Foolery

While You Are Sleeping

When you are little you believe in Santa Claus, who comes down the chimney at night while the household sleeps, and leaves presents under your Christmas tree, all without leaving a speck of soot on the carpet or waking the dog.

You may also believe in the Easter Bunny, an animal fairy who hides brightly-colored eggs and candy and 24-ounce ales for your father in your yard.  This he does under cover of darkness, while you are asleep.

Linus Van Pelt believed in The Great Pumpkin, who, it was said, would each year select a pumpkin patch which he deemed the most sincere, and bring candy and presents to all who waited there.  At night, while Linus slept, missing that particular fairy.

Some also believe in the Tooth Fairy, who leaves you a quarter or a dollar or a tiny toy or gold certificates and mutual funds under your pillow IF you leave her the gory tooth which just fell out of your head on accident, even though you've been wiggling it for six weeks and your father threatened to get the pliers -- THAT tooth.  Also at night, while you are sleeping.

When you grow up a bit you believe in a garden variety of fairies, who hang on your walls in poster form and whom you fall asleep thinking about.  At night, while you are sleeping.

If you are very, very lucky to still be able to believe in anything once you have hit The Middle Ages, you may find a politician to believe in -- one who promises to bring you lots of wonderful things, like universal health care and tax relief.  One who doesn't break into Washington apartments at night, while you are sleeping.

But these days I believe in just one fairy, and that fairy comes in the daytime, while I am desperately trying not to fall asleep.  That fairy is The Dove Bar Fairy, and he waltzes in through your office door and gives Dove Bars to all the little office workers of the world, as long as their offices are sincere.

My office is Oh So Sincere.  I am ready.  I believe in you, Dove Bar Fairy.

Sincerely,

Foolery

A Blog Is A Blog, No Matter How Small, Dude

(Original cover stolen from this guy)

I finally posted at my other, other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins.  Yes, I know -- you've never heard of it, and that's because I write about my home, my town, my valley, there, and really?  It's pretty boring.  But I like some of what I've written there very much, so I keep feeding it, once every six months whether I need to or not.  And tonight I posted some modestly pretty pictures of trees and dirt.
So if you feel like reading anything poignant, thinky, or otherwise smart, I'm sorry, you need to go read somewhere else.  I spent my evening reading Horton Hears a Who in the manner of Cheech and Chong, instead of my usual Snotty French Waiter accent, and I'm beat.  Zees eez eet pour moi; I'm going to bed, Holmes.

Is This the Party to Whom I'm Speaking?

(Photo stolen from these guys)


[RING RING! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A TELEPHONE! RING RING!]

LAURIE, THINKING:  The phone is ringing.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Hello?

GUBBY:  Heyyyyyyy.

LAURIE, THINKING:  It's Gubby.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Whassup?

GUBBY:  Would you please post something to your blog?

LAURIE, THINKING:  Gosh, I'm flattered, Gubby -- I didn't know you liked my blog that much.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Yeah, I know, I will tonigh --

GUBBY:  BECAUSE YOU'VE GOT A LOT OF PEOPLE OUT THERE WONDERING IF YOU'VE SLIT YOUR WRISTS YET!

LAURIE, THINKING:  It was too good to be true.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Nahhh, I'm over my funk.

GUBBY, OUT LOUD:  Well, hurry up and post something.

GUBBY, THINKING:  Hey, they said "thirty minutes or less" . . .



Thank you to all of you who left such kind comments here while I had the blues.  It meant a lot to me, and I read each one (as always).  But, while I was certainly not lying in bed all day or shuffling around Elsinore holding my father's skull, I was too down to write and answer e-mails.  I felt better last night so I sat down to write -- I've got it!  A photo essay.  I have a lot of photos of my grandparents I need to look at . . .

So it turns out my funk found it's focus on my grandfather, and the Big Fat Ugly Cry that was inevitable, happened.  It could just as easily have been about cheese, which is not to take anything away from my grandfather, but rather to tell you that GIRLS ARE WEIRD.

But there's something you don't know.  While I was right in the middle of my Big Fat Ugly Cry, sitting here at my desk at the convergence of two large windows, the phone rang.


[RING RING! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A TELEPHONE! RING RING!]

LAURIE, THINKING:  It's after 10:00 -- Gubby must have mixed my number up with the pizza place.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Hello?

DAD:  Laurie, this is your dad.  What's going on out there with that car?

LAURIE, THINKING:  Huh?  What car?

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Huh?  What car?

DAD:  Whaddaya mean, 'What car?'  The police car!  Where are you?

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  I'm in the office.

LAURIE, LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW, THINKING:  Holy crap, there's a police car almost on my lawn!

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Holy crap, there's a police car almost on my lawn!

DAD:  You were in the office and you didn't NOTICE?

DAD, TO MOM:  She's right there in the office and she didn't notice the police car!  Well, I don't know what's the matter with her --

DAD, OUT LOUD:  How could you not SEE that?  It's RIGHT THERE!

LAURIE, THINKING:  He called me to harangue me for my inattention to detail.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Well, I was stoking the fire in the dining room, and then the corner between the windows hid the police car -- WHY IS THERE A POLICE CAR ALMOST ON MY LAWN?!

DAD:  That's what I called to ask you.  There was another car -- did he give him a ticket?  Oh, why am I asking you --

DAD, TO MOM:  No, she hadn't noticed.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Well, he just drove away.

LAURIE, THINKING:  This is the reason sanitariums were invented.

DAD, OUT LOUD:  Okay, good night.

LAURIE, OUT LOUD:  Good night, Dad.

LAURIE, THINKING:  Oh GAHHH, I sat right there in the window honking into a Kleenex and blubbering through my Big Fat Ugly Cry while a deputy sheriff was giving someone a stern talking to, almost on my lawn.  Maybe he didn't notice.  Maybe he'll think I was chopping onions . . . in the office.  Maybe I can say it was Chas who was crying.

I should blog about this.



Thanks again, everyone.  You are very kind and mean so much to me.

*sniffle*

Sketches of Papa

I am reminded frequently of how very lucky I am to have my grandmother's life stories, written down in her own words, to savor and remember and share.  Of course I realize this, but sometimes my readers' comments -- about never having met their grandparents or having stern families who didn't share their lore -- bring it all home to me.

I was doubly lucky.  I had all four of my grandparents, and knew them all well, until I was 22 years old.  But while I know quite a bit about my grandmothers, I know considerably less about their husbands, my grandfathers, who were both rather reticent men, at least with their grandchildren.

You may have been following my grandmother Mormor -- Esther -- on the pages of this blog, but today I want to tell you about Papa -- Carl McDonald -- her husband, and my grandfather.  Taken in single sentences, just the highlights, I think a history may be constructed from sketches.



Carl ran track at Arcata High School, apparently the mile and the half mile.  Chas tells me that these are pretty good times, especially for 1923.



Carl never ate any kind of melon, but especially watermelon.  Mormor gave us the lowdown: it seems that as a boy Carl stole a watermelon from a local farmer's patch one afternoon. He sat down to eat it even though it had been warming in the summer sun.  The combination of warm watermelon, zealous overeating and guilt must have been very powerful, because the sickness that followed the crime left Carl unable to touch melon ever again.

As a boy Carl was taught by a local Indian to paddle an Indian canoe.  That story is here.

Carl ran away from home just as he hit his teen years, yet he managed to finish grade school, high school, and college all while supporting himself.  He got his teaching credential and his masters, supported a wife and family, supplementing his income with a dance band, carpentry, and ocean fishing.



He built this home in Monterey:



My mother remembers her older brother helping to put on the roof.

Carl retired to Fort Brag, California, to hunt and fish.   He wore mostly flannel shirts.



I never saw Papa in a pair of jeans. As far as I know he owned only khaki and gray work pants.

Although he was quite an outdoorsman, Carl had a scholarly side.  Here he is playing chess with his new son-in-law of two months, Dave (who would be my father in about three years).



He also taught himself to speak Swedish, with his wife Esther's help, before they went to Sweden to meet some of Esther's relations.  While Swedish was Esther's (Mormor's) first language, she had little chance to use it.  I think their Swedish was quite limited and rather terrible, but it was their own language, just theirs, and I remember them speaking it quietly together in the evening.

Papa smoked a pipe.

Papa (Carl) and his best friend, Cliff Anderson, were extras together in the movie "The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!" which was filmed in their little west coast town of Fort Brag (and Mendocino).  Years later Papa complained about all of the hippies who elbowed to the front of the crowd in the mob scene, which was Papa's scene as an extra.  (He and Cliff were chosen because they looked like crusty old fishermen.)  Yet in the movie, who was front and center but Papa, with Cliff beside him, wearing a red checked hunting coat?  Not a hippy in sight.

Carl survived Esther by several years.  He lived out his last days in a retirement home in Chico, California.  I held his hand as his heart stopped beating.

Funky, Funky

(Photo stolen from Jordan_K on Flickr)

I have at least three posts in the works at various stages of done . . . done . . . done-itude, yet for each there is a reason I can't post it yet.  Drat.  Curses, foiled again.  See?  See how upset I am?  See how emotional?

Nope.

I can't say I'm in a depression, really, but I definitely have the blues.  I'm fine, the kids and Chas are fine . . . and yet . . .

This week, this glorious history-making week, carrying us all along on a cloud of good will and (probably) Pollyanna-ish optimism -- this week I heard five pieces of bad news within 24 hours, from very bad to tragic.  None of them directly affects me, yet taken collectively they have sapped my creative energy and cast a pall over my exuberance.  Suddenly I'm sad.

Please don't feel sorry for me because nothing happened to me.  I'm just having a hard time adjusting.  If I am going to be really honest about it, it's been since October, when the first waves of Bad News Having Little To Do Specifically With Laurie hit my shore.  My housework -- never my strong suit -- has suffered.  I stopped reading the blogs of writers and friends I adore, and I'm having a hard time concentrating for long.  That opera review took me THREE DAYS to write, and it was pretty terrible.

Also, don't worry about me; I'll snap out of it -- maybe even tomorrow.  Sometimes just saying the words aloud or writing them for all the world to see can turn the tide.  I hope so, because there's nothing quite as dull as Foolery in a funk.

So bear with me, and ignore me when I make no sense . . . no, wait, that would be most of the time . . . how about, ignore me if I begin to drool?  No, that too, would be quite a lot of the time . . . just come over, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge, throw another log on the fire, move a cat off a chair, and make yourselves at home.  I'll be out in a minute and full of piss and vinegar again real soon.

Thanks you guys -- I feel better already,

Laurie

Winter Sun

Terrible photography.  But the light has been so spectacular the last couple of weeks that I thought I'd try anyway.

This was one chilly, windy morning:



And this one was from the other evening, a very warm day.  So warm that I just can't bring myself to tell you, in case you might be holding rotten tomatoes.



The horses are 24 standardbred mares from Canada, wintering here before they go home to foal.  They're brood mares, retired from the harness racing world.  I'll get some better pictures of them soon.

Greetings From the M.A.T. Bistro

My cooking has been described as

average

passable

makes a turd

fine

and

"Hello, Hospital?"

But perhaps the definitive description of my cooking style is

stubborn

I insist on doing things the hard way.  Well, not difficult, really, so much as TIME-CONSUMING.  But just between you and me?  I really love making stuff from scratch, from whole foods.*  Even if I could get the results in a jar in one-tenth the time, I wouldn't want to.

So today I am making pasta sauce.  It's really easy and there is no real recipe, which is a bonus.  But I'll still tell you about it, because you're gonna need an excuse to listen to "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me" or "Le Show" on NPR next weekend, and here's your excuse: you've got FOOD to make!

Foolery's Extra-Chunky Marinara Sauce, Sort Of

Tools you'll need:

• a good stock pot -- this is my favorite:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

But you can use a tall stock pot if you want to -- just make sure you've got another one lying around to cook your pasta in later.

• a good chef's knife, because you'll be chopping chopping chopping

• a cutting board (see above reason)

• an outboard motor

• a long-handled mixing spoon

• a short-handled tasting spoon

• a beverage of choice, for inspiration

Ingredients, most of which are entirely negotiable:

• meat (2 diced chicken breasts, or a pound of hamburger, or a pound of ground Italian sausage, or any combination thereof).  If you're a vegetarian, I'm so, so sorry.

• olive oil

• 2-4 15-oz. cans of tomato product (I like 2 sauce and 2 diced or stewed, but you can also add a small can of tomato paste for thickness and concentrated flavor)

• one yellow onion, diced (red is too sweet and white is too hot)

• garlic, minced very fine (to taste -- I use five big cloves, but we're afraid of vampires)

• two stalks of celery, diced

• 1-3 zucchini, diced

• a buttload of mushrooms, sliced

• one bell pepper (green for color), diced

• a can of drained, rinsed black olives if you're feeling frisky, size small or sliced

• sugar (yes, sugar)

• red wine

• dried herbs, salt and black pepper to taste

Cooking the Sauce

Drizzle a little olive oil in your pot -- maybe two or three times around the bottom?  Coupla tablespoons, maybe, but I have no idea.  Brown your meat of choice.  If you have chosen ground beef and/or sausage, you'll want to drain the liquid off and give it to your skinny pets, (if you have any skinny pets) because this is PURE FLAVOR JUICE, which means, of course, FAT.  Restrain yourself.

To the browned meat add all vegetables but no herbs, spices, sugar or wine (yet).  Get that sucker bubbling, then turn your heat down, maybe to about 2 on a scale of 10, so the sauce continues to bubble and simmer just a little.

Add a bay leaf if you have one.  I don't know why.  I think it may be a trick.

Pour in some wine.  Some?  Maybe a cup?  Add a smattering of sugar.  Could be about a half teaspoon.  Less is more, but you need a bit of sugar to cut the acid from the tomatoes and the sour from the herbs, I think.  If someone has a better answer about why we put sugar in, lemme have it.

Let this simmer for anywhere from half an hour to three hours.  I'm serious.  I've done both, and while cooking it longer results in bigger flavor, I still sort of like the freshness of a short-cooked sauce.  It's always better the second day, anyway.  Use your judgment.

What I really like to do is cook it in the middle of the day, then turn it off at this point and let it stand for a couple of hours before I heat it up again and season it.  I'm sure my brother the chef would be HORRIFIED at that, and all of you health department types, please disregard what I just typed.  It's probably not ideal for food safety, but it's GREAT for letting the flavors commingle a bit.  Then I put in the herbs.



Seasoning the Sauce

I use thyme, basil, rosemary, oregano, parsley, and alfalfa.  Just kidding about the alfalfa -- seeing who's still awake.  I stink at measurements, but again, less is more.  Too much and your sauce tastes like lawn clippings.  If you must measure, start with 1/4 teaspoon, or even less.  This is where the all-important tasting spoon comes into play.  Stir that pot up and take a  taste -- need more?  Try a little more oregano and basil.  Parsley is really just to keep the dried parsley people in business, God bless 'em.  About right?  maybe a bit bland?  Before you reach for more herbs, give it a shake of salt and pepper -- one tiny shake of cayenne if you're adventurous -- and taste it again.  Oh, and remember to wash your tasting spoon between tastings.  Or not; you're probably alone in your kitchen and those skinny pets won't tell.

Once you're pretty sure you have the herbs right, add salt and pepper.  Go easy on the salt but don't skimp on the pepper.

This sauce is not particularly tomato-y because it's so chunky.  That suits my family as we're not big on red sauce.  You may want to use more tomato sauce and some tomato paste if you like really tomato-y sauce.  Also?  Don't forget to fish out the bay leaf!



This makes a huge amount, as you might imagine.  I ladle it over my pasta, mix it up, and then bag the rest in a gallon-sized freezer Zip-Loc.  Works great for lasagna later on.

Serve with a salad or something, but there are enough vegetables in this to choke a bunny, so it could almost be a one-pot meal.  As for beverages, I suggest this



or this



but avoid this

unless you, too, want to be horizontal and blurry.

Until next time, 'bye for now from the M.A.T. Bistro!**


*Okay, this includes canned tomatoes and dried spices from jars, and I don't kill any livestock, press my own wine or dig my own salt.  But other than that . . .

**So named by my friend Gubby, who is used to my cooking, and insists that "Bistro" adds the class that "Cafe" just doesn't have.

What're You Wearing, Baby?

What're you wearing?

No, not right now -- ewwwwwwwww -- I mean to the inaugural ball?

The odds are good that Mr. Obama -- by then we can call him Pres -- will be in a black tux.  Fingers crossed that Mrs. Obama won't be wearing her black widow dress again.

Gubby tells me that he'll be wearing sweats, a t-shirt, Dora the Explorer slippers, and underwear on his head.  Now that's just silly.  They don't make Dora slippers for crabby old men, Gubby.

I'll be in my typical evening ensemble: Blackwatch plaid jammie pants, pink fuzzy socks with treads, whatever shirt I wore to work, and my periwinkle fleece bathrobe (thanks Mom-in-Law) over all.  Sometimes I even change my shirt -- a turquoise wife beater t-shirt is my current favorite, and really sets off my eyes.

So what will you be wearing?  Tell me tell me tell me tell me

The Mormor Stories: Elmer Fulwider Strikes Again

With a name like Elmer Fulwider, you're bound to end up in a lot of stories, right?  Read about him sticking his foot in his mouth here, or go back and check out the first Mormor post, so you know who Mormor was and why I am sharing her almost-100-year-old stories with you.  And here is a story from about 1918:

Mormor -- Esther -- just a couple of years older than the time of this tale

I finished elementary grades in a one-room, one-teacher school at South Fork, which was about a mile and a half from the ranch if one walked the railroad track.  This school had no fenced yard, so we wandered about in the noon hour more or less as we pleased.

One noon two of my classmates suggested that we go down to the railroad wye to see Elmer Fulwider who was wiping an engine near the school.  Elmer said he had finished and now was going to take the engine down the wye to face it in the opposite direction so as to be ready for the night's run.  He asked me if I'd like to be his engineer on that trip and you can bet I would.  So I climbed up into the cab; Elmer showed me how to move the Johnson bar ever so gently, the wheels began to roll, and we were off down the track.  When we returned in about five minutes, there stood my two classmates wondering why Elmer picked a mere girl to ride in the engine when he could have chosen either of two capable boys.

My father didn't look on this event with any great favor so that ended any future engine trip.


(Photo stolen from this guy)

Mike [Laurie's cousin] said he'd bet he had the only grandmother who had driven an engine, even a short way.  I answered that I wouldn't bet any money on that.

Women did not yet have the right to vote, but no one had apparently set any rules about girls driving trains.

Dear Apple . . .

(Logo stolen from iindigo)

My friend Gubby sent me this list last night.  Give it up for Gubby, whatever THAT means, and send Steve Jobs all your best wishes for a full recovery.


Five Reasons Why I Should Be the Interim Apple CEO:
by Gubby


5.  I look good in a black mock-turtle neck.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


4.  I need the Apple employee discount to buy my next iMac.


(Photo stolen from this guy)


3.  I have a greying beard and wear small round wire glasses.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


2.  I was once fired by my grandma from a job.

Download Crickets_28aug07


and the number 1 reason why I should be the interim Apple CEO...
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1.  Never in my life have I been described as gaunt.



(Original photo stolen from Apple)


Get well soon Steve!!

Dear George, It's Been Fun

There's a sad sort of clanking
From the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too.
And up in the nursery an absurd little bird
Is popping up to say cukoo!
Cukoo! Cukoo!
Regretfully they tell us

But firmly they compel us
To say goodbye to you.

So long
Farewell
Aufwiedersehn
Goodnight
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

So long
Farewell
Aufwiedersehn
Adeiu
Adeiu Adeiu
To yieu and yieu and yieu

So long
Farewell
Au 'voire
Aufwiedersehn
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne

So long
Farewell
Aufwiedersehn
Goodbye
I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye

Goodbye!

I'm glad to go I cannot tell a lie
I flit I float
I fleetly flee I fly

The sun has gone to bed and so must I
So long Farewell
Aufwiedersehn
Goodbye--

Goodbye...
Goodbye...
Goodbye...
Goodbye...

A Corny Poem For Our Friend Bob, In Celebration of His Last Treatment!

(Photo stolen from this site)

Boy I'm glad you're almost done
Oncology's the pits
But soon you'll say, "I'm feeling great!"
As opposed to, "It's the  . . . ssssssssshave an' a haircut . . . "
Laughter must have been the key
I know it pulled you through
'Cause every time you've made us laugh
It's sent good vibes to you.
One more thing, and then I'll quit
(Usually that's a lie)
Say adios to those medical folks . . .


. . . and kiss your doctor goodbye!

(Photo stolen from this site)

With love and encouragement to one of my favorite participants here at Foolery, Mr. Bob Cleveland.  May you brighten my doorstep another 70 years, Bob, and starting today, BE WELL.

Laurie and your friends at Foolery and Laurie again

La Rondine: Love, Lust, Beer and My Soapbox

Opera, in all its forms, requires the wholesale suspension of disbelief.  Whether you're watching the 350-pound maiden play the coquette to drive all the boys mad . . .



(Photo stolen from these guys)

or the witnessing the orotund, balding tenor as he sweats like a dock worker . . .



(Photo stolen from these guys)

or even sitting through the whole Luke and Laura thing from "General Hospital," and what was THAT all about?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . we as the opera audience are asked to suspend our disbelief.

And so it was on Saturday morning when I joined my mom at our local theater for the latest Live in HD broadcast of the New York Metropolitan Opera.  It was the first New York performance in decades of Giacomo Puccini's La Rondine (which is pronounced "La RON-dee-nay").  We suspended our disbelief that this late work of the master Puccini could be almost unknown.  We suspended our disbelief that in the nightclub scene (Act II) the singers portraying the students, shopgirls and wanton women were more likely to be AARP members than Gen-Xers.  And we suspended our disbelief that, at a time when the New York Metropolitan Opera is more vibrant than ever, embracing advanced technology to reach new audiences, and staging immensely talented performers (who also happen to be svelte and attractive) -- at this point in time, our local NPR affiliate, KCHO, has chosen to drop opera from its weekly line-up.  Oh, the shame.

But enough soap-boxing for the moment . . . you came here for a story, right?




(Photo stolen from these guys)

The story is pretty much the same story as told by that awful, awful song "Never Been to Me" from 1977, and if you have the stomach, here's a link.  (I recommend laughing loudly as you watch in case there's anyone in your house who might think you enjoy that sort of thing.)  In a nutshell, the heroine Magda is a kept woman who lives the high life in Paris, but does not love her wealthy banker lover Rambaldo.  While she is comfortable and well entertained, Magda doesn't realize how unfulfilled her empty, loveless existence is, until she is reminded of a brief flirtation she had once, long ago, while she was still young and innocent.  On a lark one spring evening Magda dresses in a simple and girlish dress and sneaks out to that same nightclub of her lost encounter, Bullier's.

Up until this point the opera has been surprisingly straightforward, with not too much monkey business.  And, in fact, compared to most librettos, this one is rather unvarnished, even dull.  Still, missed connections and a lot of people turning a blind eye allows Magda to pretend to be a young shopgirl named Paulette, and she almost gets away with it.

Fake Paulette meets a charming young student named Ruggero, and within minutes they are sucking face in public.  Sounds pretty much like the nightclubs I went to in college, except that there didn't appear to be any beer bongs on stage.  Unrelated: I successfully curbed my urge to yell, "GET A ROOM!"

This story takes place in 1920s Paris and the Riviera, and every vignette looks like a slightly modern Toulouse Lautrec painting, lively and lush.



(Painting stolen from these guys)


(Painting stolen from freeparking on Flickr)


(Painting stolen from maggiedalianmaggie7 on Flickr)

On the stage, as in life, people don't usually get what they deserve.  While nobody dies in La Rondine, and Puccini opts instead for a quiet, tragic defeat of the two lovers, the story is still terribly sad in the end.

La Rondine's stars are Italian tenor Roberto Alagna (a good twenty years older than his character Ruggero, but this is opera, so never mind),


(Photo stolen from these guys)

and his real-life wife, Romanian soprano Angela Gheorghiu, who is -- gulp -- my age.


(Photo stolen from the Met)

Their voices were beautiful together in the mid-ranges, but when they aimed their voices for the rafters Laurie mentally checked out a bit -- just a bit.  The maid Lisette was played by an adorable young woman named, coincidentally, Lisette.  She was a joy.

If you don't like a lot of kissing then you may want to skip this one, as Ruggero was a lusty bugger, and I think he may have gotten to second base with his Fake Paulette right there in front of God and everybody.

And here in the cultural jewel of the North Valley, as we would have you believe, it's getting harder instead of easier to hear live opera.  Oh, the hand-wringing over lack of art and music in schools!  Oh the finger-pointing in general.  And yet, while in 2008 our local NPR station raised far more money than ever before, it chose to eliminate opera from the airwaves.  Oh, the protesting.

While I understand that a public radio station is a business, whether it's a not-for-profit business or not, and KCHO can't air the Saturday Metropolitan Opera broadcast if no one wants to hear it, I still cry bullpucky! 'scuse my vulgarity.  I accepted it, with sadness, when KCHO dropped the opera this year, because they said they needed to establish Saturday programming with a broad appeal.   Bullpucky -- she did it again!  I've been trying to listen on Saturdays, and the awful stuff they've replaced La Rondine, et al with is mostly unlistenable.  I just can't see throngs of people lining up to hear third-rate folk and world music, which I like, in theory, but which has really stunk every time I've tuned in, and jeebus, don't we have ENOUGH folk music on Sundays?

So much for our claim to culture here in the North Valley.  I can no longer suspend my disbelief.

If you have any interest in my previous opera reviews, which were much more fun and probably even less informed than this one, check out these links:

La Fille du Régiment

Juan Diego Flórez

Carmen

Il Barbiere di Siviglia

I kid, I kid, because this truly was a wonderful experience, and I highly recommend going to see the command performance of La Rondine on January 21st (tickets can be purchased on-line or at your local theater).

What Passes for Table Manners at Casa Foolery

Chas:  Hey, I got this new jerky you should try.  It's --

Laurie:  Lay it on me, Baby.

Chas:  But it's REALLY messy and oily. [He handed me a piece, which meant he stuffed the end into my mouth as I stood at the counter kneading pizza dough]

Laurie:  Mmmm, itsch awesshome.  [I couldn't use my hands, so I chewed the end of the jerky, slowly pulling the long plank of it into my mouth as I continued to knead dough]

Chas:  It's like watching a boa constrictor eat.  [He shook his head and walked away as the last of the jerky disappeared into my mouth]

Laurie:  Thankshth!


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Slim Jim! Chesapeake Bay Version

I am hard at work on a new blog post that is taking a lot of time because of research, and the fact that I threw my back out dead-lifting two sleeping children from the floor in the middle of the night.  And anyway, it seems rather gauche to follow a post about my cat's abscess with an opera review, although it also seems exactly like something I'd do . . . but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf here, so bear with me.  Opera post later today, probably.  Maybe.  Instead . . .

It's been a while since we all Slim Jim'd a blog.  I'll bet most of you have no idea what I meant by that, so here's a link to the very first Slim Jim post I did for an explanation.  And for the directions:

Let's go Slim Jim a blog.

I'll pick a blog, and we'll all show up there and leave a comment.  If you can work the words "Slim Jim" into your comment, extra points. The poor blogger will never know what hit him/her.  If all goes well, some of us will even stick around a while, and we may be invited to dinner.

Whaddaya say?

Today, folks, we're Slim Jimming Chesapeake Bay Woman's blog, Life in Mathews.

Her post today is about her Aunt Maggie, and it was largely written by her equally talented mother . . .

BUT DON'T LET HER FOOL YOU.

She coyly didn't mention it, but today is Chesapeake Bay Woman's birthday.  She is 12, I think.*  Please go Slim Jim her blog, and don't forget to tell her happy birthday.  Then nose around a bit, because that 12-year-old* can WRITE.  You'll thank me later.

Happy Slim Jimming!  And happy birthday, CBW.

*This is a lie. She's actually 23.

Vesuvius

This is my cat, Campos.  The big orange one.



Campos got an abscess on his furry face this week.  His face is so furry, in fact, that we didn't know about the abscess until it was too late, and I'll spare you the details of THAT.



Campos went to the vet yesterday for a little procedure and some drugs.  He spent the night.  I worried about him a little, especially when Chas described a few details that will throw me out of bed screaming in the future, I'm sure.  But Campos is going to be fine, even though he is a very old cat, and he's down to under eleven pounds from his peak weight of a Buick.

In a gesture of solidarity for my poor old cat, my face developed a carbuncle in exactly the same spot as Campos's abscess -- the jawline.  I named it Vesuvius.  It was large and throbbing and had developed its own microclimate.  A storm was expected to hit Vesuvius, and therefore, MY FACE, by the weekend, but I took care of business before the storm descended: I lanced the sucker.

Turns out Vesuvius was made of lava and magma and 60% of my body's available blood.  I'm a bit listless today, but Vesuvius has been conquered, the villages below have been spared, and I didn't even have to go to the vet.

Hooray.  Solidarnosk!

Campos had darned well better not get WORMS.

Stupid Human Tricks and the Stupid Human Who Misused Hers

I have a Stupid Human Trick I used to perform at parties.  Not several tricks; just one.  But in case you might think this might be bragging (AS IF), here is a partial list of my inabilities, to counter the effect:

• I have the vertical leap of a mud shark.

• I cannot confidently say or spell "sea anenome," and I am NOT looking that up.

• I learned to pronounce "anvil" from Bugs Bunny, and it makes Chas laugh, so I don't say it anymore.

Okay, that's enough of that.  I was reminded of this story today by a good friend who can't think when the cherry jar is open, shall we say.  This is for him.

When I was about 20, my childhood friend Cheryl had moved to San Francisco.  She lived in a wonderful old apartment near Golden Gate Park, with hardwood floors and fantastic natural light.  Cheryl decided to throw a party, so I drove down for the weekend.  I helped her get the food ready for the 40 or so people she had invited, and we were having the best time ever.  Neither of us drank much, so a little wine and we were rather tipsy as we prepped.

The Rolling Stones were blaring from the stereo when the doorbell rang.


(Logo stolen from this site)

"Harry!  You made it!" shrieked Cheryl as she greeted the first guest.  Harry was twice our age and had a perpetually sad expression.  He was embarrassed to be the first one to arrive, but we put him to work and gave him a drink and soon he was happy.  Happy with a sad expression.

When everything was finished, we looked around and realized that no one apart from Harry had yet arrived.  No matter; it was time for mixed drinks.  Of course, food would be necessary, so we got into some of the snacks -- but only some, since we would need lots of food when the hoards of villagers finally arrived.

Only they didn't arrive.  Harry was it.  Cheryl's boyfriend arrived, but beyond that the door didn't open again.

Time to get drunk.

I don't know whose idea the maraschino cherries were, but probably Cheryl's, because she always has enjoyed making me perform my Stupid Human Trick.  Since I am a one trick pony, you'd better keep a jar of cherries on hand if you want me to perform.

I started tying cherry stems with my tongue.  Cheryl was laughing, Harry was transfixed, and the boyfriend was probably too stoned to notice.  I think they started timing me.  I vaguely remember feeding cherries to Harry, when Cheryl took me aside to ask me what I had planned with Harry that night.  Apparently I was just shy of peeling grapes for him, so what were my intentions?

Huh?

"Harry?" I giggled.  "Harry's adorable, but he's like a hundred or something," I said, proving my youth an inexperience.

"Harry's 40," Cheryl said.

"Yeah, 'swhat I said," I slurred.  "I'm not doing anything with Harry -- are you crazy?" I scoffed.

"Well, Harry thinks you are," Cheryl warned.  "He's definitely into you."

"Oh, you must be joking," I said, dumbfounded.  "We're just having a good time, that's all."

"Laurie, you've been feeding him maraschino cherries and tying the stems with your tongue," Cheryl said, leaning on the "tongue" part.

Oh.

OH.

We went back to the living room, where I put the lid back onto the cherry jar.  Harry left soon thereafter.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Why No One Pays Me the Big Bucks

Stop me if I've told you this one.

A couple of years ago I had to conduct an on-camera interview with the owner of the Sierra Nevada Brewing Company, Ken Grossman, for my job.  Sounds fairly glamorous, right?  Well, here's what it really was: I had to ask Mr. Grossman, a pleasant man I'd never met before, a handful of questions which he had to answer on camera, posing his answers in such a way that it suggested he was just talking, and that no one had asked him anything.  My face was not seen on camera, nor was my voice heard.  I provided the verbal prompts for him, plus lots of insane nodding and smiling to encourage him as he spoke.  I have never felt like such a doofus.

Yes I have -- I feel like a doofus every day.

To continue, I had little to do as we sat waiting to go to work in the Big Room at the brewery (a place to go hear live music and have a little dinner with your Sierra Nevada Beer).  My coworker Robb, who is the brains of the outfit, had set up the lights and the camera, and I sat shooting the breeze with a couple of the Sierra Nevada management team.  It was winter, and we were talking about the winter beers, Celebration Ale and Bigfoot Ale.  These are big, big beers, and not for the faint of heart, I know from experience.  I told the guys how much my husband and I liked the winter beers, and that Chas knew the release dates for all of the beers and looked forward to them like kids look forward to Santa Claus.  I think they understood; how could they not?

One of them said he had even heard of someone putting Bigfoot, which is a big bold barleywine ale -- very sweet and thick, almost syrupy -- over ice cream.  "I've done that!"  I blurted out.  They looked at me, like, "really?"

"Well, it wasn't Bigfoot, but it was a big beer -- a Samuel Smith Taddy Porter, I think."  We were watching TV and sipping the beer, when we got the Haagen-Dazs ice cream out.  I must have been fairly engrossed by whatever was on the TV, because I chased a bite of vanilla ice cream with a swig of porter.  I realized it immediately, and was ready to be horrified --

-- but it was good.  Delicious, even.

I told the management guys how Chas and I had nibbled ice cream and washed it down with that big dark beer, laughing like fools.  And that was the end of the story, because at that moment in walked their boss, Ken Grossman.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

We got Mr. Grossman situated, mic'ed, and briefed about the interview, and then we waited as Robb made the final adjustments.  And while we waited . . .

"Hey, Ken [did they really call him Ken?  I can't be sure], Laurie here likes Bigfoot over vanilla ice cream!"


(Photo stolen from this site)

I don't remember the next breath I took, but I think it may have been about two hours later.  I do remember the mildly startled look Ken Grossman gave me, which was hard to read.  Was it, "I've heard about nut jobs like you," or "where were you when I was making bets last week?"  I couldn't tell.  But I felt about two inches tall.  Mr. Grossman said something mild, I mumbled something stupid and it was time to start the interview.  I've never felt like such a doofus.

Yes I have.  But I couldn't say what I was REALLY thinking, which was, of course,

"Get me a Bigfoot and I'll show you.  And I'm gonna need some ice cream, too.  Hey, did you ever see someone tie a cherry stem with her tongue?"


(Photo stolen from this site)

Lunch Is Better the First Time Around

(Photo stolen from babynth on Flickr)

We went to the Napa Valley for lunch Friday.

I don't think of it too often, but we really do live close enough to some wonderful places that we can do that, like San Francisco and the Napa Valley.  The redwoods, Tahoe and Carmel would necessitate a night's stay, but they're each only an afternoon drive away.

Problem is, we don't have much reason to go to those places, especially if spending money is involved, which, let's face it, it usually is.  So when I talked to my in-laws last week and found out they were coming to San Francisco for about a week, we hatched a plan to get together.  We could drive to San Francisco, or they could come up here, but the third option was the best for all: Calistoga in the Napa Valley.  Hooray!  We get to go somewhere interesting!  We get to see family!  WE GET TO LEAVE THE HOUSE!


(Photo stolen from this site)

We met for lunch at Brannan's Grill, a wonderful mahogany and leather restaurant on the corner in quaint downtown Calistoga.  "You know, I used to eat there when I lived in Calistoga the second time," my own mother had told me.  She had lived there as a child as well.

"Really?  Was it called Brannan's back in the late '50s?" I asked.

"No, and that's the funny part," she continued.  "It was just a diner, a lunch counter.  I ate lunch there often with another teacher, who was also single, and we made it our big meal of the day.  But when Napa Valley tourism exploded, Calistoga wanted a piece of it, beyond just the hot mineral bath tourists, who were mostly older.  They dug up the name of some old guy, Sam Brannan, and created a festival around him.  Suddenly this guy who none of us had ever heard of was the town founder or something.  So his name is on a lot of places."

Marketers at work, shudder.

Lunch was delicious; I had a grilled ahi salad, which is basically raw fish on a bed of baby spinach with other yummy treats in it.  There goes my future imagined career as a food writer.  Three of the adults had beer -- "BEER?!  Who orders BEER in the Napa Valley?  I'd like a glass of wine."

"By the glass or a bottle, sir?" asked the server.

"By the glass.  White."

"Well, we have a lovely . . . and the waitress opened what looked like a Los Angeles telephone book to start the wine selection process, and that right there is why I ordered a beer in the Napa Valley; also because telling the waiter "surprise me" is usually bad etiquette.

After our lunch and visit with Chas's mom, her husband and her cousin Sarah (who is a chef in Napa, and who had no trouble at all selecting her wine), we said goodbye and headed off to find the teeny tiny ice cream parlor we had found last year.  The weather was gloriously warm, so the girls walked around the downtown in shirt sleeves, licking their melty ice cream cones.


(Photo stolen from savor_soaps on Flickr)

We found Pioneer Park and took a few pictures, played on the playground a bit, then headed back to the car.  We drove around trying to find my uncle's house, but dummy me, I had forgotten the street name.  I have at least a dozen relatives in the Napa Valley, but I hardly ever make it there for a visit.  I'm an idiot.

We headed for home, starting back up Mt. St. Helena, which isn't such a tall mountain, but it's a steep road and very twisty.  Pretty soon I started hearing noises from the back seat.  "Mama, I don't feel so good."

"Hang on, honey, and watch the road.  I can't stop anywhere.  We're almost to the top.  Spread your blanket out in front of you and if you have to barf, barf into it.  Then we'll just throw it into the trunk."

"Okay."

Five minutes later I heard the sound.

"Did you catch it in the blanket?"

"No blanket," said Chas.  "Whoop -- there she goes again."

Casualties included everything, the new Walter the Farting Dog book from Gramma, and everything.  Sigh.  Still two hours from home, and too cold to roll down the windows.

Why, again, was it a good idea to leave the house?

Dear Soldier Whom I Ignored At the Gas Station

I'm so sorry I ignored you.  I really wanted to do that thing people do, not the clapping-in-the-airport thing because we were at a gas station, not an airport, and there weren't other people around to clap with me and it would have looked sarcastic on my part (which it most definitely would NOT have been), so No, not the clapping-in-the-airport thing.

That other thing.  The thing where I walk up to you, stick out my hand, and say with reverence (and shyness, of course), "Thank you.  I just want to shake your hand and say 'thank you.'"  And it would be barely above a whisper, especially in the late afternoon wind coming off of Clear Lake, and you'd say, "What's that again?" as you shook my offered hand, and I'd get all embarrassed and probably over-compensate by shouting it at you, word for lame word.

That thing.  That Thank You Soldier thing.

But if you only knew me you'd be thanking me for not doing the shaking hands thing because I was at that moment sort of covered in barf and bits of sodden Kleenex, which would have put a definite damper on the encounter, a low point even for a Middletown gas station.  I guess I could have saluted you, but I really didn't want to get my hand that close to my face.  I spared you.

I also spared you the shrieks of a mortified carsick child, already cowering in the back seat of our car and trying not to be seen in her undies, since her pants were stowed in the trunk in their new mantle of partially digested cheeseburger and ice cream cone.  Shaking your hand would likely have brought attention to our car, doors open in the chill January wind.  It would have become a "what's that smell?" moment.  I spared you, and me, and the aforementioned (yet unidentified) barf-covered half-dressed child.

So thank you for your service, young man, to me and my reeking family, and to your country.  You are a credit to us all.

Sincerely,

Laurie LaGrone
(the one who kept walking by you to the trash bin)