VINE CHAT

Maybe it's the sea of frozen foods my kids never get tired of...orange chicken, turkey meatballs, eggplant parmigiana, enchiladas, pad thai - that's only one-sixteenth of their variety, and it is all so healthy, too.  I spend at least forty-five minutes in the frozen food aisle, even when the baby is fussing.

Maybe it's the vitamins, dirt cheap, loaded with things your body desperately needs, minerals, anti-oxidants, oils, many of them yummy-flavored; supplements that cost three times as much at the vitamin store across the street.  Staying healthy is easy on a budget, you can get more than a once daily pill and not be concerned about taking a chunk out of your funds set aside for food.

Maybe it's the soap - verbena, lavender, tea tree; for less than three or four bucks, it's packaged up so prettily in purple, yellow or green liquid, and even comes with a holy endorsement "Next to Godliness", yes, appropriately I feel the presence of angels in here with me when I shop - they whisper in my ear ("buy heavy whipping cream, it's divine").

Then my little demons tell me to buy a case of the Two-buck Chuck.

Two-buck Chuck, what people affectionately call Charles Shaw, the winemaker who sells wine at Trader Joe's for $1.99 per bottle.  The wine for this price is surprisingly good, not bad, truly...a TJ staff member once told me their largest order of it was 56 cases.  Don't tell me you haven't seen the bumper sticker "CHARLE SHAW FOR PRESIDENT"...I'd vote for him, stating that Chuck had good timing, and obviouly no pretenses.

Maybe it's the olives, bruschetta, tapenades, canned artichoke hearts, those things and more are packaged to allow the easy addition of goat cheese, cream cheese, or go on top of bread...making entertaining a cinch.  When I have some tapenade or dip left after snacking while I unload the groceries, I add it to pasta sauce and the family scarfs it up.

Could be the playful nature of the store itself.  At the TJ's we frequent, the staff hides a stuffed green monkey and when my kids find it, they get stickers and a prize (fruit leather, 100% fruit, as opposed to the roll ups loaded with sugar).  The staff is relaxed as relaxed can be, I have never encountered a rude employee - and they get bonus points for being nice to my kids. 

It's the variety and availaibility of so many gourmet foods, not over-priced, completely healthy, with a respectable beer, wine and liquor selection...how can you go wrong? 

Maybe by dropping close to four hundred bucks in one shopping trip - but that's part of the addiction, and the allure.  This addiction has not one drawback - a full pantry is a blessing, not a bad thing.

Not pizza, not fish tacos.  Not a salad or sub sandwich.

160 calories each, two for 99 cents.  A taste so unique it has not been duplicated...Jack in the Box tacos.

I usually rant about substantive things but today while contemplating what to blog about, my son asked if we could have Jack in the Box tacos for dinner.  At that price, when I can have four of the southwestern delicacies for less than seven hundred calories, who was I to say no?

I'm not going to eat four, though...just two, and whatever is left on the kids' plates. 

Jack in the Box tacos are spicy, but not over the top...the meat inside of the taco is intermixed with the melted cheese, then the shredded lettuce sits atop that.  Above the lettuce is Jack's famous taco sauce, a reddish-brown sauce that completes the convenient and crunchy indulgence.  The sauce sits beautifully beneath tip top of the taco shell, the only part of the food not saturated with corn oil or something hopefully not partially hydrogenated.

I have never tasted its equal.  I love tacos and I have eaten them all over, from Tijuana to the Yucatan Peninsula to Canada...but Jack has captured something, made it a worthy and justifiable indulgence for those of us watching our calories, and at less than 45 cents each, making it all too easy to purchase several at a time.

I have been doing that - purchasing several at a time since I was a teenager with pocket change and much better metabolism than what I have now, since I was a college student who spent too much money on expensive coffees and didn't have enough cash for a snack on campus but with plenty of quarters at the bottom of my backpack, and now that my kids eat fast food (every once in a while) and I avoid cheeseburgers and fries.

A justifiable indulgence...perfect with a Diet Dr. Pepper.

I don't have anything poignant right now - I just want a taco, or four.

I have been singing these words to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb...

Zo-ee has an att-i-tude

att-i-tude, att-i-tude

Zo-ee has an att-i-tude

and she has shoes to match!

My daughter Zoe discovered the little girls shoe department at Nordstrom.  I have seen my husband have shoe-gasms, and my step-son Dillon has the shoe gene too, and Zoe is no exception.  Alex is like me...give me a sentimental favorite pair of shoes and I can work them into my wardrobe with practicality and resourcefulness.  Not Pete, Dillon or Zoe.  Pete (hubby) has more than ten pairs of black formal shoes.  He has at least three cordovan pairs, four chestnut brown pairs, and one saddle color pair.  Zoe has limited shoes only because I have tried to tame this shoe addiction before it takes roots in her young psyche - "shoes make things better" ... but I had told her since there was a big sale, we would go to the little girls department for a holiday dress...and maybe shoes, since she had outgrown her dress up pair from last year.

The shoes she chose are like Dorothy meets Gwen Stefani.  Sparkly red sequins on a thick, black rubber sole that resemble Chuckie Taylor's, but are entirely upper crust.  The same shoes with the pink sequins were sold out in her size, but the red ones were readily available for a four year old girl, on the edge of five (I want to say the edgeof five-teen), who tells her Poppa "I ain't no holla back girl", hand on hip, finger pointed, but also sings "Popular" along with Glinda in the delicate tone the Broadway show tune requires...Zoe has the why-would-anyone-want-to-do-such-a-thing philosophy of Dorothy, but the get-the-hell-out-of-my-way verve of Gwen Stefani.  Zoe is just a girl...her Toto is a pit-bull Rottweiler mix named Terra, her ruby slippers newly purchased and worn everywhere but to bed, ready to take her anywhere her wanderlust desires.  Zoe's Kansas is southern California, Zoe's Emerald City is the rest of the world, starting with the hill at the top of our street where she motors to the bottom on her big wheel, catching air, fearing no scraped knee or bruised elbow, breathless and determined to let nothing keep her from another thrill.

She'll need a lot of sturdy, pretty shoes - and I'm sure she won't mind.  I can always blame it on my husband.

We know Zoe's free spirit will cost thousands of dollars.  I just can't help loving that about her.  I can't wait to see what she does in this world. 

There is no place like...where she feels like being right now.

We were brave and took on the pre-holiday crowd yesterday at the mall, where Williams-Sonoma can be found. 

We said the hell with it, and did Valet.  I wasn't about to circle the lot for an hour, or follow people to their car.  I didn't want to feel the desperation of the holiday season yet...I still feel somewhere in my soul that I have time to get gifts for the kids that aren't the second-rate leftovers.  I'll probably end up doing it all online anyway.

However, I was starting to feel the pressure.  The pressure of little elves breathing down my neck, saying surreptitiously "If you don't load your cart with shiny, pricey gifts for your children now, other parents will buy them - you don't want your child to cry tears of disappointment Christmas morning do you?  Hand over your credit card or your failure as a parent will be revealed, the hearts of your children broken."

I can feel the madness of the season bearing down on me.  We wait in line to see Santa for only fifteen minutes, not so bad.  Catch a break there.  Two out of three kids smile in the picture with Santa, I can live with that.  My mom (Grandma) slips Santa's little helper five bucks and we get extra photos because we gave the poor high school kid some cash for a Doppio at Starbucks.

After we get the baby back in the stroller and the kids have put their fingerprints all over the photos with Santa, we make our way to Williams-Sonoma.

Salvation.

The store smells like stuffing, gravy, and Butternut Squash Bisque.  Thank you, thank you, Universe for giving me what I needed, and in a timely manner.  Samples of the stuffing with gravy and the bisque are on the counter - I take five.  Is that a problem?  The people who work there, stylish women and savvy men tell me to take as many samples as I wish.  Yes, the despertaion shows on my face.  Thank heavens we didn't stop at the makeup counter at Nordstrom first.

The baby, a hungry fourteen month old who can smell food near like a pig sniffs out truffles, starts grunting when I consume the samples before offering her any.  My mom gets in line withe the gravy base and three boxes of W-S's focaccia stuffing (it has lavender listed in the ingredients, oh..my heart is singing) and I kneel in front of the stroller to feed the baby.  Okay, I'll share.

My son asks for his first set of paring knives, insisting that because the wooden handles are primary colors of blue, red and green that they are for kids.  I can't resist such a creative argument for culinary advancement.  "Take them to Grandma in line."

"Why three boxes of stuffing, Sam?" asks my mom.  "For leftovers, of course."

We leave Williams-Sonoma with amber colored turkey candle holders, ivory colored taper candles, gravy base, and focaccia stuffing with herbs de provence.  Because that stuffing is better than anything I could make.  I have spent the last ten years trying different from-scratch stuffing recipes from Gourmet and Bon Appetit.  Nothing comes close to doctoring up stuffing in a box.  And I don't think this stuffing will need much doctoring up at all - maybe some celery and mushrooms.  Definitely nothing sun-dried.  I am over that.   Take me back to age ten, before the onslaught of dehydrated vegetables  in stuffing.  I want ot the way it used to be.  And I want it all to myself.

Is that a problem?

My husband adores every bi-valve but the scallop.  There is no seafood he will not eat...but he shuns the scallop, apparently because of the smell.  Smell?  That is the ocean in a shell!  What is he talking about?  I can't have the man I love ignore one of the greatest gifts from Poseidon. 

Did Venus rise from the sea on a clam shell?  Coral?  No.  It is a scallop shell she is standing on.  Furthermore, scallops have their own patron saint (Jacques).  What more does he need to embrace this multi-faceted shellfish? 

I am out to change him.  He will embrace the scallop and love it, all of the sweet juice it releases when cooked, the plumpness of the meaty flesh, and the quickness with which it can be prepared after chasing kids around the house all day.  They defrost in a flash!

But scallops are much more romantic than the busy family compatible food I just painted them out to be...every fine restaurant I go to (or every menu I read online) features scallops.  Seared, poached, grilled, even, and in those fabulous spicy seafood stews of European countries with history, with access, to the fruit de la mer.

The best meal I ever had, and also, the most scenic, romantic, meal I ever had was at Pahui'a at The Four Seasons Huala'lai on Kona...I was told Pahui'a meant aquarium...aquariums dotted the landscape of the restuarant inside, outside all you needed was the view of the Pacific and oh I am getting off track...I had scallops.  Japanese sashimi grade scallops with a wine from Napa (I can't remember, we had more than one bottle)...I will never forget that meal with my beloved.  He tried the scallops I ordered.  He liked them then.

He will like them again.

By the time he comes in from playing baseball in the dark with our son and every other child in the neighborhood, the scallops I tried to sautee but ended up poaching (in butter, so it's okay) will be cold. That is okay.  I have more wine...from the Santa Ynez.

The baby, who stays in the house with me while I cook dinner and Poppa throws change ups to eight year olds, loved the bivalve, and the rice that drank up the pan juices.  

That's my girl.

Her father will be as enthusiastic about my fruit de la mer...or I will release the Kraken.

I could charm even the Kraken with my scallops...I am that confident.

We had just finished lunch at a little seafood place and at about 3 in the afternoon, an elderly man and his wife walked up to me and said my baby girl was beautiful, she had eyes like olives.

Now, it is not everyday that I hear another person comparing food to other things in such an agreeable manner, not everyday that a simile involving anatomy and food is not only pulled off but worthy of applause...but the short man ( he had once been taller) and his shorter wife (her spirit stood tall) with thin, plastic shades on their reading glasses and hats shielding them from the late afternoon sun made me feel minute in my literary imagination.

Eyes like olives.  Beautiful.

I still have so much to learn.  I am proud when I talk to my son's teacher about my upcoming book, get a sense of professional growth about being a senior editor, but compared to the knowledge base of kind souls that have been refined by experience, I  have to blurt out the few things I have learned in order to invite more knowledge my way.  I guess you could say I hope to be humbled often, because that is the best way to learn - in awe and respect of that which intrigues me.

If that is not my best description I assure you that even the fictitious Crash Davis (Bull Durham) had trouble explaining this concept to the young rookie, Nuke when he was called up to the bigs. 

"Those hitters are going to light you up for a while.  Don't worry about it.  Baseball is a game that should be played with fear and arrogance."  My paraphrasing may be off here, I have Bull Durham on vhs not dvd (shame on me), and I don't have time to sit in front of the tv and fast forward right now.

Anyway...fear and arrogance.  As I enter this tricky game of getting published and marketing myself and my book...I will remember that as good as I feel about my writing, any literary ability I may have, I have to remember, one sweet old soul can reduce me to shitty first drafts and hollow metaphors...

Then again, when put on the spot about what I did write, on radio, or TV (hope hope), I need to carry myself with grace and composure, even when a critic or a review breaks up my shut-out.  Arrogance, well, okay.  I'll ease into it because I love Crash Davis...and because Bull Durham was brilliantly written.

Eyes Like Olives. 

All the best pitchers were once rookies. 

...forgiveness"

If you have read my blog, and/or if you know me, you are aware what an avid quoter I am...movies, songs, literature.  I just can't help it.  It's how my mind works.

"All the things I thought I figured out

I have to learn again

I've been trying to get down

to the Heart of the Matter

But everything changes

And my friends seem to scatter

But I think it's about...

Forgiveness...forgiveness

Even if (even if) you don't love me"

All of the times in my life I had to learn once again things I thought I knew...Jesus.  I could be here typing for hours. 

Buddha says "To understand everything is to forgive everything".  When you understand that, really get it, let it in and live according to that philosophy, you are free.  The thing is, it usually takes a lifetime to get there, and people usually spend the last few days of their precious lives applying this concept to the relationships they can't leave without repairing - people they must forgive, asking others to forgive them.  To have that opportunity, how divine. 

My grandfather understood the concept of forgiveness his entire life.  I always say, "Grandpa was on his last life".  He knew.  He is the only person I can say that about.  Yep, he got it.

Because I don't know Don Henley (the genius who wrote "The Heart of the Matter", among other brilliant pieces of music). 

Everyday I work on being this kind of person.  "The Heart of the Matter" is about how the ending of a relationship enables someone to transcend (my opinion).  I know that higher consciousness is out there, close, but I am still working on disabling my lizard brain, re-booting in Buddha mode if you will.

Anything is possible.  Just have to get to the heart of the many matters.

I flew solo this weekend.  Hubby was in Arizona visiting my step-son, who I don't even recognize in the picture my husband sent me with his phone.  I asked my husband, "Is her taller than you?", "Has his voice changed?", "Is he shaving yet?".  No, yes, and no.

Remember Greg Brady being a boy one season, then coming back the following fall season almost a man - voice changed, hint of facial hair?  I am thirty-five years old and I am Greg Brady's step-mom!  I look younger than Florence Henderson, right?  Hubby didn't answer that one definitively - thanks, honey.

I've missed a lot more than one season in my step-son's life, so have our three kids, since he moved.  Since he...went away.  Sports, life and team schedules keep my husband going to Arizona more often than my step-son comes here.

When I see him next I know I will cry.  I feel it welling up in me all of the time.  I am afraid of what I will see, afraid of what I can't see.  Sitting in gymnastic class watching my daughter learn cartwheels yesterday, my phone read "New Pix/Flix Message".  I expected the usual "How are the kids?" text message, but opened up my flip-phone to reveal the face of a stranger.  I never wanted my step-son to be a stranger. 

When I picked my husband up from the airport, he had a look on his face of satisfaction intermixed with regret.  His oldest child is far away - you know, you give a child the most well-rehearsed speech but if they have to watch you walk out the door, sadness follows you until the next time you see them again, and you grit your teeth wondering if this hurts them beyond what they show.  I speculate here - my husband is the one who leaves his heart in two places, San Diego and Arizona where his children reside...but my step-son is not even my birth child, and I long for the days when we all threw the football outside the house to each other, before coming in the house for hearty dinners and belly laughs.

And so I have learned to relinquish my worries and let any fear dissipate into prayers for the highest good. 

It has been working.

Have you been inundated with toy catalogs too?  This is nuts.

Everyday we get one or more toy catalogs in the mail.  The kids drool over them, fight over them and do the happy dance when they see them, just like me when I get a Cook's Illustrated or Food & Wine, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, etc...

After they have decided who gets to look at it first (this can take hours), or on one of the lucky days when we get more than one catalog and the kids don't have to fight, kick and scream over them ... they diligently sit down with a Crayola marker, a pen they stole from me, or heaven forbid a rudimentary crayon, and begin to circle the toys they truly believe they cannot live without.

The marketers and advertisers succeed - but I've got the final say here.

"You guys do know you won't be getting everything you circle, right?"

"What Momma?"  They can hardly hear me, they are so intently dreaming of the playthings laid out so prettily in the catalogs before them.

Where did they learn this behavior?

Say no more.

Yes, it can be traced back to me.  I have a manila file folder next to my address book, and in Sharpie fine-point-navy-blue-ink, MOTIVATION is handwritten on the tab.  I started this file years ago to light a fire under my literary ambition.  And in it, there are clippings from the following catalogs and magazines...

Pottery Barn Kids * Coastal Living * Travel & Leisure

Clippings of beach homes, beach decor, outdoor showers next to infinity pools with Sago palms abound, sailboat shaped trundle beds, sailboat themed bath tubs, sheets for the girls with sweet peas and castles, articles about Positano, Italy, and paint swatches from the home improvement store in every degree of periwinkle.

I want it all.

Who knows if I'll ever get it?  Here is what's important...I can close the catalogs and put them away, even toss them in the recycling, and re-direct my heart's desire.  It sure has taken long enough.

And I could be wrong but I think my kids have adapted this behavior as well...when Poppa comes home, when they hear the garage door open up, those marker and crayon battered toy catalogs fall to the floor, are pushed beneath the couch with the force of children's feet eager to  kick a soccer ball, so worn it doesn't have any recognizable markings.

The place between covet and cherish is where you'll find me clutching pink gingham, the kids reaching for extravagant ride-ons...drooling. (If you heard Dave Matthews in there, you're right).

It can be argued that transportation to dreamland is faster and cushier on high thread count sheets.  But can you still dream on 180?  Well, that's how I got here.

A very wise man once wrote "What you don't have, you don't need it now."

He was so right.

Damn these Santa Anas.  It's just not right.

It's November, why can't I have some rain?  Just a little mist in the air?  Lucky for me, the temperature is supposed to drop tomorrow significantly and we are even supposed to get some high clouds - but oh, how happy I would be if this obstinate high pressure would decrease and allow some residuals of the storm over Washington right now (not the political one in D.C., the actual rain in the Pacific Northwest).

Not to mention the fact that this weather creates perfect fire conditions.  I'm not knocking blue skies, I just want to light some candles, bake a pumpkin cheesecake without sweating, wear sweats and use less moisturizer.  Come on Mother Nature...I've waited all summer for a change of seasons.  I am really, really ready for a change in the season - not just by the calendar, but by the climate as well.

To a certain degree I believe we create our own climates, but I am lazy today and I want the calendar and my baking schedule to align properly.  I want to make hubby a pumpkin cheesecake.  I've had some good cooking mojo lately, I am on a roll...and I want to keep it going.  It may be an Indian Summer outside but it is autumn in my kitchen, where the pumpkin pie spice sits unwrapped in it's perforated plastic - "I wish to be part of something bigger", the little bottle from Trader Joe's says.

I am going to sprinkle pumpkin pie spice into organic pumpkin puree like I wish rain to sprinkle in the lake nearby.  The lake gets so dark and mysterious when it's raining, like the sea before a storm.  You know when something is coming.

The weather always changes.  There is always a new weather system on  it's way.  Now, autumn is my favorite season (runs a close second with spring), but should I just stop complainiung and marvel at how blue the sky is over the mountain, the street, the school, the southwest?  Absolutely.  Shut up and smile about it. 

Blue looks good with cinnamon.