local salmon

thank you salmon, for roaming the ocean free;

thank you salmon, for returning home;

thank you salmon, for giving your life to nourish my family.




thank you salmon, for your tasty pink flesh;

thank you salmon, for your strong flexible bones;

thank you salmon, for your ease of use.







thank you salmon, for your umami;

thank you salmon, for your texture;

thank you salmon, for your compatibility.







thank you salmon, for your flank;

thank you salmon, for your firmness;

thank you salmon, for your love of live fire.




thank yolu salmon, for your versatility;

thank you salmon, for your uniqueness;

thank you salmon, for being you......I love you salmon!



This fish was caught by Hudson Fish and purchased at the Berkeley Farmers' Market. If you are craving some local salmon like I've been, come see them Thursdays 3-7pm or Saturdays 10-3pm for a piece. If interested in a whole one, please contact Hudson directly to pre-order: 510-528-8686 www.hudsonfish.com

orange eggs, no ham

A few weekends ago we went and visited my in-laws. Arriving a bit before noon, Grandma G told the kids that her three young hens had recently begun laying eggs. The kids followed her outside to the hen's favored laying spots, didn't find any eggs immediately, then proceeded to play around the nesting sites until the eggs magically showed up. A few hours later, after much reminding that the hens didn't want to be bothered during their efforts, followed by some quiet time inside, the hens laid their gems. The kids got to collect their first farm fresh eggs, rushed inside like it was easter, then following instructions, wrote the date on them. The following day, about mid-morning (after not nearly so much reminding about disturbing the hens), they collected three more. "Mommy, feel this egg I just got. Its still warm!"

We were lucky enough to bring a few home. Quite possibly the tastiest damn eggs I have ever had, they had the darkest yolks I've ever seen. I had suspected as much cooking them up "on the farm" but when I fried them up at home in my orange handled skillet, it just begged a picture for comparison. And I am positive this was one of the paler ones!

I can't wait to eat a few more of these beauties. Until then, I'll be dreaming of my own little urben homested* chickens right here on oaktown.


*Apparently spelling this correctly will get you in trouble these days, as some folks have recently trademarked this term and a few others, and it is now no longer part of the modern, well-intentioned, ever-growing vernacular of the movement! Hell, maybe I'll get a reminder for even using a poor substitute.

a love of labor

Fava beans. Do you love them or hate them? Maybe you love to eat them, but couldn't imagine ever putting in the labor beforehand to do so. This is where I stood just a few years ago. I liked the idea of them, but somehow when it came to boiling, then shelling, then skinning, then cooking again, I just couldn't manage. But things are different now. Funny as it sounds, I love the labor involved.

About a month ago, I bought my first sack of favas of the season. Bringing them home and performing all the labor, I was depressed thinking of the tiny amount of beanie yield in the end. So I put them into another dish that is a labor of love. It was my first rice torte with favas in it, and I immediately thought of my grandma. Did she make something like this? The flavors went together well; she must have.

Then, last week, I was at a friend's house picking up my empty beer keg from the Ferment Change party. "Hey, you want some favas?" I think he got to the F when I blurted out "hell yeah!" We went outside and stripped his plants, yielding a bag much larger than what I would pay for at the market. I brought them home, put them in the fridge and planned for some work time the next day.

With the majority of the labor complete, I tossed some bacon and onions in a pan and started cooking. I got the water boiling for noodles. With the onions a light caramel color, and the bacon getting a touch crispy, I chucked in the favas. A few minutes later, they were ready for some sauce. I put in some more butter, a touch of flour, stirred it quickly and thoroughly, then added a cup or so of milk. I cooked it until it was thickening, then added a cup or so of grated parm. It was pointing toward the best thing I've ever made with favas.

My lord it was good! I wolfed down a few bowls AND there were lots of leftovers. Definitely, the best yet.

Then, the next day, I was out in my garden, tending my favas. They are really late, still blooming, but showing promise of having a nice harvest. I had my head down in the plants when some Jehovah's Witnesses came walking by. I stood up to say hi, and attempt to graciously turn down their literature. I was met with a broad smile and few questions:
"Hey, you like the favas? Do you know what to do with the favas?" an elderly woman named Rosa was asking me in somewhat broken english.
"Sure," I said. "You lovingly think of your grandma as you prepare the beans, then fry them up in a pan with some pancetta and onions. Then eat it right there or add some parmesan and put it on some pasta."
"Oh, I see maybe you are Italian no?"
"Kinda."
"Sounds like enough to me. You have a good day."
"I promise," I said.
Then I went inside and had another bowl.

silurian turkey

Turkey day. I guess it just wouldn't be complete without turkey and ham, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, ratatouille and a bun. Now add to this a backdrop of some ancient Precambrian, Ordovician and Devonian marine beds, often overturned and interspersed with implied angular unconformities between, served with a side of Pleistocene volcanics and THEN I'm truly satisfied. Like this year. Our family spent the holiday taking in the stunning scenery with a full plate of thanksgiving fare while either eating calmly beside our lovely daughter and her six-dollar smile, or chasing our toddler around a series of gravelly paths hemmed with cactus. Not quite the "norm" for a turkey day celebration in most folks' heads, but with two of these desert middle-of-nowhere kind under our belts, one without kids about ten years ago and one with kids this year, I'm looking forward to more in the future.

But that was just the warm-up. There is more adventure involved, albeit not so gastronomically inclined. You can impress your pink-loving little girl and bring her to find canyons with rocks her favorite color. Then you can witness how nimble her limbs are, climbing about the dry falls and exhibiting her momma's sharp skills. Canyons are rather ubiquitous out here, and many contain areas requiring technical climbing skills. Don't go alone. Keep little ones safe and check out some park info for a nice place to start.

So remember, if you find yourself in the Death Valley region* during the turkey time of year, don't miss out on some bird, drop by Panamint Springs Resort for a nice plate! Then take your family to explore a few of the flash-flood carved water courses, within innumerable canyons, containing a whole palette of earthly colors imaginable. Whew! I really love Death Valley.

Where were you this turkey day?

* put on some geography goggles and you'll realize that this is something akin to saying "if you're ever in Connecticut..."

pb and j

"Can I make my own PB and J daddy?"
Sure.
"Okay." She runs off into the kitchen.
It takes me a minute (when I realize how quiet she is being) to really appreciate this request. Big girl can do it all by herself. I'm stricken with a Universal Parenting Moment (UPM for short).
When did my baby get so big?


I made this last year from incredibly ripe fruit, so, lacking in some pectin, and me failing to think of this, it is really more of a thick syrup than a jam. The monkey could care less. It is lip smacking good, and favorite pancake fare. This gets dolloped on first, then seeing me salivating the sticky spoon is offered to me.
Really?
"Mmm, hmm."



"Daddy, is this the hard peanut butter or the normal kind?"
The normal stuff sweetie.
"Good, 'cuz that other stuff is stupid and disgusting. It tears the bread, but this kind is smmoooooth!"
What's your real opinion on that honey?
"What daddy?"
You'll understand in a few more years hon. Just keep spreading the smooth stuff.

"Now we cut it! I can cut it all by myself, with a sharp knife and everything, because I know how to do it, like how to hold the handle, because I do the dishes and sometimes, you let me dry the knife, right daddy, right?
Uh, yeah. Ummm.......yes, correct, sorry, that took me a minute to digest sweetie.
"But we haven't even eaten it daddy, that's silly!"

I oversee the cutting, sharp knife and all. It presents another dilemma though. Do I strive to encourage proper ergonomics as well and have her stand on a foot stool where she doesn't have to cut with her hands up near her shoulders? But she could fall off of this while holding a sharp knife? Another UPM.

Fingers intact, there are sixteen pieces to reassemble. Granted, jigsaw puzzles are a fun thing at any age, but this reconstruction speaks volumes to me. Of me. It makes me think that the mapping gene, the need for constantly orienting oneself and having a general grip on your spatial relationships, runs strong in this one. Things like legos and tetris appeal to her. Time will only tell, but so far, this monkey has a knack for directions.

At the table, the sandwich went fast. Unbelievably, there was near silence while it was snarfed down. This is a rare thing around here. With her constant chatter and little dude's learning about sentences and practicing incessantly, it is oh so rare. I reflected on the quiet. Enjoying all minute and 23 seconds of it. Then I thought about how carefully the sandwich was prepared. How mindfully the sharp knife was used. How much the reconstruction spoke of her character. Then again, how big, my little girl is.

I laughed out loud.
How was your UPM sandwich honey?
"My what? This is a PBJ. You're silly daddy!"
Then cocking her head to the side and sporting a growing smirk she says "hey, maybe I can make one for you?"
Anytime, my darling. Anytime.
"How about now daddy? I can make one for you right now, because I just made one and ate it and it was really good. You should have one with this apricot jam daddy, it is ever so delicious. It's a bit runny but if you are a really good PBJ builder like I am then you can easily do it and, like no worries on cutting it because I can use a really sharp knife all by myself and cut it into as many pieces as you want, like eight or nine or ten or eleven or twelve or maybe even fifty...................

biscotti making

Every x-mas, I make biscotti. Like, for at least the past ten years. It is a holiday ritual involving a good two days of labor, but one that yields the most satisfying of results. Biscotti, anise cookies, the ultimate cookie, call them what you will, they are my favorite cookie. Maybe you have not had the cookie I'm thinking about. Or you think you have, but are really imagining one of those rock hard biscotti-shaped things that ruin folks experience of the real deal. These, are the real deal, and if you have the hand and forearm strength to give them a try, I implore you to do so. You will be most pleased.

Unless you have access to a professional kitchen with an industrial mixer, you'll be making these completely by hand. In order for the dough to be the right consistency it must be extremely tough to mix. Try it in a Kitchen Aid or similar home kitchen model and by the time you have all the ingredients together, the motor will come to an abrupt stop. Really. (I strongly advise against even trying it, so please trust me here.) Using a wooden spoon yields similar results and chances are you'll break it if you insist on using it. This recipe is so old school that you don't even need a bowl to mix it all in. Think: pasta making where you add the eggs to a well in the flour already on the bread board. When all is thoroughly mixed, toss it in the fridge. Then, ideally, forget about it for anywhere between two and five days.

When you remember, (or have achieved aged dough perfection, however you choose to view it) remove it from the ice box and split it into thirds. If it is your first time attempting these, shape only one piece into a loaf for the first baking so you can see how the dough behaves, looking for how much rising and spreading the loaf will do and keeping it from browning too much. After the first baking, make sure to cool it until room temp on a rack. Now cut it at a slight angle with a thickness ranging from between 21/64ths to 29/64ths of an inch. Don't worry too much about precision here, after a few sheets of varying thicknesses you'll figure out the fine balance between enough strength and too thick. Place these pieces side down on the sheet, filling it most of the way. Now here comes the art of this cookie: bake them about 6-7 minutes per side, flipping them each time and rotating cookies and multiple sheets if needed to compensate for inconsistencies in your oven. Compensate for inconsistencies in your brain too I suppose. (If you've ever baked cookies in a late 1920's Wedgewood, or tried baking while using my brain, you know what I'm talking about.) Anyway, pay close attention, because burning cookies that are baked twice is easily 200% easier to do.

Oh, and back to that hand and forearm thing. If you've never made these, one batch is tough. If you end up liking the recipe and think about making even more, doubling it is nearly out of the question unless you have the enormous hands of an NBA center to achieve mixing the resulting, huge-tastic doughball. I recommend making one batch a day for successive days. (I do anywhere from two to four of these each year.) Making two batches in one day can be done if needed, but will result in certain hand fatigue, noticed primarily the following day when you reach for a doorknob or squeeze something in your fist. Or reach for your 8th cookie of the morning. Because, like the picture shows, there are always a broken few that need immediate gastric recycling.

So make sure you are nice and fortified before you attempt making these biscotti. Maybe do some carbo loading the day before. Come to think of it, this year I ate several of these sandwiches the couple days before embarking on my workout plan. I guess after years of making the cookies, I just do this naturally. I'm pretty sure the deep dish pizza I made was full of carbs. Overall though, it was a nice balanced snack with the cream cheese and salmon placed in the middle, panini style. Ahhhh, the things you have to do to achieve hand and forearm fitness.......

ANISE BISCOTTI

measure and set aside:
2T anise seeds
1 & 1/3c chopped walnuts

4 large eggs (let come to room temperature)

sift together 3 times:
5c all-purpose flour
1 & 2/3c granulated sugar
2t baking powder
1/2t salt

in a measuring cup combine together:
2/3c melted butter
1/3c salad oil (like safflower, canola, etc.)
2t anise extract
2t vanilla extract

make a well in the dry ingredients and add the (slightly beaten) eggs. mix with your hands until the egg is well incorporated then add the measuring cup of the remaining wet ingredients and mix until you need to rest. now make it even more difficult and painful, by adding the anise seeds and walnuts and mixing until they are nicely distributed. put into a large bowl and cover, then place in the fridge, at the very least overnight. from one to five days later, remove from the fridge and cut into thirds. shape one portion into a log. mash down with your hands into a low profile loaf, about 2 1/2 inches wide and nearly and inch tall. this will likely stretch most of the way across your cookie sheet (unless you are using a larger pan like a standard 1/2 sheet.) bake this loaf at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes until it has risen some and turned a light golden color. remove from the oven and cool on a cookie sheet until it has reached room temperature. slice on a diagonal about 3/8ths inch thick and lay on their sides back on the cookie sheet. bake at 350 again, about 6-7 minutes per side, flipping each time. by the second flip (nearing 15 minutes) they should be about done. cool on a rack and then start eating. dip in coffee, dip in wine, ice cream, chocolate, chili, whatever pleases you. and make sure to admire those strong hands and popeye-like forearms you just worked on and think: "I don't need no stinkin' mixer!"

free teapot

This is definitely not a post about prop 8. Nor is it a post about how sad I am that prejudice is nearly law. This is not a post about the difficulties explaining to my daughter why suddenly some of the women she knows so well, who even helped guide her into this world, could now be criminals. Nope, this post is not about how ashamed you should be for voting for attempting to make your own bedroom policies the only ones allowed and same-sex marriage illegal. This is a post about my teapot.

What? I've never told you the story about my teapot? Oh, my, we need to remedy this immediately.

Here we have a photo of one of my favorite places. Death Valley. (I just had to show one of my favorite wildlife photos from there: the rare, north american gravel monkey seen in it's winter plumage.) Now, about 20 miles or so to the North is a high desert valley that contains one of life's enduring unwitnessed phenomena. The sliding stones of racetrack playa. It's way out there, like 30+ miles along a rutted gravel road that has the distinction of eating tires and undercarriages. It turns out that getting there you pass a place called teakettle junction. An intersection with the habit of having many teapots hanging from the sign erected there.

But remember, this is not a post about me crying, thinking about how if my partner and I would be criminals for having the family we do if we simply had the same genitalia. And it's most certainly not a post about how passing prop 8 would be taking a step backward in society. Let me be clear, this is a post about where to find a free source of teapots.

I'd read somewhere that the national park service has to remove the teapots periodically because they pile up so quickly. It's really an unlikely place for a trash-heap, being so far out and all, but folks just can't help themselves and like the romantic idea of their teapot rusting away out there. Well, according to the nps, littering is what its called when you leave stuff behind out in the wilderness. So a few years ago, I found myself there with the need of a new teapot and I saw a real beauty. No embossed message in memoriam of anyone, no conspicuous reason for having left it behind. I figured, hey, why not help out the rangers with a little clean up and take one home to, er.....uh, dispose of. Yeah, dispose of, like on my stove!

So please don't think this is a post about how narrow minded I think you are being if you voted for prop 8. And don't think I'm saying that maybe not today, but in the near future, we will look back at this and see how pathetic our society was being. And whatever you do, please don't think that I'm angry about this whole thing. Because I'm not. I'm fucking pissed. So focus, and read this post for what it is: a hint on where to get another teapot, should you need one.

Nice one, huh? Two years later and working good. So, since this wasn't a post about prop 8 at all, let me not say how heartbroken I am as a parent, failing to come up with a good answer for my kid's inquisitive mind. Nope, it wasn't a post about how while trying to explain that some people don't want families to be anything but a mommy and a daddy, I couldn't adequately answer her simple question:

"Why don't they like families?"

Really, it is that simple. Go ahead and hate your own family if you have to. But don't pass any legislation to make intolerance mandatory. And remember, as a desert hermit once said "everyone is entitled to their own opinion, even if it is wrong......."

nana's hands

I don't remember my great grandmother's face nearly so much as her hands. I remember thinking they weren't much bigger than mine, but severely arthritic and bent. Somehow voluptuously so, with how her enormous knuckles joined by slim digits formed two hourglass shapes on each finger and one more on her thumbs. She passed away when I was in second grade, so my memory of nana is fading, not unlike looking at an old picture of her. One part is clear: her bony little fingers poking the surface of some focaccia over and over and over......

Nana's mother brought her to San Francisco from Genoa just after the turn of the century. Landing in the City at that time must have been a sight to behold. Her mother had helped bring babies into this world, no doubt having tough little hands full of tender loving. My nana learned through these hands, then taught her children, and so forth. Focaccia was but one of the foods handed down, but it holds the distinction as the only one I remember seeing nana make. Years later, seeing my grandma make focaccia reminded me how she poked the dough the same way and and how her mother must have taught her. I'd also notice how grandma's hands looked just like hers. Would I inherit these bony looking hands? I used to wonder.

Six years ago, my grandmother was not doing good. Being carried around everywhere by her husband was wearing on them both and she wasn't going to be around much longer. I had come for a visit to cook her some lunch and hopefully pick her brain about some recipes I could write down. I can't remember what I made, but afterwards I recall being on the back porch with afternoon light roasting me and just barely touching her, she was so thin. I asked her about crab cioppino and got a nice outline that was easy to transcribe. I asked about minestrone and got a similar rough outline. I looked at her gnarled fingers and then I asked about bread.
"It's easy."
"Yeah, like nana's focaccia?"
"Easy."
"So, how about ingredients grandma?"
"Eh, flour, water.........bread is easy dear, don't worry."
I looked down at my notebook

flour
water

"You'll figure it out."

I don't think nana or grandma used sourdough for their leavening. No matter, because somewhere back in that line of knowledge, someone did, and someone else converted over to dried yeast. Besides, grandma's recipe said flour, water.
And so that, is where I start.

bittersweet tart

Ahhhhhh.........this bittersweet thing we call life. How do you deal with it sometimes?

Like today, let's have a little look see into the life of a Monkey Wrangler, on what is turning into one of those classic days in the stay at home repertoire to remember for a long time........

Big girl was watching an early morning program and was being unresponsive to me asking her something. Meanwhile, little dude was downstairs mangling something of hers, making enough noise to make it obvious. When I threatened Big girl that I'd turn off the TV if I didn't get a response, it was met with an unresponse. I turned it off and suggested we do something else. There was absolutely no protest and she stayed put staring off into who knows what. Within about 43 seconds, she was up and walking about the house and starting to grunt and whine a bit. Within another minute she was saying "Daddy.............I don't want to throw up!" over and over, while pacing figure eights around the two tables downstairs again and again. "Daddy, now I have to go poop!" she mutters and I think, oh crap, here we go..........

We make it upstairs and I assist her. As well as hold her hair out of the bowl she is clutching on her lap, should she need to hurl. The little bro' unit comes crawling in, then gets into a squat position and stands up. He takes a few steps at us near the toilet. Usually big sis' would be having a major conniption fit about him being anywhere near the bathroom while she's in it. Today though, nothing. She stares through him. He is like a fly in the room. Besides our being in the bathroom under such conditions, I know she's sick when she pays no mind to what her brother is about to get into and/or destroy of hers.

Ahhhh, the bittersweetness of parenting. I'm holding onto one kid who is shivering uncontrollably and dry heaving while the other is showing his newfound skill and making day two of being an upright homo sapien. I laugh at myself for a second, being in the midst of all this.
Then it hits me.
Shit.
This is only Monday.

Well, at least yesterday I got something done. I got to use some lemon quark in a new way for me, in a dessert I've been imagining for well over a year now. And I had the immense fortune that it incorporated a few of Carl's peaches. Making it was bittersweet though. The peaches were the rarest I'll have this year, for on Saturday the 5th when I saw Carl and he had a few peaches, he said "yeah, these are the only ones for the year..........today." I gasped, I was so excited. I bought half a dozen. (I would have bought more, but I wanted others to have a chance at the few boxes he had.) Then I came home and nearly cried thinking of the bittersweetness of it all. How these would be my only fresh peach this year from my favorite king of peaches.

Then again, if that is one of my big worries for the year, then I surely have it really, really good. Dry heaves, shivers, giggling while walking and all.

But, like, jeez, I do wish it were Tuesday already..........if you are having a similar day, make yourself one of these:

BITTERSWEET PEACH AND CHEESE TART

1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 stick of damn good butter
1/4 cup powdered sugar

1/2 pint lemon quark
2 large eggs
3 of the rarest peaches you can find, preferably one you will not have for at least another year. This is essential.

cut the butter into the flour after you have mixed the sugar into it. like, duh. pat this into a 9x9 pan or something oval and smallish. bake it at 350 for about ten minutes. when this is just showing a hint of golden, pull it out and cool for a bit. meanwhile, put the leftover 4th of July booze down and crack a few eggs into a bowl. slop in the quark and mix thoroughly. skin your peaches and cut into slices. if they are clingstone, place the pit in your mouth and suck the stubborn, hard to get stuff off. do not put this part with the slices. pour the egg and quark mixture over the crusty thing and place slices of peaches all over the top. put it into the oven, still at 350 for another 25 of so minutes. well, maybe 18, maybe 33, who knows, learn to pay attention........eat the whole thing yourself and try not to cry.

shark food

This past Wednesday evening, elder monkey and I attended a San Jose Sharks hockey game. She'd been to two before, but was on our laps at the time. This was her first time that she remembered. The two of us drove on down to San Jose in good time with no traffic and parked way out in the free zone. She's a little hiker and we hoofed it quickly, pretending we would "chase" various groups of people. Before we knew it we were at the gates with our tickets, pack full of treats, but most importantly "Sharkie" in hand.
She takes a look at the hundreds of folks milling about.
"What are all these people here for daddy?"
"To see the Sharks hockey game honey, just like us."
"Wow, this must be one big shark tank!"
"Well, that's just what they call it hon, but really the only sharks in it are the hockey players."
"Yeah, and my Sharkie!"
"Yup, and your Sharkie honey. And lots of others. In fact, look around and you tonight and you will see other people with their little sharks swimming around when the right music plays."
"I don't want my sharkie to swim around!"
"It's up to you sweetie, you'll see."
We arrive at the front of the building and que up.

Whew!
Magic Fae Fae and the baguette wrapped in a kitchen towel did their job at concealing the hooch, just as planned, allowing us safe maneuvering past the rugged security, consisting of the ticket scanner guy asking sheepishly: "oooh, hey, can I check your bag there?" I wondered if Canadian hockey arena workers made it into the american leagues as this case sounded to be.

We secured our tickets in a pocket and made our way up the stairs. It is a stroll all the way around the arena to get to our section and we pass all the concessions. Her eyes were aglow with the possibilities. She stops at the fresh popcorn.
"I think that later, I want the sweet popcorn, if we happen to find some."
Happen to find some!
My heart melts.

We find our seats and sit down for the last 5 minutes of the pre-game stuff. The monkey looks around, mouth agape at the multimedia presentation that is the NHL. When the puck hits the ice, I break out the baguette and fixin's and start constructing sammiches. Monkey wants one with cheese. I think to myself, we did it, we did! a kid who eats stinky cheese on home-made bread!

Five minutes into the game a fight breaks out that seems to last forever. Figures.
"Why are those men hitting each other?" she wonders aloud, in a voice that everyone in the section can hear I'm sure.
"Well sweetie, sometimes in hockey, when someone is angry at someone and wants to fight them, they take off their gloves and the referees lets them duke it out!"
"Oh." I can see her imagining that all she needs to do is wear gloves the next time she's around her brother and angry.
"He sweetie, don't get any ideas, you don't play hockey yet."

After finishing the first round of food and making it through the first round of high-fives with strangers during the first goal, she requests one with salmon next. Yeah, that's my kid, right there. I tear her off another hunk of bread and put some nice slices of smoked salmon in there for her. Her eyebrows nod up and down with approval and I hear a few sounds of contentment.

To celebrate the occasion, I do what hockey fans do. I have a beer. Only I remain seated and pop open the pink water bottle to drink some fine homebrew. That's right, you heard me. Snuck in homebrew. Shit, I figure, at $7.75 a pint for a beer on tap at the tank, I'll open one at home and transfer it into an unbreakable container for safe transport and "suffer" through the effects it has on the beer. Ahhhh, the tough moral decisions that one must face in this life. Good thing they go rather nicely with an IPA.

We nosh away for the rest of the period. After seeing everyone else get up and go somewhere we decide to try it ourselves, buying a bag of "confetti popcorn." She takes her first taste and makes a face.
"That one tasted like banana!"
We make it back to our seats and I make myself another sammich and polish off the beer. We witness a horrific crash behind the goalie into the boards that results in a player leaving on a stretcher with a broken leg. One of those kind of games, just filled with brawls and injuries. We get through two periods before losing all steam.
I ask her if she wants something else like a hot dog or maybe some fries.
"No."
Time to go.
"Well, let's pack up and head out sweetie."
"Wait.......daddy?"
"Yeah honey?"
"Can we wait until we see the ice cleaners one more time?"
"Sure sweetie, sure............"

After the Zambonis did their work and "everything is smooth again" we let ourselves out and began the trek back to the car. She makes it all but two of the blocks on her own. During those we look for jets landing at the airport nearby while she tells me how excited she is to be up so late to see the "golfey players." At the car we get her into jammies and start listening to the radio broadcast. In the final minute, the lead changes twice. We pull away and it's sudden death. She's talking non-stop. "Sweetie, it's after 10 o'clock, can we be quiet for just one minute and then we'll talk?"
"Okay" she manages to exhale.
10 seconds later she's out.
It's a real nail-biter.
In a shoot-out the Sharks win. I'm ten minutes from home, the monkey is asleep, jammied and smiling in her sleep. I'm one happy dad.

The next morning I reached in the pack and took out what was left of the bread. A dorsal fin it appeared. I reflected on how yummy the rye and wheat combo worked with the alder smoked salmon and ultra tasty chevre. I sliced up the remains and put it in the toaster, then got out the remainder of last night's fixin's from the fridge. I figured we could revisit our menu from the shark tank (minus the beer) and eat shark food for breakfast.





Two of my favorites on home-made sourdough baguette slices.
The SGS combo. Salmon, Goat, Sourdough.
Mmmmmmmm........shark food.

hints that spring is nearly here

Sometimes, here in sunny California, it can be a little confusing as to exactly when it's spring. Sure, you've got that whole equinox thingy and all, but well before that, spring has sprung. The plants know what's up. Some keep track of the temperature while some pay attention to the sun's rays. Some pay attention to neither. Or both. I try to make sense of it all, but it's the little clues of it's arrival, such as these flowers placed so lovingly into the hood of my car. When I see this, I know spring is near.

Another way of telling is by who visits. Think about it. You probably have a few relatives or friends who you only see at certain times of the year. A holiday perhaps. If this regularity can be counted on then you start thinking things like: "oh, hey, auntie so and so is coming to town, it must be (insert occasion here)." When it's Saint Nick, you think x-mas. The Great Pumpkin, Halloween right? And so on and so forth. Well, around here, before that big damn bunny makes his appearance we get a visit from Princess Cinderella and the Pink Princess Mariposa. Yes, spring is here when I find myself making lunch for these two.

Maybe you are a devout eater of what's in season. If that's the case you'd probably say spring is here when you're eating asparagus or something else fresh, green and newly emerged from the cold or recently frozen ground. Now, I love my asparagus and all, but to me nothing says the arrival of spring like eating peach pie. You heard it: P E A C H P I E. The filling for this baby was made back at the end of September and tucked away into the freezer. With the warming weather and trying to imagine what we can cram in the freezer that is the last of winter's goodness, it seems we shall need to make some space. The peachy goodness has got to go. Next up is a bag of Red Haven pie filling. When that one goes, there ain't no more warm peachiness until I feel the fuzz from this year's crop on my lips.

When I really know it's spring though, is when the light streams through the Tofuhenge just so. It will pierce through one of the bean curd windows and illuminate the center with a nice clean line. With high enough air quality in the kitchen the light will even shine through all the way to the pull-down panels on the ancient Wedgewood. Of course you have to have constructed your "henge" with the proper alignment for this to happen, but when it finally does, as far as I'm concerned spring is here.

Silly readers, and you thought tofu was just for eating!

Happy almost sprung..........

sordid stuff my ass!

I wasn't quite sure how to start this post, so I'm giving you a picture I took of some good old fashioned oakland zoo camel sex. You see, Biggles tagged me and now I'm all dirty. I've got to give up 5 sordid facts about myself.

The rules are: (or were it seems, because the master of meat couldn't pull it together and didn't bother to obey the first rule and tell me to post the rules, so thank you Cookiecrumb!)
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post and list their names, linking to them.
4. Let them know they've been tagged by leaving a comment at their blogs.

Hmmmmm...........after many days of contemplation, here goes:

5 Sordid Facts?

One-a-roo: As a toddler, I was known for scooching over and gnawing on the high lead content paint windowsill, then looking around to pluck dead flies off and, you guessed it, eating them.

D-d-d-dos: With a four year old and a nine month old in the house, and me being the stay at home parent, when I do the math, I've changed somewhere well over two thousand diapers. And that's being conservative.

Tha-ree: Sticking with the kids theme, once, about eight months ago, I was peed on four times in the same day. Before noon.

Ka-wa-tro: Enough of the kids, back to my gnarly, filthy old self. It's rare I don't eat something after I've dropped it on the floor. Butter side down toast certainly gives reason to pause, but mainly, naw. Now, let me make clear, I won't serve anything I've dropped on the floor to a family member or guest without carefully inspecting, washing, and then generally cooking it. Me though, I'm way more lax. Then again, I think that we are suffering from too clean an environment in our homes sometimes and that the added bonus of some healthy competition for the intestinal fauna from floor food just might be a good thing, however gross it is.

Fuh-hive: I've eaten dumpster chocolate. Not just any old dumpster chocolate, but Scharffen Berger. I know some folk who do dumpster diving on a regular basis. Not because of being destitute, but as a choice; to address the fact that we throw away somewhere near a quarter of all the food we prepare in this country. Not only is the methane this produces in landfills way not good, but considering how many million tons of waste this is, it makes great sense to me to glean the good stuff from the trash. Now, I don't go dumpster diving myself (it looks a bit strange to have to tether your kids to the trash bin while your in it searching around I've thought) but when my friend handed over a two pound plus, irregularly shaped chocolate hunk and said it was from Scharffen Berger, it piqued my interest a bit. Then having learned it had been shaved off and eaten from for weeks at this point, and that no one had been sick, I carved off a wedge and started eating. The beer might have helped.

So, was that disgusting, filthy, dirty and morally degraded enough to be five sordid facts?

Well, I'm gonna go ahead and tag five others who I'm sure have a disgusting little bit or two to share. I think, well, uh, hope......

You already saw the rules, then here's the links to more jewels:

Marc over at Mental Massala would be a lovely start. He is just so thoughtful, ethical and smart, I'd just love to hear something naughty from him.........please Marc?

Mimi, I know you must be craving to play along. Delectable Tidbits you say? How about give us the sordid, maybe a bit more blow chunky bits.

Lindsey. Writer and pastry chef. Awesome at both. With writing skills and much time spent in kitchens, she's gotta have some super sordid stuff in her nug. She's hella busy, so I'd like way understand if she bowed out of this one, but let us put our hands together and prey she might like to share. If you have never been over her way for some adventures in dessert, well, let me tell you, you need to.

Aileen? Are you out there? Cozy and warm I hope? Well, I figure with all the darkness this time of year up in the land of Quixote's Tart, there just has to be some sordid stuff. I hear the mind can get dark this time of year. It might help to share...........

Last only on this list, but only because I wondered for a long time wether she would have a scrap of time for this one and then said hell with it (big gasp for breath) is Leena. Leena eats this blog already contains plenty of sordid stuff. It practically leaks off the page sometimes. Now that, is gnarly. (I can say this because she is half a world away and can't come kick my ass!) But we want more.

That's all I gots! Please don't hate me now.

gooey hearts day

Happy Gooey Hearts Day Honey!

I love my wife. She is the best-est pardner a monkey wrangler could ask for. She brings home the bacon and possesses the sensitivity and talent to bust out a few frosted pink buttercream with sugar sprinkles chocolate cupcakes for our family on this special day of pinkness and candy sweet things of joy.

You see, we have fallen head over heals in love with our kids. It is crazy labor of love food items like this that say so. (See, it's not just me in this household who goes overboard with the cooking love.) Apparently it's something designed into our primitive brains so we cook for our children and therefore we don't eat them.

Well, that said, what is better in the eyes of a four year old who is waaaaaay the epitome of girlie and the apple of our eyes, than having pink frosted cup cakes? As the princess of our little world, she deserves the best. Sometimes though, the princess can sound like anything but.

We were sitting on the livingroom floor. I had the wee one sitting between my legs with a few toys. The Innocent little princess was running about the room with a nylon strap that we have for the purpose of aiding in stretching during yoga and the sort. She came running over and plopped herself down in front of me and little dude. She smiled at us with a devious little twinkle and proceeded to tell us something very excitedly, leaving no doubt in my mind that what she was speaking was intended for her little brother and not a lovey or imaginary item:

"Daddy, I'm gonna catch him and drag him into my room!" she says, her eyes all big.
"Then, I'm gonna screwdriver him. In his eyeballs and his nose, his ears......and his teeth!"
I'm looking at her rather shocked I must say, but can hear my wife reminding me when I need it the most that it is better to hear these kinds of things rather than bear witness to the act. Like I said, I love my wife. We make a great pair.
The princess went on, her eyes looking up and away to the side imagining another horrid act to commit........"and in his toe jams" she squeels thinking she's hit the ultimate in brotherly torture.
She chuckles a bit and adds, "then I'm gonna poison him."

I told her to hold that thought and I immediately wrote down the exchange, to share with her and her brother when they are older. I thought about how I much I love my big sister and that we must have started off somewhere near this long ago. Seeing this quote by the computer for the past few days, I just had to share it on this here day of smoochiness and sugar. There are definitely two sides to love. At the very least, it is one long continuum, that you may find yourself anywhere along. With the case of siblings, and the perspective of the parent, you pray it moves toward the supportive, accepting, and not producing bodily harm end.

Our little princess has broken us into this whole parenting thing. Our younger one will just have to suffer the consequences.

Happy Gooey Hearts Day Everyone!

curing bacon

We have a lot of stickers around here. Stuck to just about anything it can seem sometimes, while others, like these, oh-so-deliberately placed. A nice little dancing diorama constructed on the edge of the art and craft table. (You know what they say about idle little hands.) But this little scene makes me think of how just four and a half short years ago I never ever thought it possible for one person to have a wardrobe that is nearly completely pink. Tutus have been in. Pink of course. Worn at the very least every third day, at some point, but typically daily. Lots of pink swirly prancing about, that I now accept completely as part of my daily life. A part of it reminds me of life in the Castro when I was in college. But, like wow, talk about a whole 'nother post.

Anyway, this past holiday season brought many viewings of the Nutcracker. Combining the tutus and all with a date to the SF Ballet production, we now have a self-proclaimed ballerina. Well not just one, as apparently the girls in our family are. Since the wee one tends to stand on his toes when he is upright, I've been joking and calling him a ballerino. Girlie monkey informed me that he couldn't be because he was a boy.
"Oh, really?" I asked.
"Yeah, mommy and me have the ballerina gene.........but I don't think you do daddy."
"Well, you have me there kid, I'm not much of a dancer."
"Yeah with those BIG feet!" she chuckles.
"Uh, right. So, I guess because mommy has the gene and you came out of her, then you must have gotten it from her!"
"Yeah!" squeeled at about 100db, which during the final second went inaudible, likely on into the dog whistle range.
"Well, maybe since your brother came out of mommy too, then he could have the ballerina gene?"
I was just dying to hear her response.
"Yeah, maybe," she sighs.
"Yeah, maybe?"
"Yeah.............but I don't think so. Because he just kind of hops around and doesn't really dance. I'm pretty sure he got that gene from you."
For four, that's a good grasp on genetics. But this isn't about genes, its about that dancing and prancing about that accompanies little ballerinas. So when I say I heard a loud crashing sound coming from the monkey's room last week you'll know the background.

It was supposedly "quiet time," which is anything but in her room, but outside of it in the rest of the place it can actually be nice. Not quite quiet, but tame for sure. So there I was in the kitchen when I heard a loud crash and resultant spill of toys, followed by a uuuhhhh, uuuUUUUUAAAAHHHHHH, UUAAHHHHH, AAAHHHHHHH!
AHHHH! AHHHAHHH!
D-D-DAAAAAAADDDEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
Oh shit! Time to step away from the oven and sprint into the other room while simultaneously yanking the lil' one from his high chair and putting him on the floor where it is safer. The elder monkey makes it to me first and is pointing at her chin and whimpering, tears all down her face and wetting the floor.
"Oh sweetie, what happened? Did you smack your chin?"
"Uhhnnnhhh, huhhnnn. Muh-muh-my.........ch-ch-chin."
"Ohhhhh honey, let me see." She lets me check it out and there is a mark under it, but more importantly there is blood in her mouth. "Let me check out your teeth, are they okay" I get out, not waiting for an answer while starting to open her little mouth and have a look. Everything looks good in there. Oh wait, here it is, she punched a hole in her bottom lip when she went down on her face, despite what looks like her chin absorbing most of the blow.
"Looks like you smacked your chin pretty hard and bit your lip pretty good honey. What do you say lets go get your boo-boo bunny for that huh?"
"Yuh-yeah," said with the lips still trembling and the tears slowed down to a trickle.

I look in the fridge and don't see the bunny. I open up the freezer and start looking around. "Sweetie, I can't find the boo-boo bunny, maybe we'll have to give you some frozen peas or something to put on your chin," I say while moving items out of the way and digging around.
"Daddy, we could use that bacon for my chin. I think that would make it feel better."

Anybody fail to see the logic in that one? If so, sorry. Well, okay, here I'll try. My explanation would go something like: to my daughter, bacon can function like a security item, much like a blanket. When she is in pain, she wants security. When she is in pain and needs some icing to keep down the swelling on something, then frozen bacon it is. Sounds like the ultimate fix, mollifying the coolness and comfort needed in the situation with one fix. I'm proud of that kind of thinking in my off-spring.

After twenty minutes of holding it to her face and repeating in a four-year-old version of Homer's voice "mmmmmmm, bacon," I decided it was time to put the bacon on the inside of that chin for some more therapeutic uses. I fried it up. The monkey requested some, citing "oooooh, some nice crispy bacon will definitely make my chin feel better!" She ate about three pieces, making this disclaimer with each piece until I said we needed some to put into our dinner. We had some sweet pea linguine, dry jack and half-n-half just waiting for a cream sauce. I carmelized some onions in the bacon grease, then sauteed up our cauliflower and carrots in the mess thinking I'd hide them in the sauce and kids would love it. I tossed the remainder of our bacon in and hoped it was enough, thinking at the very least it would taste like it was in there whether we saw it or not.

We dished up and sat down.
"Eeeww! That's yuck!" was the response from the elder monkey. She has really been experimenting with this one, saying it even when she eats all of what she had such disgust for. H and I looked at each other and said in stereo cool, more for us then. The wee one seemed to like it just fine, especially the creamy bacony noodles. Elder monkey managed to eat some of the creamy cauliflower. We were all happy the bacon did it's job at being a healing agent. The curative power of bacon. Who knew.

The next morning I was cleaning up and the monkey requested that we have some bacon again. I picked her up to show her that there was no more in the pan, and that although she can smell bacon, it was just hardened fat.
"What's that?" she asked.
I looked at the greasy image and thought I saw something.
"That?" Looking at the forks crossing fat mold. "Oh, I think that's where the bacon fairy must have spent the night."
I pictured the little thing all snug in the grease for the night, and then prying her little self away to fly off in the morning.......

I guess no matter how much anyone tells you, there is no way to really get across how much your world will be changed by your children.

Especially when it yields such tasty dinner.

santa, chicken bones, fairies and magic

It was christmas eve night at about 9:30pm. We were on the bridge back home enjoying light traffic and happy children despite the late hour and occasion. After a brief moment of silence the elder monkey blurts out: "I see a white sleigh in the sky!"
"You do? Where honey?"
"Over there by the hills daddy!"
"Just above them right there hon?" I pointed to a plane, low in the sky heading southward, making sure to sound convincing and enthusiastic, "Is it the one with the blinking light right there?"
"YEAH!!! IT"S SANTA DADDY!!!!!!!"
"WOOOOWWWOWOW!!!!! That is soooo coool sweetie!"
"YEAHHHHH! SANTA!" she squeels.
"Wow. Santa must have a flashing safety light on the back of his sleigh just like mommy and daddy's bikes huh? You're eyesight is much better than mine but I can sure see the flashing light real well."
"Yeah, Santa has a flashing light on his sleigh so all the airplanes flying around don't hit crash into him. He's being real safe."
"Wow honey, not everyone sees Santa on his sleigh on christmas eve night!"
"Yeah, but I did!"

I've always wondered how old St. Nick gets around safely in such dense air traffic. Thanks to my knowledgeable and eagle-eyed daughter, I now know.

I was working on printing up a list of beer bottles available at a new bar here in oaktown. It specializes in belgain brews and features a few nice 'Merican ones as well. Have you heard of The Trappist? Like, damn, this place is cool. And, it has incredibly high alcohol belgian ales that encourage one to ride their bike rather than drive. I call that a step in the right direction.

In order to do a little homework before going and getting some exercise, I wanted to study-up on what's available, but my printer was acting all funky and paper was getting jammed. After trying three times with no success I finally pulled open the cover to have a thorough look. Nothing out of the ordinary except some tweaked and torn paper shreds. I cleared these and then slammed the cover shut in the prescribed fashion. Out popped a small object about 1/2 inch long and stick like, but with rounded edges and made out of some very light material. Oh crap I thought. Great, some tiny little tab of plastic snapped off and the printer is forever maimed. But the piece wasn't plastic. Or from the printer. It was one of those small chicken bones that always winds up being chomped on while enjoying chicken stewed in a chile verde. Apparently "someone" was not fond of having the bone in their possesion and it mysteriously ended up stuck under the edge of the printer. It reminded me of that maneuver where as a child you take the gum from your mouth and scrape it from your hand onto whatever edge your little fingers find under the folding chair at a family picnic. Only, I don't think anyone was sitting on top the printer while eating chicken verde. In a folding chair. That I know of that is.

But after my discovery, maybe I should look at it again and scan for gum too.

Once, riding the bike over to the farmers' market, the monkey spotted these and said "Look daddy! Christmas puppies!" I almost wrecked the bike laughing so hard.

I was reminded of this the other day, when we dropped H off at work and on the way home saw one of those electrical transformer boxes in Emeryville that are painted with stencil art. There are dozens of them, black shapes on yellow backgrounds. The one we saw was the typical profile view of a person (like the kind used in most crosswalk signs years ago) only this one had wings.
"Hey check out that art work over there; that person has wings!"
"Yeah I think it must be a fairy daddy!"
"You think?" I asked with a twinge of doubt, feeling myself slipping into playing the contrarian.
"Yes, a girl fairy."
"Really? How can you tell?"
"Because it has wings."
"You mean boy fairies don't have wings?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"Well, they have one tiny little one, but it just flaps around in the breeze is all."
"Oh." I thought about it for a while then asked: "Sounds like it's better to be a girl fairy."
"Yeah, girl fairies are a lot better."

It really is a blessing to be in the presence of a set of eyes that don't have the same filters in place.

Why such big chairs? Well, it's kinda like around here when things happen or a new skill is demonstrated without any clear explanation of how exactly. It usually ends in "It must be magic daddy!"

Like this morning. Not sitting on such a large chair mind you, but unexpected indeed. I was making a dough when the elder monkey asked "Do you hear that Nutcracker music daddy? In the livingroom?"
"No. Do you?"
""Mmm hmmm," she says with a funny smile and then prances off. A few minutes later I walk in and discover that the Nutcracker is coming through the stereo and is about halfway through the performance.
"How did this come on?" I ask.
"I don't know." Said with a little shrug and smile.
"You mean it was just on when you came in here?"
"Yep!" Then she starts twirling around doing her best to be on her tippie toes.
"You sure you didn't turn it on sweetie?"
"Really I didn't daddy. I just used my magic!"

So according to that logic, from now on, all posting about food that contains a recipe will include an attempt to quantify the amount of "magic" that was used.

Call it a new years resolution of sorts.

Didn't think I was gonna get around to posting again, so sorry to sound repetitious but........

Happy New Year Everybody!