no easy feat.

Amusing myself by being dragged behind a four-paw-drive pooch who cannot get enough of the white stuff (even in -3 wind chill from 30 mph winds) has been a good exercise in, well, exercise. Seeking out those in worse shape than us has been easy...

Ladies and Gentlemen, its time to announce this year's winner in the
IT SUCKS TO BE YOU
Big Snow 2008 Contest

I had initially hoped that TriMet, our dearly devoted public transit group would win it after they stranded not one, but TWO buses on the Park Way hill in front of the townhouse, causing a closure at 5 pm. Not screwed enough, I'm afraid.

The winner of this year's contest swept it for a number of reasons, including the "Add insult to injury" category. I present you the "Ooooh, shiiiiit!" winner of the year:

Many a car has been stranded in the 'hood from the first ice storm (of three) in a week. This poor bastard got caught on a downhill corner about a week ago. Not so bad, nobody got hurt that I know of... but... Have a look at the rear tire that hit the curb.

Wait- let's look at that a little closer, shall we?

I'm not a rocket scientist, but aren't here supposed to be some lug-nut-thingies somewhere???

Not that slamming your rig into concrete and blowing off your whole wheel isn't bad enough, but this morning Pixie and I went out for our daily dump run and found the car's driver side window smashed in. Some upstanding citizen tossed the car. That definitely grabs the award, since another ice storm is on the way tomorrow. Ouch!

Home Fires Burning... burning empty toilet paper rolls, actually.

Besides savage amusement and going slightly batty, I had the distinct pleasure of running out of TP. I tromped off into the snow in boarding pants and a chapeau, hitting the grocery store less than two miles away with my Grocery Getter strapped to my back. I looked like a total shmuck, but so does most of Portland in the snow.

I had no problems until I had to haul the TP and Christmas dinner fixins all back home. Took me a whole hour. As I plodded uphill in the middle of the street past the crews trying to pull TriMet's rigs out of trouble, the police were closing my road. As I passed the cop laying down flares, he told me to stay on the sidewalk as much as I could. I haven't seen the sidewalk since sometime early last week. As I chugged forth, out of breath, I said to him, "A real gentleman would offer me a ride."

No, I'm not becoming a bigger witch in this weather.
Not at all.

Might As Well Do Homework!

2008-12-14T16:46:00.006-07:00

Once in a blue moon it comes. White stuff falls from the sky.

Today, it comes absolutely sideways and you get
a free dermabrasion with every dog walk.

You dig out snowboard pants, mismatched winter gear and grease up the exposed parts.

You hitch up the dog.

(Observe the very distinct smile on said hound's face!)

And you bear the brunt of the storm that is coming in so furiously that even Canadians have stopped laughing at you...

Methinks its time to stay inside for the rest of the night as the mercury plunges southward (its 27 degrees as I write this, up from 23 about an hour and a half ago). Gotta get in some batonette practice cuts in on an innocent rutabaga or celeriac tonight... needless to say, after Starch Week, I am all carbed out!

For you fans in the bleachers, have a peek at my school knives! I'll be getting them engraved with my personal mark sometime in the next few weeks. Brian and I thought long and hard about what my personal mark should look like, how much of a personal reflection it should be...

...what we ruled out, but not for any bad reasons were the following ideas:

* A reaching hand with a red void circle over it and the letters, "H. O. M. F."
* A tiara and the words, "Its Good To Be The Queen"
* "Beware Of Attack Dog"
* A lovely image of a Jimmy Choo pump
* "Jen Is Where The Food Is"
* An image of Walter Sobechek and the words, "Shomer Fucking Shabbos!!"
* "This End Up"

Feel free to offer any suggestions before I turn my knives over to Chef Woody at Zen Blades... I'll consider anything totally awesome from you guys!

2008-12-08T20:14:00.008-07:00

This one is for my mother and father who spent the greater part of twelve years screaming,

"GET IN THERE AND DO YOUR HOMEWORK!!!"

Okay, here ya go!

(And I'm gonna EAT my homework before the dog ever gets a chance to!)

My first batch of handmade AND hand rolled AND hand cut fettuccine...

Cumin and Turmeric pasta with roasted red peppers and coriander seed.

Did not suck at all. Beginners luck!

Simply Simpatica

2008-11-27T20:12:00.003-07:00

I'm STUFFED.

(Midnight Munchie Sized Personal Pumpkin Cheesecakes,
hold the crust and sugar)

I confess I did not do a damned thing but make a little guilt-free-midnight-after-the-tryptophan-coma-wears-off-food-binge food. Everything else was from Simpatica. Leave it to me to time the Interstate Infuenza perfectly! Damn, I am good!

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving, no matter where you were, what you ate, who was present, who was missing and what embarrassing stories were told. For all the cooks, please give them a standing ovation and a massage certificate. For all the dishwashers, give them a paraffin wrap certificate.

Family Paparazzi

Risking sounding like a sentimental ass, I will say that I am glad my folks could be with other parts of the family they have not seen in many years. I was just a week shy of it all, but I am lucky to have been able to get in on a little reunion action of my own with my cousin over the phone and through some killer funny cell phone camera shots. May we all be a little closer to the ones we call our own as the years go by.

(My mother and my cousin Cindy)

Cheers, everyone, and happy leftovers!!

Around The West In 80 Hours

2008-11-21T18:46:00.007-07:00

Good gravy, I've been all over and I am pooped out!

I got in a flight to Phoenix last week, complete with US Armed Forces ceremonial welcome for my parents at Sky Harbor. Not every kid can pull off a water arch let loose over the plane by the Phoenix Rural Metro Fire Department on the runway and a full concourse of saluting servicemen and women, but hey, when you're good, you're good.

Forgive me for not capturing it better with a real camera, but suffice to say that the looks on my parents' faces were priceless- as if partying on a plane full of Marines was not enough fun for them. My mother was beaming, as usual, and I leaned over to kiss her hello and said, "I told them it was your birthday." Score!!!

It was grand seeing both aunties, even thought the driving to LA was a little lengthy and wind-blown on the way home (recall those fires last week? We were just barely ahead of them apparently). Lots of stories shared over breakfast (kick-ass muffins!), history was retold and answers were given to some lifelong questions. Nothing brings a family closer together like 12 hours in a vehicle, I tell ya!

As soon as I got home, I took my overnight bag and repacked it for a trip to the beach with Hiking Goddess Sarah and her pooch Bailey. Craving sand and seaweed, she drove in from Billings and we took the four-legged girls to Long Beach for the night. Her other craving was for seafood, and boy howdy did I serve it forth! Have a look!

Willapa Bay Clams, Dungeness crab, pasta, Pinot Gris, cheeses, nuts, smoked salmon spread...

Don't be jealous.

You'd better cover your keyboard in plastic wrap, you're drooling.

The aftermath.
She kicked my ass and actually finished my serving of crab.
I am totally embarrassed to say I am from Maryland...

Pixie's first feature film!

And let us hail our favorite canine house guest of all time... PEANUT HEAD!!

Bailey smiling like a beauty queen

Out Of Office Notice

2008-11-12T10:57:00.004-07:00

Never thought I'd be back, but here I go!

Just a little side trip to meet up with my parents and two aunts for a couple of days.

This trip is going to bring back a lot of memories of many nights of Margaritas and floats on the Salt River. Its going to be fun to land and see the lights on South Mountain again. Its been so long.

If anyone from the old haunting ground wants to say hi, call me- I'll be in Buckeye for most of the time.

Greedy

2008-11-01T17:12:00.005-07:00

I confess to having stayed away from the computer for a few weeks for selfish reasons. We've got a dog, by golly, and I've been hogging her to myself.

Its time to come out of the crate and show you Miss Pixie, our 5 year-old Belgian Shepherd (Groenendael). She came to us through a great agency called Must Love Dogs Northwest.

(Pixie's pancake imitation)

(Come on, LOOK at those ears! Whats not to love?!)

Our furry little miracle pooch came to us as an economic surrender, and we now know why her gentleman owner was so demolished by her departure. She is truly an amazing dog. We got lucky big-time.

Pixie is hardwired like a true shepherd with a guardian instinct, and she needs to be within sight line of us at all times. She begins the day escorting Brian to the MAX train, and then we go inspecting the neighborhood for anything gone amiss during the night. She and I collect Brian and escort him home, then she keeps guard at our feet while we have dinner. She tucks us in and crashes in the doorway where she can see everything coming or going bump in the night. She takes her job very seriously.

She is learning to go help Brian and me bring in firewood and walk from the carport to the front door off a leash. Boy howdy, true to her breed, she is a quick study! She initially sniffed all the resident kitties and largely is unimpressed by them. Speaking of cats, Patti's kitties will never forgive the trespass of my bringing a dog into their house, but Pixie couldn't give a rip about either cat. One by one, she is meeting the pooches in the complex and she can tell when her buddy Tucker the Collie is on the front porch (marking our doorstep, unfortunately) and she asks to go out to say hi. He's got a thing for dark haired babes.

We are very grateful to the people who owned her before us, as they took great care in her upbringing. She is a perfect lady, and a joy to take places. Dining al fresco all winter long may be in order, as she is so well behaved. We may be getting Brian rain pants and a stupid hat, he is so enthralled with her at a cafe table.

Enough bragging. I am going to go back to stoking the fire. Its such a lovely, comforting thing to have. After a long cold walk oogling the gorgeous red and orange foliage out there, a warm fireplace is frosting on my cupcake.

2008-10-23T14:28:00.002-07:00

Don't say it. I've heard it all...

"You should just buy a PODS and never unpack it."

"I write your address in my book in pencil so I can erase it every year."

"How may times you gonna move and store your new stove?"

"Let me know if you actually leave the country."

"Are you SERIOUS??? AGAIN??"

Yup, we are officially moved into our larger, homier and strategically located new rental town home.

Dog? Check.

Carport? Check.

Fireplace? Check.

Huge porch? Check.

Guest room? Check.

Its all here.

Please stay tuned as I get us all unpacked and finally post pictures of the pooch that stole our hearts, little miss Pixie. In case anyone is playing along on the home game, we are totally happy with the hound- she is an amazing girl.

Falling All Over

2008-09-26T16:47:00.004-07:00

I am totally selfish. Because I was born in this season, I automatically claim it as my own personal party. I can't think of a better one, actually.

Autumn is filled with all sorts of pleasures people forget to notice and appreciate. Face it, who takes the time to watch Momma Nature blinging herself out with all those fab colors and then stripping naked at the end of the party? How utterly cool and scandalous! We all get to maintain our primal urge to burn things as we move from the outside grill to the indoor fireplace. We again get to hang out in bed under warm blankies with our honey, as it is much more enticing when the room is cold as hell because someone forgot to close the window the night before. Its all soooo gooood!

I got me a few days off, finally. Its amazing to me how I am able to turn off all the crap from work with the mere thought that 5 AM is NOT coming to get me like the Boogeyman, and I am my own boss for five whole days. Only, lessee, at this very moment, 25 hours into it and I feel like a new woman already.

Mornings on my own terms go as follows: I ignore Brian's groans of WakeUp agony and pull the blankets over my head as he falls out of bed. I sleep in until he gets home from the gym. I slip a cup of espresso through the shower curtain and go back to bed. Pure joy, I tell ya!

This morning I got the wild urge to drive him to work. I have not been in morning traffic for years, and this morning it was actually pleasant. As I rolled down highway 26 towards downtown, I spied the Sylvan Hill and the bank of fog crashing over the top of it like a breaker at the coast. Shadows of pine trees in the fog stood stoically as they were swallowed up, contrasting the white mist and their dark shape. My fingers and toes were chilled just slightly, as turning on the heat in the car, or wearing any other footwear other than flipflops, would have been a complete sin- violating the embracing of Autumn and the crispness that it brings.

After I dropped Brian off, I filled the empty space of the car with some seriously wicked baroque violin on the local classical station, cranked at a cardiac-massaging volume. In an instant, I was five years old again, headed to Hebrew school with Dad in the driver's seat, his fist pounding along to the music, striking the wheel like a soft mallet on a kettle drum. I could almost smell his pipe tobacco- that ever present white pouch of Captain Black tucked somewhere in the car, perfuming the upholstery. I could again smell the butane fluid of his lighter and hear the sound of the flint wheel grinding against the lid as he closed it, extinguishing the flame. If I tried hard enough, I could feel the scratchy wool of his plaid Woolrich shirt against my cheek when I hugged him goodbye before classes.

To celebrate my morning on my own terms, I headed to Biscuits Cafe for just that- two hot biscuits and a pot of Earl Grey tea. There is something so right about watching a generous dollop of salted, whipped butter sliding off the hot insides of a flaky, perfect, steaming biscuit. If I had not been in the mood to let someone else cook for me, I might have been baking a batch of my mother's insanely alluring scones, but a whole batch without someone to share them with is only half as tasty as it could be. Besides, Mom made them best anyway.

In two weeks, we move into a rented townhouse with two stories and a real fireplace. Built in the 1960's, there is still wood underneath the carpeting to gently creak and make our footfalls sound warm and homey. We will be able to watch the tree over our generously sized deck join Mother Nature's Fancy Dress Party and then defrock all over the place like a tired little lady after a grand ball- trailing one layer at a time all over her bedroom until she hits the bed in her last layer of dressing gown and passes out for the season.

Brian and I are looking forward to a lot of time spent in front of the fireplace with Future Woodring Number Three (the yet to be adopted dog). There is not one better way to start a new year (it IS Rosh Hashana after all!) than by gently easing into it beside the fire, listening to the rain falling and watching the wet leaves on the sidewalk gently bleed their colors back into the ground like a melting chalk painting.

I gotta go. Its time to make some Challah bread.

Lucky me!

Consider The Plum

2008-09-07T08:25:00.010-07:00

Here it hangs.

It is undeservedly one of the most overlooked and uncelebrated stone fruits of the season.

When cherries and peaches come in season, its an elbow-to-the-neck frenzy of friends that offer to take fruit off your hands when your abundance fairy beats you over the head with her wand. Your driveway turns into Manhattan gridlock. Total strangers that know someone who you went to school with that is a third cousin of your babysitter who heard about your fruit will hand you a thank you gift as they scamper off into your orchard. Sticky, dusty faces will parade past your front window. Bellies full of sugar and fiber will rumble. You will thank your lucky stars nobody has asked to use your powder room. When plums come in, the crowd thins and you begin to miss the valet you hired.

I don't really think plums deserve the bad rap they get. Sure, we all have had those nightmares of being threatened with prune juice in our lives, but times have changed. We now have Metamucil and we get to enjoy the noble plum for its playfulness and fab appearance instead.

The gang followed me back to Vic's place. The sweet, round and perversely juicy red plums were hoovered up a week ago, but the soft, velvety indigo plums were hanging beautifully, ready to be given a little something akin to a hernia exam before being helped off the tree. With all the headless male torsos in the trees, we girls had to be careful what we were grabbing...

All day long as we picked, the best part (neck and neck with the fantasizing over making a plum galette for dessert, of course) was hearing all the voices of my friends out in that sunshine. It was nice to be able to share this with them. I will of course be harrassed all next spring until the cherries come back, when I will get mowed over or bumped off the road in the caravan on the way to the orchard, as friends lose their manners until the madness passes. This usually occurs after endless hours processing said harvest, when the mundane task tames even the most savage of beasts.

Brian was a little skeptical about the ability of a mealy, drier, and less sweet plum than the round variety. In a kid's school meal sack, an Italian plum will get left behind if paired with its cousin. I had a bit of success when I declared that it was time to think outside the lunchbox and learn to eat them the way nature intended- surrounded by crust, spiced with ginger and blinged out with sugar crystals.

I think Brian was very happily surprised. We did not bother to leave the seconds on the cooling rack, we went right for it and devoured it in one shot. I believe, dear friends, we have an elbow-sharpening convert emerging!

Where Did The Summer Go?

2008-08-29T17:41:00.006-07:00

While I was slaving away in the body shop,

somehow the season escaped me. This is the first summer in a long time that seemed like a teeny blip on the radar screen. Definitely a sign of too much work, not enough play and definitely not enough exercise.

But don't fret. I have a cunning plan!

As some of you know I am nearing my fortieth birthday. Not a bad place to be- I said goodbye to my 30's last year and I am so totally cool about it. I just wish I was not going to be spending my birthday this year moving house.

Yep. Once again. Aren't you glad you never mail me anything except on the internet? You'd never keep up and I'd never get your dispatch.

Anyway, the top ten list of reasons why Jen is happy she and Brian are moving:

#10) Jen will cease to walk more minutes getting to the light rail than she actually spends riding on it in order to get to work.

#9) No more front row seats to the beach storms (shaddap, Ray!).

#8) Two bedrooms- what a total luxury!

#7) People will no longer offer condolences when they know our address.

#6) Jen gets to burn all her paper documents that she's been saving for her nonexistent shredder, thanks to the nice wood burning fireplace.

#5) They'll be one MAX stop from the Zoo and the Arboretum's running trails, two stops to downtown.

#4) They'll be in housing that is not a prefab couch farm with shoddy construction and really, really freaky mold issues.

#3) Jen will live closer to Patti again, and that is muuuuch better. She might even go freakin' SEE her once in a while!

#2) Restaurants and shopping are all Jen's old haunts. No learning a new neighborhood.

And the Numero Uno Greatest Reason for their unbridled happiness:

#1) They FINALLY GET TO ADOPT A DOG!!!!

Leave it to Portland to make even pet adoptions chic and hip. If all goes well, in a month and a half or so, we will begin in earnest to seek out our future pack member.

If I were to place a singles ad, it would read like this...

Seeking a leggy female, at least 2 years old, with mixed breeding. Must be inexhaustible with a tennis ball. Charm school experience a plus. Big and fluffy is just fine. Must like to lunch at sidewalk cafes and campsites alike. The love of long walks on the beach, snuggling in front of a fireplace and drives through the country is a must. Speaking with a soft voice and walking daintily is as welcome as a little feminine protectiveness and confidence. Must not like expensive high heeled shoes.

Free Lunch!

2008-08-09T19:19:00.007-07:00

Yesterday I took the old clunker for a spin out in farm country to celebrate a weekday off from work. With a wad of cash in hand, I planned to hit the local wonder that is New Seasons Market for something satisfying for lunch on the way home when I pedaled past a fully loaded thicket.

After gorging myself for about ten minutes straight, my need and desire for lunch vanished and I spun home applauding myself for saving money and filling myself with antioxidants.

All evening long, I plotted cunningly to return in the morning and pluck until either my fingers bled or I'd filled my old egg basket. I dug through my cooking texts and found the perfect target for those purple orbs of delight. A sick, twisted and maniacal laugh would escape my lips from time to time as I pored over the cookbook pages late into the night. Brian probably thought I was just ogling Daniel Craig's pictures in this month's Vanity Fair again.

The early farmers market raid proved especially productive, as I scored a quart of fresh squeezed, non-homogenized Oregon cow juice for my recipe. Cradled into the carrier I crafted in the back of the Subaru so as to not tip, topple or spill a drop, I made one last pit stop with my precious cargo to pick berries.

As I picked, it took me a little time to get my groove on. I finally conquered the instinct to stuff my mouth full as I looked skyward for more berries overhead (I tried this yesterday, resulting in a near-choking, but it would have been one hell of a way to go...). I was patient, looking for the telltale signs that the berries I wanted, the sweetest ones, were really ready.

They usually do not look shiny, gorgeous and plump anymore, just softly faded to a velvety finish. They are like a fine, late harvest grape prepared to sacrifice themselves to Bacchus. The berry should yield to the slightest rolling of your fingertips and gladly roll into your hand as if to say, "PHEW! Just in time! Dunno how much longer I was gonna be able to hang on there... One more day and I'da hit the deck!". The ones that do not make it, the ones that crumble in your grasp are to be eaten immediately. They will fill your nose with such perfume that you will finally realize what candymakers strive to emulate and fail miserably at.

With a basket of boosted berries, I set to work and made my first formal dessert in years.

To save myself all the unnecessary sugar, I made a regular pie crust instead of a sweet pastry. It was not pretty but the whole compilation was divine.

Ladies and Gents, please lick your screens for Wild Blackberry Creme Tart with Fig Glaze...

Ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

2008-07-19T11:06:00.013-07:00

Slowly it comes.

(Forest Grove, Oregon, Victor's front yard. Lucky bastard.)

Seeming like an eternity, the season changes not at the turn of a calendar page but at the turning of a fruit. We wait for it all year long, that signal telling us to crave what is ready to eat. This feeling-it is natural. It is primal. It is our reward for patience through a long winter and the alluring tease of spring. It brings forth unheard of energy to stumble out of bed early to catch glistening produce at its morning finest, when it is fat, plump with juice and bounces with joy under your fingertips as it is carefully plucked from its stem. It beckons one to sweep up a bushel basket and carry it off to the kitchen like a groom carries a bride.

Brian passed this springtime in contained enthusiasm for the Oregon summer until last weekend. We were invited to meet up with an old friend of mine who generously offered up his family's orchard bounty to us. With rows of the stone fruit of his dreams before him, he hurled himself with reckless abandon through the boughs, picking faster than an octopus could manage.

(Royal Annes... and a lot of 'em!)

So many cherries, so little time... especially the time we needed to halve, pit and de-worm them for the freezer!

(Will ya just look at that?! Holy cow! Where do you start?)

(Gettin' a little silly with the cherry carnage.)

(One for you, three for me. One for you, three for me...)

Thanks to Victor and wife's generosity and Brian's endless capacity to pick fruit, we got to sit on the back porch for countless hours hours processing the bounty last weekend. Days later, nothing tastes as marvelous as it did coming right off the tree, but we will have a few tarts and cobblers this winter to remind us of how great its going to be again next year. Next up: Plums!

Whats Been Cookin' Lately

2008-07-05T10:54:00.017-07:00

Its a national holiday, a three day weekend. I am taking the time off to get spring cleaning done- after all, its July and we still have not seen summer yet in earnest.

While I try to find my pantry and attempt to lighten the weight of my refrigerated leftovers, please cruise the food porn pictures and see what we've dined on lately...

Who needs a hamburger recall anyway?

Bison brisket with Dunkelweisen jus

Purple potatoes and fava bean salad with stone ground mustard dressing

Shawarma seasoned lamb burgers with grilled zucchini- the first meal on the new grill!!

New potatoes, asparagus and steamed pea shoot salad

A cobbler begins...

First tangle with fresh garbanzo beans done in an Israeli salad

Sweet and sour cucumber salad with chile flakes, downright awesome!

My wonderful 4th of July entree, butterflied lamb leg, grilled to perfection, alongside crimini mushrooms.

Because you asked for it.

2008-06-14T20:30:00.011-07:00

Sometimes a bite of food will spark a memory, and that memory becomes the entire reason for preparing it. Our emotional connection to that taste or aroma brings us back to our first encounter as brilliantly as it was yesterday.

Brian has a fondness for his grandmother's In Yo Face super tangy, heavy on the sugar rhubarb pie. I prefer to pay homage to Eleanor in a softer way.

In honor of all memories good that emanate from a grandmother's kitchen, I give you Rhubarb Cobbler for two...

2 cups sliced Rhubarb
1 Fuji apple (or Melrose in the fall), peeled and diced
1/2 cup old fashioned oats
1/4 cup sugar (or Splenda)
2 tablespoons salted butter
2 tablespoons flour
1/8 teaspoon baking powder
2-3 tablespoons brown sugar to taste (or Splenda blend)
1 teaspoon fresh ground ginger
1/4 cup chopped pecans
1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste

Preheat the oven to 350. In a medium bowl, stir apples, rhubarb, ginger, white sugar and vanilla bean paste. Divide into two ovenproof crock-style bowls. Wash bowl and reuse for the topping. Sift flour, brown sugar and baking soda together. Cut butter in, then add oats and pecans. It should be clumpy. Sprinkle generously over the top of the rhubarb mixture and bake for about 45 minutes or until you go batty from the fabulous aroma.

I adjust the filling for the season- I totally believe that rhubarb was meant to live happily ever after with red raspberries, not strawberries. I use lemon zest instead of ginger in that version with giddy success.

Applesauce, peaches, blueberries- they are all delightful with this amazing vegetable.

2008-06-07T10:56:00.009-07:00

Dinner is an intimate event, whether you stand shoulder to shoulder at a hot stove dining with your fingers, reclining picnic style on the floor or at a table for two by candle light. Tonight, that intimacy extends as far as the long farm table reaches at Simpatica.

As much as I love to cook, there comes a time when beautiful food crafted by someone other than myself becomes a restorative. Having someone else's hands sculpt a meal with as much love as my mother, the pride of my grandfather the gardener and the hands of Michelangelo fills me with many emotions.

I feel instantly comforted, calmed and soothed by the familiarity of it all. I am eager to sit with two men I adore and share an effortless time. The refuse of normal weekday life will fall away after a few hours and I will again feel civilized, composed, clean.

Please join me in anticipating all that is beautiful about Oregon on a plate...or four.

Simpatica Catering menu for Saturday, June 7

Smoked Trout with Shaved Fennel and Spring Onion Salad with Polenta Croutons

Grilled Fig Leaf-Wrapped Goat Cheese with Rhubarb Mostarda and Grilled Walnut Toasts

Cotechino-Stuffed Pork Tenderloin with Mushroom Spaetzle and Your Kitchen Garden Spinach

Bruleed Lemon Curd Tart with Viridian Farms Strawberries and Chantilly Cream

http://www.portlandfoodanddrink.com/?p=280

2008-05-24T08:37:00.007-07:00

This weekend, we are going to see if Brian gets the "other" meaning of

CATCHING FISH

I don't think I'll warn him.

Spring Has Sprung

2008-05-11T12:31:00.003-07:00

If you listen carefully enough, as you walk through a wetland clearing, you can hear all manner of creature feasting on young, tender shoots of flora around your feet. A little burbling water slipping through the stream bed to wash it down, a little bed of weatherbeaten leaves from last year to nap upon in the warming sun... this all makes for a happy existence.

Yesterday was my day to come out from the den, sniff the air, stretch, yawn, scratch behind my ears and start the springtime browse for food that will last me for the next two seasons. I will, like all beings approaching hibernation time, stockpile hardy nourishment again, but that is too far to see for all the green leaves sprouting everywhere.

So, whats cookin' you ask?

Today, Brian and I will chillax and dine on braised country spareribs and buckwheat crepes filled with mushroom, root vegetables and baby fiddlehead ferns. Dessert will be pear-rhubarb crisp with hazelnut-oat topping.

Dinner is at 6, sports fans.

Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?

2008-04-20T09:40:00.015-07:00

Ray called: "I've got a pig leg roasting in the new oven - you coming over?"

I answered, "Hell yeah! I'll bring the Iguana Stew."

"Iguana what??? Isn't it your holiday or something? Can you do that?" he asked.

"Watch me. We'll be over at six thirty."

Its been a short tradition for me to post my Passover ongoings, and this year is no exception. Even though I got totally ripped off by the flu season this year, I still had a Pseudo-Seder, thanks to friends. Hardly kosher, not quite hitting all the traditional points and only one Yid in the room, we all free-associated and made huge stretches in the case of the Passover requirements. We called it good. To cover the basics, we changed a few things around but did not screw with the Matzo.

The basics, covered the first night:

A roasted animal leg. Granted, it was a freshly butchered piggy and not in any way kosher, but for a last-minute pick-up seder wherein the host generously shared his bounty from the local market, I did not blink twice.

Maror. I think Habanero chiles totally qualify. Nobody ever said it had to be horseradish, right?

Karpas. Asparagus is a leafy green thing that looks herby when it gets big and tall, so was good enough for my band of celebrants.

Matzo. Shame on Manischewitz, their new matzo is awful. I have been devoted to Israeli made matzo all my life and after last night, I may never, ever put such a roof shingle in my mouth again.

Wine. I had four sips, since I was on so many drugs and also on call at 11 pm. Two tastes each of a pinot gris and a viognier, perfect with Iguana.

Salt water. A sinus rinse counts, even though it was not shared around the seder table.

Here is how it looked, Sports Fans...

(You have any idea how hard it is to get a Rabbi to kosher an Iguana? Gerry, you recipe master, thank you for a such a smashing, wonderful dish! The red chile lime zest matzo balls were my addition.)

(Ray, you are a true master of all that is Oregon cooking.
Thank you for sharing such a treasure with us.
You da man!)

(Plated, demolished and savored, probably as great as Jeff's seder dinner going on without me.)

The Wrap-Up

Perhaps tonight, I will cover the rest of the bases, like Charoset, an egg and maybe, if I feel up to it, a homemade chocolate merengue cookie.

For now, I'll just bask in the afterglow of a great meal with great friends and hope my family had as meaningful a seder as I did. I did miss them, and I promise to be well enough to cook for them "Next year in... Portland??"

2008-04-09T09:26:00.005-07:00

Today is the first day I feel like joining the vertical world again.

The virus of the century hit our household and battered us around like a pair of dinghies on a rocky coastline. Still somewhat seasick this morning I was finally at least able to moan mournfully from the couch to the healthier of the pair of us, "....i need cooooffffeeee....". A sure sign that I might be returning to the land of the living- I have had no taste for java for over a week (alarming!). Unfortunately, try as I may, I really can't actually taste it either. That sucks, but the love gesture of a hot steaming mug of bean juice was as healing as chicken soup.

We've been subsisting on little lately, our appetites nonexistent except for the Travel Channel's No Reservations on the laptop in bed. In between scenes of Anthony Bourdain porking out all over the world, getting his ass whipped by sweaty Uzbeki men and making Wire-Fu clips (a la Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), we've hit the pause button to hack up lungs, blow noses and slam down shooters of narcotic laced cough syrup. Watching all that food orgy footage was pissing me off- all the spicy Asian food I crave when I am sick was going into the belly of a dude who has a better job than I do, and justice had to be done. I got fed up enough last night, pulled up my sweats, snorted down a bottle of Afrin and got to work in the kitchen for as long as I could stand.

I threw down a batch of pork, chipotle chiles, lime slices, sauteed onions and garlic. I tossed it into a small round covered casserole dish and let it bake while we drooled our way through Hong Kong with Tony. When the rice cooker popped, the episode over, I tore into it with reckless abandon. I had to take it on Brian's word that it tasted alright and was hot enough, because I sure as hell can't taste or feel a thing from the neck up.

This morning, I was at the sink, scrubbing the caramelized goodness off the casserole that had soaked overnight.

The dish I have was a cheap, imported grocery store purchase. White china, a blue band, a little fluting action on the sides and lid- I'd bought a whole slew of matching bake ware at the local WinCo years ago. My casserole has an unglazed edge inside where the lid rests to prevent the it from sliding on glaze and possibly cracking. I thought it odd and annoying, hard to clean. I refrained from using it because I hated the fact that it did not look pretty at the table after using it, so I relegated it a mere serving and storage piece.

As I scrubbed and soaped, using my fingernail here and there to obsessively attempt to make it pretty, I thought on the image of a dutch oven that had seen decades of stove-to-oven use and how the outside would be subject to hundreds of hot, bubbling rivulets of braising liquid down its side as it baked countless meals. Some of these protein ribbons would sear to the finish and become part of the vessel itself, nearly impossible to remove without harsh means. I then wondered to myself if it was possible to be alright with the legacy of my cooked meals left behind in evidence of a delicious life?

I recall as a child, I cleaned out my parents' coffee percolator for two hours at the sink until the inside and the little glass tube that indicated the color of the brew was sparkling like brand new. With Cometized fingertips and nails shredded beyond repair, I presented my father with the pot, jubilant. He thanked me, and jokingly told me that I'd cleaned all the flavor out of the pot. I was quietly devastated and I hope he never saw it in my face. I now realize what he meant.

In this sanitized age of over-potty-training and germophobia, I keep forgetting that some things were never meant to be wiped out: Growth marks on a wall in a houseful of children. Candle wax at the base of a menorah. Dog nose prints on the window where they stand waiting patiently for you to return at the end of the day. Healing, loving food marks on a dish accumulated over a lifetime.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

2008-03-21T18:28:00.012-07:00

As I sit at my desk recording my daily food intake and blood sugar readings, I inevitably start surfing the food porn pages for yummy bites. I don't usually get inspired to do more than eat and then try to work it off. Until recently.

Something came to me the other weekend.
The cartoon question mark above my head began to flash like a disco ball.

What would it be like if a single little calorie of food cost a penny to purchase?

We all have them lying around- pennies galore. Some of us have them hidden under sofa cushions, under floor mats of the car, in dusty desk drawers, old jars in a closet, or in our case- in a metal Tibetan rice bowl near the front door that rings every time our keys or spare change fall into it.

It all adds up slowly, these copper tokens, and few people have a pocketful on them on any given day, thanks to the plastic cash method. Out of sight, out of mind, much like the little calorie- numbers whirl around us that are "spent" (eaten) as easily as using a debit card... Swipe card, an index finger punches four little keys, the same index finger points out a gooey doughnut through a glass window and it is snarfed down as fast as the bank can authorize the purchase.

You remember that wall chart in grade school , right? The one with the small portion of "Bad" foods on top, layered with increasing amounts of servings of "Healthy" food toward the bottom...

Methinks I smell a rat- could Big Oil and the Corn Belt be cousins?

Okay, look at this from an average perspective- The average American is overweight, the typical male being 5'9" and about 191 pounds. Thats me, with one more inch up and forty more pounds around my middle. Forty years ago, that man weighed fifteen pounds more than me. Can it be related? What we are now eating versus what never used to be in our food?

Lets start with the basics. The very same folks who brought us Daylight Saving Time way back when farmers used to be a larger part of the population were probably relatives to the ones who set up the nutritional guidelines for the country. What better way to boost our own economy than by raising our own corn, grain, beans and other staple items?

In depressed times, these foods and their components can be saved, stretched and held as a resource for a hungry belly. Jews in the desert lived on Manna, an alleged bread food from Above. Bread and its exponents are considered the staff of life (Dear Old Dad thinks pretzels are such). We break bread with friends. Prisoners lived on bread and water rations. It was, it seems, to be a food of sustenance only, not as an everyday thing.

When we look at the good old days of manual labor, toiling in fields and factories, we were a lot more svelte on the outside (cholesterol plastering our insides to some degree, but we will get to that later). We gardened, cooked from scratch, raised our own meat on natural pasturing and proper grains for the species. In comparison to today, we are more sedentary (shuttling kids to soccer is not considered exercise, by the way), our fingers, not our backs and legs do our major share of work, and we got fat. We shied from the produce aisles in favor of prepared foods, boxes of no-brainer cooking ideas and we never looked at our meat more than once, no less cared for how it was brought to us.

Our food pyramid only changed a little since I was in grammar school.

It got carbohydrate heavy in the name of whole grains and cereals- the very things our grain belt needed to sell. It put fresh fruit and vegetables one level above grains (!).

Look at the lacking logic behind putting grains first: Basic physiology states that glucose is essential for brain function, which thereby relates to the whole body and its need for energy. It sounds like a loaf of Wonder Bread really is a source of much needed vitality, right?

Take that bread and grain thing one twisted step further. Imagine you are a country that raises corn for nearly nothing. Its really a cousin of grass, so it grows well here. Get a huge abundance of corn and realize you can't get rid of it. Or, take that corn you grew for nothing, break it down into its components and turn them into something else... Like corn syrup, my favorite target of hatred. Take every aisle in the middle of the grocery store and put corn syrup into more than half of what you find there. Put it into bread, drinks, canned fruit (canned fruit!!!) and tomato sauce (groan). Put it into deli meats and dairy foods. You put it where it does not belong. You even make up new names for foods made almost entirely of it and call it something else, like Maple Syrup.

With the addition of corn syrup, a roasted tomato, some basil and a touch of garlic goes from 57 calories a cup to 100. A peach goes from 66 calories to 103 out of a can (light syrup). Applesauce goes from 108 calories a cup (unsweetened) to 193. A home made corn muffin with organic milled ingredients goes from 130 to 180 calories... in the name of jiffy preparation, 50 more units of energy snuck down the pipe.

Back to the couch cushions!!

This is where it all adds up.

In the name of curiosity, I took a look at the pyramid, the number of calories I am allowed to eat based on what my nutritionist says I can have, what foods are the cheapest dollar-wise to get me to that goal, and how much it would really cost if it all came down to a penny a calorie.

I am supposed to be at 1800 calories a day. That would be $18.00 of food. If I ate like the average American did on a typical work day, it would look a little like this:

Breakfast Of Champions

Breakfast of 2 freezer waffles, syrup, butter, orange juice, coffee with sugar and coffee mate would run me about $5.30. Yup. 530 calories and 116 grams of pure energy to spend.

Or, a bowl of Cheerios with milk and sugar, orange juice, coffee with creamer and sugar would cost me $3.70 and it would give me 73 grams of buzz.

If I was feeling really hungry, I'd instead eat 2 eggs, 3 sausage links, 2 slices of white toast with butter and coffee with all the fixins. It would cost me $8.00 and I'd have 59 grams of brain sugar.

Call me, we'll do lunch

Everyone's fave, PB and J and a glass of moo juice!! You know you love it. It would cost $6.95, like it does in some upscale bakery restaurants already. It would power a nice bike ride with 96 grams of carbs.

Or, if I did not hate mayo: Ham and cheese on white bread with white slime would cost $4.30 if it were with crap packaged deli meat and a cellophane packaged slice of fake cheese, chased down with a glass of 2% milk

Over twenty years ago it would have been a teenager's usual: The nationally iconic quarter pound cheeseburger, medium fries and a large cola: Twelve bucks, Ladies and Gents. And all that teenage rambunctiousness is from 173 grams of pure, screeching, angst-riddled energy.

Instead, one who tried to be good gets a southwestern chicken salad with matching dressing and a diet cola for $4.20, about the same as it really costs. Only 41 grams of carbs. Not bad.

"Morris, Din-Din!"

American Barbecue. Ain't nuthin' like it. Three grilled legs in sauce, some mashed taters from scratch (butter and milk a must), a cup of baked beans and the obligatory cup of canned green beans will set you back $10.44 and amp you with 125 frenzied calories just dying to be burned while you sit on the recliner and watch American Idol.

If I was PMSing, it'd be pasketti and meat sauce with cheese- one of my personal cravings, including a slice of garlic bread and a can of fizzy beverage will empty your wallet of $7.69 but only if you really eat 200 grams (dry weight) of pasta. Most Americans eat about three times that with sauce to match, making dinner really cost $13.40. Carbs when you behave? 146. When you eat like everyone else? 258. Best not to sneak that second slice of bread, eh?

I'm not even gonna go after dessert.

Earlier, I told you I have a nutritionist...

... and she wants me at 1800 calories a day. This shakes out to about 360 calories and 45 grams of carbohydrate per meal. I wiggle here and there, saving a few calories and carbs for before a spin or run, eating much lighter in the evenings when my body wants to fall down dead and sleep, not needing energy to do so.

Based on all that food pyramid stuff and all the grain products in the daily diet above, I would be getting the required six servings of grains per day for sure. I'd be averaging well over my carb limit of 135 grams a day making the best choices available from what was listed, costing me about $18.30- close to my calorie budget but way over my carbs by 104. At the very worst, the teenager's bottomless stomach diet would throw my carbs over by 355 grams. It would cost me $33.40. Ouch. On the best regimen, it would run me alone $549.00 a month. Do the math yourself for the Dark Side of the food pyramid.
Who says its cheaper to eat from the middle aisles of the grocery store??

SO, whats all this adding really meaning to the waistline instead of the budget? One day of eating like a linebacker on the high school squad but acting like the debate team dork leaves someone my weight with 1540 calories to burn off, or shy of one half pound of body fat.

That, sports fans is:

Jen spinning on Frank The Uber Bike for 3.25 hours
Jen hiking with her daypack on for 3 hours
Jen walking to an audiobook on the iPod for 4.6 hours
Jen dodging cars on her hybrid bike for 2.6 hours
Jen running nearly a half marathon, or 12 miles in 2.25 hours

Summary of this ghastly little exercise is this:

I'm gonna stick to the outer perimeter of the grocery store, farmers markets, local ranchers and my own kitchen for my body's budget balancing.

I gotta go. Frank is calling me out for a spin.

License To Party

2008-03-16T11:04:00.008-07:00

I gotta tell you, I love being a Yid in Portland.

In a city that throws a rave, marathon or festival for any reason whatsoever, nobody is excluded. Consider the possibilities of an eye-popping turnout in a city that happens to have the natural ability to do Purim up right:

FACT: The story of Purim is about a group of people being singled out for being different.

HEL-LOOO! Don't people come to Portland to exercise their right to be different, flout their individuality and do their own thing with nobody giving a crap? Don't we have a motto around here- "Keep Portland Weird"?

FACT: You celebrate Purim by giving your neighbors gifts of food.

Another no-brainer! In my circle of individualistic free spirit friends we find cool things, migrate to one house and make a big hoo-hah around it. Nobody walks in empty-handed. There is always something worthy of sharing with friends around these parts- our own land of milk and honey.

Fact: You also have the duty to tell the story of Purim- good guys beating bad guys, and it is said that one must be so highly inebriated to the gills with joy during the telling so that one actually cheers for the bad guy and boos for the good guy.

Lemme get this straight- I have to get plowed with friends, tell a story about a bad guy getting his ass kicked by a bunch of scrawny, nerdy Yids and have a totally silly time while doing it or I am sinning? Oh, SIGN ME UP!!

FACT: Part of the retelling of the story involves getting in costume and parading around in long, flowing biblical gowns, playing the roles of Haman (bad dude), Mordechai (good dude) and Queen Esther.

WELCOME TO DRAG CAPITAL U.S.A! Okay, being commanded to be drunk, on parade and in a dress posing as Queen Esther... Think about it. Could it be any more perfect in a city where cross dressers and drag queens hold the best qualifications?

Its all about the food, Bubbie!

I do have to say that Purim snuck up on me like it does every year, and I get that nostalgia itch going on- the one that turns on the oven, digs out Mom's yellowing recipe card with fading ink and handwriting so familiar, cusses over not being able to find the set of round cookie cutters and then shleps all over town to find cans of poppyseed, almond, marzipan and raspberry fillings. I get a bit Pavlovian over at the Kitchenaid- smelling the orange zest and flour combining in that fragrant, earthy way. I can recall seeing my mother's hands shaping the triangle pastries and slinging her spatula with great authority as she filled rack upon rack of cooling Hamantashen. Biting into one of those perfectly balanced tarts- flowery crust and warm, nutty filling is like a fleeting moment of peace that only your mouth finds, and it only lasts a second, never to be repeated no matter how many cookies you plow through in search of that same feeling.

In today's society we seem to have less and less food that only comes around once a year, partly our of loss for the old ways, and partly for the commercial push toward foods being available every day of the month, all year long. It makes me wonder about the foods that Americans see as iconic items connected with spiritual events.

The first thing I see in my grocery is that huge section of unnaturalness- the candy bins. I can usually tell what time of year it is by the color of the foil packaging glimmering from that corner of the store... it shines like crack clusters on a mirror. People with sugar addictions are drawn to them, believing that they must have some, else they are not experiencing life, or their holiday to the fullest. I have to think hard to recall what foods are really associated with the mainstream calendar that actually harken back to the day, signifying spiritual commemoration. All I can recall of the myriad of things I am sure are out there are hard-cooked eggs (for fertility and birth of spring) and.... um, er....

I cannot be a total hypocrite and not mention the Nastiest Of nasties- Hanukkah Gelt in a foil wrapper, but we Yids have pretty much got it toned down. Grandmothers for generations still whip out the armamentarium and feed their loved ones on every holiday , or they have taught the next generation how to do the same. Even we lazy Yids know where to go to purchase the foods if we don't find the time or the hands to make them.

To me, a holiday is not a holiday unless one has the taste of the past in them.

Food Of Love, Revisited

2008-03-09T12:14:00.008-07:00

The Lord spoke of the infirm and said,

"Thou shalt comfort the sick and ailing with cheesecake."

And it was good.

(Peanut butter'n banana, chocolate, Montana huckleberry, Cointreau
orange and peanut butter cup swirl. All Splenda, of course!)

Reeeeal gooooooood.

Disclaimer:
I will make any food for anybody, any time- just ask.
Please do NOT feel the need to throw yourself under a vehicle.
Thank you.

A collector of souls

2008-03-01T23:26:00.008-07:00

How many of us have sat during a quiet moment and wondered what kind of legacy they would leave behind if something catastrophic happened?

Nobody wants to be morbid or macabre, but I tend to think that some people think on their own mortality and the impact of their lives, wondering if their mark on the world was significant, if the vacuum left in their absence noticed by anyone, if one had good karma in life.
I am no exception.

Nearing the ripe old age of forty, I feel I've begun to "grow into my paws" at long last. Pissing people off deliberately is no longer a competitive sport. Mending fences and forging better relationships with my family has taken a more prominent place on my list of priorities. Becoming a better colleague and a team player actually is important these days. Daring to love completely scares me less every day- be it my beautiful partner or my cherished friends.

I wonder sometimes, have I done enough to make up for lost time? I can confess with a degree of certainty that I will forever feel like I have fallen short and that I still have things to do, words to say, time to spend, embraces to deliver. My notoriety as a total shit in my youth has left me a good deal of bad work to undo.

I feel the blessed lessening of guilt as I begin to believe in my own value within my family- I thank my eldest nephew for that. Since the move, I have settled in and have finally begun again to crave the company of friends I so dearly missed while away. I was just about to pick up the phone and arrange to take up an offer to re-learn to ride horses with Patti when things went horribly wrong.

It is a powerful testament to one's character and their quality of life when they get their own WIKI page.

Pea and Gunner, January 2008

Its no secret anymore, the tragedy that befell my friends Mel, Sam, Brian and Patti a few days ago. All are alive, neurologically intact and breathing on their own. The external injuries on the walking wounded are still evident but healing, the nonwalking wounded is fighting daily to sit, stand and turn over.

In my clinical experience, I have seen lots of broken bodies and occasionally when someone close to me is on my turf, I can find myself being objective- I resist my urge to pop into a room as often as my own emotions dictate. I do not call as often as I'd wish in order to let the person rest. I think like a nurse and a patient, advocating privacy, painfully disregarding my primal urge to draw up my loved one into my arms and protect them from the capable hands of total strangers.

My mother went through a hospitalization as few weeks back and is headed for another visit in a weeks' time. I am fighting back all my urges to liquidate all my few assets and fly over to help her get through one of the most common, minimally invasive procedures I myself perform daily- which becomes a complete skeleton transplant in your mind when its your momma.

It affected me greatly, finally calling Patti nearly a week after her rollover. She'd already been through implantation of bionic parts and was well into days of drug-induced haze to battle her discomfort. Her voice was so small, so far away, so deeply buried within layers of blankets, fiberglass splints, dressings and knitting wounds. After I fought off the tears, the only thing left in my head was this thought:

Does that woman have ANY FREAKING IDEA how many people love her???

I was first introduced to Patti as a "Collector Of People".

A very social creature, Patti likes people around her of great quality, humor, talent and gustatory ability. Even in her quiet times, she is never far from a crowd, be it friends or being draped by cats. There is not one walk of life that is not represented in her collective.

(Author's note: Her talents, adoring fans and network are equaled only by Mel, actually-
just go to one of her house parties)

After years of being a friend of Patti's, and one time accused by one jealous former suitor of "dating" her, I unfortunately got the rare opportunity after her accident to see the breadth of her outreach. People were dispatching emails around Portland and beyond with lightning speed and massive momentum, collecting forwarded addresses by the dozen. The first email I received had nearly sixty contacts. I'd bet its doubled or tripled faster than Obama's campaign finance fund.

As news of Patti's eminent transfer back to Portland was hot off the press, it became very obvious that a stampede would very effectively level her rehab facility once she let out her location. I imagined something akin to the British Invasion of the Beatles, actually. For crowd control, some brilliant fan set up a Wiki page to coordinate dates, times and turns for visiting her. Tinseltown celebrities never get this treatment from such sincere people.

The cohesive generosity of the group is just buzzing like a colony of worker bees ready to lift tall buildings with a single bound. Mel and Sam put out an All Hands for a little moving help today. I had intended to head over to help man the stove (all I am really good for, which is just fine with me!) and feed the helpers after hours of slaving, hauling, shlepping and grunting. Suffice to say, I got a call shortly after start time telling me that I was not needed. A crowd of adoring fans showed up, knocked out the deed in about an hour and headed off into the spring sunshine with nary a bead of sweat on a brow. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am.

Afterthoughts to last a lifetime

I sit here in the dark, hearing Brian's breath softly rustling as he slumbers in the bedroom and I wonder to myself- have I shown and told him enough that I love him? Have I done so with everyone I care for?

If anything is to be learned from this terrifying event we have all exponentially gone through it is that accountability must prevail. By accountability I mean not only the common sense of the word in relation to the misdeed of late in all our minds, but as applied our interpersonal relationships. Have we all been honest- conveyed our true emotions and affection for each other? Have we been there when someone asked for our company or assistance? Have we listened AND heard, not only to the spoken but to the nuance of what a friend tells us? Have we done the right thing? Have we loved, laughed and lived enough in the right way?

Have we collected an accurate representative of our own greatness in the character of our friends- be it just one true, unfailing soul or a thousand?

Don't Do It

2008-02-26T07:20:00.004-07:00

An open note to Joseph Umphrey, 25,
of Crooked River Ranch, Oregon:

You nearly killed four of the most cherished friends
I will ever have in my life.

Your decision to get drunk and careen your way down a highway, drive into a carload of innocent victims and almost bisect my best friend is so inexcusable that I hardly have words.

I hope that your actions will haunt you for the rest of your pathetic life and that instead of crawling back into a bottle, you sober up and become personal bitch to some very hairy, horny and merciless cellmate with lots of energy and love to give.

http://www.ktvz.com/Global/story.asp?s=7915030

Let this be a reminder to all that just one serving of alcohol and a set of car keys should never go hand in hand.

Just think about that and then think about the "What If's"... It'll keep you up at night.

Its SO Easy Being Green

2008-01-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

E U G E N E ! ! !

Brian and I went down to Duck Country to see a friend from Billings a couple of weekends ago- our first time in what is called
The Peoples Republic Of Eugene.

Some places in the world evoke a feeling of calm, comfort, familiarity, creativity, and yes, even sanity. It may sound counterintuitive to call a city with hippies, witches and anarchists SANE, but I believe sanity is a relative term.

I can just conjure up the image in my mind of my father hearing the very word Eugene and reacting- face slowly pinking up, the sound of air passing sharply into his lungs through clenched teeth, fingers drawn so tightly over the armrest of his chair that his knuckles blanch, a strange slant to the side of his head, one eye closed tightly and a "Snoopy hates his dog collar" agony gurgle going through his body...

Great visual, eh?

Lemme tell you, for a town with a reputation that precedes itself, much like my own, Eugene was a whole lotta little things, and no one huge, odious thing. I kinda liked it.

Brian and I had our start in a small city of 90,ooo people, and that size has become embedded in our hearts and minds as being part of our selves. Would we ever live in a burg such as Billings again? Most definitely not, but one about the same size with a higher level of consciousness? (okay, an EXTREME sense of consciousness.)
Perhaps.

What makes a town for us is its vibe underfoot, the eye candy above ground and stewardship the people impart on their town. Are we hippies reincarnated? For the love of my father, I hope not, but somehow, the Carrie Bradshaw in me could happily teeter down the aisle of Food Of Choice market in a pair of Blahniks, looking for a homeopathic blister treatment for my toes.

In my old age, I have become slowly more aware of the more global influences that affect me, and even the political race is a concern of mine. Two Democrats are going to duke it out on my adopted home turf, the Pacific Northwest this weekend. I wonder if either of the two of them have ever taken a walk in the woods or ambled slowly in the misty shroud of beach air until their form is barely visible just a few feet down the way? Do they have MY interest in mind when they are raising or donating their own campaign funds? Are they considering that my idea of national security includes protecting a Pinot Noir vine, the bison rancher that does not use hormones or antibiotics and the right to Keep Portland Weird?

It makes perfect sense to me why people create a dynamic buzztown like Eugene- they all want to believe in their causes together. They become their own ethnicity in a sense.

Tell me, how is that any different from any other categorized group of people?

Scratch your head, say, "HUH???"

2008-01-12T10:34:00.000-07:00

I love Google.

(aka, "Is that a Durian in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?)

Computers are only as smart as their programs, and they do EXACTLY what you ask them to do.

Even when you don't.

Ladies and gents, I bring you:

The Google Free Association Faux Pas Of The Day

This was a thread posted on a food web page devoted to cooking and eating. The initial query was concerning a bottle of truffle oil, of which the poster had a difficult time enjoying the aroma.

Google decided to help out and suggest some resources to help deal with the embarrassing situation of having a mushroom in one's lingerie.

2007 Outtakes

2008-01-04T21:12:00.000-07:00

Time for the 2007 shots that never made it to the blog,
or shouldn't have...

It was a warm winter, apparently.

My nephew's portrait of me. Note the steaming cuppa joe in hand. He is a genius.

Proof that bears DO, in fact, shit in the woods... in case you ever really wondered.

The New Orleans roller derby babes molest dogs for money.

I bagged my first lion in the wilds of Wyoming this spring.

A little romance from the love of my life...

...made me swoon, I tell ya!

Belly dancing in front of my closest drinking buddies.

Sober friends would remember it all and still be heckling me about it.

Essentials for any girl at a family reunion. Part of a good daily beauty regimen.

Listening to Mom tell our family story at the anniversary party- warts and all.

Even the room captain could not take it.

Did you know that there are speed limits to opening the door of a parked car in a parking space? Apparently, I "opened the door too fast" for the bitch that hit me to stop.

Thankfully not seagull poop. Its dog slobber and partially digested seaweed, actually.

SHIT WE CANT STAND 2007

Listen. I moved here years ago and then again this year because of the cool, funky vibe underfoot every time I step down on a sidewalk downtown. Nothing is too outrageous, nobody is too freaky, no cause too ridiculous. Ya just gotta love it here.
Well, love it or GET THE HELL OUT!

Click here for the 2008 Uninviteds List from the home office in The Peoples Republic Of Oregon

2007 Year In Review

2008-01-01T09:02:00.000-07:00

2007 is gone.

Brian and I celebrated our third outgoing/incoming year together, and for the first of them, not waist-deep in snow and shivering in subzero temperatures. For all the adventure of being enrobed in white in such dramatically beautiful places like Teton or funky burgs like Bozeman, we are happy this year to be enrobed in polarfleece, watching rain come down with killer espresso beans all around us.

We had a very eventful year, had good health after an especially brutal and prolonged flu season, and did not go officially broke as of December 31st.

Its easy to look back on photos of the year and remember one's life events as if the solar system revolved around them and them only.

I ask you this:

What would happen if someone recalled the other important events that occurred while they were out living theirs?

January 2007.

Brian and I were in Bozeman, MT at our favorite flea-bag motel, across from the Bozeman Co-Op. We had a lousy dinner, but a great breakfast or two at Nova Cafe. President Ford died. Scooter Libbey got grilled for being a blabbermouth. Oregon discovered how to not drive on ice, making it to YouTube. Isaiah Washington put both feet in his mouth. Donald Trump and Rosie O'Donnell took their schoolyard fight out of the sandbox and into the litterbox.
83 servicemen died in Iraq.

February 2007

We hiked to the Wild Horse Range on an unusually sunny weekend. Never saw horses, but the canyon was pretty. Portugal finally legalized abortion. Cheney eluded death, and not by his own firearm. Harvard named its first female president. 30 coordinated bombs exploded all over Thailand. A former Playboy Bunny overdosed. Dame Helen Mirren was recognized for playing the Queen Mum. Queen of Trailer Trash Britney Spears shaved her head in a surprisingly conscious statement protesting the war in Iowa .
80 more servicemen died in Iraq (not Iowa).

March 2007

I was still battling the superflu and distressed ribs. Britain finally let the people decide who gets a seat in the House Of Lords instead of some descendant of the same line of family, probably as a lesson learned from the Bush presidencies. Ireland finally agreed to a power-sharing government. A confession was obtained for the September 11 massacre. Storms hit the deep south and wiped out a group of high school kids. Federal prosecutors were fired. Elizabeth Edwards went public with her cancer. Anna Nicole Smith was buried by the Ringling Brothers (of media circus fame).
81 more servicemen died in Iraq.

April 2007

Passover with the family- what could be better? I spent 28 hours in airports, made 1 of 6 flights on time, got to see old friends and do horeseradish shooters. The Israeli PM was spanked for the Lebanon War. A VA Tech student killed 32 people including a Holocaust survivor who stood in the doorway to his classroom in order to protect his charges. The US passed a stem cell research bill. Don Imus offended the human race once again. Richard Gere got death threats for kissing a woman. Alec Baldwin gave parenting lessons.
104 more servicemen died in Iraq.

May 2007

I found myself wandering the weathered streets of the French Quarter, loving the Faubourg Marigny section. I heard love stories for a city that nearly was washed away. Sarkozy became France's leader. Wolfowitz got busted. Blair said he'd finally had enough. A UN report stated there needed to be an immediate action of reducing heat-trapping greenhouse gases. Bush finally asked for more money to fight AIDS. Michael Moore released Sicko, naturally irking the Establishment. Trailer Trash Queen Britney Spears protested the use of infant car seats. Paris Hilton spent 24 days in the pokey.
126 more servicemen died in Iraq.

June 2007

Brian and I joined friends of his on an archery shoot in Wyoming. A sweet little cabin, visiting dogs, a fireplace and a few well placed arrows. The G8 agreed to work on greenhouse gas reduction and fighting diseases... again. Israeli president Katsav plead guilty to rape charges. Two undetonated car bombs were defused in London, found by a fast-fingered 17 year old nerd in America who stumbled upon them while hacking his new iPhone . Mudslides killed 62 in Bangladesh. The Sopranos went dark.
101 more servicemen died in Iraq defending Idaho senator Larry Craig's right to use a public restroom as a meat market.

July 2007

I flew in to Portland to house and job hunt for the big move back to the land of the freethinking and home of the barista. North Korea shut down its weapons making nuclear reactor. A Khmer Rouge prison boss was indicted for crimes against humanity. Israel resumed financial ties to the Palestinian Authority after Hamas was 86'ed. Scooter Libbey got a commuted sentence. NASA let astronauts have a two-martini launch. JK Rowling forgot to be thanked for her outreach efforts in teaching people how to actually turn the pages of a book again .
78 more servicemen died in Iraq.

August 2007

In between packing and saying goodbye to some pretty places and friends, Brian began to break our wild "pet" ducks of the 300 lb. a month corn dependency problems he enabled.

Thailand voted for their first constitution-based government. Benazir Bhutto was allowed to return to Pakistan and run for office. The House increased medical care for kids, passed the energy bill and with overwhelming generosity, agreed to up reimbursements to doctors for Medicare services by a whopping 0.5%. Rove resigned. Gonzales fell under indictment. Michael Vick was busted for making sport of dogs fighting to their deaths.
84 more servicemen died in Iraq so we could give a Grammy nomination to a nice little Jewish girl from England who musically refused to go to rehab, shoots up, gets into drunken brawls with her husband, cuts herself and goes out wearing a beehive hairdo that has its own ecosystem.

September 2007

With our triumphant arrival in Portland, we announced ourselves at the annual Martini Party and started unpacking. We plunged right into the farmers markets, the coast and movie houses downtown. The Japanese prime minister Abe lowered his head in shame and quit office. the Iranian president wowed crowds by denying the Holocaust ever happened and by stating that Iranians don't consider males engaging in down-low intercourse gay. Plus one new AG, minus one Agriculture Secretary. Luciano Pavarotti died. Trailer Trash Queen Britney Spears protested anorexic starlets in Hollywood by falling out of her sequin bikini ensemble but was tragically unable to move her lips well enough to sing, due to over-tightened hair extension braids.
65 more servicemen died in Iraq.

October 2007

The last of my thirties showed up this year and I decided to just embrace it. And speaking of embracing, Brian and I celebrated our third year of life together over wild mushrooms, good wine and fresh sea air. Al Gore was at last recognized for his work crusading for the planet with half of a Nobel Prize. North Korea agreed to dismantle its weapons facilities. Bhutto eluded death in her first asassination attempt on her home soil in 8 years. Mouthy Musharraf got reelected. Bush vetoed his own promise to help more kids have heath care. Bush then asked for more money for the war. Senator Larry Craig was seen kissing Albus Dumbledore at a London airport before boarding a flight back to Washington to resume his duties. Trailer Trash Queen Britney Spears, infuriated about Bush's veto of the CHIP program, but is, like, totally relived, like, that Kevin got the kids, so, like, its not her f*$@ing problem to insure them.
38 more servicemen died in Iraq.

November 2007

I decided it was time to cook again. With all that goodness around us, sharing a few nice bottles, a roasted bird and some tall tales, our first dinner party was pulled off. Brian was a total love. Musharraf got spanked and busted back to President while Bhutto planned protests in a safe place. One brigade of 5000 troops was withdrawn from Diyala Province, Iraq. Australia began life under Labour Party representation. The American death toll in Iraq reached its highest since the war was launched in 2003. A storm in the Black Sea broke apart a tanker and spilled 360,000 gallons of oil in the water. The Senate passed the vetoed CHIP bill. The house passed a bill protecting gays in the workplace. The house passed a bill limiting war funding. Hollywood writers went on strike, forcing the American public to watch reruns. Toys-R-Us opened for Christmas shopping at midnight on Black Friday.
37 more servicemen died in Iraq.

December 2007

With family all around me for the first time since it got split into fragments in 1986, life got a whole lot sweeter and more valuable. A week of Mickey Mousing around with Brian and the Weisbergers was better than ever anticipated.

We decompressed for Christmas at the beach in a borrowed five bedroom house with a fireplace, nestled into a rocky cape just steps from my favorite spot at Oswald West State Park.

Musharraf restored the constitution and Bhutto was assassinated. The African National Congress changed hands after ten years. Citing safety concerns for operatives and their families, the CIA destroyed interrogation tapes of two Al Qaeda suspects after denying the use of torture, but seriously kicking the shit out of suspects, unofficially, of course. 2.8 million gallons of crude oil spilled along Korea's coast after a ship was cut in half by a steel tow cable. Jamie-Lyn Spears, sister to Trailer Trash Queen Britney emulated her hero by embarking on becoming a seventeen year old children's network sensation unwed mother. Seattle, home of Microsoft, had their New Year's Eve computer detonated fireworks display show completely halted at midnight due to a software glitch at 12:01 AM... the software was Windows, naturally.
22 more servicemen died in Iraq.

Thanks for traveling down the path of 2007 with me. It was a long year, with a lot of changes and much hubbub. 2008, for us, will hopefully bring good career news, more exploration of our new home and a whole lotta QUIET... well, at least for a few weeks. Screw the resolution thing, I have only one goal and that is to make it as sweet a life as possible for me and my man.

How about you?

Weisbergers Do Disney

2007-12-30T11:47:00.001-07:00

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Roni and Joe.

Thanks to the wonders of technology, Al Gore's invention and my brother's great motivation to weasel out of making the entire family CD copies of all his photos, I have become the lucky recipient of a file transfer bearing all said photos.

All four hundred plus of them. Ya gotta love the Internet and those IM services...

For those of you who have been pacing anxiously to see the mug shots and could not wait until the premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater, here are some images and silly facts for the fan base.

We three kids and our mates threw a soiree in Orlando for the very people responsible for our existence. It was the least we could do.

Three generations showed up and partied like rock stars.

Through the week there, amazingly nothing went awry. Even after two body searches by the Disney cops, nobody got arrested on weapons charges.

Proving that age has nothing to do with it, the two younger aunties got totally shellacked by one of the older daredevil aunties on the Everest roller coaster. Suffice to say, a few hours were killed with two heads in a toilet afterwards.

(Betcha thought I'd put in a picture of me and my sister in law hurling here, didn'tcha?
No FREAKIN' way!)

The kids, under the influence of Evaporated Cane Juice had a seriously good time.

Andy, ready for a college frat party already.

Alex, God bless him, he takes after me.

Shelli had to pay to dine with princesses on her birthday until I arrived and she got to do it for free.

Ilana, a future knockout in a bikini. Heaven help us all in about three years.

Faces from afar made great strides to make appearances. Some brought embarrassing photos of us all from the Hairy Eighties and shared intimate glimpses of our defining years with our mates.

Natch, Brian found this seriously amusing and worth heavier investigation...

Friends and relatives made it a well-rounded affair.

I'd bore the crap out of you all with more pix, but this is my blog and I can't even tolerate much more of the family gushies. Let's just call it a great time and a success and let it live in infamy.

Trivia: Before this shindig, the entire Weisberger clan had not been in the same room together since 1993.

From Webster's Online Dictionary

2007-12-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

Surrealism: sur.re'al.ism, n. {FR. surrealisme; sur-, over, beyond, and realisme, realism}

1. A 20th century movement of artists and writers (developing out of Dadaism) who used fantastic images and incongruous juxtapositions in order to represent unconscious thoughts and dreams.

2. Genre of art and literature attempting to express the working of the subconscious and characterized by fantastic imagery and incongruous juxtapositions.

I do honestly believe that Walter E. Disney was a card-carrying genius. He began an empire based entirely on the premise of giving children things to dream about- not one shred of it reality based, brought forth the most iconic cultural figures of all pop culture, founded a pair of real estate dynasties that cater to the masses with freakish precision and has maintained the facade from deep within Forest Lawn Cemetery (Sorry fans, Old Walt was not turned into a frozen confection on a stick as the urban mythology suggests). I'll not mention his film studios, record labels, televsion networks or the vocabulary he created indigenous to Disney parks (think: Bibbidy-Bobbidy-Boo, Goofy, Prince Charming, etc...)

Brian and I came to the conclusion that no matter one's opinion of the Magic Kingdom and its exponents, the fact remains indisputable that the organization of a Disney park is a massive achievement and deserves credit. For all the things we never saw behind the scenes, we gladly offer up praise for the corporation and its ability to handle such a traffic load.

Never once did we see a "cast member" letting their guard down, showing a less than thespian face or being less than thorough with whatever their ordained task may have been.
(Please remind me to tell you to tell the tale of how thorough the Disney cops are before you even enter a park...) I wish all companies ran so well and took such superlative care of their guests/customers/patients/inmates.

So, enough of a salute to Walt and his brood.

Let's get on with celebrating mine.

Next post has exciting statistics, mug shots, and How To Cope hints.

Stay tuned!

OUT OF OFFICE NOTICE

2007-12-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

Alright!

Its go time, Baby.

Bring on that shiksa rodent!

Please excuse me while my mishpucha and I shlep down in Florida and show that shmatta-wearing Minnie Mouse how to dress like a princess on her own turf.

Its time to celebrate fifty years of Weisberger family mishigas since my parents married. We kids, cousins, siblings, friends and fans will all be swarming upon the Magic Kingdom this week.

Expect to be bored stiff with family mugshots in the next few postings.

Must be off now... all I am packing is a bikini and a few bottles of wine.

Chill time

2007-12-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

A recipe for lazing about.
(and learning how to use the new camera)

One cup Old Fashioned Oats
One really tasty apple
1 3/4 cups water or milk
One handful Trader Joes dried peaches
One handful Trader Joes Sweet and Spicy Pecans
Vanilla
Cloves
Ginger
Sweetener of choice

Dice dried peaches and put in a medium nonstick pot. Peel and shred apple into pot along with peaches. Add water or milk and heat to simmering. Add oatmeal, stir once to mix and lower heat. Cover pot and start the tea kettle. When almost all of the water is absorbed, dish out into a bowl that fits snuggily in the palm of your hand. Dash on spices, a drizzle of vanilla, sweet stuff and a bunch of pecans.

Once the kettle has boiled, make a nice cup of Chai tea with cream.

Commence farting about all day, play with camera and shoot the first thing you see on your desk...

...and oh, yeah- watch it snow, of all ridiculous things.

Recipe serves two jammie-clad people.

Annual Report: Thanksgiving Leftovers 2007

2007-11-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

You're just going to have to bear with me on this post.

Our digital camera finally shuddered its last shutter closure and fell over dead. You're going to have to suffer the onslaught of my literary babble and Bogarted pix to describe this year's Thanksgiving.

THE FOOD REPORT

Brian and I hosted friends this year and with borrowed furniture, a heavily laden counter full of Pilgrim-worthy delights, we reveled in plates of food as described in the Thanksgiving Proclamation so many years ago.

(Photo borrowed from Chowhound.com)

The obligatory bird was present, treated to a spa package involving a roasted garlic massage, cider reduction showers and a bacon wrap. It was still turkey, unfortunately, but it looked like it could make a nice slide down a red carpet (think: Turkey Bowling * at the Oscars).

Side dishes were a little healthier and somewhat traditional, until Bad Kitty showed up with sour cream and butter laden knishes, God bless her!!! Aside from the usual cranberry sauce (half apple, actually, with a little grinding of ginger and a healthy shot of Absolut), there was Mom's stuffing, which I only made out of obligation for anyone appearing wishing to eat celery and buttered bread. Not a hot seller, I tell ya. Instead, bigger things happened by way of ordinary oatmeal cooked in stock, wild mushrooms and wild rice. The invited skeptic took home the leftovers and asked me for the recipe repeatedly. Sweet potatoes were diced and roasted along with Port-drunk raisins and orange zest, topped with Israeli Gold- candied pecans from the shuk (market). I only whip those out on special occasions... My brother's Brussels sprouts with shallots, roasted garlic and pine nuts went well, but the aftereffects in a one room beach house were rather devastating the next day.

Dessert was a raving success, thanks in major part to some hip chick in Paris with a very chic food blog and a little innovation on my own part. Not wanting to totally whup on my pancreas, I made an apple Tarte Tatin (thats French for upside down caramel apple tart that invokes tears upon the first forkful) but made apple cider syrup instead of sugar caramel for the topping. Those magnificent Melrose apples I elbowed my way across the farmers market for a few weeks ago shone brilliantly in this dessert and nobody could dispute the great texture, correct sweetness and utter simplicity. Its going to be the repeat offender on an annual basis, I believe.

The Afterparty

A little too much chatting about the past and my former reputation as a total asshole finally gave way to the hum of a happily stuffed dishhwasher and we called it a night. Catching up with friends is always a fulfilling experience, warts and all usually, but the best part about the night was letting people get to know Brian. Incorporating our couplehood into a larger group dynamic opens up a lot of opportunities for hearing deep feelings and thoughts from your partner as they share themselves with new people- suffice to say I could listen to Brian all day... He is a joy.

Leftovers packed and the Subaru loaded with all weather gear bags and a change of skivvies, we moseyed to the house on the coast once again. Opening up a closed down house is fun until you have to sit on the can after a long warm car ride with heated seats. I think the toilet had ice floating in it because the frostbite ring on my ass is still there. Nevertheless, getting settled in took no time at all and an improvised dinner of chicken glazed with cranberry chile sauce, hashed sweet potatoes and those deadly Brussels Sprouts both hit the spot and tried to kill us later that night.

Longing On The Long Beach Peninsula

Yesterday, after a nice breakfast at our usual haunt, 42nd Street Cafe, we walked a few hours down to Beard's Hollow. What a treat! Collecting "sand change" as we walked (broken sand dollars) and crossing a few rivulets that drained right into the sea, we came to the end of the beach right before the outcropping of rocks called Cape Disappointment, just under the lighthouse.

Since the tide was out, we were able to cross little water-filled sluices full of sea anemones and critters to climb the lava mound that jutted from the edge of the coast. Crunching barnacles and baby clams underfoot (I feel awful enough, don't help me, okay?) we crested the rocks and found ourselves nose to snoot with a seal diving for dinner in the surf! From this sunsetting stone, we stood along the breakers rushing past us and watched the little flipper tumbling in loops of waves- quite possibly the coolest thing I have seen on this beach in years. Being so close to that kind of primitive creature brings a person back to the fact that humans are not the only game in town.

Apparently it was the opening of Razor Clam season.

After we picked our way off the rocks around sunset, we looked up and found ourselves elbow to elbow with people pounding the shoreline, dropping to their knees and thrusting themselves up (down?) to the armpit in chilly, wet sand to retrieve one of these bivalve boogiers. Apparently, they dig like the Dickens and are worth the chase.

We strolled in the halflight back to the house, watching scores of wading folks, dogs, kids- tons of them, pouncing on the ugliest food on the planet, but reportedly some of the tastiest. People brought out gas lanterns that shone down the beach like fireflies on a back yard. With the clouds and sun breaking at sunset on one side and the moonrise breaking on the other, the beach was a miraculous play of light that I wish we'd been able to capture.

In the spirit of things, we dined on a bucket of baby Manila clams steamed in compound butter and white Rioja, paired with a tasty flatiron steak and that yummy oatmeal once again. Dessert was hand dipped ice cream and a fully illuminated walk on the beach back to the house, moonlight so bright, Brian mused that he could read a newspaper without difficulty.

So, today we head back to Portland in a relaxed state, looking forward to Christmas break on the peninsula. Just enough time to get our game on... for those of you that want to practice for next year, I bring you...

Turkey Bowling 101!
(I take no credit for this. I stole it.)

In anticipation of the holiday season, a grocery clerk’s yearning for cheer and goodwill grows. During this time of year, he or she must show off their grocery talents by mastering the fine art of turkey bowling. All a person needs to participate is ten filled two liter bottles, frozen fowl, and fifty feeT of empty grocery aisle. This game takes place after store hours, so non-grocery clerks need not apply.

When starting a game, a person’s first task is setting up the pins. Arrange the two-liter containers in a triangular shape, so that the point is facing the participants. Set the pins in accordance to a bowling alley: one in the first row, two in the second and so on...Scoring is simple; just add up the amount knocked down; extra addition is not necessary for spares or strikes.

Next, a group of birds must be selected, each serving a specific purpose. A tom turkey over twenty-five pounds is mandatory for the initial shot. The big bird allows the bowler maximum pin count for the first shot but is too awkward for the second shot or spare. I recommend a smaller hen for larger spare shots, ducks or geese for medium, and game hens for single pin pickups.

It’s truly amazing how fast a frozen bird can slide given the proper flinging technique. Some people prefer the two-handed, side-throwing method, while others prefer the single-handed, wrist-flinging flop. I prefer the shot put, all out heave, which allows the turkey a little air time. This will give the maximum devastation at the point of impact. Confidence, strength and style are bonuses for higher scoring. I’ve seen people fly down the aisle behind their turkey getting everything possible out of each shot.

Next time you grab for that holiday turkey, remember it's not just dinner. It might have been that special bird that allowed some clerk to pick up the seven-ten split or roll a perfect game. Turkey bowling will never be an Olympic event but is truly challenging and aisles of fun. Let the games begin!

Flipping The Bird

2007-11-18T11:03:00.001-07:00

And so it begins...

The fall tradition of celebrating our lack of ability to sustain ourselves and native people saving our asses has come a far cry from the days of the Pilgrims. Its a shame that we all don't still have to hunt and kill our own dinner anymore- something about picking up a frozen cardboard container that houses a microwave safe tray and compartmentalized portions of Con Agra Foods' contribution to the American Waistline Expansion Project just does not feel Thanksgivingworthy.

My little contribution to historical homage is a natural, unbrined, free-range bird. If Brian had time and the proper means to do so, we'd be having a wild beast, tasting something like it should have Back In The Day when the Native Americans was hangin' with the geeks in black hats and ginormous belt buckles.

I have three guests to embrace this year. One new friend, one pair of old- all three going to be endeared to me for life for one reason or another. One gal will do a smashing job of decorating the table, one will be snuggled in on the couch with a blanky and a hot toddy, recovering from minor surgery. The Menfolk will undoubtedly be yakking about computers, telling stories and getting to know each other. By the time dinner is laid waste, we will splash out the Port and Sherry offerings and get to sparring over a hot card game I hope.

After we kick everyone out and start the dishwasher, we slink off with the leftovers and head to the beach house for some peace, quiet, turkey hash and absence of Black Friday shoppers- living next to Macy's may have some drawbacks for a few weeks every year...

Sheik Your Booty

2007-10-28T09:39:00.000-07:00

I was scolded recently. It was a long time coming, too.

Years ago during a visit from my parents in Las Vegas I got to witness a marvel of lifestyle and attitude in my parents that I had never expected. The two of them were tearin' it up all over the country, bouncing from one social event to the other, shopping until they dropped, staying out past dinnertime and using the excuse, "My cousin and I were having such a good time, we lost track of time, then got lost, then got locked out..." to explain it.

The nickname was born: THE KIDS

In my relatively inexperienced life in a geographically close family dynamic, I was seeing a role my parents got to grow into without me and it felt like role reversal. Having them in my own home as guests, driving them around to places (Note: Dad is a KILLER driver and can navigate like nobody's business in ANY country. Still.), rounding them up for dinner reservations on time... It felt natural to correlate the family element with a transposition of parts.

Shame on me for the insensitivity- I have just found out TEN YEARS LATER that this little term of endearment has been pissing my mother off for sure, and probably my father, too. This little piece of information could not have come at a better time.

From far over a telephone connection on my birthday phone call, I heard a very robust woman chew my ass out, and what stuck with me most over that digital connection was the earth-shattering statement, "I AM SEVENTY (cough) YEARS OLD! I AM NOT A KID!". This was also followed with a remark about my current age not being the end of my life, and that got the blender in the old attic whirring.

Brian and I live fairly clean lives. I can personally speak for myself when I say that I am proud of the condition of my issued body in contrast to a good deal of contemporaries in this country. I could be graphic and rude here, but I will spare you. Anyway, I got to pondering my physiological and philosophical state since turning 39 and I decided that the last of the 30's would go out with a bang, not a groan of agony or mourning. I'd already made some hefty decisions on how to map out my 40th and everafter when Mom's words jumped into the hopper.

In my decision to revel in my age and totally embrace it, I had a jumpstart on understanding what the proud declaration of 70 plus meant to my mother. Each decade comes with its own bragging rights and I, at long last, completely understand how my nickname chapped her tukis.

SO, to pay homage to the woman who gave birth to me, once called me a prude, has gone from one extreme to another with me, and who gave me the best motherly advice at precisely the right time, I bring you...

The Face Of 39 and How My Momma Taught Me To Party:

And Mom, let me formally and publicly declare, once and for all- with tons of witnesses in Cyberspace...

YOU ARE SO RIGHT!

Saucy Wench

2007-10-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

When Brian and I first spoke of moving back to Oregon, the subject of rain and its frequency came up as a potential issue:

Was it a total drag to be in a gloomy place?
Would the rain keep us inside?
Is Seasonal Affective Disorder something we want to accidentally discover?

And that burning question:
What do we do when winter hits and its "Water, water everywhere?"...?

When life hands you organic, rain-fed apples, you make applesauce, my Darling!

Enter the Melrose Apple...

(Photo swiped from Botany Photo Of The Day, UBC Botanical Garden)

In cruising the market a few weeks ago, I happened upon the apple guy. In my hunt for a really tasty Fuji for Brian ("Its all he'll eat."), I came home with a few samples of arrow-on-the-head targets and something else I was told to try- the magnificent Melrose.

Sworn to be the best cooking apple ever, I wanted to put them up against the treasured apple crisp recipe made famous by my brudda Jeff. I'd had some bland-assed fruit all my life thanks to grocery stores, and now it was time to get serious.

In order to not embarrass my brother's honor, I went minimalistic on the dry run: Two small crock bowls, two peeled and cored apples, a little pinch of fresh nutmeg, a few huge Thompson raisins (sorry, Dad!) and a slow oven. What emerged from the oven was unimaginable bliss.

Sad to say that the photos of the finished product did not come out, but take it from the Mouth Herself that these apples baked into a rich, velvety puree that unfortunately left no room for Jeff's lovely crisp crust. It would have totally been wasted. Sorry, Bro.

I have never had a better baked apple flavor in my life.
I bought twenty pounds of them a week later.

Today, it is raining small domestic house pets outside.
Time to make applesauce!

First, you do all the grunt work of peeling and slicing. Whatever does not fit into three baking pans, you shred into the skillet and turn into a caramelized apple pancake for breakfast.

Then while you go for a three mile run to burn off that pancake, you bake the fruit under a tent of foil in a slow oven. While you are out sweating and praying for a quick death that never comes, the apples detonate themselves and turn into a candied apple mess that changes flavor as it cools. Beware the powerful temptation to snarf down the whole batch while its hot. It tastes better at room temperature, after the sugars have fully candied themselves.

The flavor of these apples is so utterly surprising if all you have ever tasted was public school-grade applesauce. Brian, the sweet tooth of the house, was goaded into trying a spoonful and it garnered a,"Wow, that's good. Better than anything from a store." rating. To be more precise, taking a mouthful of this stuff is like eating a blended caramel apple from the fair, only with no sugar added whatsoever. Layer upon layer of flavor shows up for the party as it cools, and I am having one hell of a time staying away from the kitchen. I've already licked the aluminum foil clean. Twice.

One final treatment with the immersion blender (although the natural chunks are lovely and very naturally exciting) and it all goes into the freezer for later this year and next.
Yeah, right. Like I can wait that long...

Gotta go fetch me another case of apples next week for storage. I am hostessing Thanksgiving this year for Skymuffin and her hubby, so an apple pie is DEFINITELY in order.

Excuse me while I drool...

2007-10-14T10:09:00.003-07:00

The Birthday To End All Birthdays!

Turning 39 for real and forever can be a pretty frightening experience...

... the best way to deal with it is to embrace your inner scarecrowey self...

... slam down a little Fog Lifter espresso...

... and quit BEACHING about it!!

The coolest parts about leaving my thirties behind are: Realizing that its not a requirement to cram one's ass into half a pair of jeans, accomplishing any physical feat at this age becomes so much more powerful and buying a $300 pair of really nice shoes is totally justified without explanation.

...off to brunch... more posting later on!

OUT OF OFFICE NOTICE

2007-10-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

Its the last of my thirties, folks...

I am SO going to hide away.

Its also the second anniversary of Brian and Jen.

Its been the best two years of my life.

We are at the beach house taking in kites, wild mushrooms, cranberries and all the Dungeness crab we can get our lips around.

I'll run it off at low tide.

2007-09-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

Notice:The color theme of the week is

CRIMSON

Please adjust your palate accordingly

It happened again, by golly and I offer not one apology. It was too stunning an array to ignore.

What force it is that drives the colored migration into my market bag as such remains anonymous, but if there were a spirit to thank after a smashing meal I have had to create from such random findings, I would offer my deepest appreciations.

I had a real treat today. Brian went with me to the Beaverton Market and it was, to be very honest, a splendid time. We started with breakfast at the Asparagus Farmer's wife's bodega- a tantalizing array of burritos, omelets, tamales and steamed masa bundles filled with a ton of vegetables and amazing combinations of things- my steamed banana leaf had masa, Oregon grape raisins, rice, cheese, potato cubes and shredded beef inside. Brian's omelet had a whole garden of shredded produce not normally found on the morning table, a healthy dose of home made picante salsa and a fresh flour tortilla. We shared a table with two gentlemen, one from Hawaii and one from Japan and we chatted about the similarities in climate in Japan, the bounty and the incredible luck we feel at living in such a fertile area. Schmoozing over a hot plate of food on a chilly morning with total strangers is part of that funky vibe we thrive upon.

Brian told me how cities around the world and their markets are very social places with few perceived boundaries the likes of what we find here in the U.S., and in sharing time with our table companions- first Asian and Polynesian and then Mexican Indian, we felt more comfortable and less like we needed to isolate ourselves from our neighbors as is custom in this age of Personal Space.

An example: A South American father with three wide-eyed little girls deposited his brood at our table for a few moments and went to fetch more breakfast for them. They began to nibble gracefully on their fry breads quietly. After perhaps three to five minutes, the eldest began to get dismayed at the absence of Papa and started to cry. As anyone with a heart would do, I motioned for her to come to me, and she let me put her in my lap, I held her, wiped her tears and Brian and I soothed her until Papa returned from ten feet away. Tell me: Where else in America can you cuddle with a strange child in the throes of a well- reserved anxiety fit and have her believe you when you tell her that its all going to be alright (and then not get arrested, first of all)? I have a hard time believing an American kid full of sugar, video game stimulation and short term attention span would behave so admirably. Call me a snob. I admit it freely.

Since Patti's garden is on its way to harvest heaven soon, I splurged and bought the coolest looking tomatoes I could find. Black, orange and red all over, they smell pungent and pricklingly real. I will mourn the last of them in the coming weeks, for winter brings me to the grocery store and leaves me making immature, disappointed facial gestures at the unexciting Romas parked in pyramids under fluorescent lights.

Apples and more figs were in order- a bite of the dewy outdoors brought inside during a busy work day helps to make the week palatable, pun intended. Brian was a gem, hauling the heavy bag. With Stumptown javas expertly and carefully crafted by Bruce the Espresso Dude, we put together a great dinner plan of fresh sturgeon, pumpkin soup and baked raisin stuffed Melrose apples for dessert. The season's first Delicata squash will pair with gorgeous green beans and chicken tomorrow night- a little Asian flair perhaps, with ginger, some heat and a bit of sesame oil in the wok.

Sharing my market time with Brian was the only way I could explain my desire to hurtle out of bed every saturday morning when I should be spooned with the man I love, half a sleep and probably drooling instead.

(T.M.I., I know... Deal with it!)

The market offers me a clean break from the week, but another start to it at the same time. My head clears as I walk, but fills gently with the steam of simmering broth and sweating savories, then the weight of a local meat or fish adds substance, and a spicy, sweet and fruity finish fills in the voids of the corners of the attic. Organics and earthiness become my recharge, my batteries fully juiced and operational by Monday morning, running on fumes by Friday. I need him as much as I need the market, and today he got a taste of why.

And, no, I did NOT take him just to haul the heavy stuff, but it was pretty damned cool of him to do it!

2007-09-22T15:05:00.001-07:00

Purple Passion

It wasn't my intention to come home with a monochromatic haul this weekend, but it just kinda happened that way. Is it my favorite color? Yeah, sure. But let me try to swear to you that an entirely mauvelous basket of goodies created itself.

It was my long awaited triumphant return to the Beaverton Farmers Market today. After two weeks of tending to other business (salt water therapy, crab cakes, early morning walks to the MAX station, a haircut, etc...), I finally bounced out of the house with my basket and hit the madhouse happily.

My first few minutes are always the same- I do a once-around with the herd of produce worshipers in the usual pattern- not unlike circling the Kabah in Mecca, and about as many laps by the time the morning has ended. I take in the vendors and see if my old reliables are still there, snoop out the new ones, grab a Pony Espresso if the line is not too long and hit the bakery booth for a savory tart or galette for breakfast. While chowing down, I like to stand by the Humdinger Kettle Corn tent to get bathed in caramelized smoke and popcorn stink. If I could roll in it and wear it as perfume, I would gladly do so.

This year, after two seasons away, I discovered a green chile roaster that puts flame to your freshly purchased peppers while you wait. In the food area I fell in deep love with a newcomer- barbecued racks of ribs from heaven- the scent lodged into my nostrils and hooked me, leading me like a Brahma bull at full attention (I will certainly not bother with some piddly spinach and goat cheese tart for breakfast next week!) . I do mourn the absence of the lamb meat people, for now I have to actually go hunt down another source for making kabobs.

I treated us to a few treasures: More figs, just blushing with the last bit of warm sunshine left in the year, a Fuji apple cross that packs a punch and some divine baby purple artichokes touted to have a sweeter and larger heart than even little old me.

As I made my way around the market with a hot foil pouch of searingly hot, freshly made corn tortillas keeping my hip warm, I took a moment's pause to look at people and the hubbub around me: A little girl in the back of a red wagon shredding a bag of chard leaves, eating perhaps only half of what she'd pulverized and wearing the other half. An elderly couple with a lovely little wicker picnic hamper blockily ambling through the crowd on tired legs. A pair of carrots entwined like two dancers in a Ballanchine production. Calleidoscope colors piled artfully in some of the gentlest morning light I've ever seen. If I had taken the camera, I'd never have made it to my shopping.

As I was wrapping up my tuna purchase, I passed the season's first great harvest of grapes. A sweet little old lady next to me watched me sample one of the juicy orbs and she said,

"Takes you right back to Grandma's, doesn't it?".

I smiled, thinking, "if she only knew!".

Coastal Groove

2007-09-18T16:07:00.001-07:00

Scenes from a reunion...

Brian has not seen the Pacific since jetting home from Korea in 1986. I dunno who got more out of the wet feet experience- him for finally getting sloshed, or me for watching the look on his face as he stood there, happy to have wet pant legs and sandy toes.

Me? I'm just happy to be home.

Come see Oswald West State Park!

2007-09-13T16:49:00.000-07:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The Jewish New Year has always meant renewal, although it falls at the time of year when leaves die and this hemisphere shuts down for a long nap. We are in Oregon, and I am SO not ready to sack out just yet. There is too much to rejoice as summer and the lunar year pull up to the finish line.

Party Number One: Patty Raid!

Doing a sweep last night in the garden yielded sweet cherry tomatoes that split at the slightest touch of a finger and tasted like bonbons. Scrounging the last of the green beans gave us fat, juicy pods and a fantastic snap between the teeth. Fluted golden tomatoes that look like the flesh of mangoes were a horrid tease and they suffered at the hands of my garden snips in retaliation. As we were leaving, another friendly garden marauder showed up and we shared our haul, feeling a little guilty for beating her to it. Honor among thieves and friends.

Party Number Two: New city, new home, new job(s), new year.

How utterly perfect in timing!

After U-Shlepping for three uneventful days and gorgeous weather, we arrived to the bosom of the brewpub belt and set up shop. Our new place surprisingly has nine foot ceilings and huge windows (SEVEN!!!), and it is nestled in a northwestern facing position, cuddled among pines and maples about to bust forth in color. We have a quiet place, a luxurious landscape and good amenities. We really can't complain too much about the new digs, this place is too easy, uncomplicated and not messy. Its good to be back in a sane element.

The greatest part of living here is that we live 250 yards from Macy's, 500 from REI and a half mile from Nordstrom Rack and Trader Joes. Does any Jewish American Princess need anything more?

Check it out, Baby! Its our new neighborhood!
The Streets Of Tanasbourne

So, we are getting organized- I've checked in at the new hospital and we are learning where all the important stuff is. Its also time to wind down a little and heal up from a pair of respiratory viruses we shared and brought with us. A little homemade tortilla soup tonight to clear the old sinuses, a good snuggle and a DVD oughtta get us back on track soon.

We hope to verture out and find people in a week or so....a few Hellos to do... My former roommate Mel for one, I am sure is just itching to get a hold of Brian.

Mel, please, take small bites.

Sliding Into Home

2007-09-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning as we headed out of Pasco, Washington, someone moved the exit ramp and we wound up at the intersection of Irritated and Cranky.

Just at the moment of countdown to profanity explosion Julia called.

My sweet work partner from Providence just happened to be ten minutes away and rescued us, fed us and got us back on our merry way with great style, good looking after and big smiles.

We rolled into Portland in the afternoon, happy to find Patty puttering in the plants. We had a nice, uneventful trip, dry weather, no arrests or tickets, a few bad meals and only a few scary religious stations on the radio.

It was not a bad time to do some soul searching in the Subaru all alone, following the UShlep for two days. I tried my best to do the impossible...I played ABBA Gold in a confined vehicle without sedation or antinausea agents and attempted to ascertain why in HELL people like them. After about 45 minutes, I aborted the project and purged my system with a three-time repeat of Linkin Park's Hybrid Theory.

Can you magine a hybrid of ABBA and Linkin Park? Swedes in leather jumpsiuts screaming, "SHUT UP WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU, you dancing queen!"

Okay , enough blathering.

We get our keys today, and we will try to ignore the less than perfect features of the new apartment (faces North, a little too small for the price...) as we move in. We are safe, sound, rested and well fed after a fine dinner at Chez Pate' Henderson. We should have it all done by the time we move back out in a year....

Mileage Summary: 140 miles

2007-09-08T07:58:00.000-07:00

We're in Beautiful Bozeman!

(A shot of our favorite haunt, the "Flea Bag Motel")

We packed and packed, fell to the ground, and then did the unthinkable- we drove 140 miles to Bozeman last night for a good night's sleep and one last breakfast at Nova Cafe' before killing a few hundred miles and brain cells on the road. (Only one of us slept. I am saving myself for Patti's guest bed- the Awesome-est of Awesomes)

Our caravan of two will be headed toward Missoula, then Coeur d'Alene, Spokane, and then finally the Columbia River Gorge by sometime tomorrow.

We'll be in touch again at the next wi-fi stop.

And then there was one.

2007-09-01T03:53:00.001-07:00

A tale of two Subarus

Whoda thunk it that two total strangers, destined to meet, would both have matching cars? It seems that what one drives tells a lot about a person, and in our beginning days, this little detail was giggleworthy and impressive. My little Silver Bullet and his Boo-mobile became fast friends in their time together- romping through the woods, climbing mountains, letting us take our hands off the wheel for six miles on that sa-weeeet stretch of highway outside Cody, Wyoming - the one that is paved like a piece of perfectly straight glass...
At night, cozied up in their parking spaces, I bet they swapped stories and told lies like fishermen at a bait house bar, bragging.

But no more.

My little Subaru was one of the "Special" ones.
Little yellow tow truck kind of special.

Leave it to me to find the only year that Subaru made lemons. While other parents of 'roos were at track and field meets, I was in the rehab unit at the local dealer with a bad case of Polio, trying to teach my car to drive again. The poor thing tried hard, but used crutches for the rest of its life and it lost its ability to hold its fluids. All at a young age, before elementary school even let out.

We decided that moving to Portland had to be done right, and that came with a few concerns for our housing and employment goals: Self-powered commutes, or none at all. We landed one telecommute job and one job with light rail service accessibility. In doing our part for the environment and our heath, we decided that keeping The Bullet at home was just unfair.

We made one of those parental decisons to split up the kids for their benefit. Boo and Bullet rubbed noses and said goodbye yesterday as we packed up for a place where Bullet can have an easier life (like living in our garage wasn't easy enough!) and have access to needed care. No more watching other kids get sideways on the trail and not being able to keep up, no more sliding around the snow in galoshes instead of decent winter boots and no more hauling borrowed, shedding, muddy dogs to the mountains.
My kid has just been given a job bagging and hauling groceries at the local feedlot-a-rama.

We couldn't be more proud.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off to rip a chainsaw through Boo's head to put in a power moonroof.

You call that progress?

2007-08-27T09:27:00.001-07:00

Oh, dear...

This is not going well.
Somebody please call in a professional.

So she said to me...

2007-08-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

"I can't offer you nights, weekends, holidays or call. Is that alright?"

My reaction:

(This look is translated loosely as, "You're FREAKIN' kidding me, right???!!!")

Its finally happening.
We are SO outta here!!

I got the call today, after chewing my nails down to the wrist.

I was offered a position in a small community hospital outpatient surgery center with five (count 'em, FIVE) employees.
She threw in a dollar more an hour than requested, and a small sign-on bonus for being such a prize catch. Naturally...!

Brian and I are working on dates now- two week notice, move-out, move-in, starting the new job, etc. . I hope to go to my boss on Monday with a final day notice being the 7th of September. I figger we can pack up all weekend, hit the road Sunday or Monday and get moved in tout suite. There are employment processes I have to go through before actually being cleared to be hired, and I guess that now gives us a firm target date to shoot for.

WHOOPEE!!

Have a look, Oregon- we are your two new neighbors and we are SO happy to meet you!

Nailbiting

2007-08-20T15:21:00.000-07:00

My latest interview was last Thursday.
I really want this job.

I keep thinking if I stare at my Inbox long enough, somehow a job offer will materialize.

I think it went alright. They are calling my colleagues and asking them if I play well with others. Thank heaven, I have great people at work who appear to like me. Its hard to thrust yourself into the hands of others and let them be responsible for getting you either hired or passed over.

I think I am gonna go slam on the iPod, get Frank all fired up and take out my frustration by sweating a small lake under my bike.

Out Of This Universe Notice

2007-08-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

Jen is out on the trail again...

...burning calories, decompressing and attempting to flush petroleum refinery residue out of her lungs.

Feast your eyes until she is back...
(the dog is a rental from Jen's friend Sarah)

Only In Montana

2007-07-29T21:57:00.001-07:00

WHAT THE
HELL????

P, B squared and J!

2007-07-15T17:07:00.001-07:00

When you fly into Portland, your plane glides along the Columbia River past floating homes, bridges, bike paths and the occasional windsurfer. In the distance, you can see tall pines embracing each part of town, the glass towers sparkling from downtown, and the rings of volcanoes that daisychain the inland. Its home to me.

I must confess openly that this visit home was for research purposes, and not everyone in Stumptown knew beforehand. I came to do some serious work, not all play like usual. I came to scour neighborhoods for apartments and I had a quick job interview. Yup, its time to come clean: Brian and I are moving back as soon as I find a job!

I had no idea it would be so complicated to find one, aside from the timing issue of open spots at certain places (which shall all remain nameless until this hunt is over), I had thought it would be a slam-dunk to walk in and start scrubbing a day later. Having worked at the best place in the city has ruined me for everyone else- nowhere else is going to measure up, and I learned my lesson on compromising- not a mistake I am going to repeat knowingly or willingly.

So, after a tepid experience in an interview outfit, I hit the bricks looking for places to call home. Armed with brochures, photos and contact information, Brian and I can pore over the details as we pack the house. Unfortunately, and fortunately, we have time to kill.

Soul Salve: When bummed, GO SHOPPING!!

It was saturday, and that can mean only one thing on a summer morning in Portland- FARMERS MARKET!!!

The haul was small, thanks to the fortification of Patti and [her hubby]Brian's garden. I got to assume command of the cookshack once again and feed the friends I love. Have a look!

To make a light summer menu with a minimalistic approach, I kept it simple and small. After hearing "Help! We're getting pea'd on!", I had to swing into action. Fava beans and Patti's peas went from this:

...to this...

...to this!

Favas, peas, chicken stock, chives, dill, sea salt and cracked black pepper, finished with a dollop of Mascarpone cheese and a Nasturtium. The cool flavor was very springtime fresh, crisp and toothy at the same time, and the chill was a nice touch for the warm day.

A nibble of baby back ribs rubbed with lemon zest, olive oil, garlic, oregano leaves and sea salt started the meal off... Patti liked these- they were simple and tasty, not laden with gooey tomato based sauce like usual. They were just flash grilled and chewy. Perfect! Great with the chardonnay, too.

Patti tossed in a salad of her own growing, which is always a delight and chock full of goodness. I used one of her legendary monster zucchinis and those adorable orange tomatoes to make a squash casserole with sauteed WallaWalla sweet onions, pine nuts and a shaving of Dubliner cheese. Layers of flavor, freshness in every bite, lots of heat from a good black pepper grinding and a little caramelization after it came from the oven...

To keep it light, I continued the hog theme and rubbed a pork loin with a light paste of sea salt, sage and thyme. It smelled reminiscent of sausage or scrapple and came off the grill medium rare, lightly toasted and naturally yummy.

Funky But Chic

I had to experiment. Couldn't help it. Breeding ground for creativity was seething with activity in my head, so I went for it.

I bring you Peach and Jasmine Tea Sorbet!!!
(Note to Ray: You miiiised it, you miiiiiised it, neener-neener-neeeeeeee-ner!).

Two cups of peaches pureed, one half cup extra strong brewed Jasmine tea, a half cup of Splenda, a squirt of lemon juice, a dash of Absolut Citron, and a nice Merry-Go-Rounding in the ice cream maker out in the shed. Holy cow! The peach softens into the vodka, and then after you clear your mouth, the blossom of Jasmine tea fills your nostrils and perfumes your palate.

I can become an addict. Show me where to sign up.

I head back to Montana tomorrow evening. I still have a few tons of coffee to buy, a few more calls to make and I really should get to the other side of the river to scope out properties.

I hope to be back with better job prospects and an interview or two in a few weeks. I'll let you all know what happens as soon as we get some progress made!

Out Of Office Notifier

2007-07-12T03:42:00.000-07:00

Jen is currently in Portland...

...snuggling with Patti's cats, trading jabs with Ray, gabbing with Angie and consuming as much coffee as one bladder will hold. Details of her trip and such will be fully reported on later.

(Insert Happy Dance here)

Yiddish Lesson Of The Day

2007-06-17T13:33:00.000-07:00

Bupkis: (bup-kiss) literally, beans. Colloquially, nothing.

Patti has harvested her strawberries, is witnessing apples smashing into natural organic applesauce upon collision with the garage roof, and has been munching greens and herbs for weeks.
Beaverton has had open market on Saturdays since Mother's Day.

I got BUPKIS.

And not the bean kind.

So, I am an antsy little booger and the odd warm day with sunshine in my area has me biking and eating erratically. I very much want to come in from outside with a fresh clump of green, herby goodness in my hand, the aromas filling my nose and coating my hands as I go off half-mad in the kitchen with glee.

Not for a coupla weeks, according to the Billings Farmer's Market schedule.
July they say.

I say:
Gay cocken offen yom!

(Translation: Go shit in the ocean.)

Not to be outdone, I went online and Googled the heck out of all the local organic farms within driving distance. I found a good deal of resource for Co-Op deliveries and U-Pick farms that are far less costly than going to the only organic market in town (which I enjoy, but the costs are ridiculous sometimes).

My impatient and impudent ass went forth to conquer that which I cannot have, and got my goods from the source. Brian and I headed out toward Red Lodge with the old basket yesterday.
Have a look...

Spring's first unusual craving came in the form of Swiss Chard. I paired it with sweet potato and a yellow beet for a hash while camping last weekend in Sunlight Basin for an archery shoot.

Naturally, my summertime palate progresses to Everything Mediterranean and its my goal to ensure there will be plenty of basil to go around later on. I potted three basil and four Roma tomato plants this morning in organic soil.

Last night's dinner-Aaah, what a meal!
What fajita salad would be complete without cilantro in the Chipotle Lime dressing? Or gorgeous, bunny-licious, mottled baby lettuce?

And to wash it all down: Gramma Anna's Lipton Mint Iced Tea, which is the only other drink I will ever substitute coffee for during a summer morning.
To me, it IS summer, reminiscent of the farm in Far Hills, fireflies in cool evening grass, the smell of a canvas tent and that very distinctive way your face screws up when you accidentally forget to wash your hands after applying bug repellent and you feed yourself a juicy raspberry off the vine. So good and so bad, all at the same time!

Its been becoming more important to me these days to eat locally grown organic produce, as much to benefit a local economy as well as my own body. If I had my own plot of land and the wherewithall to make it happen, I'd be a carbon copy of my grandfather Nathan.

We sometimes teased him for his ways. Grandpa was legendarily frugal and wasted nothing. His tiny living room was overrun with seedlings all winter long- he would place them on makeshift shelves under the tiny living room windows above the sofa to capture any light that would warm his seedlings.

He saved every plot chart he ever illustrated, as well as the piles of seed catalogs and packets he'd ordered from that were the primary decor of the place for as long as I can remember. He wheeled heaps of free horse manure from the barn across the street to the back yard all summer long for fertilizer. He used one gallon glass soda bottles as incubators for plant starts and as border for the compost pile for added heat.

Nobody ever called it as such, but he was totally organic once those seeds were in his care. It only today strikes me that food has just completely SUCKED since I left his home. I had no idea as a child that a one acre garden could mean more than just feeding five mouths, then grandkids later on in life. It can mean health, self sufficiency, personal satisfaction and environmental correctness.

Now I know why.

Grandpa, my hat is off to you this Father's Day.

Creative recipe for disaster

2007-06-13T15:26:00.001-07:00

For some, a nice summer salad of flaked Albacore tuna, Fuji apples and sliced hard boiled eggs with pesto dressing atop a bed of baby greens and Roma tomatoes would seem a cool, fun and amusing lunch.

Imagine them flavors melding together: The pungent basil against the sweetness of the apple, the warmness of the egg yolk bound to the extra virgin olive oil, cracked black pepper rounding out the flavors...

Now imagine you have been a total dipshit and accidentally run over that carefully prepared and packed lunch in the driveway while backing the car out of the garage one morning.

It looks a little something like this...

Sometimes, I am totally struck funny at stuff like this. I could barely get through the day without laughing, tears in my eyes.

Time to go buy a new lunch cooler, I suppose. The tire tracks totally munched my lid.

Culture shock!!

2007-05-31T12:22:00.000-07:00

When you walk the streets of New York, you walk fast with your head up, all business- like you own the city and nobody can touch you. In Portland, you hunker down inside your rain gear with your iPod cranked, and you skulk cooly about, eyes toward the sidewalk, appearing totally isolated on your own planet.

In New Orleans, you walk down the street, look into peoples' eyes and say,

"How Y'all doin'?!".

As a rehabilitated New Yorker, I have found the Western lifestyle and speed more to my liking and personality. It took a little adjusting in Oregon, though. My first day at a Fred Meyer store, I was greeted three times, and asked if I needed help to my car with my purchases. Having come from Vegas, I was all hackles, fearing a carjacking in the parking lot. You can just imagine what I was rolling over in my mind about New Orleans...

I was not in any way prepared for the way people took a few extra moments to care for me if I asked for suggestions, needed anything or asked for a little of their stories about the storms. My cab drivers, barista, doctor colleague, bartender at a lunch spot, strangers I happened upon on the street- they were all incredibly willing to share. This comfort I began to feel eradicated any trepidations I had for mobility through the Quarter on my own two feet. It must have showed pretty well, for after just two days, people began to ask ME for directions, as if I radiated LOCAL somehow. The vibe had found me, and I was back in an element I was surprised to find.

I collected stories in my path- little parts of lives that had to face a devastating storm and lingering losses. I was corrected by a merchant in my innocent flub of mistaking an open shop for surviving the storm relatively well. She gently corrected me by saying, "You say to people, 'How is your recovery going?', not, 'You look like you did alright.'.". People lost homes, cars, lives, everything personal about themselves except their memories- often it was all people had left.

I heard horror stories about how FEMA is putting the screws to people who are still as of yet undecided if its worth it to rebuild. Imagine that you woke up one morning to find your house house was spit out of a Maytag in full spin cycle, and you have to evacuate. You head out of state to try to find work, because your place of work is MIA, too. After a few months, you finally have enough money to feed and clothe yourself in some strange state far from home. After a little over a year, you have money to maybe head back to look at your property and assess the damages. FEMA has sent you a "Shit or get off the pot" letter. You must declare your intention to demolish or rebuild your house by a certain time, or lose your benefit. Your heart tells you to go home, rebuild and start over, but your gut is eyeing the levies that are still not strong enough to withstand even a drizzle. It is a year and a half later, and your neighbor has had his home busted into and stripped of new fixtures and such every night while he sleeps in his FEMA trailer on the former front lawn of his home. You are also unemployed, have no insurance and now have nowhere to go for health care if you accidentally hammer your hand to a board in a filthy, bacteria riddled environment that used to be your living room.

The average time I heard for evacuees being away from home was four months. One woman took ten months to get her store's attic built into an apartment. The absence of contractors and construction workers, lack of resources to build and other hurdles is still evident in even the flourishing Quarter.

At brunch on sunday, I strolled around the Garden District and the palacial Georgian homes stood regally between cobbled sidewalks. I paused to photograph a home, and the lady of the house emerged, cloaked in a housecoat and slippers to fetch the paper. She apologized for the landscaping and absence of flowers along her walk, as "There seems to still be a shortage of those types of people around here.".

This woman survived two hurricanes, three tornadoes, neighbors patrolling the street with semiautomatic weapons against looters, and she was lamenting the loss of the gardeners in town.
I bade her good day and tried not to look stunned at the frivolity of a freaking marigold.

A handsome couple I encountered shared how they evacuated for a week and returned to the Quarter, despite the lack of power and potable water. They told me how it was very quiet, much like camping out, and how all the neighbors began to barter for things, sharing and helping each other out. It was a better time in some ways, as a community coming together in an already tight neighborhood.

I can attest to the closeness of the residents of the quarter, as I many times witnessed a neighbor on an overhead balcony give a shout-out to a person down the way, amazingly and easily identified through a crowd of touristas- utterly astounding to me. I felt a little of this from another perspective as I began to blend in more to the visitors, but still got looks from locals as if to say, "Hey- you aren't like the rest, are you new here in town? Did you just move in here somewhere? I haven't seen you before, but you've been out here walking all week...". It sounds odd, but I felt it every single day of my stay.

As a wrapup of thoughts on the city (before I go bragging like a schoolgirl about my Commander's Palace experience in the next posting), I want to get political for a moment. I am not a political person, nor do I care much for the current staffing at the helm of this country, and that is just better kept to myself most times. I have got to express my disgust at the numbers.

At the gate, I chatted with a couple from Los Angeles who had spent their first stay in NO like myself. They told me that the government had just that weekend appropriated $90 Billion more for the war effort for the next THREE MONTHS. Good grief- it would only take five billion to rebuild New Orleans, and we could all go visit a city where people were happy to see us and did not try to kill us with anything but kindness.

As usual...

2007-05-28T20:00:00.000-07:00

...Jen is where the food is.

When I totally recover from my travel time, I will tell you the tale of how I ended up with this picture from Commander's Palace!

Laptop Dancing

2007-05-26T21:13:00.001-07:00

I'm too damned pooped to type, as I have been doing laptop homework since 4 this afternoon. You're just gonna have to look at pretty pictures until I get back to Billings.

See the early farmer's market with roller babes doing a dogwash, strawberry juice removal techniques of a five year old cutie, some street scenes and music in the streets. Forgive the uncut and shoddy photos- I am not working from home base with the Photoshop tools. I will clean up and reedit, then reinsert photos for all the postings when I get all my work done from the conference!

Tomorrow, Kids, is Commander's Palace and then home to Brian. A perfect day!

Seek And You Shall Find...

2007-05-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

...HIPSTERS!!!

When in doubt, hunt down the gay people and the ones with pink hair, bluebirds tattooed on their forearms and rings through their noses. You will inevitably find excellent coffee, organic greens, tofu and the path to righteously groovy stuff . If you begin to wander deeper towards the shops selling torn fishnets and combat boots, the powers that be smile upon your coffee habit.

Sweet mother of mercy, I was clutched from the embarrassment of eating someone's lawn by a lucky stumbling upon an espresso bar last evening. I headed that way after my first morning class for a working lunch and found the mother lode: Baby greens, walnuts, strawberries and a light fruity dressing, joined by the best tasting food I have had in weeks: fluffy crepes filled with brie, ham and roasted carrot and zucchini. I tried not to cry in public.

I began to walk it off around the hipster hood and found the following: a mediterranean cafe (scored fresh Halvah, which I totally did not need, but was happy to savor for six blocks), a great (gay) bookstore (had a copy of Inconvenient Truth on sale- might go back for it at just $16), a vegan bar/cafe, a bicycle shop, and after getting lost, I found a jeweler with a massive elegant Judaica collection. I even bought a necklace, to remind me of the trip, and to help out the nice Auntly woman who lost everything but her shop in the flooding.

My last afternoon class canceled, and I was fried from writing tons of notes, so I grabbed the camera and hit the bricks. Have a look!

In my travels down Royal Street, I came upon Cafe Amelie. I dined in a garden courtyard with live jazz, good Oregon wine and lousy wait help, sadly. Worth it? After all that gastric trauma of the past three nights, you betcho'ass!

And since I was in the gallery district: BlueDog, this one's for you, baby!

Oh yeah, work. Right. That...

Well, I had a very eye opening morning learning about combat surgery...tons of notes I spent the first half of lunchtime transcribing. At the Q&A period, one attendee volunteered to answer a question on the role of a Scrub in a forward unit. The gentleman explained how he jumps into a drop zone with a team and has to be able to perform everyone's role on the team, including anesthesiologist and surgeon. Hell, I thought just that whole jumping thing was hard enough, forget intubating, inducing, stabilizing and THEN working on your own patient. That whole Krispy Kreme and Koffee Kommute you complain about makes you kinda look like a whining sissy, doesn't it?

There was a fun class on the horrors of obesity, one of twelve being offered. Since obesity is now surpassing lung cancer as the #1preventable cause of death in this world, I had to sit in on a class geared toward OR fitness. It was filled with Rocky music, stretchy tourniquets and a fun educator. It was a fun thing to watch- I had worked out already and was in no mood for more.

Other classes were good review on more obesity and gastric bypass, abdominal surgery and such. Not worth a post note beyond this paragraph.

Some thoughts on New Orleans, though...

It is not well known that NO sits in a bowl between Lake Ponchartain and the Mississippi river, ten feet below sea level. After this disastrous flooding (which was 100 years overdue, probably), people have argued for and against rebuilding. I thought it was a lost cause and not worth the heartache. Then I came to visit.

In walking through this part of the city, the part that miraculously made it and shouldn't have, I cannot help but notice an affectionate feeling growing for the parts that are not debauchery related. Well past the nasty bits on the eastern side of the Quarter, people live, shop, ride old Schwinns, garden in mid-air on balconies, live behind brilliantly painted shuttered doors, and listen to water bubbling in courtyard fountains. When strangers pass you as a tourist on the street, they excuse themselves, are gracious with hellos, never seem to offer the appearance of disliking us strangers. This city exists to serve the people, but the private lives deserve credibility, too.

I guess once the facades are all torn down and I get settled in myself, I get to peer into more normal lives and see local faces, feel local vibes, I can side with the people who are hell bent on rebuilding. They just want their lives back, where they can stroll hand in hand like grown men, pierce whatever they want, and just look cool like everyone else does.

And speaking of looking cool This is SO my next bike!

2007-05-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

Day three and I have been stood up once again by
Brad Pitt.
He is SO uninvited to the wedding.

In case any of you were wondering how I fared since last night's encounter with the huge beer and deep fried Everything, please let it be know that old Iron Gut Weisberger ain't what she used to be.

Apparently, in the French Quarter, it is illegal to serve salad to a paying customer without proper medical need, lest the establishment be fined and their liquor license be revoked.

This evening's stroll took me well past the tourista places and past the market to a more alternative area, close to resembling the streets of Portland. After dashing passionately into an espresso shop (for true!), I found the barista merciful and generous with her directions to the nearest spinach, goat cheese and walnut salad for tomorrow's three hour lunch break. I shall return to her establishment for liquid fuel, to lower the beignet temptation factor at Cafe du Monde. Besides, that hunk-turned-housedaddy is a lousy date, and I have places to go and things to do- I can't be waiting on his ass all damned day.

Opening Day here at conference was kicked off by a great musician motivator dude. he was extremely colorful in his demonstration of the concept, "What if...?". He wound up What-Iffing things together that should never be found in nature, like Dan Fogelberg singing AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen singing Green Acres, and Led Zeppelin singing Diana Ross.

My class on simulated OR training was tres cool, and I took all of lunchtime plugged in at a cafe doing notes for Power Point presentations back at the ranch. The rest of the afternoon was a bit of a yawner, but I did meet a few interesting folks at the vendor mosh pit. Ran into Providence Portland's nurse recruiter, who graciously invited me back (Hello Mardi and Jane!), as well as a tech school coordinator needing a helping hand back in PDX. Some connections were made for the future...probably not what my hospital had in mind when they sent me here, but what can ya say?

Dinner was quick and less damaging, or so I thought. I am now sitting bolt upright with a case of agita like no tomorrow. Better living through chemistry: I have Prilosec!!! Getting old really sucks. I don't recommend it.

I bade my companion adieu this evening, as he needs to go do the Man Thing by himself tomorrow evening before he heads out Saturday morning. I will go again in search of a bowl of greens and grilled white meat, meander a little, get a steaming mug o'joy at CdM and people watch for a Friday evening in the Quarter. Its doubtful I will make it to Commander's, moreso for my rebelling belly than for lack of ability to get a reservation. I sure hope the foodie fans don't hate me for going with my gut feeling on this one...

Crescent City Day Two

2007-05-23T19:14:00.000-07:00

Mmmmmmmm..... is for Muffaleta

Day two in The Big easy started with powdered sugar all over my clothes and a belly full of chickory coffee- black, dark, murky, swampy and delightful.

My escort and I met up briefly for a swig and nosh before splitting up for the bulk of the day. I enjoyed the quiet and the absence as I made my way through the French Quarter, lollygagging through windows here and there, art and jewelry shops, the French market (with real French fleas, apparently). I made a quick once over, making mental Post-Its for my picturetaking morning on sunday, and beat a path back to my hotel to work off the beignets before they took on a blood supply of their own somewhere on my ass.

As I went In Search Of lunch, the heavens roared and began to throw lightning and rattle my fillings. I jogged back to my pad with a hot steaming bag of muffaleta and the fixins for lunch before my workshop. Had an interesting time with the older gentleman bartender at the lunch stop... The news was on, talking about physician retention and the lack of medical school training in New Orleans anymore. Nobody can come here for education since the place to learn is gone. In a city like this, you see everything that can go wrong with a human body ever possible, and now nobody can learn how to treat it, or worse- won't even come here to do just that for fun. People are suffering and going without care, without a hospital, without physicians.

My buddy and I met up after class and he told me of his Katrina Tour- a three hour long van trip along the lake, the busted and still unrepaired levees, through the lower end of the city still deserted save for a few homeowners trying to rebuild in between getting looted and robbed all over again. They are living in FEMA trailers out front of their shelled out houses and in the time they are away from home, people break into the houses and rip off all the things they have just replaced.
The tour took him past Charity Hospital. Rumors are flying about it being leveled, or having whatever is left of it merge with the VA hospital. He said the windows at the hospital were still smashed out, primarily done by physicians who stayed behind to care for patients -the heat was so overwhelming that they had to ventilate the floors. The open windows created a massive looting problem with all the medications accessible, and doctors were truly in fear of their lives from drug addicts and other looters.

I found out more on our post-dinner walk. The residents of this city went 19 MONTHS without power. People hung out on their rooftops waiting for rescue after punching holes in the attic, just to get chased by water snakes trying to find dry spots just like the rooftops they were stranded upon. I'd heard how the area immediately surrounding charity was awash with all that unsavory trash in the basement of the hospital- we call that a morgue, and that trash is called a corpse. Can you imagine being surrounded by such devastation and filthy water?

(Gruesome subject change, please.)

On a lighter note, we saw Bourbon Street livening up moreso than last night. Live brass bands on the corners, people with wiggle in their steps, all kinds of outfits and a party going on every few feet...we even had tapdancing kids across from the restaurant summoning up the noise of a thousand woodpeckers as we ate too much fried fish and scubadived in foot-deep beers.

My workshop on suturing was amusing. Not much learned, but I helped teach quite a bit. Knot tying was especially messy.
It was all fun and games until some moron got their shoelaces tied together somehow...

Crescent City Day One

2007-05-22T19:15:00.000-07:00

I hate Billings.

Every time I leave by plane, no matter the month of the year, it snows.
Yes, every time. Including this morning.

But I digress...

I made it to the lush, humid city of New Orleans with no problems. I had one minor issue at the registration desk (As in, "Ms. Cina, can we charge $800.00 on your VISA, perhaps? We seem to not have your prepayment from your hospital." GAAAAAAAAAAAH!) but it was quickly remedied and I could get on with my trip.

Fortuitously, I met a fellow fella scrub tech from Missoula at the airport shuttle, and we kinda made a pair of ourselves for safety. We are both relieved, as is Brian- he is far more optimistic in uncomfortable situations than I am, and once again he was right- I hooked up with a Friendly and that is that!

For someone starved for humidity, leaving the driving rain and snow to walk off a plane into a wall of warm, embraceable (and chewable) moist air, I can tell you its heaven- right down to my constantly full bladder and my swollen digits (followed by my eyes come morning). The greenery of this city is amazing to see from the air, too- swamps all along the river with mirror shards of water between patches of apple green growth and tall blackish pine trees for contrast. The flowers and banana palms, ferns and ivies are outta control like a Broadway play character named Audrey.

The buildings- oh man alive! I could blow days shooting pictures of doors, front steps, balconies, beads left swinging from wires across the streets... I may need to just spend one whole day here doing just that very thing!

Dinner was an easy decision- FISH! We passed a few steakhouses and burger joints all along the French Quarter but quickly reasoned and agreed that we had enough red meat in Monana, no matter how fun the crawfish smothered filet mignon sounded. Off it was to Brennan family spinoff: Red Fish Grill. I cautiously did not spice up my red bean and sausage soup, but I admit it was tasty if not a little too wussy on the thermonuclear scale. Will fix that tomorrow, I promise. I had a nice smallish filet of redfish, lightly blackened and placed atop a bed of tasso ham and fried potato cubes. It was drowned in a bath of crawfish in butter sauce, and it was enjoyable. The travel buddy had shrimp carbonara, and he made Happy Dude noises, which I took to be a good thing.

As for Hurricanes, my new friend debated and then ordered one after the waitress' gentle caution. I abstained, being a do-gooding pre-diabetic (I will do it as long as is humanly possible, but I promise NUTHIN at beignet time tomorrow!). I did have a nice Coppola pinot grigio while keeping an eye on Junior. He asked me after we were sure his legs still worked, "Am I supposed to feel all tingly?". I assured him it was a pre-anesthetic cocktail and he'd be needing it when we passed the Karaoke bar on Bourbon Street.

I was right, and boy was I jealous!

More tomorrow! Beignets and then suture classes all afternoon.

Say it with me now....

2007-05-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

"BEIGNET."

That sucked. Try again.

"Bain-yaaaaaay."

I am on a plane again, this time for business (I have always wanted to say that!). My hospital has taken a huge chance on my never coming back to Billings after a week in New Orleans. With a record number of open restaurants, outnumbering pre-Katrina, I may just have to call in chronically ill and unfit to fly until I eat my way through the city.

Thanks to a buddy at work and some online foodie friends, I am armed with a list of places that can serve my every culinary need, including Hurricanes, and treating the havoc that may ensue after one too many. I'm not one to drink, but a good hangover brunch never killed anyone.

Since it is an old time belief that women should never formally dine alone in public, I am pondering making a solo reservation for myself at Commander's Palace, just to say that I have dined in one of the most historic of American epicurean institutions. It will be a delight, undoubtedly, to feast on creations that have stood the test of time and are so new to my palate that I can hardly resist. Will it be awkward? Sure! Its not like I will be able to personify my alter egos of Lady Who Lunches- with a paperback in one hand and fork in the other, or Hipster With Laptop- Artsy eyeglasses and a cuppa creole mud on the side. I'll get some stares, but I really just want to enjoy a fabulous dinner that I can look back on in years to come.

Of course I'll do my job while down there, but do my own personal research in gastronomy on my free time. I'll get some good pictures for the fans in BlogLand if I can!

SWEET CHARITY

(Photo borrowed without permission but with deep respect to the photographer, Clayton James Cubitt: operationeden.blogspot.com)

Part of my draw to New Orleans was the chilling knowledge that Charity Hospital has been closed since the storms. Charity is a character in the city, not a facility. It plays a part in a very unique play that is not performed anywhere else in this nation. If you have ever seen old footage from Discover, TLC or other cable channels on the ER at Charity, you have missed such fantastic flavor and color in the employees and patients alike- some frequent fliers, some not.

What I cannot fathom is that a hospital is actually standing vacant and boarded up like many other places in the flooded areas. How a place that I could walk into every day that serves the masses- a symbol of healing, strength and sanctuary, ever possibly be at a standstill, silent and deserted? The eerie moments of quiet we employees snatch from time to time come in small doses in the wee hours, when the buzz dies down and we are hustling it alone in our little corner of the universe. The heart of the hospital never stops beating under our feet, and we are unaccustomed to the lack of noise. We are driven by the orchestra of treating disease.

Now a giant of medicine stands like a skeleton- with nothing left inside: no heart, no lungs, no muscles. No way to reach out its hands to help. It is devastating to a person like me. I have been in medicine for over 20 years in one capacity or another. A place where everything is cold, wet sticky, sharp and noisy is where I do what I do. It is home.

Can you imagine not being able to do what you do because of an act of nature?

Hiking Season Officially Opens!

2007-05-14T07:56:00.000-07:00

I WANT OUT!!

Dogs and cats do it.
They sit by the back door longingly gazing at the new grass and flowers.
They pace back and forth.
Some whine and wag their tails.
Nose prints smear the glass.
They are about to go out of their minds...

I am no different.

It is the time of year when I look at the weather radar every few hours and start planning and scheming new ways to get out of Dodge.

Not one to pass up a chance to see what last year's fires and snowfalls did to the area, I saw a mercurial spike on the horizon, dusted off the shorts and Lowas, rolled Brian out of bed "accidentally" and poured him into the car. I fed and watered him first, of course, and then we hotfooted it out to Lake Sioux Charley on Saturday.

We'd been up that trail along the Stillwater River about three weeks after my knee surgery last spring (read: dead of winter) and the difference in both the joint and the canyon was amazing!

Have a look at all the gorgeous rock faces and geometric angles along the waterway...

... and have a look at all that snowmelt runoff after a decent white winter!

Flowers were in bloom, critters were about, old bear signs of upturned rocks and scrapes told stories of fall foraging, and the air was chilled from the rushing glacier water. The canyon walls jut up to the sky on both sides of the trail along the first mile or so, creating a fantastic echo chamber that resonates in your ears and chest as you walk along the punishing waters.

Little streams feed into the lake and cascading river from Cathedral Point and other formations. Sometimes there is a glimmering fleck in the water and dreams creep int your head of prospecting, making a strike and hitting a town for a night of whisky, floozies and a clawfoot tub. Then again, you realize its a fool's game. And Fool's Gold.

Everyone came out to hang with the flowers...

And to hit the comfy tree chair, sit back and take in the view...

Okay, thats enough chatter.
Dude- its sunny outside and I have the day off.

I gotta GO, man!

When I die...

2007-05-10T15:00:00.000-07:00

... bury me with a six pack.

This peanut butter fantasy brought to you by ilovepeanutbutter.com, out of Wayne, New Jersey, located on the roaring Hamburg Turnpike, with a restaurant in Greenwich Village.

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

minemineminemineminemineminemineminemineminemineminemine!

HIBERNATUS INTERRUPTUS

2007-05-02T14:41:00.000-07:00

After a long, cold winter's sleep, some critters lumber from their snowy dens ...

...and do the first thing that comes naturally.

For a big furry mammal, that would be this:

In my case,
it would be this:

Yup, you guessed it.
It was high time to shake off the winter coat and try to reconnect intimately with that big, glowing thing in the sky.

Seeing as how we are surrounded by wonderful geothermal pockets that create hot springs in abundance, we'd be foolish to not take full advantage of them all year round. With water about 88 degrees, warm sun and temps in the 70's, we finished up a long weekend in Yellowstone with a soak, some sunscreen and very little to complain about.

With spring finally here at long last, and summer rumored to be arriving sometime around August, we decided to take time to cruise through The Park on the northside, entering at Gardiner.

Home to hot springs spewing sufurous clouds , wild beasties, high winds and great low canyons, Yellowstone is a sight to behold.

We started small, dipping into a bathing spot where a boiling river and the Gardiner River meet. Braving the slime and harsh current, we ceremoniously did our duty to look cool and in-the-know as we clung onto icky rocks with college-aged hipsters. Shortly after de-gunking in the shower over monster buffalo burgers, we mutually agreed,
"Thats enougha that sh**. We're going to real hot springs joints from now on.".

We encountered a few critters in our meanderings. Apparently, it was the local veterinarian's day to man the Mammoth Clinic.
Hey, be thankful you get anything better than a boyscout if you wind up injured out here!

This is Norris Geyser.
I could not help but walk around, taking in all the barren, prehistoric landscape before me and think out loud, "I feel like Betty Rubble.".

This place is so far removed from concrete, YouTube, rehabbing pop singers and primates in the White House that when I walked through it, I felt so incredibly tiny, grounded and unencumbered by every day life.

Sometimes its good to be reminded that you are only visiting this world, not running it.

Scenes From A Seder

2007-04-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

Its our duty to keep the traditions alive, and on occasion, create a few new ones...

Some families go by the book, to the letter, to the Nth degree on Passover. Some of us allow for times to change and we incorporate that into the festivities.

A few new plagues here, a horseradish shooter contest there, holding the hidden matzo hostage for money to buy a pair of Coach shoes to match the new wallet...its all good, because we still have not forgotten our ancestors, no matter how far around the traditions we may dance.

The great drive behind any Jewish holiday is symbolism, a tool we use to never forget the stories of our heritage.
Fortunately, I am hardwired for the best form of memory generation: the food.

Some genius figured out that food and aromas spark memories and recollections, and if one is exposed to these foods on an annual basis as part of a celebration or commemoration, the foods become ingrained as an emotional experience as well as a gustatory one.

Take the Charoset for example: the combination of apples, cinnamon, sweet red wine and walnuts is so ingrained in my head as a both sign of Passover and of food belonging logically that I find myself grabbing a handful of toothy, biting walnuts whenever I eat an apple. It also sparks the image of my brother bestowing the name "Peckerhead" to a certain Passover invitee who rudely demolished the entire bowl of Charoset, the family's week supply, and nothing else the entire evening. We are all careful enough now, twenty years later, to A) make extra, B) never let that putz into the house ever again, and C) cautiously ask for permission to have SOME from the chef's kitchen stash after the seder is over, leaving a generous amount for the host, less you get your ass kicked and uninvited next year.

So, Jeff and I cooked up a storm to feed all who were hungry that are commanded to come and eat. Pounds of apples, pine nuts, mushrooms, celery, onions...it was a chopfest done with sheer joy. Mr. Organized had whipped out all the sheet-protected recipes, wallpapered the cabinets with them, and we went to town. I dunno which was greater, cooking with my brudda or hearing, "My Aunt Jenny is visiting..." from my nephew as he traipsed through the kitchen with a buddy in tow.

We wound up with the usual band of Passover fare: kugels, or puddings with matzo or potato base, a killer roasted garlic and dijon turkey and the famous-most-requested-alltime-awesome-hallowed Caramel Chocolate Matzo Crumble.

Each dish was a victory...

Passover: Its all about the kids...

...of any age...

We're supposed to pass on the traditions to the next generation. Its scary the moment you realize that you are no longer that last generation, and the older kids you thought were cool when you were a tyke happened to be your age at present, and they have become the patriarchs.

(Two awesome aunties)

But I digress.

Since it was my elder nephew's birthday, it was gift time. He had taken a liking to the Robin Hood book Brian and I gave him last year, and since Brian is one hell of an archer, the brilliant idea of outfitting him like Errol Flynn was in order. With the promise that if Alex still liked to shoot his bow and arrow in a year, Brian and I would buy him a real one- a traditional long bow, and coach him as to how to shoot it. I had my doubts, but after an hour of shooting at his shoes, he had mastered that Nerf bow and was shooting arrows over the house into the trees in the back yard.

He is so cool. He must take after me.

Andy, the silent little booger from last year was a windup toy of jabbering! From the moment they woke me up with a bouquet of flowers and a bag of chocolate covered pretzels in bed, the little one made up for lost time in words and snuggling. I had the rare opportunity to have him race out of the bath, freshly shampooed, dive into my lap and say, "Aunt Jenny, smell me!". Doing my very bestest doggy imitation, I smelled him like a Labrador at a meat counter, producing golden giggles from that boy I will never forget.

Friends, Chicagoans, Countryfolk

If you must hear about it, I got to only two of six planes on time, or actually in person. With a ten hour layover in Minneapolis due to poor planning on the airline's part, I whined and was able to extend my trip by one day, staying in Chicago overnight, courtesy of Northwest!

Having missed the time and chance to visit everyone on my list last time I was out ( poor Darby got missed this time, but not next time, I promise!!), I got the great fortune to visit with three dear friends I rarely see.

Greetings From Walden, New York

Quite possibly the coolest couple I know, they have been together forever and have finally become engaged! After suffering jealously through all the gorgeous and exciting photos of their trips to Belize, they might have actually talked me and Brian into a double wedding down there!

We wined, dined (killer soup and Iguana Stew!!), and Michel and Gerry suffered through my primal urge to hit the high end outlet mall where I hunted, stalked and killed my very first Armani sweater. It was grand to catch up, tell stories, play Scrabble over dinner and listen to fun music. We trekked up to Woodstock, had a lovely lunch/dinner and visited shops that smelled like patchoulli and alpacas. Good times, albeit cold as hell!

The City Of The Big Shoulders

I could not pass up the chance to visit my old neighbor from Portland who moved back to ChiTown six years ago. Brian, the other one, and I cooked and walked together all over Beaverton years ago. He got me through bad hairdos. I got him through bad relationships. He needed a voice when his father was ill. I needed an excuse to visit his town and he graciously let me fall into his lap with little notice.

With advice from Gerry and Michel on places to go and must-have purchases of funky chocolate, I flew to O'Hare three hours late and met up with Brian.

Screaming with glee, and nearly in tears after so long without seeing each other, we hit the first Starbucks we could find, toasted our good fortune at bad luck timing, and got caught up. We decided to miss the party we'd planned to pop in on, got into our jammies, ordered a fabulous deep dish pizza, some antipasto and shared a killer Zinfandel Port. Watching Will and Grace dvd's made it just like old times.

Chicago is a beautiful city, and if I had more time, I'd have taken more photos. I do have some great video of the bluegrass group that played in the back of the cafe we had breakfast at, and of lunch at the infamous Billy Goat Tavern, of Saturday Night Live fame... All that was missing was John Belushi yelling out,
"CHEEZBORGER! CHEEZBORGER! CHEEZBORGER!".

I made it back to Billings ontime, almost a half hour early, in fact. My lovely man was waiting with roses, open arms and a warm kiss. It was too long away but very much worth every moment of it.

Passover passed over nicely for me, but I am not too sure about that grizzly bear passing that box of matzo, though...

Lets Play "Hide The Matzo"

2007-03-27T15:39:00.000-07:00

Its that time, everyone.

We Jews have a tradition in the springtime. We don't dye eggs in disco colors. We don't tell tales of a rabbit (or a Beagle) carrying around a basket of said disco colored eggs.
We have much less insane pursuits. We get to come up with new ways to use flour and water, aside from making edible pinata paste, and four hundred other culinary accomplishments pertaining to the laws of Passover.

When in Montana, I must do like the Montanans
In a Top Ten Outdoorsy Theme:

10) Campfire fuel/ firestarter, especially when doused in schmaltz (chicken fat).
9) Used to build a temporary storm shelter on a hike, especially when doused in schmaltz.
8) Toss it like a frisbee (see Shmura Matzo, Round, Glatt Kosher) in camp.
7) A mess kit dinner plate, especially when doused in schmaltz.
6) Strap to head as a rain hat, especially when doused in schmaltz.
5) Tie two together as a bellows for the campfire.
4) Use to scoop up buffalo chips in the pasture (I'd cover my hands in schmaltz first, though!).
3) Shove under the truck tires when mired in "gumbo", doused in schmaltz.
2) Crumbled into farfel, laid out in a path to the outhouse for moonlit nights.
1) As bear deterrent. Any grizzly that can get through a box of Yehuda Matzo is gonna be too constipated to even think about trying to eat me next.

Off to the Mother Country

I had such a great time last year, I have to do it again.

On saturday, I leave for NJ (sans Brian, unfortunately). I invited myself so as to not miss my eldest nephew's birthday. Heck, I think he's actually sixteen already and only seen me two or three times- the first time did not count, since he was still a wee thing and weeing in my lap.

When he invited me last year, I decided I had better step up to the plate before he really does believe that I am some fictional character of lore, "You know, your Aunt Jenny- the one who lives out West with all the granola people.". My visit is also partly in retaliation for the boneheaded blood relative, who last year said right to my face,
"Oh. I didn't even know Jeff had a sister.".
Ouch.

How goes the exercise thing, Jen?

I get a great three week trend going, then one lousy month of call shifts goes to hell and my whole system gets upset. I wind up set back, out of sync and somehow fat again. I go on call one day a week and one weekend a month, and quite often I see the sunrise on my way home to bed.

Its been rotten on call lately- throwing my whole workout and eating schedule right off course. I eat a lot for fuel, work all night, sleep oddly and eat equally badly. One all-nighter hits me for three days and I am dragging my ass. I try to combat it by not sleeping all day and hitting the mountains for some altitude walking/training, but it catches up with me. Hard. Hell, I am getting old.

I did over a hundred miles again this month for Shape Up Montana, changed to a circuit program geared more toward Functional Fitness, and I am trying to conquer the pushup at this time. With help from Jackie and her well- stocked basement of exercise tools, a track and some bleachers nearby, I should be able to get in a good hour a day of sweat time while in NJ.

I have one month to go on the Shape Up Team, and I have vowed to make working out in some fashion a priority while away for the week. Later in the week when I go up to Walden, NY, I can walk and run the hills for intervals, still do my isometric ab stuff, and maybe scare up a set of hand weights to throw around.

On a personal note... It has come, finally.

I am coming outta the X-Ray closet and announcing that I am officially Pre-Diabetic.

It was a long and hard fight to prolong the onset of my status, but after a telling summer last year, and a hard fall and winter this year, its been decided by a pair of two smart doctors that I am showing signs of early onset diabetes and insulin resistance.

With a history of low blood sugar and thyroid issues, it all took its toll and is finally showing its face on lab results, albeit mildly alarming at best. Its just time to start to go head-first into prevention, by keeping my body fat down, eliminating most sugars from my diet and exercising at least five days a week, for real.

I knew it was coming. I do pretty well as it is, but I now am in the process of adopting the mentality of only eating foods that have purpose- to save my life so to speak, rather than for recreation.

Passover is gonna be a challenge for me. Tons of starch will be everywhere, stacked as high as one can see, turned into a myriad of dishes with the very wallop on my innards that I am staying away from. Good thing about eating poorly, though- I feel like shit when I do, so its a fast reminder to fly right.

ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING

To BE or NOT to BE.
Victim, that is.

I've seen it all my life. Examples of people who become a disease, transfer blame, refuse to take accountability for the outcome of something totally manageable and other such injustices against the human body are a daily encounter for me. In fact, they keep me employed and well aware of "What Not To Do".

I have also witnessed the refusal to accept one's situation, and the odd ability to play it up Hollywood style in some psychological avoidance mechanism. It ripples outward from that person and quietly rocks other peoples' boats in the pond around them.

SO not sportsmanlike conduct.

My desire is to deal with this quietly, politely and subtly, hopefully going without notice. I hope to never indulge out of spite for myself. I refuse to behave badly or ungracefully when sharing a meal with friends or family. I will offer no explanation, and I hope to have a small amount of courtesy granted for the times when I gently refuse a treat by saying, simply, "Oh, no, thank you, though!".

This public announcement is all I care to do, to go on the record once, and never deal with it again until things go south and I need input from friends and family. Life is too short to make your loved ones squirm on your behalf, so roll out the Pinot Blanc, brie, baguette and PARTY LIKE A ROCK STAR!
I'll be right along with you, I promise!

SO, here I go, off to partake of the Bread Of Affliction, with my bottle of Milk Of Magnesia pills to counteract the action of that other great usage for matzo we rarely discuss: As a cure for diarrhea.

ROWED RASH

2007-02-17T16:07:00.000-07:00

Three weeks into this and what have I learned?

Funny you should ask...

Just like everyone else who embarks on a physical adventure, there are things one finds out about the human body that seem to pop at the most inopportune times. As seasoned as I am, environmental challenges still sneak up from behind and bite, well... in this case, MY behind.

The education of Jen:

1) I can row 10,ooo meters in one sitting. Did it three times.
2) Rowing 10,000 meters at one time in the wrong shorts is dangerous.
3) Exercising with a virus in your system totally blows.
4) Seeing muscles wake up ROCKS!
5) I am happier when I can zone out and sweat for an hour a day.
6) After I finish working out, I get to have a chocolate peanut butter shake.
7) Challenging myself is the next step.

Here is the score thus far:

Shape Up Montana Miles: 61.65
Meters Rowed: 63, 645
Meters to go for the Million Meter Club: 936,354

And the downside:

Fevers: 2 (same virus, twice)
Blisters: 3 (same hand)
Raw, oozing tailbone rashes: 1
Days of actual activity: 9 out of 17
Days down due to illness: 4
Days down due to rowed rash:2

Adjunctive Equipment

The best things in life are comfort-giving:
Food.
Nurturing.
Support from loved ones.

Some other sources of comfort can be bought and paid for. Suffice to say, I would give my entire paycheck for a lifetime supply of these two goodies:
Oh. Wait.
I already have, about ten times over...

Keep your kinky thoughts to yourself.
I'd use Crisco of I had to after this bout of tailbone torture...

Needless to say, I have worn my favorite Pearl Izumi gloves until they have melted, and I had to suck it up and break in a new pair of Treks. Bigger, bulkier and all that I could find in town, I am trying to roll with it. A little smear of Brave Soldier down each finger sleeve and that blister problem is so, like OVER.

And the one thing I cannot live without.
Shoot, my idea of hell on Earth is having to go shopping at Wal-Mart without it.

In giving one to Brian for an early Valentine's Day gift, he has taken off like a shot (shaming my lack of surfing for my own device) and has discovered The Passion Of The iPod.

In Brian's exploration of all that is holy, he found out that Nike, my favorite hometown hero, has collaborated with The Crystal Method and iTunes to create a running training piece with ramp-up, interval and cooldown that helps you pace to techno music. I row and spin to it with pretty good success, adequate disconnection of consciousness and a reliable cadence.

I have a feeling Brian will be donating his paychecks to Steve Jobs and the Church Of Divine Inspiration, much like I donate mine to the holy trinity: Amazon, TJ Max and The Spoke Shop.

The real scoop

In the last three weeks, illness aside, my body has remembered what it was like to be a regular exerciser. Thankfully it was not too long ago, less than a year, since I was last on Frank, sunbathing and chowing Maya bars, ten miles away from home in the afternoons after work.

The most important thing I can honestly fess up to learning is that the body forgives in two ways: After you abuse it and let it rest, it quietly takes a bow, and recovers... but it is fickle, punishing you for taking too long to get back in the saddle by packing on weight. It also forgives you, but well after you finally break the rest cycle, dig through the new layers of insulation and prove you are worthy. In returning to my old habits of sweating for an hour a day, four days a week, my body is remembering, showing its old familiar face, coming out of the depths and into the light again.
My body just loves this.

I'd like to thank people again, for what will never be the last time, for supporting me. I wanted to give a few direct shout-outs, but please count yourself thanked if you are actually reading this, because if you are, you seem to care, and I appreciate you!

To Jackie, the Blond Bombshell who is doing the Avon Walk again this year: Thank you again for the women's fitness mags, even though Brian has since denied the knowledge of the location of the forementioned mags but somehow has turned into an Uber Cheerleader and started picking out skimpy workout clothes for me.

To Angie, the instigator: You have lost a bunch of weight and gained more respect from me. I am totally happy for both of us!

To Brian, wherever you and my magazines vanished off to: You are the one who deserves all the credit for being one hell of a role model for me. In times when I lag behind, you never doubt my abilities. You deserve a woman who works as hard as you do. Now bring back my magazines, or your new iPod gets it!

Tools Of The Trade

2007-01-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

It is said, by one member of this household, that "putting yourself out there on the Internet takes a lotta guts".
A lotta guts is precisely the issue here.

The response has been positive so far, and I am grateful for it. Some have asked questions of my attack plan and my weapons. I am totally prepped and rallied for a full frontal (and posterior) assault come February 1st. Heres how it shakes out...

HARDWARE

Just Do It Shoes

We all own one or two pair of running shoes. I actually use mine for real walking. All summer long, I hoof it to my post office box, the health food store, the crappy coffee shop down the road, or I just blindly wander for a few hours with the iPod on. I plan to be meaner than the bitter cold and walk in the evenings when I still have energy left, as long as its above 20 degrees.

FRANKENKLEIN

Long joked as the only steady man in my life, my bike Frank, a 1997 Klein Performance, stands as the foundation of all my fitness. Not only has he carried me through many trials and tribulations in life, he has taken me over Mount Hood, through the Oregon countryside, over the Beartooth Pass switchbacks, and over countless road miles in California, Washington, Oregon and Montana.

Frank is in winter quarters, on a computer resistance powered trainer setup. I "spin", or pedal at a breakneck pace for prolonged periods of time until a small lagoon of sweat surrounds me on the floor. Good times. Lots a history here. Tons of frustration and stress have been ground up and died in the teeth of Frank's crank over the years.

(A special shout-out here to thank my Biker Auntie for bringing Frank into my life!)

The Iron Maiden

The newest addition to my life, thanks to Brian, is the Concept 2 rower. Its self explanatory, looks fairly boring and is commonly mistaken for something not a whole lot of fun.

WROOOOOOOONG.

I got on this bitch, rode, rowed, and unceremoniously oozed to the gym floor shortly after starting. It was totally exhilarating to say the least. Even better when I stopped rowing!

Never been one to want to work out anything but my gams, I have now found a fabulous tool that works all the trouble spots that appear when one like me nears forty:
Flabby arms, gravitationally gifted ass, weak abdomen, great shoulders for a six-year-old boy, and a lower back that needs an erector set just to get outta bed on rainy days.

SOFTWARE

It keeps me honest.

People seldom realize how it all adds up at the end of the day, and this website tells me everything. It calculates my nutritional requirements, makes room for my workouts and tells me how much more (and of what kind of food) I should eat for weight maintenance, loss of a little or a larger (yet healthy) amount of weight per day.

If I had a buck for every time I recommended this site for someone...

"Thats great, Jen, but how you gonna work this thing?

Shape Up Montana has a conversion chart for all of my activities, and well, walking or running counts 1:1, naturally.

Since some people like to set goals, I am not gonna miss another chance to embarrass myself:

I am going to attempt to row 50,ooo meters (36.1 miles on the conversion chart) per week.
I am able to row 8,500 meters in 46 minutes at this point, but to make it to an hour and row 10,000 meters in one sitting is gonna be a hurdle. I hope to get to that goal by March 1st.

Nutso?

Remember the Rule Of Jen:

"I'm crazy, not stupid."

Sweet Mother Freezing Jayzus!

2007-01-17T16:22:00.000-07:00

I will learn someday...

Weather Channel fans, this is what calculates into a spiffy MINUS 33 degrees farenheit.

I keep telling Brian how wonderful it is to live in Portland, how its never this cold or poopy out.
And then they got five inches of snow yesterday, with more on the way.

Mother nature is making a fool of me.