Little Fish Tale

Eating Alone But Not Lonely

2011-07-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

When my friend, K.C., wrote me that her husband had bilked the bank account and left her and their five-month-old son...well, it was a kick to the belly. Literally, I had to close my eyes and sit back in my chair. Focus on breathing. When she asked for words of wisdom, I had to chew on that one for a bit, because I'm not sure that I have wisdom. The crows feet around my eyes speak of experience, but wisdom...the jury is out on that one. Here is all I have, for you, K.C.

Feel The Grief. Your friends and family love you and hate to see you in so much pain so they will do whatever they can to distract you, to cheer you, to make you laugh, to point you towards a brighter future, to help you "buck up." All good stuff. But stay present. Put on your rubber boots and sink into the mud of sadness, disappointment, anger, and billowing pain. Walk through it. Slog. Eventually, you'll get to the other side, solid ground, but there's no other way around. Mourn. The life you had just died.

Yes, there's reality to think about: caring for your son, paying the bills, hiring a kick-ass attorney. But take time to be completely grief stricken, to not be strong or sturdy, stoic or positive. Be pissed off and sad. And don't let anyone get in the way of that.

Here in this house, on an island, far, far away, I fell apart. Didn't leave the sofa for two weeks. Bagged the tooth brushing, hair combing, armpit shaving. Sat in my underwear and watched every single episode of Sex and the City (twice) while sucking gummie bears and papaya slices. I imagine there was a doobie or two involved. The only reason I finally left the house was a tooth abscessed. The young dentist, I couldn't help notice, was totally Hot. I knew I must be on the upswing. I was lucky; I had resources (aka: family.) You do, too.

Care For Yourself. Whatever that means to you. For me, that meant massages, yoga and good food. Meals that I cooked myself. For one. Here's a favorite comfort food: soba noodle soup with vegetables and tofu. Topped with dried nori and sesame seeds. I ate alone often. And I still do because the Ranger works nights. But I'm never lonely, because I can taste the labor of love from hands to mouth. And I know that whatever happens...I can sustain myself.

Yoga saved my life. And that's not hyperbole. Just the truth. It took me out of my sad head and put me back in my strong body. It gave me confidence and community, a quiet spiritual center and a noisy welcome back to the world. Find your yoga.

Believe In Good Men. After The Surgeon and I split, I spit on the shoes of romantic love. What shit, I told myself. Never again will I share my secret self, or let a man crawl into the deepest recesses of my life, take his shoes off, scratch his balls and call my tender heart home. Meaningless sex...that's the ticket. A platinum card helps, too. And that certainly worked for awhile...even after The Ranger started calling me his girlfriend, and I called him, "this guy I know."

But there are good men. Who wait patiently for your bitter edges to wear away. And help that along by grilling you the most perfect piece of salmon at night and kissing your forehead every dawn before announcing, "good morning to you, sugar pie." Good men who take one look at your grumpy face and know that talking is out but foot rubbing is in. And good men who who say things like, "I will never let you down" and then don't. You'll see, K.C...he may not come in the package you dreamed of as a sanguine young girl (or in my case, he wasn't yet born) but he's there. Somewhere.

He might even show up with a very, hairy dog.

Hopefully, you'll be better prepared to meet him for the first time...not wearing pajama bottoms and bedhead in a fishermen's bar, drinking beer and blogging bitter tomes about your ex-husband in the middle of the day. Learn from my mistakes. Keep the bitter blogging to a minimum.

You are loved. And well on your way to wisdom.

Spotted Prawns...or, How To Make Your Sweetheart Late For Work

2011-07-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

Summertime means the end of Sunday Supper and the launch of Sunday Lunch because by 3 p.m. The Ranger must strap on his gear and spend swing shift protecting the campers around Fish Town from overcooked marshmallows, the stench of dead sea lions, black labs gone arwy and City Folk complaining of sand in their new Keens.

Today, one of our favorite food sources, Local Ocean, suggested spotted prawns, simply cooked without fuss or muss. I love it when the Fish Goddess wrinkles her nose and whispers, "no Teriyaki sauce, for Godsakes," with the same hiss usually reserved for chewing gum at the table and men in argyle socks.

We quickly snapped up a pound of the spotted lovlies and turned them on the flame after a brisk rubbing in olive oil. Pink and grill marked, they swirled for a bit in a bath of butter, garlic and cheap Chardonnay (you know THAT bottle a dinner guest brought, hastily procured from the discount bin at Safeway -- good for prawns, but not for palate). Finished with a pinch or two of Piment d'Espelette because it's the crack we put on everything from scrambled eggs to T-bones.

Once, a neighbor, while walking his Akita, stopped by with wrinkled brow, "It seems you people grill every day, rain or shine." True. Even when the maniac cop shooter, David Durham, was on the loose, we broke quarantine and continued to grill. Not even a man in full-body camoflauge prepared to battle aliens (the space kind, not the apple picking kind), with a snapping blue heeler and an automatic weapon can keep us from our hot coals. But I digress.

A chilly Sauvignon Blanc (three blueberries at the bottom of each glass for good luck) and an easy salad completed the circle. As a yogi, I must bow to the many contributors to this luscious mache: The Ranger, of course, for growing the peppery greens and grilling the corn, Gathering Together for the tomatoes and herbs and my Mexican family for inspiring the dressing of fresh-squeezed lime, cumin, splash of apple cider vinegar, garlic-chile sauce, sea salt and olive oil. Ay carumba!

Maybe it was the heat of the day here at the beach, or the heat in the dressing, or the fact that spotted prawns must be eaten with fingers, buttery and salty, garlicy and spicy. But time slipped away.

Those happy campers will have to wait.

And Then There Was Cake

2009-06-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

I've always been afraid of cake. There. It's on the table. Second Edition decided, early on, never to bake because, well...measuring cups are involved. Precision. You can't call it in. You have to show up and do the job without fudging or improvising or sloshing a martini glass to and fro. So I always left baking to others. In fact, just last month I hired a woman to bake the Ranger's birthday cake, a lovely chocolate confection with crumpled toffee and whip cream icing. It was stunning. Before that...let's just say I'm shameless when asking friends to pony up a pie, a cake, cookies or gin. Isn't THAT what friends are for?

But then I saw these apricots at the Farmer's Market and was quickly smitten by their sunny little butt cheeks. So I bought a half dozen, fondled them a bit and pondered the possibilities. Fortunately, I just finished reading A Homemade Life (yeah, I gave it a bitchy review, but some of the recipes are appealing) and the pistachio cake with honeyed apricots looked like something even I could manage. Except I didn't have pistachios so hazelnuts had to do. And I added fresh grated ginger because I do that to everything, no questions asked.

It turned out divine. And made me wonder what I'd been afraid of all these years.

I took it to a garden party where it paired beautifully with a golden Sauternes. Thanks to the Wine Guy. On the way, however, I was stopped for speeding (58 in a 40), but the Nice Deputy merely poked his head in the window and smiled, "Why is my yoga teacher hauling ass through town, may I ask?"

The earthy, sweet goodness of my first cake made me wonder about all the other things I've been afraid of: microwave ovens, swimming in the ocean, cat attacks, my father dying, becoming just another dog-hair covered Coastie in Keens, a tree falling on the Ranger, losing my hair, being laughed at, wrecking my car, losing my teeth, becoming irrelevant, Fox News, hot dogs, forgetting my brother's voice, bee stings, the clown under the bed, grandma panties, Marcel Proust, crying in public, Jeb Bush running for President...plus, so much more.

And just when I can't bear the thought of how long my list of fears might become if I truly allowed myself to single them out...I remind myself that I was the girl who, two summers ago, packed her car and drove away. From everything. Everyone. Not because I was lost, unmoored, afraid or on the run. Not because I was searching for something or someone. But because I was found.

Sometimes you have to hit the road to realize where home is. And when you arrive. You bake a cake.

No One Found

2009-05-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind. And Just Go. Even though the timing is less than perfect. Even though funds are depleted. Even though all those vigilant voices in your head whisper, "No, stay the course because this nice black man you voted for wants you to buck up, dust yourself off, be a good citizen and make some sacrifices so that we can all be better people."

Or, you can just spend a ridiculous amount of money to have unprotected sex in the wilderness.

Here's the thing: the Ranger and I work with the public all day long. It's a hard, sometimes joyless slog, even if its work we love. So escape for us means, no whining, no customer service, no sucking it up, no "thank you, ma'm, may I have another." That's why the Ranger's first instinct when he needs to get away is to go camping. Nature. Silence. Beauty. Peace.

Yeah. Yeah.

This time, however, because it's his birthday, the Ranger put me in charge of the camping arrangements. And let me just say, Second Edition Camping is a different mode of transport compared to Ranger Camping. Kinda like Singapore Airlines v. TWA. Lobster raviolis meets dry roasted peanuts.

While I certainly enjoy the character building involved in throwing down a sleeping bag on a bed of pine needles under a starry sky (I was once a Girl Scout, after all), roasting wieners on sticks over an open fire and serving them on a frisbee with cold beer, an Eddie Bauer sleeve as napkin...I chose for us a somewhat different route into nature. Let's call it Wild Spring.

Imagine....500 thread count Frette linens, a chandelier, room service, French press coffee, Persian rugs, chenille blankets on the porch, handcrafted soaps in the walk-in shower, a hot tub, in-room massages, a yummy bottle of Pinot Noir. NOW THAT'S CAMPING. Our hosts, Michelle and Dean, were perfect. They never spoke to us. Not once. Wouldn't be able to pick them out of a line-up if we had a D.A. pointing a gun at our head. We communicated via mail. Left breakfast requests and other administrative tasks in the front porch mailbox and these were mysteriously picked up when we weren't looking and fulfilled to the letter. Yes...it's true...I am now at a point in my life where I will pay a princely sum to make sure people do NOT talk to me.

We checked in at a gazebo which hugs an expanse of privately owned old growth forest that would make any good Republican pee his pants. In Drawer #4, we found a cabin key, a map to get us there, a flashlight to light the darker corners and a silver whistle to scare off lions, tigers and bears.

Turn right at Bliss.

Another right at the Buddha.

Past the random hammock.

Left at the Virgin Mary.

And here we are.

Dinner was at a local joint named Paula's Bistro, a surprisingly French little gem smack in the middle of a boarded up Port Orford (the recession has not been kind to this Coastal town). And even though our waitress, Paula herself, was charming and her husband, Random French Dude, was a delight, our experience was marred by having to sit at the bar (restaurant was booked) next to the Town Drunk, Richard.

He is an artist. Of course. His art hangs in the dining room. Found objects off the beach spray painted lime green and glued onto particle board. Yum. He talked. About his ex-wife. Fishing. His girlfriend. His rabble-rousing days in L.A. (everyone in Port Orford is from L.A. as it turns out) His current, unabated rash. And then he talked some more. Midway through, I took a serrated knife and killed myself.

As we approached the end of our lamb chops (me) and scallops (the Ranger), Richard held up his Coors Light and announced to the room, "Well now I guess you'll be going back to your room and making love all night long, huh." Nothing...and I mean NOTHING throws cold, Artesian water on your romantic notions like a staggering blowhard with a bloody bandaid strapped across his bulbous nose and food particles dangling from his scrappy beard. Yup. That night, after dry cheek kisses...we slept a chaste slumber.

So, it's true. I collect Police Blotters from small towns because I think they tell you a good deal about the character of a community. This from the May 13th Port Orford Daily Register:

"Police received a report of an audible alarm at Driftwood Elementary School. Police responded and found an open door. Curry County Sheriff's Deputy also responded, and the two officers checked the building for intruders. No one found. Door secured."

And that right there. The title of my autobiography: No one found. Door secured.

The next day, we explored the Land Of The Lost, the most remote stretch of Oregon Coast we've ever stumbled upon. Miles and miles of no people. Stunning.

On the drive home, we held hands for the first time in a long time. All better now.

Heads UP: Second Edition will be undergoing stressful and time-consuming testing towards her certification, but will return in full force after June 7th. Thank you very much.

The Spring of Days

2009-05-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

Bill paying Monday. I still write checks that have my brother, Edward's, address on them. I told myself I was being wise with a penny, saving a tree, that really it didn't matter. But now I'm down to my last book of checks and I realize I'm going to have to order new ones, with my real identity, my real location.

When I drove out of Albuquerque nearly three years ago, I needed an address -- Homeland Security doesn't like you checking into a hotel without one -- so of course I chose Edward's because the plan was that when I returned from "clearing my head" (I said three months, Edward guestimated a year) I would live with him and his family until I got my own place. He was an engineer, remember. He liked the future mapped out.

Edward wrote me this email exactly three years ago today. He was helping me get the house fixed up so the soon-to-be-X and I could put it on the market.

"You know, I'm a little worried about the float valve on the a/c unit that sits over the living room. It was dripping ever so slightly. Take a moment to see if that one is overflowing.

That valve got all twisted around and the little lever that shuts off the water got bent in the process. It's dripping and overflowing the drain. It should take a few minutes to replace the thing. All we need to do is remove the copper pipe, remove the nut on the outside of the a/c and it should come right out. It's a standard a/c part. If you want, turn off the water in the basement so it doesn't drip and I'll help you replace tonight after work."

Yeah, I know, kind of pedestrian. Most of our emails back and forth were about daily things. But here's the rub. Edward couldn't fix my broken heart because he knew enough to realize that the big stuff had to find its own way, that it was out of his hands, even out of mine. But the small stuff...that he could fix. He had a tool box. And he'd always make me sit up there on the roof with him and hand him the wrenches while he explained exactly what he was doing and why. Then he'd sit back on his heels, satisfied that repairs had been made and ask, "so what's for dinner?"

It was spring. So no doubt it was something good and fresh. The Farmer's Market was just starting up in Downtown Albuquerque, thin yet optimistic. Just like here in Fish Town. Some details are the same everywhere, because Nature only worries about the dailiness of things.

Saturday was the first day and although my favorite vendor didn't make an appearance, I still scrambled and found a tiny head of kale, delicate spring onions, a handful of fragrant basil, thin sticks of asparagus and the most amazingly tender yet hearty-tasting spinach. It was good to see folks we hadn't seen all winter: organic farmers with dirt under their nails from early morning picking, the pig and sheep growers in the clap-trap circus trailer, the bearded salad lady who's still convinced the world is going to end even though George Bush isn't running it anymore, the Chinese guy with the buckets of tulips, and Katie the bread lady. Mostly, it was just nice to hug our friends and neighbors on a blustery day under a blue sky, the salt air whipping our scarves, tilting our hats.

So yes...even though I've been a bit melancholy lately, missing my brother...May was always the start of rock climbing season...I feel the itch in my arms and fingers...I know that spring always clears the webs. Just ask my 83-year-old uncle who got married yesterday. Yup, the bride wore white.

And we stirred the greens. That lovely spinach topped with steamed asparagus bits, crispy pancetta and shallots, cannelini beans, and chives clipped from the garden. Tossed with a grassy green olive oil, ground pepper and red wine vinegar that had been whisked with pancetta grease. Ooops. Forgot the hard boiled eggs. The mushrooms. But then that's why we do it again.

Other signs of Spring...Mia puts on her backpack and hits the trails.

2009-04-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

It's not easy to live artfully. With grace and reflection. With real imagination. Sometimes, art is simply wishful thinking, a desire to stretch beyond the quotidian rounds of dailiness: working, buying bread, pumping gas, paying bills, walking the dog. When I come home at night, sometimes it's all I can do to be a good wife and ask after the day, stir onions in a pan, fold the laundry. Sometimes, I simply ask, "can we not talk for awhile?" Which makes the Ranger wonder if aliens have taken over my body.

But just when we think art is gone for good, that we will never have enough time or get enough sleep to write something worthy, shoot an interesting photo or cook a meal that will perch in the blurry edges of memory, someone knocks on the door and delivers. Their own art. We have been supremely gifted this past week. For no particular reason. By friends. Neighbors. Co-workers. Moms. A jar of homemade BBQ sauce that transported us to the silky hill country of Tennessee. A pork roast with a savory walnut, raisin stuffing. A surf board with Mexican pesos pressed into it. Cookies shaped like bunny rabbits. Homemade beef jerky. A purple, ribboned blouse that screams, "take me to a party right now!" A tall, lanky bottle of garlic infused olive oil. A CD of MP3s we might have never discovered on our own, a little bit country, a little bit of rock and roll. A pretty, pink camisole that makes my boobs look young again. A silk scarf. A snapshot of a blazing sunset. A story about sheep and cheese making in Northern Spain. A bottle of Malbec.

To celebrate our good fortune, we packed our camera and some sandwiches and took to a stretch of beach we haven't visited in a long time. In the cracking surf, we remembered what it was like when things were still new. And tried to look with fresh eyes. This is what we saw.

And then we kept going.

Sunday Supper: Not Your Mama's Enchilada

2009-04-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Enchiladas in Sunlight

Recently, at Sunday Supper, The Chef and his girl chose a daunting and somewhat risky task: reinventing the enchilada, a kind of New Mexico-Meets-Morocco jamboree. Sans the meat but with plenty of spice. Seemed reasonable. After all, North Africa and Spain did enjoy the same Braun hand mixer called the Inquisition, which is what drove so many Spanish out of the home country and to the sandy shores of Nuevo Mexico. Throw in a pinch of Native American culture (who do you think invented the tortilla?) and you have not only a tasty meal, but a ripe symbol of colonialism.

Remember though, when you approach the enchilada not only are hundreds of years of cultural history at stake, but much family lore as well. The enchilada, at Second Edition's birth place, is nearly mythical. Whenever I return to the high desert to pay homage to Los Padres, the first meal my Mama makes upon my arrival is a large tray of blue corn chicken enchiladas slathered with BOTH red and green chile. Every serving has a fried egg on top. And in the old days...a handful of cornflakes. What can I say. Life-changing delicious. It's how she says, "Welcome home. We missed you. Even though you drive us crazy and by the time you leave, we're exchanging high fives all around. Even though that blog of yours is such a massive invasion of privacy, we can't understand why someone hasn't shot it out like a certain street lamp that made the mistake of peering through your window. Even though we find your taste in religion, food, friends, clothing, books, movies, and pets questionable at best, pornographic at worst. But we love you anyway because Jesus told us to so we're gonna weigh you down with a brick of history. Here you go."

The enchilada has also served as a test for any Man date brave enough to come home with me. My college boyfriend, Brian, got his ear drums blown out by the fire of red chile, heavily laden. And I couldn't help but notice how sllloooowwwwly my mom walked to the refrigerator to fetch him yet another glass of icy water. She enjoyed watching him suffer. Later she told me it was the pink Izod shirt with the snappy turned up collar. So white boy. So preppy. So not-one-of-us.

The X loved Mama's enchiladas, but was a little concerned about the glob of cheddar cheese on top so he'd scrape much of it to the side. A detail that did not go unnoticed. My brother, Bird, enjoying a respite from handcuffs, his chin shiny with grease, would shout across the table, "Hey bro, you want to scoop that cheese over here. It's a shame to waste food." Everybody nodded knowingly. True. Those bastards are always so tight fisted with the prison cheese.

The Ranger, on the other hand, had no such cardiac concerns. And he likes his food hot, without water, only beer. Like a man. After the third helping, Mama nodded approvingly. "After you get done eating, maybe you can put up some fence posts, finish the dry wall in the living room and then corral the sheep for the night." You see...just when you think you've passed, there's always another test waiting for you. They come with increasing difficulty, not unlike Trivial Pursuit.

But back to Sunday Supper. These enchiladas were stuffed with...wait for it. Cabbage and Carrots. What! Vegetables? Fiber? WTF? Cabbage? Oh, Mama Ranger would have been so proud. Those sneaky Polish are everywhere.

I admit, the first bite was a little jarring. The heat of the chile sauce combined with the sweetness of the carrots and the clear smokiness of cumin. Hmmm. Had to ponder that one...it's just not what I'm used to, not how I grew up. Everything I know about enchiladas got thrown into question. But after a third savory bite, they were declared delicious. Evolution always finds its place at the table doesn't it? Life never stays the same so why should the food. Or maybe it's the other way around?

Traditions are good, don't get me wrong. Blue corn tortillas. Cheddar cheese. Shredded chicken. Beans and chicos on the side. Iceberg lettuce and anemic tomatoes for garnish. Marriage to a nice boy.

On the way home from the Chef's Place, I got a call from my Tio Eliu announcing his upcoming nuptials. His second marriage. At 83, I think that shows an incredible amount of optimism. He's marrying a doctor nearly 30 years younger...thinking ahead. Better than a 401K. When he ribbed me about taking the leap a second time myself, I demurred.

Me and the Ranger, I declared, are like carrots and cabbage. A different kind of enchilada. Bite after bite.

A Child Is Born

2009-04-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

See what happens once you hit the dating scene after a painful, financially debilitating divorce? The birth control fails and ooops...out pops a baby. My niece. Her name is Isabela...an auspicious name: the main character in my master's thesis (aka: 476 page novel) which remains safely tucked away in a shoe box somewhere in a damp garage.

So welcome to the world, Isabel. You picked an interesting time. Or should I say my brother, R, did. Along with his rose, a thorny girl, but we love her because really, is there anything sexier than a woman with an opinion. About everything.

Now, you're going to get a lot of advise from my family: eat your peas, don't play with your food, get good grades, don't talk to strangers and let Jesus be your savior. But your auntie Second Edition here will occasionally offer up a different perspective. Because as my father recently told R upon your arrival, "You're screwed now, son. Once you have a daughter, she'll spend every damn day of her life breaking your heart." Ahhhhh.

Let us begin.

1. Most definitely talk to strangers. Ask them for a bite of their food, a sip of their wine. No one will refuse you. Seriously. I've tried this from Coast to Coast and have never been turned down. Not only is this an excellent way to expand your palate, but you will discover that you're surrounded by some interesting, slightly dangerous folk who will tell you stories that will simultaneously blow your mind and make your wish you could live forever. The world is very, very big and the best way to explore it is through the hearts and minds and appetites of her inhabitants. Plus, your Uncle Ranger was a stranger once. And after he gave me a sip of his beer, he offered to show me a lighthouse and well...life as we know it changed forever. So go ahead, sidle up to that bar stool, look someone in the eye and say, "howdy."

2. Find a Spanish or Italian shoe designer and stick with them forever. Your feet are your crowning glory and beautiful shoes are a worthy reflection of your love for beauty. Sadly, Americans still know nothing of leather, stitching, or how the arch of a woman's foot must be caressed like a lover. So travel abroad. Forget the cathedrals. Shop.

Admittedly, your auntie spends her days barefoot or in Keens which is the shoe equivalent of a mallet, what with that huge rubber tip, yet they're remarkably handy when tramping after a Ranger. Every now and then, however, I still break into the gallery and slip on a supple pair of burgundy suede boots that transform me from exhausted yoga teacher to Smokin' Hot Yoga Teacher.

3. Speaking of lovers (sorry bro...stop reading NOW). When you are old enough to choose a lover (your father will peg this as being somewhere in the mid-30s), show him how to please you. Don't tell him. Show him. It's shocking, I know, but most men know squat (no pun intended) about the female anatomy. That's why God invented those teeny-tiny little flashlights that hang on your car keys or live in your desk drawer. So yes...Jesus CAN save.

Understanding ones own anatomy makes a strong argument for choosing another woman. BTW -- if you do opt to be a lesbian or play for both teams (this seems wholeheartedly reasonable since, mathematically, your odds go through the roof), I support your decision. Just remember #2. Don't let your lesbianism compromise your taste in footwear. There's some great butch boot designers out there. Mostly in Germany.

4. And yes, while you should eat your peas, try them blended with a hearty broth and dash of wasabi powder, topped with a lemony dollop of kefir cheese and cilantro. Play with your food. Learn to cook for yourself before you cook for others. And drink good wine; don't be afraid to spend money here. Those people who tell you they found this "excellent Cabernet and it was only nine bucks" are standing in your kitchen doorway waving a cheap-ass bottle of bitter brew trying to convince you they deserve your finely cooked, four-course meal because they are such exquisite bargain hunters. These people are not your friends.

5. Find a sport that you love and stick with it. Play it forever. It will keep you healthy and make your hair shiny. Soccer. Baseball. Badmitton. Just not golf -- those little carts are so silly. This is one regret I have. My lifetime sport was hand-blended margaritas. And I'm spending a lot of my middle years making up for that.

6. Do your research and find a top-notch gynecologist you can stick with forever. Would you trust your turbo-charged, V-6, 24-valve, Japanese designed sports car to Jiffy Lube? Of course not. So why would you send your Happy Place to some amateur with a speculum. I found the perfect mix of smarts, humor and empathy in Dr. Urban. Sadly, he was killed by an avalanche while mountain climbing. But I keep a picture of him (a snappy tuxedo photo which was handed out at his memorial service) in the map drawer of my turbo-charged, V-6, 24-valve Japanese designed sports car so I never forget, "if you have to die young, make sure you're doing something you love." I'm wondering, however, if sitting on the front porch scrapping the plastic creme off Oreos and replacing it with creme fraiche while drinking a crisp, pear-like Sauvignon Blanc and having my feet rubbed by a whipper-snapper who was in utero during my high school prom...I wonder if that counts?

7. Speaking of dying young...ask me about your Uncle Edward. You have his squinty eyes. By the time you develop any curiosity about him, he will have been dead a long, long time. Even now, nobody talks about him except me and your grandpa because everyone is tired of being so sad. Although I will never take you to his grave (your dad can do that), I will take you up to the mountains, rope you up and show you why your uncle loved the wilderness so much. How he learned to live without fear by scaring the shit out of himself on the side of a rock. Then I'll tell you everything. Just not his secrets. Because those are going to my grave.

8. Chicks. Gather yourself some female friends and keep them close. While the post-feminism backlash has taught us that women are the enemy and we must claw our way past our sisters for men, promotions and timely salon appointments...well, that's simply not true. Women will save your life. They will wash your hair when you're too depressed to get out of bed. They will tell you you look great in those jeans even if your muffin top has popped. They will fly across the country to save you from another dumbass decision involving a handsome Cuban and his promises of happily ever after. They will loan you money, no questions asked, when your X cleans out the bank accounts. Chicks rule. Boys drool.

9. Floss. As soon as you have teeth. I was a late bloomer, but now I can't get enough. If I'd only known.

10. I can't help but notice your furrowed brow. Are you worried already? Was the camera flash too bright? Or are you simply pushing out a little dooty. Live large, little one, live!

Travel to countries where you don't speak the language. Read Hemingway (ignore your lesbian friends on this one), eat sea urchin, make some brutal mistakes then man up and apologize. Fight the power. Look out for hope. Forage for mushrooms. Don't bite your nails; don't bother with polish. Pick a dog from the pound. Buy cashmere, but never in sweater sets. Pearls only on rings. Salt without iodine. Vegetables without pesticides. Shave your head at least once. And I'm thinking a little waxing between the brows.

I know just the place.

Good luck.

Pay Attention To The Carrots

2009-03-22T09:42:00.000-07:00

Mia and her best friend, Denali, as photographed by his Pop, the scientist. Sometimes the things you love most in the world are a little rough. They grab you by the neck and don't let go. What can you do? But grab back.

I tried, but I couldn't. I tried to stop writing.

Told myself work was too stressful, I was too exhausted, other demands were more, well...demanding. This little hobby of mine would have to go by the wayside. I couldn't even bear the relentless prodding of Facebook with all that poking, and gifting and grabbing by the lapels. The pressure of having to refresh a one-liner on my status (in the 3rd person, for Godsake) sent me over the edge. So I bowed out. Completely.

Then I realized, when I lose touch with my fictionalizing, my words, this abstract hunger to "say something" I lose my connection with everything else. Friends. Books. Art. Humor. My favorite slippers. Even food. Yet strangely, not liquor. Gin truly is the drink of writers not writing. Explains why the Lost Generation was so lost.

I can't remember the last time I cooked a meal I was truly proud of. In fact, last night, while trying to respond to a hoard of work-related emails AND glaze carrots, the emails won and the Ranger's shouting brought me back to the kitchen as black smoke billowed and the smell of defeat dug in its boot heels. Those poor little carrots now resemble turds. Angry turds. And my favorite pan is crusted with charcoal.

Speaking of ashes. Recently, my father and sister-in-law, separately, but thankfully in agreement explained why my brother's ashes would soon be interred in the Santa Fe National Cemetery, next to war vets, with a sweeping view of a shopping mall and a Radisson Hotel.

"Dad, this isn't exactly what he wanted," I suggested softly, not wanting to pick too hard at the scab.

"I know, mijita," he said. "But he's dead now. And he doesn't get a vote."

So the moral of that story...while it may be true the dead DO in fact get to vote in Northern New Mexico, apparently only during presidential elections. Yet a more resounding truth settled in here at the Treehouse...speak up while you still can.

So yeah...I'm back. And just as cranky.

Rewriting Flannery O'Connor

2009-02-05T07:42:00.000-08:00

A good man is like a pair of Italian leather boots. Pricey. But usually worth the craftsmanship and fit. Wears well over the years. But sometimes the pointy toe, or square toe, or chunky heel, depending on the context, is a bit...well, embarrassing. Makes you wonder what you were thinking.

Take the Super Bowl. Apparently, it's a pretty important sporting event. Never really paid attention because football, for me, is like String Theory. I know it's out there, but it's too esoteric for consideration. One only has so many brain cells at this point so they must be used wisely. I keep mine in a tidy Tupperware container which I only pop open for hockey games.

The Ranger, on the other hand, lives for the Super Bowl, especially when his beloved Steelers are in play. So we threw a Super Bowl party. Which involved fried food items, sticky dips, an obscene amount of beer and thankfully, because of my creative friend, M., pitcher after pitcher of pretty pink vodka cocktails dubbed, "pantie droppers." I drew the line, however, at face painting. Black and gold in combination are so Dallas. So Falcon Crest. All that's missing are the shoulder pads and flammable pants. Wait...does that mean Linda Evans is a Steeler? Or that football players dress for 80s television? I digress.

Steel Town Basket Steaks Before The Fire

Steel Town Basket States After The Fire

(accidentally dropped on the ground, but we told guests the prickly things
were rosemary, not pine needles)

After the nail biting victory in the last seconds of the game, The Ranger was ebullient, buoyant, beside himself. Like when I agree to scratch his back, cook enchiladas wearing only an apron AND listen to the Grateful Dead (shoot me already)...all at the same time.

Yes, more bacon. Always more bacon. This time wrapped around jalapeno poppers.

With his head swimming in Victory and Fat Tire, The Ranger drew a long breath then gave a 20 minute speech about friendship, winning and losing, the roll of the dice and something about respect for one's fellow man. Then he handed over his Steelers Terrible Towel. That's right. HE GAVE IT AWAY. To The Neighbor. Who, to his credit, clutched it to his breast and swore never to disrespect it. It was the boy version of a public make-out. I didn't know whether to snatch the towel back or insist that the two of them get a room. There was hugging. Back slapping. Promises made. And a pre-nup.

The dregs of the cheese dip

The next morning, before coffee even, The Ranger wanted to know WHERE EXACTLY his Terrible Towel had gone to. When I explained that he gave it away and that the accompanying speech was so sentimental, so over-the-top lovey-dovey he couldn't possibly ask for it back...he buried his throbbing head under a pillow and didn't get out of bed for 24 hours. Yes, he slumped into a post-towel depression. I had to wonder...a man who gives away his Terrible Towel...is that the man for me?

A little history if you please. This Terrible Towel has been in Ranger hands since 1996 (nope, wasn't yet shaving) and he's waved it at many a Steeler game in Heinz field and twirled it to a froth during every televised game for as long as I've known him. It used to hang in our bathroom. And it was only after I agreed to move to Fish Town that he even let me touch the damn thing. Now, it lives next door. With any luck, there will be visitation, possible joint custody. The Neighbor is reasonable about these things because, after all, if anyone knows the ramifications of drunken foolishness, it's him. He's still trying to explain how he "accidentally" nailed the Taco Bell girl.

A few nights later, however, The Ranger proved that Italian (in his case Croatian/Polish) craftsmanship always pays off. We were at a blind wine tasting (the bottles were wrapped, not the people) hosted by le creme de Fish Town. Reidel stemware. Invitation only. Two flights of four. Walla Walla reds. Which means there was a good deal of pashmina, third-world jewelry, useless graduate degrees, small wire-rimmed glasses and talk of the Tour de France. The Ranger began rolling his eyes immediately.

When we hit Wine #3 of the first flight, the till-then-silent Ranger was plied for a response by our lovely hostess.

"Come on, Ranger, tell us what you think of this one. I taste an arid mustiness, a hint of pencil lead, a botched attempt at a Bordeaux blend, perhaps. Too much ambition. Or maybe it's impatience I taste. And definitely a heavy hand with the French oak. You?"

The Ranger: "Tastes like bad breath to me. You know like when you go out for Chinese food and order the Hot and Sour soup and they put too many of those slimy water chestnuts in it and afterwards you have this really nasty bad breath. It tastes like that."

And there, right then, was the big AHHHAA moment when everybody clutched their pearls (even the men) held up their glasses, swirled and nodded in agreement. Yup, bad breath. Exactly right.

And that's why I love him so.

Dreaming of Rescue: A Parable

2009-01-25T14:18:00.000-08:00

Yes. I have become one of those fleece wrapped, wiry-haired, middle-aged women who shoots snapshot after snapshot of...wait for it...her dog. Because she's so puuurrrtty. Took her bouldering this weekend. Although nimble on her feet, Mia's skittish about the crashing surf, especially when there might be sure-death-plummeting off sea stacks involved. But we do crazy things for the ones we love. So she bucked up. And followed me straight up and over. It probably helped that I had beef liver treats in my pocket. Works on the Ranger every time.

And then she got stuck. Looked towards land, solid ground. Dreaming of rescue. Thirsty. Exhausted. Wishing she were home, curled up on a warm rug licking her Happy Place. The tide was coming in. Our base camp was now under water, so we needed to shimmy down the back side which was a sheer wall of volcanic rock. Sharp as a razor's edge. Easy for my two feet. A different kind of negotiation for four paws and a shifting center of gravity.

She wouldn't follow. Just looked at me with a furrow of sinking abandonment. Such bitter astonishment. How did I get here, she thought. Now what, she asked.

So I did for her what so many others have done for me. I scrambled to the bottom, took a swig of beer, ate some jerky then found another route back up. With less terrifying cups for footholds. Not so vertical. Not so vertigo. Come on, girl, come on. Yes you can.

And of course, she could.

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

2009-01-17T18:25:00.000-08:00

Turns out I'm going to live after all. Not that I'm disappointed. It's just a bit of a head-scratcher after having braced for the worst.

A couple months ago, I developed a thump. In my chest. Like an extra-big heartbeat. Enough of a knock-knock against my breastbone to make me cough. At first I ignored it, because that's what I do when I'm scared. I wait for the burglar to lift up the squeaky window, step roughly on the hardwood floor and start rifling the jewelry box before I call 911. I just like to MAKE SURE disaster is imminent.

Weeks passed. Thanksgiving came and went. So did Christmas. Then the Ranger put his big Ranger foot down. "You have to call your cardiologist. And I'm not kidding, honey bun. Not one little bit." Well, when you put it like that.

So came the battalion of tests. Running on a treadmill strapped to an EKG machine. Chest ultra-sound. 24-hour halter monitor. That last one was really sexy. Wired up like a bank hostage set to blow. Every time one of my yoga students hugged me, she'd ask, "Why does your chest feel like there's a hard box glued to your boob." Um...because there is a hard box glued to my boob.

Time passed. I developed a plan. For the pacemaker in my future. No more wanding at airport security no matter how handsome the guy in uniform. My parents wouldn't get the word until after the surgery because they would freak. I decided who would sub my classes. How I would tell the Ranger. Why I would ask Seattle to come hold my hand in the hospital. She's the only person I trust to hover over my bed without a trace of pity (plus, she hides fear well).

Last week, the test results came back. Yeah, I have some irregular heartbeats. Everybody does. But it turns out I have "fewer irregularities than 99% of the population." In fact, my heart is an iron horse. Strong muscle walls, clean arteries, the conditioning of an athlete. The techs had to stop the treadmill because they got bored watching me run. Then Dr. Marker started rifling through my chart, pausing at my brother's autopsy: a triathlete, a mountain climber who died at 36 from arterial disease. His eyes softened. He nodded. "Listen. You might drop dead tomorrow. There's no predicting life. Or death. But it's not going to be from heart disease." He closed the chart. "Try to stop worrying. Be happy."

And there's the rub. When I told the Ranger, he sighed a big sigh then held me tight. "I know you don't believe happiness can last. But it can. I'm not going to leave you. You're not going to die anytime soon. It's all good. Trust that."

Honestly, I don't know where along the road I grew so suspicious. Perhaps it was the year my husband and I ended our marriage over burgers and fries, one of my dearest friends was tortured and strangled to death in his home and my brother, my best connection to my past, present and future, went to sleep on his birthday and never woke up. Could be that. Life is good. And then a match. Burns it all down.

So my resolution for 2009. Learn to make pie crust. And to stop worrying. Or worry less. Revel in the smallness of things. The gestures. The perfect moments of happiness, no matter how fleeting. Like when the Ranger and I curl up in bed with the pup, our breathing in sync as the long night sinks in bone deep and the indifferent ocean creates then tears away, relentless, outside the window.

Where to begin. These tiny celebrations. How 'bout...

Living on a hard, black rock, hugging a deep, blue sea.

Fishing for dinner. With beer. Letting the cell phone ring and ring.

Peering into the face of a dog. Any dog.

Watching the pelicans make their way South.

Listening to my own heartbeat. Anticipating the next thing.

Things We Love About Hill Country...Continued

2009-01-11T15:23:00.000-08:00

5. The Pittsburgh Penguins. And not just because we love men with high, round asses or because we never understood the appeal of a full set of pearly whites when a quick stick and a surprising puck bounce are just as important...but because this is the first group sport that we actually understand. Okay. So we didn't beat the Canadiens that cheery, boozy night in the 'burgh. But it was a hell of a good time. Especially the drinking-followed-by-urinating-in-the-parking-lot part. And eating nachos with fluorescent cheese and slimy jalapenos. Oh, and popcorn. Lots of popcorn. Followed by Tums.

4. The discovery that the Western-Hill-Country-of-Pennsylvania isn't really in the East Coast at all. Its feet are firmly planted in the Midwest. Thus the homemade strawberry jam at breakfast and the multiple applications of cabbage and sauerkraut. Plus, the Wall of Ketchup at the local Giant Eagle...Impressive. No fig balsamic reductions here. No quail eggs riding high atop entrees. No Pinot Noir. Just good home cooking. Which brings me to...

3. Kielbasa. The official meat of Steel Town. At least three local butchers make their own. Richly spiced and lightly smoked. Nothing like the Hillshire Farms crap we're stuck with in Fish Town.

2. Pigs in a blanket (here in the West we call them stuffed cabbage) What can I say? Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Never get enough pigs. Even my mom wants the recipe. And she's a Mexican with a Grudge. Could this be the way to bring the Moms together? World peace through pigs? The end of Global Warming? The beginning of a Croatian/Polish/Mexican coalition? Sounds kinda...um, beige. A new kind of Mafia? Dios Mio!

1. Home with the Ranger Fam. A question that has haunted us ever since we pulled out of Albuquerque in our fast car, headed for God Knows Where, hungry for change, feeling adrift yet weighted down by 54 pairs of shoes in the trunk. "What makes a place home?" Is it where you were born and raised? Is it where your parents live? Is it the town or city or farm where you filled a photo album full of snaps and stories? Is it your spouse and children? What if you don't have a spouse or children?

Or maybe...you can be at home in more than one place. Maybe the ties that bind aren't ties at all. Not to history. Or memory. Not necessarily to folks with the same last name. Maybe you know you're home when you're not doing anything the least bit impressive and that feels just right.

Like when you lay on the sofa with a book and blanket in the middle of the day, hair matted, feet stinky. It's sunny outside and you really should be doing something productive, but hey, there's a dog snoring nearby and in the refrigerator...pork products. And a yet-to-be-finished bottle of red.

Yeah...for Christmas...it was good to be home.

Things We Love About Hill Country

2009-01-04T10:02:00.000-08:00

Home for the holidays. Because once a year the Ranger gets a free pass to do whatever the hell he wants, it was off to Steel Town, PA for Jesus' B-day. So I packed a pinch between cheek and gum, pulled the gun rack off the Honda and checked it, popped some Valium, and off we flew. Over hill and dale, across six inches of ice on I-5.

And while it might surprise you to know that Second Edition attended Christmas mass with the Fam and NO, the steeple didn't snap off and the Virgin didn't cry tears of blood, let me just say I enjoyed the sermon very much even though it was a little hard to hear (Divorced people have to sit in the back. Behind a screen. And wear Halloween masks.)

The hymns were sung in Croatian (Papa Ranger's roots), a much perkier language than the Spanish songs I grew up with which sound so mournful and persecuted. Croatian has more bounce to the ounce, like we're off to fight the Huns. Or is it the Serbs?

Now Father Charles is a sober, articulate speaker, yet I couldn't help notice the twinkle in his eye. Still, I was surprised when, at the end of the service, he shook my hand and said, "I'm sorry I stared, but you're such a beautiful woman. I kept trying to figure out what TV show I've seen you on." Seriously. A flashback to when the Ranger and I first met and he asked if I was the Maybelline girl. Now, I know where the Ranger learned all his smooth moves. Church.

Sorry, Padre, but you could have only seen this mug face down at a wine bar, pressed against the glass of a pastry shop or getting passed hands over head at a certain Rose Bowl game in the late 80s.

So #10 in our countdown of Things We Love About Hill Country: Flirty Priests

#9: The Wi-Fi at Dunkin Donuts. By the time the Ranger and I drove all over town looking for THE SPOT, we weren't speaking to each other and I was tired of him muttering, "Jesus Lord, woman."

#8: Tailgating before the Penguins game at Pittsburgh's Mellon Arena. Okay, so it was a little awkward, clinking bottles with six 20-something boys from Steel Town. I felt more like the Homeroom Teacher or Hockey Mom than the Girlfriend. But they were very wholesome young men and politely turned their backs when I, too, took a whiz on the grassy knoll.

#7: Chicken Wings. Here in Steel Town, each bar has an entire MENU of chicken wings. I chose Parmesan garlic and hot chile garlic. Washed down with Blue Moons. And shots of whiskey. All I remember is waking up the next morning with red sauce under my nails and my tongue tasting like the walk of shame.

#6: Steeler Bars (pronounced "Stiller" in Hill Country)
It was Sunday afternoon. The Steelers were playing some team in brown. Everyone in the bar was wearing the jersey of their favorite player (I had Jimi Hendrix splayed across my boobs), so it probably wasn't the wisest move to wait for the tense quiet moments between innings to pump my fist in the air and shout, "Go Seahawks!" I did it for you, Seattle, I did it for you!

At first, I just got a few dirty looks thrown at me. Then chicken bones. But three times a charm. One last hurrah for the Seahawks got me bound and gagged with Terrible Towels, thrown in the back of a pick-up truck with giant Steeler flags flying and driven to a swampy bog for disposal. I was saved by Papa Ranger, who spit some chew juice, shook his head and sighed, "For crying out loud boys, put her down. She might be a dumbass, but she's our dumbass."

On a high note, Ranger Brother met his own Cougar that night. After exchanging THE SECRET COUGAR HANDSHAKE, she settled down on the bar stool next to me where we discussed the pros and cons of Social Security and of course, the ins and outs of menopause: chin hair, night sweats, a craving for meatballs. Then we both took naps.

To be continued...

Is Dating Really Dead?

2008-12-14T20:03:00.000-08:00

Today's New York Times has declared that dating is dead. That we now live in the age of the "hook up." Folks fuck, then go out for pizza. Not the other way around...like the good ole days. No more dinner and a movie. Art show openings. No more cups of coffee or walks through the park. Nope. That comes later. After the condoms get rolled out and the lube jell warmed up. We're talking first names only, people.

At first, I was astonished by this news, but then the Ranger, in his no-nonsense Ranger way asked, "Do you honestly think we'd still be together if the sex hadn't been great right out of the gate? If, when you first met me, you hadn't considered me a nice piece of ass?" Well, there's that. It WAS, after all, my birthday. There was a lot of champagne involved. And who REALLY cared what his last name was anyway...not like I was EVER going back to Fish Town. At 43, I felt I deserved to unwrap my own present to myself. Plus, most importantly, hadn't I learned a lesson the last go-around...marrying a nice man I dated for weeks before the nasty, a man full of urbane conversation, a proponent of cloth napkins - only to sleep with him back to back. Kiss. Kiss. Night. Night. Look how that turned out.

But is the buck really in the bang? Is it THAT simple? And if so, why did no one explain this to me in my 20s when it might have actually changed the course of my life? Here I was searching for artfulness, a kind heart, and witty repartee when I should have been checking the thread count on his sheets, the bulge in his uhum...pocket, and the breakfast fixin's in the frig.

Maybe this is why I'm heartened by the fact that The Chef is now head over heels with someone he's actually DATED. Yes, that dirty word. Okay, so they dated on the Web before dating across a table, but I think that certainly counts. They exchanged words, ideas, dreams, weirdness, fears, phobias. And still, they managed to steam up the windows when we dropped by the other night for peanut soup and dumplings. What is it with The Chef and his dumplings anyway? I think he enjoys the metaphor. Everything perfectly tucked and safe in its own world. And why not.

We liked The Archaeologist quite a lot. We like that she's funny. And that "on site" she probably wears khakis with extra pockets and loops, carries a pick ax and brushes and has to don a big, floppy hat to ward off additional freckles. Accessories, ladies. It's all about the accessories. So sexy. Even the Indiana Jones kind.

And there we were for the first time -- The Ranger and Second Edition -- acting the old married couple at the table. Recognizing all the signs of early love. Under the table grappling. Sly glances. Whispered innuendos. Jack Johnson on the IPod. Jack Johnson, for the love of God! Yeah, they couldn't wait for us to leave. "Here's dessert. Enjoy. We've wrapped it up for you so you can savor it IN YOUR OWN HOME!"

Indeed, we slunk home, the Ranger and I. At the crack of 8:15 p.m. And enjoyed our own date.

The Killing Fields

2008-12-06T17:48:00.000-08:00

Make no mistake, I've taken very few men home to meet the parents. Mostly, because my dad usually makes them shoot guns, help him castrate a pig, or climb 20 feet up a tree to chainsaw a precarious branch. It's his twisted way of running them through their paces. They always fail.

Every one of them found the Ranch quaint, rustic, even nostalgic in a Wild West kind of way. But all were quick to wipe the chicken shit from their Corinthian leather shoes and return to the city. Except the Ranger. He loves the Ranch. Frankly, more than I do. For me, it's a bit...well...embarrassing. The rusty bathtub used as watering trough, swimming pool pump used as flower pot (we've never had a pool), toilet seats hanging on the side of the barn, various pick-up trucks half-buried and in various states of disrepair, stacks of oil pipeline (?), old lunch boxes (Fat Albert, Wonder Woman, Blondie) filled with used nails, screws, and bolts. Let's not forget the discarded fragments of broken mirrors that outline the garage, storage shed, and garden hut (the peacocks like to look at themselves in the mirror), or the piles of scrap metal used to create a fence line (cheaper than barbed wire). With a peck on the cheek, I turned to the Ranger and declared, "Someday, honey, this will all be yours. After I croak." To which he said, "Cool."

But I digress. You see, people, I think you should know...because of this Ranch, I'm not the least bit sentimental about my food. I know there's killing involved and as long as it's done humanely and not in a factory, I'm down with that. Do I ENJOY tossing live crab in boiling water. Well, of course not. But that's the price of crab cakes. So I think it's my duty to man up. Slip on my big girl panties.

Growing up around livestock, we spent the early days of spring throat slitting, head snapping, bleeding, skinning, plucking, butchering and wrapping. I never named a cow Bessie, nuzzled a baby chick or imagined that sheep pondered the larger questions. The animals we raised were free range, well fed, antibiotic free and received first rate medical care long before these ideas were popular.

Even now, when I return to help out my dad, unlike the Ranger, I'm not charmed by sheep and their peaceful faces, chippy little tails or the way they all turn their heads in unison. Nope. What I see is more pedestrian: lamb shanks, chops, car seat covers. "Leg of lamb, take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."

And to think I was once a vegetarian.

Americans are, for the most part, squeamish about their animal proteins. If it looks like what it once once, we're uncomfortable, even disturbed. Thus fish fillets, boneless chicken breasts and pork loin strips. We've gotten farther and farther from the killing, only honoring the eating, the fussy preparation. And somehow that feels wrong. As if erasing the face, legs, wings or tail absolves us of our duty to eat consciously, mindfully. To acknowledge, with a certain reverence, that someone (not something) died for my filet mignon. So The Chef and I are hatching a plan: to chronicle the life and death and damn good eating of Geraldine, the pig. Stay tuned.

I am, however, sentimental about sheep dogs. My dad's new pup is Chester, a Great Pyrenees. And already the Ranger and I are gathering our resources for some serious dognapping.

Now my dad has always been good to his sheep dogs, but make no mistake...they aren't pets or family members. They're employees. They have a job to do. So when he busted us giving Chester a rubbing, he scowled. "You're making him soft. You think when a stranger shows up or a coyote, he'll be able to defend himself or the flock if he rolls onto his back for a good scratch?"

Okay. He has a point. I'd hate to lose a freezer full of lamb chops to feral dogs. But what's a little lovin' between friends?

Hey, Mr. Pizza Man!

2008-12-02T09:45:00.000-08:00

Maybe this has happened to you. You make a friend. The kind that would lie to the IRS for you. And would ask you to dance but not complain when you started flailing. Someone you could casually show your tan line. You listen to each other speak and it all makes sense, this common thread, this shared laughter and you can't imagine your life without this friend because somehow they've become woven into this tapestry that is your life, a way in which you identify yourself... I am so-and-so's friend. You pinkie swear nothing will ever come between you. And then something does. Not a fight. Or an affair. Or a suitcase full of money. Nothing quite that HBO. But you grow apart, and that slight, shivery crack becomes a gap, a canyon and then you find yourself, after one too many martinis, wondering "what ever happened to so-and-so."

Passing through Albuquerque, on the way home to the parents, I couldn't resist. I had to find out what happened to one of those friends, who for years was high on the phone tree, part of the first wave of calls for a party or movie night, the guy whose girlfriend eyed me with a mix of curiosity and death threat because, yeah...we were that close.

Turns out, Stewart the Wine Steward has put his money where his mouth is and launched Farina Pizzeria hands down the best pie in Albuquerque or Corrales (yeah, I know there's some marinara snobs out there in the country.) Back when I was a Barfly and Stewart was the wine guy at Artichoke Cafe, he used to polish the Reidel wine glasses and tell me his dream of someday owning a little somethin-somethin of his very own. Well, he must have been hiding a serious set of balls behind that long, woody bar because sure enough...smack in the middle of what may well be a long and painful recession, the man pulled the trigger. Cheers to fearlessness. And following your dream. And ignoring the naysayers.

By the looks of the crowd on a recent Monday night, I don't think the joint will have to worry about diminishing portfolios because we were lucky to get a table. And in a tip to tradition, Stewart trotted out a delicious bottle from his private stash, a 2002 Don Marcello from Puglia. We were, however, tempted by the beer since Farina carries our new favorite IPA from Marble. Sorry Rogue Beer People...consider yourself humbled.

In no time, the pizzas arrived, their crusts perfectly thin and lightly blistered. The Bianco -- fresh mozzarella, parmigiano, ricotta, truffle oil, sage and the Fungi -- wild mushrooms, fontina, tellegio (I think it's a cheese named after a sex act), thyme, roasted shallots. Wow. Really. That's all I can say. His apprenticeship at Portland's Apizza Scholls paid off. He's now officially Mr. Pizza Man.

We will, however, miss our Wine Whisperer. When the girls and I hunkered down in the corner booth on any given Friday, clutching beaded bags and showing off our new slingbacks, Stewart the Wine Steward always used his mojo. Most wine guys ask you what varietals you like or how much you want to spend. But Steward would ask for the details of your day, take your temperature, measure your emotions..."I can't believe I make my living helping corporations sell useless shit, that Camus was right when he said there is no meaning in meaning, and my back hurts just thinking about it while I lie awake next to a very nice man who is my husband yet somehow I am so desperately lonely even though I own a closet full of fabulous shoes. How did I get so far from what I thought I would be?" He'd take this in, duck into the wine cellar and return with a sweet little gem from Piemonte. Or South Africa. Or Napa. Or New Zealand. Or Israel. That tasted like, "I hate advertising (minerals, clay), but I'm still hopeful that good change can happen (soft tannins, velvety finish) and love will find a way (slightly fruit forward). He never picked wrong. He always knew our mood. And didn't judged us for it. No wonder Wine Spectator loves him.

Plus, let's not forget his life raft qualities. Not only did Stewart make us eat our meat and be nice to our vegetables when we were blue and trying to disappear by not eating, he never flinched when we sobbed bar side or needed a lift home after riding the wave of a nasty divorce by swimming in a Sea of Syrah. He just handed us a tissue and regularly told us what we needed to hear. "This is a bump, sweetie, a bad bump, but not the end, just a different beginning. You got it all going on. And someday, you'll see that, too."

Thanks, Hon. We do and we have.

And although I'm quite certain our friendship is no more, Mr. Pizza Man, I love you just the same. It's one of those dog qualities you always admired.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

2008-11-30T13:44:00.000-08:00

Black Friday -- Scene I, Take I: Drinking WORLD FAMOUS MARGARITAS at The Taos Inn. Two middle-aged women, after sheepishly spying on our table, finally grab their coats and squeeze past tightly knit tables, drink coasters in hand. Shyly, one of them taps The Ranger on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Johnny Depp? Because you look EXACLY like him. And if you are, would you mind giving us an autograph?”

Not really an outrageous question when you consider that George Clooney and Kevin Spacey have recently been spotted in Albuquerque bars while shooting a movie.

Dad: Who in God’s name is Johnny Depth?
Cousin Lia: Depp. Two Ps. Not depth. Edward Scissorhands?
Dad: Who has scissor hands?
Me: Jesus, here we go. This happens. The Johnny Depp thing.
Aunt Cooky: Does that mean you get mistaken for Johnny Depp’s mother?
Me: Hey, that’s not funny. A nurse once thought I was his mother. She wrote it on the damn chart.
Aunt Cooky: It’s the neck waddle. The women in this family are all cursed with a waddle. It’s genetic. Were you not wearing a scarf? You know you should always wear a scarf.
Dad: What in God’s name is a neck wabble?
Cousin Lia: It’s what happens when you get old and you can’t hold your head up anymore. You know. Like newborn babies.
Dad: I was once mistaken for Julia Roberts. You see…we have the same initials and go to the same massage therapist and one day the lady at the front desk…
Me: Dad. Come on. You really think anyone believes Julia Roberts is hiding in plain sight disguised as a short, Mexican man with thinning hair and a gold tooth.
Dad: Don’t make fun of the tooth. Someday, it’ll be worth something. You have to pull it before they close the casket. Remember? It’s in the will.
Aunt Cooky: We might need to pull it NOW. Have you seen how much the drinks are here?
Cousin Lia: Hey, if he signs your coaster, will you buy us a round of drinks?
Ranger: No. No. No. No. I’m sorry M’am. I’m not Johnny Depp.
Aunt Cooky: And do you really think Johnny Depp hangs around with a bunch of Mexicans?
Dad: We’re not Mexican. We’re HISPANIC. There’s a difference.
Me: What exactly is the difference?
Dad: Well…for starters…Mexicans wear cowboy hats. And they only drive Fords.

This might explain why, when the airplane was delayed at the gate while preparing to fly to Portland, the Ranger...he got out and pushed.

Things We Love

2008-11-16T08:14:00.000-08:00

Taking a moment here in Fish Town to ponder a few things our new home has to offer. Yeah, I know we poke some fun...how flossing is a lost art, yellow Gortex is the new black, teen moms rule, the irony of the "neighborhood watch" captain also being the neighborhood drug dealer, and when you say "fishing boat" you inevitably get a fisherman screaming from the other end of the bar, "it's fishing VESSEL, dammit, VESSEL, not boat. Any ass can own a boat, any jerk-off rubbing two sticks together can build a boat"...but hey, there's also much to love in this rainy secret town.

The Wine Guy: We've been frequenting this local wine shop that specializes in Italian and French gems because the selection is well-edited and the young duke behind the counter wearing city spectacles and a sardonic grin always makes us laugh: "You look like a woman still mourning her suede boots while drinking herself into an Edith Piaff kind of haze. Cheers to that, my dear."

On a recent visit, he ducked into the back and came out holding a jar of snow white, purely rendered pork fat, hands carefully cupped as if securing a puppy or a priceless sculpture. "I just had a pig slaughtered and I couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate this more than you." Apparently, I have pig fat written all over me. But really...I was touched. Because yes, this is exactly the gift I love, that keeps on giving, that taps into my deepest hunger. I promptly went home and made raviolis.

Random Acts of Nut Giving: While running the pup through the forest, we stumbled upon The Chef on his hands and knees (no, not THAT part of the forest) sniffing out mushrooms for supper. After a brief chat, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of chestnuts, "Here, roast these and make some salad dressing." Excellent idea. Eating a bag of warm, roasted chestnuts while walking the December streets of New York...a memory worth repeating.

The Cheese Shop: Stinky, dirty sock, green-gilled, thick-rind cheeses with funny names and crusty edges. While my co-workers at the gym tap their Tupperware lunches for tofu and brown rice, steamed vegetables and boiled eggs, I sneak down the street for a plate of greasy salami and heady smelling cheeses. Good for building strong muscles. Plus, I find salami makes my butt nice and round (see August 18th post). The owner comes to my yoga class every now and then and afterwards slips me a modest wax paper bag -- airy thin slices of mortadella.

Gas Pumpers: Here in Oregon, it's illegal to pump your own gas. We're all about job creation here in the corner. So every time I fill up, I get a free dog biscuit for the pup scurrying around the back of the Honda, anxiously licking the window and whimpering to be let loose so she can ferret out yet another dead sea lion or pelican for lunch, and if nothing has recently succumbed and rotted and festered, there's always dog shit. She ain't the smartest...but she sure is pretty.

The Local Hardware Store: We go in for sheets of insulation and walk out with a bag of fresh pepperocinis and yellow hots, courtesy of the counter guy with his less than toothy grin. Yup, it's written all over me...Mexican Who Loves Pig Fat.

Fleeting Pleasures

2008-11-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

It's all anybody is talking about these days. In diners. At the gym. While straddling bar stools. Even walking the dog. No...not the fact that forty years after Martin Luther King was assassinated we have a black president. Boletes, People! Boletes! And not just any mushroom, but King Boletes! And we're at the end of bolete season so I have to write fast and get back out there before they're all gone.

Dictionary definition: "A bolete is a type of fungal fruiting body characterized by the presence of a pileus that is clearly differentiated from the stipe, with a spongy surface of pores (rather than gills) on the underside of the pileus. "Bolete" is also the English common name for fungal species having this kind of morphology."

Oregon definition: "Obsession spanning just a few short weeks. Harvested near pines, in loamy soil, and often tucked under tall blade grass. Their brown caps make them a pain in the ass to find, but they're worth the hunt."

Recently, we were granted an audience with
King and Queen Bolete.
Our knees are still shaking.

Bottom line...they are weirdly giant (small bearded men with red, pointy shoes should be living underneath their boastful prow) and deeply coveted. They can turn friends into enemies and normal, well-balanced personalities into sneaks. For example, last Sunday after brunch, The Chef tipped his fedora goodbye and scuffled out the door, saying he was anxious to return to work. YET, an hour later, we see the Toaster Oven (one of those boxy Scion/Honda Element fixtures) cruising out of the forest. Seems The Chef was working his secret bolete patch.

Note to reader: He shared so all is forgiven. In fact, The Chef whipped together some amazing pork and bolete tacos topped with a radish and carrot relish that made us throw him down on the floor and tickle his belly.

Tomatillos, jalapenos and carrots all joined the ground pork and boletes with a secret spice mix (New Mexico red chile, cumin, Vietnamese cinnamon, Spanish smoked paprika and powdered ginger). But mostly, I wanted to show off The Chef's precision chopping.

Yes, he carries a measuring stick.

Good mushrooms change everything. Even the Ranger...our till-death-do-us-part Ranger...is mum when it comes to the exact location of his chantrelle patch. He just saunters in the door after work and casually plops down a pound or ten of those golden trumpets before cracking open a beer, acting like he didn't just drop fifty bucks worth of booty in my lap. I've used all my feminine wiles and an unusual dose of sexual gymnastics to try and work it out of him, but he's being very James Bond, sealed lip about it. Perhaps, I should take this as a cautionary tale to work on my seduction techniques if I can't even make a mushroom patch rise.

Okay, full disclosure...one of the Scientists took me bolete hunting and she actually found them all and was generous enough to hand them over. Second Edition isn't a good hunter; she gets a little distracted in the great outdoors...you've seen puppies chasing bumble bees across the yard...well, that's me. "Look at the sky, pelicans everywhere! Huckleberries! I love huckleberries. Hey, is that a beer bottle under that tree? I wonder if there's anything left in it?"

I was, however, in charge of pulling and trimming. And those puppies grow deep. The first King Bolete...I stuck my hand into the black, loamy soil but the stem kept going and going, and since that's the best eating, so did my hand till I was nearly up to my elbow. I had a flash of terror, remembering that as a child I never used to let my arms and feet hang over the edge of the bed for fear the Evil Clown living underneath would pull me down, drag me under and suck my blood before transforming my body into yet another Evil Clown that haunted the beds of other children. At least that's what I thought about while my fingers closed around a huge fungi. But I digress.

See, you thought I was exaggerating in that "Second Edition" sorta way. Thanks, Neighbor, for helping us clean and cook these Three Ways: Sauteed in butter in garlic, brushed with olive oil and grilled; dumped into creamy chicken soup with wild rice and carrots.

When you consider that we live in a world of Whole Foods and Wal-Mart, where blueberries and tomatoes can be had year around, it's nice to know that some pleasures are fleeting, hard to find and passionately pursued on hands and knees. That some things transcend the world economy. When the boletes are gone, they're gone. Till next year.

Leaving us with our unrequited yearnings. As in romance, that's impossible to resist.

Saute anyone?

Oh Brother...Here Art Thou

2008-11-05T14:20:00.000-08:00

Sometimes brothers are born into your family. And sometimes they just show up, hiccuping, sprawled on your living room sofa surrounded by crumpled Taco Bell bags and mumbling, "Can you help me up? My stomach hurts." No matter how many times I tell him not to eat spicy tacos and wash them down with rum and Pepsi at 10 in the morning...still, he doesn't listen. And that's how I know, The Neighbor and I, we're stuck with each other.

Last week, he told me that before Second Edition pulled up in her fast car and decided to stay, those were days filled with both darkness and light. Light? Okay, I get that. Because although we take turns cooking, climb trees together, walk the beach searching for agates and buy matching t-shirts at rock concerts, we also argue about which brewery makes the better beer, who gets to be the black kid on Wii, taking out the trash and getting fat (he is, I'm not...na, na, na, na, na). It wasn't that much different when my brother, Edward, was alive. I big sistered him. And he ignored me.

Now, of course, I still have my brother R, and together we have another brother...one he loves and I don't. Let's call him Bird. Because he's always high and shitting on others. Oddly, when we were little, Bird was my best playmate, the one closest in age and just as cunning, as full of small town itch as I was. While R was at football practice and Edward was locked in his room listening to music and strumming his guitar, Bird and I were shooting each other with BB guns and blowing up ant hills with firecrackers. He'd hold me down with his knees and smear snot on my face; I'd use his toothbrush to clean the toilet. Yeah, we were tight.

And then something happened when we got to be teenagers. He couldn't stop being bad. Drugs. DWIs. Jail. Emergency rooms. Impregnating a minor. Guns. Car wrecks. Jail. Rehab. Theft. Jail. Alcoholics Anonymous. Seventh Day Adventists. More emergency rooms. Jail. Now, he lives with R who keeps an eye out, feeding and watering him, but impossibly, can't keep him out of Jail. He was last arrested September 28th. How our father managed to stay in public office all these years is a miracle...or a tribute to his unflappable ability to change the subject. Bird is our Billy Carter. Gary Hart's yacht, Monkey Business. Geraldine Ferraro's husband's family. A Mexican Monica Lewinsky.

When R and I had dinner together two weeks ago in Portland and he was giving me the update on Bird, I realized something rather stunning. For the past 20 years, I've carefully managed the 12 steps of Coping With A Family Drug Addict: disappointment, sadness, anger, resentment, pity, embarrassment, repulsion, disappointment...rinse, repeat. The last time I spoke to Bird, he was draped over Edward's coffin, sobbing and sputtering, "It should have been me. It should have been me." Without hesitation, my fists clenched, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Yes. Yes. It should have been you."

But now. Now. I'm on Step 13. Nothing. I feel Nothing for the man. Less than if he were a total stranger. I'm done being angry and disappointed. I don't wish him ill or wish him better anymore. I don't wish. I'm a white sheet of paper. It's as if someone crawled inside my head, my heart with a bucket of bleachy water and a sponge and scrubbed me clean.

Probably I should be worried that a neighbor is more dear to me than my own blood. Maybe I inherited Dad's unflappable ability to change the subject. Or maybe The Neighbor has shown me that sometimes...your faith...can be restored.

The Beginning of an Era

2008-11-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

This morning over oatmeal:

Ranger: Hey Hon, can you drop off my ballot today when you drop off yours?
Me: You voted? You gotta be kidding.
Ranger: I did as a matter of fact.
Me: But you never vote. In fact, you're always so proud of not voting.
Ranger: I was bored.
Me: You voted because you were bored? Usually when you're bored, you just go into the bedroom by yourself and...
Ranger: Just drop it off, will you. Jesus Lord, woman, a simple request.
Me: Wow!
Ranger: Wow what? What's the big deal?
Me: I'm just...I'm just stunned. I mean...we're in the worst financial crisis since the Depression and embroiled in a war that rivals Vietnam. Yet, you voted because you were BORED!
Ranger: I thought you'd be happy! Why all the shit?
Me: Was it the mushrooms, Honey? The ones we ate last night?

Oregon Chanterelle compared to Common Cheez-It

You see, dear reader, the Ranger, while marching through his quotidian rounds in the forest, stumbled upon a hillside covered with Chanterelles. Huge ones. After emailing photos to our Scientist friends for confirmation (would hate to die the night before the election...I always need to know how the story ends), we ate 'em up. Not all ten pounds, but a good chunk. Considered several fancy-schmancy recipes before caving for the tried and true. Sauteed with butter and garlic. That's it.

Amazing. Intoxicating. Transformative. Especially with a 2006 Chateau de Trinquevedel Rose.

Ahhhh, the wilderness.

Campaign 2008 Endorsements

2008-11-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

With only a few days remaining till the election, it seems like a good time to take a stand, to pump my fist in the air and give you my bumper sticker support of the issues. Oddly, 6.4% of American voters are still undecided on who they want to run this country, 67% of those are women...to which I can only say WAKE THE FUCK UP! So here's what I'm endorsing:

Sex in the morning (like voting...early and often)
French and Italian wines (yet another reason why the Old World is making more and more sense compared to the New World)
Hugging total strangers (a good way to check for concealed weapons)
Extra-crispy chicken wings with hot sauce (don't let those vegetarian, Marxists have their way. Eat meat, People! Eat meat!)
New Mexico. (Si se puede. Or at least that's what we used to say. You decide, Red or Blue.)
A pillow-top mattress. (not only good for sleeping, but for stashing cash when the financial system fails)
Hockey. (moms, dads...everyone is welcome. But you best take your glasses off and prepare to get your ass kicked.)
The Power of Storytelling. (where would we be, as a democracy, without it?)
The Great State of Pennsylvania. (Home of the Ranger, the pirogi and 2,348 ways to eat cabbage. No wonder it's a battleground.)
Committing to a younger man. (Forget what the naysayers mumble about youth and inexperience. When the chips are down, passion, fearlessness and idealism...get my vote.)

What do you endorse?

The Whole Truth

2008-10-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

Things have been a bit hectic around the Tree House this past week, so I'm compelled to dip into the Letters to the Editor (Second Edition) for a bit of wisdom. Thank you, Aussie Girl, for this contribution and to Andy Rooney, the author. When I read this out loud to The Ranger, he threw up his hands, eyes fixed on heaven and said, "Jesus Lord, welcome to my life." So now you know.

As I grow in age, I value women over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 40 will never wake you in the middle of the night and ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think. If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do, and it's usually more interesting. Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it. Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 40. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her younger counterpart. Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk or if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her. Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 40, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?', here's an up date for you. Nowadays, 80% of women are against marriage Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!

Sunday Supper: Hunters and Gatherers and Gremolata

2008-10-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

Wild: living or growing in the natural environment;
not domesticated or cultivated

As much as I miss city life -- wine bars, Sephora, fancy haircuts and the tap, tap, tap of high heels on polished wood -- I love the idea that I live in a place where the folks are just a little bit wild and not in a whoo-hoo, upside down margaritas, tight jean skirt and making out with your best friend's wife (yeah...you know who you are and of course there's ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT)...but a different sort of wild, the kind that demands you live a little closer to the earth, press your cheek firmly against the mossy surface and dip your hands into the freezing ocean. Because that's where supper lives. Today, the three of us divided and conquered. The Neighbor hit the docks (secret spot...if I tell he'll pull my plug and not in a friendly way) while the Ranger and I hit the forest.

Pulling up the crab pots (at the end of 30 feet of rope) takes strength, stamina
and tight butt cheeks. That's why I like to watch.

Cooked, cleaned and ready to pick. The meat is so sweet and juicy, you don't need butter, lemon or anything but a bucket, some wine and old recordings of Cream.

The word "lump" has never been a favorite. Good things don't come in "lumps," not in oatmeal, or on breasts or your lover sitting on the sofa. But lumps of crab! Now we're talking, people!

And then of course, there were the mushrooms. Oyster, chanterelles, shitakis and butter caps. Although there was talk of adding magic mushrooms to our soup, we resisted. Some of us work in the morning and need to find our pants and not wake up with rug burns on our face.

Okay...not to brag...but this is perhaps the BEST mushroom soup I have ever tasted. Sorry Chef. I know you made a delicious soup for my birthday and I much appreciate it, but as your favorite TV Chef, Bobby Flay (NOT) would say, "Are you ready for a throwdown?"

The broth simmered all night in the crockpot -- chicken, ham hocks, ginger, shallots, garlic and dried thyme -- then the mushrooms, gently sauteed in butter with leeks and white wine, were added. A generous sprinkle of fresh thyme. More simmer. And then the Secret Ingredient. A wicked Gremolata -- toasted hazelnuts, roasted garlic, lemon zest and arugula, chopped and blended. A dollop on each serving. And on top of the dollop...shitaki mushrooms sliced and flash-fried in a mixture of olive and sesame oil. Here at the treehouse, we call them bacon bits because that's exactly what they taste like. We eat them on salad, on fish, off the Ranger's biceps.

Jesus. Look at that sheen of butter. So sorry Dr. Cardiologist. I know you're doing your best to change my eating habits...but think of it this way. My arteries might be clogged, but my hair...it's SO SHINY.

The little Gremolata that could.

Sorry I can't write more. Died and went to heaven. Wait a minute. Heaven? Hmm. Nope. Don't believe in heaven. You have one shot at goodness. At the reward of bounty. And this is it.

So eat up.

Happy Birthday, Carlos (1968 - 2005)

2008-10-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

If Carlos were alive, he would have been 40-years-old today, a number he truly dreaded. Even at 37, he was dunking his head in a jar of wrinkle cream. Last week, his killer was finally arrested. Three years later. A serial killer. So the suffering is larger and wider than even I could imagine.

I remember so many things about my friend, details too numerous to put down here, and right now, too sore, like a bruise that will never heal. One thing at a time...when I gave Carlos his first yoga mat, I didn't really expect him to take to it since his attention span was quite short. Maybe it was the outfits that kept him committed at first; but later, it was a deepening spiritual life that drew him to his mat again and again. When I first saw him rise into headstand, he did it with such grace, such assurance, I wanted to knock him over out of pure envy. It was like watching a heart lift up and out of the body, purely without intention or ego. So today, I celebrate that beautiful pose, that remarkable man with this:

Sirsana (Headstand)
Morning light rises across the dark room
like the sun up over the ocean.
Forming a cup with my palms
I pour my head into it,
let my legs spill against gravity,
uncurling toward the sky.
Standing the world on its head
everything I know is upended.
What I believed was inevitable--
what I once thought was solid
what I perceived as impossible--
that map of certainties
drawn on the sand of life
upturns in the tide.
King of all asanas,
everything is right where it should be
when the crown of my soul
rests blissfully in the palms
and I'm born
head-first to the world again,
like the sun over the Pacific,
taking my time
to rise.

by Leza Lowitz

Over The Hill, Into The Woods And By The Lake

2008-10-06T15:51:00.000-07:00

Camping. It's what's for dinner. And the theme for this camping trip is Bacon since, unfortunately The Ranger was unsuccessful...Uhum...with hook and line. Not that there's anything wrong with that, honey. It NO WAY reflects on your manhood. Absolutely not. Don't give it a second thought.

For breakfast, a scramble of eggs, shallots, bacon, mushrooms and spinach. For lunch: turkey, swiss, advocado, arugula, bacon and a basil aioli. For dinner: pork chops and collard greens stewed with bacon. Yup, I can hear Second Edition's cardiologist rolling his eyes as he scrapes mayo off his hospital cafeteria sandwich.

Something to be said for four days of Bacon without television, music, wi-fi, and cell phone. Who knew silence could be so loud, so pervasive, so bone-rattling. Until, of course, you succumb to the rhythms that you've ignored by way of responsible-adulthood, a more natural tick that tells you when to eat, when to sleep and when to open a bottle of wine. Without a clock dictating. Not that we ever wait till 5 p.m. to pull out the corkscrew, but still...

And yes, we actually sat across from one another and enjoyed breakfast together, something we haven't done in months, what with all this Ranger By Night/Yoga Teacher By Day business. And we talked. About important topics. Hear...let's listen in.

Me: Amazing how well Cheladas go with omlettes, isn't it?
Ranger: I have to admit, I always thought the idea of beer and tomato juice was disgusting, but yeah, this works.
Me: Con sal y limon
Ranger: Did Mexicans invent this drink?
Me: Absolutely. My dad used to call it the "breakfast of champions."
Ranger: Ah, where would we be without Mexicans?
Me: No salsa. Or Tecates.
Ranger: No clean hotel rooms.
Me: No enchiladas or tamales.
Ranger: No shucked oysters. OR crab cakes.
Me: No latin rhythm.
Ranger: No busboys.
Me: No Jennifer Lopez.
Ranger: She's Puerto Rican.
Me: That's not her fault.
Ranger: Maybe you mean no round asses.
Me: My ass isn't round.
Ranger: True that. Yours is pointy. In fact, you should put cork on it to protect others from getting poked in a crowd.
Me: Your ass is round.
Ranger: Does that make me Mexican?
Me: I don't know. How do you feel about revenge? Any historical grudges you want to share? Does your heart race when someone says "remember the Alamo?"
Ranger: The Alamo? Was that a hockey team?
Me: Go Penguins!

That's right, people. This is my way of saying, IT'S THE OPENING OF HOCKEY SEASON!

The Return

2008-10-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

Mama Ranger and Papa Ranger have flown back to the Western-Hill-Country-of-Pennsylvania so the Ranger and I have returned to our slovenly ways: cooking breakfast with pants off, letting the dog carry up our laundry from the basement (we string panties around her neck...that's not against child labor laws, is it?), leaving beer bottles by the bed and forgoing plates at dinner. Sometimes, it's all Second Edition can do after a hard day of underemployment to put food on the table. Sometimes, I just set the bowl down and hand the Ranger a fork and a beer. That usually shuts him up. Napkin? Isn't that why God gave you a forearm?

Pasta with spinach pesto, roasted cherry tomatoes, shallots and corn.

We're back in our usual groove: wandering the beach, throwing stones at the ocean, yelling at the dog for eating dead, decaying sea life. Sometimes we run into lonely strangers with hunched shoulders, pinching cigarettes between thumb and index finger, skinny runaway strangers that intrigue us and make us want to take them home and fatten them up with some lasagna or mashed potatoes or maybe even an oven-roasted beef stew.

A skittish boy with beads in his hair and a raggedy-ass backpack asked if his rascally street dog could play with Mia. Of course. Run her ass off...give me some peace. We didn't exchange the usual pleasantries about dog names, breeds and what a beautiful day it was. Nope. Just strolled the length of Agate beach in silence, the two pups chasing each other in and out of the surf, nipping and wrestling, then plowing between the two of us.

I worry that this haunted boy is maybe too far from home, unloved, desperate, wild in a way that invites danger, but I let him lead the way and respected his silence. At the crossing where we parted ways, he blessed me with a most amazing smile. Which gave me hope. But also made me realize, it's good to have parents, folks who know you're missing when you are, who know that you need help when you do, and fight your fight even if you can do it yourself. Perhaps, I shouldn't take offense then that my folks sent me a birthday card that said, "when you are lost, we will find you." Underlined. Yellow highlighter. Am I lost? Here I thought I was found. Yet, it's nice to know someone is looking.

And to my Other Family, the Ranger clan...we look forward to Christmas. We'll have our pants back on by then. Promise.

Sunday Supper: Pirogis Bastardo

2008-09-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

It must be Fall because Sunday Supper is in full swing now that everyone works weekdays, vacations are over and the kitchen is the warmest place in the house. A little confession, dear reader...we actually relaunched Sunday Supper a couple weeks ago at The Chef Mansion but Second Edition got so incredibly, unbelievably DRUNK that none of the food pictures came out. But I do have some awesome shots of Aussie Girl's butt and The Chef's seemingly large nostrils. So sorry.

So let's try this again. This time with honored guests: Mama Ranger and Papa Ranger. Who flew all the way from the Hill-Country-of-Western-Pennsylvania just for Sunday Supper. Okay, not exactly. I'm sure their Baby Boy being shacked up with an Old-Mexican-Hippie probably sparked some curiosity, que no?

In honor of our honorees, we went Polish. That's right, traditional pigs in a blanket, cabbage stuffed with beef, pork, onions and rice and simmered in tomato soup with sauerkraut and Kielbasa.

One of Second Edition's all-time favorite foods. Great for breakfast, lunch, dinner or a midnight snack (with cold beer) when sneaking into the kitchen under the cover of darkness while the Ranger mutters work-related dreams, "Put your helmet on! Put your helmet on! It's the law."

Mama Ranger took control of the Piggies while the three Mexicans ran rough-shod over the pirogis. Ah, and here is our moment of truth. When we broke the news to Papa Ranger that "well...Sunday Supper is about NOT following the recipe, changing tradition, pleasantly fucking things up in new and different ways" we were met with a furrowed brow. And since he looks EXACTLY like the Ranger (just older, grayer and um, more voluptuous), I'm OH-SO familiar with this furrowed brow business.

Of course, traditionally pirogis are stuffed with mashed Idaho potatoes and cheddar cheese. But the three Mexicans agreed that this sounded awful...what's the word? Oh yeah...Honkie. So, we changed it up. The Chef rolled out the dough...under the strict supervision of Mama Ranger, I might add, while I made the stuffing: roasted sweet potatoes, roasted garlic, a lot of sage, chopped jalapeno, asiago cheese and toasted pine nuts. Finger licking good. Aussie Girl and friends got busy stuffing, sealing, boiling and finally, sauteing those little bastards in browned butter and leeks.

I swear there was a hushed silence when Papa Ranger ate his first Mexican Pirogi. He chewed. He swallowed. He took another bite. Then held up his wine glass (a fine Beaujolais) and declared them delicious. He had seconds. Then thirds! I swear I now know how Sally Fields felt at the Oscars..."He loves me! He loves me! He really loves me!" Ah come on, Papa Ranger, you know you do...even if we DID grow up watching the same television shows, eating Ding-Dongs and eschewing the hoola-hoop.

And on that happy note, I'll leave you with some snaps of that memorable evening...when the Poles, the Croatians, the French, the Mexicans, the Guatemalans, the Swedes and the mutts gathered round, mixed-bloods all of us, to enjoy Pirogis Bastardo.

Yes, the olives were lovely, but what I really wanted to show you was the incredibly beautiful cutting board The Gardener made for me for my birthday. Using woods indigenous to Oregon, he sanded and oiled this puppy till it was as smooth as a baby's butt. He also brought over a tasty simmer of squash, zucchini, spring onions and herbs, all from his garden. We love people who eat like him. Every time we run into him at the Farmer's Market, he holds out an apple, a peach, or a plum and says, "Take a bite of this. You won't believe it. Your mouth. It just won't be able to handle it." So nice to finally be at a point in my life where I hear this in public and not in the back of a darkened movie theater. Married...with appetizers. Speaking of:

Aussie Girl delivered quite a tasty spread of eats for the hungry troops. (It's impossible to cook without wine and snacks at the ready). That yellow stuff is a tofu dip we both love. And the hummus...it was Papa Ranger's first experience with such a schmear. He declared the garbanzo bean delectable. We'll make a Mexican out of him yet.

When Mama Ranger inquired as to the origins of Sunday Supper, we had to pause and consider. Finally..."We love to eat. So do our friends. And neighbors. Why not do it together?"

The Chef Returns For A Major Encore

2008-09-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

While you've probably learned a good deal about who we are together, the Ranger and I, you might not know some things we are NOT, areas where the muddy road forks. Me -- read novels in bed. Ranger -- watch football in bed...and scratch. Me -- chopped nuts on ice cream cone. Ranger -- sprinkles on ice cream cone...make that extra sprinkles. Me -- let sleeping dogs lie. Ranger -- poke sleeping dog with a stick until it plays with you, snaps, or tells you to F*&@k off. So yes, we are different in many ways, but we share a love of all things culinary so of course, his birthday gift to me was a one-of-a-kind dinner dreamed up with our friend, The Chef.

Perhaps, because Sunday Supper has grown into a bit of a local legend (yes, there is clamoring for invites, yet we still like to keep it small), or because we are so particular when shopping the Saturday farmer's market, people often ask, "where did you guys learn how to cook?" The answer: as with any great passion, you pick up tips and tricks along the way, but really the Ranger and I were first sent to the stove by grandparents.

We both came from hard-working middle-class families, so Mom was not at home waiting for us after school with a plate of warm cookies and a glass of milk. While that continues to be an iconic American image, I don't know anybody who actually LIVED that life. Nope. Both parents worked. So it was Grandma waiting at home for the Ranger...and for me, my grandpa. The Ranger's Polish grandma introduced him to cabbage and noodles, pigs in a blanket, pirogis, and potato pancakes.

And my Grandpa Gabriel...well, he was an exceptional cook, particularly over an open fire. Being a sheepherder and all, that's how he'd cooked most of his meals as a young man. But because he didn't speak a lick of English and me -- my Spanish has always been little more than polite inquiry -- we "talked" in the kitchen. Or more accurately, I was his sous chef, in charge of dicing and slicing, even if I could only reach the counter using a step stool. Today, I'm not sure too many grandparents would hand their eight-year-old granddaughter a sharp knife and a pile of vegetables, but remember these were the years when no one locked their doors, kids played in the ditch, and matchbooks were never out of reach. What I remember about that knife...the handle was made of smooth, polished bone and it was razor sharp. If I ever cut myself, I don't remember. I just loved the responsibility of being handed something so dangerous and forbidden, magical and swift. Who needed sword fighting cartoon characters when I had a bone-handled knife. (I think I imagined the bone was a femur from some slain enemy, but really...there's just no telling)

So here I must raise a glass of Spanish Cava to our grandparents who taught us that the love of food starts in your own two hands. And speaking of...from the mitts of Chef Jesse Otero at the Whale Cove Inn came this fabulous, joyful meal, prepared just for us.

Let's start with the view from our table, set with crystal and shining with confetti. Looking out the window, it wasn't at all like the brick wall outside my New York apartment. Or the tangle of electrical wires that dangled behind my Albuquerque bedroom. Don't you love how I doctored the shot of the ocean and gave it a Moody Blue vibe?

First course, a cheddar gougere with goat's milk ricotta, roasted garlic and sage. We thought a gougere might in fact, mean "tiny hat for tiny person" or more erotically, "slight peek of pubic fuzz" but in fact, it is the sweetest little, airy muffin which sadly never made the shot because they were devoured before the fragrant basket hit the table.

Next, The Chef took my favorite mushrooms -- chantrelles and black truffles -- and made soup, sprinkled with local corn. Smelled like forest, tasted like goodness.

Probably my favorite course, because it involved a pig; roasted pork belly with potato stuffing, a garden vegetable croquette, fried quail egg and tomato vinaigrette. Kinda like a breakfast of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns with ketchup but without the gastrointestinal lurching that follows...or the drowsy highway patrolman at the next table.

And then the entree...drum roll, please. In honor of Grandpa Gabriel, the sheepherder, seared Oregon lamb with pistachio pesto, ratatouille and roasted cippolini onions. Mama Ranger took a bite, directed her sharp gaze at the Ranger and said, "This son, this makes up for everything." I think she's referring to his misspent youth, but since juvenile records are sealed, I can't really go into details.

Interesting tidbit learned while devouring the next course -- an Oregonzola and chiogga beet terrine with carmelized onion tart. Don't ask me about "chiogga," I was pretty tipsy from an Eric/Kent Syrah by then (see...that's why the photo is a bit blurry). Anyhoo -- turns out the Ranger was a heartbeat away from being named Cornelius when he was born. That's right, Cornelious. LOL. Cornelius...you know...that lactose intolerant natty fellow with leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket and a skinny little gougere on his upper lip. Hugging an overweight cat named Chiogga while yelling at the neighbor lady for letting her forsythia hang over his fence. Almost as scrumptuous...the Ranger's sister is named after the Bionic Woman, a popular TV show at the time. Ooooh, I can't wait till Christmas when I get to sing the show's theme song to her and then duck before she elbows me across the room. See...the family secrets that are spilled over good food and wine.

Finally, finally dessert. Individual lemon souffles that were still warm when they hit the table. So sorry I don't have a picture, but I dropped the camera right then and there...out of sheer ecstasy. I split mine open, drizzled it with creme, blueberries and slivers of jalapeno...and well, that was that.

Thank you Chef, for such a special meal...and thank you Ranger, for making it happen. A happy, happy birthday, indeed.

"Someday Mia, this will all be yours!"

2008-09-09T08:12:00.000-07:00

Not sure how it works in other families, but anytime my parents leave on vacation, a huge envelope always arrives in the mail: their last will and testament. Because they are Hispanic, they have a special DOOM gland that attaches to the pituitary so that anytime a moment of pleasure is about to rush through the bloodstream, an equal dose of DOOM is also released. While most people think that the worst that can happen in Cabo is jello shots, sunstroke, diarrhea or having your wallet lifted by a fresh-faced kindergardener, my parents are convinced they will succumb to cancer, ground glass will be stirred into their margaritas, the Avis rental car will fly off a bridge due to bald tires and indifference or terrorists, itching for some beach time, will force their 727 into the ocean.

Edward and I used to joke about this all the time. "Has the envelope arrived? Are you in the Platinum Club or did you get downgraded to Business Class?" Because in the Will, you always know where you stand. This is not to say that my parents used their Will as a weapon. Never did we hear, "You're out of the Will if you don't eat your peas, " or "If you come home smelling like pot one more time, I swear the lake house will be donated to the Nature Conservancy." Nope. None of that. Two things my parents never discussed with us children: money and sex. Which would explain why we often confuse the two. I've just now stopped slipping the Ranger a rolled up $20 every night.

Historically, Edward and my other brother, R, were annoyingly discrete about these envelopes. They NEVER cracked the seal; they'd just file the most recent copy with the other sealed envelopes that have collected over the years. Edward believed it was bad luck to read the Will, that by flipping through the 100-page document, events beyond anyone's control would start to snowball. R just thought the whole thing was boring. I, on the other hand, had the package ripped to shreds between the mailbox and the house, "I got the Lexus! I got the Lexus! I knew it. I knew it."

Ah, that was a Golden Time, before the Divorce, before the long drive north, before the funeral. Second Edition is now in the margins. Living in the rough. Out in the cold. Since Edward died, my halo has dropped off, and I've been relegated to the Cone of Silence, a special place usually reserved for White People That Marry Into The Family, newspaper reporters, snobby waiters and federal agencies such as La Migra, the DEA and Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms.

In all fairness, it must be said I was not much of a comfort to them during and after the funeral and I didn't move back to New Mexico as requested. And then there is that matter of the boyfriend. While they like the Ranger plenty, HE IS THE REASON OUR DAUGHTER, WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TAKING CARE OF US WHILE LIVING IN A HOUSE WITH A WINE CELLAR, IS INSTEAD WEARING RUBBER BOOTS, EATING JERKY AND LIVING IN A LEAKY TREE HOUSE ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD. Not that my parents NEED taking care of, mind you, they are healthy and able, but when the Mexican Mafia rings and you let voice messaging take the call, well...No Lexus. It probably doesn't help either that my only heir is a shit-eating Husky.

Now that my parents are spending the month of September traveling in Europe and a new, fat envelope is propping up my laptop, it would appear relations are thawing. I get the 15-year-old Farm Jeep that smells like chicken poop and beer. R gets the Lexus. Which makes perfect sense, if you think about it. Life with a Ranger at the edge of the world certainly requires four-wheel drive.

Someday, Mia, this will all be yours.

Road Trip, Dude!

2008-09-05T21:40:00.000-07:00

The three amigos have taken enough road trips together to know that whatever happens before the car even leaves the driveway sets the tone for the rest of the adventure. Like last summer's canoe trip to Lake Olalla. Second Edition smacked her head on the canoe while it was still strapped to the roof...only to suffer bee stings and a near drowning later that day.

This time we're headed to P-town for fun, frolic and Xavier Rudd. But while backing out of the driveway, we heard a ruckus coming from the backseat. Apparently, The Neighbor was happily chowing down on what he thought was venison jerky, but turned out to be Mia's dog treats. We assumed after that The Neighbor would be kind enough to fetch for us, but instead of running for the ball, he gave us the finger and insisted on a palate cleanser, so we stopped at a gas station for lunch: chili dogs and um...refreshments.

Once on I-5, we entertained each other with a road game...hooking the word "anal" onto the makes of cars and trucks then laughing hysterically, clutching our Clamatos. Anal Trailblazer. Anal Trooper. Anal Avenger. Anal Legacy. My favorite, however, is Anal Kompressor. This and a farting contest and I don't think anybody would have been able to tell the difference between our Honda and a busload of junior high students headed to the State Fair.

Being Country Bumpkins and all, navigation was a bit tricky once we hit the city, but fortunately I understand The Neighbor's unique language: Follow that cloud (go straight), Left at the scallop (turn left at the Shell station), Right at the Big One (right at the traffic light).

Exhausted and thirsty after so much frivolity, we made a bee line to our favorite outdoor venue in P-town, The Kennedy School, to wait for our fourth, The Lovely. That's right, people, she's back from Alaska and kind enough to round out the team.

IPAs at The Kennedy School where everyone knows our name. Cheers!

Of course, one thing led to another, and despite my best efforts, I lost at pool. With this crowd, NEVER LOSE AT POOL. You're liable to end up nipple-pinched, a Northwest tradition, like harvesting mushrooms but with more twist in the wrist.

Xavier Rudd was fun to dance to (aka: flail) especially at the Crystal Ballroom where there's more bounce to the ounce, but that relentless didjeridu of his...Jesus Lord, man...give it a rest. His whole Australian Outback vibe gave me flashbacks of Banana Republic before the corporate redo (remember safari pants) and Meryl Streep sobbing, "the dingo did it! the dingo did it!"

A cab or two later, the night ended with breakfast at the Mock Crest Tavern, where the waitress took one look at our ragged group, muttered something about "hair of the dog" and without waiting for our order, brought a round of Bloody Marys with PBRs back. I'd love to write more, but I'm scheduled for a liver transplant later this afternoon.

Good night.

How to Catch a Cougar

2008-09-03T09:45:00.000-07:00

What...do I look like an expert? Lately, I've gotten a number of inquiries from men in their late 20s and early 30s: Second Edition, how do I meet an older woman? First of all, let me confess, I HAVE NO IDEA. It's not like there's a secret Cougar Club with a backdoor entrance where us gals dress in scanty outfits, exchange secret handshakes and swap pup data, like sightings, lair locations, newly registered breeds, and hunting grounds. Unless, of course, you count your local Aveda spa.

But I can offer this, young men. If you are lucky enough to meet a single, older woman and she doesn't offer you a buck to park her car or ask if you own a lawn mower...if in fact, you have a shot at the Brass Ring, here are a few things to keep in mind:

1. She is not your meal ticket. Just because she makes more money than you doesn't mean she wouldn't like YOU to pick up the tab now and then. A five-star restaurant isn't necessary, but please no eating establishments with polished brass, tiki torches, chili dogs, a drive-thru window, fishing nets as wall art or signs that say NO HANDGUNS, NO SPITTING, NO FIGHTING. No sporks, lobster bibs, condom machines in the bathroom or signs that say Hooters or that use a serif font. And a decent wine list with a carefully edited selection of French and Italian wines is also appreciated. This is not to say that you have to have the knowledge of a sommelier, just don't get all WIDE-EYED when you discover there's a cork atop that bottle and not a screw cap. And yes, it will probably cost more than $10 so sell that skateboard.

And no, don't expect her to pay off your student loans, either. All those years of unsupervised dope smoking, casual sex, petty theft and sports bars...that's on you, honey.

2. She is not your Mom. If you need someone to make sure you go to the dentist or who picks up your dirty boxers off the floor, then you don't really need a woman, you need a personal assistant. Or maybe just a handy stack of post-it notes. Good luck with that.

3. Don't tell her things like, "You sure look hot for your age," or "You'll love my mom, she has that same shirt," or "It must have sucked to have been born before women had the right to vote," or "What was it like before television?" Needless to say, no Second Base, no hiding the sausage, no free toothbrush after such thoughtless remarks. We may be older, but our hand-eye coordination is still pretty damn good so watch closely as we slap you out of the ball park.

4. Assuming that much of your attraction to older women is grounded in the reality that we are whip smart, self-assured, worldly, comfortable in our own skin, unwilling to take shit and don't have any Blanks that need to be filled in, please don't whimper and feel insecure when we know some things you don't. Think of it as a free set of encyclopedias. In lingerie.

5. When the two of you are out together and someone mistakes her for your mom or so much as raises a wise-cracking brow...be a man and step up. A verbal confrontation isn't always necessary. Sometimes a perfectly timed gesture will do. Once, when a waitress mistook me for the Ranger's mom, he moved in, grabbed ahold of my left butt cheek and then licked my face, from jawline to eyebrow, in one fell swoop, like the handsome Labrador retriever he is. The pup got a special treat for that.

So much more wisdom to offer boys...but really, I feel I must open this one up to the Sista's. Any thoughtful advice you can offer, Ladies?

Hanging Out the "Closed" Sign

2008-09-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

Sharing is good. At least that's what my Mom said soon after she rewrote her will and left everything to my niece. So here's a bacon, mushroom swiss burger just for you. With a side of chips. And a nice, hoppy beer I invented in my spare time. Of course, I named it Fish Tale. Sweet, huh.

Exactly three years ago today, I ate a similar hamburger with my husband except that one enjoyed a generous slathering of New Mexico green chile, which I miss almost as much as the sun, and the IPA we were drinking was called Jack Rabbit . When I asked the Surgeon why, after a bout of gloom, he suddenly seemed much more cheerful, willing to consider the glass half full rather than a urine sample left behind by one of his ungrateful patients, he chewed thoughtfully and answered, "Now, I can finally lift my head up and see a long, happy life stretching out in front of me...it just doesn't include you."

So we got a divorce. And I stopped eating hamburgers. I was embarrassed, you see, that a 10-year marriage should crash and burn in such a pedestrian manner. Why not foie gras and champagne or at the very least, steak frittes? But no. I suppose that, at the end of the day, after you stripped away the fancy Nob Hill house with custom bathroom fixtures, foreign cars with leather upholstery, catered dinner parties with open bar and French cuffs with ketchup stains, our life together was merely...hamburger.

Oddly, that was the last serious discussion we ever had regarding our marriage. No huge blow-ups or pronouncements, no long, tearful nights hashing out the woulda, coulda, shouldas, no sorry-ass declarations or promises to do better. Just burgers, beer and polite conversation. I think we even ordered dessert.

So yeah, I've wrestled with the idea of "closure" since Labor Day of 2005 because well, that's what years of therapy teach you, but also because something so defining, so huge as deciding to end a marriage should really require a bit more discussion, or at least a bottle of tequila and a box of tissues. In fact, when they issue marriage licenses, this should be a requirement outlined in fine print. No mutilating or destroying until extreme measures to resuscitate have been exhausted. No littering or lawyers, judgments or judges until you've each written a thousand word essay outlining, refining, and properly submitting your complaints. At the very least, attempt a pillow fight.

In three years, this is what I've learned about closure: Life is not a zipper. Or a row of pearly buttons. You can't simply open or close the book. As the Buddhists would say, "It's your own fucking fault for getting attached to something or someone in the first place. This life is an illusion anyway so yeah, shit happens, so why ask why?" Okay, maybe the Buddhists wouldn't have said it exactly like that, but I think my loose interpretation is pretty right on.

Basically, I'm no wiser about why my marriage ended than I was when all that stood between us was a plate of french fries. But I do eat hamburgers again. And I enjoy them now, more than ever. Is it the wild harvested mushrooms, artisanal cheese, organic beef? Naaahhh. I think it's the company I keep. Next.

Acting My Age

2008-08-30T09:27:00.000-07:00

People often ask, "Do you and the Ranger ever fight?" when what they're really wondering, "Is he crazy enough to speak his mind when he knows his every word ends up displayed like a casino billboard across the Internet where his entire family and all his co-workers will see him exposed like a puppy rolled onto his back, paws in the air, pink belly all soft and fuzzy?" And the answer is definitely, "yes, he has no problem pissing me off" because we have certain rules here at the Tree House." 1) No detailed descriptions of sex. 2) No detailed descriptions of fighting. 3) No financial statements. 4) No discussing the state of our refrigerator and what might be living in there. Deal.

But then the other day we argued about how to raise the dog. I'm serious. Thank God we don't have children because they would most certainly be schizophrenic and grow up to need expensive therapy, the details of which would end up in a book that Oprah would hold up and declare a masterpiece on how badly a Hippie and a Stud can fuck up their children. No thanks. No kid of mine is making it to Oprah before I do.

When it comes to dog rearing, the Ranger comes from the school of right and wrong, mind your manners, be a good dog and you might get a treat. And Second Edition is more it's okay, doggy, that chubby toddler didn't need her chunk of thigh and we can most certainly outrun her waddling parents, go ahead and poop in the next door lady's yard because we don't much like her anyway and here's a bag of pretzels, let me pour beer in your dog bowl while we watch Japanese pornamation together. Clearly, our philosophies don't always dovetail.

But as is often the case, one argument leads to another and as things became increasingly heated, the Ranger grew more reasonable (could this be the power of Verbal Judo?) and I grew a set of horns, pulling out my Prada bag of dirty tricks, insults and low blows.

Finally, the Ranger, hands on his hips, barked, "How old are you anyway?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. How old are you?"
"How is that relevant?"
"Well, you're acting like a twelve-year-old so I thought maybe we should review your age and vast experience?"

Oooh, things got bloody after that.

Truth is, I do often find it impossible to act my age. Creeping up on 45, I wonder at the wisdom of some of my actions. Should I still be climbing trees in 25 mph winds after drinking a six-pack of beer? Should I really be sticking my tongue out at bad drivers? Should I let friends talk me into slamming Car Bombs on a school night? Should I really be walking up to those cute Coast Guard sailors in bars and asking them to pull my finger? And when my boss asks me why do I write at home and not at the nice desk they so generously provided me, should I really admit I can only write with my pants off?

Sadly, I have plenty of time to ponder these and other deep questions now that the Ranger works a swing shift, which makes him even sexier because I can whisper "Hey there, Night Ranger," into the phone but, on the downside, leaves me unsupervised and left to my own devices.

If it's not raining, I sit on the porch and watch the giant peach of a sun slink into the ocean while drinking a gin and tonic and picking Cheez-It crumbs off my chest, noting the serendipity of enjoying a baked snack that is the exact color of the sunset. Then The Neighbor comes home from work and that's when the trouble really starts.

Together, we tend to file our better judgment in a manila folder marked, "Tomorrow is Another Day." Sometimes, there's gambling, usually involving small bills and beers, or he whips out a set of electric clippers and asks me to write something on the back of his head. More high level missions involve spray paint, water towers and shooting out a certain street light that makes us squint at night. That last one turned out to be a bit of a fumble since both of us are left-wing tree huggers and we had no idea how much noise a handgun could make at two in the morning. We dropped and ran before a second round could finish the job. For the record, the vast majority of these escapades are his fault because the mantel of responsibility only falls on the shoulders of grown-ups.

So...in answer to the question, "how old am I?" Old enough to know better. Too old to care.

From Environmental Stewardship to Butt Holes in Less Than Five Minutes

2008-08-23T23:08:00.000-07:00

Overheard at Pig Feathers BBQ in Toledo, OR during the Wooden Boat Show and Music Festival. Three women sharing a dinner of ribs and beer.

"So that's the big pipe everyone is so pissed about, dumping God knows what from the mill into the ocean. Thing's huge."
"According to the paper the plume shows up on satellite images...but Georgia Pacific says it's just plain ole water because it's already been filtered through ponds."
"And you believe that shit?"
"Kinda weird listening to music with that huge factory pumping steam into the air right behind the stage."
"Ah, whatever happened to the romantic idea of a paper mill."
"Romantic? You're kidding, right."
"You never saw An Officer and a Gentlemen?"
"Nope."
"Not me."
"You got be kidding me! The movie is iconic. That last scene where Richard Gere is wearing his dress whites and he goes to the paper mill where Debra Winger is making...I don't know...paper bags or something, and he picks her up and carries her away from that shitty life and shitty town. I love that scene. She puts his hat on her head and right there you just KNOW they're going to get married. God, that was soooo romantic."
"Hey, do you think it's true what they say about Richard Gere and gerbils?"
"You mean up the ass?"
"I don't care if he does. He's still damn good looking."
"You know I only took it up the ass once. Didn't feel so good. Never did it again."
"Me, too. I think I was in college."
"Same here. College."
"Yeah, my philosophy...you gotta respect the architecture."
"What do you mean?"
"The architecture. Some things are designed for entry, others are designed for exit. The butt hole...definitely an exit."
"Hey, can you pass the sauce?"

Like I always said...eavesdropping on women is always so much more interesting than eavesdropping on men.

Finding Comfort in my Ass

2008-08-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's still foggy and pouring rain. And yes, I'm still talking smack. Last week, the Bosses brought in a professional photographer to snap head shots of all the staff for the website and other marketing material and after much scuffling, I was finally captured and shot while trying to shimmy up a drain pipe and onto the roof. Who would look there? Especially in a downpour.

See, I'm not really coy, people. I just hate having my picture taken. Always have. Everyone has their place and mine is on the business end of the camera, not face front with someone muttering, "smile, smile." In fact, the last time I had my picture taken it was by the guy at the DMV and that was ONLY after he offered my a lollipop. My features are crooked, my nose too large, my teeth a bit lumpy, my eyebrows overgrown. And then there's that myopic look of someone who's worn glasses her whole life but still can't quite figure out how they should sit on her face. I could go on.

But when I saw the proofs, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, I look my age. No wonder I never get asked for ID anymore even in a dark, smoky bar when the waitress is hurried and the counter is full of college kids on summer break and yes, I just might be the slightly older sister. Nope. I look like MOM. It's official. The crow's feet and lined lips. The collagen deprived neck waddle. The softness around the jawline. The growing heaviness of the eyelids. And something else.

Last summer, while wine tasting in McMinnville with friends my age, everyone got carded except me. When I joshed the wine guy, he shrugged, embarrassed, and said, "It's something around the eyes. Experience. You've seen a lot." There it is.

I have the face now of someone who has lived to tell about it and while part of me proudly carries this like a badge of honor, the girl who was once the youngest marketing director in the history of Business Week is now wholly unsettled by the idea of Middle Age. I am half way up the mountain, looking back, no longer anticipating what's at the top with that giddy "let's get started" feeling, but sinewy and cautious in the long march forward because I know a thing or two about injury, falling, oxygen deprivation. And I only have a few granola bars left. I am no longer one of Charlie's Angels, but MacGyver, a resourceful secret agent.

I have the face now of someone who is no longer pretty, but handsome. Oh, GOD! Reminds me of all the horse books I read as a girl; the stoic side-kick was always handsome. And the real beauty, the lead character, always got the boy AND the horse.

No wonder the world looks at me and the Ranger and smirks.

But then I browsed the rest of the photos, random moments captured throughout the gym and yoga studio. And this is the photo that stopped me.

Really. All I can say is NICE ASS, GIRLFRIEND. I'd tap that. And that strapping yoga back...not bad either. Well-defined calves. Good. Good. And for those of you wondering, yes, I DO work-out with that fucking adorable personal trainer who's promised to teach me how to surf the very moment I figure out how to swim.

So maybe I've been looking at this whole thing ass backwards because for most of my life, I've had NO ASS AT ALL. That's right, flat and shapeless, just like dear ole dad's. Always had trouble finding pants that fit or underwear that didn't sag in the back. That's why, early on, when the Ranger told me he was an Ass-Man, I could only wonder, why is he with me then?

So yeah, some of our best parts are behind us, but that shouldn't keep us off the mountain. It's a good climb after all, full of surprises, and unlike the first half, you're better conditioned, better prepared, not so easily tripped or led astray.

Plus, hell, it's good to know...the next time we leave a restaurant or walk out of the grocery store and the Ranger puts his hand on my hip, I don't think there's any doubt. Nope. Not the Mom.

Koo-koo-ka-choo

2008-08-17T15:31:00.000-07:00

I wonder at coincidence sometimes, whether randomness is at the wheel or whether the Universe simply has a bone to pick. Or just likes fucking with me. When warming up the car, Mrs. Robinson was the first song up. When channel surfing, the clicker stopped on How Stella Got Her Groove Back. And then, at our last staff meeting, the Yoga Boss turned to me and said, "You should really try revealing more about yourself. Your students want to know WHO YOU ARE..." well, that got me thinking. Ironically, of course. Or as the Winged Librarian so succinctly put it, "How is it that someone who treasures anonymity in a small town puts it all out there on the Internet?"

Good question. When students come up to me after class and ask for my life's story, I cut them off, dive and duck, head for the door, claim an irritable bowel. I tell them to use their yoga practice to tear away their hard, crusty layers, to peel off their masks and find their power in softness all the while securing my own mask. I can promote masturbation on the web, but I can't answer the simple question, "So why did you move here anyway?"

And really it comes down to this...I'm not sure I'm a particularly good example of a thoughtful decision maker. It's not like I stayed and fought the good fight, rising from the ashes like a phoenix. Shit, I got in my car and drove away. Isn't that exactly what your mother tells you NOT to do. And WHO WOULDN'T PULL OVER FOR A 25-YEAR OLD PARK RANGER? Not like I soul-searched that one. Just made sure to start taking vitamins...and stretching my quads. I mean, come on, people. My story is, well, embarrassing in the harsh light of day and smacks of nervous breakdown in the dingy, filmy light of, say, a sports bar.

In many of my early 2007 fantasies, I roared back into ABQ, bought an adorable house in Nob Hill (fashionably decorated, of course), took the advertising world by storm and started dating the perfect businessman who took me to ALL the right parties as my collection of Italian leather pumps and fur coats (I hear the snorting out there, don't think I don't) grew larger and larger. Maybe I'd even start my own business because yes, I know THAT many people. But NO. I moved to a town nobody has ever heard of, to a treehouse that leaks like a sieve and blows apart in the wind, with a whipper snapper who thought I was 33 because of course, I lied to him, and now I smell like wet dog and and sport a cheap haircut that makes me look like an astronaut's wife.

I know. I know. I know what you're thinking. IT'S THE FOG. SHE ONLY TALKS SMACK WHEN SHE HASN'T SEEN THE SUN IN A MONTH AND THE LIQUOR CABINET IS LOW AND SHE CAN'T KEEP HER FINGER OFF THE CAPS KEY. True. All true. Or maybe it's just PMS.

But really. I don't want to talk about me when I'm ME out in the world. I'd rather have Second Edition do the dirty.

Yet, the hypocrisy of it all is wearing me down. So Friday morning, at the beginning of my most popular class, I looked around the room at the open, shining faces of women in their 40s, 50s and 60s. And I told them the truth. Why I am here. How I got here. And how yoga saved my life...before I drove away. And after I landed. Silence. Jaws dropped. Eyes widened. And then we began our practice to the groove of Cesaria Evora, even though someone muttered, "that don't sound like yoga music to me." By the end of the class, I was in tears.

Then one by one, each student came up to me and gave me a hug, whispering something just right, something like, "Thank you for shining your light. I'm glad I know you." Thank you, students, for being my teachers.

Maybe the song was right after all:

We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files.
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself.
Look around you all you see are sympathetic eyes.
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray,
Hey, hey, hey

Listening to the Fog

2008-08-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

This is ridiculous. Vogue has launched it's Fall Fashion issue and we haven't even had summer yet. It's been foggy and rainy for three weeks. Three weeks, People! Ever since I returned from Hawaii, the land of blue water, palm trees and sunshine. Sun...hmmm. That's that bright ball in the sky, yes?

This refusal by Mother Nature to commit to the season, however, is only happening here on the Coast. Portland is sunny and 98 degrees. In fact, last night's news was peppered with hot weather warnings...seek shade, stay hydrated, use sunscreen. Even the pup is blowing her summer coat...is she crazy? Where does she think she is?

Here on the Coast, it's 60 degrees, socked in with fog. And I'm wearing fleece. Can't see the ocean. Or the lighthouse. Or the front yard. We are all bathed in a muddy, misty light. We are moldy. And extra cranky.

Ranger, honey, love of my life...can we move to Portland? Or Bend? Or Corvallis? Can we? I promise I'll start cleaning the bathroom and stop tucking your side of the sheet. I promise. I'll even COOK MEAT. The red and bloody kind. I'll stop sneaking wheat gluten into your spaghetti sauce and calling it sausage. I'll wash the seagull shit off the car the day it lands and not a month later. I'll vacuum. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But I'll quit nagging you about closing your mouth when you chew and pulling your pants up. I'LL BE A GOOD WIFE. Let's please just find some sun.

My yogic Book of Awakenings says that fog teaches us faith and patience, that we must learn to wait for the reveal, we must trust that what we know to be true is really out there. Sure, that's possible. Or maybe fog just teaches us why we should always check weather.com before running away from home.

A Girl's Guide to Dating After 40...continued

2008-08-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

6. Ignore the fashion magazines. And television. Don't let anyone tell you what's sexy. You already know, remember, you're over 40 and you've had a lot of trial and error. Remember Palazzo pants. And Disco Wrap Skirts. Tube tops. The Cowl Neck Sweater. Clogs. Nude lipstick. Argyle Tights. Not, not, not sexy. That's what you get for listening to Conde Nast. Sexy is not a look anyway; it's a feel. A taste. Leaving yoga class soaked with sweat. Sexy. Eating a crepe made by a street vendor, extra thin and oozing with Nutella. Sexy. Catching the bigger fish. Sexy. Looking at a man over the top of your school teacher glasses. Sexy. So clean your closet. Sell a few armloads to Buffalo Exchange then take the money and buy yourself a ticket on Amtrak. Traveling by train. Sexy.

7. Feed yourself. Feed yourself well. If you don't already, start cooking delicious, simple dinners. Take those faded, crinkled recipes you've been stockpiling for years and fix them. Shop the elaborate ingredients. Start local. Buy organic. Take your time. What were you saving those little scraps of paper for anyway? If you're not interested in preparing them for only one person, throw them away. Then get in the kitchen. Chop, saute, simmer, roast. Serve. Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit right down. Savor. Congratulations! You're on the most important date of your life. Then take yourself to bed and don't hesitate to find some pleasure there, too.

8. Which brings me to....if you can't make your Happy Place happy, how do you expect someone else to? Go ahead. Dive in. Check it out. Find the G. The H. The wow. Men do this all the time and it's called "nothing's on TV." Squeamish...turn out the lights, close the curtains, blindfold yourself. Can't quite get the hang of it? Talk to some experts, your lesbian friends. Who better to touch on the female anatomy. Last resort...use some Kama Sutra oil and think George Clooney. Or Willem Defoe if you like it a little painful.

9. Let your friends fix you up. Yeah, I can't believe I'm saying that either. If for no other reason, you'll find out what your pals really think of you. Don't be a snob. Step up and go on a few blind dates. They give you clarity about what you want and don't want. Plus, you get to try out some really crazy outfits and debut your "life's story" to see how it plays on Broadway. What do you need in a man: Car wash entrepreneur...No. Offers to make you "a mean bouillabaisse"...yes. Lives in his mother's basement...No. Found God...depends on which one. Wants to make a run for the Senate...don't wait for dessert. GET OUT NOW.

10. Take some risk, but always carry condoms, a charged cell phone, a credit card with a high limit, lip gloss, tea bags, protein bar. And most importantly, trust your instincts when considering risk. Your belly is always right. When the Ranger first sat down next to me at that bar and offered to "show me a lighthouse," Is that what the kids call it these days? -- I did, in fact, hesitate. Didn't want to wake up strangled on a forest road. But when he said, "if you wait patiently on the rocks, you'll see whales migrating, heading home. It's amazing. And at sunset, pelicans everywhere." And that's when I knew...this boy with the curly lashes, who's eyes widen at the mention of PELICANS...might be someone I could trust.

A Girl's Guide to Dating After 40

2008-08-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

It was girl's night out so of course the conversation turned to men and when one of us revealed her marriage was headed to divorce court, she turned to me and asked, "What's it like starting all over again, you know, dating in your 40s?" Her pretty face puckered as if a massive fart had just drifted past her olfactory zone and she said the word "dating" with the same disgust one reserves for words like "offal" or "yeast infection." Without hesitation, I said, "Honey, I had a blast. And you will, too." So here's some tips, Sweet Pea.

1. In your 40s, you don't put up with the small shit you might have shrugged off in your 20s or 30s. That's right...you wake up on your 40th birthday and realize, Lordy, half my life is over so the next time a Jehovah's Witness knocks on my door and asks me if I have a few minutes to hear about salvation, I'm gonna say, "You know, I'd love to, but I have a porn shoot going on in the basement so I really got to scoot before, you know, the climax."

In your 40s, you don't have time "to make it work." You two either got Spark or you don't. Take The Mogul. Despite the fact the guy was a multi-millionaire, I turned tail when he kept insisting on splitting an entree EVERY SINGLE TIME we ate out. Worried about his girlish figure, I suppose, because he certainly wasn't cheap. Now, I'll share all kinds of things...toothbrush, ear plugs, sleeping bag, even the number of my colorist, but NEVER NEVER do I share my entree. Dessert, maybe. But not my t-bone steak. As they say on The Wire, "that shit ain't right." And who wants to date a guy who weighs and measures what he puts in his mouth? I want a man with an appetite. For food. For me. For every morning he wakes up. A ravenous man. Now, THAT'S sexy.

2. In your 40s, you don't have to put up with the big shit either. Same fellow, when I broke the news hemmed and hawed before boldly asking, "Okay, so you don't want to date anymore, what do you say we just have a sexual relationship?" First of all, when's the last time you heard the phrase "sexual relationship." Hmmm. Clinton comes to mind. Be a man and use something more appropriate like...oh, I don't know...hot dogs chasing donuts? Shag? Schtup? Bang? And secondly, it's your own damn fault, Buddie, that you asked such a question with the Mayor and his entourage holding court at the next table and that they guffawed when they overheard my fist-to-table pounding answer, "I WILL NOT (pound) HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS (pound) WITH YOU (pound) NOW (pound) OR EVER (pound)." If I remember correctly, the cute waiter winked at me and brought over a free creme brulee. Which I had to eat alone.

3. Keep an open mind and don't be judgmental. You'll be asked out by all kinds of people. Dwarfs. Obsessives-Compulsives. Frapuccino addicts. The Pella window man. Your bosses' wife. The guy who works the cheese counter. Your husband's divorce attorney. Your best friend's son. Be polite in your refusals. And Thank The Lord you have such broad demographic appeal. If you were a sitcom, your market share would be through the roof and the pilot episodes would trigger a run for prime time.

4. Find a personal trainer. Or join a gym. Quick. You might feel like a cougar, but the sea is full of sharks. And they're 25. In low rise jeans. And they know how to text message. You know these women...they say things like, "Wow, you like, look so good for your age. Maybe you could, like, take my mom shopping." And start doing yoga. Flexibility. It's the ultimate compliment. In bed. And out of it.

5. Keep your girlfriends close. Think Sex and The City. You'll have some fun dates. And some real stinkers. Yet your posse will keep you honest while cheering you on, loan you their hot hot hot Charles Jourdan boots, make your cellphone ring spot on 9 p.m. when you need an escape, give you an appropriate amount of shit when you show up for brunch in the same sequins top you wore the night before, make the word "curvy" sound pretty rather than fat, grab the phone when you start to drunk dial and remind you why dating a man who thinks you made up the word "sardonic" is probably not a good idea. Plus, they'll be the first to call a guy a son-of-a-bitch when he is exactly that.

That's it for now. Stay tuned for five more.....

Teach A Girl To Fish...

2008-08-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

Shhh....don't tell anyone. I'm supposed to be at work, pounding away on a website. BORING. But when two Rangers invite you to go fishing off the rocks at Yaquina Head, well...it's just bad manners to refuse. Plus, the SUN IS SHINING. Yeah, I know. I can't believe it either.

Now the X used to invite me fly fishing all the time...and he always traveled to beautiful places. Like Argentina. But I never went. Not once. Which, in retrospect, might explain some things. Problem was...he was a catch and release man (yes, I too see the deeper meaning in that). Now catch and release is Noble, yes, in a Sierra-Club-Kind-Of-Way, but the bridge between Second Edition's stomach and her Happy Place is, well...surprisingly short. Not only am I turned on by food, I'm turned on by men who are turned on by food and I'm really turned on by men who hunt, gather, forage and fish for their own food. See, I never got over my crush on Pa from Little House on the Prairie, especially after the book went to TV and Michael Landon, with his long curly hair and elegant tight-pant walk, just sat himself right down in my heart's easy chair.

This is where the Ranger winces because he's thinking, Jesus honey, my MOTHER READS THIS. Like I said, dear, YOU were the one who gave her the blog name because YOU were too drunk to edit your answer when she asked, "So what have you guys been up to?" Plus, as a middle-aged woman, I'm sure she's happy that my middle-aged Happy Place is happy and is even happier, as a mother, that your Happy Place is happy, too. But I digress.

So anyway, the Rangers taught me how to fish. Using sand crabs as bait, we hunkered down with our rods and a couple sixes, lulled by the incoming tide and the pelicans flying overhead. Now, like any sport, fishing is filled with Good Lucks and Bad Lucks.

Drinking beer...lots of beer: Good Luck
Heckling other fishermen: Good Luck
Using sunscreen: Bad Luck
Reading a book with one hand while holding pole with other: Very Bad Luck
Answering your cell phone: Just Plain Stupid

Yet, who caught the bull trout, the 16-inch green beauty with the turquoise flesh that turns white and opaque when rubbed with olive oil and stuffed with lemons, parsley, basil and cilantro and then grilled to perfection alongside some corn cobs and pumpkin squash. Well, THAT WOULD BE ME.

Second Edition's First Fish

I still remember a photo the Ranger emailed me after our first meeting here in Fish Town, after I drove off to Seattle to start my new life THERE. It was a shot of him holding a 32-pound King Salmon that he'd just caught in the Alsea River. The note was two lines: Come to the coast. I'll catch them if you cook them.

Deal. 'cept I want to catch some, too.

Umbrellas Need Not Apply

2008-08-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

I'm a friendly girl, in a black lab sort of way, open faced, loves a good belly scratch. One of my finer attributes, really. Like having pretty feet and well-defined clavicles. Never had much of a problem making friends until I moved to Fish Town where you are judged not by the character of your heart, but by the quality of your rain gear, the sharp edge of your clamming shovel and your ability to maneuver a pick-up truck through horizontal rain while a big fatty fills the cab with smoke and one hand steadies the cooler of beer between you and your wet dog. If I were a logger, I'd have a better chance. Or a crabber. Even a surfer. But my clothes and fast car smack of tourist, like a bad smell I just can't shake.

The first few months I was here, I sidled up to a nice couple at the pub who in so many words said, "Don't talk to us until you've survived a winter here because like everybody else, you fall in love with the Coast in the summer and then come January you'll bitch about how cold and dark and miserable it is and how you need to head back to the city before a psychotic break makes you shoot yourself or someone else because the sound of shingles flying off your roof has made you jumpy and all of us stuck here will just shake our heads and raise a beer to your sorry-ass memory but that's just fuckin' fine because more crab for us."

I stopped trying to make friends after that. I have a library card, after all. And a hunky Ranger.

But sure enough. After surviving my first winter, after an uprooted tree flew over the hood of my car and left mud and shaggy bits of root on my windshield, after I suffered a concussion trying to scramble across drift logs on the beach, and after I finally splurged on REAL rain gear and not the plastic Wal-mart kind that start to crack between your thighs from so much rub, rub, rub...then and only then did people start talking to me. Yet still, they were cautious. That waxy sheen of city life still on me. My sunny smile a bitter reminder of how nice it would be if you could open your mouth and not have sand whipped between your teeth by a relentless wind.

A nice surprise, then...when a bevy of invitations greeted my return from Hawaii -- dinner, brunch, a party, a cookout. First up to bat, a sushi party with yogis!

Let me digress a moment to say...the Ahi tuna was perfectly seared, the Asian slaw amazing.

So what makes a local? How do you know you've landed? When is it safe to reach out? For me that moment came in the spring, during the NHL playoffs when I hit a favorite sports bar for beer and chicken wings, waiting for the Ranger to get off work so we could cheer our beloved Pittsburgh Penguins. Happy at the counter, chatting with Tiffany, the waitress, a loud handful of men swaggered in wearing souvenir baseball caps and clean wind breakers. I imagine they were on the Coast for a boy's weekend, fishing the Halibut season with a local charter who was charging them $200 a head and shrugging at all the beer they could drink.

"Hey, change that channel, would you. Basketball game is on."
"Lady's watching the big screen. Why don't you fellows go down to the end and watch your game on the other TV."
"No fuckin' way. We want the big screen. Who the fuck watches hockey anyway? Come on, change the fucking channel, man. We're getting ready to spend some money here."
"Sorry, sir. It's first come, first pick."
"Oh yeah. Well, there's five of us and one of her. Do the math. Majority wins."

And that's when Mark, the owner, slid out of the kitchen, his keen ear tuned to any hint of a ruckus. A Hungarian immigrant from New Jersey, Mark's not the friendliest guy on the block and his waitresses hate his cheapness, but Jersey has honed his edge and shortened his bullshit fuse. Hands on his hips, he ended the debate, "Listen gentlemen. She's a local. Which means she can watch whatever the fuck she wants. ON THE BIG SCREEN. You got a problem with that, get the fuck out of my bar."

Ahhhhh....I'm home.

2008-07-27T19:20:00.000-07:00

The view from Chinaman's Hat, near Punalu`u, HI

Hard to imagine more perfect water than Hawaii. Crystalline blue and turquoise, the reefs shadowing the depths as sea turtles rise and fall, the bashful bowl of them quietly breaking the surface. A hard swallow returning to the gray ocean of Oregon, so bitterly cold that stepping in ankle deep means a clatter of jaw, a clutch of spirit. My first days back were filled with resentment. In fact, I was back for two days before I even wandered down the forest trail to the water's edge because I was MAD. At the sea.

So why THIS stretch of ocean for me? Why not something easier, where I could say...swim in something less than a full body wet suit or walk around in a tank top in the middle of July. Why have I chosen such a brutal, beautiful place?

When faced with dark, itchy questions, I turn to my Zen Master. Because who knows more about remaining in the present and refusing to succumb to either nostaligia or longing (unless it's a t-bone steak) than a dog. Mia Mia, tell me grasshopper, why always three sweaters even in summer?

She stares at my question with an animal wildness that will never quite leave her, a look that says, "you are human, therefore boring. stop worrying and throw the damn ball." In Mia's world, we are given what we need when we need it and not before. It's the Nature of things.

For example, take her hairball self. She showed up in my world when the death of my brother flattened me, when getting out of bed and washing my hair seemed like too much responsibility. Yet, here was this puppy, making demands. I had to rise to feed her, walk her, mop the pee from the living room floor, and shove her out the door when she began her dramatic full-body puking.

So using that particular mathematical equation, I do not NEED a warm, sunny shore, I need a chilly, gray, smells-like-dead-fish sand smear. With sharp rocks. And collapsing bluffs. A tide so ripping that the geography of the beach changes overnight, from flat and easy to dune covered, from clean and uncluttered to exposed sea shelf littered with bull whip weed and crab carcasses.

Nothing stays the same. Always there is shift and morphing, giving up and clinging, and the relentless crash of water carving and swirling with the belief that I am not done yet, figuring it out, becoming myself.

Still launching.

Returning Home

2008-07-23T08:50:00.000-07:00

Always I leave Hawaii with mixed feelings…happy to be returning home, but somehow feeling that this is home. If you look closely, between the trees, you can see my family’s house at the foot of the Ko`olau mountains. I've never slept better.

Returning to chillier waters and warm embrace. Sigh.

Hawai`i Journal #4

2008-07-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

Scene: Two bathing beauties sunning themselves on Kailua beach, sipping Diet Dr. Peppers and eyeing the Japanese tourists.

“So you think this is the one, huh?”
“Yup, seems like.”
“What about the others?” Here she flicks her hand as if batting sand flies.
“What others?”
“Oh you know, the Mogul, the Boy, the Wolf Man.”
“Jesus, you remember that? I wrote that ages ago.”
“Of course, I remember.” She grins wickedly. “It involved your kitchen counter. And to think I made sandwiches for my children on that kitchen counter.”
“Well, The Boy moved back to L.A. because he couldn't hack it in Albuquerque. The Mogul is still a mogul. And El Lobo is in graduate school. We email now and then.”
“Oh really. Wasn’t he a little bit crazy?” She twirls a finger round her ear.
“Yeah, but in a sweet way. Not really the kind to hold hostages at gunpoint or eat his own poo.”
“Well THAT makes all the difference.”
“I can’t imagine my last months in Albuquerque without those men. They were my handicap ramp.”
“Huh?” She rubs more lotion on her arms.
“You know sometimes you’re so crippled you can’t take real steps so you have to use the ramp. They were my ramp.”
“Hmm. Nice. Love life approved by the ADA.”

Here's what she was talking about...
July 8, 2006
Don't be angry, don't be sad Don't sit cryin' over good times you've had There's a girl right next to you And she's just waiting for something to do If you can’t be with the one you love, honey Love the one you’re with

When my love life is in play, there is no more flexed muscle than the Monday morning quarterbacking of my girlfriends. Dinner, a hike, even a cup of coffee sets the phone tree ringing with demands for the nitty-gritty. “Did he kiss you? Is there spark? Are you going to sleep with him?” But lately, the girls have given up, probably because my answers are often cagey and abbreviated. “Yeah, we had a good time. He seems nice. Might see him again soon.”

Over forty and alone for the first time in 12 years, I’m keenly aware of the pitfalls in revelation and overstatement, of just plain saying too much. My friends, they want so much for me -- real connection, true love. That’s why I don’t tell them that some mornings, near 2 a.m., I creep out of a warm bed and drive home because the embrace of snuggling feels like drowning, because the thought of breakfast sets my stomach churning. I’d hate to wipe the lovely shine of expectation from their faces, but more than that – I’m afraid. Afraid of the dark downward
spiral of busted hope.

Perhaps this cynicism is rooted in recent divorce. Or maybe, at this point in my life – I like to call it the do-over – I’m simply a collector of small, sharply sweet moments that demand little from me but the capacity to enjoy them. After all, in brevity, there is a certain perfection.

Some collected moments are so brief, they have a photographic quality to them -- the light and composition come together to make a sweetly handsome postcard. One of my favorites was shot towards the end of winter, before the last snow melt, when The Mogul and I were flying down the highway through the Pecos Wilderness, the top down on his red Porsche, a Mozart concerto rolling out of the Bose speakers.

His hopeful hand is squeezing my knee, but I have the visor flipped down, focusing on my close-up thinking I look pretty smart in red lipstick, over sized sunglasses and a cobalt blue scarf knotted under my chin. I never imagined myself deserving an Ava Gardner moment, but here it is. It’s enough. In that moment, it’s enough.

Wrapped in a comfortable silence, we admired the piercing blue sky, the looming mountains, the breathiness of spring around the bend. Sometimes it’s nice to pass on the mosquito bites, camp coffee and sandy sleeping bag and just admire the master plan from the deep leather pocket of a six cylinder, 240 horse power sports car.

Up from the bootstraps, The Mogul has made his own wealth and likes to enjoy it with a snappy sort of panache that men in their 50s simply can’t resist. Thus the red Boxster and the portable espresso machine in the trunk. The fact that there’s absolutely no spark when he kisses me, that his pointy tongue in my ear feels like a frantic bat in a cave, well that’s what makes this a snapshot of a car, not a bed.

Nonetheless, I like The Mogul. He can discuss the blueprints for his next multi-million dollar real estate project while whipping up a commendable raspberry crepe for dessert and likes nothing better, at the end of the day, than to sip a carefully crafted martini and rub my feet. He asks my opinion on website design, on massaging the zoning board and who he should endorse for the next mayoral election. He thinks I’m smart, and tells me I’m beautiful. It’s enough.

That easy Sunday was the last day we spent together. I’m not good at goodbye so there were no apologies or sober pronouncements. I disappeared and The Mogul didn’t ask questions; he’s been in enough boardrooms to know when to walk away. From time to time, we bump into each other at cocktail parties of a certain level, and hug with a kind of nostalgic affection. Of course, there’s somebody else in the passenger’s seat because the Universe hates a vacuum and frankly, so does The Mogul.

Other moments are so perfectly pitched, they make my chest ache just thinking about them. El Lobo and I were scheduled to have a conventional date of sushi and a movie when he pulled up on his motorcycle with his guitar strapped to the back. Plans had changed. They often do with El Lobo. The shed he lived in was the picture of transience: liberated office furniture, stapled Mexican blankets for doors, promotional wine glasses. A strong wind could blow it all away, except for the lumpy futon, but this impermanence suits him. And in a strange way, it suits me, too.

We kiss hello and then he says, “Pour us some wine, would you. Supposed to be a great sunset tonight.” I follow instructions then watch as he leans a ladder against the side of my house, tosses a couple sofa cushions onto the roof, then steps on up, with the guitar on his back and both wine glasses in one hand. I kick off my pumps and follow.

Happy clouds streak the low sky and the air, usually so full of dust devils this time of year, is absolutely still. Leaning against the swamp cooler, we wait for that doorway between day and night when the Sandia Mountains burn pink then fade to deep blue moments before the neighborhood lights switch on, turning the foothills into Christmas. He picks up his guitar and begins strumming an expansive piece of flamenco music. Swirling skirts, the arched brick plazas of Madrid, the sharp hand clapping – it’s all there. He closes his eyes and his fingers fly even faster as he adds a thump, thump, thump to the wood. He really is a musician, not a pretender.

I look down at the street, wondering why, in the eight years I lived in this house with my husband, it had never occurred to either of us to climb onto the roof and soak in the best part of Albuquerque. Two young girls in soccer uniforms are toeing a ball back and forth across a lawn; they stop to listen. The couple next door roll bicycles down their driveway, and they stop to listen, too. A stranger in a baseball cap is walking his dog. He looks up and smiles. I wave, as if this were me, everyday.

It wasn’t long, however, before El Lobo needed to drive off into that sunset. I was clearing dinner dishes one night, when he rolled onto the kitchen floor and lay there like a man dropped from an airplane. He was often dramatic in his body: back flips in the living room, waltzing through the produce section.

Clutching my ankle, he gazed up at me, his face scrunched with sadness, and said he was overwhelmed, confused, not really capable of a relationship. Then he used some metaphor involving a motorcycle engine and a fuse which I had to ask him to repeat because I wasn’t sure if we were the fuse or the engine. Either way, of course, we were stalled. I was exasperated. He was, well, floored.

Now, when I run into him at the coffee shop, he opens his arms wide and starts singing a Mexican ranchero tune, creating, as always, a bit of a ruckus. I fold inside him for a swift hug and briefly we’re back on the roof, still in that doorway, looking out for hope.

Surprisingly, some of the best memories are made long after a relationship ends, assuming bitterness is not the final taste. The Boy and I had a solid three-month run. We flirted on a flight back from Vegas and two days later became inseparable mostly because we enjoyed real combustion. In bed, on the kitchen counter, against the door, we were a pretty turnkey operation.

Yet, despite the intensity of our relationship, we never really found solid footing; it was partly the generation gap, partly economics and the rest, sheer laziness. Sometimes worlds collide and greatness happens. Sometimes one person works at an ad agency, the other at a car wash and the space in between is filled with comments like, “Cool, dude. The cheese has its own little knife.” In the end, we just didn’t have the bones.

With so little invested, we had plenty of friendship to spare. Both of us enjoy hiking and bouldering and the fact that we aren’t a couple any more doesn’t keep us out of the wilderness. Every few weeks, we strap on our camel backs and head to the Sandias, a wrinkled water-stained guidebook in hand, ready to break new ground. The conversation is easy because we already know so much.

This last hike was a search for a hidden cut in the granite walls that, according to the book, would reveal a verdant canyon sliced by spring water. The description sounded almost mythical, like a well in the desert, like love after heartbreak. So of course, I had to find it.

The first two miles were familiar desert: sagebrush, cactus husks, drought weary scrub oak. We were grateful for the dark clouds rolling east, towards us, making the light flat and sharp, the landscape ethereal, like a newly discovered moon. At an unmarked crossroads, we took a leap of faith and hung a right, following instinct, smelling water in the air. Huge boulders blocked our path, but like nimble goats we scrambled over sharp edges and nervous gaps, pulling each other up when the footing got tricky.

And then it happened. Suddenly, the ground turned mossy. A thin spring slipped through a cleave so narrow, we had to wedge ourselves against a rock wall to wind our way upstream. Spindly, overhanging trees offered damp shade, bright red water bugs skated across the water’s surface and the ground continued to give softly.

We slowed our pace, stopping often to watch squirrels and birds go about their daily forage. The Boy talked easily about growing up in the woods of eastern Pennsylvania, hunting rabbit with his grandfather, fishing nearby creeks. Watching him navigate the rocks and fallen trees, sniff the air and stop to examine a leaf or bug or pile of scat, I realized he’s happiest outdoors, swinging his long arms and keeping a liquid stride. All this time, and I was just now discovering something so primal, so underlying about a man who used to hang around my kitchen naked.

When we finally reached the top of our secret canyon, we found a wide flat bed of granite tilted just right, egging a single ray of sunlight from behind storm clouds. Legs sore, our stomachs rumbling, we broke out the trail mix and apples and sat cross-legged admiring the lushness below us. After lunch, naps. Actually, he napped and I watched. Like always.

With his arms thrown up over his head, his freckled face quiet and turned towards the dying light, The Boy exhaled completely, till not an ounce of want remained in his measure. So much for so little. I blinked back tears and wondered at the catch in my throat. Never has a man looked more beautiful. Not handsome or striking, but purely, rapturously beautiful. Of course in his body – the strong chest and muscled arms, full lips and curly, brown hair damply clinging to his forehead. But more importantly, beautiful in his ability to completely give himself up to happiness, to just let it enter and lay right down.

Rubbing the grit from my face, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and opened my arms as the first raindrops fell around us, pinning us together, briefly, for this moment, already fleeting. If I carried magic dust, I would have made that day go on and on and on. And then it would have been followed by another day exactly like that.

Certainly there is perfection in brevity. But perfection is a lonely place and after so many artful snapshots I want more. I want a story that doesn’t end, that has layers of complexity which take real effort, real labor to make unfold so that at night, spent and weary, I’d long to curl up in someone’s arms. And in the morning, pancakes.

July 18, 2007

2008-07-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember much about that day, one year ago, except this:

The Ranger and I were trying to sleep in, but the phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing. Finally, I rose, pawed through a pile of dirty clothes and answered, still groggy. It was R, my brother, his words a cluster of low-hanging clouds before a storm. Our brother is dead, he mumbled, went to bed early after his birthday dinner because he was tired. Didn’t wake up. The police are here. And the paramedics. But it’s too late.

I turned to the Ranger, who was still curled up in bed, and whispered, “Help me.” When I finally opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor, the phone still in my fist, and the Ranger was pressing on my chest and blowing into my mouth. He kept shouting, “Breathe! Breathe!” while the dog barked frantically, nipping at my ears even though he kept batting her away. My head was ringing from all the noise. I remember thinking this was the first time we’d ever heard Mia bark. Baby’s first bark. And I was missing it.

I lay on the floor for many days I think. Or hours. The Ranger could have lifted me up and carried me to the bed, but chose not to. Instead, he feathered a nest of quilts and pillows and puppy dog. All things soft. Sometimes, you have to let something lay where it falls until you figure out where to put it.

At one point, the Neighbor stood in the doorway of the bedroom juggling a large silver package the size of my head. It smelled amazing. I made you a potato bomb, he said, it will make you feel better, but you have to get up because I can’t give it to you there it’s too messy.

So the Ranger set a table on the porch, my chair turned towards the ocean, and the Neighbor cut open the bomb. Out spilled a few of my favorite things: Kielbasa. Wild Mushrooms. Grilled Onion. All stewed together in some kind of creamy, herb sauce that smelled like wood chips and loamy earth and my grandmother’s cast iron stove. I ate everything but the tin foil.

After lunch, I tried to return to my nest, but the Ranger tugged at my arm. He was holding a suitcase I didn’t recognize and an E-ticket. “We have to leave,” he said. “To Portland. We have to go now.”

So we did.

Happy Birthday, Little Brother!

2008-07-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

Gone to see a man 'bout a horse.
1971-2007

Hawai`i Journal #3

2008-07-15T21:01:00.001-07:00

In the past year, my father has turned into a Tiny Dad, a baggy collection of joints, knees, curled shoulders and pointy elbows, his silvery head winged by a startling pair of fleshy ears that would make him look comically Yoda-like if they didn’t signal his waning. Immediately after Edward died, he started shrinking, yet even at Thanksgiving, I was still able to look him in the eye. Now, however, I can gaze straight over the top of his head. Grief has boiled him down to his essence.

Shortly after we arrived, my Tia Cora handed him a stack of photo albums, because as his older sister, she knows what he needs. And while my mother flees the room unable, unwilling to stir the memories, he settles onto the sofa and pats the cushion next to him where I press in and we begin to flip through years and years of childhood. Every few pages, my Tiny Dad points to a faded photograph and says, “Look here, mijita, there you are.” I touch his arm and say, “No, Daddy, that’s not me. That’s Edward.”

And I wonder how painful it must be for him. To look into my face. Does he see me? My brother? Some mix of both?

Sometimes, strangers would ask Edward and I what it was like to be twins, which would either make me eight years younger or him eight years older. I’m thinking the first. Once, my brother answered, “We are twins of a sort, two sides of a coin. I’m good.” Here he jerked his thumb in my direction, “And she’s evil.” Then he’d clutch his belly, doubled-over by his I’m-so-hilarious-laughter. Let’s be clear. I’m the funny one.

In college, he did his best to hone in on my side of the coin; he grew his hair long and pulled it into a ponytail, bought a used motorcycle, joined a rock band, swiped a case of beer. But he was still saying, “may I help you with that,” and “yes, sir” and opening the door for the ladies. So his tenure as a bad boy was pretty short, but not for lack of gusto.

Thursday would have been Edward’s 37th birthday. And having barely survived THAT funeral, I doubt my capacity to survive another so I hope my Tiny Dad stops shrinking before he disappears and he himself becomes pages in a photo album, a collection of stories and memories and misgivings. It’s possible, of course, that these fears are misplaced…and he is simply suffering the crash before the bounce back.

When I first moved to New York in the late 80s, before I was accustomed to the characters and the clowns, the angels and the devils that make up the city, I was easily startled by whatever sidled up next to me. Once, while waiting on a subway platform, a battered man who’d lost both legs just below the hips and had accommodated this huge emptiness by pinning up his pant legs and knuckling his way on a skateboard, he pushed up next to me, shoulders to knees. I assumed this was the Tap so I reached into my purse for a couple dollars and held them out. He looked up at me and my money as if we were a plague descending before shoving his way past and rolling through the open subway doors. He wasn’t begging; he was elbowing me out of the way like every other New Yorker.

This week, I’ve renounced doom and opted, instead, to believe that my father has pinned up his empty pants and is knuckling his way forward. Diminished. Changed forever. But still choosing life, step by step.

Hawai`i Journal #2

2008-07-12T23:33:00.000-07:00

The ceremony is about to begin, on the edge of the water, Honolulu, HI

The beautiful wedding arch created by my cousins...while I, of course, supervised.

Ah weddings! Such a fine collection of stress and neuroses. While I should really share with you the details of this beautifully choreographed union between my cousin and some nice boy from Antonito, CO (population 400), let’s all remember this is about Me.

My own wedding took place at a lovely B&B in Taos, NM on July 6, 1997…I think, although it could have been 1996, I’m not exactly sure. I’d have to consult my divorce papers to confirm this and they are neatly tucked away at home in a manila file folder marked “Divorce” between Federal Taxes and Medical Records. I’m nothing if not emotionally organized.

At the time, I thought a vein in my head was going to burst because things didn’t go exactly the way I’d planned. Of course, now I realize that’s what makes a good wedding: the trips and falls, the eccentric relatives and untoward remarks, the unexpected death threats.

First, our rehearsal dinner fell apart: too many people, not enough entrees. Or chairs. Or tables. So several of us ended up eating our filet mignon on our laps and after the 50th thing went wrong, my fiancé got up and left. That’s right…hopped in his car and drove away leaving me with 25 dinner guests. And that was the good part. Long and the short of it, I ended the night draped over the railing of my suite sobbing uncontrollably while my Man of Honor, Phill, handed me glasses of water and patted my back because he was at a loss at what to do while I drunkenly muttered, “I can’t do this, I absolutely can’t do this.” Finally, having exhausted every handy platitude, he grabbed my shoulders and presented me with the facts, “Listen, you gotta get a hold of yourself. You love this man. You’re going to marry him…because, because, um, because your car’s blocked in.”

In the throws of my divorce, poor Phill kicked himself repeatedly insisting there was more he could have done, that he should have thrown me and my cold feet in the back of his Acura and spirited me away. But I’m glad he didn’t. I have never once regretted my marriage. I did it for all the right reasons: I was a woman terribly in love and I believed who we were together was more extraordinary, more complete than who we were apart. When you say “I do” you take a leap of faith. Sometimes you land hard, sometimes you land soft and sometimes you keep flying but no matter how the story ends…at least you held your breath and jumped. Anything less…well that ain’t living.

The day of the wedding, my future brother-in-law crashed our brand new Subaru after cutting off a 90-year-old farmer on his way to the Social Security office. Fortunately, no one was injured and Bro's rein of terror could continue. Yup, he was the guy packing heat during the reception (maybe because, as the Ranger once stated, “sometimes folks just need shootin’) while sniffing for marijuana which he was absolutely sure would turn up wherever Hispanics gathered (he’s a DEA agent by day) and then, after getting good and liquored up, began pawing D., my brother, R’s, wife. Mom, who witnessed the later, immediately whipped out her cell phone and dialed R. for an intervention (that’s right, she phoned him). This from a woman who has absolutely no compunction about screaming across a crowded dance floor, “Hey, you have a pinto bean stuck between your two front teeth.” For whatever reason, this time she chose discretion when calling out the dogs. From what we could tell, however, my sister-in-law was rather enjoying the pawing…which might explain why she’s no longer my sister-in-law.

Something about those old-fashioned vows..."to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, through joy and sorrow, till death do us part" takes my breath away and reminds me why being cynical isn't as much fun as it used to be.

My other future brother-in-law, who was also the best man, greeted guests at the pre-wedding cocktail party bare-chested, sporting a sarong snappily tied around his waist. We thought he might be planning to entertain us with some kind of exotic fire dancing act, but no, apparently he was merely suffering from the desert heat. Possibly a rash. Unfortunately, my 80-something-year-old Hispanic great aunties were scandalized (and probably a bit tantalized) about being escorted to their seats by a man in a bright floral skirt likely wearing no underwear (he was NOT, in fact, wearing underwear, but please don’t ask me how I know this…I still grind my teeth at night) This is the same man who asked me to pose naked so he could give his brother nudie photos as a gift. Now, I've done a lot of stupid things in my life, but on this one I demurred because Daddy, a diehard Democrat, always taught me to use this particular measuring stick…What would Bill Richardson do? Enough said.

Sealed with a kiss. Now, let's drink!

And then there was THAT toast. My youngest auntie took the microphone and after doing the customary running-through-the-names-of-dead-ancestors, wishing us luck, long life and love blah blah blah, she held up her champagne glass and signed off with, “Just remember, if you ever break her heart, we will hunt you down and kill you.” At this, all 200 members of my family jumped to their feet and flung their arms in the air, cheering wildly as if the winning touchdown had just been scored and it was now time to tear down the goal post. My in-laws lowered their champagne glasses as their mouths went slack looking very much like parents who’d just witnessed their son being eaten by sharks.

My new husband, to his credit, was an excellent sport and carried off a tight grin but I could tell by the shadow that washed over his face, he was suffering a dawning realization… maybe what his ex-girlfriend had urgently whispered to him in the receiving line was true…he’d inadvertently married into the Mob. Note: No worries. The X is alive and well. And any suggestions of mobsterism are entirely inaccurate. Entirely.

The happy couple enjoying their toasts in English, Spanish, Japanese and Hawaiian.

Speaking of leaps of faith…the Ranger and I haven’t gotten to speak much lately what with all the wedding hub-bub and the three-hour time difference. But let me just say this…my dear, I hope this story doesn’t make you sad or make you wonder how it might have been if you’d been standing up there with me and the judge…actually, you were a freshman in high school so you probably wouldn’t have been able to take that much time off from hockey practice…but of course you must know that even if you weren’t my first love, you are my last. And my best.

Hawai`i Journal #1

2008-07-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, I’m writing this on a Hawaiian beach at sunset, toes in the sand, palm trees tossing their shaggy heads in the mild evening breeze. Yeah, I know. I want to kill me, too. Have I told you most of my childhood summers were spent here with my aunts and cousins? So, I’ve never been a tourist on these islands which makes me sad only because I’ve always wanted to stroll the colonial lawns and gardens of the Royal Hawaiian on Waikiki Beach wearing a showy sundress decorated with huge, unreal tropical flowers…except I’ve never actually BEEN to Waikiki. Even here, we are country folk.

I’m staying with my parents in a remote part of Oahu on the Northeastern shore where my Tia Cora has owned a weekend beach house for as long as I can remember. And like all beach houses everywhere, it is a tidy scrabble of mismatched furniture, overly bright pieces of cheap art, a good deal of Tupperware, and squares of carpet remnants. We Love It.

Perhaps, it’s the impending nuptials of her granddaughter or the fact that she’s just handed me the photos she shot at my wedding (“I just need one for old times sake since it doesn’t matter anymore”), but before she turns over the key to Paradise, she says, “Never get married again, my dear. It will ruin your life, leave you trapped AND your grandmother would be greatly disappointed, God Rest Her Soul. I sincerely hope you’re past all that.” This from a woman who’s been married to her Great Love for nearly 50 years, a man she wakes up to and adores every day, a handsome devil that inspired me and many of my other girl cousins, when we were young, to fantasize about hooking up with football coaches, Asian men, and Mormons. All at the same time. Such a delicious idea if any one of them even remotely resembled the quietly regal Uncle Calvin. Someday, I’ll have to pin down my tia on this seeming contradiction. But for right now I let her have her soapbox. Because a 100-pound Mexican in a muumuu wagging a bent finger is rather intimidating.

Today, we spent much of the afternoon making bouquets for the wedding party, garlands for the archway, and ivy streamers for the staircase. Let me just say that asking Second Edition to work a flower arrangement is not unlike asking Angelina Jolie to whip up a batch of cookies. Not really the best use of my talents, but hey, I said I’d help and here I am. Shaving the thorns off roses. A metaphor worth pursuing if I wasn’t so jet-lagged.

Auntie Lin making bouquets for the bridesmaids while Second Edition supervises, gimlet in hand. "Not so crazy about the mums, Auntie, but carry on."

Between the guacamole and the ahi poke, the laulau (wrapped in banana leaves) and the tamales (wrapped in corn husks), I survey the women gathered round, the aunts, the cousins, the daughters…and I realize, This Is World Peace, right here. Hispanics, Japanese, Chinese, Hawaiians, Random White Folk of Tenuous European Heritage. All possible because despite any agonizing on the part of Cher, Halfbreed ain’t such a dirty word.

Which reminds me of the moment, nearly two years ago now, when the Ranger called Mama Ranger in the western-hill-country-of-Pennsylvania and declared he was in love with a Mexican, “‘cept she’s really white with blue eyes and freckles. Ain’t seen anything like it.”

And that right there is when the Croatians and the Poles started pouring salsa on their bangers.

Tropical Redoux

2008-07-08T11:12:00.000-07:00

Headed to Hawaii for ten days of family, sun and rum. Nearly two years ago, I boarded a plane to the islands, desperate to escape. As a Bon Voyage, I thought I'd share that Journal entry with you. Not sure what the Wi-Fi possibilities are where I'm going...so if there's a two-week silence, know that I'm still writing and shooting pictures and you'll be in the loop very, very soon.

Twice Over
August 2006
Kaneohe, HI, at the foot of Koolau Mountains

I’ve decided to be a teenager again. Some 20+ years after my first pass through orthodontia and gawky limbs. This time I won’t be so surly and insecure, and I’ll have a better grasp of birth control. My parents lucked out; they won’t have to wait up for me when I break curfew, or give me a stern talking to when I eventually show up, red-eyed, tipsy, pulling at my sweater. Lenore, my cousin who’s the same age as me, she’s at the wheel this time. And she’s the coolest mom on the block.

For the first few days, I laid in bed, stricken with a chest cold, each breath sounding like plastic wrap being bunched up. Still, the company can’t be beat… every single episode of Sex and the City. I’m having my Fall Apart. Finally. The slow unraveling of a life that took 12 years to build and 8 months to dismantle. Divorce lawyers. Accountants. Judges. Every one took their bite. I look at what’s left, the pile of chipped wood and bent nails and know that they are familiar to me, that I should care more than I do, that I’m probably not thinking clearly or in my own best interest, that I’ll have to start over somehow. But I’m too tired. I stopped giving a shit some time back, when my husband, my love became a stranger, someone not to be trusted.

Each morning, my Tia Cora and cousin Lenore stand over my bed and worry.
“Think she’ll be alright?”
“Of course she will. Just needs time.”
“It’s all so sad.”
“Yeah well, life is sad.”

On the coffee table, my Tia always leaves the want ads from the morning paper, with promising jobs circled in magic marker. She wants me to stay. I can’t imagine leaving.

After a week, I emerge from the guest room and my cousin Tamara, who’s 18 and almost as lazy as I am, is grateful for the company. We sleep late, go to the beach, boogie board, oil our tans, eat lunch at Zippy’s, shop at the mall, watch TIVO under the air conditioner, do chores, eat dinner, watch DVDs. Rinse. Repeat.

Lenore keeps a tight rein, though. In the mornings, I find a note taped to the refrigerator listing my chores for the day. Unload dishwasher. Sweep porch. Wash bathroom towels. Defrost turkey. Bummer. Turkey for dinner. I hate turkey. Turkey’s gross. On a separate note, she includes my week’s appointments – dates and times. Dentist. Haircut. Yoga class. For breakfast, she’s set out a bag of bagels and a jar of peanut butter – my favorite, not-so-chunky – plus a multi-vitamin so I’ll grow up big and strong. This one has extra calcium for women my age.

At Kailua beach, Tamara and I watch the Navy Seals in their board shorts and broad shoulders dive for the sand in a furious game of volleyball. When a loose ball lands on our towel, they ask if we want to join in. We giggle, but demure. Time to flip. Can’t start school with an uneven tan.

In the heat of the day, we go shopping. Slip on tiny denim skirts over bikini bottoms, tuck plumeria flowers behind our right ears, slick on some lip gloss and we’re good to go. At Neiman-Marcus, we try on all the wide beach hats, purse our lips together and pose. Snap pictures of each other with our cell phone cameras. The snooty sales lady asks if we need help. We roll our eyes and head for the door. We can’t afford Neiman-Marcus. We’re on an allowance. When Tia Cora dropped us off at the mall, she only gave us $20 bucks for snacks. But wait…I have a Platinum Card! Awesome!

At Sephora, we sample the blue and green eye shadows, spritz perfume on our brown arms, and argue about the virtues of different mascara wands. “How do I look?” Soooo cute. Then we head to MAC and practice our eye lining technique. Soooo rock and roll. As we stroll through the mall, I get a call from home. A mucky-muck calling to see if I want to be Marketing Director for UNM’s Cancer Center. “Dude, I’m in Hawaii. On summer break. Can’t talk right now catch you later bye.” Tamara cuts me a look, “That sounded important.”
“Not so much,” I say, tugging at my teeny tiny skirt. “Like I want to report to some asshole. Whate-v-e-r.”

At home, we toss the shopping bags on our unmade beds and collapse, exhausted, in front of the TV. If we’re hungry, we eat leftovers -- laulau, ahi poke, pupus, siamin. Or chocolate covered graham crackers. With our legs draped over opposite sides of the sofa, we ponder important life questions. “So why do you think gummie bears are bears? Why aren’t they lions or penguins? Why bears?”

It’s easy to lose track of time here on the island so when we hear the garage door open, we know we’re busted. We haven’t done our chores. Plus, there’s a pile of wet towels on the bathroom floor. And a sink full of dirty dishes. The poor dog is howling from hunger. Mom has every right to be angry; she’s had a long, rough day negotiating world peace.

Lenore’s got top security clearance – which means she can get us into all the private military beaches on the island -- and her boss is a 4-star general who reports to the Joint Chiefs. In the world of security policy, she’s The Shit. A civilian surrounded by colonels and majors, her secretary is a petty officer, a guy who salutes and calls her Ma’am. Cool, huh. I’m quite sure she’s the only female Hispanic, Chinese, Hawaiian who does what she does. And she does it in snappy high heels, expensive suits and silk shirts. We love Mom. She’s a class act.

So when she storms in and tosses the groceries on the counter, Tamara and I scramble. Mom is tired; world peace didn’t go so well today. “I can’t believe you girls laid around all day.” We wash the dishes, fold the laundry, vacuum the living room, and start supper. Friends of the family are coming over, Lenore’s Cheech and Chong friends from high school. Tamara takes off with her boyfriend; Kamiele finishes her homework so I check it, read her a story then put her to bed. Finally, us five adults take our wine, sit out on the Lanai next to the fishpond and wonder when the Monsoons will hit.

I love summer break. I love the ocean. How will I ever return to the desert?

A Dog's Life

2008-07-04T11:22:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I know I'm pretty. That's why they call me, "Pretty Girl." I have other names, too: Mia, Pumpkin Pia, Little Shit, Fetch. Every day, my Mama takes me to the beach where she throws rubber balls and sticks over my head then screams, "Fetch. Fetch" waving her arms and jumping up and down. Not really sure what that's about.

Mama is busy packing her suitcase which always makes me sad, but she keeps whispering in my ear, "Don't worry, Pretty Girl, I'll be back soon." Papa's sad, too, because he doesn't really like to cook for himself but as Mama often says, we just gotta "cheer the fuck up."

She gave me this little goodbye lecture which of course I'm going to ignore. "Please stop eating dead things, okay, because you know they make you sick and when you ignore your dog food and sleep all day I have to drag your ass to the Vet who's gonna stick a scooper up your butt so he can look at your poop under the microscope before he gives you a big, fat shot and I'm out 65 bucks." Thing is, I love eating dead things. Right after I roll in them. Dead seagulls, dead sea lions, dead crabs, dead fish. The deader the better. But dog shit will do in a pinch. I get spanked every time I eat dog shit and dead things, but I'm proud to say I take my lickings, give them a hang-dog look and then the minute they turn their backs, I'm back at it. I think this raw determination speaks to my character, my sense of loyalty.

My other favorite things to do: chase bumble bees until I fall off the bluff, chew on the legs of the dining room table, sniff any crotches I can reach, pick berries right off the bush and lie on the sunny porch licking my Happy Place ALL DAY LONG. When Papa comes home from work, he shakes his head and says, "Damn girl, you were doing that when I left. Best be careful, you're gonna make your Mama jealous. If she could, SHE WOULD LIE ON THE PORCH ALL DAY LICKING HER HAPPY PLACE." Maybe that's why sometimes she cries at night when it's just the two of us. Can't reach her Happy Place.

There's not much to this life, I discovered. Bacon bits. Tummy scratches. Chasing birds. And squirrels. A bowl of fresh water. Pressing my nose against the car window as we zoom, zoom to the next beach, the next forest, the next chance to jump in the ocean and swim to a rock where the seals are trying to sleep but bark and roll and snap when they see me coming. I get in A LOT of trouble for that last one. But I can't help it. I'm a dog. According to my clock, tomorrow hasn't happened yet. So today...that's all I got.

How Punctuation Ruined My Day

2008-06-26T17:12:00.000-07:00

So we just returned from Corvallis where the Ranger underwent a minor procedure, but no worries, Dr. Schwartz, a fast-talking smarty-pants, delivered a clean bill of health, yet still refused to give the Ranger one more intravenous ounce of that squeezed-from-organic-egg-whites sedative that made him so darn happy and groggy and capable of singing, "Sugar Pie! Sugar Pie! That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it. Uh-huh. Uh-huh" in a perfect falsetto. But enough about the Ranger. Back to me.

As is my nature, I nosed around in pre-op, pulling the Ranger's medical chart out of its neat little slot. Truly, I was only searching for lab results, because Yes, I can read them and I like to know what's what. And there SMACK on the front of the chart was a yellow Post-It note written by the prep nurse:

"The older woman with the patient is his girlfriend!

That's right. Underline. Exclamation Point! Why not just put up a fluorescent orange sign, "Beware. Cougar Crossing."

Okay, let's examine this one closely. First, of all, the word "older" made me wrap my silk scarf more tightly to hide that damning neck waddle since clearly SOMETHING was flashing my driver's license because it's not like I was humming the theme song to The Dick Van Dyke Show or regaling the staff about those glorious Camelot years. No, I blame it on the harsh overhead lighting.

And why the heads-up anyway? Whatever you do don't say, "Your son did great. You can take him home now" because she looks like the kind of woman who'd toss you up against the wall and breath expletives in your face with a voice that reeks of tequila. Or maybe the meaning was along the lines of, "Holy Smokes, how in the world did that Old Hippie, clutching her laptop and a pile of books, bag such a handsome whipper-snapper who clearly only has to shave once a week and then only in winter. Why even the charge nurse applauded when we rolled him over onto his back and that woman hasn't smiled in 20 years."

Now, you'd think. Nearly two years into this. My skin would be tougher. It's not like we don't get an earful from strangers in grocery lines, at bars, while riding in planes, standing in line with tourists, haggling for fish at the docks, or while squeezing produce at the farmer's market. I see the whispers behind cupped hands, the raised eyebrows, the winks, the dirty grins.

But really. This time. The bottom of my stomach dropped out.

I will always be the OLDER WOMAN!!!! He will always be the younger man. And although I wish it wouldn't matter so much to the world, what I really ask of the Universe... is that it didn't matter so much to me.

Man on Fire

2008-06-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

Is it possible? Has summer really arrived? Or is this just a blip in the rain? Knock on wood. Or better yet, gather an armful of it and head to the beach. It's beach fire time.

The secret to a fierce fire...dryer lint. Seriously. We collect our dryer lint for just this purpose. Fuzzy pile at the bottom, then a small tent of thin sticks, topped off with drift wood. There. Now, you can boast your own Oregon Park Ranger Secret.

Running out the door after dinner, trying to capture the last of the sunset, I grabbed what was handy. Scarf, fleece jacket, my brother's Thinsulate hat, the one he always wore when skiing or mountaineering. Light, thin, incredibly warm. I've never worn it before, because it still smells like his sweaty head. And I wanted it to keep smelling like that for as long as possible.

But something about a dog and a beach fire on a stony stretch of sea shelf as the tide comes rolling in makes everything okay. Of course, cold beer helps, too. Or maybe it's the rainforest at our backs, the ground soft with moss, ferns, wild mushrooms...the way in which the Universe shows us that from the mulch of death springs life.

It's been nearly a year since Edward died, even though his absence still feels so present, so yesterday, a gaping crevasse snuggling up next to me. Although I sometimes forget (Oh, I'll just call my brother and ask him that...), I always remember. That my love for my brother was so wide and deep, so complex and potent, the loss of him remains devastating...thank goodness.

Still. I'm amazed at the richness of this moment. And the one that came before that. I can't really offer something trite, like "time heals all wounds," mostly because I've never believed that. Time blurs, yields a solid crusty scab, at best a phantom limb. You find a way. Your own way.

Now, Edward's hat smells like smoke. Salt air. Wet dog. Like a life well-lived. And I'm quite sure he would love that.

Sunday Supper: Bound Together With Basil

2008-06-15T14:38:00.000-07:00

It's good to KNOW people, the kind that hook you up, show you the ropes, spark your appetite and send you to the kitchen. This morning, over corned beef hash and eggs, The Chef whispered his secret source for morels, so most certainly those little honeycombed beauties will soon appear as a Fish Tale.

Here on the Coast, people swap mushroom hunting intel the way others slide stock tips across the table. So much bounty in them woods: chanterelles, oysters, maitakes, matsutakes and of course, the mysterious Oregon Black Truffle, which I have yet to see or taste, but sources assure me it exists SOMEWHERE OUT THERE, not unlike Big Foot and Weapons of Mass Destruction.

In the laboratory, Second Edition is digging deep into Alice Waters' new tome, "The Art of Simple Food," because we like her philosophy. Fuss-free, organic, local and eaten together. Always share your food...that's my girl. And although the Ranger and I can't enjoy Sunday Supper together, I still try to slip into something comfy and whip him up a to-go box while breaking all the OSHA guidelines regarding cooking without underwear. No tuna fish sandwiches for my man/boy.

A wise guru once told me, "Prepare food with an open heart, because once your guests take that first bite, your intentions will be clear to them." That said, when the Ranger sits down to dinner over at Ranger Station, that first bite...well, it should make him blush.

Brown rice tossed with snap peas, unsnapped peas, mustard greens, jalapeno, loads of ginger, garlic, shallots and sauced up with coconut milk, tamari, pine nuts and a chiffonade of basil. Inspired by Yoga Journal and The New Whole Grain Cookbook. Sadly, my photography skills don't do it justice.

My own supper was a little simpler: pureed asparagus soup with the tips kept whole, caramalized shallots and a pinch of wasabi powder before blending, topped with shavings of Asiago and a chiffonade of basil (once again). Inspired by Flutephobia. Check her out. A woman of few words, she returns again and again to the drawing board.

I wish I was making Sunday Supper for my Dad on Father's Day. Nothing fancy because he's not a fancy guy. I'm thinking raviolis stuffed with wild mushrooms (he loves pasta) as a starter, lamb chops rubbed with rosemary and garlic (the son of a sheep herder) and grilled corn cobs slathered with jalapeno butter (the man loves his chiles). He used to travel around with the tiniest bottle of Tabasco sauce tucked into his suit jacket, a habit that embarrassed me to no end as a child, but one that I now find, not only endearing, but somehow have come to emulate, except I choose Chalula. Guess this hot pepper didn't fall too far from the bush.

Leader of the Pack

2008-06-13T08:31:00.000-07:00

I'm in a gang. My parent's worst fear. They did everything right. Private school. Modest plaid skirts. Ovaltine in the morning. No sleepovers. No boys. No lipstick. No pinching, tickling or horsing around with other girls in study hall...because of course, you know what THAT leads to.

Still...I'm in a gang. Perhaps, I'm rebelling. Finally.

I can count on one hand the times I've called in sick. In fact, when I'm sick, I usually drag my ass to work anyway because I feel responsible, don't want to burden someone else with my in-box. I always make a deadline. I never complain. No excuses. On task. Even the canned goods in my cupboards...the labels all face out. My closet, organized by color and purpose. I know. I know. Freakish.

But. The sun is out. And when you live on Darkor, the watery, gray death star, that's a BIG fucking deal. So when a posse of boys to men pulled up and barked, "Yo, we got an extra scooter. Hop on and LET'S RIDE," I had to pull on my leather jacket and take it to the streets.

Ride. Baby. Ride. Barreling along the coastal road at 25 mph, the wind flapping my cropped jeans, I tasted freedom (and one or two low-flying insects). We scootered down to Nye Beach and beeped at all the cafe society, we scootered along the Waterfront and up the windy Bay Road, all over this laaaannd. To everyone out and about, we beeped our horns. And even the grumpiest faces cracked into grins. Waves. Pumped fists. Thumbs up. Whoo-hoos! Spreading the joy, man, spreading the joy. Everyone loves a scooter.

So I told the boys, "Hey, let's slip down the alley and huff the cheese bread smoke behind the bakery. Let's head to the docks and get some tats of big boobed women or a ship's anchor or a black widow spider clutching a dagger. Better yet, we can heckle the crabbers unloading their tanks, "Dude, you call THAT the 'Deadliest Catch?' Shit man, I've seen bigger crabs on your WIFE."

Ah, you gotta love life on the road. The leather gloves. The jaunty helmet. The cold beer. That's right. We drank AND scootered. So sue me. Powered up on something called Scotch Eggs (not for the ovo squeamish) then pinched the waitress' bottom for good luck because, well, we're in a gang. When we pulled up to a light, a ZZ Top looking fellow nodded over the handlebars of his Harley, "Takes a real women to lead a bunch of men." Uhuh. That's right, Kimosabe.

But when I insisted on one more spin around the lighthouse, the boys demurred. One had to have the house vacuumed before his wife got home from work, another had a conference call scheduled with his estate attorney and yet another had to take his son in for a check-up. You gotta be fucking kidding me! This is NOT how a gang behaves. We throw caution to the wind. We ruin our relationships. We shirk responsibility. We give The Man the finger. WE FIGHT THE POWER.

Then my cell phone rang. It's the boss. "Hey, have you finished that website copy? Deadline is today."

Gotta go. Plus, I forgot my sunscreen.

Sunday Supper: O Solo Mio

2008-06-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

The beginning of summer. The end of Sunday Supper? This change of seasons means the Ranger works nights and weekends, The Chef is busy building his culinary empire during the tourist season and Aussie Girl is living in her Honda working the dog show circuit. While some locals have nudged me with their grocery carts and declared their willingness to be part of a new team, I demure. Call me sentimental, but S.S. will always be the four amigos. You can't possibly simmer a good base broth without chicken bones, onion, garlic and carrots. Additions possible. Substitutions...no.

So Second Edition has been left alone with her food.

Rather than sinking into bags of chips or bottles of gin, I've promised myself that dinners will be equally luscious, although smaller in breadth and depth. Simple eats. Satisfying. A little more girly now that my palate is my own.

French lentils gently boiled till toothsome with whole garlic cloves and bay leaves. A handful of arugula from the farmer's market. Circles of red onion. Sweet Willamette tomatoes. Cubes of feta cheese. Parsley, of course. Chips of basil. All tossed with fresh-squeezed lemon, zest and my treasured olive oil from Ballard Market. Served on a lovely Italian hand-painted plate. Because I'm worth it.

In my First Edition, particularly in the final chapter, I couldn't bear eating alone. It made me feel even more like a dumped wife, a half moon of gristle pushed to the edge of a plate. There I sat at my grand Ethan Allen table for eight, listening to the scrape of fork and knife. It wasn't long before I gave up eating dinner altogether and opted to lie on the sofa in sweats, drinking wine and Googling ex-boyfriends to see if their stories had ended any better. Self-flagellation takes many forms. This was mine.

All that changed when my friend, Stewart-the-Wine-Steward, called and, before I could even say hello, he said, "Get off the sofa, slip on something fabulous and drive your ass over here to the Wine Bar. Come have dinner with me." I said, No, couldn't possibly. Thank you very much. No, absolutely not. It's too late. I'm not hungry. And then fifteen minutes later, after much badgering, I was pulling on something fabulous. With sequins. Because sequins are so cheery.

By the time I arrived, Stewart-the-Wine-Steward had cleared every set of elbows from the long mahogany bar, having convinced them they'd be more comfortable in a cushy leather booth or hunkered in the dark corners. And there, smack in the middle of his pulpit, he'd set a perfect place: white table cloth and napkin, china, Riedel, silver, a basket of warm bread, a tiny boat of olive oil. This picture of welcome brought tears to my eyes.

When I sat down, he poured something red and deep, the softest little Malbec, "I'm thinking you need to get out of town for a bit, so let's say we start with a trip to Argentina." I pushed the menu to the side. Really, I couldn't possibly eat. I was soon to be homeless and nothing makes your stomach flip and flop like imminent ejection.

Stewart-the-Wine-Steward shrugged his "fine, you're the customer" shrug then excused himself. It was a busy night, like every night. When he returned, he was carrying a plate of steaming lamb chops piled on a hillock of garlic mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus on the side. He set the plate in front of me, took my silverware and started eating it himself, moaning with each gravy-dripping bite. The smell was unbearable. So smoky and nostalgic and comforting. When he dived into the wine cellar for a resupply, I devoured the rest of the meal, sucking each and every bone. Then took a chunk of bread and wiped the plate. Delicious. For dessert...caramel ice cream with almonds and shaved chocolate.

After that, I ate with Stewart-the-Wine-Steward several nights a week and I will always be thankful to the man for so graciously giving me a public space for my private grief.

Today, with a hazy sun and an indigo sea, I enjoy my lentil salad on the deck of the treehouse as the wind chops the water and tosses the whale watching boats to and fro. Mia is under the shady table at my feet, paws crossed with the hope that somewhere under all that vegetarian mess on my plate there is a giant steak bone waiting to leap to the ground or, at the very least, an errant bacon bit. This is a dog who's every waking moment is spent with her tongue hanging out...most certainly a metaphor worth pursuing.

Second Edition and her dinner companion.

When you eat alone, you can choose despair or you can choose gratitude. But choose carefully. The taste buds you save may be your own.

Boys to Men

2008-06-07T08:14:00.001-07:00

Apologies for the long silence, but truth be told, the Pittsburgh Penguins were in the Stanley Cup playoffs (that's hockey, girls) so Second Edition was glued to the cable channels, biting her nails and shouting things like, "I can't fucking believe that wasn't a penalty." I take it as personal point of pride that I nearly waited till the second sentence to use the word fucking. See Mom, things are looking up.

Now, admittedly, I was never a hockey fan until I met the Ranger. I thought hockey was for suburban men who quietly beat their wives while chewing tobacco. And I'd even attended a few games at Madison Square Garden while living in New York, escorting happy clients who downed Miller Lites while I read a book or worked my way through my in-box. I was not impressed by all that brute force. And I got tired of the guy behind me spitting on my neck every time he screamed, "Kill 'em. Kill 'em."

But then last fall I was given an ultimatum: "Watch the Steelers with me or the Penguins." To which I replied, "Steelers? That's football, right? Have they ever won a Super Bowl?" It's shameful to make a grown man cry, but there you have it.

So, I opted for hockey. I heard the MomTape in my head. Once, when I refused to go fly fishing with the X for like the hundredth time, she furrowed her brow and said in her deep mom voice, "You know if you don't start taking an interest in your husband's activities, he'll find someone who will." Well, of course I laughed at her 1950s logic.

But as is so often the case these days, I find my mom was right about a lot of things. The need for fiber. Making sure that bikini top stays put even when wet. Laughing at jokes that aren't funny, especially if it's your boss that is telling them. And keeping your husband entertained and/or feigning an interest in professional sports.

Then something happened right around January. I got interested. I really started paying attention instead of squinting my eyes so that the TV screen went blurry. There was strategy and finesse. Stick work. Agility and speed on short blades. The bounce and weave of the puck. The well-planted elbow to the ribs or shoulder check into the boards. Suddenly, I was jumping off the sofa shouting, "Kill 'em. Kill 'em" or hiding in my cashmere sweater as one of my guys got pummeled.

The kicker came when we traveled to Pennsylvania together. Moments after getting off the plane, instead of dashing to Steel Town to meet the parents who were anticipating either Mary Tyler Moore or a Cougar with a boob job, we went straight to Mellon Arena to join a sold-out crowd cheering the home team while they thrashed Toronto. As white towels twirled in the air overhead, I joyfully added my Chanel handbag to the mix. Woo Whoo! Go Pens!

After that, I started reading up on the players, a mix of Canadians, Americans, Russians, and Eastern Europeans. Boys, really, in a big man's game. At the start of the season, team captain Sidney Crosby was 19 years old. A teenager, for Godsake. He can't even order beer in a bar, although I guess with a 8.7 million dollar contract, he could probably buy a brewery. Evgeni Malkin, the second highest scorer in the NHL, 21. Kris Letang, the master of the shoot-out, 21. And Marc-Andre Fleury, the goalie that kept them in the finals, 23.

Okay, so we lost Game 6 and the Cup. Fair and square. The Red Wings played better, faster...and their defensemen were everywhere.

But let me tell you something about Game 5. With the score 3-2, the Red Wings were tasting victory, all the sweeter because they were in their home arena. Detroit fans were already on their feet ready to give their championship team a standing ovation. The officials unpacked the 32 pound Stanley Cup and began polishing it, the presenters slipped on their white gloves and bottles of champagne were set to chill in buckets of ice. With 30 seconds left in regular play, Penguin Maxime Talbot, 24, swept the biscuit into the basket, and suddenly a sure victory was not so sure.

Unfortunately, the hustle it took to get the puck in came at a high price. Malone took a slapshot to the face, but stuck a tampon up his broken nose and kept playing. Gonchar suffered a concussion from sliding head first into the boards, yet returned for all three overtime periods. The boys were exhausted, injured, out-gunned by an older, more experienced team with a dozen Cups under their belt. Between OTs two and three, the Red Wings ordered more ice for the now warm champagne and the Penguins ordered Domino's Pizza. As every woman knows, boys always perform better after pizza.

So the game went on. Pittsburgh played their hearts out. And won.

Mom was right about that, too. Never give up.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me A Match

2008-05-31T18:46:00.001-07:00

Can pork loin spark a love affair? If it's rubbed and gently seasoned then slowly turned over a rotisserie bar-b-q for a few smokey hours? Nestled next to polenta swirled with handfuls of asiago cheese, toasted pine nuts and sage? What if we head to the humid south, home of The Big Easy, for collard greens quietly stewed with bacon and shallots? Is it possible? Can love (or like) grow over dinner?

Now Second Edition doesn't consider herself a Yenta, far from it...but sometimes you just want to share the lovin', so you invite The Neighbor over and seat him next to a beautiful woman. Just to see what comes to a boil.

The Ranger and I have always seduced each other with food. When I first turned the car around and headed south from Seattle to Fish Town for a long weekend (smirk), he greeted me at the door with a tray of roasted crimini mushrooms stuffed with local crab and parmesean. Nice. Especially after a six-hour drive of Cheetos and Diet Coke.

Why is it women in love want that for everyone else?

Missing Four Minutes

2008-05-18T21:28:00.000-07:00

"Detective Russell with APD's cold case unit. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions."

"Is this about Carlos?"

"Yes it is ma'am. I'm working the case now and I noticed that, according to his cell phone records, you're the last person to have spoken to him before he was killed. On Saturday, October 23, 2005 at 7:34 p.m. you called him and that call lasted a little over four minutes. Can you tell me what you talked about?"

I want to laugh. But the shock of this impulse sobers me. Surreal. This is JUST LIKE TELEVISION. A four minute conversation I had two and a half years ago. Really, I have no idea. What I do remember is the call I got early Monday morning telling me Carlos had been murdered, strangled in his own bed with his own t-shirt, his hands tied, a sock in his mouth.

"We'd had dinner the night before, probably talked about that. Maybe we talked about getting together again, I'm not sure. Or maybe we were just checking in. We talked most every day, even if it was only for a few minutes." What I didn't tell the detective was that Carlos always ended every phone conversation with 'I love you' and on that night, like every other, I was unnerved by such a raw declaration. Even though I loved him, too, I'm sure I never told him.

"Yes, I can see the two of you spoke daily. But did he tell you what his plans were that night?"

"No."

"Were you aware of his lifestyle?"

"You mean that he was gay. Of course."

"Actually, that's not what I meant."

And here there is silence. What he means is, "Did you know Carlos picked up strange men and took them home?" No, I didn't know that. It's not something that came up during yoga class or while we shopped for sofa pillows.

"I've answered these questions already. Several times."

"I realize that ma'am. But if you could remember anything about that conversation. Did he mention where he was going, who he was meeting?"

"No. I don't even know where he was calling from."

"I'm going to read you some names and I need you to tell me if any of them are familiar to you." He reads a long list of men's names. I don't recognize any of them.

"You were good friends?"

"Yes."

"But he never discussed his dates with you?"

"No, not really." I know how this sounds. Carlos had a secret life and I am the sheltered straight girl. Oddly, it hurts my feelings that Carlos didn't trust me enough to tell me about his hook-ups. Or maybe he thought I would be shocked, that I would judge him, which of course I wouldn't have. Sex almost never shocks me.

"Did you find anything unusual when you cleaned out his apartment? Anything that surprised you? Concerned you?"

I remember being surprised that Carlos had every CD Madonna ever made. Same for Maria Callas. I was surprised that he owned more shoes than I did. That the only thing in the refrigerator was a four-pack of Starbuck's frapaccinos. But what surprised me the most...his desk was cluttered with sheets of notebook paper filled with drafts of messages to friends. Carlos was an avid writer of beautifully spun note cards that always arrived on heavy, creamy stock with his initials engraved across the top. He sent cards for no good reason. To say "thanks for dinner" or "it was good running into you the other day." But unlike most people, his notes weren't scribbled off and popped in the mail. He wrote draft after draft until he got it just right. He was a poet. A craftsman. Choosing his words carefully. I never knew that. When I explain this to the detective, I can tell he's figured out I'm probably not worth the long-distance call. I'm a "dead end." We sign off.

And then for the next few days I'm haunted by those four minutes. What if he did tell me something useful? What if there was a clue to his killer and I missed it? How is it two people can be so close, share so much darkness and light and still keep whole chunks of life hidden? I think of all the things I kept from him...which explains why, when I told him my marriage was over, he was speechless. He thought my life was perfect. I thought his was perfectly safe.

But I know this much is true. Carlos was dear to me. His biting wit and spacious heart, his huge curiosity about art, spirituality and what it takes to live in the world with dignity and kindness...he shared all of that. What I never knew doesn't matter now. And really...it didn't matter then.

In the beginning...a girl turned her back on the ocean.

2008-05-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

Lately, the Ranger has been bored, downright disappointed. "You know, Honey, I liked your blog a lot better when it was about me. Now, it's about food. " And here you were all worried I was invading his privacy. I thinks he likes the fact that the other Rangers follow along then jab him in the ribs with burly elbows, wink and say things like, "Dude, she must be such a HANDFUL."

What a lovely opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. The Ranger's best friend from high school, Roop Dog, is here visiting from the-hill-country-of-western-Pennsylvania and wants to hear my version of how I met the Ranger. So here it is.

Disclaimer: Sorry if you already read this in an email way back when, during a spell of great ambivalence, but we do a lot of recycling here in Oregon. And if you're one of those folks who thinks I'm a BIG MEANIE when I write about my ex-husband, well then I invite you on over to the treehouse where I promise to bend over so you can KISS MY ASS, after which I will fix you a big bowl of pasta to warm your hands, like the good hostess I am, using, of course, the whole wheat variety, because it seems a bit of fiber is in order.

Sneaker Waves Appear Without Warning

Never let your new lover Google you when you’re naked. A buzz killer. Things pop up that you don’t really feel like explaining while languid, on a Saturday afternoon, after a good shagging. My fault, really. I was tired of hearing The Ranger doubt my references, the facts of my life so I said, “just Google me, for Godsakes.” Granted, I didn’t really instill a good deal of trust right out of the gates with my rather enormous lies, or creative non-fictions, as I like to call them, but once I come clean, I stay clean.
My laptop is propped open on his stomach, his lovely stomach. He’s frowning at the screen, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. He stops, leans in, frowns deeper, then scrolls some more.
“Your ex-husband is a doctor.”
“Yup, a surgeon.” I glance at the website he’s locked onto. Some foundation for some disease in Albuquerque. Home. Or at least it was before all of this.
“Wow. So you were rich.” He states this as a fact, without judgment.
I pull on my socks because here on the Oregon Coast, I’m always cold. My big toe bursts out of a large, frayed hole. “And as you can see, those days are over.”
“Really come down in the world, haven’t you, from a doctor to a park ranger? No wonder your parents are freaking.”
I lean over and kiss his wrinkled brow. “First of all, I haven’t come down in the world. I’m happy and that’s a step up. And my parents are freaking because you’re 25 and I’m 43. Your parents are freaking.”
He snaps the laptop closed, slips it onto the floor and rolls onto his side, facing me. “Sometimes it’s weird to think you had a whole life before I met you, a life I’ll never know anything about.” He runs his thumb across my lower lip making it very hard to concentrate. “What do you miss about your husband, the doctor?”
“Ex-husband.”
“What do you miss?”
“Let’s see.” I flop onto my stomach so he can’t see my face. “Easy access to prescription drugs. A lifetime’s supply of bandaids. Getting drunk at the hospital fundraiser. Um…always having somebody around who really knows how to carve a turkey.”
“Seriously, what do you miss?”
I know I have to answer this one carefully, and not take too long doing it. “I miss his hands. He had big, graceful hands. A bit of a paradox, but he could tie his shoelaces using chopsticks. It’s quite the bar trick.”
Slam dunk. A perfect balance of sincerity without attachment. And it’s true. I used to love watching the Surgeon in the operating room, his gloved, ghostly fingers flying in and out of the harsh lights, twirling sutures or clasping instruments. An orchestra conductor at the peak of his talent. He could fix anything with those hands. The swamp cooler. The hard drive. Cancer. Well, almost anything.
When he rowed a guide boat or wrangled a fish to shore, it wasn’t the action I was watching. It was always his hands because that was where he was most alive. And he knew that, too. Drawing up our living wills, he specified that if he ever lost use of his hands, it was over, he wanted to be euthanized. He made me promise.
In the last month of his father’s life, when a heart valve was beginning to crash, the Surgeon was convinced that the reason he couldn’t understand his father’s words, the reason his voice was getting smaller and smaller, was because there was something wrong with our telephone. So I came home from work one day to find him calmly sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea nearby, his hands flat and quiet. He was staring at all the pieces in front of him: circuits, knobs, buttons, panels, wires. Laid out neatly and artfully like in one of those visual encyclopedias that are now so popular. “Can’t quite figure out the problem,” he said, “but I know once I do, I can fix it.”
I boosted the heavy bag of groceries on to the counter, walked over to him and squeezed his shoulders, but he shrugged me off. He didn’t want my sympathy. Two weeks later, his father was dead.
The Ranger sits up suddenly and holds his hands out, palms up. They look like leather mitts, rough and calloused, with two new blisters just beginning to heal making his right palm look raw and painful. He’d spent yesterday burying a dead sea lion that had washed ashore, then fixed a broken water main at the camp site.
“Never be accused of being graceful.” He squints at his hands as if they’d just sprouted from the ends of his arms.
I grab hold and press their grittiness to my cheeks. These hands that always deliver my cup of coffee exactly the way I like it. That rub my neck after hours on the computer. That give me so much pleasure at the end of the day, everyday.
“What else do you miss?”
“TIVO?” I so want this conversation to be over.
He pulls his hands away and rolls out of bed, tugs on fatigue pants, a sweatshirt, boots. “Better chop some more wood. Feels like a storm coming through.”
“We have plenty.” I curl up like a lazy cat trying to look alluring in a Victoria Secret, pre-packaged sort of way. “Come back to bed, whipper-snapper.”
“Good to stay ahead of the cold.” He pulls on a cap, his dark green Park Service jacket and strides out of the room without looking at me. He hates lying. He’s never lied to me, not once. I envy that kind of ease with the truth, but in my experience, it doesn’t set you free, it just ups the ante.
I flop back down, disgusted with myself, and I tick off my list, barely scratching the surface of how different these two men really are. I know I shouldn’t compare, but it’s a survival instinct. It’s how we know not to eat those poisonous berries ever again.

Ranger - Leatherman; Surgeon - Blackberry
Ranger - Won’t dance, except at weddings; Surgeon - Won’t dance, except at weddings
Ranger - ESPN; Surgeon - PBS
Ranger - Bud Light; Surgeon - Pinot Noir
Ranger - Eddie Bauer; Surgeon - Hickey Freeman
Ranger - Biscuits and Sausage Gravy; Surgeon - Protein Shake w/banana and flax seed
Ranger - Hockey; Surgeon - Hockney
Ranger - Biceps; Surgeon - Bifocals
Ranger - Nascar; Surgeon - Nasdaq
Ranger - Johnny Cash; Surgeon - Jon Stewart
Ranger - Mama’s Boy; Surgeon - Ditto

The Ranger and I met where every risky launch finds some footing – a bar. I always meet men in bars. It’s the laptop. Like catnip, they can’t help but sniff and rub up against it. You’re a writer so you must be witty, know how to hold your liquor and show little discretion when it comes to making out with someone at the end of the night. If nothing else, you’ll be able to tell a good story. And that’s exactly what I was doing, parked at the Rogue Brewery after a bowl of chowder and a pint of Brutal Bitter, a beer, I swear was named after me.
“What are you writing?”
Annoyed at the interruption, I tossed an answer, “A story.”
“A story? Cool. What’s it about?”
The accent slowed me, a little bit of country in a bustling fishing town. Far from home, like me. I glance over. A boy, dark brown, soulful eyes, strong arms, an unmade bed hunched over a pint. Perfect.
“A story about you.”
“About me?” He peers at the screen. “What did I do?”
“Nothin’ interesting yet, but I’m waiting.”
He thinks about this for a minute. “I know a hike. It’s not easy, but it’s amazing. Starts in the woods, then over a bluff, a scramble across this headland where there’s this awesome lighthouse. At sunset the whales are out. Want to see?”
I stopped typing. I pictured the headline, the grainy photo with bad hair. He sensed my hesitation.
“Or not.”
Then I remembered why I’m on this road trip. I promised to start living life like I had a terminal disease. A Buddhist thing. Well, not exactly, but close. I slapped the computer closed and held out my hand. “Let’s go.”
He smiled beautifully, grabbed my hand and pulled me off the stool, “Call me Ranger. Want to ride with me or take your own car? And what’s your name anyway?”
“I’ll drive myself.” I’m not that crazy. “As for my name…not so fast.”
And there you have it. 0 to 60 in 10.5 seconds. No chit-chat, no wink. Maybe this is how it will be done in the future, after marriage becomes a laughable, antiquated institution. I pick you. Let’s mate. Cool. Shall we hit the liquor store on the way?
Back on 101, I tapped the gas and scooted closer to the Chevy Lumina in front of me so I could get a better look. Squeezing the cellphone between my chin and shoulder, I waited, waited, waited for Pen to pick up. Come on. Come on.
“Hello.” Pen sounded a million miles away. Home.
“Take down this number.”
“What number? Why?”
“Oregon plate NZR 324. Got that. Oregon NZR 324.” Paper shuffling in the background. The sucking of cigarette smoke. Damn her bad habits. “I’m going hiking with this guy I just met. And that’s his plate number. You know, just in case.”
“Jesus, in case of what?”
“In case they find my partially decomposed body in the woods after the spring thaw, after my disappearance has made headlines, my dad has dropped dead from grief and some lucky bitch skimming from the church sale ends up wearing all my Italian leather pumps.”
“Hold on, hold on, let me pour a glass of wine and you can tell me what’s going on there.” Pen always listens better with alcohol. It greases her wheel.
“Says he’s gonna show me some lighthouse where the whales swim at sunset. I met him in a bar. Says he’s a park ranger, but who knows how much of that is true. Isn’t that what serial killers say, that they’re park rangers? They buy those green pants from surplus stores and then casually strangle you while wearing a Smokey the bear hat.”
“What his name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where does he work? What park?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where’s this lighthouse?”
“Don’t know.”
“Great. Fucking great.” I hear the clink of ice in the background. “You really have to stop drinking in the middle of the day. You could end up off a cliff.”
“You know what they say. Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.”
“He must be pretty cute.”
“Adorable. A cross between Keanu Reeves and Johnny Depp, I’m thinking.”
“Young. Nice job. You always did like the Matrix. Welcome to Zion.” Pen snorted. She often cracked herself up. “So tell me, who are you in this town?”
“I’m a 33-year-old English professor at the University of Washington.”
“Whoa. You really know how to sex things up.”
“Well, it beats being a 43-year-old burned out advertising executive from Albuquerque with fresh divorce papers, a modest amount of debt and chronic insomnia.”
“Good point.”
“Hey, gotta go. We’re turning off into a thick, dark, impenetrable forest, with no mile marker, no sign. I’ll probably lose the signal. Wish me luck.”
“Call when you live to tell the tale.”

We parked at the trailhead and ducked into a mossy forest where the ground gave way under our feet and tree roots buckled the surface. The darkness of the canopy was startling after so much sunshine, but soon we burst out onto a bluff, a vertical bluff that demanded some hand to foot to hand scrambling before bouldering down the other side. And there it was, the Yaquina Head lighthouse. Just like in the postcards. Jutting out at the edge of the rock, blinding white and perfect, a nostalgic spin of light. The Ranger counted out the signature: “1234567891011121314 flash 123 second flash.”
“The locals say this lighthouse is haunted. What do you think?
“Of course it is.” The Ranger pulls his hood up to warm his ears. “They all are. I take care of the one at Heceta Head, and I definitely feel something there, a woman, a sad woman.”
At the edge of the cliff, I held fast to the railing to keep from being blown backwards by the huffing wind. The sun melted as it hit the water, flattening and waning, until all that was left was a long orange streak sandwiched by a layer of blue, the last flick of a summer day. A family of pelicans hung suspended in the air, pinned against the flaming sky.
“Look to the left of the largest sea stack.” The Ranger, he stands behind me and points over my shoulder. I can feel his breath on my frozen ear.
In the near distance, a pod of gray whales, maybe five, blow their way around the point, rising and falling in an off beat. The guy promised whales at sunset and there they were. I admit, at that point in my life I didn’t much believe in men stepping up, delivering on a promise.
“Nice job, Ranger. So what happens next? You know, in the story.”
“A kiss. This is where the Ranger leans over and kisses the Professor so the story can go on.”
I frowned, not sure I was comfortable with this narrative arc.
He opens his arms. “Come on. It doesn’t get any better than this. You’re at a lighthouse, the gem of the Oregon Coast. At sunset. Whales. Two strangers. There’s got to be a kiss.”
He had a point. It was worth risking the cliché. His nose was cold. Mine was colder. But the kiss was warm and shy. Like teenagers. Like starting over.

Now, two months later, I admire that lighthouse everyday, outside the kitchen window. When I finally told the Ranger I wasn’t really a 33-year-old college professor, he looked like a man who’d just taken a bullet to the chest. His eyes widened as the bubble popped: marriage & children, Crate & Barrel. Gone. But to his credit, he recovered quickly, shrugged away my apologies and said, “We’re good together. I still want you here with me. Let’s just leave it at that.”
And we have. But he doesn’t entirely trust me. Once, he was supposed to pick me up from yoga class, but the woman at the front desk gave him bad information, confusing me with another woman with the same name so when she said “She left with her boyfriend a few minutes ago. You just missed her,” the Ranger got in his car and drove away. But who can blame him. My line between truth and fiction has always been pretty blurry. It’s what’s made me so good at advertising. It’s why I didn’t turn my car around and head south toward the sun and home despite Pen flying out for a week to try and talk some sense into me.
“This is your sneaker wave, Dude. Didn’t you see the sign on 101? Never turn your back on the ocean.”
“I’m not saying The Ranger and I have a future or that…”
“Of course you don’t have a future. You’re on the road. This is what happens when you travel. You should see the morsel I picked up in Guatemala ten years ago. Name was Paulo, Pablo, something like that. Had a great time. Got our passports stamped plenty, but back in the states, it was over. This guy, this Ranger, he’s only as good as the Oregon Coast. It’s so damn beautiful here, it would be a shame not to have a fling. And that’s all this is, a fling. You’re in it because he’s the complete flip side of your X. But come on, you guys don’t have the bones to go the distance, you said so yourself. He’s never read a book, can’t talk politics, and thinks your second language is Mexican. He’ll never be able to keep up with you.”
This is when Pen frightens me the most. When she sounds exactly like the voice inside my head, a frontal lobe standing in front of me wearing a skull t-shirt, designer jeans and black, leather boots.
“But I love him.” Oh God, I sound like one of those characters from daytime television, standing in the drawing room by the fire, clutching a gilded photograph to my breast.
Pen rolls her eyes and grabs her purse. “Snap out of it. What you need is to go shopping. Seeing you slumped there wearing fleece and fingerless gloves just creeps me out.”

Standing at the bedroom window, I watch the Ranger wield an ax and am overwhelmed with the happy childhood memory of always wanting to be Laura Ingalls Wilder in gingham dresses and shiny braids. Feeling my eyes on his back, he looks up and waves, a smile lighting his face. He’s never angry for long. Not like the Surgeon who could snap a computer keyboard in half and slam every door in the house before settling into a week-long sulk. I’ve just now stopped flinching.
Yet, between the outbursts were long stretches of brilliance. What I can’t say is this: I miss my ex-husband’s incredible mind, the hot white light that was his brain, like boiling glass before the glassblower turns it to beauty. I miss the tall stack of books on his side of the bed, everything from urban planning and environmental policy to medical journals, Richard Ford, the history of WWII and how-to books on veneering. I miss him shouting his tree-hugging, Green Party propaganda at the TV during political debates, his steamed, articulate letters to the editor, the way he could watch Battlestar Galactica and read a four-inch text on colon cancer, at the same time, following both storylines.
His smarts still made me laugh, even at the very end, before things got so deadly, when we were sitting at a café with our real estate agent preparing to sell the house.
“Sir, what would you like to drink?”
“An Arnold Palmer.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, half lemonade, half ice tea.”
“Oh, of course. Here, we call that a Fuzzy Zoeller.”
“Call it whatever you like, just don’t call it a Louis Pasteur.”

After the wood is stacked, the trash can pushed to the road, and the dishwasher emptied, we take a run into town for groceries. At Fred Meyer, our cart looks like a prankster lives there. The Ranger reaches for ground round. I reach for tofu. The Ranger reaches for Cheez Its, I reach for kale. We agree on French roast coffee, organic cheese, red wine.
At the check-out line, the old man in front of us is struggling. His back stiff and unyielding, he can’t quite reach into his cart to unload it so the Ranger steps up and without saying a word, takes everything out and stacks it neatly on the conveyor belt. At first the old man looked frightened, but then he smiled, nodding in my direction.
“You did a nice job raising your son, ma’am. Looks big and tough, but I can tell he’s got a good heart.”
The Ranger laughs but his cheeks burn pink. I clap my hand over my mouth, a nervous reaction – really, I don’t know what to say -- and feel tears fill my eyes which, more than anything, pisses me off. Shit. We pay the cashier. We load the car. We buckle up. We drive off. In silence.
“He’s right, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” The Ranger turns south on 101 instead of north towards home.
“I am too old for you.”
“Since when do you care what people think?”
I snap because I find his calm infuriating. “It’s easy for you. You’re the young, handsome dude. I’m the one people judge. The predator. Mrs. Robinson, lurking near the playground, waiting to pounce.”
“Who’s Mrs. Robinson?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, forget it.”
The Ranger slaps the steering wheel. “Why are you mad at me? What did I do?”
“You were born in 1981. That’s what you did. And some day soon you’re going to meet a nice girl with a sassy flip in her hair who will pop out a handful of children, and you’ll all live in a tidy house by the sea, kitchen knobs courtesy of Restoration Hardware. I can see it now -- weekend barbeques with potato salad and sporks where all the neighborhood kids run around, wading in and out of the inflatable pool. And this will all be just a pleasant memory of that fall, that winter you spent with this faded hippie who showed you the ins and outs of cooking a mean bouillabaisse and who never once demanded anything of you. But you better enjoy it now, buddy, because if there’s one thing I know about wives, it’s that we are a pain in the ass.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. Just parks the car at the trailhead for Seal Rock, turns off the engine and gets out, quietly clicking the door shut. I follow him down the path to the bluff. The tide is in and winter storms have pushed 20-foot swells to shore where they smash the jagged sea stacks that line this half-mile of coastline. My favorite beach, which is, of course, why we’re here.
Leaning his forearms against the rail, he finally speaks. “Are you breaking up with me? Is that what this is. Because I’ve heard this speech before and I got to admit, Honey, I don’t know what it means, except maybe that you’re breaking up with me.”
I sink my head into my hands. “Please God, don’t call me your ‘girlfriend.’ You have no idea how old that makes me feel. And how demoted.”
“You know this isn’t easy for me either. My brother calls me ‘boy-toy.’ You are not easy. Hell, I don’t know what I want. But you don’t either.” He tugs his sleeves down over his hands, fighting the chill. “Maybe I choose you. Every day I choose you. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
I stuff my numb hands into my jacket. And in the left pocket, an agate, cool and smooth fills my palm. One of the promises the Ranger made when I took a leap of faith and showed up with a single suitcase and an exit strategy. Holding the stone up to the dying sun, I admire its quiet amber glow. “They hold magic,” he told me once, “it’s up to you to figure out how to use them.”
I find agates in my pant pockets, my socks, at the bottom of my coffee cup, under my pillow, in my curled hand when I wake in the morning. And I know this is how he says he loves me.
I lean my forehead against his chest and breath deep. He smells like citrus soap and sweat. “I don’t know how to be a girlfriend. I can’t even unpack my one bag.”
He wraps his arms around me and I feel the pull in his strength. Here there is no comparison. This man, his heart is soft and spacious, wider, taller than a stack of books. When I’m late coming home, he waits at the end of the dirt road, shouldering the fog and the rain.
“What would you like me to call you then?”
I tug his sweathshirt with both hands, bringing his face down to mine. And I kiss him long and hard until I have an answer.

Frequently Asked Questions Answered

2008-05-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

Does the Ranger read what you write before you post it on the blog? Answer: No. He likes his breakfast to stay put.
Does he get upset when he reads personal things about himself, like the fact that he sings when he poops? Answer: No. He's a remarkably good sport.
Has he ever been offended by your tone? Answer: Only by the possibility that I might use words like, "blow job" or "lickety biscuit," or that I might relate the incident now famously dubbed the "slipper slap." And he was a bit peeved by a vague reference to a lack of environmental stewardship in Pennsylvania. He would like to state, for the record, that folks in Johnstown DO, in fact, recycle.
Does your ex-husband read your blog? Answer: I have no idea. But if he does, I'm sure he's planning on giving his high-priced divorce attorney a huge Christmas bonus.
If you didn't have the Ranger to write about, what would you focus on? Answer: Probably, my own bowel movements.
Are your parents shocked by some of the things you write? Answer: When my mother reads the blog, she shakes her head, slams a tumbler of Crown and Seven, pumps her fist in the air and shouts, "Fuck yeah, that's my girl." My father has a cold compress on his forehead at all times.
Is there anything, anything at all that's off limits? Answer: The sex life of my friends. For now.
Are you really that bitter or is that just part of your facade: Answer: I'm only bitter on Wednesdays. The other six days, I stay heavily medicated.
Will you ever return to New Mexico? Answer: Never say never. But I'm kinda fond of the moss growing up my legs. Keeps me from having to shave.
Are you really a hockey fan? Answer: Let's just say, that whenever the Penguins win a game, I want to lick the Ranger's face as if he were suddenly transformed into a pound of crisp bacon.

And the most frequently asked question: How much of this is true, and how much do you make up? Answer: Stay tuned.

Sunday Supper: Hunters, Gatherers and Wives

2008-05-12T16:12:00.000-07:00

I was raised by two feminists so the idea that I belong in the kitchen...well, that's a part I've chosen for myself. Living in a house of men, it's easy to slip into the role of wife. Everybody's wife. Oh please don't say Mom even though I KNOW you're thinking it.

One roommate will come home with fresh harvested clams and gapers so I make fritters. We are big fans of bivalve mollusks here and not just because they spark debates like this, "Vagina or Penis? Dude, it's so obviously a vagina or has it been THAT long?" Another will throw an armload of sandy, stinky palm seaweed on the counter, so I begin to stir-fry. And yet another will land a ling cod while fishing off the nearby rocks of Yaquina Head. Dinner is served. Yes, I've turned into "Ma" from Little House on the Prairie. Tree House by the Sea?

Gaper meat before it's beaten with a baseball bat and softened.

Truth is...I like being a wife. Nine of the 10 years I was married to the Surgeon were pretty great. The 10th year sucked dick. And the protracted legal battle called Divorce was the end of my gastro-intestinal system as we know it. But still, I like feeding men. And when they're young and handsome and oh-so appreciative, that's even better.

Still, I think my parents would be a bit disappointed. For a man who came of age in the 50s, my father was remarkably enlightened. Back before Title 9 was widely recognized or even enforced there was Pops, President of the New Mexico Board of Education. When a girl from Roswell was denied a spot on the boy's golf team, she took her case to Santa Fe for a full hearing. The board was split, four members agreed she should play with the boys, four voted No Way Jose. The decision was up the president. He issued a one sentence statement: "Girls desire fair play and competition as much as boys, so to deny them an earned place on the team is not only illegal, it's immoral."

And that was the beginning of Nancy Lopez' illustrious career. Pops never told me that story. She did. When I was living in New York and working for Golf Digest. It was part of her speech when she was inducted into the Hall of Fame.

As for Mom, she can only be described as The Original Ball-Buster. OBB ran a tight ship at work as well as at home. As an advocate of top-notch, accessible health care regardless of ability to pay, she wasn't always popular among the 250 doctors, nurses and support staff she ruled over up until her recent retirement. When she fired an Orthopedic Surgeon for failing to work up to her standard, he snapped, pulled out a handgun and threatened to shoot her. In typical OBB fashion, she said, "Go ahead, asshole, make my day," then grabbed her purse and huffed out of the room, her three-inch heels clickety-clacking down the empty hallway. Later that night, over a dinner of Kraft spaghetti and meatballs, she shared these sketchy details. We all dropped our forks, mouths agape so she shrugged and added, "He didn't have the guts. I could tell."

So how do I explain the fact that I'd rather be in the kitchen cooking than pretty much any place else? That I cook when spoken to. At the drop of a hat. Round every corner. For no good reason. Yeah, I like the rituals of the kitchen, the discoveries, the chance to make something out of nothing. But mostly I like this: That moment when every one sits down at the table, inches forward in anticipation, inhales the good flavors in front of them and pauses, right before the dig-in. In that pause, that brilliant pause, each of us knows. Anything, everything is possible.

What Dreams Are Made Of: The Chef Revealed

2008-05-07T21:19:00.000-07:00

To begin again. With new dreams. New accessories. In this second half, I made myself a promise. No compromising. I would make my way in the world doing what I love: yoga, writing, cooking. A passionate trifecta. And we swore we wouldn't fall back on the familiar: advertising or health care or marrying a doctor. It was time to trust the Universe. Dress the part (yoga pants and stretchy tank with built-in shelf bra) and the job will show up to match the outfit.

And so it goes...when you stick to your dreams, you are drawn to people who stick to theirs. Many of you have asked, "Is The Chef really a chef?" Yes, indeed. And next week, after months of recipe testing in our kitchen and suffering a nasty hand burn at Sunday Supper, he'll set sail. Welcome Chef Jesse Otero, culinary master (aka: control freak) behind 44 Degrees, the swanky main ingredient inside the cushy doors of the Whale Cove Inn.

The View from our table.

We volunteered to help taste-test the new menu because, once the doors open to the public, we're quite sure a four-top will be impossible to snag. And our wallet, being a bit thin these days, won't be able to wrap its head around actually having to pay. So after much lint brushing, hair washing, tobacco spitting, and a review of "no elbows on the table," the four of us pulled up forks and Jesse pulled off five courses.

A grilled semolina cracker with apple-onion chutney. Nice architecture, a good mix of crunchy and soft. Tasty, but more spice, please, to balance the sweet. As a kick-off, we want a surprise in our mouth (and not the usual kind).

Whole-wheat ravioli of crab and avocado with brown butter sauce and ginger sauteed broccoflower. Outstanding! We whipped our starchy white napkins in the air like the hockey fans we are. Looked for the ginger, but loved the bits of fried garlic.

Seared loin of Oregon lamb with pistachio pesto, citron marinated kale and chorizo potato puree. After one bite of the potatoes, we dropped the silverware, grabbed the ball of it and shoved the whole thing in our mouth. This home-boy didn't stray from his Nuevo Mexico roots. Los abuelos would be muy proud! While the lamb was perfectly done and the pesto dreamy, the kale made us pouty because we like our bitter greens to remain earthy, like dirt but without the grit. These were too citron sweet and a bit gray from overcooking, but after a bout of finger-wagging and later, a spanking, we trust this veggie will return to its former glory. Unless he really LIKED that spanking.

Aussie Girl ordered the Ahi tuna and the two got along swimmingly.

Goat cheese garnished with radish sprouts and a strawberry vinaigrette. Yum. Such a happy little plate. Perhaps some crunch, too. Macon almonds? Paper-thin slices of Granny Smith?

Caramelized banana tart with cinnamon ice cream. Delicious. It's hard to resist a treat made by a man clutching a blow torch, even if he is fully clothed (long story). When Second Edition couldn't quite crack the nut on what was giving that thin crust such a mellow, crumbly flavor and the Ranger piped up with, "it's the ground hazelnuts in the dough" well, I just wanted to reach across the table and jump his bones right then and there. Is there anything sexier than a man in touch with his taste buds?

Thank you, Steve, the big gun behind the Bay House, for making 44 Degrees possible. We're sorry about the wine stains, the freaked-out waitress, the filched bathroom fixtures and the bits of broken glass in the potted bamboo. Sometimes, we get carried away. Because we don't get out much. And we're drawn to shiny objects. Next time, we'll wear a helmet.

Sweet Success. Congrats, Chef. Can we pinch your cheeks, now?

Sunday Supper: Making Room

2008-05-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

Thinking of mortality today as my dad undergoes heart surgery, not the crack-the-chest kind, more of the up-the-femoral-artery variety. Always the push-pull of wanting to be there, but needing to be here. Sobered by the never-too-far reality that my people have struggling hearts. Yet Sunday Supper continued. This time, however, we opened the doors to the breezy deck, added a leaf to the table and made room for new faces, new appetites.

Neighborly Oysters, grilled and served with butter, white wine,
a butt-load of roasted garlic and thyme.

Years ago, rich with New York advertising money, I splurged on a trip to the Yucatan and a fancy resort, flying my parents in to join me so they, too, could be impressed by my success. My mom loves her morning sleep, but my father rises before the sun and, trying to be quiet, dressed quickly and snuck out of the suite. I followed shortly after, also restless. No sign of him on the beach. Or pool. Or restaurant. Not in the spa, the club room, the sweeping veranda. And then I heard his familiar break away laughter. Pushing open an "Employees Only" door to the kitchen, there he was with the cooks, the dishwashers, and a couple maids enjoying a plate of scrambled eggs and regaling his new audience in flawless Spanish. He ate breakfast with the crew every morning after that. It was always this way when we traveled together. A shared supper at the taxi driver's house. An invitation to a lonesome businessman to join our table. His ticker might be flawed, but it was always spacious. He collects people, my father, because every slice of life is interesting to him and he's never doubted the possibility that skin deep, we are all exactly alike.

A lesson learned here in a new town, far from the familiar, where the smiles are not as sunny nor the sky very apparent. The Chef we found at a wine shop. Aussie Girl was picked up in Yoga, along with The Gardener. The Scientists were discovered while hiking the China Creek trail, their dog happily nuzzling our dog. Neighbors were invited, the grill fired up, party shirts ironed. And so it began. The cocktail science of mixing and measuring, stirring and shaking.

The Scientists tossed in a mixed green salad with
roasted beets and candied walnuts.

Ditalinis (God, I love saying that!) with asparagus, grape tomatoes,
pesto, pine nuts and watercress.

Cannelinis, red onion, lots of parsley, eggs and kalamatas tossed with a
splash of lemon, a grassy green olive oil and scallions fresh from the garden.

What you don't see is the Ranger, sweating at the grill, as he marched through Ahi tuna steaks and burgers dressed with sauteed mushrooms, roasted onions and swiss cheese. Or the four dogs underfoot takin' some lovin' wherever they could get it.

Even with a tipple of optimism, most certainly half my life is over. And although world peace was not accomplished, nor a shelf of novels written, or important research contributed...I hope my legacy is this: Second Edition knew how to make room because deep down, we are all exactly alike. And we're always hungry.

Some Like It Hot...with mustard

2008-04-29T15:02:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of sex talk around the tree house lately. And not just because we're checking Peplove every half hour to see who's "on call." Maybe because it's spring. Or maybe because Mia busted in on me and the Ranger unexpectedly and her poor, doggy eyes nearly popped out of her undersized head, "Holy Crap, that's where puppies come from." She's been twitching in her sleep ever since.

After that last post, Seattle and I were chatting about the extremes some folks go to just to get off which of course, led to a discussion about what makes us Hot. "Hey, after 25 years of marriage, a nicely cooked pork chop and a good bottle of red does it for me," she said. Fair enough. So, it's a throw down. What makes you Hot?

Here's mine:

A man who can call in a chopper. We were walking the beach on a sunny Sunday when several of us spotted what looked like a floater, a body in the surf. The Ranger pulled out his cell phone and within minutes, an orange Coast Guard helicopter flew low and hovered to check it out. Fortunately, it was just a loose buoy.
When the Ranger says, "Honey, I know you're always writing something in your head which means this (and here he gestures wildly, taking in our whole...well, life) is all just material to you, so you're probably a little bit crazy, but I love you anyway." Probably?
Beach fires built from drift wood. A camp supper served on a Frisbee. An ax in the trunk. No way to change a tire, but yes, there's an ax.
A canoe on a lake in the middle of a steamy summer day with one Ranger paddling in front and another in back, both with their shirts off while I sit on a cooler of cold beer, a basket of food at my feet. I wanted to shout, "Jesus Lord, I'm middle-aged, still wearing a bikini, sitting between two hot young guys and somewhere here there's a bong." But what I really shouted was, "God, I love being divorced." Despite the bee stings, concussion and near drowning, it was a great day.
Watching the Ranger toss pizza dough. It's a marvel. Flying up in the air and landing handsomely in his big, rough hands.

I'd love to write more...the list goes on and on, but dinner is served, pepperoni pizza with roasted shallots and a salad of arugula, watercress and parsley tossed with shaved Parm and a lemon vinagrette.

Your turn.

Till Death Do Us Part

2008-04-24T08:14:00.000-07:00

The X called yesterday to say he's back in the country. Even though I didn't really know he was out of the country. We don't keep track of each other, or enjoy friendly conversations about anything other than say, mutual funds, so most likely this polite checking-in is part of his new commitment to me.

You see, his job now is to kill me. Should such a need arise. Who better to pull your plug, I ask, than your former spouse, who will most certainly be motivated and will not suffer from "oh, but she might wake up some day and respond droolingly to a balloon bobbing above her head, if we just keep her on life support a little longer. Just a little."

Shortly after my brother died, the rest of us got busy planning our own deaths. One thing I knew for sure from Edward's funeral...I did not want an open casket where friends and relatives could stroke my waxy cheek, fluff my molded hair and wiggle rosaries between my fingers. I needed someone who could follow my wishes without faltering, who wouldn't buckle under the pressure of my Crisis-Catholic family and who had the medical knowledge to bully other doctors into cashing in the chips. I needed a real son-of-a-bitch. Of course, I knew just the man.

"Wouldn't you rather give this kind of power to someone who's actually in your life?" he asked.

"That's exactly it. You won't be sentimental about it. This will be just another medical decision."

"Well, I don't know about that."

"You don't have to give me an answer now. Just think about it."

He joked, "Your family is pretty persuasive. Maybe I'll just leave you as a potted plant. Ever think of that?"

I had thought of that. What sweet revenge, that special prison -- making someone live inside a body that can't possibly house them. But I know, as only a wife can, that above all else, the X is a doctor, an excellent doctor, more comfortable with the dirty work of death than the slippery slope of life. That's one oath I know he can keep.

What's the Ranger think of this? Frankly, he's relieved. At night, when he's sound asleep and I'm still staring at the ceiling, he wraps his arms around my waist and mutters, "goodness gracious" and in that moment of pure unconscious love, I know he could never let me go.

One holds tight. The other releases. I am so grateful. For both.

Indeed, Boys Do Make Passes...

2008-04-22T09:03:00.001-07:00

...at girls who wear glasses. Recently overheard at dinner:

"I've been thinking I should get that laser surgery. You know, the one for eyes. Wearing glasses in this weather is a drag."

"Really? Huh."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic. Don't you think I'll look better?"

"Well...I suppose. It's just that..."

"Just what?

"It's just that...that, I think your glasses make you look hot."

"Hot? Seriously? You don't think I look like a librarian?"

"Well, yeah, but that's kind of the point. You're the librarian...and I'm...I'm the guy who's late returning his books."

"Ahhhh, you've been bad."

"In fact, I think I wrote in some of those books. In ink."

"Oh that's bad. Very bad. You need to be punished."

"Check!"

Sunday Supper: Spring Cleaning

2008-04-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

Even though it snowed last night, we woke to a big hard sun shining through the sea pines. Hustling to beat the next cloudburst, we pulled on our fleece and hats for a run up the bluff with the pup, humming Old Crow Medicine Show tunes while tossing snowballs. For breakfast, the Crab Festival in Depot Bay. Seafood for breakfast? Yeah, baby...washed down with chocolate sundaes.

Me With Crabs

In the afternoon, we went our separate ways. The Ranger weeded his garden: mustard greens, peas, scallions, radishes, carrots, spinach, broccoli and barrels of herbs. And I watched from the porch. With a glass of Sauvignon Blanc...nothing says spring like SB. "Hey, you missed a spot."

I used to be such an enthusiastic gardener back in my doctor's wife-life. The big Nob Hill house enjoyed an abundant grape arbor, a small orchard of peaches and pears, rosemary bushes the size of Mini Coopers and terraces of lavender, thyme, and prickly pear. But like so many other things in this Second Edition, I've decided I'm done. Done with gardening and refurbishing an old house; no more grout or paint rollers or building sun shades. Friends tell me this is a passing phase, that I'll recover my desire to nest, but really I think I'm inherently lazy and would rather watch the Ranger take off his shirt and hoof it through the mud.

I may eat a lot, but I'm traveling light these days. When the Surgeon and I split, I was offered half the furniture, half the art work, half the garden tools. But all I packed were my books, clothes, music, Calphalon pots and pans, a set of Japanese knives and the Le Creuset dutch oven. (And oddly, the Surgeon's bed from graduate school...but that's a whole other post.) Even the closet full of Coach handbags ended up at the local women's shelter (The Chef finds this incredibly amusing). I wasn't being virtuous or generous or reaching for a Zen Buddhist state. I was simply exhausted. My give-a-shit muscle had snapped.

Oh, and as I recently discovered, I took a box of clippings. Throughout my marriage, I'd kept a file of recipes that I'd cut from all the magazines I used to subscribe to: Saveur, Bon Appetit, Cook's Illustrated, Gourmet. I had tapped a few dishes for dinner parties, marked several with ** that were the Surgeon's favorites, but for the most part, the clippings remained neatly organized and untouched, not unlike me inside the recipe box of my marriage.

It seemed a waste.

So today I got cooking. From the archives.

For lunch, a warm lentil salad with carrots, celery, shallots, lots of garlic and parsley tossed with a zippy mustard vinagrette. Then on over to Italy for a thrown together Caprese.

For dinner, a hash of roasted butternut squash, wild mushrooms, onion, garlic, sage, and thyme, tossed with pasta, ricotta, asiago and tons of parsley. I'm suffering from parsley passion these days. Plus, the secret ingredient that made all the difference. Lemon confit, courtesy of Cindy's Delicious Durango kitchen. You gotta love friends who send supplies.

What to keep? What to throw away? Isn't that what spring cleaning is all about? Me, I'm keeping my distance from the garden until harvest time. And I'm throwing away the archives. Okay, maybe only half of them. Seems I don't really need comfort foods anymore.

Portland: The Summary

2008-04-18T17:03:00.000-07:00

Five Things We Loved:

The Kennedy School, (see above art) a mecca for slacking whether you're an overnight guest, musician, artist or you're one of those people who hops the fence at night to strip down for the hot tub soak (or so I've heard).
Foodies. Portland folk love to eat and eat well. The average kitchen is stocked with foraged mushrooms, organic vegetables grown in the Valley, homegrown herbs (the culinary and the illegal variety), free-range critters, microbrews, wine and Wickles.
Mt. Hood. That gorgeous peak that looks like a screen saver, snow covered, illusive, haunting and enduring. A killer of climbers, a lover of myths.
Rush hour. I don't know if it's the whip-smart urban design or all those people on foot but the only traffic jam I saw was at Hopworks Urban Brewery. And speaking of transportation, I love the airport, PDX. I go there just for the sushi.
The Willamette Weekly -- finally a broadsheet worth reading. Other cities, take note, like say, The Alibi.

Five Things We're Happy to Leave Behind:

Tattoos. Everyone, and I mean everyone has an arm full, leg full, chest full. Enough already. Can we move on to a new cliche, please?
Bitching about Seattle. "It's too expensive, too much traffic, too snobby, too this, too that." blah. blah. blah. The Emerald City is still the Queen to your princess. Deal.
People who boast about selling their car so they can bike to work or take public transit. Good for you, you greener-than-thou-douche-bag, but I'll stick to my sleek, fast, fossil-fuel consuming, duel exhaust silver rocket that makes me Hot just thinking about it.
No good pizza by the slice. None. The Rose City needs more disgruntled New Yorkers.
The lack of diversity. It's easy to be a white liberal. Now, show me a brown liberal. That's something to be proud of.

Anything I left out of either list?

Sunday Supper: Samosas We Have Known

2008-04-15T21:18:00.001-07:00

Food is evocative. It just is. There's no such thing as an innocent samosa. Or oyster. Or enchilada. Memories return like smoke, like it or not. The last time I saw Philip alive, he was skinny and exhausted, unable to eat, but still in the kitchen. He piled my plate with samosas, mango chutney and a smear of ghee because he claimed, "You are too damn thin, too thin, my dear. Eat. Eat." Thin because I was hoping to disappear. Thin because being dumped and an ex-wife weren't nearly as glamorous as I'd hoped. Even new accessories, the handbag and laptop, didn't fill the holes of desperate, gaping loss. Philip fed me out of a lifelong belief in the restorative power of food, yet after he died, every samosa tasted like hope misplaced, like the salty brine of ships lost at sea.

So when The Chef decided to come over and crack the nut of the thorny samosa, I said, "Have at it, but you're on your own." Spices were ground with mortar and pestle, the oil heated just so, the dough rolled and shaped, potatoes peeled, wine consumed. By the time Aussie Girl showed up with pups to carpet the floor, he was ready for his close-up. I nibbled, chewed slowly, then stuffed the whole thing in my mouth...amazing. Delicious. The best samosa I've ever had. And suddenly I was full, for the first time in a long time.

Things are looking up.

Peeling the Onion

2008-04-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

Our last day in Portland. So sad. But ready to return to the ocean and the puppy dog. The Neighbor showed up and asked us to bunk with him and a friend who lives there in the Alberta District, a stones throw from the Kennedy School so really, how could we refuse to dwell for a day and a night amidst such hipness.

We've known our dear Neighbor for some time now, sharing meals and beach fires and more than one holiday feast. He helped Second Edition haul 30 boxes of books up a flight of stairs and often takes the puppy dog to the beach when we're just too whooped. He even introduced us to our first dine and dash experience and just last week thankfully caught us when we fell out of a tree. You think you know someone, and then they surprise you.

I've always believed that who people are in the kitchen is much more true than who they are in the bedroom. How one hands the other a knife or a jar of spice, whether the elbows poke or snugly press, who sautes and who chops, who wipes and who lets things fall to the floor. It's the dance. Strangers or lovers, friends or acquaintances, family or co-workers. Even soon to be comrades. All comes out in the choreography of the kitchen.

Saturday morning, the Ranger and I were lured downstairs by the smell of brewing coffee and frying sausage which is just too much to bear no matter how much that pillow calls. The Neighbor and his friend -- let's call her Lovely because she is -- were already hard at it, their bathrobes swooshing to and fro. And there it was like a lightening bolt: The Neighbor is in love. Deeply, warmly, perfectly in love. It was the way he opened the pickle jar for her after he saw her struggling and then fed her one of the spicy, tangy slices.

Good Lord, The Neighbor, the consummate bachelor, the flirtatious bar fly, he's in love. I never even bothered learning the names of his dates because...the trade out was always so quick.

My happily-ever-after self just wants to fold these two into a ziplock so that no one can escape. Together, they made us amazing egg, sausage, french bread, sharp cheese mountains of goodness washed down with splashy mimosas. The minute my fork pierced that delicately cooked egg yolk, I knew they were done for.

Later, after the Lovely left for work, I said, "Dude, you obviously love that girl. What are you going to do about it?" he answered, "I could never live in the city and she could never live in the country."

Sorry, but this just makes me roll my eyes. Make it work, people, make it work. Because when you find someone who belongs in your kitchen, can your heart be far behind?

Misfits and Fugitives and the People Who Love Them

2008-04-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

The Chef has come to town! Who better to take me on a culinary tour of PDX than Mr. FoodLust himself. He was barely recognizable, lurking in the cookbook section at Powell's City of Books looking so urban and urbane, in tweed, plaid, stripes and cuffs. All together. We're used to each other in our Fish Town apparel (me in dog-hair covered fleece, him in a Mr. Rogers sweater vest).

Although The Chef spent the morning shopping for industrial pots and pans (I was at yoga being virtuous), the afternoon was spent sipping, sampling and dishing about the mysteries of work we're passionate about and people who make us wonder about the roots of passion. Of course, cocktails were involved. Mine was muddled, his was pretty. It takes a real man to order a girly drink and really, I have nothing but respect for the guy.

Settled into a street-side booth at Andina with drinks and tapas, it was hard to imagine what it must be like to sit at a desk, in a cubicle, eating a tuna fish sandwich and wishing for a better cable package at home. Or at least a better spouse. It was one of those drizzly afternoon moments when your realize how extraordinarily lucky you are to be You living this life with good food and good company. Nothing more complicated than that.

Thus is the life of red-headed stepchildren. The Chef and I have decided that Oregon and New Mexico share the same time-space continuum, that one begets the other, that both harbor the people we're most drawn to, fugitives and misfits. He and I both have family roots in New Mexico, but can't imagine living anywhere but Fish Town. And when our waitress with the lovely Spanish pronunciation beguiled us with her flashing eyes and menu tips, The Chef made his case by asking her if she'd ever lived in New Mexico. Of course she had. For seven years.

Evidence abounds: Aussie Girl, one of our favorite people, grew up in Albuquerque. The waiter at Pok Pok, a graduate of St. Pius High School. The quirky keynote speaker at the Ranger's Portland conference, a resident of Placitas. Can it be? That the burning light of the high desert eventually finds relief in the cloudy goodness of Oregon? It's a working theory, worthy of a Ph.D thesis, but why think when you can drink. And eat small, luscious plates of paper thin Ahi tuna, and yuca in peanut sauce.

For dessert, we wandered across Burnside to Cacao for shots of dark chocolate mixed with cayenne and paprika where we learned about artisanal techniques and the headstrong ways of chocolatiers when they pursue a rare and fabulous bean. Archaeologists with rarefied taste buds, that's really the only think I can equate it to.

The day ended the way it began, looking up at the ceiling. No, not at the Fleebag Inn at the end of airport runway #27, but at Hopworks Urban Brewery, where the grains are organic and the t-shirts super soft. And everything's a little bit blurry. Cheers to misfits.

The Dessert That Changed My Life: Le Pigeon

2008-04-09T08:17:00.000-07:00

Finally, my dream come true: bacon for dessert. Someone call my cardiologist and tell him, "Screw you and your pork fat moratorium, buddy. Jesus Lord, there's bacon for dessert!" We're talking an apricot, honey and cornbread cake topped with a scoop of maple ice cream and sprinkled with sizzling cubes of bacon, their greasy goodness slowly melting the ice cream. I was so shaken by my reverie that the nice couple at the table next to us had to snap the picture. My hands were trembling, my upper lip sweaty. She kept saying, "I know. I know. The first time you eat it, you know every dessert after that is just something sweet." Later, she told us we may have set a record eating that crumbly, salty pig honey (a new term, I think) in just under two minutes. The Ranger and I are nothing if not efficient.

Chances are Chef Gabriel Rucker stole a page from Voodoo Donuts, just down the street, after some ass-grabbing drunken night sous chefing around town. The Voodoo's maple bar topped with bacon strips is pretty damn good at 3 a.m. But this. This was a back fat slice of heaven.

For much of 2007, Le Pigeon and wunderkind Chef Rucker were all anybody talked about. He fit the bill for celeb Portland chef: freakishly young with sticky-uppy hair, highly tattooed arms and legs, a cooking school drop-out. At 25, he made the cover of Food & Wine magazine, named one of the ten best new chefs in the country. And then Gourmet got on board, and there went any chance of getting a reservation. But the buzz has simmered down a bit so we dropped in for some signature dishes including the beef cheeks which I had to order because I like saying "beef cheeks." And here's what's left of them, both right and left.

At first I was put off by the delivery: a huge blob of blackened meat. But that's what happens to beef after it's been simmered in red wine for 16 hours and then nestled on a little mountain of potatoes, carrots and caramelized onions. Now, Le Pigeon is a tiny storefront of a restaurant, the size of our bedroom, so when the plate was set in front of me, half the people stopped in mid sip and let out a collective "Whoa" because the smell was as intoxicating as the taste. Washed down with a bottle of something from Languedoc and Second Edition kissed her last remnants of vegetarianism adios (or is it adieu). What will the yogis think? Hell, who cares.

The Ranger ordered the skate which hugged a mash of potatoes, fennel and pork belly. Quite tasty, but no match for the huge blob of blackened meat. We've been arguing over who ordered the better dish all morning so that's a good sign.

For starters, we ordered the scallops with crab, radish, pickles and a sprinkling of pretty pink salmon eggs we enjoyed popping between our fingers (how very country bumpkin of us). A nice but forgettable dish, not unlike most blind dates. See, living in Fish Town, the Ranger and I have become shameless seafood snobs so if we don't know the captain that caught it or at the very least, the name of the boat, well then it's just not authentic. See what happens when you teach someone to fish. They bitch for a day. Everyday.

At Le Pigeon, the food is the experience, because the room is as loud as a hockey game -- not the place to romance someone or share a super secret like about, say, a rash -- and the service is just okay. When we arrived 10 minutes early (like eager puppies) we were politely told to take a walk and return at the appointed time. In other words, "Beat it, you no-name first timers with cheap haircuts and dog-hair covered fleece. You are not fit to decorate the premises." Ah, shucks.

This is just to say, that in life, as in love...it's all about dessert.

PDX Eats: Pok Pok

2008-04-08T16:28:00.000-07:00

Pok Pok is yum yum. GOD I'VE BEEN DYING TO SAY THAT. THANK YOU THANK YOU!

Okay, I'm done with the Caps key. But seriously, folks, this was delicious Thai food and we can't wait to go back. Buried deep in the Division Street neighborhood, this tiny basement eatery feels absolutely naughty, like say, if you were having an affair and wanted to eat in a dark, subterranean space the size of a Bento box where no one knows your name and doesn't much care, then this is your spot. Because the food is so damn good. And the cocktails...well now I better understand the root of THAT word.

Pok Pok is the kind of place that makes you eat and drink things you wouldn't normally eat or drink because it smacks of why-the-hell-not, a philosophy I can totally get behind. First, I had a whiskey sour, which I haven't ordered since college and that ended badly what with the rug burn on my face and me waking up on a pile of coats next to twins...but I digress. This was, however, no ordinary whiskey sour. Shaken and stirred, bourbon meets fresh squeezed lime, palm sugar and tamarind. Like a tropical party in your mouth.

Dinner was Kai Yaang, a charcoal roasted game hen (I know! I know! I never eat chicken! And I never use exclamation points!) stuffed with lemongrass, garlic, pepper and cilantro and served with a tamarind dipping sauce. The skin was lacquered and crisp, the meat juicy and flavorful. On the side, forest mushrooms tossed with soy sauce, lime, razor thin shallots, lemongrass, mint, cilantro, chiles, and toasted rice powder. I'm making this one at home. Amazingly hot. We went through two pitchers of water and a basket of sticky rice, but it was worth every gasp.

I tried to take pictures, but the Ranger kept grabbing the camera out of my hand, insisting folks in such close quarters didn't want a flash going off while trying to relax, so sadly I have nothing to show you. You'll just have to sneak over there yourself. But get there early. The line is long.