Plus ça change...

I'm smiling (albeit somewhat bitterly) at the outrage generated by the latest ugliness coming out of the Republican campaign. The cries of "Terrorist!" and "Kill him!" in particular.

In 1996, just after the Republican Convention in San Diego, Tim and I were asked to travel with the Dole campaign for "a few weeks". Those few weeks ended up being until Election Day.

I'm here to tell you that the lynch mobs crowds attending the Palin or McCain rallies are really, seriously, no worse than the bunches of True Believers who attended the Dole rallies in 1996. And they hated us, The Press, and blamed us for the downfall of their candidate.

I remember during the Dole campaign's desperate 96-Hour Non-Stop Victory Tour Tour-From-Hell, landing at a rally in New Mexico around 3 AM. The local press practically fell on their knees in thanks, because the crowd had gotten so hostile that local cops were standing betwixt them and them, as the Dole Faithful faced the head-on press platform and chanted, fists pumping, "Liars, liars. Tell the truth!"

I lost count of how many cretinous assholes got in my face about how horrible we were and how we should all die painful deaths and, on one memorable occasion, a lovely, foaming-at-the-mouth, wild-eyed creep screamed at me that it was too bad he didn't have his gun - at which point I climbed up the barricade between us and went off until my favorite Secret Service agent escorted him off the premises whilst explaining to him that death threats were uncool.

I've worked a lot of political rallies, a lot of political events in general. I've been at this for (eek) 20 years now. And I can say that in my experience, the *only* times I've been threatened by The Left were at the first big anti-Iraq war rally in San Francisco (where some young intense thing also tried to argue that the Mainstream Media *never* covered these kinds of things, then started chanting at me, "Press go home!" - aroo?), and outside San Quentin the night Stanley "Tookie" Williams was executed. I wrote about that night here.

Honestly? According to my own, internal, unscientific, anecdote-laden polling? The Far Right is suffering from a collective sociopathic disease, and the tenor of Republican campaigns for the last 30 years does nothing but feed that sociopathy. It's nothing new. I simply think that the 24-hour news cycle and the plethora of cable news networks and their voracious appetites for content, and the explosion of Internet blogs and political websites, means that this sort of thing is covered more.

(In mostly short sentences, with largish pictures and a link or two.)

I went here.

Instead of taking 880 to 17 to the always impossible 1 interchange, I took 101 down to 152 and west over the Hecker Pass; a winding road with redwoods and parks and a winery or two and some wonderful vistas when half the state isn't on fire and the vistas aren't obscured by smoke.

It's a bit better today, but still pretty hazy, so I didn't stop to take pictures.

At the Gizdich Ranch, I bought two olallieberry pies (one for us, one for a neighbor), one raspberry pie (for my neighbor across the street) and, having called ahead (which means these were picked just for me after I called), two flats of these:










Well, first I stashed them in my trunk, then stopped at the grocery store for sugar and pectin and jars (because most of my canning jars "disappeared" the last time Tim cleaned out the garage - *sigh*).

Seven hours later I had sixteen quarts of this:





I will buy another couple of flats of strawberries and do this again. I will also buy a couple of flats of raspberries when they hit their peak in a week or two.

Tired now. Very glad the temperature dropped, which meant my kitchen wasn't totally unbearable with batches of jam and the canning kettle going for several hours. I smell like strawberries. This is not a bad thing :).

Buy my photos!

Trying out Imagekind. I have some of my latest photos up for sale. Posters, prints, greeting cards, framed art prints? Check it out!

Slow-Roasted Pork Burritos

I didn't get a chance to get a lot of pictures. Having guests for dinner makes it a little hard. But next time I make this (and there will be a next time), I will chronicle it all in photographs. I *did* get a picture of the roast just before it went into the oven. But then events overtook me and I didn't get a chance to record the rest of the process.



I did the black beans in my cast iron skillet and let those cook on the gas grill because I have only one oven, and that was taken up with the pork roast. I also made lime-cilantro rice, guacamole and pico de gallo. I bought the largest flour tortillas I could find, some sour cream and a package of 4-cheese Mexican Blend.

Oh. My. God. Five of us ate, and there was enough meat left for another five people. I still can't believe I paid only $.99/lb for that beautiful piece of meat.

The beans, by the way, were *outstanding*, and could easily be made vegetarian with a good vegetable stock without any loss in flavor. The chipotles brought a nice depth and smokiness, and just the right touch of heat.

This is also great party food, because everything can be done ahead of time, including slicing up the meat. It can be kept warm without any loss of quality. Then just put everything out and let folks build their own burritos.
This evening we used up the leftovers.

The Recipe

From Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World website.



Steve Els's Slow-Cooked Pork Shoulder Burritos

MAKES 15 BURRITOS
TIME ABOUT 3-½ HOURS, LARGELY UNATTENDED, PLUS OPTIONAL MARINATING TIME

This may sound oxymoronic, but the best fast food can take a while to make. Take Steve Els's killer burritos. Once you've prepared the components, the burritos themselves takes about a minute to assemble. But the reason they'll be some of the best burritos you've ever eaten is that the pork shoulder (one of my favorite cuts of meat) has spent three hours in the oven, getting tender and developing a swoon-worthy crust. The black beans get the oven treatment, too, which makes them unusually smoky and delicious.


2 tablespoons salt or to taste
1 tablespoon pepper or to taste
5 tablespoons finely chopped canned chipotle chiles in adobo
1 (4- to 7-pound) pork shoulder (picnic or Boston butt), trimmed of excess but not all fat
1 ½ tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
2 tablespoons corn, grapeseed, or other neutral oil
1 large onion, roughly chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound dried black beans, rinsed, picked over, and soaked in water overnight
1 teaspoon roughly chopped fresh oregano
2 tablespoons finely chopped canned chipotle chiles in adobo
2 dried bay leaves
4 cups chicken stock
15 flour tortillas

1. Combine the salt, pepper, and 3 tablespoons of the chopped chiles. Pierce meat all over with the point of a knife. Rub the chile mixture all over the exterior of the pork; if time allows, wrap in plastic or place in resealable plastic bag and refrigerate for up to 48 hours. If not, proceed.
2. When you're ready to cook, preheat oven to 450 F. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the thyme leaves all over the pork. Put the pork on a rack in a roasting pan, fat side down, and put in the oven. Roast for 20 minutes, or until the pork begins to brown, then lower the heat to 350 F and add one cup water to the bottom of the pan. Continue to roast, basting the pork with the pan juices and adding water to the bottom of the pan if it threatens to dry out, for about 3 hours, or until the interior temperature of the pork reaches 150 F on an instant-read thermometer. Let the pork rest for at least 45 minutes. (Or longer, since it is best served warm or at room temperature.)
3. While the pork cooks, prepare the beans. Put a large oven-proof skillet over medium heat and add the oil. Add onion and garlic, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they just begin to brown. Add the oregano, remaining ½ tablespoon of thyme, chile puree, and bay leaves, and stir. Then add the beans, stir, and add the stock. Put skillet in oven, and cook until beans are just tender, at least 1 ½ hours. The meat should be so tender that cutting it into uniform slices is difficult; rather, cut it as thinly as possible so that the meat is almost shredded.
4. Warm the tortillas, either by wrapping them in foil and putting them in a 300 F oven for ten minutes or by heating them individually in a large skillet over medium heat, flipping them when they begin to blister. Spread a portion of the beans on each tortilla and top with a portion of the pork. (You can add rice, sour cream or Mexican crema, guacamole, and pico de gallo, as you wish.) Roll up and serve.

Crab Cakes with Corn and Avocado Salad

Crab Cakes

1 lb lump crab meat
4 medium scallions, sliced thinly
2 tblsp chopped fresh Italian parsley
1-1/2 tsp Old Bay Seasoning
1/4 cup plain bread crumbs
1/4 cup mayonnaise
1 large egg
Salt and pepper, to taste
1/2 cup panko crumbs
1/4 cup vegetable oil

(note: if you can't get fresh lump crab, Costco sells 1 lb cans of Phillips brand lump crab for a very reasonable price, and it works beautifully in this recipe.)

Gently mix crab meat, scallions, parsley, Old Bay, bread crumbs and mayonnaise, being careful not to break up the crab meat. Gently fold egg into mixture. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Divide mixture into 6 equal portions and form into cakes. Place on cookie sheet covered with waxed paper or parchment paper. Cover with another sheet of waxed paper or parchment paper. Chill for at least 30 minutes, up to 24 hours.

Put panko crumbs on a flat plate or pie plate. Press crab cakes on both sides into panko crumbs. Heat oil in non-stick pan over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Fry crab cakes until hot through, crisp and golden brown, about 5 minutes each side.

Corn and Avocado Salad

2 ears fresh corn; steamed, roasted or grilled, then cut from the cob
1 ripe avocado, diced
2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and diced
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and minced
1 handful fresh cilantro, finely chopped
3 Tbsp fresh lime juice
1 scallion, green and white, thinly sliced
Kosher salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Combine all ingredients. Chill.

I took two ears of white corn and trimmed the tops and bottoms, then grilled over high heat on the gas grill, in their husks, for about 20 minutes, turning every five minutes, until the husks were charred. Cooled until I was able to handle them, then stripped the husks and silk, then cut the corn from the cob, then added to the bowl after the kernels cooled.

Grilling added a bit of smokiness to the corn. I think next time I'll shuck the corn and grill, letting the corn brown a bit. But this version was pretty good; the corn was sweet but still crisp, and it went beautifully with the crab cakes.

Seafood Pasta

I had sea scallops. I had prawns. I had spinach fettuccine.



Measurements are approximate.

1 lb sea scallops
1 lb raw prawns, shelled and deveined
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp unsalted butter
3 large cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp fresh basil, minced (or 1 tbsp dried)
3 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, minced
juice of one lemon
zest of one lemon
1/2 cup sherry, shao shing wine, or dry white wine
1 cup half-and-half
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes
9 oz fresh spinach fettuccine
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Season scallops with salt and pepper. Sear scallops in olive oil, about 3 minutes on each side. Remove from pan and keep warm. Add butter to hot oil. When foam subsides, add prawns, garlic, basil and 2 tbsp parsley. Sautée prawns until nearly done. Remove from pan and keep warm. Deglaze pan with wine. Add lemon juice. Cook down until syrupy. Whisk in half-and-half and bring to a boil. Cook down, whisking occasionally, until sauce begins to thicken. Add lemon zest and pepper flakes. Taste for seasoning and add salt and pepper if needed.

In the meantime, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook pasta. As soon as pasta goes into the water, return scallops and prawns, along with any accumulated juices, to pan. When pasta is nearly done, using a pasta fork or skimmer, add pasta to pan with sauce and seafood and toss together until pasta is coated with sauce. Remove from heat and toss with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. Garnish with remaining parsley. Serve immediately on heated plates.

Cioppino

Well, it's been awhile. Hi!

CIOPPINO
adapted from a recipe at epicurious.com

Makes 6 servings.


4 large garlic cloves, minced
2 medium onions, finely chopped
1 Turkish bay leaf or 1/2 California bay leaf
1 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper flakes
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup olive oil
1 red bell pepper, cut into 1/4-inch dice


2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 1/2 cups dry red wine
1 (28-oz) can whole plum tomatoes, drained, reserving juice, and chopped
1 cup bottled clam juice
1 cup chicken broth




1 Dungeness crab, cracked and cleaned (I used the legs only; the body meat went for a crab cocktail appetizer)
18 small (2-inch) hard-shelled clams (1 1/2 lb) such as littlenecks, scrubbed
1 lb halibut fillets, skin removed, cut into 1 1/2-inch pieces
1 lb large shrimp (16 to 20), shelled (tails and bottom segment of shells left intact) and deveined
3/4 lb sea scallops, tough muscle removed from side of each if necessary
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil





Cook garlic, onions, bay leaf, oregano, and red pepper flakes with salt and pepper in oil in an 8-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring, until onions are softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in bell pepper and tomato paste and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Add wine and boil until reduced by about half, 5 to 6 minutes. Add tomatoes with their juice, clam juice, and broth and simmer, covered, 30 minutes. Adjust seasoning.



Add clams to stew and simmer, covered, until clams just open, 5 to 10 minutes, checking every minute after 5 minutes and transferring opened clams to a bowl with tongs or a slotted spoon. (Discard any unopened clams after 10 minutes.) Add crab legs, fish fillets, shrimp, and scallops to stew, then simmer, covered, until just cooked through, about 5 minutes. Discard bay leaf, then return clams to pot and gently stir in parsley and basil.

Serve cioppino immediately in large soup bowls. ( Next time I'll add a bit of lemon zest at the end.)

Happy Autumn

Autumn is in the air. Pie pumpkins are plentiful. I wanted a soup that was rich, flavorful, and filling enough to be a main course. So I went searching, and wound up taking the best of several recipes to come up with dinner.

Served with freshly-baked Challah (recipe below). Several hours later my house still smells heavenly.

Creamy Pumpkin and Bacon Soup
6 servings









6 slices thick cut bacon, cut into 1/2" pieces
1 large sweet onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, crushed or minced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small pie pumpkin (about 1-1/2 lbs), roasted (see notes)
2 large potatoes, peeled and chopped
3 cups chicken stock
1 tsp chicken demi-glace
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh sage
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh thyme
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
Salt and pepper to taste
Sour cream and fresh sage leaves for garnish
Pan-toasted pepitas for garnish (see notes)

Directions:
In a large pot or dutch oven, cook bacon until crisp. Remove from pot and drain on paper towels. Remove all but about 2 tablespoons of the bacon fat.

Add the onion and garlic and olive oil to the pot. Cook until onion is translucent. Add potatoes. Cook and stir for 5 minutes, then stir in the chicken stock, demi-glace and pumpkin. Cover and simmer 30 minutes, or until potatoes are very tender.

Remove soup from heat and puree using a stick blender or in batches in a jar blender. Return soup to heat and stir in bacon, herbs and cream. Heat gently and season to taste.
Garnish with with sour cream, sage leaves and pepitas.

NOTES:
To roast pumpkin, remove stem and cut pumpkin in half. Scoop out seeds and string. Place cut side down on cookie sheet or shallow roasting pan and roast in 350F oven for an hour or so, or until very soft. Let cool, then scrape pulp from shells.


For pan-toasted pepitas, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1/2 cup raw shelled pumpkin seeds (pepitas) and 1/2 teaspoon sea salt to pan. Cook and stir until most of the seeds are lightly browned and they're popping. Remove from pan to paper-towel lined plate and let cool. Snack on them while making soup, but be sure to leave enough to sprinkle on top. (These can also be done with the addition of chili powder. Be warned, in either case they are extremely addictive. Trader Joe's sells 1lb bags of organic raw pumpkin seeds. Just sayin'.)





Challah
From The KitchenAid Cookbook
Makes 2 loaves





4-1/2 to 5-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1-1/2 teaspoons salt
1 package active dry yeast
1/3 cup butter, melted
1 cup very warm water (120F to 130F)
3 eggs, room temperature
1 egg white, room temperature
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon cold water
1 teaspoon poppy seeds

Place 4 cups flour, sugar, salt and yeast in bowl. Attach bowl and dough hook. Turn to Speed 2 and mix 15 seconds. Combine butter and water. Gradually add warm liquids to bowl and mix 1 minute. Add eggs and egg white and mix 2 minutes more. Add remaining flour, 1/2 cup at a time, until dough clings to hook and cleans side of bowl. Knead on Speed 2 for 2 minutes longer. (At this point I turn the dough out onto a floured board and knead by hand for a minute or two until really silky.)

Place in a well-buttered bowl, turning to grease top. Cover with a towel or plastic wrap and let rise in a warm place, free from draft, until doubled in bulk; about 1 hour.

Punch dough down and divide in half. Divide each half into three pieces. Roll each piece to a 14-inch rope. Braid three ropes together, tucking ends under, and place on a greased baking sheet. Repeat with remaining dough. Cover, let rise in warm place, free from draft, until doubled in bulk; about 1 hour.


Beat egg yolk and water together. Brush loaves with mixture and sprinkle with poppy seeds. Bake at 400F for 30 to 35 minutes. Remove from baking sheets immediately and cool on wire racks.

Hi Ho Fifty, Away!

All righty then.

Now that I'm settling solidly into middle age, I'm beginning to appreciate being on the trailing edge of the Baby Boom. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank those of you who are older than I for wielding the machete through the jungle of life. From Feminism's Second Wave to Civil Rights to Gay Rights to home computers to some kick ass culture to "natural" childbirth to a whole lot of other stuff, I often feel that I'm walking behind a long line of investors, inventors and innovators. Battles are being fought at the front lines that will make my life easier down the road.

I am grateful. I am humbled.

And sometimes I'm amused.

Drowning in Tomatoes

My tomato plants have gone completely crazy, and all the tomatoes are ripening at once. Yes, I know, such a problem!

This is what I did with some of them. Served with focaccia; recipe follows.

Tomato Pasta Sauce



2 dozen home grown tomatoes, peeled and chopped
1 large sweet onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh basil chiffonade
2 tablespoons fresh oregano, chopped
1 lb button or crimini mushrooms, sliced
Good splash red wine
Good splash marsala wine
1 or 2 tablespoons sugar
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
1 lb dry pasta (in this case I used linguine)

Sweat onion and garlic in olive oil in large pot. Add tomatoes and herbs and bring to a simmer. Add wines and sugar, salt and pepper, and bring back up to a simmer. Simmer for two or three hours until thick and lovely. Add mushrooms. Simmer until mushrooms are tender. Cook pasta according to package directions. Add pasta to pot and toss with sauce. Serve with freshly grated cheese such as parmigiano reggiano or romano.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Focaccia
From "Baking with Julia"
Recipe by Craig Kominiak



Equipment: This recipe assumes you have a stand mixer. You'll also need a single-edge razor blade and a spray bottle of water to produce steam in the oven during baking. A baking stone or unglazed quarry tiles are nice but not essential. A pizza peel is nice but not essential.

Makes 3 focaccias.

2-1/4 - 2-1/2 cups tepid water (about 90ºF)
2 tablespoons active dry yeast
1/4 cup olive oil
6 - 6-1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons salt

Mixing the Dough Whisk 1/2 cup of the water and the yeast together in the bowl of a mixer. Set the mixture aside for 5 minutes, until the yeast dissolves and turns creamy.

Meanwhile, pour 1-3/4 cups warm water into a large measuring cup, add the olive oil, and whisk to blend; set aside. Whisk 6 cups of the flour and salt together in a large bowl and set this aside as well.

Pour the water-oil mixture over the yeast and stir with the whisk to blend. Add about half of the flour and stir with a rubber spatula just to mix. Attach the dough hook, add the remaining flour, and mix on low speed for about 3 minutes, or until the dough just starts to come together. If the dough appears dry and a little stiff, add a few drops of warm water, scraping the bowl and hook if necessary to incorporate the water and create a soft dough. Increase the mixer speed to medium-high and continue to mix for about 10 minutes, scraping down the hook and sides of the bowl as needed, until you have a soft, slightly moist, extremely elastic dough that cleans the side of the bowl. You will know that the dough is properly mixed when a piece can be stretched, without tearing, to create a "window", an almost transparent patch of dough.

First Rise Transfer the dough to a work surface and form it into a ball. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn it around to cover it with oil, and cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap. allow the dough to rise at room temperature until doubled in bulk, 1 to 1-1/2 hours.

Second Rise Fold the dough down on itself to deflate it and let it rise again until doubled and billowy, 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Shaping and Resting Fold the dough over on itself again to deflate it (as you do this you can hear the bubbles squeak and pop) and turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface. Using a metal dough scraper or a knife, cut the dough into 3 equal pieces. Shape each piece into a ball.

The dough needs to be refrigerated for between 24 and 36 hours. (It is this long refrigerated rest that gives the focaccia its characteristic chewy texture and surface bubbles.) Place each ball in an oiled gallon-size lock-top plastic bag and refrigerate.

About 1-1/2 hours before you plan to bake, remove the dough from the refrigerator and gently take the balls out of the oiled bags. (If you have a problem, cut the bags open with scissors to release the dough.) Place the dough on a lightly floured surface, dust the tops of the balls with flour, and cover loosely but completely with plastic (to avoid having the tops go crusty). Let rest for 1 hour, until the dough reaches a cool room temperature and feels spongy when prodded.

THE TOPPING

Herb-infused or other olive oil
Chopped fresh herbs (such as rosemary and/or thyme), 2-3 tablespoons
Coarse sea salt
(Other toppings can include sauteed and cooled onion, slivers of garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, olives - I used chopped fresh basil and sun-dried tomatoes.)

Cornmeal

Position an oven rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat the oven to 450ºF. If you have a baking stone, place it in the oven and preheat it too; dust a peel with cornmeal. Or line two baking sheets with parchment paper and dust the paper with cornmeal; set the baking sheets aside. Fill a spray bottle with water and set it aside as well.

Shaping the Dough Use your palm to press down gently on each piece of dough, causing bubbles to appear on the sides, then slit the bubbles with a single-edge razor blade to release the gases. Gently pull and stretch each piece of dough into a square about 10 inches across, taking care not to overwork the dough or handle it too roughly -- you don't want to knock out the bubbles you've worked so hard to create. Let the dough relax, covered, for about 10 minutes, then tidy up the edges with your hands.

Baking the Bread Transfer the focaccias to the cornmeal-dusted peel or the parchment-lined baking sheets. Use a single-edge razor blade to slash each square, cutting a tic-tac-toe pattern, or making three slashes in the center of the dough and enclosing them in 4 slashes to form a square with open corners. Brush the focaccias with olive oil, sprinkle with fresh herbs and coarse sea salt and any other toppings, and put them into the oven.

Bake the breads for 15 to 20 minutes, or until they are golden with a heavy speckling of small surface bubbles, spraying the oven with water three times during the first 8 minutes of baking. As soon as you remove the focaccias from the oven, brush them with a little additional olive oil and transfer them to a rack to cool before serving.



Storing The focaccias are best the day they are baked, but once cooled, they can be wrapped airtight and frozen for up to 2 weeks. Thaw the breads, still wrapped, at room temperature and warm them in a 350ºF oven before serving.

Tim's Parking Power is Mighty

In other words, the Great Goddess Asphaltina was definitely on our side today.

For the last week, we've been shooting elements for network coverage of the 100th anniversary of the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake. Well, actually, we did quite a bit last week and the week before as well, but this week has been intense and busy and very, very fun.

We started the day at 7 AM, with an interview in Berkeley with the founder and President of Computers & Structures, Inc., Ashraf Habibullah, and looking at amazing computer models of how bridges and buildings in the Bay Area will behave in a large earthquake. Ashraf, in addition to being an engineer, is an amazing still photographer (we geeked about medium format cameras - he has *two* Hasselblads with digital backs and I'm suffering deep camera-envy) and an enthusiastic patron of the arts and co-founded the Diablo Ballet (check out the photo gallery; Ashraf is the photographer). I could have talked with him all day; a fascinating, intelligent, enthusiastic, *joyous* person who loves everything he does.

But we had a date at AT&T Park, and the Giants' home opener, where 102-year-old Violet Lyman, who we interviewed yesterday, and 103-year-old Herbert Hamrol, who we interviewed a couple of weeks ago, joined six other survivors of the '06 Quake in throwing out the first pitches. They both had, as Violet put it, "so much fun!", and we'll no doubt see them again on the day of the anniversary, April 18.

It being Opening Day, however, Tim and I headed to the ballpark early, in the hopes of getting a parking spot less than a mile from the ballpark. For those of you familiar with the area, we were sitting at the red light in the left turn bay on Embarcadero, waiting to turn onto Third St. and the parking lots, when a woman got out of the passenger seat of the car in front of us and approached Tim's window brandishing something orange. Tim thought maybe she was scalping a ticket, and opened his window to politely decline when she said, "My husband said I should ask you if you wanted a parking pass. We have two and we can only use one."

Um...



This is the parking lot closest to the ballpark.

Tim and I were both too taken aback to thank her properly, and they disappeared into the depths of Parking Lot A never to be seen again. I think we're *still* too taken aback to thank her properly.

But it didn't end there, oh, no.

After the pig fuck rather crowded conditions in the press corps characteristic of the home opener, our intrepid correspondent, George Lewis, bought us a lovely lunch at the Acme Chophouse, the restaurant attached to the ballpark, where we watched the first five innings of the game on the television and feasted on a gorgeous cheese and beet appetizer and I had a perfect Dungeness crab salad, with a dessert of organic pumpkin custard brulée (oh. my. god.).

And the Giants, ultimately, won the game, 6-4.

Then, upward and onward, to Chinatown to shoot the first of George's standups.

San Francisco's Chinatown is the largest outside of Asia, but its streets, especially the most scenic (and therefore the most desirable for our purposes), are narrow and crowded, and a free parking space is as rare as feathers on a lizard. We needed a parking space in a spot next to where George wanted to do his standup because we needed to light George, and we can run lights from an inverter plugged into the truck. Any other day of our lives there would be no way we'd manage to find a parking spot *in* Chinatown, much less in the exact spot we needed it.

Except for today.

Granted, Tim was originally parked in a yellow zone, spilling into a red zone, and the 4 PM tow trucks were gathering up the hill. But, miracle of all miracles, a van pulled out of the space right at the corner where George wanted to be, and Tim cut to the chase by backing up, through a red light, in the wrong direction on a one-way street, and grabbed the space.

Two Chinese gentlemen applauded, whistled and cheered, declaring, "Now *that's* the way you do it here!!"

Four quarters in the meter and 30 minutes later and Standup #1 was in the can.

George wanted to do the second standup at the cable car turnaround at Hyde St., and so off we went to the most touristy section of town. Fisherman's Wharf is nearby, and Ghirardelli Square is right there.

In other words, another parking nightmare.

But, and you know what's coming, there was a single space within a four-block radius of the turnaround, and it happened to be right across the street, in front of the Buena Vista Café. Tim and I took it as a sign, and after we got three stunning takes of George doing his standup as laden cable cars moved smoothly through the background of the shot, we bid him and his producer a fond farewell and stopped at the Buena Vista for a drink before heading home. Okay, two drinks, it had been a long day.

I was going to complain about a few things, but, you know, after reading this, I think I'll let the complaints stay with the bitch session Tim and I had on our way home, and simply bask in the contentment of having been Victorious Parking Warriors today. I suspect it'll never be that good again. And I'm wiped out. After too many months covering trials and doing nothing but sit in a chair mixing hourly live shots, I've gotten soft, and a day spent with the gear strapped to my body, running around the streets of San Francisco has left me wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed.

I hate computers.

Wait, no I don't. I hate Linksys.

With one single exception, I have never successfully installed a piece of their hardware without having to get on the phone to technical support. You'd think I'd learn. But no.

Yesterday I bought a Wireless G adapter for Tim's desktop. I thought it would be an improvement over his Wireless B adapter (also Linksys, by the way), as I had a Wireless G Router (also Linksys, and also a right royal pain in the arse) and the signal in the shed was pretty weak. He was unable to get a 'net connection yesterday (although he had one the day before), so I thought, hey, brilliant idea, let's upgrade your equipment.

Not content to set myself up for insanity with just one piece of hardware, I also bought a Wireless G Range Expander. Also by Linksys.

Well, whatever the trouble is with getting a 'net connection, it isn't in the wireless adapter, because the single exception to my having to call tech support was installing the bugger on my own desktop. Works a treat. On Tim's computer? Not so much. It connects to the access point, but cannot acquire an IP address. Everything is configured properly, all Tim's settings are as they should be, every other computer in the house is happy and joyfully surfing the 'net, but Tim's computer cannot acquire an IP address. I have not gone so far as to run a CAT5 out to the shed to test a hardline connection. I haven't got one that's long enough, I'll have to go buy one. In the meantime he can check his email on his Mac in the house.

So, this morning I proceeded to set up the Wireless G Range Expander with the handy dandy Setup Wizard on CD. Um, no, I didn't.

Got through all the stuff, security password and encryption keys and la and da and stuff and watched as the software configured the range expander and, boom, at the very end of the procedure, an error message:

"WRE54G can not associate with this AP in repeater mode."

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

Me, being me, unplugged everything, replugged everything, reset everything, *including* the router, reconfigured the router, went through the whole procedure at least eight times.

Now, seriously, people with healthier psyches than mine would probably have chucked everything back into their boxes by now and taken them back to the mindless drones who sold them and said, "Give me a credit or I'll sic American Express on you!" Not me. Never me. I was going to make this puppy work even if I *did* have to call tech support.

Which I did.

I'll skip the bits where I had to ask the very nice Indian gentleman to please speak more slowly. I have hearing loss, and I have difficulty hearing on the telephone because part of my ability to hear a conversation is to see lips moving and when I don't have that it's difficult for me to understand unaccented English, so I have a particularly hard time understanding accented English on the telephone, whatever the accent. My English friend Mervyn understands this very well; although I've been listening to his accent for nearly 20 years, I still frequently have to ask him to repeat himself when we're having a telephone conversation. Although he tells me that *I'm* the one speaking accented English :).

I'll also skip the bits where I had to convince this tech that I wasn't a complete nimrod, although sometimes it's just easier to play dumb and muddle through being told how to ping an IP address. I understand that, possibly, more often than not, they get a novice on the other end of the phone, so that's just my tender little ego getting irritated. But I did waylay him somewhat by explaining right out of the gate that all the firmware was up to date, as, in my experience (and I've had a *lot* of experience), that's the first thing a Linksys tech will ask you to do.

The meat of the matter is that in order to get these two pieces of hardware, made by the same manufacturer, designed to work together, to, you know, actually work together, I had to disable WEP security on the router, activate the Auto Configuration on the expander, setup the range expander's security through the Web interface, reset security on the router through the Web interface, then power cycle the range expander.

Why the hell do they bother with a Setup Wizard with *any* of their hardware? It never works, but every time I buy something of theirs I'm hitting my thumb with the same damn hammer before I suck it up and call them.

In any case, it's all working now, although Tim's computer still can't get a 'net connection. Which is, sort of, where I came in, eh?

Dear Certain Radical Left-Wing Activists,

Last night you finally managed something that, a few years ago, would have been impossible. Last night you made yourselves a new and surprising enemy.

Me.

It's been many years, now, since I worked defense at the Planned Parenthood clinics in my area, but when things were hairy, and a bit scary (and they still are in too many places), I spent many a Friday and Saturday morning escorting stressed, tense women from their cars to the front doors of clinics, putting my body between them and the wild-eyed, screaming, hostile radicals who felt it their perfect right - some of them their reason for being - to keep women from getting safe, legal abortions. They were absolutely convinced that what these women and their doctors and us were doing was patently wrong, and they were deeply committed to stopping us by whatever means they felt necessary. For the most part, they didn't and wouldn't cross the line into violence, but some of them did, and those Fridays and Saturdays were tense for all of the clinic escorts who knew that things could get ugly.

These were also the years I was deeply involved with liberal and progressive causes, donating a great deal of my time and not a small amount of money. I participated in marches, rallies, vigils and counter-demonstrations. I wrote letters to the editor, letters to legislators. I lobbied in Sacramento. In my capacity as chapter president for NOW, I spoke with the local media constantly, wrote press releases, made speeches, attended and spoke at city council meetings, met with mayors and legislators, ran and participated in fund raisers, campaigned.

I loved it, and I loved the people who were involved along with me. Some of them were to the right of me, some of them to the far left of me, and we could have wonderful, vociferous, non-hostile arguments long into many a night about the issues dear to our hearts and the ways in which we could try to make change, the ways in which we could convince people, the ways in which we could use the means at our disposal to get our message out, and to get it out well. Despite the fact that I wasn't working in the press at the time, I was married to the television news business, and I had print and electronic media friends and contacts all over the country. I used them, honestly and unabashedly, and they helped us a great deal. Many events which would have gone uncovered were covered, and with the articulate spokespeople we had, we were able to get our message out and get it out effectively.

What I and the people with whom I worked understood was that image is important. Words are important. Let the right-wing radical wild-eyed anti-choice ranters get all the face-time in front of the television cameras that they could eat, because they were doing nothing but preaching to the choir and hurting their own cause. We strived always to appear calm and reasonable, our message clear and never hostile, but firm and unrelenting and we took every opportunity there was to get that message out by whatever means we could find or were presented to us.

One of the things I have been adamantly against my entire politically aware life is the death penalty. I won't go into my reasons, they are many and they are mine, and I imagine there are plenty of people reading this who agree with me, and I imagine there are some who do not. But as most of you know, I was looking at covering the execution of Stanley Williams with as much enthusiasm as... no, there is no simile. It was one of those times when I had to partition off a part of my brain, lock it away, and just breathe.

Just outside the East Gate of San Quentin Prison is a post office and gift shop (yes, a gift shop). Heading east from that point is San Quentin Village, a community of 116 houses, some with a magnificent Bay view; nearly the same view you get from the south side of the prison. The news media negotiated with owners of some of the houses along the main road to the East Gate to rent parking and work space for covering this part of the story. Where the protests and vigils and rally were held, however, is a relatively small area just in front of the post office. At 6 PM, CHP officers placed orange cones in a line, restricting anyone but authorized personnel from getting within 100 feet of the actual gate, making the area even smaller. We, the television news crews, were granted a small piece of real estate close enough to the area of the rally stage to be able to see and hear and record the speeches and music, but far enough away to make room for people in front of us. We were given no fencing, there were no lines demarcating our work space; for that, we were on our own.

Understand that a television set is a television set, whether it's news or documentary or a sitcom or a drama or a talk show; whether it's in a studio or in a parking lot or in the middle of a closed-off street in front of a prison. There are cameras on tripods, light stands and arms at exactly the height of your head. There is hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment, and in our case and in the case of quite a few others, it's equipment we own, not the network, and it's equipment we have to replace, at great cost, if it gets damaged. There are audio cables and video cables and power cables, snaking and running and tangling over nearly every surface that isn't covered by chairs and tripods and light stands. There are lights hot enough to take the skin right off your hand at a touch, and there are cases and bags and ballasts and reels and any number of hazards horrific enough to injure you badly. I work around and in them all the time, and I still have a permanent bruise on my forehead from walking into a lightstand arm over and over and over again. I have knots on my knees from tripping and falling. Last night I banged my shin on the same case, in the same way, three times. They are, in essence, miniature movie sets, and people who work on movie sets get the hell off them when they don't have to be there. There's a reason for those fold-up chairs for the actors and the director; to get them the hell out of the way and out of the danger zone. It is a danger zone.

So, in a situation like the one we found ourselves in yesterday, the first thing we do is establish a perimeter, and if we can't get fenced, or can't put up yellow tape, we pile up empty cases and make our own fence. This is not, as we have been accused of time and time again, some kind of dick-waving demonstration of our "privilege" (oh, how many times was that word screamed at me last night); it's a safety measure to keep the unaware and uneducated from getting badly hurt, and it's a measure to allow myself and my colleagues to, ourselves, work in safety.

So, when I politely tell you that, no, I'm sorry, could you please go around this way to get to your destination, you're not going to get anywhere with me by calling me a bitch, or lecturing me on the privileges of the press, or screaming at me that I'm a tool of The Man or otherwise victimizing you. If you run at me, thinking because I'm a girl I'm going to get out of your way, and shove me, thinking because I'm a girl I won't fight back, well, at least three of you found out, last night, that I'm stronger than I look, and that fear and adrenaline are powerful forces. That two of you had enough alcohol on your breath that I got a contact high didn't help your cases any. Grow the fuck up.

(And if that radio reporter is, by any chance, reading this, well, hon, when you called me a fucking cunt, you broke my heart for about two nanoseconds, but I got over it. In other words, I am an equal-opportunity repeller. The only people who were going to get inside that perimeter were the people who belonged inside that perimeter, and no one else. Not still photographers, not radio reporters, not protesters, not roving camera crews.)

Let me give you a gentle clue; I won't bother you if you don't bother me. Play nice, be a grownup, and understand that during that vigil and rally, what I was doing was making it possible for the entire country to hear what your people were saying at that podium, and that what my cameraman was doing was making it possible for the entire country to see what your people were doing at that podium. Every time you got in front of the camera and blocked it with a sign, you made it impossible for your people to get their message out. Every time you started shouting things into my microphone, your invective covered up the words your people were using to try to get their message out. In other words, it was stupid and it was counter-productive to what was being attempted there.

This seemed especially counter-productive when we had the likes of Mike Farrell or the Reverend Jackson in our chairs, trying to interview them, have them speak their piece. Your antics were self-serving and childish.

Afterwards, when a crowd of one thousand, crammed into a small space, then tries to leave that space, your hurry is not my problem. My problem is to keep you all from surging into my area and breaking my gear, tripping and falling over cables, burning yourself on the lights, knocking over $60,000 cameras and otherwise wreaking havoc. Screaming invectives at me and threatening to have your buddies beat me up while holding your sign telling me how the Buddha preached love is deeply ironic, but I wasn't appreciating the irony at the time. I was standing between you, threatening to have your buddies make a grease spot of me, and Tim, who was more than ready to make a grease spot of you.

Then there was the charming fellow sitting on the fence with spray paint, a mocked up American flag and matches. Sir, when you commenced your tirade against the press, to calling us a lot of foul names, and to burning your version of the American flag, not ten feet from me, there was still a huge crowd of people trying to get out. You set a fucking fire in the middle of a crowd of people. I don't know if you're congenitally stupid or if you just don't give a shit, but when you fell off the fence and down the hill, and your bottle of Southern Comfort shattered, splattering the little bit that was left of it onto the ground, I guess I should have just been thankful that you didn't set the spray paint cans or yourself on fire. Honestly, by that time I was pretty much on my last nerve; I wasn't in any shape to see self-immolation.

I want to, I must, take a moment to mention that the vast majority of folks, especially many who witnessed the constant spew of hostility and hatred heading our way, were kind and apologetic and concerned that the focus would end up on the confrontations and not on the message. One very gentle woman came up to me and expressed such a concern about the flag-burner at a moment when Tim was nearby, and he leaned in and told her that at least as far as he was concerned, it never happened, as he was busy shooting something else at the time. The vast majority of folks were sober, committed, rational and persuasive.

As for the rest of you - the violent, hostile, destructive, egotistical hypocrites who thought that a lot of people didn't notice that your signs preached love but your actions preached hate - I don't know who you think I am, or who you think you are. But more and more, you are reminding me of the wild-eyed, hostile, screaming radicals at the Planned Parenthood clinics. You are reminding me of the idiots I ran into during the 1996 Presidential campaign, the Dole devotees, who thought they were being oh-so-smart when they screamed about the Press having a favored place in the auditoriums, and thought they were being oh-so-clever when they blocked the television cameras with their signs when, in fact, all they were doing was keeping their candidate off national television. In other words, you are every bit as awful, stupid, bigoted and destructive as the people you want us to think you're fighting against. Grow some god damned brains.

You have to decide what it is you want. Do you want to get your message out to the largest number of people possible, or do you want only to preach to the choir and have your message to the rest of the world be your version of a toddler's temper tantrum?

Whatever it is you decide to do, I'll be there to record it. You, not I, get to decide what kind of message to send when I do. But until the time comes when you treat me with the same kind of respect with which I tried to treat you, until the time comes when I don't feel physically threatened by you, until the time comes when you no longer remind me of the wild-eyed, hostile, screaming radicals of the far right, I will, for my own safety, consider you my enemy.

And you can consider me yours.

In psychological circles, would this be called denial?

Governor's camp says his ideas didn't lose
Special election blamed -- opponents demand apology

Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger's aides argued Wednesday that the crushing defeat of the governor's measures at the polls meant California voters had rejected the need for the special election -- not his calls for reform.

Oh, you know, what can I say? Tim and I covered the recall campaign, dealt with his people and the whole Arnie as Politician parade. The stage-managed events full of hand-selected True Believers were reminiscent of the Bush 2000 campaign; clearly his people had taken a page or two out of Karl Rove' s playbook. We cringed the night of the debate in Sacramento, at Arnold's after-debate event, as we listened to the racist hate speech of Dennis Miller - I don't think he actually used the term "wetback", but the fact that I'm not sure is telling.

I felt then that there was no substance, no solidity, to either Schwarzenegger or his campaign. Even adjusting for my very liberal bias, I could find no finger hold, nothing to touch and say, "This is what he stands for." He didn't stand for anything, he simply campaigned on what he was not - a politician.

You know, there really is a place in this world for politicians. "Politician" need not be a dirty word, and the skills of a politician can make for good governance. Arnold Schwarzenegger is no politician. Nor is he a diplomat. He is a not-great actor who thought his popularity would give him a breezy ride through Sacramento, and when he found that wasn't the case - when he found that he didn't get to write the script or direct the show and that folks in the marble hallways of the Capitol play hardball - he called people names and went after nurses and firefighters and schoolteachers, for god's sake. Any hope for political dialog on any of the issues brought up in this special election died in a shitstorm of hype and hullabaloo. Talk about pissing away your political capital.

Now he wants us to think his ideas didn't lose?

From Spiegel Online:

THE TERMINATOR'S FALL FROM GRACE
Schwarzenegger Goes Down in California

A year ago, he was the state's wunderkind. Now, though, Californians are tired of their action-film-actor-turned-governor. He failed miserably in Tuesday's referendum and seems to have lost his touch. His approval ratings are even lower than Bush's.

So, your ideas didn't lose, Arnold? Okay. I'll try to take comfort from the fact that your utter cluelessness will render you ineffective. Ineffective people do less damage. And I'll hope that come next November there are some real candidates on the ballot. Then we can get rid of the velvet rope now strung across the doorway to the Governor's office, and lose the "Arnold Schwarzenegger" in gold leaf stick-on letters above that doorway, where never before was there someone's name; just the word, "Governor".

That wacky holiday season is upon us

While ambling around my local Safeway yesterday afternoon, I noticed a new product in the poultry case; Jennie-O Oven Ready Turkey. The gist of it is that it's super-convenient. I just ran across a print ad for it in, ironically, a pamphlet with Sunset magazine's 2005 Recipe Contest winners.

The ad copy reads thus:

Thawing and cleaning a turkey sounds ridiculous to us, too.

Why would you go to the trouble of thawing and cleaning a turkey if you didn't have to? JENNIE-O TURKEY STORE® Oven Ready is the frozen turkey that comes already cleaned, seasoned and sealed in our FOOL-PROOF™ cooking bag. Just take it from the freezer and put it in the oven -- no thawing, no cleaning, no hassles. It's yet another way we're making it easier than ever to enjoy the great taste of turkey.

As you can imagine, it was freaking expensive (I don't remember the exact figure, but looking at it made my eyebrows meet my hairline). And I found myself shaking my head.

You know, roasting a turkey is just not that complicated. In fact, it's pretty darn easy. All you really need is a turkey, some salt, pepper, a roasting pan, a big spoon, a working oven and a meat thermometer (and the meat thermometer is arguable). You can get fancy with brining and basting substances and stuffing and seasoning and all that, and that makes the procedure slightly more complicated. But, really, a basic roasted turkey, like a basic roasted chicken, is a lesson in simplicity. The only thing you don't do with the turkey-in-a-bag that you have to do with a good old Butterball (or a seasonally cheap store-brand turkey) is wash it (this is complicated?), season it (salt and pepper really will do) and baste it (which you can do with butter or with the turkey's own rendered fat). Am I missing something here?

I don't know when the idea of roasting a turkey became so scary and complicated. But it has. Every year when Thanksgiving rolls around the nervous inundate the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line and on-line cooking communities and their mothers and grandmothers, looking for the best advice on buying, thawing, preparing and roasting the bulbous-breasted beasties.

I won't speak for anyone but myself, and I understand that some people really don't like to cook, don't find a sense of satisfaction in taking raw ingredients and making something splendid with which to feed their favorite people. I suppose a turkey-in-a-bag, a turkey you don't handle in any way except to haul it from the freezer and toss it in the oven, a turkey you don't even peek at until it's done cooking, is an awfully great idea for folks who really don't like to cook. But I just can't wrap my head around it. It's beyond my understanding.

Is it just me, or is there a sort of strange, parallel evolution going on?

On the one hand, people are demanding better, fresher ingredients from their grocery stores, and farmer's markets are springing up everywhere, offering the best and the freshest of everything under the sun; fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads, seafood. Heirloom produce is enjoying a renaissance, from apples to tomatoes to potatoes. Ingredients that 20 years ago were exotic and hard to find are now as commonplace as Campbell's soup. Food TV is making money hand-over-fist, and cooking shows are proliferating like rodents on an already cooking-show-heavy PBS.

On the other hand, my Safeway's poultry department is selling turkey-in-a-bag.

I guess it's not all that different from the already seasoned and cooked, heat-and-eat pot roasts and tri-tip and stews and such which have invaded the meat department's shelves. And I freely admit that I buy chopped up lettuce in a bag for five or six times the amount of money an intact head of lettuce would cost. I have even been known to make chicken gravy with a packet of Knorr Swiss instead of the chicken drippings.

But for some reason, I am totally bemused by turkey-in-a-bag.

Have I really lived here for 38 years?

We live in a court.

Let me elaborate.

We live in a town that screams "Suburbia!" We moved here when I was ten years old. This town consists of five towns, now districts - Niles, Centerville, Mission San Jose, Warm Springs and Irvington - which incorporated in 1956 and became Fremont. Newark declined to join in, and is, looking on a map, the hole of the donut which is Fremont.

I grew up in Mission San Jose, a sort of rich section of town. We lived in a court right down the street from the swim club, and my first job ever was as a lifeguard at the swim club. We knew every other family on that court very, very well, and summer evenings were often spent congregating in the court, with lawn chairs and beer for the adults and lemonade for the kids and the dogs running around (in the days before leash laws) and kids in bathing suits playing and running and just being kids.

I have memories of block parties and summer nights spent in tents on someone's lawn, and dogs, we always had dogs, and living in a Speedo and fishing in the lake which we got to by climbing over a cyclone fence and crossing the railroad tracks, and touch football in the street and never going anywhere without at least four or five companions and *always* sharing the loot we bought with our allowance and as much as I detested my sister, woe betide anyone else who said something awful about her because war would have to be declared and there was always an army willing to fight my wars, as I was ready to fight theirs.

I married a Niles boy, which means I married a Bad Boy from the Wrong Side of the Tracks. Seriously, that's how it was seen, especially by my friends from high school.

For awhile we lived in Warm Springs, on a street right off the main drag of the district, and I worried about my kids getting hit by a car driven by the asshats who used to zoom up and down that street, but for the last 18+ years we've lived in Centerville, in a court, and I shop at the nearby Safeway, where it's an unusual day when I don't run into someone with whom I went to high school, or college, or at least someone I've known for 20 years. People *stay* here. I know families of three or four generations, people who know my parents, people who watched me grow up. I've, more than once, run into my very first boyfriend, looking for ripe avocados at Safeway :). And you know something? He's just as cute as he was when we were at Hopkins Junior High School. But he's Irish and has a dimple in his right cheek, and a smile to make the angels sing, and I am a sucker for dimples.

I've been to an awful lot of funerals, lately. Funerals of people who were part of the village of adults who raised me. I've also been to an awful lot of weddings, lately. Children of my peers. Or of Tim's peers. He grew up here, too. He was two when his family moved to Niles. He's lived here for more than 50 years. If we don't run into someone I grew up with, we run into someone Tim grew up with. It's that kind of place.

I love this aspect of my life. I love living here. On the surface, it's a bland town, a bedroom community, nothing colorful or hip or fascinating or artsy about it. But it's the place I grew up, and I know every square inch of her. I can hike her hills without a map, and know the hidden beautiful places only we natives know. There are memories here of swim teams and ice cream and first real kisses and first sex and doctors who knew me from when I was a kid and midnight bowling and first jobs and my life weaving with other lives, the lives of people who are still here, who have children the age of my children, and we talk, now, of grandchildren.

My youngest son works in the coffee shop in the bowling alley where I used to go midnight bowling on Fridays after we closed the Der Wienerschnitzel where I worked when I was 16. My eldest daughter lives in a house where I used to go to parties when I was at Ohlone Junior College.

So, I live in a court. When we moved here, needing a larger house when Danny was born, there were 18 kids under 12 living here. In nine houses. In two of those houses lived retirees. In one house lived a childless couple.

It was *wonderful*. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time, and I loved every single minute of every single day, with kids running in and out of this house all the time. It was a time when I was the coolest mom on the block because I got through Super Mario Bros with *one* Mario. We were inundated, all the time, with kids. It didn't hurt that we have a swimming pool, and I always had cookies and Cokes and video games and loved every single one of those kids and they knew that I loved having them around and was interested in every joy and every sorrow.

Birthday parties were cacophonous and crowded and crazy and today, when I look at the videotapes of those times (yes, we have video, thank heavens!) I smile, I laugh, I cry. And I want to tell every single person I know that they must capture these moments in any way they possibly can, because those times move on so quickly. You have them right here, in the palm of your hand, and then they're gone.

The older kids loved baby-sitting my kids, not least because I paid outrageously well, so Tim and I were able to get out often, knowing that our children were with people we loved and trusted and who cared about our kids.

At Christmas time Tim would dress up as Santa Claus and as night would fall on Christmas Eve he would walk up and down the court, admonishing the wee ones to go to bed, because he wouldn't visit until they were fast asleep.

There was a time when Halloween was the biggest deal of the year, here, and everyone would decorate elaborately. Those were the days when we'd buy bags and bags of candy, and still, sometimes, we'd run out, because there would be hundreds of kids coming through, More often than not, Halloween evening would be pleasant and warm, and on more than one occasion we would find ourselves, late in the evening, after the influx of costumed kids slowed down to a trickle, on one front porch or another, enjoying a beverage and the company of our neighbors.

There aren't any kids under 12 living on this court anymore. There aren't any kids under *18* living on this court anymore - my Danny is (still) the youngest. One of the retirees is still here, but the other one died, and that house belongs to another family now. I remember, a few years after we first moved in, celebrating Berta's 50th birthday with a block party. She used to help me out by rocking Danny in her rocking chair when he was fussy. He was three months old. Now he's eighteen and in a couple of years it'll be *my* 50th birthday.

Tonight Berta and Tony brought a bottle of wine across the street, after the influx of kids became a trickle, and we sat on my front porch and shared that wine - Viña Concha y Toro's Casillero del Diablo Cabernet Sauvignon, in honor of Tim's devilish turn as Jason tonight :). And we shared memories of Halloweens past, and years past, and how quickly it goes by, and how wonderful it's been.



And how much we love living in a court.

Blogging

I’ve been meaning to do this for some time. By “this”, I mean start a writing blog. Not a social blog. Not another email list. Not a diary or journal. But a place and a space for writing. Really writing. Which means that the entire thing will be set up to self-destruct should I die suddenly (she said, smiling), or even not-so-suddenly, although I would hope I would have time to send this into the ether should the not-so-suddenly scenario be the case. In any case, enough with the awkward first post. It’s set up, it’s started, and if a picture conveys a mood, I’m feeling some of the anxiety pictured in the pooch.

Welcome to my brain. I hope you enjoy the trip.