tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-184137402024-02-06T21:29:39.822-08:00An empty stomachFood and life go hand in hand. Anne Kallas describes her life in Ventura, California, complete with recipes and photos.Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-4137262700964149912013-06-21T18:11:00.001-07:002013-06-21T18:11:25.515-07:00From the trenches<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.571428298950195px;" type="cite">
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I haven't posted for a while, but I wanted to share a fun story that I initially told my friend Kim</div>
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So Ollie gets on the phone from Ohio to announce, "I go shake, shake shake. Only girls go dab, dab, dab."<div>
at issue: the world of toilet training a boy is much more difficult than toilet training a little girl. with little girls, you plop them on the potty, tell them to go, wipe, flush and wash their hands. Done.</div>
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for little boys the whole potty thing is far more complex. First the little winkie squirts everywhere if they don't aim, so it takes some doing to "point and drain that lizard." (Something that's never fully mastered as those of us who have been married can attest) then there's the drop of pee-pee that always ends up dribbling off the end (for those of us who only raised girls and are girls, this is all a revelation). Lindsay told Ollie that to get rid of that last drop, grab some toilet tissue and dab dab dab. Apparently that was a HUGE mistake in the guy world, where anyone who dab dab dabs would be considered a huge pussy in the toilet-paperless men's rooms. boys "shake, shake, shake" Rob told Lindsay in disgust, a sentiment that was echoed by every male we encountered. Lindsay of course, deferred "what do I know?" But Ollie would have none of it. If mommy said dab dab dab then it is dab dab dab and no amount of back-tracking would dissuade him, even on her part.</div>
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Apparently the trip to Ohio, where he has been hanging out with his manly cousins, age 7 and 6, has convinced him -- it's shake shake shake.</div>
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Phew! Glad that's settled. ...</div>
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Today was was my 57th birthday. It was also the day I put my beautiful cat Mythos down. I've had better days.<br />
Mythos came to the back door of our old place on Saticoy Avneue, where we lived for years before we decided to buy our own home. Our landlord had three rottweilers that lived in his half of the backyard and one day the dogs were acting even more crazy than usual. They were actually very sweet dogs, but <i>something</i> was in their backyard and they wanted to get to it.<br />
We never used the back door off of my daughter Lindsay's room, or even went into the backyard there. There was something temporary about our residency in that tiny, dingy duplex, so the yard didn't interest us. When I opened the door to the back there was a tiny little white and orange kitten screaming to be let in. Considering his options -- the ever more insistent rottweilers, our house seemed a great refuge.<br />
The next hurdle was our cat, Orixa, who we called Kitti. She didn't take kindly to little animals and at 18-plus pounds she was a formidable opponent. So we had the new kitty stay in Lindsay's room for a few days, so that Kitti could get used to the idea of him and then we would introduce him to Kitti and Jersey, our cocker spaniel, who loved cats.<br />
We named the cat Mythos from the Highlander series because Rob said it would sound good with Kallas. He was a really funny looking little guy -- all jaw and ears. He was also spastic. As soon as he got out of the room he went wild. He would attack Kitti mercilessly. We got him neutered at 6 months because he was tormenting Kitti by trying to hump her even though he was half her length and would just basically bounce around on her back.<br />
Mythos quickly became Meepee, the Meep or Monsiour Le Meep because of the meep sound his meow made after being neutered so young, but he was insane. We couldn't keep pictures on the walls because he would run up the wall and tear them down. He chewed his way through electrical wire on the Christmas tree and singed his whiskers. There was a small burn mark on the carpet. He crashed the computer by running on the keyboard, costing $35 to get it unlocked. We ate with one arm guarding our meals because he would run through the room and grab food off our plates and take it into Lindsay's room where he would hide it in the corners until it smelled so bad she would have to dig it out.<br />
Mythos had a death wish and would taunt the rottweilers through the screens. One day he got out and went after them and they him. It was an ugly affair, with Mythos drawing blood on everyone including the landlord who was holding his dogs back and Rob who was trying to wrangle Mythos to put him inside. Meepee was always trying to get out, but once he jumped the fence, he would panic and start screaming in fear because he was lost. On one such occasion he attacked Rob so ferociously, Mythos bit completely through Rob's thumb pad. Rob said he was going to kill Mythos, but Kitti, who by now had adopted Meepee as her very own, stood guard and wouldn't let him. Kitti bit me on my leg, drawing blood, when I scolded Mythos for running at the screens in the windows to taunt the rottweilers; he was her baby to raise, she said.<br />
Soon after, Kitti became very ill with liver cancer. As she got weaker Meepee would attack her and she would cry, but eventually Mythos seemed to understand and he stopped bothering her. We finally got around to getting our own house and after we moved, Mythos was nowhere to be found. We looked everywhere. We put out food. We cried. We called. We made posters and got ready to put them up when someone said, "Isn't that Mythos in the kitchen?"<br />
By now Mythos had grown into his chin and ears and was a big, beautiful, long-haired cat. But he hated any kind of change, so after we moved he managed to curl his 17 pound self into a small kitchen drawer. He loved his new house and he would hang through the top banister perched on his haunches during special events and watch over his house. When Kitti died of her cancer, he knew and cried all that night as Kitti's life slipped away.<br />
A few months later, there was a meowing at the front door. I opened to see a tabby cat out in the rain, crying to be let in. I kept turning it out, hoping it would find its way home, but when our neighbor came over to ask whether it was ours, I realized it was a stray, so we let her in. Mythos was ecstatic. He wanted another cat and even though she was afraid and hissing, he made himself small and kept his distance until she could get used to our house. Lily isn't really much of a cuddler, but she and Meepee loved each other, even though they were constantly fighting. Even in his older age, Meepee could get a touch of the crazies and he would go after Lily, who gives as good as she gets.<br />
Along the way Jersey the cocker spaniel died and we ended up adopting five dogs, each of whom needed a home. Meepee loved his dogs, even through they did their best to try to dominate him. My little chihuahua Fuser always tried to bite Mythos, but only got a mouthful of hair for his trouble. Meepee had turned into a real cool cat in his old age. Rob called him a "dog cat" because he would come when he was called. Meepee watched over the house and wasn't fazed by much of anything.<br />
He seemed healthy up until the end when he started drinking huge amounts of water and vomiting. He would have these spells, but then seem better. Over the weekend, he was in bad shape. When I took him to the vet, she said he was near death and suffering. So as I petted him and kissed him and told him I love him, feeling for his faint purr in his throat, she administered the sedative and he died, his brilliant blue/green eyes watching me.<br />
I love you Mythos. I will miss you terribly. Say hi to Kitti, Jersey, Lucy and Dennis for me.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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So the other day Rob and I were revisiting one of our favorite topics: How things have changed since we were growing up. As kids, we were tossed in the back of cars for long trips, where our only entertainment was beating up our siblings. These days, children are strapped in with entire video/game systems devoted to keep them occupied. I marvel at the precious cocooning.<br />
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My parents divorced long before it was popular. I've come to the conclusion many years later that it boiled down to the fact that there was simply not enough air in the house for both of their egos to survive. But basically they married way too young, and my mom, who has always had a flair for the dramatic, decided my father's temper tantrums were inexcusable, and struck out on her own with three small children, little education and pretentious tastes. I was always the little girl whose parents were hushed tones -- (divorced). Other kids were told to be nice to me, which netted me my best friend Margaret Seiler, whose house became a second home, and refuge, for me.<br />
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My dad, to his credit, was adamant about staying in our lives. Even though such concepts as fathers' rights were years away, dad insisted on seeing us for his visitation. Looking back, I realize my mom and grandparents' claims that it was somehow an ego trip for dad to stop his life every few weeks to spend time with his kids were really unfair.<br />
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It was actually pretty amazing that every three weeks, almost without fail, dad would come to get us in Princeton NJ from Binghamton, NY, a trip that is still three and a half hour each way, and at the time, was largely on back roads, winding up through the Poconos, across the Delaware Water Gap, through Scranton Pa and its stinky coal slag piles. It was a long trip. Back in those days, a profusion of billboards lined the roads obscuring the world beyond. Sometimes people bemoan the kitschy old boards, but I remember the ugliness of the wall-to-wall advertisements and thank Lady Bird Johnson and her Keep America Beautiful campaign, which transformed American highways from the junkyards they had come to resemble into scenic routes.<br />
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When dad got married to Joyce, who had two girls of her own, his new wife would often make the trip to collect us on Fridays after school. I realize that a seven-plus hour trip to collect three hyperactive brats must have been torturous, but Joyce never seemed to complain to us, although she did have to have a stiff cocktail waiting for her when she got home.<br />
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In the old days, we didn't use seatbelts. Kids were thrown in the car and it was every man for himself. There was no entertainment, other than the always popular beat-up-the-brothers game, which I especially loved because I was the biggest and strongest and could take them both on -- I proved over and over . For the most part, we knew the rules: keep the bloodshed to a minimum and watch for flailing limbs. An errant foot to the back of dad's head could guarantee the dreaded roadside stop, which never went well. Dad was a belt man. The minutes dad started to apply the brakes, i knew we had crossed the line and we were done for. And there was no amount of "I'm sorrys" that would avert the incipient beatdown.<br />
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Back when we were kids corporal punishment was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 15px;"><em style="font-style: normal;">de rigueur</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span">. Parents not only smacked at will with hands and fists, but when they wanted to make a point, they resorted to objects to really drive the lesson home. Mom favored hairbrushes -- bristle side down and willow switches. She had the especially sadistuic practice of having us pick our own branches, which was a tough choice because with willows, the thinner the branch, the more likely it was to actually cut the flesh. Dad enjoyed the belt, which he yielded efficiently, often able to nail all three of us with one sweeping blow, often to the sad surprise of my youngest brother, who was then dubbed Lowey, and who was mostly sleeping when my brother Rodger and I duked it out.</span><br />
Rodger and I spent our childhood beating the crap out of each other. We were in a constant battle for supremacy, which I found especially irksome because there was really no contest, in my mind, and I never could figure out why he was so stupid not to realize it. The long trips were a perfect opportunity for us to really have at it, which meant we were rarely allowed to sit together.<br />
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At one point, I'm not exactly sure when, dad bought himself a two-seat sports car. It was a Datsun, I think. He would still come and get us, and in the summer, two of us would perch on the back ledge -- it wasn't actually a seat -- and one of us would rotate into the front seat. In the winter, we'd have to fold ourselves over each other in the back seat, and rotate for the coveted front seat. I still cringe at being cold and cramped in that small back seat, with my brothers limbs jammed up against me.<br />
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When I was around 12, my dad decided that at almost 5'8" that I was just too big to essentially sitting on the back of the little sports car -- worried I would just fall out, and w/a Ph.D. in physics from the Princeton Institute for Advanced Studies, I'm guessing he knew it was only a matter to time before a well-timed bump in the road sent me flying. So I got the front seat full time.<br />
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I loved the front seat. The front seat was where I could talk to my dad or Joyce. Radio transmission through the Poconos was pretty much nonexistent, and there was no such thing as CDs, nor God forbid, video players. My brothers and I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 15px;"><em style="font-style: normal;">fantasized</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 15px;"> </span>about having a TV in the car. I would chatter endlessly about my life and my friends, and because it was a very long trip dad and Joyce would talk about themselves. It was during those trips that my dad impressed on me how important it is for women to develop their intellects and skills because they would not be beautiful forever -- a message I internalized early and made sure I impressed on my daughters.<br />
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I would talk to Joyce, whom I idolized, for hours. Often I would get her to tell me the story of "Gypsy" again. I was obsessed with "Gypsy," could sing all the songs and was in awe of the fact that Joyce had played the front end of the cow before being demoted to the back end in the local Princeton production. Joyce would also bring my stepsisters along, which provided a welcome break from wrestling with my brothers, and we wold have lots of giggling fun. Later Joyce was pregnant with my little sisters. I'm still in awe of her the seven hour trip with a two-year old Sarah, while eight months pregnant with Amanda. I still remember her having the windows rolled completely down in the winter because her metabolism was so jacked that she was hot constantly. Looking back, my sympathies are not with the children huddled, shivering, but with the pregnant woman ferrying three hyperactive kids to her already crowded apartment for a weekend.<br />
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When my dad and Joyce first married, they were broke and they lived in a small three-bedroom apartment in Vestal NY. When we came to visit on weekends, there were five very energetic children all within a five-year age range. My brothers and I would dismantle each piece of furniture in the apartment. Finally, in desperation my dad would kick us out of the apartment. Winters in upstate New York and bitterly cold, so we would end up begging people for dimes so we could run the dryers and get warm. More than one kind-hearted woman would knock on my dad's door angrily demanding him to let his children back in. He would offer to have us go visit their house for an hour or two.<br />
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Looking back, it is amazing that my dad spent so much time and effort to remain connected with his children, something that was actually discouraged. But my life was so much richer for it.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa7npIQyf903N97k2u6Sj6ZlI9q133cMxy_ZhwhBLbp8Vj3_jlAboQRR9le8Hdh6VaZnt9fW8SywCpg8AgN3HolF6SqZz-oexh97U-PQhphKhoz_1LakKE3vBbRI-z6Rt0CNd3Q/s320/DSC_3638.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="201" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This has absolutely nothing to do with the post, but the picture is soooo cute, how can I resist? Ollie in his first Halloween costume</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa7npIQyf903N97k2u6Sj6ZlI9q133cMxy_ZhwhBLbp8Vj3_jlAboQRR9le8Hdh6VaZnt9fW8SywCpg8AgN3HolF6SqZz-oexh97U-PQhphKhoz_1LakKE3vBbRI-z6Rt0CNd3Q/s1600/DSC_3638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Yesterday Rob and I had a near-perfect day. We spent a fun day eating out, shopping, taking the dogs to the beach and eating out again. I had a chance to do a little clothes shopping at the Newbury Park Loehmanns, which is closing, sadly, and I had the wonderful experience of realizing that size 10 pants are too loose. I've outgrown all of my pants, which are starting to look clown-like, and I wanted to find a couple of pairs of pants to take me through the last leg of my weight loss.<br />
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What I'm finding so weird is that womens' clothings sizes have changed since the last time I was in the neighborhood. When I was a teen, I generally wore a size 10, which was good for my 5'9" frame. Size 10s were more or less cut to accommodate a 37-38-inch butt. These days, according to the sizing charts a size 10 accommodates a 40-41 inch butt. They've also added size 0 and 00, which would be necessary to take the place of the slots formerly occupied by 2s and 4s. So basically my 8 is an old 12, the 10 is a 14, 12 are 16s and 14s are 18s. What's weird is that because men's pants are based on inches, and they haven't changed last I checked -- you won't be able to take your size 8 butt and stuff it into 28-inch jeans. The old rule of thumb was that a 30 waist approximated a size 10. No more, I guess.<br />
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How odd. Have we gotten so fat, that clothing manufacturers have had to adjust their sizing charts to make us feel better? Women's clothing manufacturer Chico's has taken the entire concept even further, having plus sizes labeled 1, 2, and 3 with half-step increments. And then there's the practice of adding a W to the size, so you have a size 12W, which is what? A delusional 16?<br />
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Sadly, unless I switch to the metric system, the bathroom scale isn't enabling me, so the number remains, while ever-smaller, still big enough to keep me working. Until then my pants size is an 8. Wooo! Woooo! Next step: nudging the scale into the "normal" BMI range ...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkdtAc7ib0C3Ve7k0TKB2atNXGObXl0DK__WwD514bmN19Q0TKi5kYLSIhXdQT7p54qQBMF_y4JCNwBQdlb43VnTk6uPARt-tuayhZj6LPlIe4mATAZ9ACJK3-Rz_IJvqzApIDA/s1600/DSC_3431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkdtAc7ib0C3Ve7k0TKB2atNXGObXl0DK__WwD514bmN19Q0TKi5kYLSIhXdQT7p54qQBMF_y4JCNwBQdlb43VnTk6uPARt-tuayhZj6LPlIe4mATAZ9ACJK3-Rz_IJvqzApIDA/s320/DSC_3431.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This could be our year ...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>While I brag endlessly about our wonderful weather here in Ventura where it's rarely too hot or cold and the most we can complain about is fog, the one thing I've never been able to do is grow tomatoes. It only gets really hot here a few times a year, if that. We actually haven't had temperatures above 90 for years now, which is great for me, but not so muhc for tomatoes.<br />
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I've tried various varieties, even those advertised as being better in warmer climates, and I get a few tomatoes, but the plants tend to be prone to wilting and they die off easily. I've moved them all around the yard in the hopes that there would be a perfect spot for them, but no dice.<br />
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Eventually I put them by the back fence because it was one of the sunniest spots int he yard and as they matured, I noticed that they seemed to be being eaten from the bottom up. We moved them again and tried putting them in the middle of the year, but we discovered we had tomato worms, which are big green caterpillar looking bugs that eat the whole plant.<br />
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Last year we bought one of those upside-down planters. We didn't get the cheap Topsy-Turvy kinds. Oh no. we went and bought the expensive plastic dealie that said we could grow four plants. We planted them and then on the top part, we planted some other small peppers and basil plants, just like in the picture.<br />
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This is what we learned: Tomatoes don't LIKE to grow upside down. They get wet all the time, which promotes more wilting and fungus and they weren't very prolific.<br />
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This year we were feeling pretty defeated about the whole issue. We didn't even bother to buy plants until late June and then we only bought two. This time I tired something radical. One of the best tomato crops I ever grew was in Ohio the first year I ever grew them and I just dumped a bunch of topsoil down and grew them in that. I figures why not try the same concept and we piled a bunch of bags of garden soil, top soil and some compost in the middle of the sand pit we have leftover from our dismantled swimming pool.<br />
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We stuck them in, put the cages around them and waited. And they did absolutely nothing. they would blossom, but each and every blossom would fall off the plants. By th end of July, we'd resigned ourselves to another year of tomato failure. I noticed that a bunch of leaves were yellowing suddenly and stripped them all off because if I had to look at barren plants, they didn't have to look all yellow and ugly. <br />
<br />
Then we noticed something. There appeared to be a tiny tomato coming out on one of the plants. Soon there was another little baby tomato on the other plant. Pretty soon they were busting out all over. Now we have more tomatoes -- more than 40 -- than we ever have before. I compulsively pick off any yellowing leaves, which is keeping the plants happy, and Rob has been putting eggshells around the plants. We cut back the loquat branches so now there doesn't seem to be anything around to eat the tomatoes.<br />
<br />
We've got our hopes up, but we've been burned before. There are numerous critters out there more than willing to cash in on our crop. But maybe, just maybe this is the year of the tomato.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-66987515443924197342010-09-02T20:15:00.000-07:002010-09-02T20:15:24.025-07:00More CSAI've been terribly busy, so for now will list what we've picked up by week:<br />
<br />
Week 2<br />
avocado, potatoes, onion, garlic, collard greens, cucumber, flowers, tomatoes, basil, cherry tomatoes <br />
<br />
Week 3<br />
collard greens, eggplant, flowers, peppers, squash, tomatoes, basil, cherry tomatoes, an apple, shallot, cucumber, flowers, carrots, bell peppers, assorted peppers<br />
<br />
Week 4<br />
potatoes, collard greens, garlic, cucumber, flowers, carrots, bell peppers, assorted peppers, including hot peppers, cherry tomatoes, tomatoes, basil, apples<br />
<br />
<br />
So far I've been making lots of gazpacho, pesto, tomato sauce. I used the first apple in a curried chicken salad with pecans. I've also been making watermelon salad with basil, feta, cucumber and tomato, which has been dinner for a few nights. I just love the tastes of summer. I have yet to tackle the peppers, which I'll roast and freeze, although a few are crying to be turned into chile rellenos.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-30173352563734637272010-08-12T23:53:00.000-07:002010-08-12T23:53:59.936-07:00CSA -- Week 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRcnhHfvx1oE6SOlvapzSJX0rW5byzLiF44ynEL1WzPIvFiCak4ab6y96QU0_5M3KO_wti1AZqsp4-bVnBUP4swM-vBK2XMBw7vW-X-kaaD2oBlUIj4qafIUHG_1oBGufXEsetA/s1600/DSC_3165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRcnhHfvx1oE6SOlvapzSJX0rW5byzLiF44ynEL1WzPIvFiCak4ab6y96QU0_5M3KO_wti1AZqsp4-bVnBUP4swM-vBK2XMBw7vW-X-kaaD2oBlUIj4qafIUHG_1oBGufXEsetA/s320/DSC_3165.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the bins there were potatoes, a bag of tomatoes and beans, cucumbers, a big bag of basil leaves, onions, green peppers, chard, collard greens and an assortment of squash.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwdVd11TEMuNvkCt4rzSakwOLLi0j9qaT6pMC0dJU0cIap8lrrD74tU_o2qVdux_zD4rhfn1lKasEdczI80NxtndgGqwEbNAmSh5Ywek_2LuVLcFIX2znHFkTXTtfLdXqztYhEw/s1600/DSC_3172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwdVd11TEMuNvkCt4rzSakwOLLi0j9qaT6pMC0dJU0cIap8lrrD74tU_o2qVdux_zD4rhfn1lKasEdczI80NxtndgGqwEbNAmSh5Ywek_2LuVLcFIX2znHFkTXTtfLdXqztYhEw/s320/DSC_3172.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food ready to go at the Farmer & the Cook. You get the contents of a bin and then some peaches, zinnias, garlic and a basket of cherry tomatoes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v9twiZq2opQVpSGEDj6K3jsSyLTET76ZAIYl5E4hCJVuKAS-obOng_NEj_ToHyaXtdP_wRQvErFJlNbYkXiCMdv1-fjIugpTOXtO5BMRuP7U6wkGftc844S6LnAw6bWjNvYWkg/s1600/DSC_3182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v9twiZq2opQVpSGEDj6K3jsSyLTET76ZAIYl5E4hCJVuKAS-obOng_NEj_ToHyaXtdP_wRQvErFJlNbYkXiCMdv1-fjIugpTOXtO5BMRuP7U6wkGftc844S6LnAw6bWjNvYWkg/s320/DSC_3182.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We split the bounty in half, except for the basil and tomatoes, which I used to make sauces we'll divide.<a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: left;">Lindsay and I took off for our first CSA pickup. I always hate first anythings because I never know what to do, so I feel awkward and uncomfortable. We went to the Farmer & the Cook and explained that it was our first time there for the CSA and we really didn't know what to do. the young woman there led us to a back room, gave us a newsletter, with some illuminating thought from Steve Sprinkel, who runs the who shebang. She told us to take the contents of a bin, or we could take the bin and bring it back each week, and she said to also take some of the extra stuff, which consisted of peaches, heads of garlic, colorful summer zinnias, and baskets of orange cherry tomatoes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I explained that I had a peach tree and was wondering if they would like some of my peaches. She said to go ahead and bring some back next week and maybe they would sell them. She then left us because she had another customer and we were a little unclear on how to make payment, but we figured it all out. We will pay $100 at he beginning of the month and come once a week to pick up the food.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We loaded up, took off and headed to my house to split things up. We got a beautiful bag of basil, so I told Lindsay I would make a pesto sauce and we could split it. I also offered to make a tomato sauce. I sent her home with potatoes, squash, garlic, onion and flowers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I made a walnut pesto sauce, which came out really well. Trader Joe's has discontinued pignolas, and I've found that lightly toasted walnuts actually have a better flavor in pestos. I also made a fresh tomato, summer squash sauce that will be perfect for dinner with some pasta. I roasted the cherry tomatoes and put those aside too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was worried that I would have too much to handle, but this batch was easy to manage. I need to show Lindsay how to cook greens. The chard and collard greens look titillating. I make my collard greens Southern style with salt pork and red pepper flakes. The chard calls for a more delicate touch, perhaps sauteed in olive oil with shallots and a little cream. I'm thinking of picking up a few more tomatoes from my friend Alex at Beylik Farms and I'll make some gazpacho with the pepper and cucumber.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So far, so good and delicious.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-85269096376103443592010-08-10T20:37:00.000-07:002010-08-10T20:37:06.622-07:00CSA project: The adventure beginsI've been intrigued by CSAs or Community Supported Agriculture for a while. The way most CSAs work is you pay a monthly fee to a farm or cooperative, usually around $100 to $150 a month and each week you get a box of fresh, seasonal produce. While this sounds like a wonderful idea, there is something daunting about a huge box full of stuff that I need to make use of before another week rolls around and I have to go through the entire process again. Besides it's just my husband and me these days, and we really don't need very much food. After all, it would defeat the entire purpose if I were to toss a large portion of what I get each week.<br />
<br />
Then I had an idea. My youngest daughter, who lives just down the road from me, just had her first baby and she and her husband are concerned about eating a diet with lots of fresh, organic vegetables and fruits. We could share the contents of our weekly boxes, and, just maybe enjoy a bonding experience as we work to figure how to manage this new responsibility/challenge/opportunity.<br />
<br />
For the next few weeks or months, I'm going to chronicle our adventures as we head to the Farmer & the Cook in Ojai, which not only has a spectacular vegetarian restaurant, but also grows fresh produce in surrounding fields. Steve Sprinkel of the Farmer & the Cook has agreed to participate in the project.<br />
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Lindsay and I are planning to get our box, which we will sort through, and create recipes and other creative ways to use our bounty. And if all else fails and there are leftovers despite our best efforts, we'll be contributing it to our local food pantry Project Understanding, along with any of the extra vegetables I'm growing in our backyard.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-61147701926176136182010-06-26T23:21:00.000-07:002010-06-26T23:21:58.727-07:00Counterproductivity tipsSomeone posted some "productivity tips" complete with extraneous quotation marks from some nice-looking gray- haired lady, whose mane was sprayed and molded into one of those helmet-hair styles that I will always eschew, as I do most of her advice. She was offering tips for freelancers, which the more I thought about it, the more I found it to be so far off the mark that it started a whole train a thought. Climb aboard and enjoy the ride.<br />
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One of the pearls of wisdom my iron-coiffed scribe offered was the need for people to dress for work each day to be professional. She especially made note of the necessity of wearing shoes. Seriously? Shoes make you more productive? Why the hell might that be? The strapping on of some supportive leather with a rubberized sole will really make you crank out that work. The columnist asserts that people can tell in your voice what you are wearing.<br />
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Frankly, I'm pretty sure I have no idea (thank God) from anyone's voice what they might be wearing (or not.) I tend to be pretty uncertain about any aspect of their physical appearance. Although, like most of us, I love to make mental images of people I speak with regularly and delight in comparing the real-life versions with my imagined images. I'm really not interested in what anyone is wearing during my phone interviews and I'm pretty certain you can't tell from my voice whether I'm wearing sweats or a ball gown.<br />
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Another useless tip was to set office hours. I've noticed a lot of office hours being applied to journalists lately and all I can say is the people who are doing this are obviously NOT journalists. Journalism is the last profession that is 9 to 6 or 8 to 5 or any other business-day centered enterprise.<br />
<br />
In the real world of trying to get in touch with people on a daily basis and trying to arrange to get together for interviews or for meetings, you'll find that the schedule is erratic. Some days can run from 7 a.m. to 1 a.m. Some days can start around 11 a.m. and wind down around 3 p.m. Ours is a reactive world. We follow people around and report on what they are doing and they tend to do things any old time. Anyone who is a real journalist will not be able to do the job effectively within an 8 to 5 framework.<br />
<br />
Another tip was to make sure friends and family don't impose on your apparent lack of a schedule. Again this is old-fashioned talk. Most of us in my family work odd hours. Some of us are in the news business; others work at restaurants. Others are students. We work evenings. We work weekends. We work whenever we get paid, so we get together whenever we can. This means we'll have a barbecue in the middle of a weekday -- because we'll all be working Saturday night.<br />
<br />
If I have work to do, I have no problems letting people know, and I go and do my work. I'm lucky that I've always been able to focus no matter what mayhem is occurring around me. The most recent example of this was Lindsay's baby shower, which I had already scheduled when I found out I had to cover the Strawberry Festival in Oxnard. I pretty much had to punt the party to Lindsay's mother-in-law Dorothy, Dena, Shelby, Amber, Janine, Jessie, Gen, Kaia and Lindsay and everyone pitched in and got everything set up and the food -- assorted frozen Trader Joes treats -- heated and plated.<br />
<br />
When I came running in the door to a clean house filled with flowers artfully arranged by Dorothy and with people being served mocktails by Amber, I was delighted. As I sat at my computer in the dining room typing my story, people were being served all around me. "Oh the food is wonderful," they'd say. "Oh please make sure you get enough," I'd reply as I frantically searched through my notes to find out how to spell a source's name.<br />
<br />
Even as the party continued, I had to keep answering editor's insightful questions such as, (names have been changed) when you say,"Irina Gonzalez and mom Juana Maria," do you mean Irina's mother? (Um, yeah.) Or when you say the giraffe, cow, goat, horse and piggy banks do you mean that the giraffe, cow and horse were all banks too (that would be the point of those commas separating the words connected with the word "and," which last I checked was how your write a sentence in English).<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, I managed to whip up the Boston Cream cupcakes and berry vanilla trifle with the help of Tracy, Gen and Lindsay and we had a great time at the shower with a bunch of different people who have been very important to us over the years as we've made our lives in Ventura.<br />
<br />
The long and short of it is I work when I have to work and I play when I have to play. As time goes on the stream of both aspects are sometimes difficult to disentangle. Because I'm a freelance writer I can do things like ask the lady at the animal rehabilitation facility in Simi Valley if it would be alright for my 8-year-old niece, who loves animals, to come along to see what an individual woman with a passion can accomplish. <br />
<br />
Last night I had to follow the fire up by the Ventura landmark Two Trees, but while I was driving over to the east side of town and tracking down firefighters for interviews, I was also stopping at the local Vons and making a pasta bake dinner with garlic bread, salad and banana cream pie (store made) for dessert for Ollie, Lindsay and Ryan (and Rob). I managed to update the story and get the information in the newspaper about the hapless teen who set the fire, while preparing and enjoying a delicious dinner (if I may say so myself) with Lindsay, Ryan and Rob.<br />
<br />
When I spend the morning around a bunch of wild horses and burros being adopted and heading off to new homes or go from festival to festival at the beach. When I spend a quiet foggy morning on Lake Casitas with exuberant 5th graders watching fawns eating at the shore, I'm doing something I would enjoy whether I was being paid to write about it or not, so often it's hard to tell when the fun ends and the work starts. I've decided that right now I work all the time and I play all the time, it's just a matter of degree. <br />
<br />
The final tip was to make sure to remember to do enough work and to create balance. I finally had to agree with the author, the balance thing is tricky. It is tempting to work all the time. But I don't have any problems at all with the motivation thing. If I don't work, I don't get paid, so every waking minute is spent figuring ways to get more work, and thus more money. And everything I do, I do with an eye to writing a story that I can sell. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I wish there was a little more cushion, but as far as my work, it's making me a much better reporter. Because I work on a piecework basis, which is the direction journalism is heading, I rush to crank out stories. Not for me the in-depth investigations into the county's groundwater supplies or the deep analyses of the municipal or college district budgets in Ventura County to see where the money is really going, and that is a real shame for the people of Ventura County if that kind of writing gets short shifted. <br />
<br />
I do have some workday routines, such as a no-television-during-the-day-rule. But I use the flexibility to my advantage. I can do an interview at 7 in the morning or 11 at night because it doesn't matter what I'm wearing and I can sneak a nap in anytime I need one. I can go outside and garden while I want for people to return my phone calls. My yard has never looked better. My dogs and cats get constant attention, except for being put outside in the yard if they're being particularly vocal. I can make meals that need to cook for hours and elaborate dishes that require many steps that I can stagger between stories.<br />
<br />
It's a good life overall and I love the freedom I have to chase the great stories around me. But I've always been averse to rules, finding them constricting and stifling more than they are beneficial. I suppose I do operate by some rules, but they tend to be more amorphous, like always keep learning and trying to improve. Figure out how much you need to do and then try to figure a way to give a little more than that. Be honest and try to respect the people who entrust you to present their stories in the most objective, fair manner possible. But I assure you, I will not be wearing shoes during the day and there will be no counterproductive work schedule.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79555634@N00/4434665122/">Courtney and me</a><br />
Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/79555634@N00/">Princey's pics</a></span></div><b>This was taken right after I had Courtney on June 24, 1978, during a visit by my dad and Joyce to see Briggs, the baby and me. It was one of their last visits as a married couple. It's a bit shocking to see how young I was. I ran into a friend and we were saying how we look back at our young selves and remember how we felt fat and ugly. I can't even remember being this young, but I can tell you exactly how much I weighed.<br clear="all" /></b><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
People are kind. There's a lot of 'you always looked great,' but c'mon, we know I didn't. We're just not allowed to say it. (Although some people have. There was the one woman I interviewed after a year who kept going -- in front of a bunch of other people -- "You've lost weight. I mean a lot of weight. I mean a bunch of weight." Um. Yes I have. Thanks?)<br />
<br />
Like most women I always struggled with my weight. I have a genetic predisposition to weight gain, but if I were to be honest, I just let myself go. I got tired of counting calories and obsessing over each bite that went into my mouth. Plus I am fantastic cook. I say this without modesty because I love my cooking and it matters not a whit to me if anyone else does or not -- although I'm always happier when people do like my food, of course.<br />
<br />
So sometime in my mid 30s I threw in the towel. The resulting overindulgence over the years led to a substantial weight gain. I went from being able to cover the lumps and bumps with kicky, fun fashionable clothes, to large sweaters to contrast with what I hoped was a smaller person and finally to dark, plain clothing that didn't call attention to itself or the big woman underneath it.<br />
<br />
I wasn't happy and every time I caught sight of my reflection, I would cringe. I wasn't the kind of person who wore weight well. It swelled my features and made my face ugly to my eyes. That big bulky woman was an affront to me. Sadly she was me.<br />
<br />
I lost weight from time to time and would make a real run at regaining my former shape, but something would always happen and before you know it I was topping the charts yet again. I wasn't at my top weight, but nowhere near my desired weight, and I avoided scales, reflective windows and mirrors.<br />
<br />
Then I got hit by a truck while I was riding my bike across the street in a marked crosswalk. I always tried to keep physically active no matter how heavy I got. I ended up rupturing my posterior tibial tendon, which left me with a titanium rod through my ankle and my foot screwed on just a little off-center. The doctor was really proud of his 10-degree angle, but my foot was never at a 10-degree angle to start with. Now I can hardly buy shoes because my heel goes in normally, but the front of my foot is scewed out to the right. I have to wear a heavy support stocking on that calf because the foot swells if I stand on it too long.<br />
<br />
If that weren't enough, my left knee was claimed by osteoarthritis. The doctor -- a different one than the first, but it's managed care and you get as little as they can get away with -- tried arthroscopic surgery with disastrous results. I've since read that arthroscopic surgery is beyond useless with arthritis. In my case it caused a runaway reaction where inflammation froze the knee. So at 53, I found myself getting a total knee replacement.<br />
<br />
The arthritis is raging through my body these days. The other knee is in bad shape and my hips cause constant pain. Besides anti-inflammatories and pain killers, so I can sleep at least until the aches wake me, there isn't much medical science has to offer, besides replacing the joints as they collapse.<br />
<br />
There is, however, one big thing I can do to make it better and put off the day when I have to get more joints replaced.<br />
<br />
I can lose weight.<br />
<br />
Trust me, if you ever have the misfortune to have to have a joint replaced, you will understand that where other motivations have failed, the specter of having to go thought that torture again has worked.<br />
<br />
So I embarked on an Atkins-derived diet where I eat lots of proteins, eschew sugar and carbs for the most part. I eat lots of veggies and make sure I have a piece of fruit or two on hand. I've found I can have as much fun working my way through the various varieties of tangerines at the farmers market as I used to working my way through carryout.<br />
<br />
I was watching Jeff Garlin the other night and he's lost a lot of weight making what he calls "lifestyle changes." I don't want to be negative, but I wouldn't be surprised to find him in a couple of years right back where he was a la Oprah. I say this because he has put himself into such a draconian diet where he never, ever allows himself sugar or alcohol or any other treats, that he will snap.<br />
<br />
I allow myself occasional treats (although alcohol is an absolute no-no), but my new creed (and we'll see how long I last)is moderation. I stick with the low-carb, protein and veggie diet for the most part. But I'm allowed one meal a week to eat what I want. I work at not pigging out, but just enjoying eating until I'm comfortable. <br />
<br />
I'm also big on bites. I'm allowed a bite of almost anything. But it's just that, a bite. I try to squeeze in as much excitement and appreciation into that one taste as I used to get in eating the whole danged box of treats. I also taste with my eyes. I look at forbidden foods and imagine how they would taste and feel as I ate them -- the icy sweet-tartness of the lemon gelato or the creamy richness of the mint truffle -- after all the actual physical process of eating is fleeting, so if you savor the moment mentally, you can avoid the lasting effects physically.<br />
<br />
It's paid off. Now I feel as though I'm a different person, and from the way people react to me, I am a different person. I would love to rail about how unfair it is for people to judge me on my size. I would love to be able to complain that it's staggering how people react differently to the new, thin me.<br />
<br />
But I'm as guilty of those judgments as anyone. I'm the one who has been deleting all photos of myself for the past 20 years. I'm the one who recoiled with revulsion at my reflected image. Ask Oprah, no one hates their fat self more than the fat person.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, though I got thrown for a loop. I was interviewing two old guys about a statue they are putting in at Marina Park. One of them immediately said on meeting, "You're a pretty thing!". The other kept telling me how pretty I was and they kept flirting and fluttering around like two schoolboys. I haven't been the object of anyone's desire for so long -- no matter how old -- I was totally thrown for a loop.<br />
<br />
I'm still overweight, but now I'm closing on on the maximum BMI before I cross back into the "normal" range. I've dropped a couple of sizes and the size I'm in now is starting to get a little loose. It is easier to walk and my foot isn't swelling as much as it used to. My right knee seems to be holding up well and doesn't hurt.<br />
<br />
But no matter what the health benefits, the greatest joy comes when I go to the Loehmann's open dressing room where I can try on some really cute clothes and know they look fantastic on my increasingly long-legged, tall and no longer big and operatic body. <br />
<br />
And I'm still the same person. Or am I?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
After my personal experience of leaving the Star almost five years ago, I was able to stop and figure out what I wanted to do. It wasn't easy and there were some false starts. I was going to try to open a day care back in 2007 and even went through all the expense and hassle of getting licensed, only to be hit by a truck while riding my bike the day I placed my first ad on Craigslist. My long recuperation made watching children impossible.<br />
<br />
Looking back, it's probably best because the economic downturn has led to a marked decrease in need for child care. So I decided to keep plugging at being a freelance writer, which had always been my dream. But it wasn't until early 2008 that I got my first freelance jobs. I was contacted out of the blue to do some fact checking for a Sunset Magazine project and Julie Price at the Ventura County Star (who was laid off today) took a chance and let me start to write for her.<br />
<br />
Since then, I've been able to establish myself as a writer with -- I hope -- a reputation for fairness, accuracy and reliability. The work has been our lifeline as Rob struggles with the aftermath of losing the sight in his eye and his subsequent lack of vision. Not only that, I love what I'm doing. I love going to people's homes and finding out about their lives and trying to convey their unique stories in a newspaper article. I love going to events around the county. I even love long, boring city budget meetings.<br />
<br />
There's no job security and you only make money if you work, so it's kind of a piece-work approach to journalism. But I have my freedom and can spend my days in my lovely home with my doggies (even if they aren't so wonderful when they all start barking and I'm conducting an interview.) The anxiety level is always high -- worrying about making enough money and getting a steady stream of work. Overall, though, I love it.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my fallen comrades will be able to stop and figure out what it is they have always wanted to do with their lives and find a way to accomplish that. While newspapers are struggling, the need for qualified, competent journalists has never been greater, as people develop an insatiable thirst for information.<br />
<br />
I'm not smart enough to have figured out a business model for how the brave new world of journalism is going to make money. But I do know that the more you cannibalize your product, the closer you teeter toward failure. I also know that the mindless pursuit of unrealistic profit margins is not a long-term way to succeed.<br />
<br />
I'm heartbroken for my colleagues and hope they will be able to begin new lives with perhaps a more realistic sense of priorities -- knowing that no company or corporation is worth selling your soul for ever again. It's time to reflect deeply; when you daydreamed as a kid what did you imagine yourself doing? I'm not talking about the pie in the sky dreams -- you're never going to be Spiderman -- but the ones of having your own family, living in a nice home, accomplishing some small success, making the world a better place.<br />
<br />
Maybe you have creative aspects of yourself you've never pursued. Maybe you always had a passion for something --environment, outdoors, art history, marine biology, animal rights activism; now is the time to pursue the passion. <br />
<br />
The most important and most palliative thing is whatever you decide to do -- start painting, become a big Brother or Big Sister, learn to surf -- whatever it is, get out of yourself. From personal experience, the worst times of my life have been when I get so consumed with my misery, I can barely function. There are a million volunteer groups, hobbies, subjects that all need to be explored. And if you get lucky, you just might find yourself getting paid for doing what you love.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
Despite technological advances that have allowed us to do such things as video chat with the boys, which makes our faces and voices familiar to them, it's still hard to be this far away. Especially because they're so young and are growing up so fast.<br />
<br />
Still it's obvious they're getting to know us bit by bit. Cody reminds me so much of my brother Rodger, not only in looks, but also in his goofy, loud way. Alex is smart as a whip and has a will of iron. They're both so sweet and loving, which is a sign that they're loved.<br />
<br />
I ran around each day making sure I spent time with Courtney and the boys (I don't really worry about Dave). We had a great time, but it's all over now and all the stuff has been packed away and we're back to our old schedule.<br />
<br />
I love this whole grandmom gig, though. It's a great perspective to be in the old, wise role even if I'm nowhere near there myself. The whole baking cookies and doing fun things part is fantastic.<br />
<br />
Tracy came over a few weeks ago and looked around and said, "It looks so empty without all the Christmas stuff. Don't you miss it?" And I do, especially now that I'm a grandmom.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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I stumbled on this idea and had to try it out. I took them with me to master chorale practice the other night and everyone was impressed. So easy and soooo good. The perfect holiday treat.<br />
<br />
It's super easy, so much so it's barely even a recipe. The hardest part is unwrapping all of those Rolos. In a time when salted caramels are all the rage, pairing a chocolate caramel candy with a salt pretzel is genius IMO.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Rolo treats<br />
</b><br />
Small round pretzels<br />
equal number of unwrapped Rolo candies<br />
equal number of toasted pecan halves (toast the pecans in 350 oven for 6 minutes and cool)<br />
<br />
Heat oven to 250 degrees. Place pretzels on silpat mat on cookie sheet (for easiest cleanup). Top each with 1 Rolo. Put in oven for 4 minutes. Top each pretzel/candy with a pecan half and press down. Chill for 30 minutes in refrigerator.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
One of my favorite traditions is Christmas cards, but each year, as we receive fewer and fewer cards, especially from family and friends, I wonder if the tradition is dying out. We get more Christmas letters, but not as many cards. I was brought up to believe that Christmas letters are tacky, and so each year, I write a personal note to each and every person on my list.<br />
<br />
It's kind of unfortunate, really, because my handwriting is so poor I most likely cause all kinds of consternation with my notes, "Did she tell me to shove the what where?" When I might have been writing about my latest pet or ailment, depending on the person.<br />
<br />
Rob and I share the poor handwriting affliction, so even through my handwriting is almost illegible and unattractive to the point of embarrassment, I still sit down with pen in hand and thumb through my Rolodex writing all my cards.<br />
<br />
Then I sit back and wait for the cards to come in. At this point I would say I get one card for every three I send out. It used to be one card for every two, but recent years have brought even fewer. We try to beef up the card count by including cards from the Realtors and people asking for money, but even with that it's still looking pretty sad.<br />
<br />
I guess like with many things Christmas cards have probably been replaced with e-greetings and Facebook gifts that clutter up your profile. Social networks make the Christmas letter more anachronistic than ever. But I still love the assortment of pretty cards all containing holiday wishes. And I want it to be something tangible.<br />
<br />
I love going out to my mailbox and seeing the familiar, square-ish hard shape of a card. I love how they look on the mantle in the center of the room. But maybe this year I might have to go out a buy a couple and give them to Rob from the pets to fill out the row a little.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
Just two years ago Rob and I were alone for Thanksgiving dinner and I was still recovering from my ankle reconstruction surgery. He had been laid off just months before. I made the whole big dinner anyway, even though it was us and we decorated because to not do it would have been even more pathetic. But when it came time to serve the big meal and it was just the two of us, like every other day, it was just sad. We ate quickly and were glad to just put it behind us.<br />
<br />
Later that night Dena and Tresa came over and I gave them some vegetarian food I'd made -- I always stuff squash for Dena for the main dish and there are so many side dishes that she had plenty to eat. We had a great time with them and were able to stop feeling so sorry for ourselves.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, this year we had everybody back -- Sean, Gen and Kaia, Lindsay & Ryan, Dennis (Kim had to work), Tresa and her boyfriend Dylan, Dena and Chris and Colin came later when he got off work. There were eight dogs underfoot, as well as the two cats, who were avoiding everything. It was just the insanity I crave for a great holidays=.<br />
<br />
Here is my report from Chowhound reposted: Topic, good, bad ugly of Thanksgiving dinner: <br />
<br />
For me the good was the locally grown, free-range organic turkey, which was great. It was a lot bigger than I wanted, almost 25 pounds, but we ended up with more people, so alls well... The cranberry sauce made with merlot was really quite delicious. I made well over 7 pounds of potatoes and people were fighting over them. Amazing. They're clamoring for more.<br />
The bad: I used King Arthur white whole wheat flour for my pie crusts and it was a battle the whole way. I had to resort to wax paper to even get them to stick together when I rolled them out. Then they looked really dark to the point of being burnt when they cooked. The taste, however was very good and they weren't burnt. The pie filling was the **Cooks Illustrated pumpkin pie recipe with sweet potato, which I doubled, and I don't blind-bake the crusts as recommended because I'm not very good at it. They came out amazing, even though Cooks Illustrated recipes are written by people who have never had to wash their own dishes -- seriously could they make you take more steps with more bowls? We had a young man from Australia here who had his first pumpkin pie ever and he scarfed the whole slice. My nephew, who professes to hate pie (how can you hate pie? It's like saying you hate sunshine?) was converted by my apple pie ala mode (had to give him a familiar taste to bridge to the pie. I used pink lady and granny smith locally grown organic apples and they were amazing.<br />
The ugly: creamed onions started well but ended up brown looking. They tasted OK if you didn't look too hard.<br />
<br />
**Here is my adapted Cooks Illustrated pumpkin pie recipe. I've changed so much that I need to write it down b/c each year I spend half my time trying to figure out what I meant.<br />
<br />
I changed it substantially because I disagree with some of the postulates -- like the cutback on pumpkin pie spices to "let the taste of the squash" shine through. Um no. I eat pumpkin pie FOR the spices, and I want the filling to provide a custard-y squash-y background. I also like to make double recipes. And I rarely blind bake my crusts because I've never been successful no matter what I've done.<br />
What's really cool about this recipe is that the filling is much creamier and doesn't crack, making for a really lovely silky pie.<br />
<br />
<i><b>No-crack pumpkin Pie (Heavily adapted from Cooks Illustrated)</b><br />
<br />
Crust<br />
2 1/2 cups white unbleached flour<br />
1 teaspoon table salt<br />
2 tablespoons sugar<br />
1 stick unsalted butter cut into pieces<br />
1 cup lard cut into pieces<br />
2 tablespoons cold vodka (this is a Cooks Illustrated innovation that works wonderfully and doesn't leave any taste in the crust, but leaves it crumbly and melt-in-your-mouth delicious)<br />
2 tablespoons cold water<br />
<br />
Filling<br />
2 cups heavy cream<br />
2 cups whole milk<br />
5 jumbo eggs plus 2 yolks<br />
1 teaspoon vanilla extract<br />
1 large 29-ounce can pumpkin puree<br />
1 small can candied yams, drained<br />
1/4 cup maple syrup<br />
1 1/2 cups sugar<br />
3 teaspoons (1 tablespoon) dried ginger<br />
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (or more)<br />
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg<br />
3/4 teaspoon ground cloves<br />
1 teaspoon table salt<br />
<br />
1 cup heavy cream<br />
vanilla and almond extracts to taste<br />
2 tablespoons sugar<br />
<br />
For the crust: Process flour salt and sugar in food processor, add butter and lard until it homogeneous and it's just starting to come together in lumps about 10 pulses. Scrape bowl down with rubber spatula and pulse again a few times. Add vodka, pulse then add water. Turn out and pull together into two equal size balls. Shape into 1-inch thick discs and refrigerate at least an hour. Roll out and line pie pans, crimp edges.<br />
<br />
For the filling: Whisk cream, milk, eggs, yolks and vanilla in a medium bowl. Combine pumpkin puree, yams, sugar, maple syrup in heavy bottomed saucepan. Bring to sputtering simmer stirring over medium heat 5 to 7 minutes. Continue to simmer pumpkin mixture, stirring constantly, mashing yams against the sides of a pot for 10 to 15 minutes or until the mixture is thick and shiny.<br />
Remove pan from heat and stir in cream mixture until thoroughly incorporated. Blend with an immersible blender until smooth. Divide filing between the two crusts. Bake in 425 oven for 15 minutes and reduce heat to 325 for about 25 to 35 minutes or until the pies are set on the edges and are just a little jiggly in the middle. Cool overnight and serve with heavy cream whipped and flavored with sugar, vanilla, almond (or bourbon) spread over the top (although we used to do this to hide the cracks and I don't have to now, but I still like the whipped cream spread evenly in a layer. it's the way my dad id it and it reminds me of my childhood.<br />
</i><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<b><i>Lawrence, me, Denice (nicknamed Niecie by me), Rodger on Christmas morning @1965.</b></i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79555634@N00/4118515519/" title="Nativity play by Princey's pics, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2602/4118515519_bc711e0631.jpg" width="491" height="500" alt="Nativity play" /></a><b><i>Denice got to be the baby Jesus and later on her baby brother Dennis assumed the role. There were lots of snickers at the time, but it was most likely closer to the historical truth.<br />
</b></i><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79555634@N00/4118515467/" title="The house in Greenwich by Princey's pics, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2643/4118515467_545538138b.jpg" width="500" height="353" alt="The house in Greenwich" /></a><b><i>I dream about this house still. It affected me so deeply. It was my grandmother's chef d'oeuvre. She decorated every square inch and it was quite lovely. It was also quite grand and is probably the reason that to this day I feel I should be rich.</b></i><br />
<br />
I found out this week that my daughter, her husband and my grandsons are coming out to visit right after Christmas through the New Year. While I'm greedy and would love them here during Christmas, I'm so excited to have them out during the holidays -- it's the first time after two years off, I don't mind (too much). With Lindsay pregnant with grandchild no. 3, I started thinking about my Christmases when I was growing up.<br />
<br />
I went digging through some old pictures my Aunt Anne gave me shortly after my grandfather died and scanned some of them and uploaded them to Flickr and put a few here.<br />
<br />
Christmases at my grandparents home in Greenwich, Conn., were magical. My grandmother would buy some kind of giant blue spruce that she special-ordered. It would take up the entire front foyer part of their house -- a place that was meant to double as a dance floor. The tree reached to the ceiling, which was at least 14 feet. My grandmother used only blue lights and tinsel, along with the decorations. I especially remember silver cornucopias filled with candy. There was a music box dealie with kids singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" under the tree. I found one years later very similar made of ceramic, but unfortunately it was destroyed.<br />
<br />
My grandparents were very religious, so our Christmases were replete with observations of the Christ child's birth. We would do a Nativity play each year and I got to play the virgin Mary. My brother Rodger was Joseph and Lawrence was a shepherd or a Wise Man or whatever. A couple of years we enlisted the aid of the caretaker couple who lived in the house and cleaned up after and served my grandparents, to everyone's snickering amusement.<br />
<br />
Even as a young child I had trouble getting my mind around the fact that David and Ethelyne would share in our Christmas morning then they had to put on uniforms and wait on us during Christmas dinner. One year I angrily accused my grandfather of having slaves when he told me they didn't pay David and Ethelyne, they gave them free room and board -- which meant they lived in the half-finished attic and took care of the house. Eventually David and Ethelyne moved out. They had two young children and felt it would be better to raise them in their own apartment rather than in some rich people's attic.<br />
<br />
I remember Christmas mornings. We would get up way too early and be sent back to bed a zillion times. We weren't allowed downstairs by the tree until my grandfather checked to see if Santa was there. We were told if we caught Santa he would leave and take all of our presents with him, so my grandfather would have to shoo him away if he were still there. Actually, we realized years alter, he just wanted to turn on the tree lights.<br />
<br />
Most of the adults went to midnight Mass and then we would go to mass on Christmas morning. My grandmother always put the orange juice in the blender which created an orange foam. I still do this with my orange juice. She also served Sara Lee coffee cakes, which I till serve.<br />
<br />
After my parents divorced, my dad would come and get us on Christmas day and drive us to his house in Binghampton, N.Y. Everyone would always make a fuss about it and my mom would go on about how my dad just picked us up on Christmas because he was selfish and stubborn. Looking back I realize that for him to interrupt his Christmas to drive three hours each way to collect our bratty little asses, was a huge act of love.<br />
<br />
Even through my dad's trees were never grand and there weren't always as many presents, we always would have a great time. My dad and stepmom were so poor their first few Christmases together that they would get the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve because they often could get it for free or close to it. Dad would tell us how it was traditional in some countries to put up the tree of Christmas Eve. Then they would decorate it with all-edible ornaments. That way they only bought lights.<br />
<br />
Dad would make sugar cookies and gingerbread men. There was candy ribbon (It's the cheapest candy you can buy and it looks pretty) candy canes and popcorn balls. Then dad would go crazy and make his toffee and his soft candy. He would toast nuts and put them all over the place. There were always bowls of stuff to nibble on. Dad is also not religious at all, so there was little mention of that. There was, however, lots of TV because my mom never let us watch it, so we were TV addicts when we got to my dad's house. Of course the fact that we were insanely destructive when we weren't watching TV meant that we were allowed to watch as much as we wanted.<br />
<br />
There was only one year it snowed too much for dad to make it and we spent Christmas day sledding on the front hill at my grandparent's house, the only time I remember doing that.<br />
<br />
Now it's my turn to make Christmas memories with my grandsons. Although we get a tall tree, it will never compare with my grandparent's tree, but then I will never be as wealthy as my grandparents. What we lack in money we more than make up for in real, unpretentious love. We decorate the house from top to bottom and our Christmas meal is as good as you'll find anywhere, but we don't have anyone serving us.<br />
<br />
I have always enjoyed a more spiritual Christmas than the ones we have now, but my problems with my faith run deep and I have trouble reconciling my beliefs with the teachings of the church. This doesn't stop me from singing Christmas carols and fulling embracing the day. I have a much more pantheistic view of things anyway, so our traditional walk on the beach with the dogs serves that purpose, although last year there were high winds and a sandstorm that lessened the joy of the experience considerably.<br />
<br />
I want my grandsons' memories of Christmas with grandmom to be ones of warmth and joy. I can't wait until we can have our traditional Christmas Story, White Christmas and It's a Wonderful Life with Rob complaining the whole time about all of it. I want to give them our stocking traditions and feed them a breakfast of whipped orange juice, Sara Lee coffee cake and ham and eggs.<br />
<br />
We always have so much fun with Courtney and Dave and I love to watch them relax and enjoy themselves. We have a bunch of fun things for the boys to do -- after all it is Southern California, the Entertainment Capital of the World. I can't believe how happy and excited I am to have a chance to give these boys holiday memories to cherish as I do mine.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
I've been feeling especially lucky lately. I just found out that Lindsay is pregnant. She and Ryan have been trying to conceive. It's early yet, but hopefully everything will be OK. Tthe idea of having a grandchild living nearby is exciting. I couldn't love Cody and Alex more and it breaks my heart that we don't live closer. I feel so cheated out of their lives. And even though having a grandchild nearby does nothing to alleviate the distance from the boys, perhaps it will take some of the sting off.<br />
<br />
I'm already looking forward to years of county fairs -- we'll have to take pictures on the ponies like we did for Kaia. Then there are all the fun things about growing up -- school performances, Little League (which is almost guaranteed) and there's no downside. No stretch marks, no morning sickness.<br />
<br />
With that to look forward to, there's also the joy of writing, which I'm doing pretty much full time these days. I'm realizing that it was a huge mistake to have ever stopped writing, and it feels so good to have it back. Not only that, but I'm having such a great time driving all around Ventura County getting to know people and learning all about this place. Ventura County is one of the most beautiful places in the world and I regularly am covering events from the beach and to the mountains and everywhere in between.<br />
<br />
The people I'm meeting are amazing too. I don't think I was ever fully aware of how many people in this world work very hard to make it a better place, whether they give their time and money to creating an art gallery and haven for the poor Hispanic young people in Oxnard or they're working on a holiday to make sure the hungry get fed. I meet artists who are bringing beauty to the community and people who are trying to help the homeless.<br />
<br />
When I'm not going face to face, I'm at all the fun events I've always been too lazy to visit. Long ago, I used to actually take pads of paper and take notes when I would go places, just to keep a record in case I wanted to write about it later. It was ridiculously pretentious and silly, but now I do it because it's how I make a living.<br />
<br />
It's hard to let go of the gripping fear that so dominated the past few years. We've had so many things go wrong and we haven't known from week to week how we were going to make it through. It's not something you dwell on because it will consume you, but the terror is there all the time. In some ways it's very focusing, but I'd rather focus on more enjoyable things, like the name for my new grandchild.<br />
<br />
Lindsay, apparently thinks Rob's and my name suggestions for the baby, Falcon Guzik for a boy or Ooga Guzik for a girl are "silly." She obviously doesn't recognize creative genius. <br />
<br />
Rob has yet to forgive his parents, and by extension the world, for the lie perpetrated on him when he was 4 and his parents promised him they would name his new little brother Dewey because then it would be Huey, Louie and Dewey for Rick, Rob and -- well Dewey. His parents assured him that his brother had been named Dewey, and when he found out they had lied and he was actually named Jon, Rob knew that no one should ever be trusted again. A hard lesson to learn at 4. They tried to tell him that his brother Jon's middle names was Dewey (it's David), but Rob found out that too was a fabrication. This time, Rob has vowed, his wishes will not be thwarted.<br />
<br />
Rob also says we will probably get in a car wreck, but I already got hit by a truck, so I shouldn't be due for a while (knock on wood.) Rob's back in school and loving it and the master chorale is really fun this year now that I'm getting to know people better.<br />
<br />
I'm working on my weight, realizing that with my fragile legs, the more weight I'm carrying the more difficult it will be for me to walk in coming years.Both Rob and I are trying to eat a healthier diet overall. I've lost 40 pounds so far and am wearing all of my thin clothes. But I have to lose more weight because any extra weight at all is a really bad idea as I age.<br />
<br />
So now there's not always a crushing sense of despair when all the sleep has been slept out and there's no choice but to get up and face whatever disaster lurks or head off whatever calamity threatens. Progress. Wonderful.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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The lemon tree took years to fully establish, but in the past few years, it's finally taken off and we have all the fresh lemons we can eat.<br /><br />When I first moved here there was another woman close to my age I worked with who once said she complained to the grocers about the prices of lemons. "You're in Ventura County and you're charging 50 cents a lemon? are you crazy?" She was right. There are lemons all over the place.<br /><br />I'm often reminded of Steinbeck when I walk around here, with the abundance of fruit trees we have that you can just pluck food off of, if you so desire, as long as it's hanging over a public thoroughfare, and plenty fruit trees are. But there is fruit lying in the gutters around here. It's kind of amazing, really.<br /><br />So this year I also planted an avocado, tangerine, Valencia orange and fig tree. I planed a banana tree a couple of years ago, and it's finally starting to take off. I figure that with the economy being as volatile as it is and us not getting any younger, it's probably a good idea to grow as much food as we can, and if need be, we can sell the leftovers or give them away. I always have a Steinbeck-ean existence in the back of my mind.<br /><br />In the meantime, our little lemon tree keeps us in more lemons than we can eat, so lately I've been trying to incorporate them into more recipes. Rob said he wanted some lemon piccata, so the other day I threw one together using the lemons from our tree. It came out quite well. the first time I made this recipe, I made it with chicken. the second time I made it I uses pork. I like the chicken better, but the pork wasn't bad. This is a good recipe to put the Steinbeck fears to rest, as the delicious smell makes the house feel safe and secure.<br /><br />I didn't use any agent for adhering the flours to the chicken because I wanted a very light, light crust. I find too much flouring and breading can be overpowering in some cases.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Chicken Piccata</span><br /><br />3 chicken thighs<br />3/4 cup flour (I like King Arthur flour's white whole wheat)<br />3/4 teaspoon garlic powder<br />3/4 teaspoon onion powder<br />A few pinches of salt<br />3 tablespoons canola oil<br />1 large lemon<br />1 cup dry white wine<br />4 tablespoons butter<br />Capers<br /><br />Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Pound the thighs between two pieces of plastic wrap until they are about 1/4 inch thick. Cut in half and dredge in flour, garlic powder, onion powder, salt mixture, making sure the entire piece is covered with flour. Fry in hot oil.Using microplane grater peel lemon directly over the pieces of cooking chicken, making sure to just get peel, not pith (the white part). Make sure each piece of chicken gets some grated lemon peel. Pepper the pieces. Flip them and grate more lemon peel and pepper them on the second side. When all of the chicken has cooked until golden brown and cooked through, remove it and drain on paper towels. Wipe the pan clean and add butter and wine. reduce the wine by at least half and add the juice of the lemon cook for just a minute or two more, or until the sauce has reduced a bit more. Pour sauce over the chicken and top with capers.<br /><br />In a separate pan cook 1/2 pound spaghetti noodles until al dente. Drain. Add two tablespoons butter to the noodles and about a half cup or more of grated Parmesan cheese. Squeeze half a lemon over the noodles and add freshly ground pepper and toss. Serve with the chicken.<br /><br />My eggplant in my garden has also started to ripen, so I've been playing with eggplant recipes. This is a super easy one that makes a great side dish, especially with grilled steak.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Grilled eggplant and tomato with basil and cheese<br /></span><br />Slice the unpeeled eggplant about 1/2 to 3/4 inch thick lengthwise, after cutting off stem. Brush with olive oil and salt on each side. Slice some Roma tomatoes (I used my San Marzanos and they were fantastic) and place on top of eggplant slices. Shred basil by hand into large pieces and place on top of tomatoes. top with a good Italian cheese blend, or use your favorite. I used provolone slices and they were great. Place the eggplant slices on a piece of foil and grill on top rack, away from the heat for about 5 minutes. Take the foil and eggplant and let cool before serving.<br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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My Labor Day weekend was the opposite. I was able to take a four-day journey where I flitted in and out of some really wonderful people's lives, getting to know them and tell their stories.<br />Not only that along the way, I came up with some great recipes.<br /><br />Friday, I went out to Malibou (That's how it's spelled on the signs there) Lake in Agoura Hills. Malibou Lake is actually up in the Santa Monica mountains and is a small community around a small lake with cute houses with small docks and little vessels. I was there to visit Corinne Morgan-Thomas who was the subject of a Lifetime Television movie "The Miracle Run," about her life with raising her autistic twin boys.<br /><br />I'd never been back to Malibou Lake before, so I really enjoyed the drive because I love exploring around here. Then I was able to meet the family, which included the boys and a bunch of shih-tzus. One of the dogs had just had a litter and Doug Thomas, the dad of the family had also just found a baby squirrel that had been abandoned, so he put it in with the nursing puppies because the baby squirrel was dying. The shih-tzu bitch accepted the baby and now all of the animals are nursing together. It was amazing.<br /><br />The next day, Saturday, I met the Dominguez-McCune family. Tracie Dominguez had given birth to a daughter, Laura, 20 years ago when she agreed to be a surrogate for Laura's parents. For this birth (Tracie has been a surrogate three times), they used Tracie's egg and Laura father's sperm. The conception took place in a doctor's office, which is an oddly unromantic way to conceive a child who is born with such love.<br /><br />Laura's newfound family was different from Laura's parents, who had brought her up in Dallas, Texas. With KISS posters on the wall, a stripping pole in the living room, the tattooed Dominguez-McCune family was a real-eye opener for Laura, who seemed surprised to feel right at home.<br /><br />Rob's brother Rick was also in town and he came over Saturday night to hang out while I made food for the next day. He brought Duncan out here with him so they could shoot a movie with Sean. Duncan was felled by kidney stones, which mucked things up, but overall you could tell Rick was delighted and proud to be able to work with his grown sons.<br /><br />Sunday, Rob and I headed out to the Ventura Hillsides Music Festival, which benefits the Hillsides Conservancy group, which is trying to buy the land surrounding Ventura to keep it undeveloped open space. We were already planning on going to the festival when I was asked to cover it. The thing we learned last year is that the picnic you pack speaks volumes about you. The coolest people bring the coolest picnics.<br /><br />I prepared fresh shrimp ceviche because last year the people near us had fish ceviche and I was complete consumed with jealously. I loved the idea and had been thinking about my recipe all year. It came out amazingly well, and we enjoyed it along with some fried chicken, salami and cheese and fresh grapes from the farmers market. We were planning to get food from the vendors, but barely managed to touch the stuff we brought.<br /><br />We saw a bunch of bands: Jay Nash, who was a lot better than we expected, Keb' Mo', who was amazing, and Dave Mason, who looked just like any other Ventura schlub you'd see at Vons, not like the rock star he is, although as Tresa wisely pointed out, here in Ventura we are ALL rock stars.<br /><br />I wrote my story at the concert on a laptop I brought along, which proved to be wise because even with leaving early and being able to talk a very nice bus driver -- shout out to Phyllis -- into taking just Rob and me in an empty school bus to the Ventura College parking lot where we left our car, I was barely able to meet my 6 p.m. deadline, filing the story at 6:01 p.m.<br /><br />Finally on Monday, I headed out to the Salvation Army food pantry in Oxnard, which was giving away food on labor day so the people who work could get there. Rosie Rico, who ran the whole operation with great good humor, allows her clients their dignity despite their circumstances. She said she was glad she was working because it took her mind off her worries about her mom who was terribly ill and as soon as she wrapped up the food giveaway, she had to go over to the hospital decide whether to keep mom on life support.<br /><br />We also had Kaia come visit for the day and Rob made the mistake of letting her watch "My Dog Skip," with is, to me, the world's saddest movie. I sob like a baby each time I see it. Heck I'll even tear up if I think about it too hard. I told Rob I didn't think it was a good idea. I haven't seen the movie in about 10 years because it makes me so sad. But Rob thought it would be OK.<br /><br />Later, when were were looking back, Rob said he probably should have known things were going badly when Kaia started crying at the beginning when the boy's dad tells him he can't have a dog, claiming "You're not old enough! Dogs are just heartbreak waiting to happen."<br /><br />"I got Keba when I was 3. I was old enough!" Kaia sobbed.<br /><br />By the end of the movie when the dog is fighting for its life, to be revived by its love for the boy, Kaia was crying uncontrollably. Rob turned off the TV with "See it has a happy ending." Actually, the dog grows old and dies in the end, but we were already in enough trouble, so it was time to bail.<br /><br />Fortunately, we were able to assuage her pain by taking her to Ojai to the world's greatest toy store <a href="http://www.serendipitytoys.com/">Serendipity Toys</a> where she guilted us into a Webkinz <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> carrier. After, we got ice cream and went over to Libbey Park where Kaia only played on the swings, declaring herself too old to run on the play structure.<br /><br />Later, when someone asked me about my weekend, and got a much longer answer than they anticipated I'm afraid, I could not help but reflect. You hear and see so many nasty stupid things people are doing and saying, either in online forums or at various public events, and it's hard not to lose faith in humanity. But when you meet these people, all of them trying to make the world a better place in his or her own way, my faith is renewed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">RECIPES</span><br />In addition to the shrimp ceviche, I also made some rosemary grilled pork chops with cucumber/watermelon salsa. Here are all the recipes:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shrimp ceviche</span><br /><br />1 pound Trader Joe's uncooked Mexico white shrimp with tails on, thawed, peeled and deveined<br />1 ripe avocado<br />3 tablespoons fresh chopped cilantro<br />3/4 cup jicima, chopped<br />1/2 red onions chopped<br />1 fresh jalapeno, seeds and ribs removed, chopped <br />juice of 1 lime<br />salt and pepper<br /><br />Cook the cleaned shrimp by sauteed in a couple of tablespoons of butter and cooking very lightly, until the shrimp just begins to turn pink. Let cool and chop into 1/2 inch pieces. Toss with jicima, onion, cilantro, avocado, jalapeno and the lime juice. Salt and pepper to taste. refrigerate. Serve with tortilla chips or endive leaves.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Grilled rosemary pork chops with cucumber/watermelon salsa</span><br /><br />1 pound (or so) pork chops, buy your favorite cut<br />olive oil<br />garlic cloves<br />fresh rosemary<br />sea salt<br />fresh ground pepper<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Cucumber/watermelon salsa</span><br /><br />Mix together and chill<br /><br />1 cup chopped watermelon (seeds removed if applicable)<br />1 cup chopped cucumber<br />1 fresh jalapeno, seeds and ribs removed, finely chopped<br />3 tablespoons fresh cilantro chopped<br />1/2 cup red onion chopped<br /><br />Rub the chopped with the olive oil and crushed garlic cloves. Chop fresh rosemary and sprinkle, along with fresh ground pepper and sea salt on the chops. Turn grill on high for five minutes, then turn to low and immediately add pork chops. Cook five minutes a side (for about a 3/4 inch chop. Remove from heat and let sit for five minutes before topping with fresh salsa and serving.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Anne Kallashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12208086503559700698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18413740.post-62042730671015577052009-08-20T22:43:00.001-07:002009-08-20T23:05:25.561-07:00Farewell fair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisP-zlPmlCI9rjfuZtq1kZYH2z4lwB2OC5y8HCsz4P2nc-5CmHrG8HTjm24gIJXFRZOUjUKKgUBR9SShMAo4eT1WX6IZSpk0wPQl11gq6Ld_Xaz7JCFVFMRfOjPq6LabQ_61CgDw/s1600-h/DSC_0694.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisP-zlPmlCI9rjfuZtq1kZYH2z4lwB2OC5y8HCsz4P2nc-5CmHrG8HTjm24gIJXFRZOUjUKKgUBR9SShMAo4eT1WX6IZSpk0wPQl11gq6Ld_Xaz7JCFVFMRfOjPq6LabQ_61CgDw/s320/DSC_0694.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372289181139069362" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">This is what fireworks look like through fog</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7EyxmCXq-LyyIfDiwX5WwHahzNSQcPpDAS51ctSOlXT0UbKqmtLUZcUrF0nBRBkDZXDQ7vgxV8y3RYfb7xe0vVIOGNu7PPl6pSpnSgNv4Cq_8rnQ1buT6QDJShCxcKyEquoGAw/s1600-h/DSC_0669.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7EyxmCXq-LyyIfDiwX5WwHahzNSQcPpDAS51ctSOlXT0UbKqmtLUZcUrF0nBRBkDZXDQ7vgxV8y3RYfb7xe0vVIOGNu7PPl6pSpnSgNv4Cq_8rnQ1buT6QDJShCxcKyEquoGAw/s320/DSC_0669.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372289169413775586" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bird's eye view on a foggy night from the ferris wheel</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1Yk1XvyJF04blwygKCfQnKDs8ekr8HbhPAeW3lgnutmSU5HEaGGKiMAToHr28dnzAH3uY7dooza2BY3hnu5zUu94ZApo5HXujNGnKTYSbfb_mZmtlHjVsUia47jmyGVVQPAuPw/s1600-h/DSC_0643.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1Yk1XvyJF04blwygKCfQnKDs8ekr8HbhPAeW3lgnutmSU5HEaGGKiMAToHr28dnzAH3uY7dooza2BY3hnu5zUu94ZApo5HXujNGnKTYSbfb_mZmtlHjVsUia47jmyGVVQPAuPw/s320/DSC_0643.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372289163268731186" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Having fun at the fair</span><br /><br />It's been a few days since the fair ended and I'm going through the same kind of letdown I go through after all events I eagerly anticipate, like Christmas. The fair grows each year in its important to me and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because it's the only county fair in California that's actually on the beach, although this year that wasn't a plus because the fog seemed relentless.<br /><br />I was able to write eight fair stories, which meant that I went there for all of those and then I went back one more night on my own to take pictures. I couldn't enter the baked goods contest this year because the oven is down, but being able to talk to all the ladies at Home Arts who judge and run the contests was a great next best thing.<br /><br />There were also some really fun stories, like the watermelon cracker eating/whistle blowing and the Eagle Scout who built the interactive exhibit. And the Penny family with their lovely, outgoing self-assured kids were a delight.<br /><br />I realized this year that I was doing exactly what I want to be doing, which is going to these events and writing about them. On top of that, we were able to bring Kaia to the fair and had a great time w/her, although I had to leave early to cover the naming of the grand champion and reserve grand champion at the fair.<br /><br />This is also the last week for the peaches. I've made peach preserves, brandied peach, no-sugar-added peach chutney.<br /><br />So with the fair over, the peaches picked and pickled and my first first day of school, I suppose summer is unofficially over.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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