The Day After, again

Reflections on a Thanksgiving.

Thought 1. I am very glad it doesn't occur to me to cook like this all the time. I mean, I love my Thanksgiving recipes and mercifully seem to forget all about them except for once a year.

Thought 2. Preparing the food is probably more fun than eating it. By the time the turkey is ready to go in the oven, I'm so grossed out by the thought of eating it that the cooking of the turkey is almost like an afterthought (I'm really all about the stuffing, actually. The turkey is the vessel). Something you have to go through with since you've come this far already.

Thought 3. I believe Thought 2 firmly until the crispy turkey skin smell starts invading the house. Then Thought 2 becomes downright silly, and what am I saying? Of course I'm going to eat what I cooked. The turkey skin is my favorite part. Stuffing has now become Second Favorite Food.

Thought 4. As I finish the Crack Potatoes, I'm very grateful that some important things do come to me in the form of dreams. This year, I dreamt of Egg Nog Bread Pudding, which upon being awake, I concocted with toasted bread, sliced apples, rum, grated nutmeg and cardamom, and lots of egg nog. I made homemade whipped cream. This pudding rivaled the Crack Potatoes in terms of sheer delicious mouthfuls of ecstacy.

Thought 5. The Godfather (Parts 1 and 2), when watched together in its entirety, can keep you fully engrossed and entertained not only during the preparation of Thanksgiving food, but while you're eating it. (First of all, it's about family. Second of all, it's not that gory. You can't watch Goodfellas while you're eating.)

Thought 6. I hate the Food Baby. Good thing my XL Bill's Towing t-shirt hides it. But I can't wear this t-shirt outside. I am trapped indoors until the Food Baby goes away.

Thought 7. I will never eat again. I'm going on a juice fast.

Thought 8. How on earth can I be hungry again?! Dammit.

Thought 9. Cold stuffing and turkey being picked off from the pan in little bits without utensils but dipping in warm leftover gravy is the ideal.

Thought 10. Now wearing the XL Little Shamrock (local bar) t-shirt. Very glad Thanksgiving comes only once a year.

What a rush!

Here's what happens on the day you get written up in the newspaper:

You scrounge for quarters! Where did all my quarters go?

You visit all three newspaper vending machines on the corner near your house and buy a paper from each one.

Just because you can.

You also buy papers from news sellers around town and have them pose for you.

You hang out in the local cafe/bakery/coffee shop and read your article and look around to see if anyone else is doing the same. (Delicious bialy from Arizmendi's... yummmmy!)

And you make other people take pictures of you with "your" newspaper.

***

Guys, you're all awesome. I know you'll believe me when I tell you that:

1. My inbox is so off-the-hook crazy that it's really exciting. But don't let that stop you from writing/volunteering!
2. I've already spoken with or corresponded with many interesting new people who are ready to be part of i live here:SF
3. I'm not stopping anytime soon!

Keep an eye out for more good things... I'm so thrilled about the possibilities and what I'll be sharing with you soon.

Just so you know, the "director's cut" of the article that Kristin wrote is on her blog, Camels and Chocolate. Kristin is a veteran journalist and world traveler, and not only might you find it interesting to read her article before it got to the Chronicle, but you'll want to bookmark her blog for future reading. Kristin made an appearance on i live here:SF as the Adventuress, and she's certainly brought a lot of adventure to my life.

***

ps.: This has nothing to do with anything, but besides all of my news, this is one of the best weekends in San Francisco and nearby. First of all, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival starts today, which is beyond awesome.

And if that wasn't enough, the Pacific Pinball Expo in Marin starts today. When I tell you that this is one of the craziest, best ways to spend $25 and an entire day, I am not kidding. I wrote about it here, and believe me, I'll be there again this weekend.

Maybe I'll see you?

***

UPDATE: Thanks again (!) to Brittney at Eye on Blogs, who's always got my back.

I hope you all get some carnitas today.

Happy Friday, friends.

The Sacrificial Peep

Last year, I wrote what I consider the best Easter post I could have possibly ever written, especially considering that I have virtually no experience celebrating Easter and only have vague, sad memories of undergoing severe candy deprivation as a child.

That Easter candy void in my life caused me to have an obsession with Peeps. Peeps... you know-- the marshmallow chicks.

Anyway, last year's post was so perfect and I can't imagine improving on it this year, so I'm reposting it today because I'm sure most of you never saw it the first go-around. And it might give you some ideas for today's festivities if you get your hands on some Peeps. Enjoy!

***

March 23, 2008

Professor Red Shoes recommended that I conduct a scientific experiment with a Peep, based on my previous post:

Tangobaby, you simply must microwave your next Peep. I'm not joking. Pop it in the microwave and set the thing for oh, thirty seconds or a minute. But here's the kicker: you must stay there and watch while it microwaves. Watch carefully.

So I waited until this morning, because I felt this day would be most appropriate, and perhaps auspicious, for such an undertaking.

Here are the results and observations from my laboratory notebook.

***

Sunday, March 23, 8:20am: Peep is prepared on sanitary plate for insertion into microwave oven. Peep shows no sign of distress. See Figure 1.

Figure 1

Sunday, March 23, 8:21am: Microwave oven is set for 30 seconds, per Professor Red Shoes' instructions. Peep is placed directly in center of oven on rotating dish.

Sunday, March 23, 8:22am: 30 seconds has elapsed. Peep has undergone a transformation due to non-ionizing microwave radiation passing through the Peep, at a frequency of 2.45 GHz (wavelength of 12.24 cm). Please note brown speck of eye can still be seen, as well as a vestigial beak just to the left of remaining eye. See Figure 2.

Figure 2

During radation exposure, Peep inflated to Godzilla-like proportions, leading to further speculation that a kaijū may not be as fictional as we have been led to believe. See Figure 3.

Figure 3

Not to worry, though. My Godzilla Peep deflated within 2 seconds after re-entering normal atmospheric conditions. The Peep has transformed into more malleable creature. See Figure 4.

Figure 4

Conclusion: I am now aware that it is more fun to play with your Peeps than to eat them.

***

ps.: Only because it seems very fitting, if you have not read the book Candyfreak by Steve Almond, you should. It's really hilarious. Unless you don't like candy. And then I might be a teeny bit worried about you.

Strawberry Money Update

Just so you know, the Strawberry Money came in quite handy. And it was used for strawberry-related consumables, which seemed quite a good idea... don't you think?

Italian strawberry sodas with my sweet friend Cartooncharacter.

And a slice of chocolate cake with strawberries to go with the sodas.
A shared piece of cake is somehow sweeter.

***

The strawberry money also treated me and the gorgeous la belle fille to a sandwich at lunchtime, but there were no strawberries involved and I did not get a photo. And now the Strawberry Money is spent, until the next unexpected time.

I hope some Strawberry Money comes your way soon! I'm off to get some sunshine (and probably a bratwurst at Rosamunde's) but of course I'll have more to share later.

xoxo

The Good, The Bad, and The Naughty

Today is the day that I almost ended The Staycation in a very very bad bad way.

Have you ever done something where you really know you shouldn't be doing what you're doing and the Little Mom Voice in your head is telling you to Stop what you're doing this very instant or else you'll be very very sorry, young lady but you don't listen and you do the bad thing anyway?

I know you know what I'm talking about. You do it too.

***

Today is the second and absolute last time I get my camera wet. (You may remember the first time I got it wet, with some pretty lovely results.) This is the Bad Part of the story. (Then I'll work backwards to the Naughty and Good Parts to make it all have a happy ending.)

***

I was supposed to go tango dancing outside with that fellow from the tango video and it was drizzling, so he called to postpone when I was on the train, halfway to our meeting place, which put me in a teensy bit of a mood because I was really looking forward to dancing with him. (T., if you're reading this, I apologize.)


Anyway, I thought, Shoot, I've never let a little rain get in the way of something that I want to do, so I took my tango shoes and boombox back home and grabbed the camera and lots of extra batteries. I decided to head back to Telegraph Hill to see if lighting might strike twice and I could find the wild parrots again.

Let me tell you, Telegraph Hill is a bitch to climb. It's really crazy steep. But thank goodness in that last block when I thought I was going to slide back down the sidewalk, I could hear this really loud, crazy squawking so I knew that the parrots must be close by, and it was worth the trek. And the nice drizzle was keeping me from sweating.

I went back to the secret little pyracantha bush/tree I found in an alleyway at the top of the hill. Yesterday, the tree was teeming with the vibrant bright green and red wild parrots, who were devouring the red berries and making quite a squawking racket. It was a glorious sight, because the birds matched the tree in an incredible way. Their bright lime green feathers matched the leaves and their brilliant red feathers around their eyes and on their shoulders were the same color as the berries. It was a tree filled with chameleon birds.

But today, when I went back to the tree, the birds weren't there. I could hear them, but could not figure out where they were. They were loud enough so that I knew they were close by.

I trudged around the neighborhood where I could but aside from breaking into people's backyards in the rain, it looked like I was out of luck this time. No feral cherry headed conures for me.

***

Then I saw a few parrots flying overhead and followed them down to a part of the Filbert Street Steps that I did not know existed. (San Francisco is full of steep and wonderful stairways that you can climb for pleasure or torture, depending on your degree of fitness and choice of footwear. A delightful book that's great for touring these steps can be found online here.)

As I got closer to the terminus of the stairs, the squawking got insanely loud. The rain came down harder and the trees above me were dropping giant loads of rain onto my umbrella. As I turned to look over the retaining wall down the hillside below, I could see that I had hit the Wild Parrot Jackpot.


And this is where the Bad Part of the story happens. I had to put down all of my things, including my umbrella, in order to take photos of the birds, who were going crazy over in a tree and on a bird feeder. I walked as slowly and quietly as I could, and before I knew it, I was right on top of them, taking photos. They must be used to people because aside from grazing my head a few times, and giving me those curious sideways or dirty looks that birds do, they let me get so close to them that I could almost touch them.


And the rain poured down. I was soaking wet and soon even my sweater was too wet to wipe the camera lens on without it streaking. The Mom Voice in my head was getting louder, but the birds were so amazing that I couldn't tear myself away.

***

When I finally left the birds, I knew I had done a bad thing. I was so sopping wet that even my socks inside my boots were wet and my hair was a dripping mess. I postponed the Bad Part (where I check my camera) by having a piece of Golden Boy Pizza, which can cure most ills and is probably some of the best pizza in town. But then came the reckoning.

The camera appeared to be giving up the ghost. The lens wouldn't retract and the camera kept shutting itself off and saying horrible things like lens error, restart camera. And it was making a little squeaky sound, like a mouse on a wheel in a cage sound. Super Not Good.

***

Needless to say, the ride home on the train was a bummer. I really really adore my camera (like you couldn't tell) and I don't have $800 lying around the house to replace this one because I'm a dummy. The thought of not having a camera was making me sick to my stomach and it made me realize how much I love taking photos and being able to do it whenever I want. Plus, The Boy would have been very upset with me. (Thankfully he was not home when I got back. Whew.)

I tried to google some answers to see if there was something I could do for my poor drowned Canon, but to no avail. Then I thought maybe I could blow-dry the camera with the hairdryer and see what happens. At this point, what did I have to lose?

So I did. I blew dried my camera.

And after a little while, the squeaky mouse wheel sound was gone and the camera appears to be fine and we're on speaking terms again.

So that was the Naughty Part.

***

And now here is the Good Part. Why I was willing to do such a stupid thing in the first place. These wild parrots are exciting to watch and a gorgeous treat for the eye. They are true eye candy. I have so many photos of them that I'll probably upload an entire set to flickr, but in the meantime, here's a taste. (For the record, the color in these images is not tweaked at all... this is exactly how beautiful these birds are. You can look right into their eyes and feel their little parroty personalities just by standing still and watching them.)

***

For those of you who have not seen the wonderful documentary The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, here is an excerpt so you can have a peek into the world of these wild and beautiful birds and the city we share with them. You've really got to see this film-- it's magical.

The Gift

I think this is a good omen for the Staycation. It may even be a good omen for the new year, who can say.

When I got home last night this mysterious box was waiting for me on my desk.

But before I can tell you what was in the box, I have to tell you another story.

***

Once upon a time, in one of my other incarnations, I was the 1-800 skin care expert for a small natural skin care company. I was the person that you would speak to if you bought our products, used them unwisely or without reading the packaging, and then called the 1-800 number to complain.


(BTW, we had very nice products. The company no longer exists in its present form and was bought out by a much bigger company and everyone lost their jobs. But what I did learn was that 1. people are silly and have greatly exaggerated dreams of what a jar of face cream can do for them, 2. people don't read labels or instructions, and 3. when I say "people" in this instance, I mean women.)

Anyway, this is only part of the story. Because we were such a small company, when I was not on the phone with customers, it was part of my job to help figure out marketing angles for our products. The boss really wanted to get us written up in InStyle Magazine and other beauty mags (and to my credit, I once got us a mention in Harper's Bazaar by pulling a very large string from my days in the cosmetics world).

But more than anything else, the boss really really wanted us to get our products in those Oscar bags. You know, the bags full of shwag. Bags loaded with expensive skin care and fancy cell phones and jewelry, the bags they give to the presenters at the Oscars. Like Gwyneth Paltrow really needs your product. Or gives two hoots about it.

Anyway, we never did get our products into an Oscar bag. The closest we ever got was that a supposedly fancy shmancy salon in Beverly Hills stocked one of our facial masks for a while, but that's it.

The purpose of this post, however, is not to go on about the inner world of the skin care business. It's to tell you that I got my first piece of shwag. And unlike Gwyneth Paltrow, I'm going to keep my shwag and not give it to my personal trainer who will then give it to her assistant who will then sell it on eBay.

***

My schwag comes in the form of a jar. A jar... some of you might be savvy enough to guess what it is... are you guessing?... of Baconnaise!

SCORE!

One of the nice things that happens from time to time when you have a blog, besides the other nice things you might already know about (friends, connection, creative expression), is that you will get a random email from someone who found your blog because it mentioned them in a helpful way.

Which is why I got a very nice email from Dave, the self-described Bacontrepreneur of Baconsalt.com. When he offered me my very own jar of Baconnaise to try, of course I jumped up and down and was very excited about it. (In hindsight, I should have asked him for some food to go with the Baconnaise, because we have none and now I have to go to the store and get something to put the Baconnaise on, but that's entirely my fault and the way things roll in Casa Tangobaby and is not really his concern.)

***

For those of you who still are not quite sure what I'm talking about or don't remember reading my post about Baconnaise, let me tell you that Baconnaise a spread, thick like mayonnaise and smells like heavenly, delicious bacon. Ostensibly the idea is that you can put Baconnaise on sandwiches, burgers, etc., but I can see where I'd be sampling it out of the jar straight and also dipping vegetables I don't normally eat into it because it would even make celery taste good.

Despite the lack of things in the fridge to put my Baconnaise on, I found some Triscuits and did a taste test. And the findings? YUM!

YUM, like in:

1. I'm definitely going to the grocery store asap with the sole intent of procuring foodstuffs that I can put my Baconnaise on;
2. If I was a NASCAR, I would be the Baconnaise Car.
3. If Baconnaise was skin care, I would put it all over my body as a moisturizer because it's THAT GOOD, even though it doesn't say to do that on the label.

So, in conclusion, if I were you and I really liked bacon, I'd get a jar of Baconnaise, either by visiting their website or asking your local market to get some for you. And tell them tangobaby sent you. ;-)

And Dave, thank you for my treat/shwag. I promise to get some sandwich fixins asap and make a proper Baconnaise sandwich! I was just too excited to wait....

***

ps.: This is probably old news to some, but have you seen Gwyneth Paltrow's blog? "I have this incredible, blessed, sometimes difficult, very lucky, very unique life, and I've gotten to travel all over the place and to work and live in different cities...and sometimes friends need help finding a sink that looks midcentury." (You know I don't make this shit up.) This makes me dislike her even more than I already do, which I did not think was possible. Gwyneth, honey, leave the blogging to the little people, and you just go back to ironing your hair and making sure Madonna's okay.

pss.: I think I have scientifically proven that there is a Bacon Loving Gene (BLG). Very recently my niece, Little Curly Girl (LCG), was asked by her mother what her most favorite thing was in the whole, wide world. Being only 2.5 years old, of course she did not say her new baby sister, Princess Chubness. She answered "pudding." But when asked if there was anything she loved even more than pudding, LCG gave it some serious thought, and then said "Yes, bacon." So even though LCG is not a child that sprang from directly from my loins, we are related by blood and therefore I think I have proven the existence of the BLG. I am going to get LCG her own jar of Baconnaise to further my scientific research.

20% More Life

I don't know about you guys, but a lot of people I know are not really feeling the holiday spirit right now. I took this photo in Chinatown last week. The shop owners there are sometimes standing outside, asking people to come into their stores to look around. There are not many tourists or wanderers like me on the street to ask.

Normally by this time of year, I could expect random pummeling on the train coming home because we'd be picking up loads of holiday shoppers at Powell Station, where Union Square and the big mall are. Last year I can't tell you how many times we were smashed into strange configurations trying to accommodate lots of bags stuffed with stuff and excited shoppers bragging about their purchases.

So far this year, I haven't been smashed by an overloaded shopping bag once. Our office is adjacent to luxury shops such as Prada, Chanel, de Beers, and Hermes, to name a few, which are almost empty. And the other stores, like H&M, The Gap and MNG, have big red signs in the windows: 20-60% off! Buy One Get One Free! These signs feel desperate to me. And still the shoppers are scant. Some stores keep their doors open and you can feel the heat wafting out into the cold air. I guess enticing people into a store with a blast of warm air isn't nearly enough now.

***

Not going into too much detail, but starting next year me and some of my peeps will be having more free time on our hands during the week. I will be having about 20% more time, to be exact.

I'm going to look at it that way instead of having 20% less of something else.

One thing that could mean is that I'll be able to take 20% more photographs than normal. I really want to go back to Chinatown and explore more. Ever since I finished my book on The Mission, I feel like I didn't give Chinatown enough of my attention.

For instance, this photo was taken inside the Ma-Tsu Temple on Beckett Street. I had only taken photos from the outside previously. This little temple is full of shrines, gods and hundreds of incense sticks burning in urns filled with sand.

And this photo is the doorway of a divey bar all the way at the end of Grant Street. I had never walked to the end of Grant before, or else just had not noticed this space.

And these little men... just waiting to live under a bonsai tree as a souvenir of someone's San Francisco adventure. More chances to play with my macro lens.

And then the food in Chinatown is good and cheap. Dim sum-- you can get two chao siu bau for $1.00. Or har gow, 3 for $1.50.

And this is called a Chinese pancake: sticky, sweet glutinous rice filled with red bean paste. It's delicious and only costs $.60. Budget dessert.

Taking pictures is free but the enjoyment of capturing a perfect image is priceless. I have my beat up walking boots that were purchased for the Acqua alta in Venice, and now have trod many streets of San Francisco in them. And batteries are cheap.

***

What do you wish you had 20% more of?

Besides the extra time, I think I would like to have:

20% more compassion
20% more brain power and memory
20% more good eating habits and exercise
20% more surprises

We'll see how it goes.

I Think My Food Combiner Is Broken

Warning: This is one of those silly posts. I am going to blame it on my head cold.

***

I think my food combining instincts are going completely wonky. I think because I had been left alone as a Bachelorette for two solid months that I became a weird culinary hybrid of frat boy, ascetic/hermit and kosher foodie with a vitamin B deficiency.

I am not going to say how many nights I had popcorn for dinner while The Boy was away. I am not going to say because 1) it's embarrassing to think about how many times I ate popcorn for dinner and sometimes breakfast, and 2) I don't remember. It was that many. And those nights where the side dish was Cherry Garcia ice cream. Nope, don't remember those either.

***

I am going to blame my little friend Chipmonkey for this popcorn fetish. She came over with her nutritional yeast (which I had never even heard of before October 11 as I am not in any way a vegan or a health food person, you know that) and her popcorn and started my whole craving/obsession at my Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America thingy. And now I have an enormo can (12 oz.!) of nutritional yeast in my kitchen. And the only thing it tastes good on is popcorn. I have been eating loads of both ever since.

Today, I had stale popcorn and a side of pickled herring in sour cream for breakfast. The Boy always looks at me like I am Cat Woman when I eat these fishy things (and will not be kissed and runs away from me) and in the midst of eating this "breakfast," I really do have to stop and wonder what is wrong with me. This meal can't be as bad as Mia Farrow eating the raw liver in Rosemary's Baby, but it's still not quite right.

Why do I never want to eat normal foods for breakfast? Why is the only decent sounding meal to me this morning something that could be in a Monty Python skit? Yes, I eat the herring with these guys reciting in my head ("... and then you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with...... A HERRING!"). Do you do this? Eat foods that immediately make you recite Monty Python scenes? ("And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying,’O Lord, bless this thy hand grenade that with it thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy.’ And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and...")

I'm wondering what made me combine these two foods, like if there was a reasonable physiological cause then that would explain it. They're both white foods? Salty foods? Have no real nutritional value foods? Or I've learned my food combining from years of Monty Python watching?

My tangobaby food pyramid is very bizarre. It consists primarily of har gow, Funyuns, Junior Mints, Ovaltine and popcorn. And sushi and bratwust. Now I am even grossing myself out.

***

I recently discovered, through a cute little Minnesotan transplant at my work, about such things called hotdish. I partially thought that hot dishes only existed in Lake Wobegon, but no--hotdish even has its own wikipedia entry. But now I find that there is even such a casserole creation that is topped with Tater Tots. And another one made with herring!

Perhaps I am really a Midwesterner at heart? Can someone please help me with my food identity?

***

The only other thing I am going to leave you with now is a clip from Stephen Colbert's A Colbert Christmas because it is a very funny song about nutmeg.

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: John Legend

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

If you don't come back to this blog for a while, I understand. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. But if you do eat weird things that make other people look at you askance, I really hope you'll fess up so we can start some sort of self-help group together.

The Day After

Today is the traditional first day of my personal "I Hate Turkey" season. I should be wearing an outfit of baggy sweatpants where I've snipped the elastic in the waist, one of my seasonal post-Thanksgiving t-shirts ("JUST SAY NO TO CRACK [POTATOES]!", "FUTURE BREATHARIAN," or "MY BABY IS A FOOD BABY"), with a square of duct tape affixed firmly over my mouth.

But no, I am at work today (which the sad few of us here have deemed the practice to be a hybrid of unsupervised day care and being sent to after-school detention. We have also deemed our presence here at the office to be very un-American of our employers because we should be out supporting Black Friday and our crumbling economy).

Because I am here, I had to forego the modified sweatpants and baggy top in favor of regular clothes (found some that fit, perhaps there is a god) and brought the requisite turkey sandwich for lunch (which has been made more enticing by adding some thick slices of Delice de Bourgogne atop slices of rustic Italian bread, and topped with my homemade cranberry relish, which will be my fruit ration for the next week.). And true to my word, once I finish this post, then I will be off on a virtual spree of visiting you all in blogland for the next 6 hours or so.

***

I hope you all did have a lovely Thanksgiving, and that if you're reading this, you're idling in front of the computer in your jammies today. Even those of you who don't live in the US, I hope you're benefitting from some of that Thanksgiving spirit too, even if you're not feeling the fatness.

We had a very quiet and restful day, mostly. No computers, no phones. Days like this always involve extreme couch-potatoey-ness because our home is very well equipped for the sport of marathon movie watching. Although we've been TV-free for well over a decade (both as individuals and in our coupledom), that doesn't mean we suffer from a deficit of visual entertainment. We have a self-made home theatre, with projector, surround sound speakers and a pull down 10' movie screen that's mounted in the ceiling for hard-core movie watching. Those of you who attended the famous Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America can attest to this.

The Boy selected The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance as our first film of the day. With extreme deference to John Ford, Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne, this is a boring classic film. The Boy fell asleep, which is added proof because he loves westerns and I don't. So while he snoozed, I swapped that movie for Little Big Man. The Boy's never seen this film (!) and I've seen it many, many times. There's something really fun when a friend watches a really great movie for the first time in your presence.

Even though you cannot watch this film with the idea that it's a documentary, there's enough truth in the relationship between the Native American and Caucasian cultures to provide some historical perspective and give some food for thought at Thanksgiving time. Our national myth of the first Thanksgiving, complete with the deliverance of the English settlers by the Indians with the bounty of this country's native foods adds a poignant sadness to the fact that the cultures of these noble natives were almost completely destroyed 150 years later. Not that I don't want to be thankful for the bountiful life that I have, because I am, but lately it just seems right to be even more focused on our nation's checkered past. Its perceived greatness and promise as well as its tragic cruelties. I still feel sensitized and overly aware of our American myth, as a result of this past election. Everything I read or see makes me view our current situation from the continuum of history that has gotten us to this day.

To me, the best scenes of this film are the ones that feature Chief Dan George. And of those scenes, this one is my favorite:

***

One aside (which has nothing to do with anything really) after watching Little Big Man again is that there was a certain type of actress in the 70s: Faye Dunaway, Julie Christie, Marisa Berenson, to name a few, that had this willowy, high-cheekboned and exotic beauty that is not seen on the screen anymore. Even overly made up, these women had a lanky grace that I identify as a symbol of 70s films.

***

The second viewing selection between feedings were two episodes of Earth: The Biography, made by the BBC in conjunction with the National Geographic Channel. Is it just me, or do the Brits just corner the market on amazing scientific programming? Plus, geologist Iain Stewart is a super hottie, if you like really smart guys who are crazy adventurous and have great accents (I do).

The first episode, "Volcanoes," is simply spectacular. Spectacularly exciting, wildy entertaining, and full of stuff you never knew about our planet and which also makes you very very glad to not be living near a volcano if you can help it. Although it doesn't make you real excited to be living on a moving tectonic plate, either. This episode really puts the concept of our planet and how it came to be formed, and how it continues to evolve, into fascinating perspective.

The second episode, "Atmosphere," was similarly educational, but as The Boy put it, "very intense." And "scary." The last part about greenhouse gasses and melting permafrost and methane was sobering, to say the least.

When faced with a bit of overwhelming reality, the best thing to do is take a break.

That means get some pumpkin pie (not homemade but certainly delicious), a cup of hot cocoa (I'm now a big fan of Mexican Chocolate Abuelita by Nestle ) and plug in some escapist adventure.

For me, that's Matt Damon as Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity. You guys can keep your James Bond in all his incarnations.

Plus, you get a trip to Paris in this film.

***

So there you have it. Our little holiday of gluttony, sloth, historical perspective, adventure and general condition of the planet, all in one day. Maybe it is good to be back at work.

And with that, I am off to pay my visits to you!

;-)

Mushroom cloud/exploding stomach image from here. The Day After reference definitely an homage to the Russian menace exploitation of the Reagan era.

More Crack for Thanksgiving

As a preemptive Thanksgiving gift/post, in addition to offering you all my most appreciative thanks for hanging out with me in the blogosphere* and being such lovely people, I wanted to share one of my Thanksgiving treasures with you: my special recipe for Crack Potatoes. This is a key dish in order for you to make your Food Baby on Thanksgiving Day (in case you actually needed help with that).

The Boy named the recipe for me. These Crack Potatoes are the centerpiece of our holiday table instead of the turkey. (No, that is not a photo of them. That's a picture I got off of the Corbis stock photo website. Our potatoes never last long enough to have a picture taken of them.)

***

Okay, don't laugh but the reason this recipe doesn't have any measurements is because I dreamt it. Seriously. Why can't I have dreams about how to play the stock market or what the winning lottery numbers are?

No. Instead I dream about recipes for mashed potatoes.

So that is why I have to fudge the measurements because I wing it. Just realize that more butter and more cream are okay.

For me and The Boy (who named this recipe Crack Potatoes because we could NOT stop eating them and then he eats ALL of the leftovers in the middle of the night), I use approximately the following (obviously if there are more of you then you need more ingredients, but you knew that already):

2 big handfuls each of the baby Yukon gold creamer potatoes and the baby red creamer potatoes
1 large onion
At least a stick of butter
Whipping cream or half and half
The secret ingredient: 2-4 packets of Savory Choice liquid Turkey broth concentrate. It's like a little ketchup sized packet with a thick turkey bouillon in it.

Large frying pan or saucepan with lid
Microwaveable bowl
Potato masher
Slotted spoon
Saran wrap
An empty tummy or two/pants with an elastic waistband

***

1. Wash potatoes and remove little eyes, spots, etc. Put in microwave safe bowl with a tiny bit of water and cover with saran wrap.

2. Cook potatoes in microwave to steam them, until they are just soft enough to stab with a fork. Not too soft.

3. While potatoes are steaming, cut up onion and carmelize in a large frying pan in lots of butter.

4. When onions are golden and gooey, remove potatoes from bowl with a slotted spoon and add to pan. Turn heat down to low and cover.

5. What you want is for the potatoes to get nice and browned on all sides and get very, very soft, so leave the lid on and just turn when necessary. Add more butter if necessary for browning.

6. When the potatoes are very soft, use a potato masher to mash up the potatoes evenly.

7. Add packets of turkey flavoring and stir through.

8. Add lots of butter and stir through. Add enough cream to make it nice and mushy!

Serve with or without turkey. You can also just eat the potatoes out of the pan with a wooden spoon.

Enjoy!!! This is a Boy Tested and Boy Approved Recipe.

***

*I have to work on Friday which is incredibly silly and I intend to spend many hours emailing you all and catching up on your blogs. So that will be a holiday in itself. Happy Thanksgiving! xoxo

An Adventure in Civics

"It's not the voting that's democracy; it's the counting." ~ Tom Stoppard, Jumpers

***

You guys aren't going to believe what happened today!

I almost didn't get to vote!

Or at least it sure felt that way for a few hours!

***

It's like Roseanne Roseannadanna says. It's always something!
Well, today it was my something.

I have to admit that first of all, I played hooky from work today.
I wasn't really sick, but I kinda felt like maybe I could go down that road, and... well, you know how it is some days? I just needed an extra brain day. I didn't want to hear any whining today.

So here I am at home, doing a little laundry, eating some popcorn, and then I think, Hey! I'll get dressed and go to City Hall and VOTE! That will make me feel good and productive!
When you live on the Left Coast, by the time your vote gets counted, the rest of the country is already asleep and the thing's decided. So I wanted to get my vote in early. And it seemed like a very good hooky-day idea.

I get down to City Hall, which is just the prettiest building ever with all of the marble and carvings and gilded metal and go down to the basement. I fill out a form, get in line, chat a little with the people around me. Twenty minutes later, it's my turn... and the woman behind the desk tells me I'm not in the computer.

Um, excuse me?

*freaks out a little inside*

She wants to know if I've registered, and yes, I have. I voted in the primary in February!

She looks for me again in the computer, every which way since Sunday. I'm not there.

*silent scream*

Then I have to go to another room, where three other people try to find me in the computer.

Not happening.

Wha?!! These things are supposed to happen in Florida! (No offense, Florida. I was going under the assumption that we had our voting sh*t together here.)

So they tell me that I have to petition the court.

Come again? WTF?!

They tell me I have to fill out some forms and go to the Civil Court across the street, and talk to the judge. Then, if the judge signs my petition, I can come back to City Hall and vote. (Needless to say, my fantasies of my weekday play date are evaporating quickly before my eyes. To their credit, everyone at the Department of Elections was very nice to me. I was also the epitome of calm.)

So I go to the Civil Courts building, find the courtroom, and proceed to not have a writing implement, except for a purple calligraphy pen, which I don't think is appropriate for filling out this bunch of forms. (Note to self: why do you never have a pen?! You always have like five different lipsticks and nothing to write with. That's bad! Very bad!)

There's no one else there except for another woman with the same forms I have. She sees me rummaging around and kindly lets me use her pen. We chat a little, and discover that both of us have the same story. Registered to vote in the February primaries, voted, and now don't exist. Not that we're paranoid, but WTF?

Then someone comes out of the courtroom and says they're closed for lunch. Come back in an hour and a half.

***

So I'm walking around the Tenderloin, looking for something to do for 90 minutes. I see a drug deal, some people in very bad shape sitting in wheelchairs and more than a few lawyer-y looking types. (For those of you who don't know the lay of the land, City Hall is adjacent to a neighborhood known for violence and poverty, the Tenderloin.) The Tenderloin has some very cool, old buildings, but it's not a place you want to hang out and gawk. You can look but you keep moving and you pay attention to who's around you.

The good news is that I happened upon a Burmese restaurant I read about and wanted to try, except I'm never near the Tenderloin at lunch. So I decided to have some tea leaf salad and some coconut milk and chicken soup. What's a tangobaby post without a foodie story anyway?

I love Burmese tea leaf salad (La Pat Dok). It's made with fermented tea leaves, dried shrimp, cabbage, tomate, fried garlic, sesame seeds and peas and nuts. This one was very good.

While I was sitting there, still feeling nervous about having to go to court and talk to a judge, I realized that I should be very grateful to be here eating tea leaf salad and having some recourse to the law and my rights. If I was sitting in Burma, or Myanmar as it's now called, I could be eating some kick-ass salad with NO voting rights. Or I could be in prison. For a fascinating book about Burma and also George Orwell's ties to that country, read Finding George Orwell in Burma by Emma Larkin. It's a fantastic read.

And then it was time to go back to court.

***

"I'm tired of hearing it said that democracy doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. We are supposed to work it." ~ Alexander Woollcott

While I was waiting, I made two new friends, Theresa and Kathy. Theresa told us about some past elections in the Philippines and let's just say that we should be glad that eye gouging and intimidation and prison aren't direct results of the democratic process here. Bless her heart, Theresa is 76 years old. And Kathy was our court angel. She provided me with a paper clip for my important documents because I didn't have one of those either.

Then the bailiff said we could enter the courtroom.

Here's the courtroom. Just like on TV, right?

We never saw the judge. A clerk came out, talked to each of us individually and then took our documents back to the judge for evaluation. I was the first one to get my petition signed and then back to City Hall for me.

***

And about an hour later, I had voted.

As I was leaving, I saw three weddings.
One "traditional" (for lack of a better word) and two lesbian couples.
All were lovely. And I wouldn't have seen them if I hadn't been scurrying around to get petitions signed and eating Burmese tea leaf salad. Sometimes timing really is everything.

I hope my vote on Proposition 8 helps those gay and lesbian couples who want to have the right to marry.

And City Hall is just so dang beautiful. You should really come and check it out.


And then no other but Abe Lincoln himself thanked me for coming out today.
Now that's an adventure in civics!

Four Eyes

“Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.” ~ Tennessee Williams

***

I really enjoy my photowalks alone: having that time to just wander at my own pace, stopping on a dime, maybe standing in the middle of the street once in a while, staring at the tops of buildings or at junk on the ground. Things you don't really feel like you can do with someone else as you might cramp their style. Or that sometimes you can't talk because you're too busy concentrating on looking about.

But when you have a friend like Ms. Red Shoes, it's like having a second brain and another pair of eyes, in addition to having serene and lovely company.

Without her eyes, I wouldn't have had any of these pictures today.

(says "Mr. Seahorse knows that no one is illegal.")

Tired pup in door.

Devotional candles. Spells.

Good luck yarn and colorful lights.

***

And without Ms. Red Shoes, there would have been no pear and ginger pie at Mission Pies.

You know this was gooood.

So was the hot dog wrapped in bacon.


That was my pie chaser.

Thank you for the date, my sweet friend!