The bounty of summer

Our tomatoes are coming in, slowly but surely from our upside-down planter and so far -- knock on wood -- there is no sign of the tomato caterpillars that have destroyed my crops in previous years. We have had a lot of problems with blossom drop and I've been adding egg shells and more potting soil, which seems to have helped.

The tomatoes that are doing the best are the small red, tomatoes and the San Marzano tomatoes, which are thriving. They have just started to ripen, so I took the first San Marzano (the little tomatoes I just eat straight up with ground sea salt) tomato and decided to make it into a grilled pizza.

We went to the best Von's in Ventura (at the corner of Victoria and Telegraph) to do our weekly shopping. Off to the side, we found something called Flatout Flatbread, light original. What makes this especially appealing are the 6 effective carbs per piece, which is made from whole grains. There is a picture on the label that promises that it "Makes Great Pizza!" And I thought -- really?

Our oven isn't working these days, so I knew I'd have to make whatever creation I came up with on the grill. I had the idea of incorporating the delicious tomatoes and basil from my garden with some buffalo mozzarella and grated cheese. The tomato/basil combination is one of the reason I love summer so much and I try to make as many versions as I can each season.

Rob was psyched, but wanted a more traditional pizza with sauce and cheese. I grilled my pizza directly on the grill and Rob had the idea of using aluminum foil. I thought his idea was brilliant until he cooked his and it became a soupy, gloopy mess. The direct grilling made the pizza crisp, but watch it, it will burn quickly.

Grilled caprese pizza

1 Flatout flatbread light original
olive oil
1 San Marzano or roma tomato, thinly sliced
5-6 whole basil leaves, ripped by hand into small pieces, or cut into a chiffonade
2 small balls of buffalo mozzarella broken into small pieces
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Brush the flat bread on both sides with olive oil. Top the flatbread with sliced tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Put pizza directly on the grill over medium heat, watching carefully, for about 2-3 minutes. Remove and sprinkle with Parmesan. Slice and serve.

Stuck in the middle

I've always been a firm believer in civility between divorced parents. My parents divorced when I was very young and they had an angry relationship, which scarred me, as I tried to avoid taking sides, while still retaining my parents love. It didn't work. Both parents have founds ways through the years to let me know how disappointed they were in me and the fact that I didn't throw myself one way or the other. It sucks.

I decided my kids wouldn't have to go through the same thing and my ex and I maintained a civil relationship for years after our divorce. I would call him to talk about the girls. Even after I married Rob, I could stil talk to my ex perfectly pleasantly any time I so desired.

As far as Rob's relationship with the girls, he made it clear from Day 1 that he was their step-father. They have a father and he was never, ever, going to intrude on that relationship. He believes that there is enough room in the girls' lives to allow both relationships between father and daughter and between step-parent and child to flourish.

I completely support him in this. My mother tried to have us call my stepfather daddy and even though I was a child, I was incensed. I HAVE a father, I said. My father, to his great credit, never allowed my mothers antipathy to chase him away from his children, the way so many dads do. He was always an important and vital part of my life, despite all efforts to exclude him.

The girls, their dad, Rob and I all continued along in a fairly civilized and peaceful manner unit She came along. My ex-husband decided to remarry and his new bride immediately began claiming the girls as her own. The tension began as soon as she swapped rings and inserted herself in our ives.

She was soon dubbed the "stephorse" by the girls' friends, a name that seemed fitting, mean but fitting, especially in light of her behavior, which was controlling to say the least. She would call and leave angry messages on our answering machine, screaming and berating the girls for some imagined slight. She would call, scream and hang up on them, leaving my 12-year-old daughter in tears. One summer visit was marred when she slapped my oldest across the face when my daughter yelled "You're not my mother!"

She started demanding that I be excluded from family events. My relationship with my ex has always been complicated by the fact that we are first cousins, so the family remains in common even after the ill-conceived marriage ended. She wouldn't go to my cousin's wedding if I would be there She wouldn't allow the girls to speak my name in her presence. She started referring to the girls as "her" children.

As the years wore on, her behavior became even more egregious. She wouldn't go to any family event when my oldest daughter was graduating from college. She tried to hold a brunch where I was specifically excluded after my daughter's college graduation. The brunch was to be held at my father's house, which she and my ex traditionally (remember my ex is my dad's nephew -- the whole first cousin thing) visited when they came to town. She refused to go the the party my daughter had organized rather than have one or the other parent take charge, taking her son to a museum instead.

When my youngest was graduating from high school, the stephorse made sure that she and the ex steered clear of any events where I would be present. From time to time, the girls would stand up to her -- at great price. The ex is known for screeching diatribes and chilly silences when her wishes have been thwarted. She is one of those people who enters a room and demands that everyone there adjust their behavior to her wishes. If it's too hot for her tastes, she will demand the temperature be lowered; if the food is too spicy it has to be re-made. If people are too loud, they need to be quiet.

My oldest daughter finally decided that enough was enough. She now has children of her own and doesn't have the time or energy to continue the ridiculousness. I don't care. While I can't say I enjoy the company of the stephorse, she doesn't really have much of an effect on me. Like most people who take themselves way too seriously and demand the world follow suit, she is easy to ridicule, but I do that behind her back, of course.

The only thing the stephorse says in her defense is that I once yelled in my own home at our dog to be quiet, and somehow, some way this offended her so deeply, she decided that she could never be around me again. In the meantime, she continues to make every effort to create discord and strife. She won't allow her son to be around me, although I've never been anything but welcoming to the poor kid. It's not his fault he was adopted by a lunatic.

I don't care about this woman and her claims to my daughters. They're adults and they can handle their own lives. What I resent, however is the fact that they claim to be stuck in the middle. I don't care about this woman. I'm not playing. There is no Middle.

No. Seriously. I. Don't. Care. I can be in the same room. I will be civil. I will smile and share food and my family. I know how to behave. I was raised with a modicum of manners. This is not my fight. Both Rob and I have always wondered why we provoke such irrational anger on the part of various ex's and steps. But we're not the ones fighting. We prefer to spend our days sitting around playing with our dogs. The drama ends here.

Rob's birthday and other milestones

I'm not sure when the summertime became so filled with birthdays and other anniversaries. I suppose it really started right after I met Rob just days before Courtney's birthday. One of our first events together was celebrating his birthday. I made him a Black Forest cake, but the cherries and all the chocolate kept sliding off, so it looked terrible. It was tasty, though.

Now June with Alex's and Courtney's birthday, and Rob's and my anniversary is busy and July is busy with Rob's birthday and my AA birthday (four years :-). Rob's brother Jon also has a birthday in July as does Jon's wife Suzette.

It's a busy time, which is odd because summertime should be all about long, languorous days and this year it's all about running around and covering events in Ventura County. I'm so delighted that my freelance career is taking off. I've always loved writing but my biggest hurdle has always been getting people to read what I write. I remember one editor at the Dayton Daily news giving me all kinds of advice about my writing and seeking other opinions so I could improve. "So you've read my work?" I asked. "Well no," she said, and then she went on with her "tips." It was odd. I would give my clips to my bosses and they would just ignore them. Whenever people would read my stuff, however, they tended to really like it.

I finally gave up and decided to go ahead and pursue a job on the copy desk, something I resisted in Dayton, but decided to do in California. Biggest. Mistake. Of. My. Life. Looking back I can see it was an experiment destined to failure. Frankly I don't give a rat's ass if groundwater is one or two words. I don't care if the blues is plural or not. I tried to make myself care. I tried to fit in. But creativity and copy editing tend to be mutually exclusive terms and the truly creative people get kicked off early.

Now I'm back to writing and I've never been happier. I get to go all around Ventura County -- my favorite place on earth -- and talk to people, share in their lives and tell their stories. There was a time -- back in my "drinking days" -- when I knew I was in real trouble with alcohol because I couldn't be happy without it. I realized that was probably the most dangerous thing that could happen to me, and I was right. Nonetheless, it was true.

But just recently I've been walking through the hills in Ojai working on a story about a Boy scout Camporee or trudging on the beach at Ventura Harbor to do a story on outrigger canoes, and I realize I am truly happy, happier than with alcohol. There are those who say that such a statement invites the evil eye, but on the other hand are you being ungrateful if you don't express thanks for good fortune and appreciate it as such?

This summer, I've been able to work and to have fun. For Rob's birthday, we drove to Malibu -- one of my favorite drives -- to Hows Market to pick up some prime t-bone steaks. One of the first things we noticed about California is the death of good beef. I'm not sure why. There are lots of cows around, but the beef is crap. We found some steaks at the high-end markets Bristol Farms and Lazy Acres, but they were obscenely expensive. Then we discovered Hows, which has a store by Trancas Canyon in Malibu.

For Rob's birthday, I bought a bunch of the steaks to grill. If I may say so myself they were perfection. I rubbed them with crushed garlic cloves and olive oil and salted them. Four minutes a side over a hot flame, and they were perfection.

I made some fresh corn using my patented microwave method, (wrap shucked corn that's been rinsed in water. Wrap loosely with plastic wrap. Place in the microwave for a minute and then turn the corn and cook for 50 seconds. Remove the hot corn from the oven and let sit for five minutes.) Rob, Lindsay and Ryan had baked potatoes and the meal was perfection.

Finally, I had some "dragon beans, we've been buying at the Ojai farmers market. Rob was the first to discover them and he had to have them because they look so weird. I cooked them up, you just put them in salted boiling water for about 3 to 4 minutes and rinse them with cold water to stop the cooking. But they are also delicious raw. The unfortunate part of cooking them is that they lose the purple markings in the hot water. But they are our latest discovery and they are delicious.

Shushers and tourons

So when do people -- especially women, for some reason -- make the decision to take it upon themselves to be the arbiters of all volume at public events? You know them: They're the ones who, when the person in front of the room is trying to get the attention of the crowd, officiously hold their index fingers to their pursed lips and excrete a loud hissing SHHHHHHHHHHHH, their eyes glaring with indignation.

I'm not a shusher. I tend to shut up when asked to or when concerts and other events begin. So I really don't need Ms. Manners wagging that bony digit in my direction. Most of the time shushers are women. Middle-aged women, especially, love to, in fact live to tell the world what to do. It's understandable, I suppose. Middle age brings home to women how truly powerless they are in this society. As soon as they lose that dewy attractiveness that seems to captivate the world, they find no one really is interested in them at all.

Go to a crowded counter where there is no numbering system. No matter who is waiting on the group, the men will get attention first. Then the attractive people. Then the seniors. Then the rest, kids, teens and middle-aged women. I've stood in many a crowd watching wave after wave get waited on while I'm ignored. It's infuriating. But it hasn't led to shushing, at least not yet.

I suppose complaining becomes such a siren call to older people because it's a way of dissecting the world as one has less and less impact on it. Of course, there are many who just love to complain for the sake of complaining. Perhaps they feel superior because only they have standards that can never be met.

So now I've complained about the complainers and shushed the shushers. I suppose I will just sit there quietly, letting the shushers enjoy their vital function in the worldwide order. After all without their sibilant shushes civil society would degenerate into cacophonous chaos.



We call them tourons affectionately as the invade our sleepy seaside town year after year. They are the hands that feed us, they bring tons of much-needed money here and add some excitement, but if you've ever been late for an appointment or for work and you're behind someone who has no idea of where he/she is and where he/she is going, you'd understand the Venturan frustration at the bumbling, impatient, rude and annoying influx we invite here to spend money.

Tourons don't know the roads like we locals do, so they do things like stay in the left lane on Hwy 33 as it passes Stanley going south, despite the numerous signs saying that traffic merges from the left. They don't know that the intersection of Harbor Boulevard and California Street is not a three-way stop and that traffic from California going onto Harbor has right of way and doesn't stop. They don't know all the quirky nonsensical things about this town so they seem to be in the way a lot.

The place where the tourons put the moron in tourist is always at the beach. Despite the fact that it's a crime in California to in any way disturb or harass wildlife, you'll always see tourons swinging starfish by their legs, poking anemones or running at the seagulls flapping their arms to make them fly, as the guy in this picture was just doing before I took this picture.

I want to go up to them and read them the riot act. "What the hell are you doing? Leave the poor animals alone." But then I would be akin to the shushers. And that's just not me. Yet. So I grit my teeth, take their picture and watch them write on the wet sand -- something every touron does. At least they didn't ignore the vast expanse of beach to come and sit 10 feet from us.

Red, white and yummy

Since we've been without an oven, I haven't been able to bake, which is probably a good thing because I'm not tempted to break my diet. But a recipe from epicurious.com caught my eye and I just had to try it. OF course, I did change it up a bit. The original recipe is for no-bake raspberry cream pie, but I made it with strawberries.

Here in Ventura County, Calif., we grow some of the best strawberries in the world. While we ship out the big, wax-covered sturdy, but relatively tasteless varieties, the sweeter, much more perishable varieties are reserved for sale locally at area farmers markets. But you have to be careful and taste them because they range from the spongy, fairly bitter berries to the really sweet berries, like the ones I bought at the Simi Valley farmers market.

One of my favorite smells in the world is driving around Ventura County through lemon orchards and strawberry fields. Sometimes you can smell both at once and the smell is deliciously intoxicating. This pie tastes like that smell combines with a nice, rich chocolate-y crust. I added some cookies and butter, along with a teaspoon of vanilla, which adds dept to the flavor. I would recommend spraying the pie pan with a baking oil because it does stick to the sides because it's impossible to press the crumbs up the side of the pie dish without pressing them down

According to the recipe, the lemon juice combines with the sweetened condensed milk and creme fraiche, available at Trader Joes, to make a kind of custard. I put the cut berries on top of the pie and let it set overnight, which was a mistake. Reserve the second half of the berries until right before serving. I considered doubling the filling because it doesn't make that much, but this is very rich and it doesn't need more filling, although a dollop of whipped cream would be good.

No-bake Strawberry Cream Pie (adapted from Bon Appetit magazine recipe)

8 ounces chocolate wafer cookies (about 35), coarsely broken
1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips
7 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1/4 cup crème fraîche*
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon finely grated lemon peel
2 1/2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and cut into quarters lengthwise

Place broken cookies in processor. Using on/off turns, process until finely ground. Place chocolate chips, butter, and sugar in microwave-safe bowl. Microwave on high at 15-second intervals until melted, stirring occasionally. Add vanilla. Add chocolate mixture to processor and blend until combined. Press crumb mixture onto bottom and up sides of 9-inch glass pie dish that has been sprayed with a non-stick baking oil(do not pack firmly). Chill crust while preparing filling.

Whisk condensed milk, crème fraîche, lemon juice, and lemon peel in large bowl to blend. Add half of strawberries. Stir, pressing gently on some strawberries, until strawberries begin to break apart and filling turns pink. Transfer filling to crust. Chill until filling is set, about 2 hours or overnight for a good set.

Scatter remaining strawberries over pie. Cut into wedges and serve with sweetened whipped cream.

*Sold at Trader Joes.

Kitchen science: The filling firms as it chills, creating nice clean slices of pie—but it doesn't contain any thickeners. The secret? Lemon juice. When it reacts with the other ingredients, it helps thicken the filling.

I brought this pie with me when we went to Gen and Sean's to celebrate the 4th of July. Earlier in the day I covered celebrations in Oxnard and Ventura. The annual Ventura 4th of July street festival has grown to amazing proportions. It took me 40 minutes to park. It reminded me of the Waynesville Sauerkraut Festival, which I used to cover each year when I lived in Ohio, although there were no sauerkraut brownies and doughnuts, like there were in Waynesville. The Waynesville celebration usually topped 250,000 people and I swear the crowds were about as big in Ventura.

I also covered the Summerfest Dog show and will be going back there tomorrow for the best in Show award. I've been having so much fun with these assignments, especially considering that last week I was having a terrible time getting people to talk to me. I had not one, but two people just blow me off. I hate when this happens because I only get paid when I get a story. Plus I just hate to be blown off.

I did manage to write one of my favorite ledes on one of the dog show series when I went to pet the head of an Old English Sheepdog the owner had just spent a hours grooming and smushed the dog's hair down. I never realized how much I missed reporting, and now, looking back I can see what a big mistake it was to ever leave it. I just love the role of observer and chronicler.

I believe that there is a greater demand for real journalists, especially reporters, than ever before as people's appetite for information becomes increasingly voracious. It's just the vehicle for those stories has changed and no one seems to know how to make the obscene profits they made in newspapers -- the profits that have proved to be the eventual undoing of the entire industry.

So I'll just keep honing my writing skills and working at keeping to the basic core values of journalism, which, to me, are making the world a bit better by keeping those lines of communication, so necessary for all of us to have type of freedom, open.