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.

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!

wrangler in rose

{Note: Fatherhood is the most rewarding task I have undertaken in my life, and equally stressful, quite often at the same time. This post is a recollection of some events that produced such a state. But most importantly, my kids are well and I have survived to tell the tale..........and as with each tale of wandering near the brink, whether of sanity, health or reality, this tale portends of future occurences and long lasting consequences.}


Where am I?

Has it really been a fortnight of wranglin' around in a pastel ruled girlie land; a season of pinks, purples and myriad other shades, where rosie pink has infiltrated everything......



Two weekends ago it all started innocently enough with my desire to feed some farmers. The Ecology Center had their annual Feed the Farmers party and with purple sweet potatoes in the market it was time for that lavender beauty again. This is my favorite way to make cheesecake and the results are fantastic. The color of the finished product has folks wondering what's in it from across the room. When they find out it has sweet potato they usually raise an eyebrow in doubt. Then they try it, smile, and ask you once agin what's in it, because they simply can't fathom how your last statement of ingredient can yield such a tasty and royal colored treat. Or you get the "there's sweet potato in here?" questioning face, followed by the "but it's delicious!?" look of bewilderment. Try it sometime. You'll see what I'm talking about and then you can let me know what you had as experience for reactions to it.

Between making the cheesecake twice, eating some baked sweet potato for lunch twice myself, and feeding it to the wee one a few times as well, I spent each day involved with a lavendar hue at some point. Topped off with the elder monkey's hair having pink highlights, then coupled with her wearing pink and/or a princess dress for a few days on end while prancing and bopping, hopping and stomping around constantly, I was beginning to wonder if my eyesight had been "pink shifted." Like astronomy and universal expansion being seen in the red shift of things and stuff like that. Only closer to home, super girlie, and way pink. Before I realized it fully, my life in rose colored sight and taste had already lasted a week.

After the day of grotesque turkey consumption came the real days of pink though. Big girl turned four. It was birthday season. I thought to myself, Holy crap. I've got a four year old and a 6 month old!! Couple this with our orchids showing signs of blooming again this year and I'm startin' to feel like a real adult!

Plans for the momentous occasion began the previous weeks with late night store runs and the first rumblings of craft work. These were followed by actual progress on requested birthday items as the hours counted down. Last year we had a piñata, so this year we were being held to furnishing another. Only this time, with a preconceived notion of what the realm of possibility was, she requested a spiderbatflamingo. You've heard of one right? The great mythical creature of long ago. The part spider, part bat, part flamingo beast that was feared by some but loved and now revered by my kid. I hadn't heard of one before and was having trouble envisioning such a thing, but it didn't stop me from trying to accommodate her desires. Now the problem was how to find one. "Sure honey, we could have a piñata like that, no problem!" What the hell was I thinking? No one is going to have such a thing. I'll have to make it myself! I can do it!?


Well it only took about four hours of actual work on it, with maybe another ten of thinking about it real hard. It had a black widow body, and bat wings mounted near the intersection of the cephalothorax and abdomen, since I wasn't sure where a spiders wings would go, being that they haven't any. A flamingo neck and head complete with monkey chosen "poisonous fangs" mounted near the base completed the creature. We hung it from our dining room fixture for maximum effect. It was greeted on party morning with a "that's a flamingo spider!" Then after a wing-type question, "with bat wings!"

It was a hit, so to say. The underside of the spider didn't prove too difficult to whack through and the red violin shape was recognized by monkey and most others as belonging to a black widow. It made me think that maybe we have a future entymologist on our hands. Wait, or is that etymologist? Anyway, the treats seemed to trickle out in small handfulls with each turn of abuse. Perfect for the crowd. I was proud of my design, and the stress of the piñata making and the related worry over its ability to function, resulting in a bizarre sense of "performance anxiety," was over. The creature ended thoroughly mangled and empty of candy. My daughter's face was lit up and happy, beaming with the destruction and success. I patted myself on the back and gave my big girl a huge squeeze, feeling myself getting all choked up.......

Two days after the party, and finally a sense of normalcy is beginning to return to the house, after the holiday/birthday/special-nessy of it all. For me, it was time to start paying closer attention to our latest cider. I had managed to procure yet more apple juice for yet more apple hooch, making it three batches so far this year. And I'm proud to report that this time I went and bought the juice without squeezing it myself, thus saving an inordinate amount of time during a season that was lacking already. The juice was fresh pressed, unpasteurized and kept cold for a day. Not to mention, from one hell of a delicious fuji apple. Well, it was from more than one apple obviously, but not more than one variety. I can't wait to compare it in a few months with the rest of the ciders, side by side.

Just when I thought the season of pink might come to an end, I get roped into "let's put some of the foamy stickers on the cider daddy!" Willingly that is. You see, I'm a sucker for my monkey. She's trained me how to be a dad, and she deserves all I can give. I'm proud. And stressed. And comfortable in my masculinity amongst all the girlie-ee. Stickered in pink, even wearing a skirt or ribbons in my hair, I've never been happier in my whole life.

first day on the job

Tomorrow is my first day on the job. My first real day you see. It should be quite the first day, H will be back at work, and I will be all alone in double-monkey-ville.

I'm a bit scared.

Last time the venture into the unknown involved one crying mouth. We managed. The elder monkey is healthy and seemingly well adjusted and I'm working on three and a half years experience on the resumé. But now the job description involves two mouths. Screeching and squeeling in stereo is the norm from here on out (it is uncanny how much the elder can imitate the new guy.) My workplace now contains a few more decibels as well as more demands. I have visions of young monkey taking a bottle easily, napping three times, and only having one nice clean load a day. Yeah, visions. Based in a reality, some reality, that contains what we are aiming for. Speaking of aim, hopefully I'll only be peed on every other week.

Luckily, (and due to some careful planning and negotiating) two weeks ago I ventured into the Sierras to fill my brain with visions from two miles up. Visions and memories to fill my mind as I wonder where my sanity went during my "training" period at the new job.

My mind will certainly drift toward this scene. Standing on a granite slope near the shore of Hungry Packer lake, staring at all the fish that wouldn't come anywhere near my lures. Well, they came near and even took a wee nibble, but nothing was landed. Oh well, it was the middle of the day, breezy, and I really wasn't that hungry anyway. We hiked on, traversing over to Moonlight lake to catch a few brookies near the outlet stream. They were all around eight or nine inches, but hit the lure with speed. Poor little brookies. They are tasty.

We caught a few rainbows and rainbow/golden hybrids. The latter tended to be a bit bigger and just a touch lighter in flesh. All them fishies fried up nice though. Tito liked their eyes, cheeks and brains. Skin too. He said the cheeks were incredibly sweet. When he eats fish, he eats pretty much the whole fish. In the mountains, Tito fuctions at a level of conservation and recycling that I like to think I am achieving while out backpacking, but really don't come near. Maybe next time, I'll try the cheeks, and I think I can handle some skin. But damn, I am no where near eyes or brains.

Visions.

The next day we wandered up to Babboon lakes. They looked a tad milky. With a slight amount of glacially derived "flour" in them, they appear more turquoise than other lakes in the vicinity. They contained tons of teeny little fish. Easy to catch, oh boy. You would find it hard to go hungry here. We roamed the four main lakes and fished the streams and ponds between. Tito bagged the two best rainbows of the day for dinner later. After a few hours and well near a dozen fish landed (at least 30 between three rods) we made our way back downhill to camp. It would be another fish fry night.

Lemons may be heavy to pack in, but the reward is devine. A pinch of salt and some butter (also heavy, but come on you NEED butter) plus some heat under the pan and trout bliss was ours. A taste of Maker's Mark or two afterward and we were set to lay back on the granite and enjoy a few shooting stars. We were treated to some spectacular ones, including one extra wide and seemingly near, streaking at least halfway across the sky. Nearing the end of its burn, it broke apart resulting in two separate pieces tumbling together for the briefest bit. Cool. The sky was filled with stars. Just filled. Satellites were easily picked out and the Milky Way was a big milky mess. The granite profiles stood out as angular voids against the speckled universe. The mountains are indeed as beautiful in full sun as they are in absolute dark. Visions.

So, I'll be trying to think of these things. My granite and fish mantras of the Sierras. They will come in handy as things to focus on and visualize. Something to remind me that while I'm mired in pee and the screeming and the general chaos of a three month old and nearing four year old while not being the parent with breasts, that I............wait, what was that? where was I?......Uh, oh crap did the day start already? Am I out of time?

Wait.......ok there's that train. Visions. I'll have Sierra filled visions in my mind to sustain me through the tough parts of the day. Visions of mountains. Big, bold, starry, teeny little fish filled mountains. I'll need all the help I can get, because the younger monkey is looking like trouble so far.......

I mean, check out who he hangs with: cool dog and g-raffe. And what about that seahorse on the knit cap. Talk about intimidating. If ever there is a creature that just exudes power and attitude it's a seahorse. Guess I'll have to take it easy with this fella till I'm through the first few weeks on the job and the house has an established routine. Or else I'll be gettin' NOSHT. Or in the local hood speak, fall prey to a North Oakland Sea Horse Thug.

Thank goodness our local union provides for a three day weekend after the first day on the job.......I'll need it to recover and gain strength for the rest of week one.

It's gonna be a long September.

Visions.

the tao of food

When people see some things as beautiful,
other things become ugly
When people see some things are good,
other things become bad



Sometimes, you just have to go with the flow. For me, that means doing what the monkey loves best and taking a ferry ride every few weeks to the aquarium. And doing this on a Tuesday morning means hitting the market, because you always need a snack. Or maybe two. One spicy dry chorizo, tub of mozzarella balls and loaf of bread later, plus a bag of produce, we were on our way.

With our friends and goodies all collected, we crossed the embarcadero to catch the streetcar. Over on the platform, sitting on the ground near the bench was some cowgirl's bag with a pretty little wedge of cheese in it. This sounded intriguing. I'd never had Tome au Dauphine, and a receipt showing its purchase some 45 minutes earlier made us think twice about leaving it by its lonesome self out in the cold. We picked it up, reasoning that some poor soul would be having a cheese-free lunch, and boarded the next car contemplating our next move. Hmmm. Street cheese. Might want to down-play this one, so as to not encourage the monkeys from harvesting food from the street. K and I discussed whether we would really consume it later.

The car slowly pulled up to the next intersection. While we were waiting, I realized I had left our bag of groceries and snacks behind, near the cheese finding location. We asked to get off and walked back the few hundred feet, reserved that the train would pull away any second. I saw my bag, grasping it with relief and looking down the tracks for the next car. Nothing. We looked back at the car we just departed a moment before and saw it reamining still despite a green light. We made a run for it. The driver opened the door, then stood in the doorway looking around the next turn in the track at a broken down car ahead of us. A bizarre sense of fate came to mind, but we were happy to have re-boarded, with our freebie cheese and groceries now safely tucked in our backpack.

With the broken car quickly removed, our ancient Italian thing with slick seats rambled on. The varnished wooden benches have nearly nothing to hold on to. Very easy to fly from if you're little and not used to these things. A parent can only warn of this happening so many times before it actually does. On one of the next green lights the car jerked forward and I felt the monkey's hand leave my knee suddenly. I looked to my left and found her four feet away and on the floor, facing backwards. She landed like a little cat, with back arched and upright. If she had a tail, it would have been quivering no doubt. I'm pretty sure I saw some back fur standing up though.

Blemish free and no worse for the wear, she had an expression of bewilderment when I picked her up and dusted her off. Back on the seat, with her back in big city observation mode, I tried to slip in a reminder.
"Honey, you gotta hold on when the car starts and stops."
"Yeah, or you might drop your bread!"
"Well, yes honey, but you could hurt yourself real bad."
"Yeah, you could fall down and go BOOM!"
"Luckily you're just fine. Please pay more attention to holding on sweetie, these seats are slick!"

Nice priorities on that little one. Definitely my kid.
Go with the flow, I told myself, and rejoice when these lessons occur. Without injury that is. What had appeared to be a near disaster was now a bright spot in life's lessons. You gotta hold on, or your bread will be swept away in the current. Well, that and you just might smack your noggin.

Arriving without any more momentum lessons we stashed a stroller in the parking area and got down to some exploration. We saw the baby penguins and admired the fish, making sure to play in the bubble windows that allow you to feel like you are in the tanks. After burning out on watching critters, we went and horked down on cheese and bread. Upon opening the chorizo however, I was greeted with what looked like a fuzzy blanket over part of the casing. Drag. When some things are beautiful, other things become ugly, came to mind. I could eat some, maybe, but I wanted confirmation that this was normal before going any further. With the freebie cheese nearly off-setting the price of the fuzzy meat, I tried to go with the flow of food, reasoning that in the end it was a fair trade.

After lunch, we stood for a while at the models showing how the new academy is being built. As wondrous as the enormous under-construction tanks will be, I couldn't keep the possibly bad chorizo off my mind. Tired, amazed, and stuffed, we waddled out to the street and made our way back to the ferry.

Back at the ferry plaza, I returned to the site of the purchase to show them the quantity of mold involved and to ask if this was normal as I suspected. I really wanted confirmation of such. The counter help took one look and said "Oh, that's a good one. I mean, that's nothing compared to some. Some are really hairy looking, even black sometimes." I looked down and felt better about my sausage. We went and boarded the ferry, riding the waves back to the East Bay. It would take a few days to get to do anything else with the chorizo besides sample it, but that's just part of the flow of food when you have kids. I went with it, eagerly awaiting my opportunity.


The soft overcomes the hard.
The slow overcomes the fast.
Let your working remain a mystery.
Just show people the results.


On the next baking day, I ran the experiment. I set aside some of the herbed dough that went into these focaccia and rolls with the intent of making pizza. (The english muffins were also good, but not herbed.) I took out the ingredients on hand and started to whack, chop and mince. Into a pan they went, to sauté. Then: wait a second, if I'm cooking this now, the hard will become the soft and it would make a better filling wouldn't it? The flow, the flow! Calzone it is!

I fired up the oven with a pizza stone to about 500 degrees. This would be the slow overcoming the fast, as this takes upwards of an hour. With the calzones ready to go, I popped them in, as we needed some munchies to get us through the vigorous task of brewing before dinner. Eating requires something flow through the lips to aid digestion, so we had to open a few beers. Which is a good thing, for in order to make more beer, you have to drink some too. It's part of the flow.

During the initial stages of brewing, when we got around to eating the calzone, I just had to laugh. The chorizo was fantastic, the mushroom, onion and pepper combo divine. With garlic jack and an herbed crust the flavor topped out somwhere near hugemongous. I forgot completely about the fuzzy meat. Then remembering that I had forgotten, I began to wonder why I ever questioned eating it in the first place. I mean, why is a guy who eats moldy cheese he finds on the ground so concerned about moldy meat he buys from a reputable source of salumi? Yeah.......go figure. It all comes down to being in accordance with the tao. (Or in this case, not.) When you're flowing with it, and "free" food is coming your way, you're thankful and less discerning, allowing yourself to enjoy the experience more fully. When you're paying for it, you expect the absolute best and are quick to judge. I jumped into the tao of food and had another.



So maybe I showed too much of the workings there. And not enough of the results. Oh well, that's part of the flow too.



*excerpts taken from the Tao te Ching

blenheim bliss (or, when child labor is a good thing)

Mmmmmmm. Apricots.
A lot of apricots.

More specifically, a lot of Blenheim apricots.

Like, 11 pounds worth.
Time to get to work.

H was just dying to use the borrowed canning supplies her mom brought to us on her last visit. She announced her desire for jam. I suggested that we start with some apricot, since I knew of a few sources of these heavenly jewels at the Berkeley Farmers' Market, and know that they won't be around much longer. And if it's gonna be apricot jam, then why not go with what some (like myself) consider the definition of apricot-dom: the Blenheim.

These rose tinged marvels can be overwhelmingly good.

So good, you just might have a dozen for lunch. Along with a corndog, and maybe half a peach if you're three, working on four. Luckily for us, our monkey has a gut made of steel and ingesting a huge quantity of fruit doesn't seem to be a problem. (Kinda makes you wish you could sit down and polish off a dozen of ANY of your favorite fruit huh?) They say "youth is wasted on the young," and being the proud father of two monkeys, I'm beginning to really see where this saying comes from. But in this case, the only waste is bound for the compost.

While I cruised around the house, with the little one on my arm, we directed the elder toward helping get the fruit jammed. You see, little hands are great at ripping open apricots and tossing the seeds. Now if only we can work on the focus and get that child labor to last for more than five minutes, we'd maybe go into business making the stuff. Then again, maybe not, as it would be illegal. Besides, those little hands tend to stuff the nearest mouth (their own) with the fruit of our labor, bringing the daily consumption count to somewhere near twenty apricots. That's right: two-zero. And still no intestinal distress.

Luckily, when the jam jars are fruit filled, there is always a smidge left that should be consumed, and right away. Especially if your partner has recently had a craving for poundcake. Put some on top of the buttery block of goodness and you are at least two steps closer to heaven. Eat it and you just might feel that if a bolt of lightening were to stike you dead in the next moment.......then life had certainly been worth living. Well, that and the kids I mean. You see, I really love apricots.

So, back to that child labor thing. A few weeks ago, when I first saw Blenheims at the market, I brought only 3 pounds home. When the monkey saw them on the counter she started snarfing them down. I did too. But I also managed a bit of restraint and got about a third of them safely tucked away for making ice cream. I expalined this to the monkey and she was enthusiatic, especially when I said that she could help. Tomorrow at grandma's we would follow through.



Luckily, when we arrived, papa was outside washing the car, and since water and sponges are so much fun, our vehicle got some tender rubbing from little hands and big, while I went in the kitchen and got things ready for the cold and creamy apricot bliss.



I put some cream in a pot and added a bit of sugar. I cooked the apricots (with more sugar) into a slightly chunky syrup. With the salt ready, a waiting ball (thanks Shuna!), and a freezer filled with ice, the time was now.


Now, where did the labor go? This ice cream needs some little ones to roll it around. Make them work for their treats I say.

Grandma was blessed with both of her grand-daughters for the day. I was blessed with two little people to work for their sweets, so I packed the ball with yummy ingredients in one end and salty ice in the other. Then I set it between the girls and encouraged a game of rolling the ball between them. It took some patience, and the ball was really a bit too heavy for them to roll back and forth quickly, but it got the ice cream started all the same. After the little ones burnt out on the fun (still working on delayed gratification I guess) I sat down on the couch and practised my ballhandling skills with my feet while taking in a good book.

With the ice cream done and us now back at home, we gave it a try. It was good. But it still needed a little something.



Like maybe a little more sliced something, as I just can't get enough of these things.
Can you?

Go.
Go now.
Treat yourself to some apricot bliss. But unless you have an iron gut or are under the age of five, keep it to under twenty per day......

hot potato

In the wee hours of Friday the 18th, the monkey ranch welcomed the arrival of this little spud. We are ecstatic!

Hot from the oven, I barehanded this little tyke and placed 'em on his mother's bosom. (Well attended by midwives and family, so calm down there pardner.) We had no idea it was a boy, until we flipped him over and took a look. You might think we're crazy, waiting until the arrival to find out, but we figure it's one of those mysteries of life that gets ruined by today's technology.

Monkey witnessed this gorgeous moment, acting as an integral part, squealing things like "Mommy he's almost here! I can see his head!" which was enormous comfort and encouragement for expediting the entire process. They say that second births can go rather quickly, and at under an hour and a half, it's good this was a planned homebirth or we might not have even made it to any hospital. Even with it only half a mile away.



So now the ranch will be configured a bit differently. I get promoted to executive kithchen manager with two to manage, and the monkey gets an apprentice. Mom retains her title of Superwoman, while we stand in awe.

I'll tell the whole story another time, when I'm rested enough to be cognizant of what I'm actually writing.

Peace and happiness,
D

the monkey's mutinous minions

Time to be honest. I am a user of the local "day labor" scene. Today it came in the form of some strict herbivores, so when I proposed frying up the chorizo in the fridge, they gave me a bad time and reminded me that recently I have been using alot of animal products. I felt a little guilty, as it is a topic that I continue to struggle with and therefore attempt to keep it local and humanely raised. They acknowledged my efforts and pointed out that the crritters in question usually die as the end result of their labors. Hear, hear my homey quadrapeds.



Then they suggested that they all would feel alot better after they sampled one of the diminutive muffins from last night's labors. I thought hey, this gang of camelopardalis sure have some nerve....


I acquiesced and they sat down with their labor organizer. I know that the manipulation performed by toddlers is normal and all, part of learning, but this was a whole new level of sophistication. The monkey requested toast and "butter" while Momma Giraffe and Fae Fae's Cousin had theirs plain (plain my a__, they had 'em on the gold-rimmed china!) Fae Fae took another route and requested toast, "butter," a drizzle of my homemade ginger and cherry infused simple syrup, and a crank or two of fresh nutmeg. I was not aware that she had such a distinguished palatte, but being an herbivore and this being vegan, and after thinking about it a while I decided that she certainly had the upper hand in expertise.

While they were chowing down, I pulled out the chorizo, some mushrooms, and an onion for the upcoming mac-n-cheese-off. When the crew got wind of the aroma they rushed the kitchen and staged a sit-in, blocking access to the remaining burners. Even though their labor organizer is the one who suggested using chorizo in mac-n-cheese, she finds no difficulties in switching gears and showing some solidarity for her work crew. Ah the fickle minds of three year olds.




I know I live on the border of Berkeley, but isn't this a drastic measure to take when you are made of synthetic materials? I had to act fast, or I'd be reduced to doing work on the back left burner until they either starved or went up in flames. I couldn't handle the prospect of those grim outcomes so I did them up right. I'm such a softie.

So round two for them was served in the livingroom where the monkey requested. I guess they wanted to put their hoofs up on the coffee table, with the meal so graciously provided on the new serving platter from the MCC we received as a x-mas gift from Grandma G. (Thanks!)

I hope the next round of laborers aren't so testy..........

princess reggiano (holiday raviolis part 2)

My kid definately takes after me in the application of parmesan. I remember as a kid putting a layer of it on anything allowed. It was the same with romano. Minestrone got three applications if the portion was prodigious and the bowl it was served in was deep enough. Layer one would be applied, and the "skin" that formed on contact with the hot soup would be devoured while still gooey. Layer two would be applied, and if you obliterated the first quickly enough the soup would still be hot enough to melt this. If the bowl was deep enough, and this was often the case if you managed to melt the previous two layers of cheese, you could throw on a third layer, warm it sufficiently to release the sheepy goodness of the cheese and snarf that down too. And then came seconds, because despite the cost of the cheese, the soup is cheap to make (today it is a mere $20 for 8 quarts, WITH great ingredients).



What can I say? My broccoli would be equally obscured from recognition if this was my plate as a kid. When I saw the monkey had "sprinkled a little" of the reggiano on her raviolis, enabling them to look like moguls near a collection of dwarfed firs, I recognized the gene and took the picture. This was our second serving of ravioli from this batch and it was on x-mas night that I served this.

With the subject of this post being concealed from view, the suspense must be killing you. Shall we get on with it and construct some ravs for that there sauce from the other day?

Day two began with making a dough and letting it rest. Then I mixed the filling and let it rest. While they rested, I went to the store. Even though I was making ravs, there is no rest during the cookie season that had started. (Just kidding, more like your mouth gets no rest incessantly grazing on broken pieces and "rejects" that had been around for a few days already.) The hour before dinner I removed the ingredients from the fridge and got down to work.

The filling consisted of spinach sauteed in olive oil that had been infused with sage earlier. To this I added fresh parsley, oregano and rosemary, salt and pepper, heated briefly and then set aside to cool. The ricotta mixed well with this, and I used a few eggs to finish the bonding process. This acts as a nice paste for spreading and is difficult to stand over without salivating on it. With this in place, I turn 180 degrees, take a step, and roll out number 2. With the top sheet in place it is time for the best part: using the pin.

After placement of the second sheet, you simply roll the pin while applying a consistent downward pressure, from front to back, that is if there is just the right thickness of filling, and you have accounted for the inevitable squishing forward that occurs. After a little practice you can easily roll out some 60 or so "survivors" with each attempt. Which to me makes alot more sense than the prevailing mold and stamp technique.

It is a genovese style of making raviolis, and involves a piece of kitchen equipment that few here know about. Like the folks who SELL THEM. When I purchased my latest model a few years ago, I initially made a request for a "ravioli rolling-pin." The sales clerk said "a what?" and brought me to the section of the store containing "anything that could be considered a rolling-pin." When we arrived, I spotted the pin, picked it up, and began admiring it while daydreaming of ravs. The clerk said "oh, that's what that is." He pointed to the chef behind a nearby counter and mentioned that she actually did the ordering for them. I approached and asked if they could order a larger sized one and she thought about it and said no. Then she admitted that she may order them but doesn't know how they work. Am I really in Dean and Deluca? In Napa County? It just shows to go you that often times knowledge resides in tradition, not corporations. I gave her a brief description of process and walked out happy, that having given away my last pin as a gift, I now had a replacement. And amused, very amused, when it dawned on me that you can school folks in food, as I'm sure a fair portion of the staff was, but food is a great big wide world, and I have some knowledge here and there that is definately handed down. I love the niche I occupy in my family tradition of pasta and with this batch, the monkey supplied some downward force, becoming the fourth generation to see the way of the pin since the knowledge left "the old country" along side much more.


Thank you Nana C. And Grandma. I think of you two often. Three cheers for raviolis! Now how is that for a christmas colored meal? It even snowed in Oakland this year!